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.