I’m glad to be looking at the hind end of June. I don’t mind saying. Not that anything traumatic, dramatic, or even problematic happened. Okay. Maybe problematic, but not in the grand scheme of things.
It was just a bunch of little June things that has me, at this very moment of writing this post, slurping a Second Cup frozen hot chocolate, which is like eating a sludgy fudgesicle — soooo good. Soon to be followed by scarfing a bag of Miss Vickie’s Lime & Black Pepper potato chips. That’s how we’re rolling today.
I can probably stop calling Mr. G honey Pneumonia Boy now. Except at night. Cough. Cough. Cough. I’m so over my viral cough, and the food poisoning is in repose. Gracie Allen Golden Pup is recovering nicely from her muscle strain/soft tissue damage that had her leaving the off leash park on Friday on three legs instead of four. The fourth was being held out to the left. We lovingly referred to her all weekend as Her Gimpness, which was probably rude. Did I mention lovingly? She has been banished from the off leash experience until further notice. So sayeth the vet.
After the Friday morning sprint to the vet, it was time to roll up our sleeves and help Super Techlet and her man (I haven’t figured out his moniker yet. It will come to me.) unpack at their new home. Now, I’m feeling a little older than I did last week. My kidlet, the Super Techlet, just bought her first home. Definitely going to need those Miss Vickie’s.
We unpacked, DMV’d — dusted, mopped, vacuumed — and put IKEA furniture together, and generally high-fived for three days, which we plan on repeating over the Canada Day/4th of July long weekend. Good times.
The Landscape Boys will be back tomorrow or Thursday to begin Phase 3. This involves topsoil, organic mulch, pea gravel, flagstone, fieldstone and river rock scattered across the butt-ugly brown subsoil that is our front lawn. Pictures to follow, unless I want to move to Fiji when they’re finished creating my vision. What if I hate my vision? Eep. This isn’t a big project. Mostly it’s been a rained-out project.
While I’m living the life here on my little, denuded piece of Canadaland, many of my fellow writers are off to The Big Apple for the Romance Writers of America 31st Annual Conference, along with a bunch of publishers, agents, editors and sundry. Lucky writers. Lucky sundry. Twitter hashtag ~ #rwa11
That pretty much brings you up-to-date. Yep. It’s definitely a muddle. A good muddle, but a muddle.
I’m in the fields today, and by that I mean I’m raking and redistributing a bazillion of my neighbor’s autumnal leaves that have dropped into my yard. I’m giving ye old yard a final sweep and tidy before the Great White North begins to look like its name. That could be any day now, or not.
I’m going to fill my lungs with suburbified air — or would that be suburbanated? — for I live in fair Suburbia, which wanders over all the land.
I’m going to put some roses in my cheeks. Not literally, of course. That would be painful, and I would end up with poochie cheeks. Words can be tricksy.
I’m going to suck up some Vitamin D.
And I’m going to do this with my trusted helper by my side — Gracie Allen G-Pup. She who is the purveyor of all poop bombs commingling with the fallen, leafy splendor. Life just doesn’t get any better than this.
If you are in your writerly cave or pounding the keys for NaNoWriMo, I offer you this to get you through those Hump Day blues.
A couple of days last week, I tore myself away from the desk — it was a hardship — and went off leash with Mr. G honey and G-Pup. Mama Sunshine was calling my name.
I think there is something wrong with our pup. When we tumble out of the car at the off leash park, Gracie Allen takes off like a shot. All we can see is a streak of blond heading out there…somewhere. Going where no G-Pup has gone before. When we crest the hill, there are all the other dogs, sniffing each other, hanging with their Timmy-drinking-owners, taking the air. Every once in a while, one will lazily cock a leg or squat in the tall grass. That is all.
G-Pup is gone. I’m talking warp-speed gone.
She lives for the ball. You know. One of those red tennis balls in a long-handled device that will let you fling the ball into another galaxy. Yep. She lives for that.
Try to focus on the red ball in this picture, and then we won’t have to talk about it ever again.
When I say fling into another galaxy, I’m excluding myself from that reality. You see, I have a serious right hook. Maybe it’s a left hook. I send the ball sailing straight out, but seconds later it is veering to the left, or maybe the right — as in seriously veering — and heading for the tall grass. I’m waiting for your call begging me to play on your baseball team.
Just in case you ever have to take G-Pup off leash, she doesn’t veer or do tall grass. That’s not the kind of retriever she is. I like to wear my pedometer when I go off leash with her. I can get my 10,000 miles steps in that way.
If only I had a video camera, I could show you her breaking system. It’s YouTube worthy. You’ve seen some wind turbine action right? When Gracie Allen is breaking, she uses her tail like this:
Only you don’t have that whole fatal crash thing going on there at the end. That’s just how she rolls.
Those other dogs — the sniffing each other, hanging with their Timmy-drinking-owners, taking the air dogs — just don’t know what they’re missing.
After the Friday morning sprint to the vet, it was time to roll up our sleeves and help Super Techlet and her man (I haven’t figured out his moniker yet. It will come to me.) unpack at their new home. Now, I’m feeling a little older than I did last week. My kidlet, the Super Techlet, just bought her first home. Definitely going to need those Miss Vickie’s.
This is how I’m getting the hump out of Hump Day.
