Hey, remember that last post where I said I was moving and please stick with me but that the blog was going to be kinda sparse?
You know, that post from like 2 months ago?
Yeah I wouldn't be reading this blog anymore either. But in case you are... I humbly present an update.
Move number one is done. I'm officially a resident at casa de boyfriend. So are Mac and Bub. Bub seems to be enjoying his leisurely days spent entirely on the end of a cat leash hitched to his cat harness as he sits on his cat porch. That's right, the entire porch is his now. Mac is enjoying living in a neighborhood that's a little more conducive to a daily walk. And I am enjoying being unpacked - at least at the moment. Before you know it my life will be back in boxes as we transition to Mexico. But for now, I'm comfortable.
Along with the move, today is day numero uno of being unemployed. Or rather, employed as a house wife without qualifying for the wife portion, and that gets so sticky for everyone we try to explain it to. I'd really rather just stick with we're not married: I clean the house, attempt to cook dinner, and then we snuggle.
For now that'll have to suffice.
I've made some decisions about how this blog really needs a bit of a change to be truly effective, but while I work on enacting those decisions, have a fun story:
I LOVE TO MOW THE LAWN.
A few weeks back, the lawn was tall. Tall enough. Time to mow. It was a Saturday, and boyfriend had other errands to run, so he left the house to jot around town as I wheeled the mower out of the garage. I used to mow the lawn when I was a teenager for my parents. I got this. You hear me lawn? You're going down.
I'd dutifully picked up all the sticks and stones and dog poo. Two vicious, rip-your-shoulder-out-of-the-socket pulls on the cord later, and the mower fired to life in the backyard. I always do one lap around the perimeter, then choose a direction to peacefully mow lines back and forth. I had decided today was the day I was going to try some diagonals instead of the boring, ho-hum of horizontal lines between the porch and the back fence line. But then tragedy struck, and the lawn would never be the same cut diagonally.
I DIDN'T HIT A ROCK.
I swear to GOD if one more person asks me if I hit a rock I will find a suitably sized rock to chunk at their face. Remember back a few sentences where I said "I used to mow the lawn when I was a teenager for my parents" (that's a direct quote.)? I have hit a few rocks in my time, I am well aware of what that sounds like. I DIDN'T. HIT. A ROCK.
But suddenly the loud growl of the mower was replaced with a high pitched whirring. I'm not good with mechanical things. I figured maybe it just needed to work through something. I kept pushing. The whirring continued, and I noted that the grass wasn't getting any shorter.
Again, mechanical things: not my forte. Maybe. Maybe, I reasoned, it needs to rest. Because machines are capable of taking time to rest and heal themselves now. Didn't you know? It was not a bright moment, so sue me. So I stopped, went inside for a glass of water, and came back out. Two shoulder-incapacitating pulls on the cord later, the mower roared back to life the whirring screamed back into reality. So I didn't just imagine that whole escapade. Well, crap.
The amount which I LOVE doing things that are not conventionally a 'woman's job,' is the same level to which I HATE having to ask someone for help/ admit I broke something. Clearly in this instance, someone was going to have to be boyfriend. Which compounds things, because there's a fair portion of the time that his way of showing me he loves me is to treat me like a damsel in distress. I spend a great portion of my time proving I can handle myself. But then I broke the mower.
Let's fast forward (because there's no point in me detailing how I was still convinced in the mower's self healing powers, and let it "rest" two more times). I waited for boyfriend to come home, and fessed up.
He flipped the mower over, and discovered that the part which holds the blade onto the part that spins had broken (I know, very technical). This is apparently uncommon.
"Did you hit a rock?" He asked.
"Huh? No, just started whirring." I replied.
"Are you sure?" He asked.
"Um, yeah, I've hit rocks before, I know what that sounds and feels like. Didn't hit a rock."
"Hmmph." He responded, in what was clearly a you-totally-hit-a-rock kind of way.
"Dude, I didn't hit a rock."
There was no convincing him, OR any of my coworkers when I retold the story the next day at work. There was no convincing the small motor mechanic that fixed the mower, or boyfriend's friends, or even my own dad when he called to check in that week. But I share this story here because now you and I both know the truth: I didn't hit an EM-EFFING ROCK.
You believe me, right?
Judge me if you must, but here's a picture of the roses I trimmed off of the neighbor's rose bush today*, AFTER MOWING THE LAWN JUST MOMENTS AGO. And I didn't hit a rock THIS time, either.
*Actually I just trimmed the whole unruly bush, not just flowers. Because it is SUPA thorny, and I like being able to go in and out of the side gate of our house without tiny, hypodermic thorns saying hello to the inside of my arm skin.