Day something, something of rain, drizzle, foggy drizzle, spritzing, and biblical, torrential downpours. Pastures with no bottoms. Cranky horses, even crankier caretakers. Muck boots lost. Hems disgusting. Stripping in the garage with Mr Tom winding his tangled fur around ungroomed legs, going for the three pointer from just outside the laundry room door.
Ten more days of same old, same old looming.
Firstborn is finally coming around, looking closer to the new normal, but still not feeling much from nostrils to upper lip, which makes her “food delivery system” problematic and costly in terms of paper napkins and paper towels. Meals are still on the softer side (mac ‘n cheese, pastas of various persuasions), while hoagies or other open-wide dishes are but a distant memory. For once Mom would kill for a Burger King triple decker with bacon, onion rings, mild sauce… thank you very much… because foods you mostly gum lose their appeal after three weeks of the same diet.
I’m not addressing the portion control issue she’s adopted, and the attendant problems that presents… you know the one—all you moms who cook for an army even if it’s just you because… well, because you’re a mom and it’s what you do.
The fridge is currently overrun with soft, gummable leftovers.
And still it rains, although yesterday Deere John and I spent several hours happily mowing sopping wet grass, leaving huge piles of clippings in long, elegant rows and whipping the burgeoning growth of Autumn Olive brush into submission (it’s our ubiquitous invasive species threatening to take over my corner of the state). Give me a fresh set of mower blades and I guarantee you, I can conquer the world, one hectare at a time.
Meantime, the boys stared at me in disbelief that I’d cut down perfectly yummy blades of whatever. They have a point, except the challenge of running electric fencing around an additional 2+ acres doesn’t appeal, nor does the prospect of cleanup after they divot and fertilize to their hearts’ content.
I’d planned on starting the raised bed garden early this year, but as the freeze warnings continued I put it off. Now it’s going to take a drought of mega proportions to dry the soil enough to get anything in.
Herself managed to guilt me into taking her to Target and the comic book shop (she’s got this standing order on new releases). She needs scarves and other head gear to hide the scar until the hair grows back enough to do the job. Mom indulged in a fetching apricot/white leather Vera Wang handbag that I didn’t need, but I wanted, and it was on sale for 40% off and dammit it’s really, really cute, and now I have buyer’s remorse…
So, in the best Jerry Seinfeld tradition of blogging about nothing, that’s all the news from the lake district.
Be kind, check for moss growing in inappropriate places and buy one of my books—I don’t care which one—or, if you already have [smoochies, you are my hero(ine)], leave a review… purty please?
Try Roman (Saints and Sinners), it’ll surprise you (and might even chill you to the bone). Or The Eagle and the Fox—it’s not about shifters despite critters on the cover (it’s allegorical for crying out loud)—filled with suspense, action and two older gay guys finally taking a chance on trust and new beginnings.
Until next time: Peace. And umbrellas for all.