murder

We killed an animal on Saturday night. We had to. It was lurking in our bedroom without having been invited.

When I say we killed it I mean my husband did.

I hate killing things.

I carry spiders outside. I insisted on catch and release of the skunks that were torturing our dog earlier this year, and I absolutely refuse to let my husband shoot the crows even though one of them barfed up the nauseatingly smelly guts of partially digested roadkill all over my car windshield the other day.

So, yeah. Even when you provoke me—I won’t kill you. Well, not intentionally. At least not until this year.

If you read this blog you know how real the struggle has been to eradicate our rat infestation. For the past year, we could give that temple in India, the one devoted to rats, a run for the title of Most Rat Infested place on Earth.

We have an exterminator on salary, we were forced to cut the gorgeous Bougainvillea on our back fence down to the nub after they ignored all of our eviction notices, and I myself chased one out of the house in a drugged up stupor (me, not the rat—long story) which was asinine because it probably had survivor sex and three weeks later—more rats!

Even our beloved housekeeper, Maria (aka The Rat Assassin) has tears tattooed on her face like murders do in prison.

It all started while I was brushing my teeth before bed on Saturday night. I tend to wander while I brush and so I saw the little fucker out of the corner of my eye at the exact same moment as our dog Ruby and my husband Raphael. They were on the bed engaged an almost inappropriate display of affection when Ruby went all meerkat. (That’s what we call it when her head shoots up at attention and she starts frantically sniffing the air.)

“Uh oh,” I heard my husband utter as the three of us simultaneously spotted the rat running along the wall across from the bed. Does anyone else here feel like “Uh oh” is the understatement of the year when you discover a rat had taken up residence in your bedroom—at ten o’clock at night?

“Awwwww, fuck!” I yelled, spitting toothpaste everywhere. (A much more appropriate response, don’t you think?)
“How did he get in?
How long has he been in here?
Where has he been hiding?
OH shit! Do you think he’s been living under the BED?”

My husband wasn’t even listening. He was up getting a weapon.
I ran to spit and rinse. Then I dashed out of the room shutting the door behind me to keep the rat bastard contained…IN MY BEDROOM!

A grenade, I thought. I have to find a grenade. If that rat has been living under my bed well…maybe napalm. Clearly, we have to napalm the place and start over. Duh.

Ruby and I cowered, she outside and me in a dark hallway while my brave and heroic husband did broom battle with the rat. We could hear it and I have to tell you despite what you’re thinking—it actually sounded like a fair fight. When we timidly tiptoed back inside after being given the all clear, we were both traumatized—pale and shaky.

Even my husband who has put many a dying animal out its misery was affected. “I killed an animal tonight,” he said. He doesn’t usually say shit like that. It was weighing on him.

As I saged every freakin’ corner of that room to dispel the dead animal juju, so I could merely entertain the idea of sleep—I wondered why in the hell animals put us in such a horrible position?

I remembered hitting a squirrel after it froze and then at the last-minute made the shitty, life-ending decision to run under my left rear tire. That dull thump, thump, haunted me for weeks. Once we saw a man finishing off a dear after it ran in front of his car, demoing the front end. I was even reminded of a conversation I had with a lovely woman at a party recently who was grieving the loss of their family dog who suffered from cancer and had to be put down.

Why do these animals use us as their exit strategy? It sucks. Hard.

Why do they choose to cross a highway at all? What in the name of God is so important they have to get to the other side?

Why do they cross streets in the first place? The memo that explains how deadly cars hitting soft, furry bodies can be has had decades to circulate.

Why do they linger when they’re sick? Why do they force us into making such a horrendous decision?

And why for the love of all things holy is the entire great outdoors not enough for a rat to enjoy? Why did it have to come inside—into our bedroom?

These are just a few of life’s great questions. If you have a clue I’d love to hear it.

Carry on,
xox

I am so screwed.

On Sunday morning, during meditation, the voice in my head, THAT voice in my head, suggested in a strong tone that I needed to start a minimum three-day green drink fast.

Shit. You’ve gotta be joking.

I knew the voice who was doing the talking and it’s not a prankster.
Part of being intuitive is recognizing the different voices in your head. It was not my Muse, the bossy pants who writes, nor was it the tender-hearted poet. I’m still getting them all straight.

Some would call it my imagination—or even mental illness I suppose. But I love them all as they come to the forefront of my mind and until one of them commands me to rob a Seven-Eleven—I trust them.

This was the wiser, more tuned in presence that resides somewhere close by—always guiding me. An expert at the spiritual heavy lifting that is required in order to keep me on my path. It was that same voice that suggested I could be happier, that maybe I needed to leave my husband back in ’84—it was also the voice that told me I’d live after the devastating loss of my store.

It also guided me toward writing.

It is the steady voice that takes the bull out of bullshit and turns things around. It has steered me right so many times. Too many to mention. So I listen.

But they know who they’re dealing with when they make their suggestions so naturally I struck up a negotiation. It’s what I do. It’s my superpower I suppose. I never take anything at face value, and I most certainly never take NO for an answer. I really should work for the U.N. or the State Department.

The voice said a green drink fast meaning NO food, but first things first—No coffee?
No way.
Not gonna happen.
A compromise? I MUST have my coffee! I yelled in my head. I didn’t hear any argument so I took that as a yes.

Negotiations complete. Now I’m happy to do the fucking fast.

I am SO accommodating. And enlightened. Are you getting that?

Deep down I knew why the fast had been suggested.
Because Isis makes me eat.
Not terrorism as a whole, and not even Al-Qaeda
It is Isis.

Last week was the worst. Isis threw me into an epic food-binging blur.
It made me reach for the wine on a weeknight. We try not to imbibe on school nights, you know, so we can feel disciplined.

All bets were off. As the coverage of the attacks in France escalated, instead of curling into the fetal position and crying I dove into the Triscuits. Fucking Triscuits and cheese! Like, crack cocaine. And wine. Did I mention the red wine?

Also…last weekend…my husband’s ex-wife killed a man.
Yep.
As if the energy wasn’t batshit crazy enough, we heard that his ex-wife had committed first-degree murder. What do you do with that information? How do you process such a thing?

You add meat to the cheese on the Triscuit. Then you throw in some sort of fried food. And wine. Have I mentioned the wine?

So it appears I have developed an Isis and first-degree murder inspired eating disorder, which is redundant if you think about it and the all-time weirdest sentence I never thought I’d write. But I’m guessing you have too. 

By Saturday night, I was in a food frenzy coma. Feeling bloated and angry with myself, I said a little prayer as I rolled like a Weeble into bed.
Let me receive clarity, I asked. Clarity on all of it—Life, death, Isis, stress eating—all of it.
I’m not sure, but I think I feel asleep with a Triscuit in my mouth.

Do a green drink fast for at least the next three days was the first thing I heard the next morning in that place between asleep and awake. That’s my sweet spot, that place. I’ve heard amazing things there from the part of me that has my well-being at heart. Life changing things. Hard things. Things that terrified me in—a good way.

So I assumed that was the answer to my query.

Remember me? I’m the one practicing surrender. Fucking surrender. To what life offers and where my intuition guides me.

So here I am, late Monday morning, a little over twenty-four hours in and I am suffering! The timing of this is a cruel joke.

We shopped for Thanksgiving yesterday, so not only are there Triscuits in the house, there are Ruffles with ridges. And dip. And the ingredients for pies. Pies that I will have to make during this green drink thing.

Lord help me.

There were so many delectable holiday food commercials on television last night that I put myself to bed at 8:30. I couldn’t stand it. Even the Denny’s commercial had me salivating. I think I have to give back my foodie membership card for saying that.

This morning I’m hangry (anger brought on by hunger). I almost killed a man with my bare hands at the car wash. I see you there, you man. Enjoying your Power Bar. Asshole.

I’m coming unhinged.

Pray for me. I’m winging it here and have clearly lost my mind. I’ve decided to go all the way through Wednesday, making this a four-day green drink fast.

This is noteworthy. I am someone who only dabbles in green drinks. I am an amateur and an all time whining wimp. This is the Olympic Decathlon of green drinking and my hope is to medal because I’ve been told by the bravest part of me, the part that knows no fear, that after such a systemic detox—then I will find clarity.

Until then…

I am so screwed.

I’ll keep you posted.

xox