Yesterday we had a couple of visitors. The first, a woman who’s made a few trips over here before and starting to seem like a stalker. On her initial visit (or at least the first I’ve witnessed), she drove up the driveway and from her car answered my craned neck Can I help you? gaze from my deck explaining she was, “looking at the house,” adding, “I own this house.” I didn’t think I heard her correctly so I asked her again, at which point she got out, stood beside her car and said it over and over, as if still trying to convince herself. She instructed me to simply look online and I could see this obvious truth for myself. She kept asking me if I was the renter of the house (she now owned), and I stuck with the only answer I knew: “No, we own it.” I pressed her on the address she was looking for, and she flashed a stuck on smile reserved for folks who don’t seem quite right, and replied, “Thank you!” Again and again, we did this question and smiling thank you dance until she drove off, taking five or six turns to get down the drive. Bless her heart, she can’t remember where’s she’s going, what she has or hasn’t purchased, nor can she execute the simple two turn maneuver it takes to leave.
That was last weekend. Yesterday’s visit was again short but not what you’d call sweet, her zooming up the drive in her trusty Maxima, and me, iPhone weapon in hand shooting her Fulton Co. plates. Both sets of police, my town’s and the college’s across the street, are on to her. Her perseverance is impressive, and her reverse turns have improved, too. It looks like the internet was wrong this time, though, and damn if we don’t still own the place. Us and the bank, that is.
This lady with twisted hair and mind to match stayed with me all day. She made me think of my boundaries and the house I live in, vowing to protect them more fiercely than ever. I’m home a lot as is my protective German Shepherd, and this wonderfully old historic home needs us to protect it just as we need the same from it. It may be old, but it’s strong.
So I’m rolling along last night fashioning leftovers into what I hope will be a tasty dinner. That spaghetti I dusted with parmesan and pats of butter a few days ago joined up with rotisserie chicken and broccoli, and ginger and garlic, too. A few shakes of sesame oil, rice vinegar and soy sauce christened it a stir fry, and a surprisingly damn good one at that. Sriracha gave it its kick, and we hovered over our bowls, savoring the spicy finish.
Next on the menu was a call to Google Wifi to hopefully help our spotty internet and tv connections. The nice lady on the phone was doing her best to work with the vacant space in my brain where tech savvy is supposed to reside. I bought Google Wifi extenders at Costco who proclaimed them idiot-proof: plug them in and go. Liars.
The lady is hanging in there with me, but seems I’ve now checked out, and am scanning the cluttered counters, the remains of the day, stir fry dishes, clean dishes to put away, paperwork and assorted stuff. Each item seems miles away from its respective home, and several items don’t have one. And then I saw it. Like a quick flash in your mind when you’re not sure if you’ve got a large floater orbiting your eyeball or a good-sized mouse roaming your counter. It was door number two, I’m afraid. We didn’t lock eyes; there wasn’t time. She cowered behind the stove instead while I insisted Ms. Google Wifi and I talk another time.
So twisted lady is thankfully out of the drive, but now I’ve got Mrs. Tittlemouse hanging around my kitchen. The cats and dog did a few laps in here, which I hoped was for catching her scent for the cat and mouse game scheduled for later on. I cleaned up the kitchen still eyeing the stove’s left edge. With dishwasher now running and papers ready for me at the table, I surveyed the room again, as I’d done repeatedly since our first meeting a half hour ago. She reappeared, hoping the coast was clear, and when our eyes locked, she wore an oh, shit! mouse in headlights expression, and decided behind the stove was where she’d actually meant to go. She was adorable, nothing like the rats I’ve met over the years, though thankfully not at this house.
In ten years here, I’ve only seen one other mouse, this one entering through a hole in our dining room baseboard. I went to corner it so it would exit where it came in, and we paused to look at one another. He (I have to assume it was Mr. Tittlemouse this time) stood on his tippy toes offering a Please dear God don’t hurt me! plea. His sweet face combined with my own fear, and I didn’t dare. I shuffled him along gently, like the Grinch sending Cindy Lou Hoo back to bed. We closed in that hole and never heard from him again.
The cat is exhausted and still keeping watch in his spot above the kitchen cabinets. I’m left wondering if my guests have checked out once and for all. I love company, but these two strains just aren’t my cup of tea. On with the day. Peace.
