That's what woke me up this morning, a few minutes before my alarm: SCREEEEEEEEECH!
"That's actually coming from outside my head," I realized, and then I wondered if someone was being murdered. Exciting! "Coooo! Cooo! Cooooo!" I heard then, and right then I knew. Either Yoko Ono was gettin' some from my neighbor, Paul, (or god forbid Peg)...
or it was a bird.
June Gardens, Wildlife Expert®.
Naturally, I looked it up, asking Siri, "What kind of bird screeches, then coos?" Usually Siri is a lazy ass sack who never answers a goddamn freaking thing. The difference between my stupid useless Siri and Ned's whoever-she-is on his Samsung Galaxy is astonishing.
"When is the next full moon?" we'll both ask our phones.
"The next full moon is November 14, and it's a rare super moon," his phone will immediately say, a trifle smugly.
"I'm sorry. I could not find runcible spoon," Siri will say. Or if she does hear me, she sends me to an ARTICLE to READ. I don't have time to read. I'm a busy executive. Just fucking tell me. Siri makes everything a hassle. Siri is the Typepad of phones.
I wonder if I could be any more entitled. My PHONE, that I carry WITH me and that has all the information in the WORLD in it, that also takes pictures and can navigate for me, won't tell me what bird screeches and coos. WHO CAN LIVE THIS WAY.
The point is, it did tell me, syphilitic Siri did, and it would appear I have a Great Horned Owl in my yard.
"Don't let the cats out," said Ned as soon as I called him, and apparently Ned and my mom have founded a Tell June the Obvious Club. Anyway, I went outside with Edsel to see if I could see him, my new hoot owl howling by my window now, as I wish to meet him and kiss him on his crabby head and maybe let him live inside, so I could be charmingly eccentric like Uncle Billy in It's a Wonderful Life.
Do you think maybe he'll build a owl nest-y, with owl babies-ses that I can kiss and hug and pet? Soft baby owl-ses? OH MY GOD I WOULD NEVER BE SAD AGAIN. I could run around getting them owl food, because I'd be super good at hauling a couple baby bunnies up a tree. That wouldn't kill me or anything.
Look at his big owl feets. DON'T YOU LOVE HIM SO BAD? Ima name him Das Hoot.
In other news, I'm home. Hello. I unpacked right away, because the image of Faithful Reader Paula unpacking in the middle of the night because she can't rest till everything's put away made me feel guilty. Oh! And the worst thing.
I got to baggage claim and got m'pink huge bag off the thing®. I had a bottle of water with me, and as I got on the escalator, I let go of my bag to take a drink.
Ssssssssssssss FLUMP FLUMP FLUMP FLUMP FLOOMP.
My goddamn BAG fell behind me, and FLOOMPED all the way down the escalator which was thankfully empty, and slid zestfully all the way across baggage claim.
Oh my god.
I mean, what if someone had been behind me? I'd have knocked them off the escalator, too! What if I'd knocked some kid over?
As it was, a hundred million people ran to see what all the floomping was, and there I was, the only woman around for miles, and where was I, Alaska all of a sudden? "That's mine!" I waved eagerly, walking down the stairs to get my humiliated bag.
"Was that just a bag and not a person?" a frazzled airport employee ran over. Oh calm down.
"Yes, it was my bag. I dropped it," I told her, trying to act like all the cool people were doing it. I saw Steve McQueen drop his bag the exact same way in Klute.
I have no idea if Steve McQueen was even in Klute.
"You should do an ad for that bag," said a man nearby, as I retrieved my unscratched bag.
Pink Bags. Tough, But Fair®.
® is a big thing with me today.
Other than that, it's been a relatively sedate homecoming, what with crippled-up Ned and his bulging disks. He's forever raising his arm and flexing his hand and wincing and carrying on.
"I know you're annoyed by my pain," said Ned, as he winced and carried on.
"No, I'm not," I said, totally annoyed by his wincing and carrying on.
We went to eat last night and the restaurant was playing a duet from the '80s. "Is this a duet with Kenny Loggins?" Ned asked.
"It is. I believe it's with Stevie Nicks," I told him. I always know from what I call Saginaw songs. Like, if it's some top 40 thing from anywhere between 1974 and 1988, I know who sang it and when it was a song. My friend Dave, who also grew up in Saginaw, had a classy boyfriend from Hawaii, and whenever Dave and I were jamming out in the car to something like Hocus Pocus by Focus, the Hawaiian boyfriend would be all, "What even is this? This is a Saginaw song."
The point of my story is, I told Ned about Stevie Nicks and Kenny Loggins and then possibly went into a diatribe about how much I hate the song Leather and Lace, and then furthered my rant about how much Stevie Nicks annoys me in general.
"She's why I can't stand women with blonde hair and brown eyes," I said.
"Oh, they bug me, women with blonde hair and brown eyes. And it's all Stevie Nicks's fault."
Sometimes Ned looks at me like, What on earth have I done? I was rid of her.
Blonde-haired, brown-eyed women are such a disappointment," I said. "They're the raisin cookie of women."
I suppose it was nice having you as readers, BHBEW. I will miss you all.
Imagine how the BHBEW with horseshoe haircuts must hate me.
Look, I'm a gray-haired, blue-eyed woman. Which disappoints everyone.
I'd better go. Now that I've spread all this positivity and love. I will let you know when Roddy MacOwl moves in, and which bedroom he gets, and so on. Maybe if he moves in, I can become one of those people who gets really into woodsy Native American-ish stuff, and wear pine cone earrings and a lot of turquoise and kokopelli the shit outta the whole house. Won't you enjoy my kokopelli couch and kokopelli curtains? I turned this tree log into a coffee table. Sit down and I'll make you some frybread.