Tell me something that'll save me

The spring cleaning marathon has finally wrapped up, except for the yard. (It's rained most of the week, so oh well.) The house has been as thoroughly spring-cleaned as it's going to get this particular spring, and given that it took me three full days (and a little change) to sort it out - even the worst of my OCD demons are okay with it.

As per the previous post, I did in fact cover everything I predicted - the bathrooms, the baseboards, the stuff in my office, the floor vacuuming/washing, etc. I also cleaned out the attic stairwell (which we use for a janitorial closet, basically) and installed an organizer to get a bunch of crap off the floor/stairs in there; cleared out the medicine cabinet (we have one in the kitchen - and sometimes it gets ratty and/or stuff expires); and dragged down the ladder and cleaned all the lights/lamps/ceiling fans ... including the vintage crystal chandeliers.

Hey, you know what's really gorgeous and amazing? Vintage chandeliers! Hey, you know what's a miserable pain in the ass to clean? Vintage chandeliers!

We have a pair of them; they came with the house. They aren't original to the place, but they are period correct (circa 1900) - and one hangs in the foyer, one hangs in the dining room. I regret to confess that I spent fully 2-1/2 hours on the damn things, and they're still not exactly pristine.

No, I didn't pull off all the crystals and polish them, for even my OCD demons have their limits; but I put painting tarps all over the floor/dining room table, set up the ladder, and sprayed the lights down with a special cleaning solution that smelled suspiciously like flea-and-tick spray. Then I took (what turned out to be a full roll of) paper towels and wiped everything down to the best of my attention span ability.

Before on the left, after on the right.



Y'all don't even want to hear about the army of dead bugs. Just...trust me, okay?

* * *

So the yard is still a wreck, and my patio installation has been pushed back to the first of next month, due to the weather. I am bereft, but doing my best to be patient.

I'm also a little worried about the baby birds on the front porch. We had a terrible cold snap, with lows down around 40 degrees at night - and I'm hoping/praying that they made it. I've heard the adults coming and going a bit, but not very much ... and I won't swear that I've heard the babies at all. It's hard to say. They're still so tiny that they don't make much noise anyway.

I'm afraid to check. I've stopped watering the basket, and I'm leaving them alone for now.

* * *

This week got off to a really weird start.

On Greyson's morning walk, I spied what appeared to be a dead baby possum in the street. Greyson begged to differ with my assessment by whining insistently at it. He doesn't whine at things he wants to nab and eat - he whines at things/people he wishes to meet and greet - so I picked up a stick and gave the little thing a gentle poke. It curled up into a comma-shape, popped its tail into its mouth, and started sucking on it.

So it wasn't like I could just leave it there.

The lucky bastard (masculine pronoun for convenience) had chosen to fall off mom's back between a Methodist church and the house of a lady who refers to herself as Greyson's "Auntie Jane." Auntie Jane was home, and she provided a shoebox and an old dishcloth; she also provided a leash-hand to hold Greyson back while I collected the possum because his shots are up to date and everything, but I wasn't taking any chances.

By the time I got home, the possum had fallen asleep with his tail still stuffed in his mouth.



I wish I'd put something next to him for size comparison, but I didn't think about it. Anyway, he was about the size of my computer mouse.

I wasn't really sure what to do with him, so I called Greyson's vet, who is super-cool - and she suggested I call the Nature Center. The Nature Center surprised me, because they don't accept wild animals for rehab care - instead, they referred me to the Warner Park Zoo, for that's where I'd find the county's licensed/approved wildlife rehabilitators.

So for what it's worth, if you're in the Chattanooga area and you find an injured/orphaned wild animal, that's where you go. Go to the gift shop, which is right out front - and put a shoebox on the counter and ask for help. Or that's what I did, anyway.

I filled out a form identifying myself and noting everything I knew about the critter in question (virtually nothing, except the street where I found him - sans any sign of parent or siblings), answered a few questions, provided my contact information, and so forth. Easy-peasy, and I was greatly relieved that the service was available. It's nice to have a protocol in place for this sort of thing, because I mean, come on. It's nothing short of a miracle that this is the first wild orphan who's fallen into my lap since I came back to Tennessee.

At any rate. The rehab folks gave the little dude a promising prognosis - for he wasn't injured, he appeared otherwise healthy, and he was of sufficient size/age that he's got good odds of making it as a foster. He'll join four other foundling possums who are already in the program, and it is to be hoped that he'll grow up big, fat, and sassy.

Good luck, little dude.
Be well.

* * *

When all was said and done, I didn't make it home until after noon - so it's not like my day was entirely shot, but it sure felt like it. I gave up on writing business because to hell with it, that's why. Instead I went to the grocery store, liquor store, and post office - and I cleaned the garage. It was disgusting. Let us not speak of it again.

Tomorrow, if the weather holds, I'll finally take that overdue stab at the yard. It's only been a couple of weeks since I did any serious work on it - but it's already gotten so crazypants that I scarcely know where to begin. Ah, summer in the south.

We'll see how it goes.