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.