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.