No, your eyes do not deceive you. My neighbor does indeed own a street sweeper.
I'd cook up some fantastical story about why I think the man on the corner feels the need to park his petite street sweeper in front of his house every day/night... but lets be honest. Its almost midnight on the West Coast. I have laundry in the dryer still. My bed has no sheets on it. The cats are looking at me like I'm their next meal because the "food monkey" has failed to notice the empty dish next to her desk. (They are not without in any way, the sways of their chubby little bellies is testament to that.)
Oh and have I mentioned that I haven't had time to shower in two days? Everyone in the house has, but I've hit the "why bother?" stage of parenting.
Why bother getting clean just to have the kiddo drop something behind a piece of furniture that hasn't been moved in fifteen years? Why bother showering when all I do is notice the mildew stains in the grout and wonder if I can shave my legs and scrub the shower at the same time... (Not advisable, by the way. Merely a taste of my odd thought processes.)
But yes, back to the street sweeper. I've got to give it to the neighbor, he's always on time. Very rarely has he been late arriving home and on those times I was usually too preoccupied with other... activities to notice. (I did have a live-in boyfriend until this last month, folks...)
Every night at 11:30pm the neighbor pulls on to the street and then carefully backs his small street sweeper into the same exact spot on the curb. Mom and I don't even bother to look at the clock any more. We hear the backup warning, that lovely little beeping noise, and almost in unison grumble, "Is it eleven-thirty already?"
We're not night owls any more. That flash in the pan idea died a slow painful death when A came into our world. Now seeing midnight is an adventure in sleep deprivation and startling giddiness. Matter of fact, this blog is a result of that.
Well and the fact that I really do not want to make my bed.