TheBanyanTree: Monday

[Monique]

Don't get me wrong. I love Monday mornings. There's the smell of fresh paper
in the air, the stench of taxes, the expectation that this week will turn
out better than last week (which wasn't a bad week, all things considered,
just that this one should be even better since I work on a sliding scale
which is supposed to slide up), and that the squirrel on the front porch is
not indicative of the rest of the week.

I sit down. I go over tax paperwork -- I don't DO taxes, but my clients seem
to think it my responsibility to get their stuff in order before I ship it
off to my tax preparer. Well, okay then. And I hear a noise at the front
door. Anyone coming up the steps outside my apartment must be coming to see
me since the stairs don't go anywhere else but TO my apartment, so it's
pretty quiet most of the time. (Which isn't to say I don't have visitors,
but there certainly isn't a horde of them, especially on Monday mornings.)
But there's a noise. It's obviously not a visitor or the UPS man or
management coming to warn me of some transgression, such as excess noise or
feeding the ducks at the nature preserve, because any of those would knock.
There is no knocking.

I go to the door. I unlock the door. I open the door. There's nothing there,
except today's fresh garbage which I haven't taken to the dumpster yet. I
close the door and return to work.

There's a rustling on my front porch. Something with the bag of garbage
which is waiting for me to take it to the dumpster. I find myself hoping
that whatever it is, it isn't coming from INSIDE the bag, since that would
be a pretty strong indicator that my trash handling has fallen to a new low.
If there are things growing inside of there, things which can grow enough to
rustle the bag, then we have a problem. 

I go the door, trying to be quiet. I unlock the door carefully, not wanting
to scare anyone away. I open the door quickly. I see nothing. I look around
some more, and then, unexpectedly, a squirrel dashes from behind the bag of
garbage and up onto the ledge of the thing that keeps me from plummeting to
my death when I go outside. I'm sure there's another name for it, but I tend
to stick with what I know. 

He, or she, I have yet to learn how to tell the difference, sits there and
stares at me. It doesn't run away, nor does it attack. (I am quite thankful
it does not attack -- I have yet to be attacked by a squirrel, but I can't
imagine it being pleasant.) I stare back at it, and then, in an attempt to
ease the tension, begin a conversation.

The squirrel is unmoved. And unblinking. And not a very good
conversationalist either, I must say. It is obvious we will not have any
sort of relationship, so I go back in, shutting the door behind me. I sit
down and go back to work.

And it begins again. Rustle, rustle. The sound of plastic being shredded, or
the sound of something attempting to shred plastic, I don't know. And I
don't really care. It's between the squirrel and the trash bag now, and I
refuse to take part. Instead, I go back to work, while contemplating the
wonderful weekend I have just had, and knowing that Monday will not last
forever. 

M7