Strange things

Just your average cloud of locusts

For a person who does not normally remember very many dreams, I seem to have arrived in a new realm.  Of late these dreams are vivid, repetitive and disturbingly memorable and they range from terrifying home break-ins to finding myself skiing down an endless mountain slope, something I have not done in more than 40 years.  Last night I dreamt my husband bought "cantilevers" for his car and tried to mask the expense by bringing me ice cream.  I was so incensed that I threw canned tomatoes at him. The only take-home logic to these dreams is the fact that I am remembering them and that sometimes, just before my head hits the pillow, last night's dream surfaces like a long-forgotten memory.  Weird.

Last week we had unexpected snow that came in sideways and lasted for all of ten minutes.  Parts of the sky were brilliant blue and I am not exaggerating when I say that the snow arrived horizontally.  I have not seen this before, not even in my Calgary years.  And over at Lisa's house, she has been dismayed by a crazed bird that has tirelessly and repetitively bashed itself against her windows.   Once or twice is alarming, but this bird spends hours every day attacking its own image in an effort to establish territory.  It's been four days.  The blinds are closed and stickers have been put up, all to no avail.   Like clockwork this demented bird arrives to relentlessly kamikaze her windows, leaving feathers and bird snot behind, knocking itself silly then rallying to repeat the performance for hours at a stretch.  It's distressing and disquieting and nothing seems to deter it.    It's hard not to believe this is just another example of a world gone mad.

Yesterday, the sun got serious and the temperatures really shot up.   I had the doors wide open and the fresh breeze was blowing through, mostly to dissipate the bleach fumes. Then Mickey alerted me to the fact that we had several uninvited guests coming through and under the screen door.   Revenge of the ants!  They spilled onto the patio with a flash-mob held under the hummingbird feeder, dancing around in the spilled syrup.   From there they decided to wander into my place to see if I might be making fudge.  I met them with my new hand-held Bissell steamer.  Blew the advance guard to smithereens and accepted the declaration of war.  But I did feel sorry.  I had been greatly admiring their orderly society but, like all successful nations, they had obviously decided to cede more territory.   Game on.  I Googled them.  Then I wondered, shit, did they Google me?  God, that would have been freaky.   Anyway, I blitzkrieged them with boiling water and soap, right on the top of the metropolis.  It was like 911 for them, probably worse, and I felt like crap.  So much so that I wrote my strata and pleaded a Hitchcock clause and asked for help.  The pest control guy should arrive soon and I really don't want to witness the annihilation, even though I'll be glad not to hear the crunch as they march into my living room.  I really do feel a bit guilty about this so maybe I'll pretend they are Covid ants and that will justify the means.  War is war.

Easter is nearly upon us and I would normally be enjoying the traditional Easter egg hunt with Ben, but that is not likely to happen this year.   Nor will his much-anticipated 4th birthday party.  Nor a treasured visit from my son and precious grandson, Will.   Nor will a baby shower for my baby granddaughter, due to arrive in just 8 weeks' time.  But all of these steep costs are worth the price of stopping this relentless and dangerous virus.  My eyes are on the future, not the present, and I'm in for the long haul to ensure that none of my beloveds are in danger.   Dreams, birds and ants be damned.