Hello. It’s Belinda.
I’m sorry if this blog post runs every which way but I can’t think straight. And considering what’s coming up in a few weeks this is not the time to be “off my game.”
It’s my roommate. She interrupts me every five minutes even though I’m trying to work.
The thing is she’s been sick all week. Coughing and sneezing and staggering through the house in her pajamas. Still wearing them at three o’clock in the afternoon.
“What are you working on, Belinda?” Looking over my shoulder at my confidential papers. So I have to shuffle them around in a panic like I lost something.
And then instead of resting in bed she stands in front of the refrigerator with the door wide open. Which is a problem for two reasons. One, the romaine and parsley, etc., is supposed to stay cold. I’m sorry but I like my greens crisp.
Two, when I hear the refrigerator door I expect to hear bags. And then no matter what I’m working on I’m up the steps. It’s a distraction.
So the entire time she’s hanging onto the door handles, looking in the fridge like she’s watching a TV show, I’m on the bottom floor listening instead of working.
Then there’s the other wrinkle. My boyfriend’s companion has moved back to the bottom floor. “Part-time.”
It all started when I invited her to my Hay Moon party and she said no thank you. Because she wanted to spend the evening with The English. Even though after four weeks of “dates” he keeps stealing her food and chasing her through the kitchen. None of my business but I can hear it.
My roommate said it was time to try a new tactic. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
So she set up a big pen in the bottom floor with new throw rugs, a large manger stuffed with three types of hay, a ceramic water bowl and a bed. There’s even a plate just for herbal blends.
She carried my boyfriend’s companion downstairs on Monday around 9 p.m.
“Here’s your new bedroom. You can have slumber parties down here with Belinda. Then back upstairs during the day.”
That’s how it was supposed to work.
But suddenly my boyfriend’s companion has insomnia. She says she hears noises in the back yard all night. And crickets in the walls.
All I know is when I wake up for a midnight chew or to use the litterbox, I glance over at her pen. Just out of habit. And every single time she’s sitting there, wide awake. Staring at me.
“Do you still have those snackers from the party?”
I pretend I don’t hear. Don’t want to get into it at 2 a.m.
After I’m settled and almost back to sleep she’ll start up again.
“I could go for a snacker. Help me sleep.”
All I can say is I’m glad the lights are off.
“Pear blueberry. One pear blueberry healthy snacker.”
Eventually I nod off despite the chatter. But it’s a nervous sleep and I’m not well-rested for work.
And with my roommate playing with the refrigerator door and asking me the same questions all day long, it’s a wonder I can get this blog “put to bed.”
Here’s the bottom line. On Labor Day weekend, I will mark one year as a spokesrabbit.
It snuck up on me.
And I don’t want to throw that in anyone’s face here at home. But all my housemates seem to think about is “kitchen dates” and pajamas and snackers.
I don’t know what it means to hit the one-year anniversary at work. What they expect from me. How could I know?
But I need to be ready. And I can’t work under these conditions.
Spokesrabbit, Small Pet Select
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