The lilacs are mainly blooming on our neighbors’ side of the fence, since they’re southerly of us and the trees like sun, sun, sun. I found out they’re the lady’s favorite, so that’s fortunate. I like the white ones, but I think she prefers the purple ones, which means we can each have plenty.
It’s nice when something you planted delights someone else.
The funniest thing this past week has been Odd Trundles and the Fancy Harness. I decided taking forty-five minutes to walk him a half-block was not optimal, and went on a mad quest for a harness that would fit his barrel chest and tiny hips. Fortunately, I found something perfect–microfiber, padded points, adjustable for said barrel chest–at the pet store, brought it home…and he haaaaaates it.
He can no longer rage-sit to halt the whole walking process and demand coaxing, and it makes our walks–never fast, more of an amble, with a few rest breaks because he does have very short legs–just so much easier for everyone. An unexpected bonus is that he can’t wrap the leash around my legs anymore. I’m sure this is a component of his fury.
Anyway, here’s Odd Trundles, giving me the side-eye of shame. The green cloud is his Fancy Memory Foam Bed in my office, the one he is refusing to climb into because he is So Mad At Mum. You can just hear him grumbling “shame, shame on you, Mother,” in his stuffed-nose little voice.
Poor fellow. Life’s hard for a Trundles.
On Tuesday, the Grand Dishwasher Saga came to a close.1 And thank goodness, too, because Wednesday night I came down with the stomach flu the Princess caught from her best friend, who brought it back from college in Seattle.
Consequently, a lot of bowls needed to be washed, and now that I’m on the mend (shaky, back and head aching from dehydration, but not spewing) all the cups we’ve attempted to drink from need washing as well. And linens. Gastroenteritis is a messy business, and with the sudden violent onset of this particular virus, there were a lot of linens needing some soap and water.
Thank God the washing machine wasn’t out of commission. Things could have gotten dire.
Anyway, our complement of mod cons is now complete again. I’ve lost most of this working week, though, and I was already behind. Guess we all know what I’m doing this weekend.
That’s right. Loading the (functioning!) dishwasher. And writing.
Over and out.
Yesterday, while walking the dogs, I passed a dogwood in exuberant flower. I love their notched blossoms and of course the canines are always happy to stop and sniff–or snuffle, in Odd Trundles’s case. Poor Trundles had a damp rear because he had to be half-washed that morning, and walking in the sunshine to air his nethers was apparently quite pleasing. At least, he’d forgiven me for soaping and rinsing him by the time we arrived back home.
Spring has definitely sprung.
When you open a package from your Australian friend–who was there and drinking the night the whole nutless-kangaroo-shifter-story thing happened–and you find this fellow breaking into your fucking Kinder Eggs, and you say “who the fuck are YOU?” and he wipes his snout with his paw and says, “er, um, your new roo, mum,” and you DM your Australian friend hysterical with disbelieving laughter…
…yeah. Like that. Exactly like that.
(Yes, that’s a kangaroo scrotum holding a corkscrew, which is how this whole thing started. But that’s another story…)
On warm days in spring–just a few of them, when the temperature and the breeze are just right–these trees smell like a tobacconist’s shop. Since we no longer have the plum tree in the backyard–the only thing I miss about the old house–it’s running under these trees and taking deep breaths that convinces me yes, spring has returned, the winter has been survived, and we just might make it after all.
It’s good to feel that one has survived. And that one might continue to, despite everything.
“Marquez: May have slept with Llosa’s wife. Llosa: Definitely punched Marquez’s face.”
Writers can be an unruly bunch.