We are having all kinds of ruckus around here this morning. I hired a handyman to come over and deal with our gutters, which have had problems with pigeon poop from the birds that have been nesting in our eaves. I thought they were a problem, and that they were gross, but I didn't know the extent of their grossitude. The handyman was rather horrified, and did what he could, but he's not a pigeon guy.
But he cleaned the rest of the gutters, which needed help, and then found some problems we didn't even know we had. Now he's at the hardware store, getting supplies to fix a stand-pipe on the roof and our toilet, which has been leaking a little bit lately.
While he was on the roof, I was researching pigeon removal companies, and the one I called came over immediately. So now I have two guys working on the house.
AND THIS STRESSES ME OUT NO END. We have barky dogs in crates, and I feel like joining them in there. (Waylon was being a punk-ass and jumping Digit every time poor Dig turned around, so I threw Waylon into Clara's crate which was GEENYUS.)
I am a Cancer, through and through. Even a piece of paper or a glass left on the dining room table gives me a headache, and it depresses me to see the state of the old rusting tub (literally, it is depressing to me. I know it's not a big deal, and we'll fix it when we can afford to, but I have to keep the shower curtain closed at all times). I like most things just so, although in marriage I have learned to compromise on things like dishes. I can leave dishes in the sink now, which is not something I could do five years ago.
But men, even very, very nice men, crawling all over and through the house, freaks me out in a little-dog way. I feel all jittery. The only one completely not fazed by this is Harper.
Introducing, my Betta, Harper! He's much more blue and scarlet than this picture shows -- it's so hard to photograph his colors. (The name is courtesy of my friend Stephanie. She suggested it, and I said, "Oh, like Harper Lee?" She gave me a look and said, "No, like HarperCollins." Duh. She seems to be prescient also, as Collins is going the way of the Dodo this week, dismantled in cutbacks, leaving HarperCollins just Harper (my imprint, Avon, is unaffected, thank goodness).
(I have a publisher. Squee!)
But Harper is COOL. I've never had a fish, ever, except for ill-fated goldfish in my youth. I lurve writing next to him. When I'm stuck, I stare at him. It doesn't really help, because he's interesting, but it's nice.
The handyman (thanks, Janine, for the ref!) just came back and went through the house on his way out. He asked why the dogs were crated, and if it was for him. I said yes. He said, "Oh, let them out. I love dogs." I said they were bouncy and barky. He said, "I used to have thirty-five sled dogs." Now, THAT'S a line to be saved for fictional dialogue later. And I let the dogs out.
Neighbor Sam is barbequeing right now, and blasting old-school R&B. It's nice. And soon the men will be gone, and so will the pigeons, and all will be quiet again. Then I'll write better. But for now, I'm just going to write as well as I can.