Oct
19
October 19, 2007
Various weather sources were predicting a Dire Wind Storm yesterday, and around 4 PM I fled my office, panicking that I needed to get across the 520 bridge before a chunk of it was overtaken by powerful gale forces and ripped loose of its moorings, briefly floating on its own for a horrifying, gut-wrenching moment, before slowly tipping one end into the roiling waters—Titanic-style—and dropping into its black depths, bringing my car with it into its watery grave. While “The Salmon Dance” keeps playing on my iPod, oblivious to my terrified, eventually gurgly, screams, until the sweet stylings of the Chemical Brothers are drowned along with all bridge occupants. And then we’re all re-animated as water zombies. Fuck!
Luckily, none of that happened, although I did get that uneasy hey-the-bridge-is-mooooving feeling as I drove over, and I will say it’s a little disturbing when you have to turn on your windshield wipers when you’re crossing, not because it’s raining, but because waves are sending spray over your car, creepy. The storm ended up being nowhere near as bad as last year’s, although the media took it VERY SERIOUSLY.
I think JB may have been secretly hoping for a somewhat Dire Situation so he could try out the generator that he acquired after last year’s storm. He was a little disgusted with me when I asked if the generator would support a hairdryer, because “this is about survival, goddamn it!”. Obviously the man has no idea how important a blow-out can be to a person’s ability to make it through a catastrophe.
The generally crappy weather has coincided nicely with JB’s timing on scheduling the demolition and re-creation of our driveway, transforming the front of our house into a muddy warzone and requiring that a person walk out the backyard and around the side of the house—ridden with massive spiders and overgrown weeds—then descend our slippery side yard to the street in order to leave. I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to try this maneuver in Steve Madden heels, although I nicely aerated the lawn in the process.
I like how the porta-potty has now been placed for maximum viewing pleasure. Behold the Green Shitter, a fixture on our lawn since May 2007. Our neighbors must love us.
We did finally get the new fridge installed, and when I used the water/ice dispenser (!) this morning to get a drink, I nearly french kissed it in gratitude. In fact, I would have, but I didn’t want to smudge the finish, so I dry-humped it instead. Take me, GE Profile—your multitudes of storage and your complete absence of odor makes me so . . . hungry.
Oct
16
October 16, 2007
Whoorl’s comments section is making me depressed. Fall recipes! Involving squash, and pumpkin, and maybe an overabundance of things baked with cheese! Oh, and how about Swistle’s cookie tutorial, which triggered some sort of Pavlovian salivary response in me, so much so that I actually made a disgusting little slrrrrrp sound while I was reading it? Damn you, Internet.
The reason I’m all bent out of shape over reading recipes, instead of excitedly hitting Print and planning my ingredient-shopping, is because our kitchen is still out of commission. We had every indication that upon returning from vacation, all appliances would be operational, but they’ve hit a few problems. For instance, the counters need to be adjusted before the stove can be installed (thanks to our bumbling project manager accidentally moving one of counters while they were still sealing). Oh, and there’s the little matter of the refrigerator not fitting into its allotted space (thanks to the same project manager mis-measuring how tall the fridge is).
In the meantime, we had to move an enormous, rickety living room bookcase because there will be sanding/staining done to integrate old flooring with new, our front lawn is seeded with something that looks like barfed-up Astroturf, and our driveway is currently being broken up into muddy pieces to prepare for a new cement slab.
Also, Dog has become frightened of leaves. Yes, leaves. From trees. The kind that fall to the ground in gusts of October wind. Every time I put her outside she plasters herself to the door and stares moistly back in, looking like a clubbed Harbor seal. Between the leaves, the Astrobarf, and the driveway demolition, Dog’s little world is in turmoil. I feel for her, I really do. Dog needs doggy Xanax and I need to bake me some goddamn motherhumping cookies.
In other news, I suspect Smalltopus is not actually all that small, and may in fact be some sort of SuperFetus, judging by the level of movements I’ve been feeling recently. Maybe I’m not remembering when Riley’s movements became less “gassy, fluttery” and more “thrashy, sledgehammery” but I thought it was later in pregnancy, during the Trimester of the Whale Shark. This kid can poke me in the side while simultaneously kicking me, Pele-style, in a very sensitive internal organ or two, and I’m just glad we’ve had ultrasounds that confirm he does in fact have only four total appendages and not, you know, SEVENTEEN. Frankly, I’d like to know just what it is he thinks he’s doing in there, because it feels like he’s moving furniture while also performing a few hearty Irish jigs. In steel-toed Doc Martens. I wish he could be convinced to embrace some more sedentary, useful activities, such as reading up on “Sleeping Through the Night: Why Not Start Early?”.
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