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.

Hot damn...

I know, I know, to everything there is a season, yatta yatta YATTA yatta yatta... I know it's summertime, and I know all about the livin' bein' easy and all that, but DAMN.

It's hot. It's damned hot. Our high is going to be 100 degrees Farenheit for the second day in a row. We have the a/c AND fans running, and are sealed up in this house tighter than a little old lady's leftovers in Tupperware. Didgeridoo Boy has stopped asking me to come outside with him when he smokes. The glare - he understands it, finally.

And I think the heat is doing *something* to me. I spent a fair amount of time yesterday looking at Victorian post-mortem photos. If you find images of the dead disturbing, don't click. While familiar with the subject, I delved into full-on obsession yesterday - something about being trapped in the house by a heat wave put my morbid side into overdrive, I guess. This one, in particular, stuck with me. Again, fair warning - that image might prove highly disturbing to some.

Let's change the subject.

How did I occupy myself when not gazing upon the faces of Victorian dead and wondering about the back stories? I wondered what to do with the umpteen billionty things that are coming out of storage boxes. Going through the room of said boxes is taking a little longer than planned, but I'm getting there - and I'm finding all sorts of random objects that I'm determined to group put to use. Right now, the groupings are "toys", "colors", and "glass". Any progress is progress, right?

So - that's where all that is. And having struggled with a blog entry for today, I am now struggling for an ending.

Fudge it. Here's a timely, and highly amusing, video instead:

Fall down go boom get stuck...

Didgeridoo Boy had some kind of day yesterday, and unfortunately, I never managed a photo of any of his three ass-busting mishaps.

The first: He interrupted his GTA: Vice City mission (he's trying to finish it again) to check something on his computer. How he went from taking a few steps to his left to waving his controller in the ay-err like he just didn't cay-err while, I swear, "dropping it like it was lukewarm" (not hot - this was done in slow mo), then somehow winding up under his knocked-sideways desk, I don't know. One second he was standing, and the next he was waving his PS2 controller over his head while slowly going to the floor and knocking everything over on the way down.

The second: He was parading with the dog and tripped over a cushion that had gotten bounced off the couch onto the floor due to her response to his parading. Busted his ass proper on this one. The living room shook.

The third: This one's odd. He was wearing his boxers and a pair of socks. Why he chose to be in his boxers and socks I don't know, he said he just felt like being in a state of fewer clothes and semi-stripped in the middle of the living room. Then he stood on the couch for a while, before - this is difficult to explain - arranging himself sort of on it in such a way that his head was on the floor, his backside was on a seat cushion, and his feet were over the back. Balanced like a plank, he giggled hysterically for a bit, then wiggled. He stopped giggling when he wiggled. "Oh, shit. I'm stuck." I didn't believe him. "Seriously, sweetie, I'm stuck. Help me out!" I still didn't believe him. "Baby, I am fucking stuck! Come grab my feet and push them around to help get me back up." I grabbed the camera. "Don't you fucking dare! Ohhh, don't you dare! I will......put that thing down." I went to stand at his feet with the camera, and finally realized he was telling the truth. All he could do was wave his arms around and grunt in objection to my determination to record his predicament. I put the camera down and did as he was asking - swung his feet around the the side and spun him, break dance style, around to where he could right himself.

After that, he sprayed me with the Evil Kitty water bottle and shaving cream. I guess I had it coming.

Documenting...

It would seem I've become a compulsive photographer. "Before" and "After" shots of rooms aren't enough - oh, no, I've got to take snapshots of every single thing as the ideas for how I might use them hits me. I keep killing the battery on my phone.

So! Welcome to the room that will be our master bedroom (green now, will be gray)! What's in here? Here's a peek:

A trunk I'll be refinishing for the guest room, with a basket and the light cover from an old ceiling fan:



Oh, look! It's the vintage swivel papasan who's cushion Foster the Cat destroyed, the base of which didn't make it into the shot. (Accompanied by a vintage picnic basket and a spaghetti lamp.)




And here's another trunk. This one's going to be cleaned up, sprayed chrome silver, fitted with a glass top, and put to use as a coffee table:




Yesterday we went on the most delightful outing to explore un-patio options. Our back yard has issues that render a proper terrace completely impractical, so we've decided to go with...is it egg gravel? River rock? Whatever. Golf-ball-sized stones, smooth, rounded. The ones that have more brown tones going on, as the chipped marble seemed too white-tires-along-the-driveway for my taste. An area of those lovely little smooth stones, partitioned from the rest of the yard by a strip of.....this vinyl stuff. Black vinyl stuff, that we'll likely bust our asses tripping over after a couple of beverages, but will keep the appropriately colored and rounded stones from getting over into the rest of the yard, which will be covered in...

Peat moss. See? I know what something is actually called. Why peat moss? Didgeridoo Boy's decision. The smell of it reminds him of Six Flags Over Georgia.

Yes, we are going to measure and figure out how much of these things we need. I know this will be slightly hard to swallow, but Didge and I can behave like grownups when the need arises. He knows something of landscaping, to boot. (Which is good, because I know not the first damned thing.)

And inside? The living room and dining room are going to become "staging" and "crafting" areas, respectively. Today. I mean that. Really.

Say...

Say you're going to make wind spinners out of green plastic bottles to hang from the limbs of a tree in your back yard. Say you were inspired by the greenish light that filters through the leaves, and thought green-UFO-looking things would be kind of cool to gaze upon as you lounge in your anti-suburban-yet-suburban patio area. (Don't ask.) Say you were mighty pleased with yourself over this idea, as well as with the fact that you actually ventured into the area of a discount store where fishing supplies are sold to buy the little spinny thingamajigs the crafting instructions called for. Say it all. Celebrate the idea, brag about it a little.

Now, consider that you might have wanted to keep the caps to your green plastic bottles, too, as those are vital to the construction of your little green, spinning, tree-dwelling UFO's.

Just a thought. (Looks like Didge is going to be drinking a little more Mountain Dew than normal. Happy day, happy day!)

I'm experiencing incredibly difficulty waking up this morning, but, having finished the last of the materials-retrieving errands yesterday, it's time to (cue ominous music) *get started*. The room I was going to gradually purge? I'm hoping to go through it and have everything sorted into "use-as-is" and "make it better" piles by day's end, as there are so many things in there that I *absolutely have to get to*. Ideas are hitting me like hailstones, frankly - I was trying to sleep last night and remembered Didge's beat up, silver steamer trunk and realized how cool it could be as a coffee table. I've realized that we have an entire three-bedroom house's worth of furnishings, save a mattress and box springs for the guest room. That is not allowed to be a daunting realization.

So, yes, lots to do. Tons to do, in fact. Off to look for instructions for how to turn an old suitcase into a table.

I'll precious YOUR moment!

Lightshed...

Why am I planning to purge a storage room, sorting into donate/keep-storing piles? And why am I doing that in order to make room for stuff I'll use to decorate the house? When the hell did I become too good for repurposing and making cool stuff out of found objects? Granted, when life goes into whirlwind mode, it's easy to do things like not realize you have the makings of an immensely cool abode right at your stressed-out fingertips.

Life has suddenly become much, much easier. The home I'd planned after scrapping the plans I had pre-Didgeridoo Boy isn't anywhere to be found, and I'm not structuring this process in such concrete form. Beyond ensuring that everything winds up functional, comfortable, attractive (to us), and fun, there's no plan.

I'd really like to get this done by July. It's June. Oh, hell.

Allergetic...

Hot damn. Pass the Kleenex and hot tea, please, I am having an allergy attack from having dealt with cleaning out the closet that used to serve as Foster the Cat's condo. Yowza. But it's done, which means it's ready for our clothes when we move back into that bedroom.

Yes, folks, I'm making great strides in reclaiming the master bedroom. It'll be so great to settle in and get it decorated just the way we've talked about for months, red tube lighting and all. I've found so many great DIY ideas it's pathetic, and am so fired up it's ridiculous. But the next step, and there's no avoiding it, is fumigating that damned room. And why? Why might I have to do that, you ask?

Because it reeks of bad things, bad things that happened yesterday morning. Either Foster the Cat (you knew it, didn't you?) got the door to that room open, or Didgeridoo Boy left it just enough ajar after going in there to retrieve a component cable while trying to remedy his television's lightning woes. I was a little dismayed to find the door to the room open when I came downstairs yesterday morning, but just shut it, having not had my coffee yet and therefore not capable of considering the possibilities. I didn't even put kitty and cat together when I noticed Foster the Cat was roaming around in the hall that leads to the room.

Imagine my shock at finding the twin piles of turds while running the vacuum. I hopped up and down like a child having a tantrum. Swore. A lot. And then I took pictures, just in case Didge tried to say I was telling a fib. (He didn't.) Cleaned 'em up and took 'em to the trash. Got back to work. Kept smelling cat pee, and went on a sniffing mission. Turned out that smell was coming from a vintage swivel papasan - the cushion, to be exact. And the two rugs that were in the seat of it. As soon as I saw how they were all bunched up, I knew - that's the same thing she did to the bathroom rug the last time she peed all over the floor in there. The cushion? Ruined - soaked all the way through. The rugs? Dit-to-the-damned-hell-o, baby.

Have you ever rolled up a large, cat-pee-soaked cushion and forced it into a trash bag? I have. As of yesterday, in fact, I've done that very thing. Ahh, life's little firsts, how they enrich our lives and make us who we are. In addition, I have never taken a shower and changed clothes so quickly. And when I was taking the thing down the back steps to the trash can, the bag ripped - and I caught it in such a bear-hugging way that I wound up with that smell all over me AGAIN, so I got to practice what I'd learned about power showering and changing.

So, today's all about sneezing, fumigating that room with incense and whatever else I can get my hands on, and taking myself through many rounds of positive self-talk to help me recover from cat-pee-soaked-cushion trauma. Something damned well better give, and soon.