Steven's back to school for nine weeks. This time next year he'll be back at school for seven weeks, and then he's done the schooling portion of his job. I'm pretty happy about that, even though technically we're only halfway through it at the moment. Being on EI sucks. I'm thisclose to sitting on the back porch in holey jeans and spitting chewing tobacco into a spittoon.
I do have holey jeans. Lots of them. Good thing it's still cool.
It's not because Steven is on EI. He's not actually on EI all that often. It's because I keep thinking "I'll just quickly drop 46 pounds, and then I'll buy new jeans." Then I eat pie and ponder how long that might take and promise myself that maybe, just maybe tomorrow I'll hop (or flop) onto that treadmill and pound out a few miles and be that much closer to a shopping trip.
My spell check just underlined that entire last paragraph in a red squiggly line. Seriously, sometimes my computer is even simpler than I am.
Today I was driving to Sobey's when I noticed a dog almost get hit by a van on a street I was crossing. I don't normally care about stray dogs, but this one was little and black and fluffy and I thought "Hey, I could stop and pick up that dog, and make a half-assed attempt at finding it's owner, and when I can't find him the kids will be already attached to it so we'll have to keep it!" I circled the block and found the dog sitting on someone's doorstep. There were no cars parked in the obviously well-used driveway so I wondered if maybe that wasn't the dog's home after all. I parked and got out of the van, approached the dog and made the kissy-face noise that all animals instinctively know means 'come.' He didn't come. Instead, the dog, who was less fluffy, and more scraggly, danced around the front of the house, barking at me as though he wanted to rip my face off. I decided he could find his own way home.
Then I went to Sobey's. The kids and I picked up a bag of cookies for a visit we were going to have with a friend and went to the check out line only to realize that I had forgotten my wallet at home.
Back to the van, back home, grabbed the wallet, and back to Sobey's. I ran in and bought the cookies and then went and washed the van. It was a very exciting morning.
I wouldn't have to wash the van if the garage didn't look like something from Hoarders, with the tiniest tunnel in the mountain of junk to park the van in, and even less space to crawl out after the van was parked, resulting in the kids getting filthy each time they have to squeeze their way in and out of the garage and rub all up and down the side of the van.
I realize that paragraph was an entire sentence, and I'm somewhat unconcerned. After all, I had a hard day. I forgot my wallet for pete's sake. Had I been pulled over for . . . oh I don't know, sliding through an intersection, I'd have been arrested and fingerprinted and my kids would have spend the afternoon in foster care until their father came home at 4:20, and upon getting home and finding the house nice and empty and quiet, he'd have likely just let us all rot in our temporary homes a little longer.
Probably should have brought that dog home. Would have served him right.
Except that then I may have been arrested when one of the neighbors reported me for taking Bitey right off his front steps and driving off with him in my van.
See, I should have stayed home. The entire universe was counting on my arrest today.
Where was I? Oh right, the dining room. Steven wants to rip it off the house this summer and rebuild it from the ground up. I'm a little worried. I won't say why. Certain people read this blog. People who are such good "sanders."
That being said, if he insists upon doing this, I have a laundry list of requirements. Oh yes. It's gonna be bigger, and more open.
Speaking of people who will work for spaghetti, I washed the van today and I've noticed lately that when I do things like squeeze the car wash wand handle, it makes my hands sore. Is this normal? I feel like I didn't used to be this wimpy. I used to unload furnaces off semis, now I wash the van and need to lay down for a while. Maybe I need a personal trainer. Time to muscle up. De-wuss. I need Bob Harper to show up in my bedroom doorway at 5:30am and bully me into actually working out. Jillian would do too. But the trainer would have to be willing to work for Wednesday spaghetti and sauce.
That's really about it. You're welcome.