The Gypsy has been slacking
and apologizes for not posting last week. Life got in the way.
The last few weeks have
involved, in no particular order of work/life balance (I figure if I’m still
alive and vertical, I must be somewhat balanced): five Fourth of July
celebrations; a county fair; a kennel club picnic; a family reunion; another
county fair; sleeping on my right arm inappropriately and rendering
it useless for about 48 hours (don’t laugh – just wait until you hit middle age);
Aussie spa day (Banner was dismayed I put the clean on him); the discovery I
can pack for a show weekend in less than 30 minutes (looking back, I wouldn’t
recommend it);
Also, Banner’s 9th
UDX leg; Tuesday Taco Summit (very important business luncheon and meeting of
the minds with former co-workers); another kennel club event; a fun-filled
afternoon with the IRS disputing agricultural exemption for heavy road use tax (the IRS
erred in OUR favor, yay, I should go buy a lottery ticket); Mother Nature
trying to find out at what temperature human beings will spontaneously combust;
challenging the record for how many showers I could take in one day (the record
stands at 4); another freakin’ county fair and finding time to
train Banner in spite of it being hotter than the surface of the sun (neither
humans nor Aussies combust at 5:30 a.m., in case you were wondering).
Everything in the above
paragraph wrapped itself into a work-not work-home-travel-deadline stressball
that had me going six different directions at once and wondering why I didn’t
just get a nice relaxing job like defusing bombs in Afghanistan while being
shot at by insurgents.
Plus I’m juggling a few
on-going writing projects that are bringing in zero dollars but need to be a
high priority in spite of their current lackluster financial state, a
manuscript proofing project for a friend and damn it – who the $#@! keeps
throwing all their dirty clothes in the basement?
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Yeah. It's been kinda like this. |
Did I mention the printer
broke? And the pipe under the kitchen sink did its own special little thing
where it comes unhooked and water goes everywhere? And Banner pulled one of his
“I’m going to throw up everything I ate since last Thanksgiving” episodes for
no apparent reason except that he could.
So there you go. That pretty
much covers July in a nutshell. August is going to be much calmer. Probably
because I’ll be sitting in a corner, drinking.
But you know what? Those
damned ring gates I pounded into the ground last month are still standing. I
had to rush outside in a panicked state last week when I saw my husband headed
toward them with the lawn mower, though. He waved me off, thinking I’d come to
move them, and yelled, “Don’t worry, I’ll mow around them.” I was waving
back like I’d just run through a dozen spider webs, yelling, “Look out for the wire!”
He immediately stopped,
looked at the mower’s tires, yelled, “They’re fine!” and took off again.
Of course he couldn’t see the
strip of woven wire laying atop the grass to block the left side of the center
stanchion to keep Banner from swinging wide on the go out. It was green. It’s
green for a purpose – so Bann can’t see it either.
For the exactly three of you
who have met my husband (he does exist), you may or may not know he views
mowing the lawn as a NASCAR-like event during which he attempts to top his own
personal best time each week. Given that we have about five acres of lawn to
mow, it’s commendable he doesn’t dawdle but holy crap weasel, the man does not see mowing as a relaxing pastime.
We’ve had so much rain earlier this summer, mowing the
grass was a matter of preventing jungle growth and he’s got it down to a
calculated science. The mowing, the mower and the lawn are his domain. I do not
mow any more. Do not go there. Just don’t.
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Enough said. |
Having said that, the man has
one speed when it comes to mowing: forward. It would be appropriate to insert a
comment involving the damning of torpedoes here but I don’t think even that
could do it justice.
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Really. There are no words. |
But I digress. There he was,
barreling straight toward something guaranteed to wrap itself around the mower's blade assembly and result in the end of a relatively happy nearly 30-year
marriage and the first murder Iowa County has seen in a good 10 years.
I sprinted across the lawn
and snatched up the offending wire only moments before disaster struck. As he
sped by, I was the recipient of a WTF look that would have dropped a lesser
person in their tracks.
Sigh. Marriage. The struggle
is real.
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