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I need to chillax
Nov. 4th, 2012 07:35 amOr so my 9YO tells me. I'm suspicious that he only tells me this when I'm using a computer that he wants. "Mom, you need to chillax. Can I run you a hot bath?"
Signs I may need to chillax:
The Mister tries to kill me every ten years or so. Last time he forgot to hook up the brakes on my bike after a tune up. This time he assured me that the electric cable that some creative soul stapled to the exterior of the rental was dead-dead-dead and completely safe to detach with a pry bar. Exciting electrical accidents aside, we are almost done painting and replacing the rotten wood. My poor tenants moved into a grungy white cottage next to a vivid blue garage. Now they are living in a vivid coral cottage with rose trim, next a vivid blue garage and have had to tolerate sawing, hammering and me crawling all over it with a paint roller. That they haven't moved out is probably testament to how difficult it is to find a rental that takes dogs. Still, I am thrilled with the change.
Speaking of changes, one of the Hoarding Cat Ladies passed away not long after Angry, Abusive Grandma w/Pit Bull. I live on the block of death. That's the third neighbor in seven years. As with Angry Grandma's house, relatives quickly descended and began to purge the place of cats and stuff. It took them all summer and a number of those giant construction dumpsters. A couple of weeks ago it was purchased by a contractor and is now being renovated top to bottom.
Signs I may need to chillax:
- Checking dahlia vender websites daily to see if they are open for the season yet.
- Emailing dahlia venders to get an ETA so I can stop checking.
- Bulging Pinterest board full of every variety that catches my eye. (Pinterest is the perfect accessory for the internet.)
- Creating detailed Excel spreadsheet listing the different venders and the varieties I am interested in.
The Mister tries to kill me every ten years or so. Last time he forgot to hook up the brakes on my bike after a tune up. This time he assured me that the electric cable that some creative soul stapled to the exterior of the rental was dead-dead-dead and completely safe to detach with a pry bar. Exciting electrical accidents aside, we are almost done painting and replacing the rotten wood. My poor tenants moved into a grungy white cottage next to a vivid blue garage. Now they are living in a vivid coral cottage with rose trim, next a vivid blue garage and have had to tolerate sawing, hammering and me crawling all over it with a paint roller. That they haven't moved out is probably testament to how difficult it is to find a rental that takes dogs. Still, I am thrilled with the change.
Speaking of changes, one of the Hoarding Cat Ladies passed away not long after Angry, Abusive Grandma w/Pit Bull. I live on the block of death. That's the third neighbor in seven years. As with Angry Grandma's house, relatives quickly descended and began to purge the place of cats and stuff. It took them all summer and a number of those giant construction dumpsters. A couple of weeks ago it was purchased by a contractor and is now being renovated top to bottom.
