It’s the end of the fence as we know it
This morning as the fence guys banged away outside, I wrote out the final check. Then I took it upstairs to Otto’s office and handed it over. “I’m not talking to them, I’m not looking at them, I’m not discussing anything with anyone. When it’s done and you’re happy, give it to them. But I’m not here.” Otto chuckled and agreed, because he’s known me a very long time, and he knows that when I voluntarily remove myself from a situation like that, it means it’s really best for everyone concerned.
An hour later, it was done. DONE. Today is day 34, by the way—just in case you were keeping track. (Not that we were. OH HA HA HA! I crack myself up. Hee.)
It looks great. There were only a few times with this last crew that I wanted to rip someone’s eyebrows off. Plus they’ll be back next month to seal it for us for free (just a little bonus you get when your fence job is totally botched and takes over a month). And most importantly—let’s not forget—it’s DONE. Thank God. Oh, did you want to see it? read more…
Squashes and fences and ants (oh my)!
Listen, it’s kind of been a whirlwind around here for the last few weeks: There was getting the kids ready for their trip, and then we went camping, and then Kira was here, and then Otto came back, and then another old friend of mine came by for a quick visit; and you know all of this is a bit much for my delicate system—all of these comings and goings—and really all I want at this point is to sit on the couch with some popcorn and something terrible on television and not have to talk to anyone for a while.
Of course, that is simply not how my life goes… um, ever. Which is fine. Really, IT’S FINE. WHY AM I YELLING? Ahem. No. It’s totally fine. There’s always things to be done and stuff to take care of no matter how slug-like I’m feeling. And at least Otto being home again means that when I get up in the morning and regard the coffeemaker with a mournful expression and a plaintive, “There isn’t any coffee in here,” Otto is willing to swoop in and fix my life, or at least my coffee.
There may not be enough coffee in the universe to get me through this week, though. read more…
Tipping
I’m over at Off Our Chests, today, talking about what I learned from my long-ago stints as a waitress. I’m guessing there are worse jobs to have, but waitressing was definitely the worst job I, personally, have ever had.
Like anything else that doesn’t kill you, though, it probably made me stronger. Or at least cognizant of the fact that sometimes the best choice is to just be nice, no matter what.
Movie reviews courtesy of cheese and livestreaming
The weekend quickly disappeared in a fast-forward WHOOSH of chatting and talking and discussing and many other synonyms for flapping our gums endlessly at one another. True, Kira and I speak several times a week on the computer, anyway, but something about being together, in person, for that one weekend a year makes it suddenly VERY IMPORTANT that we discuss everything from the Good Old Days That Really Were Kind Of Sucky back when we were both single moms and despaired of life ever getting better to how we can possible arrange for her Max to marry my Chickadee and the kids to think it was all their idea and we had nothing to do with it.
Inbetween all of that talking, and also sometimes DURING it, we figured that another benefit of our time together with NO CHILDREN OR SPOUSES was that we could partake of some movies we otherwise might not see. This would’ve been fine if we’d been hitting up our local movie store, but instead, we settled in with my Netflix account to see what was available via livestreaming.
I have a bit of a mental block when it comes to Netflix, it turns out. read more…
Drunk on freedom
Otto and I packed up from camping, came home, removed everything from the camper and shoved it into the washing machine, and then he promptly left me to go race cars… somewhere. Up north. I forget where. I wasn’t really paying attention, on account of I took this opportunity when 1) my kids are gone and 2) Otto is off to play cars to 3) demand that my bestie come spend the weekend with me.
We are positively INEBRIATED with the sheer joy of having no one to answer to and no real plans (other than some fancy dinner plans Otto made for us for tomorrow night because he is awesome), and so far have managed to throw the ball for the dog a few times, talk each others’ ears off, and shop for nutritious dinner food like a hunk of brie and crackers. We have also spent some quality time combing through the Netflix available streaming movies to make sure tonight we have something truly terrible to watch while we flick popcorn at the dog.
[I know that now that I’m all grown up I’m not supposed to get all giddy over what is essentially the 40-year-old version of a slumber party, but screw that. Moms need play dates, too, man.]
Wild, wild, wildlife
It seems ridiculous to claim we’re out communing with nature when, in reality, our camper has a microwave and the campground has free wifi. I know. But we’re parked in a forest where emerging takes you right to the ocean’s shore, and more to the point, this is The Land Of A Million Squirrels.
When you sign in at the campground, they give you all sorts of information materials (maps and such), and everything carries prominent warnings that you should not feed the squirrels. This baffles me. First of all, these squirrels swagger around like the damn rodent mafia, which to me is SO CREEPY that I cannot imagine anyone thinking, “Wow, this giant rat with a fluffy tail just walked up and drank out of the dog’s water dish while she was sitting right there, I think I’ll offer him a Cheeto in the hopes that he takes out a tiny switchblade and carves up my face for good measure.” Second… well, there really isn’t a second. I just pretty much hate squirrels.
Licorice, however, is having the time of her life. Because no sooner does the squirrel she’s chasing scamper up a tree than another emerges nearby to taunt her and take its place. read more…
I’ve improved with age
There’s no doubt that as I get older I get wiser, as well as less of a pain in the ass. (Okay, that last part is debatable, I suppose.) The regrets I have from my youth are plentiful, but theoretically all of THAT contributes to what I am NOW. And what I am now is more or less okay with me, as it’s a good deal smarter, less impulsive, and happier than Young Me.
That said, there are a few events from my past which I still cringe to recount. Not that this stops me. So if you want to head over to Off Our Chests today, you can read about the single most delinquent-esque choice of my teenage years, and why it’s something I hold in mind as I parent my own kids.
True romance, camping style
Actual unretouched conversation preceding this post, over breakfast:
Me: Is it okay with you if I blog about last night?
Otto: *raises his eyebrows in the classic “Are you on crack?” gesture*
Me: No. No! Not, you know, ALL of last night. But… you know, the early parts.
Otto: *shakes his head slowly, wide-eyed, conveying that I’m trying to kill him*
Me: Otto! I just mean… you KNOW what I mean. I’m not going to say anything… inappropriate. But I know you’re descended from Puritans and easily embarrassed, SO I’M ASKING. If it’s going to mortally embarrass you, I won’t.
Otto: *sighing* It’s your site.
Me: Yes it is. But I don’t want to make you unhappy. If you really don’t want me to, I won’t. I can write about… squirrels.
Otto: It’s your site.
Me: You said that already.
Otto: *sighing again* I trust you.
Me: Do you?
Otto: Yes.
Me: Excellent.
Otto: *dropping his head into his hands* Oh, God. read more…
On the road agaaaaaaain…
The whole situation with the fence has gotten so intolerable, we’ve run away from home.
Okay, fine, STRICTLY SPEAKING that’s not quite true. I mean, sure, we ARE on Day 25 of our one and a half day fence job, and it is absolutely true that it is not yet done, and it is also true that Fence Guy, after offering to rip down the fence and build us a new one then had the BIG GIANT BRASS ONES to come back and ask for a materials deposit, and when we pointed out that we’d already put down thousands of dollars, remember? (subtext: OH HELLS NO), he emailed Otto and said “Well then we’ll need another solution” and we sat on that for a day and then he realized that maybe, just maybe, while we were not answering him, we were talking to a lawyer (we were), he MAGICALLY came up with a way to do it without additional money (imagine!), but technically speaking, we were already planning to leave home, fence or no. It’s just that the whole fence thing makes me FEEL like setting fire to the house and driving away.
Thanks to Otto’s calming influence, I didn’t torch anything. We just drove away, instead. read more…
And even more love
Another object lesson in love:
Owning a dog with hair rather than fur means that she must be groomed on a regular basis, which is both expensive and—for my particular dog—traumatic. But a little black dog in the south needs to be clipped if she’s going to avoid heat stroke. Generally speaking, Licorice is just relieved to get sprung at the end of her beautifying, and my lavish affection about what a pretty girl she is and how delightful-smelling she’s become is its own reward. Or something.
For some reason, however, after yesterday’s grooming appointment, we came home, as usual, and I praised her and smelled her sweet-smelling head, as usual, and Otto played some ball with her, as usual, and then Licorice puked all over the futon in my office. Not usual, and also really disgusting. But at least she managed to get it all over her belly, too.
I don’t think she’s sick—she’s a delicate flower with a nervous stomach, dontchaknow—and she endured the combo sponge/sink-bath I gave her (less than an hour after paying someone else to wash her) and looked very guilty while I scrubbed the futon. She still smells vaguely off.
And I love her anyway. She’s an expensive, troublesome, unsanitary pain in the ass, but LOOK AT THAT FACE. Exactly.