I’m trying to not look at the short story. Do not look. Do not pull it up. I know I’ve gone past where I wanted to throw that good oomph punch to end it and I’m trying to not ask myself why I’m continuing the story. If I step back, I can print out the story, read it over, edit it, and if I still feel like that good oomph is needed, I’ll mark out the last page or two and add that ending.
The kittens have gone crazy. I fear for my toes. (and my food.)
September is masquerading as August, which was a terrible month for us (lots of stress).
Friday, the truck tire went flat so we have to borrow Rhonda’s car until we can get a new tire (there goes the majority of my upcoming paycheck. no worries, we need it anyway) because it’s the replacement tire that we were using (full size. Come on, it’s a 20 year old F-150. that thing can’t run on a donut)
Yesterday, Jamie’s grandfather died. We’re waiting on details for whatever services they decide on.
Over the weekend, I realized that when I tell people some stories from my younger, more adventurous days, they must think I’m lying through my teeth. Even the simple story of beating someone in the face with a shoe (a classic that ends up getting told every few years to point out that I may not seem mean, but I’m a vindictive little shit) seems to be…an embellishment, a tall tale, a stretching of the truth. In reality, I condense the story down (I don’t usually say why I beat this girl in the face with a shoe)
I’ve also realized that I must be more stressed than I realize because I am one grumpy mother fucker lately. I need to fix this
We currently have three nekkid dogs (they don’t have their collars on) because they got a bath yesterday. Cricket was first, with her medicated shampoo. She tried to lick the soap and flung water in Jamie’s eye–both things that the bottle says to not do. Thanks, dog. Firefly was next, bathed solely by Jamie because I was working on laundry (it never ends. omg), and then I got to bathe Bug by myself. Bug’s gotten a little better in her old age, but I think the reminder than she gets a rub-down after the bath, which she loves, and a bunch of treats is what keeps her from trying to jump out of the tub. I also realized that my deadlift is still good because I picked her up no problem (one day I’m going to fuck my back up picking up a 65lbs squirmy three-legged dog)
And…this morning (at like 2 am or whatever), I had just woken up to roll over when we got a huge, reverberating BOOM of thunder (louder than when the trees up the street got struck by lightning) and the floodgates were open. And Jamie was privy to the realization that…there’s a leak in the roof. Oh for fucks sake.
On the plus side:
Jamie surprised me with two Tsum Tsums. Puumba and…it’s supposed to be Simba, but he’s getting called Warthog because it’s funnier. I also impulsively bought 122 plastic folders (at 2-cents each) last night. Because I realized I could use it as building material. wtf is wrong with me? Poor impulse control mainly.