A Very Didgeridoo Christmas - 2010

Almost forgot to post our holiday pics!

Front door:





Dining room:


(Tree in progress...)


(All balled up...)

Our fireplace:



Santa wreath on door to dining room:



The Twismas Twig in our foyer:



His & Hers Christmas trees:















This year's gift wrap was my favorite ever:






(I used little party favor pinball games as gift tags.)


There! Now that's ticked off the to-do list. Have an utterly fantabulous New Year's Eve. Cheers!

Indiholigestion....

I just made a word! Indiholigestion - the feeling resulting from being caught in the week between Christmas and New Year, when the decorations are up and the yummy treats are still forming the base of your meals, and opened presents are stashed under the tree for procrastination/"safe keeping". Yeah.

So that's where we are. Didgeridoo Boy was sick all day on Christmas, but I wound up having a fantastic one nonetheless. That's not as bad as it sounds. He was asleep, moaning, and prone to cussing when I asked if he was alright, so I went to my parents' house and had a fabulous holiday without him. We celebrated on Boxing Day - - went to visit his parents and took in the rest of an annual "A Christmas Story" marathon on television. All in all, a damned fine holiday. I was pleased. I have a Hello Kitty toaster.

And isn't this boring?

And guess who's computer isn't cooperating with regards to uploading pictures?

No matter. There will be a new computer soon (back to Mac - hang this PC nonsense), as well as a revamped blog with a slightly different approach. Same stuff, just better looking and more organized. Didge has been after me to pimp it, so I'm going to; but to do that it needs a freak ton of work, and I've been putting off this overhaul for a while. (Do the dog and cat need and advice column? Hmm....)

And this entry just got even more boring, didn't it? Damn, I'm batting that proverbial thousand and then some.

So with that, I'll stop. Have a fantabulous New Year, and we'll see you from better surroundings on the other side.

Tango fail...

The drop cloth is in the washing machine, and Didgeridoo Boy has successfully refused to deal with it. How the hell does he do this? He simply refuses, I comply, and life goes on in the fashion Didgeridoo Boy expects and accepts.

He's trying to sneak cigarettes into the living room again even though I've established a smoking lounge. (The use of discreetly-placed containers of charcoal and my purchase of a Lampe Berger make this possible.) Go into the room, close the door. Easy freakin' peasy, right? He gets angry when reminded to close the door, and slammed it so hard on a power cord for some of our Christmas lights last night that he got the damned door stuck shut. I let him stand there and knock. It was the highlight of my week, pretending to laugh at him "playing with the dog through the door" (it's a French door). He was stuck good and proper, dismayed, impatient. I counted to 130 before getting up and letting him back inside.

In short, give him half an inch, he'll take twenty miles. That's simply how Didgeridoo Boy is wired, and he's explained in many, many in-depth conversations why being reminded of things drums up bad vibes from his past. I get it, but I also wish he'd get that all I am trying to do is have a home and not a bowling alley. I did not grow up in a bowling alley. I grew up in a nice house with a view of a lake from my bedroom window that a famous golfer rented during Masters Week. And while I don't want a conservative home by any stretch of the imagination, I would love our raucously eclecticly decorated home to be clean, free of beer stains, and devoid of cigarette burns.

Ahhh, learning to live together. They say the first year is the hardest, don't they? Honestly, I love him, but it's rare for me to come up against someone this passively stubborn. I'm at a loss. Perhaps the solution is to simply purchase a few more Lampe Bergers and keep the vacuum in good repair.

But....what is he going to do when we get new furniture? Oy...

And what does he do?

Remember how I said I'd given up and given my husband a drop cloth?

He moved it.

Alright. Fine. Let's tango.

Dropping it...

I have an announcement. As of yesterday, I joined the ranks of Realistic Wives. This means precisely what the name of the organization implies - - I know what my husband is capable of, what he might do, and what he will do. I accept crumbs, spills, mystery blots on the clean carpet, the ever-present potential for flatulence, and that he has a desire to do that thing he does out the back damned door and onto the deck. I know these things will be with us, along with snack wrappers on mantles, the strong need to not use a coaster, and his clothes in a heap by his two favorite chairs. (Yes, both. Don't ask me, I do NOT know and I am entering a place of acceptance. I will, by damn, find peace here.)

Didge can't help it. He's not neat by nature. Admittedly, I don't score high in neatness levels, either, but I do clean up after myself on a daily basis. Didgeridoo Boy is not wired to do so, and that's okay. Really. I mean it. I have a high-powered vacuum and an armory of cleaning supplies, as well as a recently refreshed catalog of handy tips that include emergencies. There is not one itty bitty point in fighting his basic composition - it can't be changed. Didgeridoo Boy is made of Didgeridoo Boy, therefore, he cannot be anything but Didgeridoo Boy. And that means shit is going to get all over the place, even into places that I thought it couldn't get into before Didge joined the party.

So, having said that, I also need to announce that I have taken what is, for me, the ultimate step towards fully walking this new path. It's not a man cave. I don't think hiding him is right - why lock the man in a room? Oh, no. I've brought him right out into the real world of the living room. He is grown folk, technically, so he has a space in the grown folk room.

And it now comes complete with a drop cloth. I have given up and given my husband a drop cloth.

Pajama call...

Remember the last of the string of maintenance calls I mentioned? It wasn't the last. This morning's was the last, and this morning's was also a halfway surprise. Why's that? I knew they were coming, but I didn't know what time. And why did I know they were coming? Because I called the service call line for this company around 7.30pm yesterday to tell them we had a little bit of a problem.

And what might that problem have been? We had no heat. A very nice young man came to service the heating system yesterday, and the heat never kicked back on. I tried to get it to kick back on, finally, and nothing happened. Not a thing, save a slight whiff of gas from the furnace and a complete absence of any kind of response sound from the unit. (If silence is considered something happening.) I called the company and told them of our issue, and was told they wouldn't be able to get someone here until in the morning. Got off the phone, broke out the twenty degree sleeping bags from the camping stash, brewed up a pot of chai and put it in a thermos, and "toughed it out" over Anne Rice's The Vampire Armand. Set the alarm for 8.15am and thought that would give me PLENTY of time to make myself presentable.

Alarm goes off. I wake up. Hair in a clippy, wearing hot pink socks, sugar skull print pajama pants, and a black long sleeve t-shirt under my beloved red sweater, I fed Totsi the Dog and Foot Foot Kitty and made myself a cup of coffee. Crawled under my sleeping bag and started to check email. It was about 8.30am.

The doorbell rang.

You are damned straight I had to answer the door looking like somewhat hip refried hell. Or a half awake clown trainee. I'm not putting up a photo so you can decide for yourself, so don't even ask.

(The outage was due to some vital wire having been knocked loose, and on top of that the pilot light had been blown out. But it's not quite resolved - the unit ran for an hour or so and then kicked back off. Another service call placed. Technician coming back. Yay.)

Only a Didge can Didge something up...

Tomorrow will bring the last of a flurry of household maintenance calls, the highlight of which was last Friday's carpet cleaning. That was the big one. That one, darlings, meant something. It was huge. Getting ready for the carpet cleaners meant that I finished long-overdue deep cleaning, and after that? Holiday decor out the wazoo, whatever the wazoo is. Along with the holiday decorating? Long-overdue sprucing up of our abode, so that when the decorations come down, we'll have a reasonably cute space to live in.

But then there's Didgeridoo Boy.

I don't know how he does it. He creates black, greasy smears on the carpet. Food will be dropped. Crumbs follow him. And I find myself turning into *THAT MOM* -- the one who, when you visited the friend's house who had *THAT MOM* made you all but strip naked at the door and put on a white, sterilized robe and dusted everything you touched. Okay, I'm not that bad, but I am on spot patrol something outlandish.

So remember when I said I needed a hobby? I have one that's two-fold: First, I'm on a mission to figure out just how in the hell he can mess up freshly-cleaned carpet so quickly. Second, I'm really coming to enjoy cleaning little grey, greasy spots out of said freshly-cleaned carpet.

Does anyone have an aspirin?

Hellooooo, life lesson...

How to avoid finishing up decluttering and organizing your house in preparation for rearranging/redecorating: Put off having the carpets cleaned.

How to force yourself to finish up decluttering and yatta, yatta, yatta: Schedule carpet cleaning.

Life lesson: It wasn't nearly as much as it looked like, and wasn't worth getting overwhelmed.

And it's TOTALLY cleared the way for putting Casa Didgeridoo into such wonderful holiday shock that I can hardly stand the anticipation.

Over it...

No more Jackass Neighbor obsession. (For now.) I have a home to create and many, many creative passions and outlets to explore. I also have an adorable, eccentric husband who requires almost constant supervision and gleefully breaks every little domestic guideline I try to set up. One violation, in particular, is keenly vexing and has the potential to push me straight around the bend before the year is out.

And what is that? It is a man thing involving the screen door and our deck. And that's all I can tell you. Well, scratch that, I can also tell you that I am sick and tired of discovering that it's been done yet again almost every single morning.

Sometimes I feel I am losing my will to fight. I have fought long and hard to have the house I planned before his arrival, put the process on hold, enacted several failed starts, and have finally figured out ways to keep him happy and have the home I want. Practically everything I have done or proposed be done until this point has been playfully ignored and undone. I have tried everything to figure out why he seems to resent the idea of a nice, but still decidedly eclectic, home. (I did not grow up in a barn, therefore, having to do so at this stage of the game is not a freaking option.) In the end, I've realized that he is afraid that having this will mean he's told he cannot move freely any longer. He resents the concept because it represents pretense, stiffness and, false, controlling "shoulds". And I suspect he's getting back at someone, or something, by perpetuating his insistence upon living in a bloody disaster.

But what I can't figure out is what the hell he has against the deck.

What the whoa?

Sadly, I have tried to get a picture of this through two windows. I am not sad, the fact that I did so is sad. Right. Anyway, I don't have the nerve to open the front door and get a picture.

There is a moving van in the driveway next door.

Yes, at *that* house. The infamous Jackass Neighbor/Jungle Path abode, the one where the insult-hurling, trash can-flinging woman lives.

One thing - I don't know if things are being moved out or in. She was back, briefly, and then the truck appeared this evening.

And, yes, we are still in search of a hobby.

A mystery...

Yes, yes, I know I've carried on about the woman next door who called us stupid honkies and crackers. Most of the summer, I complained wholeheartedly about the condition of the property she and her husband rent next door to us. You're familiar with them. I know this.

Yes, I am having coffee. ANYWAY...

We've noticed that she's gone. POOF! She left some time on Sunday. Her car was there Sunday morning, then gone, and it has not come back. We're all the way up to Friday with no crazy lady next door. Didgeridoo Boy thinks she might have been sent packing. I think she's probably gone someplace for the holiday, but he disagrees.

Have I mentioned that we are kind of in the market for an enriching social life?

And as an added bonus...

I need to add this, simply because it warms my heart so. Not only are Didgeridoo Boy and I stupid honkies, we are also crackers according to our ever-so-charming next door neighbor. I didn't hear her shout that bit, but it was part of her rant out the front door. I don't know if we're *stupid* crackers or not. And I'd ask, but I'm afraid she'll fling another trash can into the back of one of our cars.

So allow me to be politically incorrect for a minute. If she's doing it, why can't I, right? I won't be diving into the land of racial slurs (because, let's face it, if I do it I am quite likely to get toasted legally), I'm just going to call it like I see it.

This woman is nuts. It's that simple. She's not any particular kind of nut, not a stupid one, not an ugly one, she's just flat out nuts.

I am thinking of trying to find a fun little flag to hang by our front door that clearly depicts either crackers or a pair of bicycle horns (honkies). Let her put that in her crazy pipe and smoke it.

We are back, and we are stupid honkies...

Last night, Didgeridoo Boy and I were called "stupid honkies" and were told to shut up by our next door neighbor. She was shouting out of her front door as we came home from a party.

Friday, she glared at me while I was sweeping the front walk.

Last week, she acted like Didgeridoo Boy was an intruder when he went back to his car to get something after work. He said he thought he'd scared the neighbors.

Would this be one of the jackass neighbors with the much-lamented jungle path (that's been cleaned up)? Yep. This is the woman who threw a trash can against the back of Didge's car.

Are we safe in saying she seems crazy yet?

About that wakeup call...

Didgeridoo Boy would not wake up on Sunday, after a good week of proclaiming we had to be had to be had to be at the fair at the fair at the fair at noon at noon at NOON on SUNDAY. So I came up with a little plan. And then I forgot to turn the damned webcam off, thought I had, thought I'd lost what I'd recorded, and was upset enough to say "taped" in reference to something captured via computer. Hell, yes. So, welcome to Casa Didgeridoo on Sunday, around 12.30pm. Welcome to me, livid. Welcome to Didge (aka Trey), apologetic.




That jacket makes me look fat. And I sound like a dork on the phone. And the house is a mess. Had to get that out there. Whatever. It's real.

And he had more than five beers.

Top spun...

In this entry, I discussed some of the rides Didgeridoo Boy likes to say he's going to take me on. He knows he won't win in a million years, of course, but it makes for fun back and forth. Once I finally managed to wake Didge yesterday (a whole other entry in itself), we made our way downtown to the fair and met his sister, who will ride these things with him. She even rode the Top Spin (I was seriously impressed).

I don't know if I've told you about Didge's obsession with that particular ride. Last year, he rode it eighteen times, and came home with an injured shoulder from the restraints. He *loves* that ride. *Loves* it. When you will hurt yourself for a ride, you know you love it. (I can't talk. I'm that way about the Himalaya and the Scrambler. Stiffness and soreness be damned, I will ride those things until I cannot walk.)

Here are Didge's toes peeking over the edge of the gondola, on the first of several rides yesterday:



To show you how much he loves it, here he is giving the operator a thumbs up - I believe while in flip-and-flip-and-flip mode:



But to REALLY prove how much Didgeridoo Boy REALLY loves the Top Spin:




(That's Didge's sister in the green shirt. I'm still impressed.)

And since we're back down that way today for Date Day/Night (to heck with dinner and a movie when there are rides and corn dogs to be had), I need to go buy some aspirin and deep-heating rub.

Almost Live from Casa Didgeridoo...

Didgeridoo Boy (aka "Trey") wants something. I really hate it when he gets all Didge on me when I have really bad post-yoga hair and am sitting at an angle that gives me one hell of a double chin. But it's cool. So cool that I've only mentioned it eight millionty times in the past two days. Never mind. Here:



And then I fixed myself a bit and tricked him into a follow up:

Just not that into...

So, we're supposed to have a yard guy. I know, I know, how completely pointless and all that, but I am not on this planet to cut grass or do whatever it is they do to edges that get all tatty looking and ugly. That's not my gig. Tried. Hated. Rehired the yard guy.

And I'm sensing breakup/reunion revenge. I canceled my account, after all, and then? I came crawling back just like he knew I would. Perhaps I could be worked in until after the first of the year, I was told. I'd get a call. I didn't get a call, so - like a stalker - I called. I know I shouldn't have called, I should have let the yard guy com around on his own. He finally showed up, though. The yard was done, and I was told it would be done every other week. A bill would come, he said. I thought we'd worked things out.

That was three weeks ago. There has been no bill. The yard has not been done again. I really thought there was hope, but I'm coming up empty. But I can't let go.

What do I have to do? Beg? Bake cookies?

Hello again, sinners...

Alright. I have to.




Read my previous entry to find out what I'm not talking about. I did not say it. Did. Not. Say. It.

Hello, sinners...

A local radio host is my hero of the moment.


Read this.


I have such immense issues with that organization.


Did you read the article? Good! Now enjoy this blast from the past:





And that's all I've got to say about it, other than the fact that I have no idea why that song popped into my head when I reminded myself to turn on the radio at 5pm today.

I have a kitchen. A real one.

And that's really all. The funny part about finally having a real kitchen, organized according to work flow and a plan, complete with skull lights and my recipe bulletin board, mini lights and a lava light, and the chickens - - I don't want to paint it.

It *feels* like my kitchen, and it's been a while since that's happened - - I've been through a divorce, and horrific rebound relationship following that, and a very, very stressful year with Didge involving pretty serious, protracted illnesses for us both, his grandfather's death, a cancer scare with my mom, his dad's heart attack, and Didge being out of work for several months. While I don't really like to go into those sorts of things in the blog, I think you might need to know all of that to understand how profoundly cool it is to have *my* kitchen back in place. The kitchen is my haven, and finally having it together again? Not rockin' the boat.

Not for now, anyway.

Hell raisin'...

Not long ago, a local business man bought one of the homes on my street for his son to live in while he is attending Augusta State University. Enter the parade of golf-obsessed college kids, who's leader is frequently out popping golf balls (not hollow, plastic practice balls) around into the wee hours of the morning. Golf balls are littering the area between our two buildings like so many Easter eggs. In the wee hours of the morning, even, you can be almost certain to find Golf Boy out whacking his balls, practicing his swing.

He and every one of his pack of golf buddies drive large SUV's, and they usually drive them well over the speed limit into positions that take up a lion's share of the spare parking. They're arriving for parties, natch - frequent, and loud, parties that tend to run late. Sometimes Golf Boy takes his minions out on the deck - late. You can see where this is going, can't you?

Now, Didgeridoo Boy and I love a bit of adult beverage-fueled revelry from time to time. We attended (and hosted) our fair share of hugely loud parties when we were younger - - but not in this kind of neighborhood. Yes, yes, we live in one of those quiet, upper middle class townhouse communities nestled in the midst of a sea of, well, McMansions. In a way, this kid and his cronies are amusing - - Didge and I keep odd hours, comparatively speaking, and it's a new thing for us to walk out on the deck at 2am for him to have a smoke and hear a crowd of people shouting and swearing and laughing. "Aren't the little preppies and their Bud Lights silly? Do you think they're still wearing their golf shoes?", we'll wonder.

We were out one night trying to eavesdrop (just being honest), when Didge made the point, "They're really in the wrong place to be doing this. All the people around them have to be hating it." I told him I'd wound up talking to someone about it on the way in from errands a few days earlier, and that a storm was brewing. He said, "All they can really do is call the cops...but out here the cops don't play." Indeed. I've been wondering when the ball would drop and blue lights would appear ever since, or at least when I'd hear the first rumblings of thunder indicating the storm might be on its way.

The less that's said, of course, only encourages more and more interesting behavior. A few days ago, I heard the stereo from that place all the way up to my driveway. Consider this distant thunder - - a definite sign that the storm is definitely brewing. I wondered if Golf Boy had any idea what he was getting himself into - the woman who lives next to him, who is immensely cool but with a bad side you do NOT want to be on, certainly would take exception with that kind of thing. The various potential scenarios associated with that made me giggle. He so obviously just does...not...give...a...shit. And I can tell you what's been happening: The HOA has gone into high alert mode, and they have been talking to his father rather than getting the police involved. In fact, the woman Golf Boy lives next door to? She's one of the people who contacts property owners about issues. Trust me, his dad has been made aware. Perhaps that's why things seemed to settle down for a few days.

Until last night. Didgeridoo Boy came in from work, "Do you hear all that??" I asked what he was talking about, and he told me that the male half of the very cordial, calm, mostly keep-to-themselves neighbors who live next to us (not the Jackasses - they are on the other side) was out in the street "raising hell". "It's those kids. He's out there chewing them out." You have no idea how hard this was to imagine. "What's going on?", I asked. "Duh, they're having another party and he's out there yelling, telling them to cut their shit out or he's calling the police. That's exactly what he said!" I looked out the windows, of course, and saw nothing but the train of SUV's - Golf Boy and Company had evidently run off to hide.

Get those umbrellas and galoshes ready, darlings, and locate your emergency candles. We're in for a devil of a storm, looks like.

One week from Sunday...

One week from Sunday, the first of three fairs to grace our area kicks off, leading into a month of fun, deliciously unhealthy food, and the potential for marital meltdown. With that last bit in mind, I'm compiling a list of what I will agree to ride so there will be no questions in Didgeridoo Boy's scheming little noggin. In telling him what I will agree to ride, I am hoping these things, especially, will become crystal clear to him:

The Zipper? This will not happen. Went there and did it last year, and am still freaked out.



Nor will I find myself anywhere but on the ground taking amazingly cool photos of this...this....nightmare in the sky. Didge once tricked someone into riding this by telling the person (not me) it did not go upside down, that it just spun and the seats went out sideways. There was no line, and he rushed this gullible person right on and into...



Seriously, darlings - - always watch the ride first. Don't be bamboozled. There are Didgeridoo Boys out there.

Back to our discussion. Observe...



Have yourself a heaping helping of NO. I won't be riding that, either. I did, however, photograph that very ride a year ago - - it's amazing. From the ground. Safety, sanity, and clean garments live on the ground.


This isn't saying I refuse to ride everything - - no matter what Didge and his sister say. (A stomach bug rendered me all but useless at the fair we attended with her last year. And then who ate a corn dog? And vinegar fries? And left her Pepto at home?) This is saying I do not like flying upside down. Not one damned bit. I tend to refuse to do things I hate to do unless they're medically necessary. And this is not medically necessary, at least in my opinion:



Puking in public isn't cute, folks, and I live around that which helps me remain cute.

So, yes, I am making a list for Didge of what I will ride. I am considering having him sign it, and then going so far as to have it notarized. We do what we have to, don't we?

Seriously?

I know, men hail from Mars, women hail from Venus, men hunt, women gather, men puff their chests and posture, women roll their eyes. There are inherent differences between the sexes that are just *there* - they won't change. There is nothing we can do about it. I accept this, and am at peace with it. Didgeridoo Boy can't understand why I love fashion, and I can't understand why he wants to debate the dynamics of GNR's breakup and the potentiality of a reunion (or not) (and who's fault that might be) for hours on end. But that's fine. He's a man, I'm a woman. The explanation is something within that difference that cannot be expressed in traditional, simple things like words.

However, having just had to douse an area of the deck just outside the screen door with Dr. Bronner's lavender soap and boiling water, there are some tendencies I will never, ever fully accept.

Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.


And oh, yes. He most certainly did.

Let there be paint!

I *have* to decide on a paint color for the kitchen. Currently, it's red. I had wanted it to be pink. Didgeridoo Boy and our contractor convinced me turquoise would be a better option. Then I wanted it purple. Then white, with black and white tile trim and red cabinet knobs. For a while, I wanted "kawaii" - - - couldn't settle on a main color for it, really, I just knew I wanted little smiling sandwiches and astonished-looking sushi nestled amidst dreamy-faced polka-dotted flowers. Or something. Then pink came back to haunt me - I think I actually posted on that. Hello Kitty came for a visit. Pink and Hello Kitty left, orange came in, as did yellow, and then I went back to white. Then I decided I might like a brighter red. Didgeridoo Boy suggested KISS and Alien, with Lego accents.

I keep going back to pink. Not suburban come-see-my-pink-kitchen kind of pink, where the idea being conveyed is that it is a rather saucy idea to have such a thing when what's really happened is a little sanded-down and blah. I'm talking damned well pink, perhaps with lingerie references. What about black lace-inspired stenciling? Why not embrace the naughty, smartass side of pink?

Tune in tomorrow for the next color I've settled upon.

Bah dum dum....tsch!

Last night's conversation pertaining to Didgeridoo Boy's things that don't want to leave the area they must leave so it can become our bedroom:

Me: "So...the stuff. It's been four weeks."

Didge: "A'ite."

Me: "Sweetie. Four weeks. Your stuff needs to go up to the storage room."

Didge: "It's your stuff."

Me: "What?"

Didge: "It's yours. You put it there."

Me: "Excuse me?"

Didge: "It's not mine. You put it there."

Me: (blinking)

Didge: "What?"

Me: "Four weeks."

Didge: "Well...I forget stuff. You know that. You have to remind me. You should have told me to do it."

Me: "I have. For four weeks."

Didge: "I..."

Me: "Four weeks. I honestly cannot pick this stuff up."

Didge: "Well...I forgot."

Me: "Like hell."

Didge: "I...."

Me: "Sunday. We will do this on Sunday."

Didge: "A'ite."

It's a good thing he's cute. Very, very cute. So cute. So damned cute. It really is good that he is cute.

Updatled...

I just felt like saying that. Actually, this is an update about Didgeridoo Boy's pile of stuff in what is to become our bedroom. The pile of stuff he was supposed to move over last week, the week before that, and the week before that. And the week before that. And yesterday.

It's still there. Frankly, I think he's trying to get me to move it, but none of this is anything I can lift. Plus, I'm afraid of what might be down in those boxes. Granted, something would have trotted out of them by now if there was anything in there with that ability, but I'm indulging this phobia as I feel it strengthens my case.

So now there is a large note on his monitor, written in ink that can only be described as "doo doo brown" (I love markers!): MOVE YOUR SHIT UPSTAIRS. I think the ink choice really highlights the "shit". I almost said something about how it solidified that concept, but...actually, now I am going to move on, because this paragraph can only go to very bad, very juvenile places in very short order.

I've also posted a reminder to his Facebook wall. Mark my word, as soon as he settles down at the computer, Facebook is where he will go. The idea of this double whammy pleases me - from note on monitor to note on the "wall". Over the course of the day, I'm going to strategically place a few PostIt reminders as well. I'm considering writing the words SHIT UPSTAIRS in a PostIt collage on his bathroom mirror. Hell, let's make a party of it and work in balloons somehow. I honestly considered removing the mouse from his computer, but didn't want to risk messing anything up.

Actually, I might just do that. The keyboard would be an even more amusing option, though, wouldn't it?

Beebed Saturday...

Last night, Didgeridoo Boy somehow roped me into saying I am a fan of Justin Bieber. I don't know how he did it, one second we were talking about Faster Pussycat, and the next I was somehow a Bieber fan. A big one. This is giving me a headache. A bad one.

He also gleefully pulled me down the hall by my ankle. We were having a little game of chase, and I fell. Just before that, he'd been throwing treats to Totsi the Dog from the balcony. She can, nine times out of ten, catch them. Great fun, this.

Why expound upon facts like these?

Have a little more music while I recover from the shock of Didge's branding:




Love, love, love that song. I can still smell the clove cigarettes....

Here's some more! And, as revenge for Didgeridoo Boy placing this *thing* upon me, I am going to tell you that he looks like Micky.



Check damned mate, baby.

Whoa. Long time. D@mn.

I honestly thought I'd posted at least once last week - even nicked it off my to-do list like a good little Type A Personality. So much for that. My birthday last week was the high point of a whole lot of rushing to have the house ready to flip and have the carpets cleaned by 10 October.

It's still not ready? I know, right? Would you like to know why? Immaturity. Only it's just over the past couple of days that I've realized that the cause is immaturity. Didgeridoo Boy has a pile of his stuff in what is going to be our bedroom. I've been asking him to move it to the storage room. I've tried reminding him who's done all the work so far. I've tried buying him candy. Four (?) weeks later, it's still there. Rather than go ahead and proceed with everything else, I simply refused to do any more until he took care of this one thing. Should I just do it myself? No. But I am going to proceed with working around him, if only to make myself look better.

Let's see - - what else has happened....?

OH! Oh, oh, OH! Get this! The jungle path has been cleared! A crew came out and sprayed the weeds. The ultimatum worked, finally, in a massive, exhausting five minute effort. Those brave, brave souls toiled until every last weed had been sprayed. I'll stop - - having ranted about this horse shit all summer, the thought of another go-round gives me a headache. We can get our trash can out of our back yard. Frankly, we don't know how to act, we're so relieved at having that nonsense behind us. Granted, we do still have the Turbo T-Word next door, but we won and she can kiss my ass, so it's fine. And we've re-hired the yard guy to take care of the front postage stamp, which makes her place look even worse by comparison. Win and WIN, baby. (Hold on while I do my victory dance - it involves a moon walk, so I'll be a minute or two.)

(How very un-yogini of me, right? Sue me. I'm human.)

Anything else? No. I think you're up to date. I've rediscovered high heels after vowing off them for a few years, but that's another post. Plus I'm too embarrassed to write about it as of yet.

So, all of that carried on about in highly caffeinated fashion, have some seasonal music in celebration of October's arrival. Hell, and yes, darlings.

Wrists, grills, and neighbors...

My wrist is better! While I wasn't totally perfect with regards to giving it a writing break, its condition has definitely improved, and I'm a much happier being. Slowed down on the gung-ho yoga practice, stuck to minimal pressure, and kept it as still as possible. Good stuff.

Didgeridoo Boy and I have had a bit of back and forth all week long with regards to my new obsession - grilling. It all started with a Weber "Smokey Joe", which has only been with us since Sunday. I have grilled out every night since. Please notice that I am not telling you he got it wrong on Sunday when he was in charge. I am also not telling you he tried to "school" me prior to getting it wrong. Yes, he does cook professionally. OVER A GAS GRILL, but anyway, I'm not telling you that. I am also not telling you that I learned that you don't put veggie dogs on the grill yesterday, just like I'm not telling you I flat forgot regular hot dogs are pre-cooked. Did they all wind up looking like shriveled fingers, almost making me scream when I took the lid off the grill expecting plump, juicy perfection? Yes, they did. But I'm not saying anything about that. I am, however, telling you that the foil-packed potatoes with onions and cheese were absolutely divine. And the back and forth? It's moved from who's the better grill artist (me) (unless you ask Mr. Who-Gets-Paid-To-Grill - - - OVER GAS) to why on earth is GoKittenGo willing to shell out almost two hundred dollars for the blue Weber One Touch Gold. I have not told him I am looking at the model up from that - - but he reads this blog, so he'll know in short order and be reminded again that I am using my money to buy it. And, really, that's not a lot of money for a grill. He should know this because he's a pro. Over gas. We both play with fire now, only mine can't be turned off with a switch, bucko. Your grill might be bigger, mine might be cute, but who's the badass? DING DING DING, we have a winner! Me! Sorry.

Anyway....

The neighbor situation. "Jungle Path '10 - The Bullshit" continues. The landlord is being given yet another one more chance to comply with a nice request from the HOA before the property management muscle moves in. That's not really the gist of the bullshit, though. The bullshit is this: Remember the trash can drama? We can't put ours to the side of that unit? Okay. The landlord was fine with it. The male half of the equation next door? Fine with it. The HOA? Fine with it. The problem? The wife next door. The wife half of the equation living in the place with the yard going into such disrepair that legal muscle is about to come into play is the issue. And why is that so deliciously ironic? She raised hell after her landlord told her it was fine because she was afraid we would mess up her yard. I am no longer talking about it, as I can no longer say anything positive. Just know that I am embracing this (grrrrr) as a lesson (grrrrrrrrrr) in something. I'm a little too peeved to identify what, but will detach myself from the drama and not let it get to me. Anymore. Grrrrrrrr.


I'm just going to focus on the fun. The fun. Focus on that. Fun.

I think I hurt myself...

Let's talk about enthusiasm, shall we?

I enthusiastically embarked upon an Anusara practice for Friday's yoga. During this practice, I got deeper into Triangle than I ever have. Boy, was I enjoying that fabulous, stretchy twist. I was amazed at the difference between this instance of the asana and all the other times I've done Triangle in the past. DAMN, it felt good. And then came the point when, twisting open to my left, my right hand on the floor helping to power said twist, I felt something happen in my wrist.

And I enthusiastically said, "Oh, shit. I think I sprained my f***ing wrist."

So this is why I will not be typing up blog posts for the next few days.

Call me "Old School". I won't mind.

Sometimes I react to certain things in certain ways, explore them a bit, and come to the conclusion that most of the time, my reaction will have to do with some outmoded view that really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. There are certain things, though, that I can't shake, try as I might. I'll admit - I'm a little old-fashioned. Yes, this is the chick who had the huge mohawk, who calls out "shoulds" with regards to what's "normal", and who tries very hard not to get sucked into anything too status quo. What's important is happiness.

But, like I said, some things? Some things get to me. Hard. There are some things that don't need to be said or displayed. There are certain boundaries that need to be respected, not just because a perceived infraction might ruffle one person's feathers, but just out of....respect. Damn, I'm repetitive and stuff.

Technology has removed a lot of sensitivity and observance of boundaries, I think, that should be honored. There are things, no matter how unconventional I may seem, that I simply *would* *not* *do*. And I don't know why I'm that way, but when I'm on the receiving end (or perceived receiving end) of something like this, I'm left with a really bad taste in my mouth. What's minor to one may be major to another, and a little consideration can go a long way. Conversely, sometimes you should just move on and get over it when things happen, but other times...I'm not so sure. Determining that dividing line between a breach of etiquette and making a mountain out of a mole hill is immensely challenging for me.

In the end, I think it all boils down to individual perception - BUT - there are times when those individual perceptions should, perhaps, be given a little more weight.

So what's my conclusion? I don't have one, beyond knowing that I'm pissed off about what I perceive as an infraction. Grand scheme? No biggie. Small scheme? Tacky. Sometimes it's hard to get past the small scheme, in the end. And as much as I've been slapped with this kind of thing lately over just the past week, I'm kind of beginning to think there might be something I'm supposed to learn. (Thanks, Universe! Just when I'd gotten the storage room cleaned up!) Perhaps the lesson is how to move my focus from "tacky" to "no biggie".

The things you realize while running the vacuum!

Of couches, tea, and cupcakes...and "those people"...

I have a couch, I have tea steeping (Yogi Tea "Chai Roiboos"), and I have cupcakes. Happy "Sundae"!

Despite what's proving to be an epic allergy attack, I managed to clean out what's about to be our new bedroom then reorganize/load up our new storage room yesterday. There are still a few things to go in one box to be lugged up there, and of course there are a couple of things that Didgeridoo Boy gets to move once he's up about about, but...damned if it's not time to FINALLY "flip the house" and start focusing on all of the fun stuff.

Since I'm already sneezing, and the weather's a lot cooler, I might have tried to do yard work this afternoon. But our wonderful next door neighbors, the ones with the "jungle path"? Evidently this path is very close to their hearts. I think they think it's a flower bed. Either that, or they are refusing to remedy the issue because they keep being told to remedy the issue. They can change a light bulb on their front porch. They can mow the grass, even, which almost made me faint. They finally, at long, long, long (like twelve months) last, turned on the sprinkler system yesterday morning. So why can't they take care of the weeds? Hate to say it, but my gut instinct is *because they are being repeatedly asked to because of us*. Oh, how I wish their lease would expire. Being a property owner next door to something that is bringing my property value down is teaching me so many lessons on so many levels - - and bringing out a side of me I never dreamed existed. The next HOA board meeting is this week. I'll be snapping updated photos of the path's further deterioration and sending them that way. The nonsense continues.

Okay. I have to go do something to unsuburbanize myself a bit. This entry has wound up scaring me.

This is unreal. Could it be?

So, all that repurposing and using what we have brou-ha-ha? Well, there was a reason I put all that stuff in little boxes, wasn't there? Granted, some of it's staying out, but most of it is being packed right back up and put in the storage room...

...of which we now only have ONE! YAY! And you probably thought I hadn't been talking about Casa Didgeridoo's overhaul because of not accomplishing anything. It didn't go as I thought it would - the process was to have been zippy and gut-based and otherwise finished the hell up by now. But I'm down to one more tiny area of things sorted to clean off, and then it's time to load up the storage room. Next week I'll be making a Goodwill run (as well as having them come here to get a hulking oddity of ugliness I thought I would be able to turn into a hutch - HA). Sometime between now and the 10th of September, the house will be "flipped" - - - which means movers are coming to rearrange furniture.

And all of this means I really can settle into the fun part: Finalizing all my decisions pertaining to colors and fabrics and motifs and whatnot. I know where I want everything to go, now I get to figure out how I want it to look. What I thought I wanted at the beginning of this - - too "easy". "Making do" isn't my game - although I love glittery skulls and decorating with toys, I do require some level of polish and sophistication. Standards - I have them. (Quit acting like you're going to faint.) The trick now is figuring out the best way to bring those seemingly disparate directions together into something that we'll be happy with. I also have to figure out how best to bolt down the furniture and install safety features - Didgeridoo Boy is a rambunctious soul, after all.

And all of this also means I get to spend a few days "discussing" the color of the kitchen. I know what I want. Didge knows what I want. How do I help Didge want what I want?

I'll leave you with that thought - as I've just realized I have a lot of strategizing to take care of.

It's Sundae!

Oh, yes, folks, Sundae. Not Sunday. It is *Sundae*. And this day *is* sacred.

On this day, I can eat whatever I so desire. Cupcakes for lunch? Go right ahead. Fries and ice cream for dinner? Sure thing, baby, I am all over that goodness. I forgot breakfast, you say? You're right, I did - - okay, then, cheesecake for breakfast. How's that?

Don't worry, though, I'm prepared. I have Pepto.

For this Sundae's big activity, Didge and I are planning on checking out a new Goodwill Emporium that opened up not far from our house a few days ago. It is my understanding there is a rather large book section, a little cafe, and many, many square feet of goldmining goodness. And just across the parking lot from this thrifting wonder, there is a Dairy Queen.

Let that settle for a moment. I get to thrift, and then? THEN?? I can get a Dilly Bar. Or a float. Or maybe, if I so choose, one of those decadent brownie bowl monstrosities that will surely leave me lolling on the couch, joyously wondering why in blazes I did that to myself. Again. I might decide to have a meal there, and sensibly order the mini-sized Blizzard as my dessert. (See? I can practice restraint!) I'm *so* excited.

Have a brilliant, decadent Sundae.

Giggles and thuds...

I fell during yoga practice during a giggle fit - *twice*. You're probably surprised that I said the words, "yoga" and "practice" in relation to myself, given my penchant for sarcastic little smartypants comments, but if a blog can't help me put my inherent snarkiness and the things that cheese me off to humorous use....nevermind. Let's not expound.

I fell during yoga practice during a giggle fit - *twice*. Why? Didgeridoo boy. There I was, on my mat in my foyer yoga space, in a side-bending variation of Tree, focused down the hall and at a point right over Didge's head, when he looked directly at me with the most serious expression...

...and delivered a lengthy, sing-song belch. *Yeah*. You can probably imagine.

And so the wobbling began, but I held it on one side, then switched to the other. The longer I stayed, the more I wanted to giggle. I toppled, catching myself on a wall, and pushing myself back up and into the asana. That I did that made me laugh even more. A few asanas later, I found myself in a low lunge, breathing, glad to be grounding into something not as wobbly. And I got the giggles again.

Over I went, so suddenly and so determined to maintain my balance that I held perfect form just about all the way to the floor. I fell when I tried to get up. Didge asked me what my problem was, Totsi the Dog stood about eight feet away looking alarmed, and I just rolled the hell around on my mat trying to right myself. Arms and legs flailing, laughing so hard I was crying, I finally made my way to my hands and knees and back into the pose. And I made it through it, still snickering.

By the time I made it to final relaxation, I had a good case of the sillies. The thought of being in a yoga class and having someone a few mats over pass gas came to me, which set me off again - can you imagine? If Didge's belch set me off so much? They'd have to give me a shot of some sort and some oxygen to settle me down, a thought which only served to set me off even further. Good thing I was already on the floor for that one.

And now I have the giggles again. Enjoy your Wednesday!

I'll say it, dad gum it...

You know what?

I'm not entirely ready for fall. Sure, my new, pink cowboy boots arrived and I'm head-over-heels in love with them - but I can't wear them just yet, as I'd surely melt. Yes, I love sporting great outerwear, and tire of having my makeup melt off in one hundred percent humidity. Fall means less frizz for my very long hair, my birthday, fairs (and fair food!), and the Great Chocolate (the month of October). Less sweat and changing leaves are good things.

But what about the thunderstorms? There won't be as many of those. And there won't be hummingbirds watching Totsi the Dog while she watches them (need a video of this). And the glut of peaches will be over. This, of course, means I won't be as likely to wind up sick - I do love peaches. But that doesn't mean I like waiting a whole year for them to come back. And what of the tomatoes? Think of the tomatoes! And the zucchini that you just KNOW you're not really that sick of. Yet.

And then I think of the boots. All of my cute boots, actually, and my jackets. And great hair.

So what am I saying? I think I've realized that the only reason I'm looking forward to fall is pure, unadulterated vanity.

What I said versus what I wanted to say...

I haven't written up such a post in a while, probably since my Diaryland incarnation, so this might suck. I'm rusty. But it's what I'm in the mood to write, with a gawdamighty load of work to do this week facing me (wheeee), so here goes:

To the creepy man who trailed me around the grocery store, running his cart right up behind me on an aisle, then tailgating me to the checkout where he abruptly stopped his nonsense the second I made my wedding ring very visible. VERY visible.

What I said:

I said nothing. I waved my left hand all sorts of around and ignored him.

What I wanted to say:

"Has stalking proven effective in the past? Look, I know I'm attractive. You probably thought I was much younger than I am, as I do, indeed, look much younger than I am. And, yes, I know my butt looks nice in those jeans. But, still - following someone at a distance of about six feet, even when she's intentionally changed course several times? Try another approach. Hell, try a lobotomy or shock treatments. If you have to chase a woman you don't know to try to get her attention, or if you think it's fun (or funny) to do so? You probably need to screw yourself. Actually, why don't you do that? And for the record, I would have kicked your ass if you would have pursued me into the parking lot. I have a mean right. Granted, you quit when you saw my wedding ring - but that was also made apparent the moment we got into a crowd. Were you an exhibitionist in a past life? Are you one now?"

And I almost forgot to say this...

"Since I could tell you were very likely wondering, jackhole, yes. They're real."

Twit.

Didgeridoo Boy is *so* not good at the whole waking up thing. It bothers him, and his brains don't work right for several minutes. Imagine a six foot, three inch, baffled five-year-old with screwy blond and brown hair stumbling around, squinting, and you have it. Knowing he has a.m. difficulties, I will usually put his clothes for work in his computer chair, but last night I decided to fold them and put them (gasp) away. I told him this. Twice. He said that was fine. Twice.

This morning, I heard his signature exasperated sigh and some stomping around when he got out of bed. I went back up to the bedroom to try to settle him down a bit just as he opened the drawer that holds his jeans and pants. He was crouched and bent over it, muttering something about how God should do illicit things to it while damning the whole. He then stood up, looked in the mirror, messed his hair up even more, and went right back to digging around in the drawer. The pants he was looking for were on top. How he missed them, I don't know, but he did. He was digging through the drawer, and hard, and becoming increasingly flustered as he did so. And then he went wild.

Imagine a dog, digging in the yard, throwing dirt back between his or her hind legs with furious gusto. Now, imagine that sideways - and flinging jeans and pants. That was Didge. All of a sudden, there was an eruption of clothes - - the pair he was looking for included. The contents of the drawer were sailing through the air, landing on the bed. A pair of Levis almost hit the ceiling fan. He did his little sigh again and storked off down the stairs. I followed. He made his way to the dryer, opened it, and saw towels. This was an issue. In a panic, he asked, "Where are my clothes???"

I didn't say what I wanted to, which was, "They're on the bed, ding dong, where your jack ass tossed them." I said, "They were upstairs in your drawer. I put them away for you last night. Remember?" He went back up....and OPENED THE DRAWER. I shouted up the stairs, "Now they're on the bed, though, sweetie!"

He was very sheepish as he came back downstairs, all dressed up and ready for work. Very, very sheepish, asking what I was laughing at. I didn't tell him - thought it'd be best for him to have it dawn on him when he wakes up.

More news of next door...

I really should post pictures. This little saga is continuing to play out, albeit slowly, like a twenty-hour experimental art house film that highbrows pretend to understand.

Remember my rants about the jungle path? It's worse. Seriously, this thing is its own ecosystem, especially when the in-need-of-repair sprinkler system kicks on and leaks...all...over...the...place. There are critters. I have heard them scampering. And at night?

Well, at night, the tenants/neighbors/jacklegs/whatever-you-want-to-call-them have taken to leaving the door to the room under the house open, and a light on. Hellooooo, opossums and raccoons! Why don't y'all come right on in? I can't wait to hear the result of one of them meeting a woodland creature when they eventually decide to tarry down that way again. And how do I know they are going to do that?

They've acquired.....

.....

A LAWNMOWER!

And it's sitting right inside that open door.

Of course, I wonder why they didn't close the door. I think, maybe, they want to show people they have the equipment in order to feign the appearance of intending to get to clearing the jungle path someday. They could just be proud of the thing. I wonder if they're as proud of the gas can that's propping the door to under their house open?

And it's just dawned on me that there might be gas in that gas can.

The gas can that is sitting outside, open, about eight feet away from my house, under their wooden deck.

Oh, holy hell.

Of a Monday...

Alright. I have to start writing again, end of story. Dad GUM, what a crappy pun that was. Let's try a newsletter format to catch up.

So. Hot pink cowboy boots? Got some. Well, I will have some after they ship on 26 August. Yes, I will look like a large, prissy kindergartner in them - but that's okay. I'm down with that, as I have wanted pink cowboy boots for ages, and will enjoy figuring out how to wear them when they get here.

Didgeridoo Boy. He's Didge. He can be nothing other than Didge, and is secure in his Didgeness. Gifts to me this week were a Yoda pencil case and a bag of silver glitter skulls, and he has a new favorite commercial to dance to.

Totsi the Dog has discovered the magnificence of bacon and cheese treats from Earth Fare, which she knows as "piggy treats". She thinks they'll be doled out every time the refrigerator is opened. Since I can't bear disappointing her, this has greatly reduced my tendency to troll the fridge in search of snacks. She and Didge had an epic fight over a patch of sofa last night, which he won, resulting in her taking her rawhide chew upstairs to the bedroom. ("I'm gonna take my rawhide chew and go home!")

Foot Foot Kitty. She's got a new box to sit in, a new wicker-chair-and-towel cabana, and is currently a little peeved that some of her kitchen floor change (I keep a few pennies on the kitchen floor for her to scoot around) wound up missing. Almost every evening, she bats change around the kitchen floor and runs amok, and if all of her coins aren't in place? Pouting. New coins won't do, evidently, but at least she's got two new sulk spots to help her through this.

And....what am I supposed to say now? Those are the headlines this hour at Casa Didgeridoo? Join us in half an hour for weather and traffic? *Yeah*.

Another Southern thing...

When? Yesterday morning, about 7am. Where? Bedroom, Casa Didgeridoo. Specifically, in the bed. What? A freakin' palmetto bug (also called "roach"). Big one - in fact, this one was more beast than bug. They're a fact of life here, especially when it gets really hot or we have heavy rains (which we had yesterday morning) - that is when these monsters choose to amble right on inside.

And where might this particular palmetto beast decide to be? On me. Right on my shoulder. It landed on my shoulder. On it. Right on it. In my sleep haze, I tried to slap whatever was tickling me away, an I felt it run.

It ran. On me. It ran on me.

And I began to flail. In the midst of the flailing fit, during which I came very close to knocking the crap out of a sleeping Didgeridoo Boy, something really, truly horrific dawned on me:

What if? What if it was IN MY HAIR???

Up. Quick. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Stomping left foot. Swinging head from side to side. Didgeridoo Boy wakes:

"What the ****?"


While still stomping, shaking my head, and waving my hands in the air, I, surprisingly calmly, said, "There is a roach in the bed."

He went back to sleep. At this point, I noticed the beast running on the bedroom floor. Totsi the Dog had noticed, too, and was standing on the bed looking very confused. As much as she wanted to protect me, she was afraid of how I was acting.

I sprang into action with a white Converse low top, which excited Totsi, who hopped about on the legs of the sleeping Didgeridoo Boy. Being a woman, I am incapable of tackling bug extermination projects without lots of screeches and squeals. Between a screeching wife and a hopping dog, poor "Sleeping Didgeridoo Beauty" had no choice but to wake. Again.

"Would you two shut up all that racket?"

I shouted, "Sure thing. Once it's DEAD!", and continued trying to whack the thing with my shoe. It's funny how Converse can ricochet. It's even more funny how Converse can ricochet when your aim is completely off due to being sleepy, and you wind up hitting on the edge of the sole. This property of Converse makes them not-so-good for killing palmetto beasts.

But I finally managed it. I'm still freaked out - every time I think about it, I feel that thing running on my shoulder. Didge has no recollection, which is probably a good thing, as he tends to run from them faster than I do.

Wasn't that a sneaky, long-winded way for me to get him back for sleeping through that?

Squaring off....

Dear Williams-Sonoma:

I love you. Truly. Really. Your locations are, like Sally Beauty, temples to me. I will shell out the bucks for your tins of hot chocolate, and plop down the debit card for gadgets I could score elsewhere for less. That said, these are wrong:

And they are wrong because they are freakin' forty dollar biscuits...that are square.

Let me explain something to you. Biscuits. They're not a purely Southern thing, I realize, but in the South, they're what one could consider a staple food. Some things require a biscuit as accompaniment. Some days require a biscuit, just because they're that kind of day. I have White Lily, butter, and cream in my kitchen right now - in about half an hour, I could whip up a batch of these and not have them cost forty dollars, less shipping. (With shipping, they become fifty dollar biscuits.) (That makes my head spin.) But I would not use butter. And I would not use cream. But then again, I am not an artisan baker. Here is how I would make a proper White Lily biscuit:

And they're not square.

Honestly, what's next?

"A proper pot of grits, stirred with a wooden spoon by an Appalachian grandmother."?

"Sweet tea, brewed according to secret methods by master home cooks in Charleston, South Carolina."? (The secret - sweeten the stuff while it is warm, darlin'.)

"Cornbread. Made without sugar, in the true Southern fashion, in specially-aged antique cast-iron skillets."?

"Round biscuits."?

"All of these fine products blessed by Mississippi gnomes prior to shipping."?



Tough love aside, though, I still adore you. Just....damn.

Ever wonder what it's like?

Do you ever wonder what it's like to be in our house, a fly on the wall, watching our mundane little every-day-marriage where's-the-remote moments? Does it ever cross your mind what we're like when we're being "normal", just the average couple, trying to decide between rice or potatoes with dinner, wondering where in the hell the new bottle of mustard went when we're unloading the groceries? Do questions like, "Did you remember to take out the trash?", or, "Did you remember to roll the trash can to the curb?", ever happen? (This is NOT about the jackass's path next door. Not really.)

Yes, they do. Those moments do happen, and Didgeridoo Boy is not exactly what one would call "welcoming" when they happen. He fusses a little or throws out a distraction, does this weird, exasperated sharp exhalation, and then takes care of the matter. But you have to remember, for the most part, Didge and I are about seven. Maybe ten. So here's an example of how one of those moments can play out. Let's flash back a few days:

Me: "Would you please roll the trash can back around to the back yard?"

Didge: "It's hot."

Me: "Oh, I know. I took it to the curb. OVER THAT JACKASS'S JUNGLE PATH, I might add."

Didge: "Well...I...I...it's my knee. I have a bad knee from the war. See, there was this land mine..."

Me: "Whatever. Could you just please roll the trash can around? I took the thing up for trash day *over that path*, which sucked."

Didge: "But....my knee. It...it...got hurt in the war. I can't use it much."

Me: "Why is this such an issue? I do everything else. All I ask is that you take care of the trash and deal with getting the trash can to the curb and back, for the most part....but you never seem to want...."

Didge: "I do it!"

Me: "After drama!"

Didge: "Well...it's my knee!"

Me: "Your knee, my ass!"

Didge: "I'll do it later on, when it's dark. It's hot."

Me: "But you can't see to deal with that path in the dark, that's why you don't do it at night. Remember?"

Didge: (silence) (very confused stare) (look of dismay)

Me: "What?"

Didge: "Sweetie, I don't know how to tell you this, but you're growing a beard."


I can't repeat what I said at that point. Truth is, I don't remember. I know I screamed bloody murder and rocketed to the nearest mirror. No beard. No trace of a beard. Didge? Didge was about to wet himself laughing.

Didge: "I knew that would get you off the subject!"


(Hold on while I collect myself.)


We had quite the lively little discussion after he calmed down. And then he took the damned trash damned can back to the damned back damned yard.


Now you know. And now I need a beer.

How trad am *I*?

Now, aren't you glad I didn't pop in something like a Happy Mondays video? Enough random...


In a not-so-distant past life, I kept house like a fiend, mostly according to the traditional days of the housework week. Monday? Laundry. Tuesday? Ironing. Wednesday? Sewing, if needed. Thursday? Grocery store. Friday? Deep clean the house. Saturday? Baking. It worked. It *fit*. And why I abandoned that I have no freakin' idea.

I tripped over *laundry*, people, and nearly cracked my skull open on the dresser. Gets better. Under the laundry? There was a boot, one of Didgeridoo Boy's honkin' black boots, and I damn near broke my pinky toe going into takeoff. That was it. Seriously. What the hell is wrong with me, and when did I become one of (gasp) (now whisper) those people? The HORROR! THE SHAME!

Today, I am doing the laundry. All of it. Our hallway is covered in sorted piles, the cat is in hiding (because I do love tossing the laundry over the balcony and she met a pile of towels the hard way not long ago), and our rather large breakfast bar is cleared (YAY! YAY! YAY!) for folding. I'm not stopping until every last pile is beaten into submission.

Of course, given the huge project this house has become (why did I unpack fifteen tightly packed boxes of small things, and spread them all over the living room?), Tuesdays have been reassigned to purging, and Wednesdays will be for organizing. Screw ironing and sewing right now. I don't have space to do either due to all the tsotchkes.

Back to the beatings!

Uh, yeah.

So Didgeridoo Boy had a few beers last night, a large few, and toddled off to bed like a good little soldier (literally, I thought he'd salute) in the big boy hours of the morning. Sometimes these things happen. Heck, I've done it - getting caught up in music and drinks and then whoa, damn, it is DAYLIGHT is something I'm quite familiar with. But Didge? Didge has greater endurance than anyone I've ever seen. Just before turning on his heels and marching up the stairs around brunch time, he told me to get him up at "threeeeeee THIRTY", as he had to be at work at "FOE". Okay. He needed to be up at three thirty to be at work at four. Got that.

Threeeeeee THIRTY, and I'm up the stairs telling him it's time to get up. He grumbleshouted, pursed his lips, and passed gas. The dog, who likes to nap with her daddy, hopped off the bed and trotted out of the room. As she sat in the hall, waiting, I reminded him that he had to be at work at foe, or four, rather.

"HIVE!", he said. "She'd to knee bear an hive." Great. Five.

And, miracle of miracles, the man made it. If I didn't somewhat want to put a foot up his posterior, I'd have to give him mad props.


In other news, I celebrated having my beloved little VW, Baby, fully repaired and all zippy again yesterday by blaring this as loud as I could stand for most of the drive home.



It was a *damned* good drive.

Suburbi-beeyotch...

Lightshed: Sometimes, you're going to have neighbors who suck. The challenge is to not let that fact effect you. Carry on. Really. Just carry the hell on.

So, the grass is getting a bit high because you have to get your lawnmower over an access path that they're supposed to maintain, but don't, and it's kind of impossible to get your lawnmower through the jungle of weeds and mini-sinkholes their blatant negligence has created. But carry on.

Also carry on through the fact that it's now really hard to get your trash can around to the front for pickup, and there are a couple of deceased bananas down in that can that really need to be taken elsewhere. Just carry the hell on.

Keep on carrying on as you are informed of the fact that the landlord of the property next door would let you put your trash can to the side of the building (on what is technically their property) if only the female half of the couple renting the place wasn't such a complete beeyotch, and simply didn't want your trash can next to theirs. Just. Carry. On.

Seriously. Carry on already. I mean it.

And never make eye contact with said beeyotch, lest you glare and scare her. Just stare at the driveway.

And carry on.

Jackass.

Okay. So - who could it be that hacked the email address associated with this blog, got my account temporarily disabled, and gave me a headache on what had been the first nice, non-busy, peaceful day I've had in a while?

Whoever you are, feel free to go stick your head in a bucket of dung-flavored gelatin and leave it there for a bit.

Writer's block, anyone? I just made it!

So much to write about, yet the words won't come. I hate it when this happens, even though it means I mysteriously get more done away from the computer. Of course, sometimes my flurries of activity are an attempted antidote to sitting and *staring* at a notebook or the computer wishing this delightful little cycle would end. And it will end - it always does, and then I find myself with too much to write about and an inability to decide what to put "out there".

But enough about that. Have some music!

It's Saturday, right? Yeah? But - movies!

Okay, so, busy week. I had to go out of town for the day on Wednesday, and on Thursday braved the 100-degree heat to run breezeless errands. Got a new vacuum cleaner - good, this, as we have pale beige carpet and a black dog. And that's about it, y'all. Really.

I did, however, manage to watch "The Lover". I've seen it several times - my curiosity piqued by all the shocked commentary when it was first released, I grabbed it as a rental as soon as the video was released. Admittedly, Jane March looks very young, and *those scenes* are very convincing. Family flick this is *NOT*, and if you're a member of the high moral majority...actually, if you're a member of that, you're likely not reading this blog. But anyway, it's a beautiful film with an amazing soundtrack that always finds me weeping the last time the black car appears.

Here's hoping the trailer doesn't get me reported for adult content.

Biz to the "e"...

Whoa. I think that was the cheesiest post title I've ever come up with.

Extremely busy these days, and have to make a day trip out of town with Mom today. Couple of things, though...

Gentlemen, when you decide to joke around with your lady by pretending to spritz raspberry spray paint into her hair, do NOT push the damned button.

Ladies, if this happens, mayonnaise applied as a deep conditioner will help. It might take a few applications, but it will help.

Movies in bed...

Bliss, bliss, BLISS. Bliss, I tell you. I did something last night I haven't done in ages while Didgeridoo Boy was at work - I got all over Netflix instant view on my laptop and watched documentaries in bed. The two I chose were:

- Harlan County, USA




- A Walk Into the Sea: Danny Williams and the Warhol Factory -





Harlan County, USA is the story of a coal miners' strike in Kentucky that began in 1972. Barbara Kopple was in the area to document efforts to unseat the leader of Miners for Democracy, and shifted her project's focus when the strike began (source). The film very much takes you into the middle of everything, and for me, was completely engrossing - there was a moment involving an arrest (no spoilers from here) that actually found me shaking my fist in the air and shouting, "HELL YES!"


A Walk Into the Sea: Danny Williams and the Warhol Factory is Esther Robinson's film about her uncle, Danny Williams, a member of Andy Warhol's inner circle at the Factory who vanished at age 27. It presents a vivid image of him and life within that mini-society through interviews with the likes of Brigid Berlin, Billy Name (among others), and Danny's family, interspersed with clips of his own film work. Revealing and poignant, it's one I definitely plan to watch again so I can make sure to take every bit of it in.

Back to prepping the house for the mini staycation Didge and I have planned for this weekend. I have no clue what he's planning beyond going out for "supplies" this evening - and I know he's been eyeballing a prepackaged selection of fireworks. Holy hell, I just became very nervous.

And pictures!

I've spent most of the morning revamping my non-plan for this exploding domestic project into an actual, grounded, workable plan that will keep me out of rehab. First, I ranked each room by importance and divided work into corresponding phases. Then, I made a detailed list of all of our furniture, noted where each piece will be placed, and listed any repair/redo needs. Fingers crossed, and Advil stash replaced. (I'm not going to tell you this is fun and enlightening and refreshing and gorgeous. The place we are in right now is not pleasant. This is overwhelming as hell. There's your dose of honesty for the day!)

So, that said, pictures - today's set is of the back yard.

Here's a before shot:



An in progress shot, with weeds gone, peat moss down, and elevated bed set up:



And where it is now - we need to finish the gravel "patio" area and put down more peat moss. There are also planters...nevermind. Here's where it is now.



Why, no. We didn't buy nearly enough gravel or sand. Why do you ask? The gravel is going to cover a larger area, all the way up beside the elevated bed. There will be paving stones leading down to where the chairs and umbrella are. I know you can't see it, but it's going to be hella cool - - and if it's not, you will find me on my roof wearing clown shoes and a bikini, hollering.

Alright. Enough nonsense. There are bathroom cabinets to be cleaned out today so I can begin setting them up, as well as clearing out what's going to be our new bedroom.

Slackery dackery plop...

Maybe I should say "thud". The flurry of work on the back yard combined with the HOA drama of last week PLUS dragging even....more...."materials" out of storage burned me out big time. I swear, there are pictures. And I swear they're going to be uploaded to Photobucket as soon as my KIN syncs with its little website. I have created a mantlescape! And I have a toy-filled curio cabinet in the dining room topped with a copy of a Simon and Garfunkel album. (It's a copy of "Sounds of Silence" that still has Garfunkel holding a copy of Tiger Beat.) I even figured out how to rework our frustrating couch into something profoundly comfy and cool.

Seeing all of this beginning to come together is almost scary. I haven't made my goal of having it all done by July, but whatever. August. Let's aim for August.

What I would like to transpire, I think...

As I'm sure you've gathered, I'm completely pissed off about the "maintenance" situation next door. Upkeep, people! Upkeep! Get the crap off the front porch, take care of the freakin' place, and stop dragging down my property value by allowing every single bit of carefully placed landscaping to die. All members of this family look healthy enough. Pull a weed, already, and turn on a sprinkler, jackasses! Grrrrrrr! (Tea. I need tea. Licorice tea, and a long, long spell in savasana while listening to a baroque station in iTunes radio.)

I just fantasized this conversation. "PFND" means "person from next door". "Me" means, well, me.

PFND: "Looks like you have been working on your back yard."

Me: "Yes, we have."

PFND: "What are those things you have hanging from the tree limbs?"

Me: "The green things? Oh, those are little mobiles made from the bottoms of old soda bottles. One uses Pringle lids as spacers."

PFND: "Where did you find that idea?"

Me: "The internet. But I was actually inspired by other things."

PFND: "Like what?"

Me: "TRASH! FUCKING TRASH! We cannot get rid of our trash because of your lazy ass and evident apathy towards the sinking snake den that used to be the access path you or your excuse for a landlord are supposed to be maintaining, asshole. It has to stay until we figure out a way to get it out of the back damned yard without incurring substantial bodily harm. SO I AM MAKING YARD ART OF THE TRASH, dickweed! Capice?"

Trashed, Back Yard...

The trashed: We know who the culprit is. And we know the actual whereabouts of the supposed absentee landlord, who's actually not-so-absentee. I am now very much a part of helping the board of our HOA get something done about what's happening, and rather like it. The un-maintained path that makes it nearly impossible for us to get our trash around to the front is only the tip of the iceberg. This is a case of a deadbeat landlord and a tenant who doesn't care to see that anything's done, either. And that's all I'm going to say about it for now, because there are better things happening I'd much rather focus upon. Plus, I don't want to get sued.

The back yard: We have one! We have a back yard! I pulled up weeds, put down two bales of peat moss, set up a raised bed that will be an herb garden, and made a little patio area out of gravel. Then I popped in a cute, red patio umbrella and two red chairs. Another bale of peat moss and one more six-bag round of gravel are pending, and then it's on to repainting some old grills to be repurposed into planters, getting the soil and the plants for those, and planting the herb garden. We've also got a set of patio furniture to repaint for the deck. Did I mention that I'd like to have all of this done by next weekend? I'd like to have all of this done by next weekend.

Which means I'd better get back to work. Pictures coming as soon as Photobucket will cooperate!

Trashed and Canned, Part Holy Hell...

We still don't know who the anal retentive culprit is, but, he/she ripped the note off the front of the trash can, tucked it under the lid, and rammed the can back up against the back of Didgeridoo Boy's car. Yes, RIPPED THE NOTE OFF THE CAN and TUCKED IT UNDER THE LID. Point made, you psycho fuck. What's next, keying our cars??

So some calls were made. The board of our HOA is now involved quite heavily. No one can find the landlord of the property next to ours, and the path that's keeping us from taking out the trash is his responsibility. One board member seems to think it's our next door neighbor doing this - as in, the guy who rents the property in question. Rather than force the issue and deal with heaven knows what else from this evident lunatic, our trash can is back in our yard. And the board is on it like hornets. They won't be able to do much besides give the next-door landlord and the trash can asshole a headache, but it'll be their headache - not ours.

I have to say - I'm a lot less anti-HOA than I was twenty four hours ago.

Trashed and canned...

And here we go. Here the hi, ho, and derry damned "o" we go.

Ahh, suburbia. I moved to the 'burbs to get away from being afraid to walk to my car in the dark, the fear of having said car stolen or broken into, avoid being mugged another time, because I was sick of living in poetically old properties fraught with electrical issues, and because I was sick and damned tired of buying new hubcaps every six months or so. It was a big step, as I'm really not of a suburban mindset. I don't drive an SUV, and don't plan to. I don't know who the Joneses are, and have no intention of keeping up with them. Having abandoned the "Westside Barbie" persona I tried to fit into when I thought it was time to (ahem) grow up (PUH-LEEEEEZ), I am decidedly not tanned, nor do I have a "French manicure" or appropriately "pretty" colors on my toenails. Didgeridoo Boy? He's less of that mold than I. But, nevertheless, we live firmly in the middle of the 'burbs. And most of the time, we like it.

Trash day, though, is a bit of a bear. We live in the center unit of a row of three townhomes, which are situated so that their back sides are down a hill. Our trash can is to be stored under our deck. Our neighbor has a path cutting across his yard that we're to use when we take the trash can up to our driveway. Lately, though, this path has fallen into disrepair. Not only is it covered in a jungle of weeds (what's up with the owner of that property not wielding a weed whacker?), it is *sinking*. There are two holes. Didge fell twice the last time he rolled the trash can over it. Hard.

So we were told by an HOA board member to put the can to the side of the building, where our path-having neighbor stows his even though he's not technically supposed to. Never mind that. I moved the can there yesterday. This morning?

It was right smack dab in the mother flippity fucking driveway behind Didge's car. Now, I'm all for rules, provided they're not stupid. But bullshit? I don't tolerate bullshit, and neighbors who like to play HOA police are high on the list of things that comprise pure bullshit. (Some rules make sense - like cleaning up after dogs and not having refrigerators and toilets sitting all about one's yard.) It is a testament to my re-established yoga practice that I calmly wrote a note stating that we were told to put the can there due to the condition of the path and rolled that puppy all the way back to where I'd put it yesterday. Slapped that note on it, sashayed back up to my house, realized I had just done that in my pajamas and a pair of Havaianas, and had my coffee. I congratulated myself for remaining excessively calm, for me, AND for remembering to put tape on the note before prancing out the door in a black cami and sugar skull-printed pajama pants. And Havaianas.

If they do this again, I am going to the floral department of a nearby mega grocery store, and purchasing the most obnoxious helium balloons I can get my mits on. I hope they say things like "OLD FART" and "YEE HAWWWW" if I need to do this, because I am going to tie them to the trash can and leave it right the bloody hell in the driveway. When those balloons go limp, I'm going to get more. I might decorate it for the 4th of July, with streamers and sparkly things, and maybe some flashing lights that mimic fireworks. I might set up a gogo cage on top of it and have Didge give free, every-evening performances in a spangly red, white, and blue banana hammock.

Hell, I might do all of that anyway just to see the looks on people's faces.

Off to patrol the driveway. I need to see who's moving the can so I know where to send the surprise package of fun toys from the adult bookstore. The card will say, "These might help you relax a bit."

It's Friday yet, right?

We've had one of *those* weeks. Monday - I don't remember. I know we did something? Ah. I brought many things downstairs on Monday. Tuesday was a real treat, as the a/c nutted up and we had to call for repairs. We did what all good Southerners do when the a/c knocks out during the summer - immediately headed out for beer. Wednesday we dealt with the heat and went to Didge's sister's house for a bit in the evening. Thursday, the a/c was repaired, and Didge started a new job. And today?

What in the name of God were we thinking by deciding to go to Lowes and WalMart for the makings of our new back yard at 11.30am during a heat wave? We have two large bales of peat moss, gravel for a patio area, a bag of sand that we have now realized we don't need but will nevertheless use, one bright red patio umbrella, one patio umbrella stand, and two bright red plastic Adirondack chairs. And a gallon of vinegar to kill weeds. Whee, wheeee, and wheeeeeeeeeee. I learned how to deal with one of those personal barges lawn and garden centers let people use.

One of our stops was at my parents' place to borrow a (I swear) little red Radio Flyer wagon for getting things to the back yard. We locked ourselves in the damned garage. I went out to find a Coke for my fussy little Didgeridoo Boy, and he followed. I said, "Didge, don't....", and he shut the damned door. I was about to tell him not to shut the door, as it sometimes seems to lock itself. Why didn't we open the garage and go out that way? Because, darlings, that door was freakin' stuck. So we stood outside and knocked, Cokeless, and hot. My parents let us in, Mom got fussy Didge his Coke, and then?

We had to unload every....last.....bit.

Hopefully, we will have a back yard by Monday evening.