Home Wrecker

I have bad news.

I have no future in wildlife protection.

Before you start crying for the squirrels (if you are wont to do such chest beating over these frequent road kill), rest assured that I believe that they are still fine and growing well in care of a rehabilitation facility, with the exception of THE FACT THAT THEY WERE NOT SQUIRRELS AT ALL.

That deserved caps. Trust me.

What my husband raked up that day was actually a bunny nest.

(Now I give you permission to start crying, because bunnies are generally more well-liked than squirrels. People tend go 'ooooooh, bunnies,' while the squirrels get 'ewwwww.')

You know how squirrels have long tails? Long, freaky tails that sometimes wave around like a snake under the influence of a charmer. Eek.

Well, apparently, the babies do too.

So right above this spot where this nest was, nestled in our magnolia tree, was the remnants of a squirrel home. That little fact is really the thing that did us in and made us 'identify' these wriggling creatures ourselves. As squirrels. And not bunnies.

Not bunnies with a belly full of mama bunny milk, which the rehabilitator said that they had.

Which, damn it, has really f'ed me up a bit.

So there are three things that kept me from beating my head against the wall when I found this out.

1. Not even the squirrel lover to whom we first transported the bunnies realized that these were not squirrels, and she actually held one. "It didn't occur to me to even check the tail," she said. Me neither. Seriously. Why confirm that an animal known for its tail even has one?

2. There was a baby bunny-sized dead carcass in with the bunnies, covered in ants and other bugs.

3. Apparently, bunny mamas feed their young a few times a day, and if the nest had been compromised by an intruder, it is possible that the mother abandoned it. They could have still had full bellies, despite being left behind.

At least, this is what I tell myself.

Because I have been trying not to tell myself that we destroyed an intentionally placed nest and ripped two bunny babies from their mama's paws.

You know? Because that would blow.

("What heartless bitch took mah behbehs?")

Me and ground cover simply do not mix. I am going to ignore the pachysandra from now on. And if my husband attempts to rake it, I will run away. No more baby nests.

Perhaps as karma for my bunny-nest destruction, I had a wicked case of poison ivy on my forearms. We spent the weekend pulling up periwinkle and pachysandra, and clearly some of those evil three-leaved vines were tangled within. I wore gloves, but also a tank top. Probably not the smartest shirt choice.

Having poison ivy (and since living in this house, I've had it too many times to count) makes one consider all sorts of torturous-sounding home treatments. This morning I actually considered lancing some welts and pouring alcohol on it. Because this shit itches. Like the dickens. However dickens itch. Which I presume is a lot.

I bet that bunny mom is out there laughing, watching me scratch through the window.

I'm drinking a martini and trying to save some baby squirrels

Yeah, that's the title of my blog post, and I'm sticking to it.

The martini is one part orangecello liquor, three parts vodka, and one part cranberry juice. With lots of crushed ice.

The squirrels are really little, eyes still closed and with barely any hair.

That's what I'm focusing on right now, besides my kids who are busy writing stories with their grown-up bunny pens purchased for them by one of their great aunts. One story is about a cat and a duck who didn't get along, were put in jail ("for 590 days," Hannah said) and finally learned to get along when they discovered a mutual love of playing baseball. Lillian's story read, simply, "Daddy, you're bald." It is apparently futuristic.

I almost just fell down the back stairs, which shows you how well I hold my liquor. And also, I just checked on the squirrels about 30 minutes ago. They're warm and wriggly.

I really resent this. But mostly I don't. Alright, a little. I don't want to worry about little babies who still desperately need their mama.

Seriously, why did we have to rake that patch of pachysandra, only to rake up a bunch of fur and two wriggling babies and one of their (we presume) brothers or sisters, mostly devoured by something or other?

Because I'm not a huge squirrel fan. But two little bodies that keep nestling up to one another in their makeshift nest have a tendency to make one a squirrel fan.

Or, at least, I'm rooting for them.

And I'm thinking if I still made milk, I'd be pumping a little to try to syringe into their little rodent mouths. Although with the alcohol, I'd have to pump and dump and wait two hours.

Having been given a name and email by a neighbor, who actually knows someone who rehabilitates squirrels (what luck!), I'm hoping they survive long enough away from their mother to make it to a much better caretaker. I've been told they need warmth (heating pad) and water, along with as much of their natural nest as we can bring inside. So I had a heating pad covered with a pillowcase (totally disposable, now), which is also covered with winter-rotted leaves and a ton of squirrel hair. It's a bit frightening, that big nest of hair sitting on something I frequently use to help relieve the pain of a migraine.

(This is the crapload of hair they're buried under.)

It's not right, but decency dictates I try to save these little fuckers. And I'm glad I was home and intervened, since Dave suggested they wouldn't make the night and perhaps we should hasten their demise in some fashion: squirrel baby euthanasia in a bucket of water.

But I won't have it, the murdering of these siblings. They won't die tonight, and they certainly won't meet their end in a nasty bed of ground cover with ants and cats and the fox I see almost every time I look out the bathroom window in the dark of night trying to make dessert of them.

(Don't scream. Seriously. If you're drunk, this is kind of cute.)

So the woman our neighbor knows, I just talked to her, despite being slightly inebriated. I giggled a bit too much, thinking about the luck of this. Who rehabs squirrels? Well, apparently a co-worker of my neighbor.

David is driving them now, he and two little squirrel babies in the Subaru, to their new mama. I find this really endearing, that he's willing to drive 45 minutes to find them another home, even though they probably won't make it.

Chances are, he's getting laid tonight, that hunky squirrel transporter.

I'm gonna go fix myself another drink and listen to the kids' next story: "Dad Interrupts People and Spills Coffee." (<-----not making that one up, that's the title).

The end.

Admit It

David: "You'll never believe what I just saw on TV."

Me, walking back into the room: "What?"

David: "A commercial for 'The Cougar.'"

Me: "What the hell is that?"

David: "A new Bachelor-like reality show."

Me: "Let me guess, younger guys, an older woman?"

David: "Yep."

Me: "Holy Mother of God, where does it end?"

Sometimes, I truly believe that we, as a nation, are flushing any collective intelligence we may possess right down a crap-filled toilet. How much longer can this go on, before we simply become a country that no longer publishes any papers except the National Enquirer, and no longer produces any programming except for From G's to Gents? When radio stations filled with Nickelback clones eventually overpower NPR?

Remember how indignant we were when Wife Swap came on?

Two families swap spouses for a period of time, and we watch the matriarchs and their different rules and styles create havoc in the other family.

And now can you even believe that you once thought that Wife Swap was the ultimate in reality-show cesspools? Temptation Island now sounds positively tame.

What, now with Rock of Love Bus, Charm School, Bad Girls Club, and of course, every other bit of reality fare offered by VH1 and MTV. Remember how cool the first season of The Real World was, with all those different people stuck together in a NYC loft? And even Real World San Francisco, which mixed a conservative Catholic and an HIV-positive gay man in the same house?

And now it seems to exist as a kind of teen porn, where the only social experiments involve insanely large quantities of alcohol and what ends up happening in the hot tub when everyone gets home from the bar. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I just read about a new reality series from Fox (surprise!) where people actually get laid-off on camera. I don't know about you, but I anxiously await seeing someone lose their entire income, health insurance and retirement benefits in a single minute. Fun!

And I look forward to reading the next day in the papers of that same person coming back with an assault rifle and mowing down as many people as possible.

And lest you think I am riding too high a horse here, I will totally cop to watching the entire season of I Love New York 2.

Subsequently, you might think that a woman who watched a man nicknamed The Entertainer suck on New York's toes in a jacuzzi might not be the one to be pontificating on reality show trash.

And you would be right, if not for the fact that I have cleansed myself of that sin. I washed it away with the holiest of waters. I no longer give a rat's ass that New York chose Tailor Made over that hot piece of man meat named Buddha. Nope. I have asked the gods of television for their forgiveness, and I feel the peace of their mercy.

And I no longer watch any reality fare save Top Chef.

Okay readers, what trash show can you admit to me that you watch (or watched) and enjoy?

I'm Elswehere

Hey you.

Yeah, you.

I'm guesting over at The Dayton Time today. Stop by.

Dear Sickness, Go Away, Love Me

Wow.

I'm speechless.

Just. Wow.

Alright, who am I kidding? I am seldom speechless.

I could go on at length about how disgusting these last few days have been. The stomach flu is apparently an inspiration, at least for language describing vomit and uncontrollable diarrhea.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Uncontrollable.

David and I have yet to succumb to this illness most foul. I am hoping, however, that if we do, our sphincters, having had an additional 30 plus years of strength-training, can somehow manage to hold back the deluge.

And there really is nothing like trying to get partially digested pizza off of a comforter (and rug and sheet and pajamas and child and child's hair) at 12:30am. And again at 1:30am.

And it's horrible, because you love your child so much and all you want to do is make them feel better and get them cleaned up and as cozy as possible and the whole time you're cleaning them, you look like you've just sucked on a dozen limes or seen picture of Rush Limbaugh naked.

Because, the grossness. It's just so gross.

And then there's the poop. Which, you know what, I'm not going to go into at great length, except to say eventually I gave up and dug out the pull-ups I am so glad we still had. After the third change of underwear for one of the kids, I had just about had it. At one point, one child had just vomited in the kitchen (half on the rug and half on the linoleum, of course, so more surfaces to clean) and one was standing there having just soiled themselves. Again.

Despite my best Florence Nightingale intentions, I was understandably....frazzled.

I should also mention that David went to work, because men -- as lovely as they are, and as much as they contribute to family life nowadays, thank the good Lord -- still usually leave the puke and poop behind.

To their wives.

Which would be me.

And in the midst of this insane bout of excretion, David actually asked me to make his lunch.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I have to go."

"Do you know where my hands have been? Do you know I'm still wearing the pajamas I wore last night in the midst of my laundry extravaganza?"

"Alright, forget it." This was said with a mixture of annoyance and exasperation.

Seriously, if I was the one in need of a lunch and going to work, I'd just decide upon a Big Mac.

******

There is one thing about the kids being sick that I actually enjoy. When they're so exhausted and spent and unable to do anything but lay there, I can rub their heads and cuddle with them and feel their feverish little bodies against mine. We can be quiet together and return to a time a bit more primal, when their need was mostly physical.

Here's, though, to recovery. To parents not getting what their little ones bring home. To girls skipping and running and the shelving of Saltines in favor of yogurt and strawberries.

Here's to my girls feeling better.