The Bite

 Last night I was awakened by the most intense itching sensation on my right arm,  halfway between my bicep and tricep muscles. Not that there's much muscle to talk about...I halt my gym attendance in the summer because I work hard in the garden. Although lately I've been enjoying lying around and reading my book. I justify this because of the evacuation this summer. It makes no sense, but, you know. It was an unsettling time. I need to reward myself for  (please fill in the blank.)

Anway, the itching grew so intense that I sat up in bed to search my nightstand for something to quell the pain. I found some minty cream typically used for sore muscles. It kind of worked. Next, I used my phone's flashlight to check the bedsheets. Nothing there at all. It worried me.

I thought about pulling the curtains back, but I was still pretending that I wasn't really awake and would soon be back in a deep sleep. Also, I was afraid of what I might find. Perhaps a small vampire bat who'd died after sending his friends an echolocation message. 'O my God, get over here...this blood is delicious! I think she ate popcorn last night...the sweet kind!'

My other fear was finding a tall skinny man hiding there, his lips smeared with my blood. 'I'm so sorry,' he'd say in a polite British accent,' but your blood is so delicious that I had to call a friend.' And then an even creepier thing would step out from behind the curtains. (Please don't wait for a description of this creature...I just couldn't let myself create one more disturbing image.) 

After ensuring that the bed was empty (no vicious, otherworldly spiders) I climbed in, spent about five minutes longing to scratch my arm in spite of the minty lotion, and fell back asleep. I awoke in the morning feeling victorious, like I'd just climbed Mount Everest or swum the English channel. I longed for a journalist to beg me for an interview. Because, that's how miraculous it feels to fall back asleep when you're convinced it will never happen.

My arm is still tender and a bit itchy, but it looks better than it did in the light of my cellphone. So all is well. But you'd better believe I'll be searching my room thoroughly at bedtime, just to make sure it doesn't happen again. Because as I learned during childhood, there may be creepy, crawlies everywhere, but the scariest thing of all is your own imagination. 

Until next time, dear reader. (Next blog, I mean. Not next bite. Hopefully.)

Call of Duty

 On the day my niece Camilla was getting married, I was lolling about in an old sundress. It was very hot outside but I try not to use the air conditioning unless I'm about to lose consciousness. As the wedding officiant, I'd been working on the ceremony, wanting it to be extra special. I wandered around the house, pen in hand (even though I was working in microsoft word) and searching my brain for any last bits of wisdom to announce themselves. 

Suddenly, I heard a loud, rumbling noise coming from the back lane behind my garage. I stepped outside and saw a long, strange looking truck parked there. It was filled with ladders and other machinery, along with a crew of people and, if memory serves me right, a small shed.

The people exiting the vehicle looked like they'd lived through something. I was trying to figure out what it was when it landed. They looked like a slightly scruffy but highly trained military unit preparing themselves to head into that cave and take out Bin Laden. Kind of world weary, like they'd seen it all. I expected someone to shout, Semper fi! Or, Boo Rah! Instead, a small female stepped forward. "We're here to do your roof."

 Huh?

After the fire that threatened Flin Flon, I realized that the shingles on my roof had curled and softened to the point that tiny bits were dropping onto my deck. So in July after the evacuation was over, I hired a contractor. This was his crew.

'But I have a wedding today," I said, then quickly realized that nobody looks a gift horse in the mouth. Not the Greeks, and not me, either. If I sent them away, who knew when they'd return? I'd seen the movie, The Money Pit, and wasn't taking any chances on losing them to some other schmuck with bad shingles.

They began setting up ladders and hauling scrapers onto the roof. This team worked like a well oiled machine. I should point out that it was 31C and I could barely stand to be in the yard, never mind climb up on the roof. But the girl, a cutie who looked about sixteen (I think she was like an ambassador, meant to connect with me, the client) started throwing tarps over plants and furniture to avoid damage. Then, they got to work. 

My first observation was, 'it's so loud! I can't think!' And I know that most people would have just left the house but I hadn't printed out the ceremony yet. I hadn't gotten dressed, or done my hair. A few hours went by and soon, they were fastening the new shingles to the roof. I'd hear a loud boom! and the china in my cabinet would jump like Victorian maidens who'd just been propositioned. It sounded like they'd employed a couple elephants to stomp all over the roof. 

I noticed a few other things. Like, they never asked to come inside to go to the bathroom. They never asked for water. I pictured them telling each other, 'just hold it!' Instead, they worked with rugged, sweaty determination. As I shoved in a pair of ear plugs and changed dresses, I had a feeling that going to the gym three times a week and heading out on walks could not compare to this kind of workout. I mean, the sun alone would have been enough to send me to the hospital. 

At last, I left for the wedding, trusting that they'd continue to finish the roof and not all die of heatstroke. When I got out to Baker's Narrows where the wedding would take place, the setting was breath taking. Everyone else was ready, including the pianist and opera singers. (Yes, we live in Flin Flon, but we're fancy like that.) I turned to a family member and said, 'I'm getting my roof done," in the braggy tone of someone who was about to get a facelift. "It's very loud," I added.

After a beautiful wedding, a fabulous dinner and lots of festivities, I went home. The neighborhood was quiet and my roof finished. The roofers had tidied up any mess, taken the tarps and even cleaned out the eavestroughs. I was going to hire someone to do it but they'd saved me the trouble. I felt wonderful, like I'd actually had a facelift. Not that I know how it feels...it probably hurts a lot, but the feeling of accomplishment which was in no way mine, stayed with me. 

It's wonderful not worrying about damage to my roof from old shingles. After checking for dead bodies (how did they live through that heat?) I longed to say, well done! And thanks for not dragging it out. Although I wouldn't have blamed you if you had, but I know that's not how you do things. No half measures. Like the marines, you got your guy. I mean, you finished the job. 

Sincerely, 

a grateful nation...uuuh, I mean, customer.