Well, in truth, not even close. But, this time when the bell rang, there was a lovely small package in hand. That is, the Lakeside Livery guy had a small box in his hand, his other elbow resting nonchalantly on a box that was just the right height for the debonair stance, and behind him, a carton with feathers flying out of it.
There was lots of squawking.
There was a delivery ticket to sign. Then, with help from Lakeside Livery, the boxes were wrestled into my living room and opened. All in all, itt was an expected haul of gifts, all from the essentially nameless, TrueLove. All. One. Word.
Not True Love. Not "Your True Love." Nope. Just "TrueLove."
And so, I had some investigating. I had to get this bird brain to stop. Here I was, cheek by jowl, up to my eyeballs in birds.
Make that BIRDS!!!
I had yet another pear tree, with partridge. Another TWO turtledoves. Another THREE Bleeding Froggy Hens. ANOTHER FOUR, PUT A SOCK IN IT, CALLING BIRDS. Calling. Every 2.5 seconds. CALLING!!!!
My eardrums were at bursting point.
In a hugely belated attempt to assuage my ill humor, I did get five, count them FIVE. Gold. Rings.
With the price of gold, and with MF Global out of business, gold was nothing to sneeze at these days, I now owned FIVE, count em, FIVE. Gold. Rings.
I tried bribing the Lakeside Livery delivery guy to get him to part with the real name and address of the elusive TrueLove.
Nothing going there.
And so, I needed to get going early Friday morning, and do the legwork that had made Sherlock Holmes successful. Unfortunately for me, eveyrthing was closed up tight for New Year's Eve holiday, minus one.
They had to get a holiday for the workers, and had chosen Friday to shut everything down. Most places I went also had signs up that they'd also be closed Monday. To allow the hangovers to subside, I guessed.
Well, that left me with only one alternative.
I went to the only outfit in town that sold grain and hay. If I was going to be housing the Chicago version of Old McDonald's chicken coop, ala Franglish, I would need food for the hens, food for the partridges, and food for the soon to have their vocal cords removed without benefit of anesthesia, Calling Birds.
So, having spent the day looking for a way to find and shut down TrueLove, if only to get the feather count below 2000/cubic meter of air in my flat, I accepted defeat gracefully. I took the El back north to my residence, which was noticeable from about a half mile away due to the sound of a veritable chorus of operatic wannabes disguised in feathers, letting everyone know they wanted to be fed.
When I got to my floor, I could see boxes, five large, one very small, right in front of my door. There was a note from my helpful neighbor. "I signed for the delivery, hope you don't mind. Could you please get the noise under control? It's beginning to worry Bitsy, my cockapoo. Happy New Year! Sandy."
Right, I thought to myself. How do I silence the hellsa-raisin' chorus of birds? Sunup is just not a concept they believe should be observed as the earliest they should, umm, vocalize. Sundown doesn't shut them up one bit either.
My hands were shaking like quaking aspen leaves in a gale force wind as I dug the keys from my pocket. When I opened the door, there emerged from a carton behind me a sound that can only be hinted at, not fully described. It was somwehere between a jet engine and a train whistle in volume and eardrum fracturing horror.
I opened that carton first. Out waddled six, count them SIX geese. Complete with goose eggs left inside the carton.
Whoever TrueLove was, he was going to answer for a right increase in my cholesterol if I were to eat even half the eggs that were arriving in each shipment, or that arrived every day under the various foul fowl.
The small container that had been left atop the goose box, contained another (and this was the only smile I managed all day), FIVE. GOLD. RINGS.
That would be ten, yes TEN. GOLD. RINGS. The one part of this hellish Christmas prank that was worth anything.
I hustled the rest of the cartons inside, putting the obligatory FOUR. CALLING BIRDS, completely without cell phones, so they relied on volume to send messages that could reach Mars from right where I was standing. They, along with another Three French hens, with eggs, Two Turtle Doves, and a very irritated partridge, with pear tree, were all put into the spare bedroom/office. From the looks of it, if it wasn't condemned by the health department, would never again be the same.
That left the geese. Laying. Six of the sodding birds.
Geese don't get along with other birds very well. I needed to find a place for them. So, without a further thought, I cleaned out the large walk in closet, and shoved them in there. I'd use the weekend to sort out the contents of the closet, in addition ot a very thorough computer search for the elusive, and clearly demented, TrueLove.
But, it was late. I lived in fear of the next delivery. I also lived in fear of impending eviction or deafness, choose one. I was living in the nightmare of McDonald's Farm, the Hitchcock Birds Edition. I made myself some tea and consoled myself that tomorrow was another day, and it couldn't be worse than today.
Little did I know.
Showing posts with label 12 days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 12 days. Show all posts
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Chicken with a side of partridge anyone?
It's going to the birds. All of it.
Again, like some demented clockwork, not orange, the bell rang at 11:56 pm, which was astoundingly similar to the prior nights. At the door was a new Lakeside Livery delivery person, complete with a stack of cartons at his sides.
The largest had lots holes, from which sounds of angry birds were emitted. It sounded like a bad argument where 150 people were arguning at high pitch and higher volume.
I signed the delivery receipt, and stuffed the copy emblazoned with Lakeside Livery at the top of the page, and absolutely no information about the sender on it. I crumpled it and stuffed it in my bathrobe pocket.
After wrestling the packages inside, and opening the first, I realized I now owned more birds. This time it was French chickens.
Well, hens. There were eggs in the bottom of the container, which was filled with straw. Three of the eggs had shifted during transit, leaving a gooey mess of straw and egg yolk. As I looked around for a towel or something, the tallest of the remaining boxes tipped over and another bird squeal split the air with bloodcurdling efficiency.
Who knew that partridges could be so loud?
I cut the cardboard away from the tree, and after ten minutes of struggle, got the little cage holding the partridge into the spare bedroom/office, and put one very irritated partridge into a large cage I'd gotten at the local dollar store so he'd have more room. Of course, with two other partridges inside, that cage was getting crowded. A cage rated for four parakeets is no match for three partridges.
As I walked back to the living room, my bare feet encountered something that was both crunchy and slimy at the same time. You guessed it. The newly liberated hens had thanked their liberator by laying two more eggs, and I'd just walked in them.
The third parcel held a cage with two doves inside.
I shooed all the birds into the spare bedroom, and managed to shut the door without more feathers flying. The lights were off, and I was off to clean my feet properly and to clean up the floor. Then I was ready for sleep, big time.
Yet, it was not to be. As I was just drying my foot, the doorbell rang again. This time, I got there in record time.
You guessed it. I had another delivery from Lakeside Livery. Chances were, with all the livestock in a "only cats allowed" building, it would be that Shetland pony I wanted when I was ten.
But no, it was four cartons. Four large cartons. I needed to find out who hated me, and birds generally, by sending me these gifts. And I use the term "gift" sarcastically.
I looked at the clipboard stuffed under my nose. Before I signed, I asked the major question I needed to have answered. "Who is sending me this stuff?"
Delivery person grunted. Literally. Not an "I don't know," or any communication of "I've got no idea."
Nope, not any of that. Just a grunt, "Unnnnh."
"I don't feel like signing this until you tell me who is sending all this stuff to me. Please, if you have any sense of decency, please just tell me."
Nothing. But this time, he pointed at a number in the column marked "Sender Code" I checked the carbon copy under the ticket I was signing, because the whole thing was apparently done in quadruplicate. I scrawled, delivery person yanked the pen from my hand, stuck it behind his hatless ear, and turned on his heel. At least I had memorized the number, but I needed to find a pen fast.
It was impossible to find a pen fast. I heard someone say, "You nitwit, the pen, the number is 12490211. 12490211, 12490211."
I was thinking "shut up" and other find phrases, and tried to remember the code. It wasn't working. In searching for the pen, which was clipped to a sheet with all my recent code number and password changes.
Finally I got a pen from my briefcase besid ethe door, and wrote down, 15496221.
Victory! I'd be able to contact Lakeside in the morning, and find out who was actually behind this.
It was getting bad.
The first box I opened had a tag on the top that read, "Collie Birds, None are named Lassie"
Okay. A gift giver with a sense of humor. I got the cage with the four Non-Lassies into the spare room which woke up all the feathered inhabitants, and the cacophony began again in earnest.
I tore open the tallest of the cardboard boxes, and inside was another pear tree, with a tiny cage holding an upset partridge. I threw the cardboard, which hit the pear tree that arrived only minutes earlier, knocking it to the ground. Pears went rolling all over the living room, and in the confusion, I stepped in one, then stepped in the egg that got away from me, right before I went to clean my foot off.
I didn't care.
It didn't matter if the egg was ground into my carpets. It didn't matter if I was knee deep in cracked eggs. I just needed to open the remaining two boxes.
As I suspected from the straw poking out of the one carton, I had another three hens. I couldn't care less if they were French or Spanish or Chinese. They were loud. They'd laid 7 eggs, none of which were broken. I took a few moments, grabbed a pan from the kitchen, and stuck all the eggs inside. The ones that really got my attention though were the two turtle doves, which were lobbying hard to be part of a certain Vice President's hunting party.
An hour later, all the boxes were broken down and put out for disposal.and recycling. The birds were all in the extra bedroom, the lights were off and it was only (Only!?!?) two am. As in Ack Emma.
All I needed now was an early morning raid courtesy of some demented zoning inspectors or my landlord pounding on the door about the noise.
I turned the stereo to play some soft music. I was hoping that something that sounded musically boring, like Mantovani, or even Manilow, would lull the noisy birds to sleep. I don't often admit I own such music, but any and all records, cds or tapes in that line of elevator like music were gifts. From people that don't know me, and couldn't care less about my real taste in music. (In case you are wondering, I'm a big fan of classical, romantic, and truly enjoy the sonata form performed by strings.)
Anyway, I had the number in my pocket, and after every creature inside my flat was where they belonged for the night, I set up the laptop and started to try a simple search of Lakeside Livery shipping records, if there were any tracking information available online.
Nothing.
Absolutely, positively nothing.
I leaned back against the pillows on my bed, closed my eyes for a moment and nodded off.
Again, like some demented clockwork, not orange, the bell rang at 11:56 pm, which was astoundingly similar to the prior nights. At the door was a new Lakeside Livery delivery person, complete with a stack of cartons at his sides.
The largest had lots holes, from which sounds of angry birds were emitted. It sounded like a bad argument where 150 people were arguning at high pitch and higher volume.
I signed the delivery receipt, and stuffed the copy emblazoned with Lakeside Livery at the top of the page, and absolutely no information about the sender on it. I crumpled it and stuffed it in my bathrobe pocket.
After wrestling the packages inside, and opening the first, I realized I now owned more birds. This time it was French chickens.
Well, hens. There were eggs in the bottom of the container, which was filled with straw. Three of the eggs had shifted during transit, leaving a gooey mess of straw and egg yolk. As I looked around for a towel or something, the tallest of the remaining boxes tipped over and another bird squeal split the air with bloodcurdling efficiency.
Who knew that partridges could be so loud?
I cut the cardboard away from the tree, and after ten minutes of struggle, got the little cage holding the partridge into the spare bedroom/office, and put one very irritated partridge into a large cage I'd gotten at the local dollar store so he'd have more room. Of course, with two other partridges inside, that cage was getting crowded. A cage rated for four parakeets is no match for three partridges.
As I walked back to the living room, my bare feet encountered something that was both crunchy and slimy at the same time. You guessed it. The newly liberated hens had thanked their liberator by laying two more eggs, and I'd just walked in them.
The third parcel held a cage with two doves inside.
I shooed all the birds into the spare bedroom, and managed to shut the door without more feathers flying. The lights were off, and I was off to clean my feet properly and to clean up the floor. Then I was ready for sleep, big time.
Yet, it was not to be. As I was just drying my foot, the doorbell rang again. This time, I got there in record time.
You guessed it. I had another delivery from Lakeside Livery. Chances were, with all the livestock in a "only cats allowed" building, it would be that Shetland pony I wanted when I was ten.
But no, it was four cartons. Four large cartons. I needed to find out who hated me, and birds generally, by sending me these gifts. And I use the term "gift" sarcastically.
I looked at the clipboard stuffed under my nose. Before I signed, I asked the major question I needed to have answered. "Who is sending me this stuff?"
Delivery person grunted. Literally. Not an "I don't know," or any communication of "I've got no idea."
Nope, not any of that. Just a grunt, "Unnnnh."
"I don't feel like signing this until you tell me who is sending all this stuff to me. Please, if you have any sense of decency, please just tell me."
Nothing. But this time, he pointed at a number in the column marked "Sender Code" I checked the carbon copy under the ticket I was signing, because the whole thing was apparently done in quadruplicate. I scrawled, delivery person yanked the pen from my hand, stuck it behind his hatless ear, and turned on his heel. At least I had memorized the number, but I needed to find a pen fast.
It was impossible to find a pen fast. I heard someone say, "You nitwit, the pen, the number is 12490211. 12490211, 12490211."
I was thinking "shut up" and other find phrases, and tried to remember the code. It wasn't working. In searching for the pen, which was clipped to a sheet with all my recent code number and password changes.
Finally I got a pen from my briefcase besid ethe door, and wrote down, 15496221.
Victory! I'd be able to contact Lakeside in the morning, and find out who was actually behind this.
It was getting bad.
The first box I opened had a tag on the top that read, "Collie Birds, None are named Lassie"
Okay. A gift giver with a sense of humor. I got the cage with the four Non-Lassies into the spare room which woke up all the feathered inhabitants, and the cacophony began again in earnest.
I tore open the tallest of the cardboard boxes, and inside was another pear tree, with a tiny cage holding an upset partridge. I threw the cardboard, which hit the pear tree that arrived only minutes earlier, knocking it to the ground. Pears went rolling all over the living room, and in the confusion, I stepped in one, then stepped in the egg that got away from me, right before I went to clean my foot off.
I didn't care.
It didn't matter if the egg was ground into my carpets. It didn't matter if I was knee deep in cracked eggs. I just needed to open the remaining two boxes.
As I suspected from the straw poking out of the one carton, I had another three hens. I couldn't care less if they were French or Spanish or Chinese. They were loud. They'd laid 7 eggs, none of which were broken. I took a few moments, grabbed a pan from the kitchen, and stuck all the eggs inside. The ones that really got my attention though were the two turtle doves, which were lobbying hard to be part of a certain Vice President's hunting party.
An hour later, all the boxes were broken down and put out for disposal.and recycling. The birds were all in the extra bedroom, the lights were off and it was only (Only!?!?) two am. As in Ack Emma.
All I needed now was an early morning raid courtesy of some demented zoning inspectors or my landlord pounding on the door about the noise.
I turned the stereo to play some soft music. I was hoping that something that sounded musically boring, like Mantovani, or even Manilow, would lull the noisy birds to sleep. I don't often admit I own such music, but any and all records, cds or tapes in that line of elevator like music were gifts. From people that don't know me, and couldn't care less about my real taste in music. (In case you are wondering, I'm a big fan of classical, romantic, and truly enjoy the sonata form performed by strings.)
Anyway, I had the number in my pocket, and after every creature inside my flat was where they belonged for the night, I set up the laptop and started to try a simple search of Lakeside Livery shipping records, if there were any tracking information available online.
Nothing.
Absolutely, positively nothing.
I leaned back against the pillows on my bed, closed my eyes for a moment and nodded off.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
It is the First Day of the Rest of Them...
11:55 pm.
Darkness covered the city like the snow that should cover the ground. White Christmas?
Bah Humbug!
There's been a lot of Bah Humbug-ging around here lately. 'Tis the season and all that.
No matter what the surveys say, spending has been limited this year because too many people can't afford food. All these economic indicators indicating spending is up 16 percent have to be studies done by drug addled, economic Pollyanna's. Or, they've only sampled the investment banking industry. Those are the only employed people with money this year.
Anyway, rather than spend the day after Christmas, aka Boxing Day, shopping 'til I'd be dropping, I was cleaning my apartment.
At 11:55 pm, I should have been snug in my bed, visions of sugarplums still dancing in my weary noggin. But no, I was awake, making yet another hand-crafted feast from the pages of Julia Le Chat Cuisine Par ...well par none, if you must know. My beastly roomie, known to all and sundry as a lovely little cat, has had yet another bout of seasonal indigestion.
It is not my fault he is able to leap 5 feet in the air and catch tinsel that should be decorating the upper branches of the Christmas tree. In fact, the tinsel was high enough to elude his mouth for each and every one of the prior six Christmas trees. But this year, tinsel stopping at the precise measurement of 5.5 feet off the ground, the tinsel has been disappearing, only to be dragged everywhere and anywhere. It's his own version of entertainment.
Being a diligent pet parent, I knew that tinsel is not a good snack for cats. I'd spent three hours getting the ornaments right, the tinsel looking perfect on jsut a few upper branches, and now I had to remove that shiny, silver cat treat, or else it would be flying through the apartment, carried by a flying cat, and whatever was in his path was hitting the ground. Hard.
I have lots of "breakage": around here. So, dustbin rapidly filling, I was just about finished with the cleaning up, and the doorbell rang.
It was the charming delivery person from Ace's Best Chicago Delivery. ABCD has a reputation for making all its deliveries on time, which in this case meant they had to deliver before midnight. I knew this because the delivery ticket said just that in bold, red letters.
I gave a dollar to the guy holding the box. He gave the box to me. I heard a small whistle from inside the box. The cat yowled.
I knew what was inside sounded frighteningly like a bird. You see, I know John Darling. And he's got a reputation for this sort of thing. Sending birds and lovely presents, jewelry, pretty boxes filled with items of considerably high price, and generally treating whoever takes his fancy to some pretty fancy presents.
I was, in short, delighted. A present! Just what I needed as a reward for the last hours of labor removing tinsel from every branch, ornament, chair, table, couch or surface that could have a simple strip of shiny, silvery stuff on it. And it was everywhere and anywhere. I was happy to be done with tinsel. forever.
After sending ABCD out of the building, I opened the box. Inside, I found a beautiful miniature pear tree, done in gold leaf, with a pretty little golden partridge resting in one upper branch. The tag read, "Let the magic begin...I love you, John Darling."
Stunning! Gorgeous! And, he loves me!
Wow...
The doorbell rang again. By now it was 11:59.
ABCD was again at the door.
"Lady, you gotta sign for this one too." His voice could have wakened the dead. I only hoped that Cosmo, my next door neighbor was still sound asleep, because when I play the stereo, Cosmo calls the cops claiming it's too loud. In fact, it's not loud, because even I have a hard time hearing the quiet parts. Cosmo just hates my taste in music.
Oh boy, I thought. What else could there be? I had a beautiful pear tree, perfect for the table by the window.
In the hallway, there it was. A 3 foot container was resting on a handcart, complete with a larger version of the miniature.
I was looking at a real pear tree.
With pears.
And, one real, live, very upset partridge.
Make that a very, very, VERY unhappy partridge. All alone, perched in a pear tree.
A six foot tall pear tree.
Do you know where this is going?
Pardon me, I have to run. The cat has figured out how to strafe the partridge's perch, which was every so slightly lower than 5.5 feet off the ground. Sadly for the partridge, there was no tinsel to divert his attention.. . .
Merry Christmas, all..
Darkness covered the city like the snow that should cover the ground. White Christmas?
Bah Humbug!
There's been a lot of Bah Humbug-ging around here lately. 'Tis the season and all that.
No matter what the surveys say, spending has been limited this year because too many people can't afford food. All these economic indicators indicating spending is up 16 percent have to be studies done by drug addled, economic Pollyanna's. Or, they've only sampled the investment banking industry. Those are the only employed people with money this year.
Anyway, rather than spend the day after Christmas, aka Boxing Day, shopping 'til I'd be dropping, I was cleaning my apartment.
At 11:55 pm, I should have been snug in my bed, visions of sugarplums still dancing in my weary noggin. But no, I was awake, making yet another hand-crafted feast from the pages of Julia Le Chat Cuisine Par ...well par none, if you must know. My beastly roomie, known to all and sundry as a lovely little cat, has had yet another bout of seasonal indigestion.
It is not my fault he is able to leap 5 feet in the air and catch tinsel that should be decorating the upper branches of the Christmas tree. In fact, the tinsel was high enough to elude his mouth for each and every one of the prior six Christmas trees. But this year, tinsel stopping at the precise measurement of 5.5 feet off the ground, the tinsel has been disappearing, only to be dragged everywhere and anywhere. It's his own version of entertainment.
Being a diligent pet parent, I knew that tinsel is not a good snack for cats. I'd spent three hours getting the ornaments right, the tinsel looking perfect on jsut a few upper branches, and now I had to remove that shiny, silver cat treat, or else it would be flying through the apartment, carried by a flying cat, and whatever was in his path was hitting the ground. Hard.
I have lots of "breakage": around here. So, dustbin rapidly filling, I was just about finished with the cleaning up, and the doorbell rang.
It was the charming delivery person from Ace's Best Chicago Delivery. ABCD has a reputation for making all its deliveries on time, which in this case meant they had to deliver before midnight. I knew this because the delivery ticket said just that in bold, red letters.
I gave a dollar to the guy holding the box. He gave the box to me. I heard a small whistle from inside the box. The cat yowled.
I knew what was inside sounded frighteningly like a bird. You see, I know John Darling. And he's got a reputation for this sort of thing. Sending birds and lovely presents, jewelry, pretty boxes filled with items of considerably high price, and generally treating whoever takes his fancy to some pretty fancy presents.
I was, in short, delighted. A present! Just what I needed as a reward for the last hours of labor removing tinsel from every branch, ornament, chair, table, couch or surface that could have a simple strip of shiny, silvery stuff on it. And it was everywhere and anywhere. I was happy to be done with tinsel. forever.
After sending ABCD out of the building, I opened the box. Inside, I found a beautiful miniature pear tree, done in gold leaf, with a pretty little golden partridge resting in one upper branch. The tag read, "Let the magic begin...I love you, John Darling."
Stunning! Gorgeous! And, he loves me!
Wow...
The doorbell rang again. By now it was 11:59.
ABCD was again at the door.
"Lady, you gotta sign for this one too." His voice could have wakened the dead. I only hoped that Cosmo, my next door neighbor was still sound asleep, because when I play the stereo, Cosmo calls the cops claiming it's too loud. In fact, it's not loud, because even I have a hard time hearing the quiet parts. Cosmo just hates my taste in music.
Oh boy, I thought. What else could there be? I had a beautiful pear tree, perfect for the table by the window.
In the hallway, there it was. A 3 foot container was resting on a handcart, complete with a larger version of the miniature.
I was looking at a real pear tree.
With pears.
And, one real, live, very upset partridge.
Make that a very, very, VERY unhappy partridge. All alone, perched in a pear tree.
A six foot tall pear tree.
Do you know where this is going?
Pardon me, I have to run. The cat has figured out how to strafe the partridge's perch, which was every so slightly lower than 5.5 feet off the ground. Sadly for the partridge, there was no tinsel to divert his attention.. . .
Merry Christmas, all..
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