Yesterday was definitely a moan-worthy Monday, but even griping would have taken too much effort.
Camp Granddad closed Sunday and the staff began recuperating in prone position on the den sofas. Monday morning the house, which usually feels about one room short of what I’d like felt cavernous and echoey. I didn’t have the heart to wash the fingerprints off the windows just yet and Dearly Beloved decided to wait at least another day to tighten all the door knobs which had loosened over several days of abuse by a two-year-old who insisted on being doorman.
As I was piling dirty laundry into the washer I glanced out my laundry room window and saw puffs of white in the yard next door. I hate to use the overworked term “great bone structure” but it is so evident in that garden, although years of dubious ministrations by a previous owner’s inept landscape crew have taken their toll. A long filled-in pool area is ringed with particularly interesting plantings and that is where the mysterious white puffs rose. A row of blooming yuccas, perhaps? I was curious. Maybe I’d take a picture in case I wanted to do a garden posting.
Outside, I couldn’t see a thing because of the high brick latticed patterned wall and the towering Leyland cypress border. Darn! I was still in my bathrobe and didn’t want to walk around their house to see from the other side, so in a stroke of mad genius which turned out to be idiocy, I squeezed my hand and my little camera through one of the small lattice holes, pointed the camera in the general area of the puffs, turned it on, and clicked. I hit the Off button to retract the lens so that I could pull camera and hand back through the small hole. Nothing happened.
No click, no lens retraction. The battery had completely given out in that one last gasp shot. (I won’t admit how long it took me to figure that out.)
I tried again. Nothing.
My hand was stuck in a six-foot lattice wall. I could not remove it unless the lens retracted or I dropped the camera. Neither was apt to happen. Do things like that happen to other people? I can see into a least seven different back yards from our upper deck and I have never seen a neighbor, robed or not, with her hand stuck in a fence. The Force is with me, all right; it enjoys jerking me around.
Eventually I worked my way free by sticking the other hand through another hole and dangling the camera by its strap to pull my hand free, then pulling the camera by the strap, guiding it with my other hand. Of course all of this took place by our wrought iron gate, putting me in plain sight of the passing parade of daily joggers and dog walkers.
After I had recharged the camera battery, I encountered another mechanical failure when I sat down to work on my laptop. The one remaining hinge on my notebook cracked as I opened it and my screen did a back flip and banged against my knees. Duct tape wasn’t going to fix that.
There was no good place to put it on a table and shove it against the wall. The desk has plates hanging above it. My solution was to hold a sofa cushion sideways between my knees after pillows turned out to be too soft to hold it erect. In other words, I had to kegel in order to hold the cushion in place to support the laptop screen. Not only was it not pretty or comfortable, it wasn’t conducive to rational thought.
I wasn’t the only one doing unusual maneuvers. There was the matter of The Little Psycho. . . .
The grandsons decorated our parking pad with chalk art Saturday and we will enjoy it until rain washes it away. Their brightly colored drawings and writing did not deter Miss Piggy from rolling there, scratching her back on the grainy surface. When we let her back inside, her blond coat was rainbow-hued. One side is a soft blue, the other yellow, and her ears are that champagne pink color that old ladies use on white hair. It is quite an silly sight. (The dog, I mean. No comment on the old ladies.)
As I have previously mentioned, Miss Piggy is quite the pooper and her anal sacs have to be emptied at least once a month, a task I never intend to undertake myself. Miss Piggy’s sacs must have maxed out, because she began her Scooting Dance. She sat down with her back legs in front of her and sledded her bottom across the sisal rug, back and forth, to scratch it, looking like some absurd windup toy, especially in technicolor. (Note to self: should the urge to exercise on this rug ever strike, get over it.)
Do you have the picture? Last night I was attempting to type with my brick-scratched hands on a laptop being held up by a sofa cushion squeezed between my knees as I kegeled to hold it in place while a rainbow-hued dog scooted back and forth on the rug in front of me. I gave up and went to bed.
Dearly Beloved opened his eyes and smiled at me when I crawled under the covers. Eyes open. . . that means awake, right? So I said, “The Little Psycho’s anal glands are full and she’s scooting so I’m going to make an appointment for a bath tomorrow morning.”
There was silence for a minute, then he called out in the darkness, “NEWS FLASH! The dog is scooting. That can’t wait until morning!”
He threw back the sheet and stomped over to the bedroom door. “I expect she’s out here scooting up and down the hall right now.”
Smartass. I didn’t bother to tell him I’d been kegeling for two hours.