I seriously can't recall what I did on Sunday, which means I either slept through most of it or...hmm...let's just go with that.

The rest of the weekend, after the blood-letting, was pretty mellow. I fell prey to some as-of-yet unidentified stomach/head trouble that gave me the solid reasoning I'd been looking for to lie on the couch and watch cable all day. So there went Saturday. I was supposed to head up to San Francisco and hang out with Angie and Sabeen that night but around five I was still waiting for my peripheral vision to come back and thought that, perhaps, driving for an hour with impaired brain and innards might not be the best thing ever for public road safety. I’m sure I would have been able to react, like, thirteen seconds after someone braked quickly in front of me, but I’m almost certain that’s not an acceptable margin-of-response.

I’ve forgotten what happened on Sunday. Senility for the win! Marc arrived home after swilling about in the dirt and muck with some of his boys. There were mountain bikes and beer involved which is about as far as my understanding goes as to what they do on such trips. He assures me that there is no gay love, but I’ve seen the photos, and with that much spandex flying around, I’m unconvinced.

Monday was glorious. There was some sleeping in, some wine tasting. More wine tasting on our new patio. A walk that I don’t remember much of under the weight of all of that wine. Then we had dinner, which I thought would soak up some of the wine, but it didn’t. Whatever. I failed chemistry. Then, we saw a movie starring Christian Bale. I think it was Terminator, but honestly, I was so taken with his perfect bone structure, that the main plot points are still somewhat fuzzy in my head. There were robots that were anxious to blow shit up and some woman who’s hair managed to stay perfectly curled despite being under heavy fire, and then rain and then heavy fire again. And then she made out with a robot, which was cool because the robot was hot - I would have too, given the opportunity. But what I came away wondering was a) why is the future always so WET and DARK? And b) if this movie takes place 10 years from now, as the opening credits imply, we’re seriously fucked and should just cash in and go live in Hawaii. And c) why does future clothing require all of these straps and buckles? Won’t we all be swanning about in muu-muus or something more comfortable by then? Won’t we be wise enough to do away with obnoxious things like waist-bands and thong underwear? But perhaps in the future we’ll all have hair like that - that stays perfect, and shiny!, no matter what the circumstance. In which case, I might be talked into wearing complicated pants. But not a thong. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Honestly, I'd rather someone just set my hair on fire.

Did you realize it's Wednesday already? How did that happen? I’m still coming off of my long weekend buzz and here we are, already in the middle of a new week. That’s not the only reason that I haven’t posted yet. It’s more that I’ve been trying to feverishly establish an Internet connection with a paperclip and a whispered prayer. For some reason, our DSL decided to go on holiday and celebrate the troops as well, so much of the weekend was spent in deliberation with the universe, making all sorts of promises that we will not keep if only the Internet would SPEED THE FUCK UP. Which it didn’t. So we just started opening wine, which seemed to solve a lot of the problem.

The weekend didn’t have good beginnings. I spent much of Friday morning with clenched fists, dry mouth and a mutated version of nausea, all because I had to go and get some blood work done. I am officially the most difficult person to gather blood samples from. This does not bode well for me should I ever bring a child into this world as my understanding of pregnancy is that they have to collect blood from you often and in somewhat copious amounts. They might as well have a bed ready for me in that office since I spend at least thirty minutes after getting blood drawn alternately passed out or leaning over a bucket waiting for my organs to be expelled through the force of my vomiting. It’s a really great way to make an impression. I think I would do better with leeches.

Anyways, I drove to the blood letting place, whistling through my cold sweats, clinging desperately to the ten and two position of my steering wheel with such furious angst that I couldn’t even be bothered to turn on the radio. I walked in full of fake bravado, all “LALALA! I’m going to get drained and LIKE IT!” But my crepe-thin façade of cool disintegrated when I saw the 5 vials that were waiting to be filled. The clinician was full of spunk and had some of the most remarkably fuzzy hair I’ve ever seen. I was momentarily distracted, which is perhaps her reason for looking as though she has a nest on her head, who knows. But before she plunged the needle into what she described as my “gorgeous veins!” I stopped her and said, “You know, you’d be wise to have a bucket and a glass of juice at the ready.” She looked at me quizzically and patted my arm, laughingly, “Oh, honey, you’ll be fine.” Which is not what she was saying 2 minutes later. What she was in fact exclaiming was, “Oh, WOW!” and then there was some leaning out of the door and the hollering of, “SOMEONE BRING ME SOME FUCKING JUICE AND A BUCKET!” since I was slumped over in the chair in a manner that would only be appropriate had I actually bled out. But no, 5 vials later I was nearly comatose and, literally, green. Seriously. After I had recovered, she said she wanted to take a picture since she had never seen anyone turn that hue before but felt bad asking given my condition. I’m glad to have been such a landmark patient.

But, you know, I survived. I finally stopped dry heaving about 4 hours later and was able to get on with my day, but really, that’s hard to bounce back from.

I DID learn a lot about the prostate. So there is that.

So have I told you all about how, over the years, I've morphed into something of a germ-a-phobe? No? Let's discuss...

My phobia is really quite specific. I'm not running around spritzing every door handle with Lysol or stock-piling in case of a pandemic or anything normal like that. No, it's more that I get incredibly irritated by people who are ILL who just move around without regard for those of us who are trying to stay well. That woman who coughed into her hand and then picked out some apples at the grocery store? GROSS. Clearly, we need to burn the entire produce section down. That man who is at the store sneezing all over the place and then TOUCHING everything? Were you raised by wolves? Well, no, that's insulting to the wolves. I feel this incredible urge to hose these people off with Clorox, cover them with gauze and ship them off elsewhere. While wearing a hazmat suit and then showering in penicillin. Twice. I can just see someone moving about in a manner that suggests illness and my brain automatically goes to this place of, "OH SWEET JESUS, if we share the same air space I will wake up tomorrow with oozing lesions and no hair." And I realize that my immune system is quite capable of dealing with someone's heavy, snot-laden mouth breathing, I'd just rather not. Get your mucus away from me, please.

So today I had to go to the drug store to pick up a prescription. I realize that my chances of running into someone who is suffering from some malady in a place such as this are high. I'm willing to admit that it's unreasonable for me to think that you can always have someone else ferry your medication to you. (Though someone should look into that as a business. You're welcome.) But while I was standing in line, a woman came up behind me and stood quite close, breathing in such a moist manner that I was surprised she didn't mouth-drip a massive spit ball onto the back of my neck. I was reasonably skeeved out and afraid to turn around for fear of what my eyes might see. The end of the world, I was certain.

I moved a few steps away which seemed to indicate to her that we were getting closer to the front of the line, as she moved with me and now stood even closer. I could smell her, and it was a combination of sock and the grave. My blood pressure began to soar and I wondered how impertinent it would be to go up to the counter and stand behind the non-mouth-breathing man who was picking up something for his prostate. He was also hard of hearing as he kept yelling at the pharmacist, "WILL THIS MAKE THE SWELLING IN MY BALLS GO DOWN?" So I didn't think he would mind if I hovered, despite the signage above him that read "STAY BACK TO ENSURE CUSTOMERS PRIVACY." Yeah, no.

At this point, I was pretty sure there was a huge puddle of snot building up behind me as the woman kept breathing in this rattly and choking manner. I rummaged into my purse, found my Kleenex and turned to her saying, "Would you like one of these?" I didn't make eye contact, but looked busily over her left shoulder while she reached out a wretched hand and took the tissue, dabbing at her eyes and nose with it all while hacking up what I can only assume to be a lung, and perhaps a kidney, given the force of her heaving expulsions. I turned back around and inched forward. We stood for a while longer, Mr. Enlarged Balls seeming to have an infinite amount of questions about how long it was going to take for the swelling to subside. A long time, apparently, since the pharmacist had to yell back instructions to him and now I know what he'll be doing this weekend. And it won't involve sex. For a few weeks, in fact.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Cringing, I turned around.

The sickly woman clutched at my arm and said, "I seem to have something in my eye...can you look and tell me if you see anything?" I continued to look over her left shoulder for fear that if I gazed directly into what I can only assume were bleeding eyeballs, I would subsequently succumb to the Plague, or Consumption or an STD. My visions blurred and suddenly I heard "Next!" from the pick-up window. Saved! Sorry about your eye! I have to go home now and burn this shirt.

It should be mentioned that, oh yeah, I was pre-med! And wanted to specialize in infectious diseases! How's that for a one-two punch of irony? Regardless, I got out of there somewhat unscathed but with an acute sense of needing to shower. I suppose this can be read as something of a cautionary tale. Should you come to my house with suspicious sniffles, don't be surprised if I put you out back and visit with you through the sliding door. It's either that or the Clorox bath. Your choice.

Who doesn't like whales?

A while back Marc and I were eating dinner and Marc mentioned that he needed to get his oil changed. A large portion of his brain is devoted entirely to being responsible so this wasn't surprising. He then eyed me over his salad. "When was the last time you had your oil changed?"

Sometime in ought nine? Bush was still President, I think? Because that was the last time.

A very small part of my brain used to be devoted to responsibility, but the battery in that part of my head got weak and the whole thing started beeping so I smashed it with a hammer.

"Also," I went on, "my steering wheel has become loud and my brakes have started making a noise."

"Like a squeaking sound?" he asked. "When you brake? That's the signal it's time to get them checked."

"Yeah, no," I shook my head. "It's more like a 'GRRREEEEOOOOORRRRREEEEEOOOOW' sound." I crinkled up my face in a menacing manner in an effort to communicate the exact pitch of what comes out of my car each time I use that pedal. Marc looked at me aghast. You'd think after almost ten years, he would be used to the continuous disappointment that I bring to our relationship.

(Really, it's not that big of a worry, the noise. I just do everything in my power to avoid activating the brakes. It's a pretty small car so I only need about one hundred or so yards to coast to a stop.)

This of course started yet another rant, I mean diatribe, I mean conversation about why my car is Old and Needs A Proper Burial, all of which I listened to with a glazed over expression on my face while really I was thinking, "I wonder if Sawyer will take his shirt off on Lost this week?" Marc finished and went back to eating his meal, I'm sure wondering how exactly I manage to get through the day without a minor understanding of How Things Work & When They Need Care. I don't know. I guess as long as a tire doesn't spring loose and go bouncing across the freeway, I'm cool.

I eventually did go and get my oil changed and the brakes looked at, though the steering wheel still puts a stop to conversation each time I have to make a sharp left. I didn't consider this an issue until the other day when my mother was in the car with me (an event which I had prepared for by cleaning the insides furiously, first). We were off, somewhere, and when we reached our destination, she turned to me and said, "You must really hate to talk to people." That's true, yes, but I didn't know why she had made this particular observation and so asked. "Well," she replied, "with how loud your steering wheel is, I can't imagine anyone can get a word in edgewise, what with it sounding like you have a herd whales mating under the hood."

So, I suppose what's she's saying is, it's time to get that fixed.

Nothing good comes from deviating from the Routine

Over the years, Marc and I have established a Weeknight Routine in which we do, wear, watch, and eat pretty much the exact same things from night to night. It's easy and familiar and unerringly consistent - I assume most couples fall into similar patterns of habit. Maybe not, though; maybe when you guys get home at night, you spin a giant wheel of Random Adventure! and then end up gleefully hitchhiking to Mexico or having sex on a firetruck or something, I don't know. The only wheel we're spinning over here has "Official Eating Pants/Jeans" on it, and Jeans is crossed out.

My part of the routine essentially entails piling up on the couch with my laptop while periodically piping up to criticize Marc's piss poor Tivo forwarding skills and then eventually grabbing the remote from him and assuming the task because I'm sick of missing the first ten seconds after every commercial break. These lapses in plot don't seem to bother Marc, though he's usually two beers deep and mildy unconscious which might have something to do with it.

So the other night we were roughly 1/2 way through an episode of 24, wherein Jack was shooting someone in the knee, slowly dying of that bio weapon thingy that everyone is up in arms about this season and still not stopping for a pee break when I heard Marc softly snore from his section of the couch. I turned off the show, because usually what happens is that I'll watch the rest, and then the next night, Marc will be all, "Let's watch 24!" To which I'll reply, "I watched it last night while you were passed out on the couch."
"I was?"
"Yes."
"Well, did you finish it without me?"
"Of course."
"Why would you do something like that?"
And then I assume the position of mute fury, because we have this conversation at least once a week.

So, on this particular night, I decided to avoid it and went upstairs to get ready for bed, leaving him in his semi-comatose state.

We have, in our bathroom, one of those mirrors that is two sided. The one side is normal, great for putting on makeup in the morning while Marc is splashing about in the sink, trying to cover the counter with water, and the other, well, it magnifies your shit back at you times ten. Most of us could get through life without this particular brand of self-flagellation, but I'm 1/2 blind and like to actually get my blush on my cheeks and not, say, my chin. This particular night, it was somewhere around 10pm, a time of day wherein I had never looked into the magnifying portion of the mirror. And Sweet Moses. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun with Satan at the other end holding a new pair of tweezers and a blackhead extractor.

I don't even know what happened next. It's possible I blacked out. But roughly two hours later I came to and now I need like three different eyebrow pencils and a skin graft. I would recommend not purchasing one of these mirrors and leaving this kind of grooming to the professionals. Stick to the Routine, people. Your face will thank you.

What did you do this weekend?

Was this weekend not glorious, people? I spent most of it out in my backyard on the new patio trying out different positions...nothing dirty, so get your head out of the gutter. But I tried sitting at the large table with a beer, at the small table with some tequila, lying down on the lounger with a book, listening to music on the outside speaker while watering some plants. Each activity was successful, though I think those that were accompanied by a beverage really were glowing experiences - to be oft repeated as summer marches on. I had a few invites to trot on up to the city, but the patio would have missed me, and we're just getting to know one another. I don't want to come home and find it in a sulk, feeling all neglected.

I waited all week for Saturday morning. I had been sleeping wretchedly, for no other reason than my body hates me, so you can imagine my frustration when I woke up on Saturday - a morning I had planned to sleep through - and saw that the clock said 6:15am. I closed my eyes in the hope that if I pretended to be asleep that my brain would follow suit and wake up somewhere around lunch. About 45 minutes later, I fell into a sleep so coma like that it took the blaring sound of my phone to push my shallow-breathing husk out of bed.

Sidebar: the phone rings like this: "BLAAAAAAARGH I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU BLAAAAAARGH!!!" It's essentially a migraine sitting on the bedside table. Whomever called, waking me out of my slumber, didn't really get to have a conversation as I, in my haste to stop the ringing, knocked off the entire contents of the bedside table. The first thing they would have heard was a loud crash followed by, "FUCK! Hello?" They hung up.

So! Not the most magical way to start a weekend. But! It did improve. It was so HOT, that things like bikinis and sunglasses were definitely necessary. Shoes and pants were not. I spent all of Saturday out in the sun and on one sojourn into the house to use the restroom misplaced my sunglasses. This is somewhat noteworthy if only because that entire trip is roughly 20 feet and the glasses were completely lost somewhere along the way. It made the rest of the day rather annoying, since I couldn't see anything, what with the glare and all. And going inside was out of the question given the weather. So I made do. It was hard. I attempted to check the mail without my sunglasses and I ended up crouched in the front yard with my fists balled into my eye sockets until dusk when I could actually see again. It was a really unproductive way to spend ten hours. Not to mention probably in violation of our HOA.

I still haven't located them, but am wearing an older pair which are infinitely less stylish and have a few cracks in the lenses which give the impression of looking through a kaleidoscope. So when I take them off and everything resumes its normal shape and outline, I get the distinct impression that I'm about to throw up. Or perhaps it's the tequila. Either way, it made for an exciting two days.

And now, back to work! Blargh.

Wherein I explain why I've not been posting this week.

Did you know that I received three emails this week that said, basically, "Dude. Update." And you're right, I haven't been good about it. I've been busy. With what, I can't really tell you, only because I've forgotten. Why have I forgotten? Because I'm focusing on not collecting a stool sample.

You heard me.

This really, REALLY, passes into the territory of Things That I Do Not Want To Share, but I'm going to anyways. Because most of this week I've been staring at the box that says "STOOL PROFILES" on the side and almost praying for constipation so that I won't have to go chasing my poo around the toilet bowl and then ship it off to someone for inspection.

(Speaking of, who do you have to piss of to get THAT job? Is that the entry level position in any lab? "Well, son...everyone here has to learn the ropes. From the bottom up, so to say! Hahaha!" And then they get led to the table that has all of the poo that they are forced to inspect. I'm fairly sure EVERY day is a shitty day. HA! God. I'll be here all week. Tip your waitress.)

Anyways, you get this clever little tray that looks like something your fries come in - and if ever I needed a reason not to eat those hallowed, bits of potato wonders, the visual of said tray in use will come in handy. It's even decorated with these fetching red stripes:



You're encouraged to put on the enclosed gloves first. Then you do your business in the fry tray, collecting a good bit of "the specimen." It would then appear that you have to determine what type of poo it is, whether hard, formed, loose or watery. They have a handy chart, in case you should be confused - if your poo is having an identity crisis and not communicating its mood to you properly. Even poo's have bad days and don't feel chatty:


Then, using the enclosed spoon, you scoop your stool into the vials provided to the fill line. Apparently, there is great danger in overfilling these vials, as it is mentioned several times, "DEAR GOD DO NOT OVERFILL. And please screw on the cap tightly, thank you." Then you get to ship it off to that poor, UNDERPAID, lab rat who then tells your doctor exactly what it is that is going on with your bowels and intestines.

Poo. It's pretty wise stuff.

So I've spent much of the week ignoring this task. NOT doing this has taken up a lot of my energy, which is to say that between watching The Real Housewives Reunion, memorizing the rap section of Lady GaGa's Starstruck and NOT poo'ing in a fry tray, I've had little time to post. You'll have to forgive me. I'll get back to you once I've shipped off my poo. And my dignity.

The Yard - Part 3

So you'll note I wasn't very good about posting last week - or this morning, for that matter. It's been a nail biting past few days over here at Lucky Paw HQ. We've been putting the final touches on Phase One of this yard overhaul, and we're coming slowly to the end. May I emphasize slowly. As I type this, there are still men in my backyard. This is Day 7 of what was supposed to be a TWO day project, and they will be back again tomorrow to finish off some peripheral things.

But - LOOK! We now have a PATIO!

Marc spent quite a bit of time scrubbing the furniture and making it look all sparkly and brand new. Pat him on the back when you see him next, won't you?

Isn't it amazing and nice? Say yes. My nerves can't handle any criticism.

It's hard to tell from these photos, but the cement has this lovely, subdued color to it. It looks speckled and white-ish in spots because they have not yet scrubbed off all of the rock salt that they put down to give it a mottled surface. Trust me, it's going to be gorgeous.

I'm still not happy with the path, which we'll muck about with tomorrow in the hopes that we can make it look a little less clunky. It's just me being rather adamant about everything looking just-so and the path not quite having achieved the same appearance that I have floating around in my head. Poor path. It's going to suffer from low self-esteem what with my constant criticizing.

Kylie doesn't quite approve. Note her stance. Marc, however, found that he could do some sweet tricks down the path whilst on his bike. So that's something.

After we've recovered from the financial hurricane that has been these past two weeks, we will begin planting. Or, my mom will. Or, really, my mom will tell me what to buy and then point at places in the yard and some willing souls will dig holes and put the plants where she tells them to. I'm not allowed to participate given my talent for killing things. I'll be banished to the inside where I'll press my nose up against the glass and watch the garden take shape. All while indulging in a glass of wine. Really, who's the winner in that part of the process? That would be me.

The post wherein I confess to eating too much chocolate

Sweet tap-dancing Moses, it's been a week. It's Friday afternoon, and a project that was supposed to take two days - TWO DAYS - is now on Day 6. It should also be noted that I have consumed more calories this week due to stress than I have in ages. Thank God I now have a lovely backyard to swan about in as I'm not going into polite society until I've worked the chocolate off of my ass. So if you need me, I'll be over here, curled up in an unflattering pair of dog-hair covered yoga pants. You know, that pair that's been pre-stretched for such situations.

I would put up more pictures today, but the workers are still in the yard, and they didn't come prepared for a photo session, so you'll have to wait until Monday when I shall post our yard in all of its patio-laden glory. Next step, plants. Seeing as I kill everything that I touch, I'm leaving that area to an expert. Which is to say, my mother. Things thrive under her care; they are too frightened not to. What she lacks in stature, she makes up for in German-ness, which sound dubious at best, but if you meet her, you'll understand how the Germans made it as far as they did during WWII. It's not the master race, but it's an efficient one. Trust.

Have a great weekend, all! More Monday - and Happy Mothers Day to the Mom's that read this. May your daughters not grow up to have a not-so-secret blog wherein she regularly uses her family for content. Or, at least do enough to give her GOOD content...it's the least you can do.

To the one I loved the most

A little slice out of a piece I'm writing...enjoy.
***

A week later, she received a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize. Later, she listened to the message. It was Jack. He was home from having been abroad and wanted to meet up with her, having heard through mutual friends that she was about to marry. She listened to the message twice and then carefully lay herself down on the bed as if her bones were sore and stayed there until the daylight had faded.

She called him back. She ignored the vibrations around her heart when she heard his voice, though after she hung up, she felt as though she were moving about under water. They had agreed to meet for lunch at a place they used to love, a restaurant on the pier that stuck out over the water and gave one the impression of being out at sea. Sophie had not been there since she had left him and wondered if that had been a wise move since it wasn’t neutral territory. She didn’t tell Chase. It was, after all, only a meal.

They hugged, briefly. She didn’t look into his eyes but busied herself with the business of putting down her purse, taking off her jacket, spreading the napkin onto her lap, first lengthwise and then the other way. He set a carefully wrapped gift in front of her. She opened it and looked up at him, astonished. Something rose up between them. The awkwardness was not yet gone, but for a moment, they could not move.

“I picked that up in Paris for you. I remembered that you had always been on the hunt for a first edition. It was in a little shop near my flat.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things,” he said, playing with the salt and pepper shaker.
They ordered. A bottle of wine appeared.
“You look good,” he said. “Thinner.”
“Thanks. I am good,” she said, annoyed for some reason.
“Really?”
“Sure.” She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “I’m getting married. My book is finally being published. I have everything I want.” She hadn’t intended for the sarcastic edge to creep into her voice.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please,” she said, her glance flitting around the table. “Jack.” She rested her forehead in her left hand, her fingers spreading through her hair.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. I just hoped – “
“What? That I’d pretend not to be able to read you?”
“I guess,” she whispered. Sophie looked outside. It was an unseasonably grey day and everything seemed bruised.
Jack took a deep breath. “Listen, Soph. I’m sorry. It’s just still hard to see you. I don’t understand what happened. One minute you were there and everything was fine and then suddenly you left.”
“Everything was not fine.”
“Ok, but you’re still the one who left.”
“Do you want us to go over this again? The why’s – ?”
“No,” he said. Around them at other tables people were having pleasant, chatty lunches. He shook his head. “I still don’t get it, though.”
“You didn’t want me,” Sophie said.
“God. That’s not true. You just wanted, expected too much. You know? I don’t think I ever stood a chance at understanding you.”
“I don’t think you ever tried.”
The woman at the table next to them dropped her fork and Jack leaned down to pick it up and give it back to her. The distraction was a relief. Sophie looked out over the white tips of the breaking waves.
“God, this wine tastes like shit. Does yours taste off?” He waved for the waitress, a beautiful girl who Jack turned to with his smile, that smile. Sophie didn’t hear what he was saying, but thought back to when things had finally fallen apart between them. He had drifted away, like a fog really. He had been so persistent when seeking her attention and then it just faded despite his insistence that he still wanted to be with her, though she felt him looking over her shoulder whenever she was in his arms.

He turned the conversation to other things but Sophie had retreated into her own head, realizing that by leaving him, she had spared herself the pain that went along with allowing herself to be so vulnerable. His voice, with its forced gaiety, revealed a crucial space between them, a gap that comforted Sophie. She couldn’t, wouldn’t be harmed.

They embraced upon parting. He held her for too long and she was folded into his familiar scent; it paralyzed her for a moment, but she was able to pull away before it became dangerous. Something had hardened inside of her over their entrees and he noticed the shift. He looked at her for a while with a pained expression and said, “I’ll call you when I’m in town next.”
“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose so as to appear aloof. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She felt safe behind her sunglasses, as if behind a steel mask.
He didn't ask why. The wind blew down upon them and he reached out to touch her cheek. She didn’t move, willed herself not to.
“Bye, Soph,” he said, and walked away along the boardwalk, the mist licking off the water, giving the impression that he was fading from her view.

She watched his retreating back until he disappeared, and then exhaled heavily, not having been aware that she was holding her breath. She looked down at the book in her hands and opened the cover. His familiar, loopy handwriting danced across a sheet paper that he had slipped between the first pages. To the one I loved the most, it said. Sophie shut the book quickly. She had the distinct impression that someone was shoving broken glass deeply into her heart.

The Yard - Part 2

I'm happy to report that yesterday came and went drama free. The patio form was put in...lookit!

I even get a step out into my backyard! I shall stand on it and wave at all of my subjects. Or just the dog. Whatever.

I tried to get Kylie to pose with that thingy that tamps down the earth. She wouldn't comply. Bitch.

Anyhoo, you can imagine my relief, coming home from work and finding that not only were there no other disasters, but that progress had been made. The leaky pipe? A thing of the past! Behold!

Pipe! Gone! Leak-no-more! And my tennies, since I just went for a run.

Yay! So there was rejoicing in our house last night. Which means that we had two glasses of wine with dinner and not just one! And Marc did naked lunges in celebration of our soon to be patio. He saves those for special occaisions.

However, the earth is still wet wet wet. From THREE DAYS AGO. This ought to tell you how little sun we get back here. If you're worries about melanoma, come hang out in our yard! You'll come away paler and quite possibly with the sniffles due to the cold...but just think of how much you'll save on sunscreen!

I mean, REALLY. Check out how MUDDY that is. From SATURDAY.

So the concrete goes in this afternoon. Good thing Marc got that body buried yesterday.

The Yard - Part 1

It's been am exciting weekend over here at Lucky Paw HQ. Well, exciting is a bit of an overstatement, as the words stressful and messy come to mind first. But! There shall be a lovely outcome to all of this, so we shall forge ahead despite frayed nerves and increased blood pressure.

This post really falls under the heading of "Why Home Ownership Is Not Always The Time." Because there are moments when, quite frankly, I miss calling a landlord and saying things like, "The toilet is acting funny! Make haste! Fix it!" and then going back to eating bon bons and doing important things...like blinking.

However, we bought this lovely little home almost three years ago now and have found that, along with exorbitant property taxes , it's mind numbingly expensive to make any improvements. Especially if you're like me and have a deep interest in home design. Which means I can be in any store and immediately zero in on the most pricey item and say, "Oh that would look AMAZING in our living room," all while Marc is feverishly calculating how much we are losing in net worth while rending his garments and wondering why he ever said hello to me in the first place. What? I had on tight jeans. He couldn't help himself.

Anyhoo, the prior owners had planted what appeared to be a flourishing backyard right before we bought the place. They were concerned about curb appeal and we appreciated the green, green lawn and the flowers that were everywhere. Honestly, the yard is what made this house so appealing. It's huge - well, by urban California standards. We had visions of outdoor parties and Kylie rolling around on the verdant, green lawn. It would be our oasis, a place for us to escape after our long days of toil and corporate misery. We purchased with glee.

Within two weeks of our moving in, everything died.

I wish I was exaggerating - one might find it hard to comprehend that I have a talent for that - but I'm not. Everything died. Marc was out there at all hours, sprinkling water and fairy dust over the lawn, shaking a rain stick at the plants, applying bandages to those that seemed broken and yelling "STAY INSIDE!" to me, since I have the black thumb between the two of us. He thought my aura might be the cause of the carnage. It was sad.

And, we found, not our fault. The previous owners had planted everything and put down sod within days of our buying the place. They had not, however, researched what they were installing in a yard that gets no sun, has hard soil and is plagued by oak root fungus. The lawn just gave up, getting about 30 seconds of sun per day, and the rest of the foliage, seeing the lawn go, decided it wasn't worth the energy to put up a fight and so followed suit. We mourned. Heavily. Our dreams of floating about the yard in gauzy dresses (Marc) and having proper cocktail hours (me) dashed.

Our budget, having been extended to buy the house in the first place, was meager. And if you've ever done a yard overhaul (which this one needed - the extent of the work that would be required became obvious as we really inspected what was going on under all of that dead greenery) you know that it requires many, MANY dollars. Something we haven't had in surplus over the past few years. (Or, when it WAS in surplus, other things came up. Like, Italy. Don't judge.)

Oh whoops...Marc forgot to move the body in that plastic bag on the deck...bugger.

Anyhoo, we've finally decided that it was time - TIME - to address the yard. Or, the Poo Patch as we've been calling it, since it's primary function has been to serve as Kylie's bathroom. Something she is going to be pissed about once it's gone. Pun intended. Ha! Sorry...it's a Monday. So on Saturday, our project manager type person, Martine, came over with his crew. We decided, through much gesticulating and grandiose hand motions and loud speaking (why is it that when someone cannot speak English that you automatically start speaking LOUDER? As though by sheer volume you will be able to penetrate the language barrier?) that they would level the yard and move the sprinklers Saturday and then pour the patio on Monday. Nice! We would be cocktailing it by Tuesday. This worked for us.

I removed all poo before taking this photo. You're welcome.

So Marc wrote a large check and immediately had a small coronary. I slapped him about for a while to revive him and then we went about our business...until there was a nervous rapping at our back door. I went out. Martine, who has a slight grasp of English had left to purchase supplies, and there stood one of his workers, who spoke NO English. He had started pickaxing away at the earth. His progress had been stunning. However, he had been so vigorous that he had hit a water pipe that was now gushing into our backyard. "AGUA! AGUA!" He yelled, pointing to the small lake that was forming next to the deck. Agua, indeed! I could see that! Thank God for Sesame Street. But what I was really thinking was, "SWEET MOSES I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BUILD A RAFT SHOULD THINGS REALLY GO AWRY! DO WE HAVE FLOATIES FOR THE DOG???"

Outwardly, I remained calm, smiled, put up a finger to indicate, "Please wait a moment. I am going to go inside, brew a spot of tea and figure out how to solve this rather inconvenient problem." I found Marc who was busy installing speakers, plucked at his sleeve and said, "WATER! There is lots and LOTS OF WATER!" He just looked at me, swathed in wires and sweat and said "HANDLE IT."

Which, I'm happy to say, I did! But not before we had to shut off the water for our entire complex (6 other units), cap off the damned pipe and then have the city out to turn the water on AGAIN. And all while we wasted gallons and GALLONS of precious water. So when the water rationing goes up to 20% this summer and the drought problem increases, you can come and stone us. That was our fault! Sorry! But! Come over! We'll distract you with cocktails in the backyard!

Stupid pipe. And my slippers! Which are super comfy! And mannish, but whatever.

Sigh. So the project has now been delayed by a day due to our own version of Watergate. As you read this (hopefully...hopefully) the sprinklers will be being capped, the yard further leveled and the forms being put in for the patio. I didn't capture the lake via photo, as I was frantically talking to the City of Mountain View "WE ARE GOING TO DROWN IN OUR OWN BACKYARD!" and running around the complex trying to find all of the possible shut off valves. Note: do NOT buy a house that doesn't have it's own shut off. Otherwise your neighbors come out and go, "I was just taking a shower and the water suddenly stopped...do you know why?" with suds around their ears. And then you have to explain that your need for a patio is more important than their personal hygiene. And then say, "Sorry! Cocktails in the yard! Sorry! Later this week! Sorry! In the meantime, have some deodorant!"

Mud slide out to the back gate. For those of you who I went to college with - how much does this look like the Sigma Chi house during Greek Week?