This post goes live the day after Christmas. Once it hits your eyeballs, it could be the 26th of December or the 8th of July for all I know, depending on when you clicked the link.
As I write this, it’s 12-23-2022.
It’s nine a.m. now, but The Day of the Siberian Goose Kazoo started much, much earlier than that.
1:00 a.m.: The cold front arrives, and with it, the winds, reminding me our front door has needed to be replaced for over ten years. The first windy day in this house, we thought someone was literally standing on the front porch whistling. When the winds kick up, the Unseen Whistler’s high-pitched tune can be heard throughout the house.
This morning it woke me up.
Since the temps have dropped to sub-zero, I get out of bed, do a faucet/pipe check, turn a few taps on to drip, toss the cats their three a.m. Salmon-Flavored Temptation treats two hours early, and go back to bed.
2:00 a.m. I’m still awake.
3:00 a.m. The Unseen Whistler hasn’t left the front porch, blowing his high-pitched melodies through the cracks in the front door. The cats have forgotten their 1:00 a.m. treats and believe Temptations are still due them.
I’m now another episode into the legal drama I’ve been binging. Since I have to work today, I decide a minuscule dose of melatonin can’t hurt. Just one milligram. For reference, some children’s versions have a full three milligrams.
6:30 a.m.: I sit straight up in bed, eyelids not obeying me because of that less-than-child-sized dose of an over-the-counter sleep aid, my heart pounding in my chest. I must’ve heard the sound before my sleep-deprived brain could determine what it was.
Someone handed our Unseen Whistler a full-blown kazoo. Or it could’ve been a disoriented Siberian goose sporting a kazoo that chased our Unseen Whistler from the porch. No doubt one of the orange-haired CIRCUS clowns from my out-of-control freak show had something to do with it. The direction of the wind (or multiple directions of the wind—it’s really bad out there) produced more of an out-of-rhythm buzzing honk than anything resembling a whistle.
I lie back down and try to calm down, but just as I thought I might be able to sleep off the rest of that milligram, the cats happened.
Stella Marie finds the kitchen cabinet door ajar (dutiful homeowner here, trying to prevent frozen pipes) and begins spelunking through the cleaning supplies, knocking them onto the floor. When I get to her, she’s found a secret passage over to the Hub’s lunch cabinet and is stomping around in his box of cheese and peanut butter crackers. I shoo her out because those belong to the Hubs, so he can goo up the pages of my paperbacks with cheese smudges on his lunch break.
I pick up the cleaning supply chaos and call Hubs to make sure he made it to work okay in the pre-dawn whiteout. I try once again to rest, but sleep doesn’t come at this point. May as well officially start the day.
7:30 a.m.: Eggs sound good. (Regular readers of the blog will know this is where the day really goes south, despite the 6:30 a.m. goosey kazoo. Because eggs must be cooked).
7:35 a.m.: Eggs in the skillet, cheese and bacon bits, too. A little caffeine to counter the effects of that residual milligram. Things are looking pretty good when I notice that my solar-powered dancing unicorn in the kitchen windowsill is covered in snow. I think this will make an interesting blog post, or facebook update… something.
7:40 a.m.: I plate my eggs, lest they burn, retrieve my phone and snap photos of my chilly figurine. Take breakfast to the office and clear emails, post on Facebook, start the day job…
7:45 a.m.: Stella Marie happens again. Her bellowing drowns out the ongoing Siberian Goose Kazoo. Her raspy voice and snarky swish of her tail tell me she is definitely unhappy and no amount of pets and kind words from me will assure her everything is fine. She leaves the office. Comes back again. Over and over. Louder.
7:47 a.m.: I smell it.
7:47 ½ a.m.: I find it.
In my melatonin-induced brain fog, and because I am who I am, I’d left the burner on. The skillet with the cheesy egg residue, along with my scrambling spatula, succumbed to my carelessness. The spatula had contorted into a twisted mess, much like the acrobat in my CIRCUS show. I turn off the burner, flip on the stove vent, and debate opening the kitchen window. I could rescue my snow-covered solar-powered dancing unicorn and allow the melted plastic fumes to escape.
But the -35 degree windchill notice on my phone suggests I just use the vent.
7:50 a.m.: Stella is still bellowing. Malachi can’t even with her noise and tries to get her to shut up by gently head-bumping her into the walls.
8:00 a.m.: Amara, the boss cat, now attempts to calm Stella down. This ends in a hallway-long scuffle which sends clumps of hair into all rooms coming off the hallway.
8:30 a.m.: The faucets are still dripping, and Amara, figuring Stella will eventually stroke out on her own, turns to the fine art of the water-drop-bat-then-flick-it-everywhere game.
9:22 a.m.: We’ve now caught up with the beginning of this post that I started 22 minutes ago. Stella has finally ceased her cries and has taken up post on my desk, the dutiful office cat she is. Amara pounds around in protest, parkouring off the walls, since I turned the faucets off and dried her paws.
Poor Malachi has disappeared. He fears the Day of the Siberian Goose Kazoo is just getting started and he’s gonna need a minute.
I fear the same because I’ve still not worked off that dab of melatonin.
And, at 9:25 a.m., the Siberian Goose Kazoo has awoken Little Miss Muse…