Saturday, August 29, 2015

they paved paradise...and put up a pa-ti-o {and a sidewalk}

Zappos loves me.  The feeling is mutual.  Consequently, the UPS man despises me.


Because we've lived in our new abode coming up on 2 years and we still don't have a sidewalk.  Mud?  Yep.  Weeds?  You got it.  Big, tall step up to the front porch?  Even Eddie sometimes despises me no he doesn't.

Granted, since the weeds have slowly triumphed over the mud, it has become slightly easier for the postman to traverse the terrain and not end up like a woolly mammoth in the La Brea Tar Pits.  I've only had to throw him the rope once.
Well, twice.

This really happened: 

But that was one of my dumb kids.

In retrospect, I would think back.  And in doing so, I would have just had the sidewalk poured when the driveway was done.  But it came down to that age-old decision: Style or substance?  Hmmm....

I wanted stone pavers.  I thought I was going to get them until I realized that would involve real work on our part.  So I decided I would prefer colored, stamped concrete that someone else would do if I gave them enough money.

Except no one would help me.  No one would take my money last year.  NO ONE.

So we started calling people first thing in the spring.  We put down a deposit in May and they finally came out to pour.

The end of August.

And it's a good thing because we're having a neighborhood block party this weekend and I'm pretty sure it was just a guise to have everyone present vote us out of the neighborhood.

There were no shirtless boys today, so I must zap us back in time momentarily or I'm sure I'll lose several of you:

You missed those posts?  Are you NUTS?  Go HERE.  And HERE.  Now.  I'll wait.

Took you long enough.  Now, let's get to it.  Here's where we started off:

Let the games begin:

Dirty "Phil" sand.

Now, let's check out the back of the house where we're getting a Holy Patio.


Hole-ier than thou.

There's a hole in that patio.

Yes, that hole is going to be a fire pit.  I'm going to become the neighbor I hate.  I'm going to be the neighbor who takes the one nice evening we get in the entire summer and I'm going to stink up the 'hood with my pit just so I can say I made freakin' s'mores in my very own fire pit.

Jim Caviezel is making my patio:

Seriously.  Do NOT tell me you don't see it.  I won't believe you.

Here's where we finally left off.  I believe they're coming back at some point to finish the coloring and sealing.  They'd better be because it kinda looks like crap right now.

I'll post the updates when it's all finished.

And if there was ever any question about whether my house is a male or female, I think this pretty much settles it:

Now I'm off to see if it really is a cookout, or if it's a lynch mob.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

that d@mn cat {part deux}

She's back.

If you missed episode one, see that HERE.

No, seriously. Go check it won't regret it.  Well, maybe you will, but that's not my problem is it?

Izzy has graced us with her presence religiously since her reappearance in November 2013.  I prefer to think of it as her reincarnation because that makes way more sense considering I was Shirley MacLaine in a previous life.

Unfortunately, Izzy didn't come back as a cabana boy.

We're used to going a day or two, or even three (occasionally) without seeing the little hairball.  Gone missing a week to 10 days?  That's reason to celebrate worry.

Philly: She's gone this time.  We're never going to see her again.  I'm burning her house.

Me: This has all happened before, and it will all happen again.  Don't burn her house just yet.  You know if you do, she'll turn up and you'll have to build her a new one.

Joyful, cat-free days fly by with no sightings.  We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun.

Then Emma comes home for a couple days. The jig is up. We're going to have to break the glorious news.

Strangely, Emma doesn't seem the least bit concerned.  Clearly, she doesn't give two craps about her cat like we do.

Soon it's time for Emma to take her leave, so we're all saying our fare-thee-wells, and Emma decides to say goodbye to Izzy.  She walks along the side of the house and calls for That Damn Cat.

Philly and I exchange knowing glances. That Damn Cat is Gone, Girl.  Never to be seen again.  She's dust in the wind "mrrweow...??" the pussy-footed little shite comes wandering out of the rose bushes like she's been there all along.

Of course, Emma is clueless as my mouth gapes open while Japanese beetles swarm my epiglottis.

Oh, and it's all love, love, love freakin purr, purr, purr.

After Emma left, and I roused out of my state of despair shock, I asked That Damn Cat, "Where have you been, and why are you back?"

Meow, meow, meow freakin purr, purr, purr.

The Zombie Catpocalypse occurred and she was one of those infected, only to return and never die.

It's the only explanation. Unless you buy the Shirley MacLaine crap.

Creme Puff?  Thirty-eight years old?  Ptttthhhht.  That Damn Cat will make it to 40.  Wa-freakin-hoo.


In other news, we just got back from attending a 50th Adversity-Day party.  These are wonderful people I've known most of my life, and for some reason they still like me. Their daughter is one of my oldest and very dearest friends. I don't mean she's old she's my age we've been friends since barely out of diapers. For example, when her Dad worked at the local college, he took us to their theater to watch ALL 3 STAR WARS EPISODES BACK-TO-BACK! Best day ever. We also took a bus trip together to Washington, DC. 

Great, great friend. Anyway...

Her uncle approaches us at the party and says, "Is this the friend who taught you how to swear?"

Me: Well, I don't remember doing that, but it does certainly sound like me.

Actually, I turned bright red and was speechless for the first time in my life.

My reputation precedes me. I'm infamous. I'm a bad influence.

It's about time I was recognized for my true talents.

If you missed my own Adversity-Day swearing post, you can read about that HERE

And my son is getting married in 6 weeks. Can I lose 30 f#$%(#@ pounds by then?

I didn't f#$%(#@ think so.

Friday, August 7, 2015

i'm so glad you cuss

Thing 1: I've lost my mojo, in case you haven't noticed.
Thing 2: I'm not guaranteeing it's back, but one can hope.
Thing 3: If you have delicate sensibilities and the F-Bomb is hopelessly offensive to you, turn your ship around now.

the story of c"us"s

You may recall a post from two years ago when I impressed you with some wedding stuff because it was our 14th adversity day.  If not, here's a taste.  Yes, we're classy.

Today is our 16th adversity day.  If you were paying attention, you would have noticed I skipped right over number 15.  I'm lazy.

I've seen so many sweet, poignant stories about how my fellow bloggers met their Honeys and fell in love.  I am therefore compelled to share ours.

However, ours is probably more pungent than poignant.  And it not only involves a swear word, but THE swear word.  Let's go.

I ran into an old high-school boyfriend at a bar.

A bar?  This is starting off well.

I use the term "boyfriend" loosely since we only dated a month and he dumped me because I wouldn't put out.  Then I had to chase him down and call his mother just to get my class ring returned.  He also left me stranded at a Christmas party and Elvis had to drive me home.  But I digress.*

I asked him if he knew any nice guys to introduce me to.

Why am I asking this a-hole?

He said, "YES!"  I have just the fact, he's here with me at this bar right now!

And he's a used-car salesman!

Oh. My. Gawd.

In point of fact, Mystery Guy (MG) had already left.  They were all there for a bachelor party and MG had bugged out.

I had no good excuse for still being at the bar.

Anyway, HSB (high-school boyfriend) promised me he would get in touch with MG and have him call me.  In the meantime, he said, "Hey!  You know this guy...he's the dude who ran over your friend Julie!"

It just keeps getting better.

A few years previously, my friend Julie was running.  At night.  On a very dark road.  In dark clothing.  With headphones on.  Idiot.  And yes, MG nearly killed her.  Only he's such an ace driver, he didn't.  If anyone else had been driving that car, I have no doubt Julie would be dead today.  Probably tomorrow too.  MG did some seriously skilled driving and only grazed her fanny.

He's such an

Days go by and I don't hear from either MG or HSB.  Naturally, HSB completely let me down and never even told MG about this smokin' hot babe he never screwed in high school and who was interested in a date.

What to do?

Of course I called Julie.  She didn't have MG's number, but she knew his name. Naturally, his number was unlisted.


MG's ex-wife was listed in the phone book!
(You know where this is going, right?)
You just have to know Julie.
She has bigger cojones than a bull on mating day.

She called MG's ex-wife and asked for his number.  Then she called MG and gave him my number.

And he finally called me.  At 10:30 on a school night.

Catch of the day.

Philly and I talked until 2:00 a.m.

We got the preliminaries out of the way.
Do you have kids?  Yes.
Do you want more?  No.
Have you slept with Julie?  No.
Neither had Phil.

After we discovered neither of us wanted more kids or had slept with Julie, we decided a date was possible.

We talked some more and covered lots of important stuff.  Like the fact I gained a million pounds when I was pregnant.  I had to wear an orange triangle at all times and I beeped when I walked backwards.

The subject took an ugly turn as the size my maternity jeans became apparent.

At that point, Phil decided to throw caution to the wind and put it all on the line.  Either I was going to like him the way he was, or I wasn't...and then we wouldn't have to waste each others' time.

He referred to my jeans as "BFJs."

"BFJs?" I queried.

Phil:  "Big Fuckin' Jeans."

Me:  {silence}

At this point Phil is certain he has to cut and run.  He KNOWS he's screwed the pooch by dropping the F-bomb while insulting the size of my fat, pregnant ass.

Then a miracle occurred.... 

Me:  "I'm so glad you cuss."

I'm pretty sure that wasn't the response he was expecting.

So there you have it.  Philly and I bonded over the F-word.

You tell me how many other love stories have origins like that.

And since it seems to be customary to make a craft to commemorate our imprinting, this just happened:

And someday this bad boy is going to grace our gallery wall.  If I ever get a round tuit.

I must say my farewell because I have a bottle of Pinot Grigio calling my name. Who am I kidding?  It's been calling and I've been answering for the past hour.

But we're off to celebrate our 16th adversity day.


*Just so you know, HSB is a very good friend despite the fact everything I said above is true. He attended our wedding and we attended his.  His recessional hymn was The Imperial March, which makes him my hero.