The other night Mike and I were cleaning up after supper. I had a bag of compostable garbage--the kind that has to go to the transfer station because it is heat treated to turn it into compost…NOT the kind that goes into my garden compost bin. Any way, as I was filling a dish pan, Mike holds up the now empty bag and asks if I wanted to rinse it out or just throw it into the household trash.
“OMG, no! You tossed that stuff into my garden compost??” I was horrified, horrified.
Mike looked at me with an “I was trying to be helpful here” look and said, “I hope you are not going to mention this your blog. I don’t want my compost incompetence exposed to the world.”
Silly man. First of all, I’m pretty sure the entire world does not read my blog. Second of all, it was mildly distressing, yes, but I pulled myself together. I’m not crazy. I can get past these little upsets. And third of all, why would I even write about what he did with the garbage and how I can’t believe that he has lived with me for seventeen years now and he hasn’t learned the garbage rules. I have other things on my mind, important things. If I was going to rant about something it would be a much bigger issue that which compost bin to use. Geez.
Okay. It’s the screen door. Our kitchen-dining area has a French door with a screen we put up in the spring and summer. It’s a screen, designed to let air pass in and out but kind of keep the insect life on the outside. Mike believes that the screen blocks too much cool air so he likes to open the screen to let cool air into the house. I’d really thought my harping about the bugs entering with that nice cool air had worn him down. Now I find out it’s just when I can see that he closes the screen. Here’s how I found that out.
The other morning Mike got up and went out to the kitchen to start the coffee. I was still in bed, but I was awake. I heard a bird thwack into the picture window in the living room. Sometimes that happens, a bird flies into the window from the outside. This time, however, I hear Mike muttering something as he comes down the hallway. He goes right past the bedroom, though, and that is weird. Then I hear some minor thrashing about and wonder aloud just what the heck is going on. A woodpecker had flown into the house, hit the inside of the picture window and then , in total confusion and panic, flew off down the hall with Mike in pursuit. He got it out unharmed. How did a bird get into the house? Does this happen to other people? The door was open because it was SUCH NICE, COOL MORNING AIR. He didn’t admit it, but I heard that door very quietly close before I got up to pour my own coffee.