Who goes there? Please leave comments so (An Aries Knows)!
Tim’s desk chair (seen in foreground) broke, so he and Tom went to get another one. It had to be assembled, but fortunately, there were two supervisors on hand to see that it was done properly. Another exciting Friday night at The Compound.
It’s raining. Sometimes hard. Sometimes barely. And even though there is no thunder and lightning, this lump in the bed is a Silly Scared Dog.
Mommie Dearest would not be happy with me. After all my grand plans for putting my house in order, life got in the way. Now I’ve fallen behind on my writing schedule, my tax crap has been tossed into a huge pile less organized than before–and I don’t much care at the moment. I did get my bank statements reconciled and those birthday cards and some thank-yous sent out before things went to hell. And Tim sent off a very important envelope (yay, Tim!).
One good thing about gray today is that my eyes don’t hurt as much, and I hope Tim’s are better, too. Another good thing is a repeat from last week. Tom was able to take a couple of vacation days from work last week and again this week to help build Habitat for Humanity houses. He’s a good guy, that Tom.
In all actuality, I wish I could be more like Joan Crawford. (“Who doesn’t beat their kids?”–Evie Harris) At least as she was portrayed by Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. Because then I’d have a clean house.
There was a time in my life–a very unhappy time–when I kept an immaculate house. Now I just have a lived-in house. VERY lived in. Now I do what I can do when I can do it. When I’m writing, things go untended. Which is bad, because if they go too untended, I can’t write. I can ignore the layer of dust on top of the refrigerator, since I can’t see it, but if things get cluttered and I can see the clutter, I start getting edgy.
Since I’ve hit another writing block (not writer’s block, which I don’t believe in, but just a point when I have to mull things over for a while), I figure it’s time to deal with some of those jobs left undone. Bank statements. Filing away last year’s paperwork. Sending out those cards for January birthdays that have passed. (Sorry.) Finishing my fourth quarter tax stuff in preparation for turning over one of life’s messiest jobs to the accountant. Trying to figure out where the hell that iTunes gift card is. (Do those things expire?)
I’m giving myself three hours to get my house in order.
…but oh, that Yellow Cat Next Door.
He lies in the middle of my driveway or the middle of our street like a poet having a bad day.
He uses our flowerbeds as his litterbox. Which might not be a big deal if dogs weren’t inclined to say, “Ooooooo. Chocolate protein snack bars!”
He sleeps on my front porch so my dogs can see him through the door and hurl themselves into paroxysms of cat-loathing rage. When I’m on the phone. Or sleeping.
He’s a sounder sleeper than I and can nap on top of the fence in the back yard while dogs try to climb the tree to get to him.
Saturday morning, he did a victory dance through his yard, our yard, and the yards of three other neighbors with a bird in his mouth.
That’s right: I’m living next door to murder in a fur coat.
Usually I find something really urgent to do when it’s time to undecorate the tree and whatever all that other stuff is that de-Christmases the house. Only Tom’s been out of town, and I know on his long drive back today, he’s thinking, “Oh, man, I’m going to have to pack up all that Christmas crap.” So Tim was kind enough to bring in the 241 empty bins and I’ve been doing it all day.
Including those damn garlands full of Barbie and Star Trek ornaments. Now say what you will about Barbie, at least she doesn’t mouth off. But as I mentioned before, whenever I plug in the lights to the Star Trek garland, there’s a lot of Warfing and Janewaying and Borging going on.
So every time I unplugged an ornament and put a light in its place, they all had to pipe up again. I was already frustrated because I am so spatially (and space-ially) challenged that I was trying to put some kind of Bird of Prey thing into some other ship’s box. (This would never happen to a Star Trek fan. In fact, if any are reading this, they are probably feeling woozy or belligerent right now.)
Of course, there are always lights that don’t fit, so I had to climb down and get more bulbs. And each time a bulb made contact (and trust me, it was way more than first contact), those freaking Borg were threatening me again, until finally only Spock was left and I was all, “Shut up, Pointy Ears, you live long and prosper!”
Now I’m off to make blackeyed peas and greens so Spock’s wish will come true.
