Sand on my Bottom and Other Eccentricities

“So I put mousetraps next to the flowerboxes,” my grandmother said to me on the phone. She had been telling me how wrens had been tearing up her flowers. This an eighty-eight year old woman that loves birds, but hates wrens and does not take life lying down. I respect that, and love her.

Some days have a theme to them. Today’s theme was one of problems and solutions—but one of them was consistently eccentric.

Fast forward a bit to me sitting in the water at the beach. I was having a lovely time when a wave crashed just beyond me. I pointed out to my son that it was pretty how it crashed—lots of sand came hurtling upward like a little explosion. There was a strong pushing and pulling of sand beneath me. Then I went to get up, and realized that wave had slammed a large wad of sand into my bikini bottom. No big deal, I’ll just shake it out. I feel like at this moment the ocean started to chuckle. All that sand was shoved into the lining, and it wasn’t going anywhere. Never in my 31 years have I had enough sand trapped in my bathing suit that it looked like I was sporting a massively dirty diaper. I spent about ten minutes sitting in the disguising waves trying to remove it, before I gave up. I was having a bit of a preschool flashback as I walked along the crowded beach, my dirty diaper hanging down behind me. It could have been worse—I’m sure the waves have stolen a few bikini tops, and I bet the ocean out-right laughed about that.

At the grocery store I forgot a few things and had to run back in, but then met someone I haven’t seen in years and resolved an old conflict. Back at home, one of my dogs suddenly developed a nasty looking sore on his elbow, but refused to leave a bandage on. Lacking the Cone of Shame, my husband invented this nifty little sleeve. Quite stylish I think. It may catch on.

Today was just full of strange happenings. Even the children are a little odd today. At bedtime the toddler lay awake:
“You can’t go into other people’s houses,” she said with a strong two-year-old sort of conviction.
“Okay.”
“A cow says moo,” again, she was all business.
“Right.”
“Poop goes in the toilet,” so matter-of-fact.
“Very true.”

I’d better go to sleep, before anything else happens to add to the story.

If you made it this far and are concerned about the wrens, you can rest easy—none were injured. She did manage to send a clear message though. No vertebrates have appeared on her porch in a week.