Try not to loose your head today.
What is this? A day to myself? Blogging bluemia? Yes! The Mc is in south GA, friends are at work, me with hours upon hours of time to do whatever I please and maybe catch you up on the black hole of energy the condo has been? Glorious.
Nearly a year and a half ago I sold my condo and moved in with The Mc. Wow. It seems like it’s been a lot longer. Huh. Anyway, while the McMansion (heh heh) aka The Big House was lovely, it was far removed from the city – my city – and my friends. It was a lightning magnet in a land of SUV’s and fifteen minute trips to the closest grocery store. That’s charming when you’re in the country, but not when you’re in suburbia. Sure, I had fun emasculating and castrating him, but we both knew that our life together in a house too big for even a family of five was only temporary. Soon we’d be starting our life and building a home together. Little did he know it would be just around the corner from my old condo in a part of town he used to fondly refer to as “Shanksville”.
After nearly a year of looking at every ill kept POS in the area of town he really wanted, the universe pointed us here…and here is where we’ve built our life.
Some snaps of the our abode…before, during and after. Please to enjoy – as my seester would say – I finally am. After a year and a half plus or minus five months of construction/living in an apartment/nesting, I *finally* have a home for clothes, shoes, kitchen stuffs and kitties that feels like – and is – my own.
Happiness is: being home for the holidays.
Do you remember when Letterman debuted the Velcro suit? When he ran (lumbered), hit a trampoline and project himself into a wall where he stuck like a bug to a windshield? I do. Maybe I’m that old, but even if you don’t remember the original you’ve seen a recreation.
Long story short: Monty may very well be the offspring of our gap toothed late night savior. He’s a velcro cat, as demonstrated most nights that The Mc and I actually have the opportunity to dine together. Instead of jumping into our laps, he’ll mount a leg and attempt to climb it. If standing at the sink, he’ll mount the back of your thigh. It’s not charming.
We never had issues with Grayson The Angel Child and we’ve been hoping that castration would rectify Monty’s robust spazzitude. Last week he finally went for the big visit. When I picked him up and was being given the three sentence instructions for aftercare, I was told he might be lethargic for the next few days if not a week due to the anesthesia. Yipee!
No such luck. He was plenty enthusiastic that night, which is really awesome when Grayson is running around acting like they’ve never met with hissing and swatting. Not. He was up at 3am fighting with his older brother and biting our toes. I barely remember but am certain I got up at least twice swearing and voicing concern that I would never sleep again.
By the time I got to my car from the condo the next morning my phone was already ringing: it was The Mc. I answered and he asked me to talk him off the ledge. Monty had just bum rushed him while he was sitting in bed drinking coffee and said cup of hot brown liquid had gone everyone, including the new beige-ish comforter. I did the best I could do. “Don’t worry about it, throw the sheets in the wash and I’ll deal with the comforter later.”
I wanted to cry. Again.
About an hour later, I get this email from my sweet potato pie:
Knocked your plant over in the bathroom, I did the best I could to clean it up. After coming out of the shower, I discovered his ass sticking out of the kitchen sink chowing down on the noodles you left in the sink. No idea how many he ate. So in addition to snipping him, they must have enabled his back legs because he can now jump on the counter with ease. I got the mail, left it in the bathroom so the demons can¹t destroy it, careful with it because there are bills mixed in with junk mail flyers.
My emotions we mixed, so I emailed my girlfriends for humor and sympathy, one of whom replied “He’s probably looking for his balls.”
I love my friends. I love my dysfunctional family. I also think we need to hire a nanny.
Harrah’s Cherokee Casino may be the saddest place I’ve ever accidentally visited.
Romping around the mountains in North Carolina, playing in the leaves of the Smoky Mountains and wandering around its vast expanse inhaling all its fresh air (don’t worry, we left a little for you) we found ourselves among the worn out, hungry and thirsty. Before heading back to our cottage at Lake View, we opted for a spontaneous stop.
What could present a bigger shift for our mellow, tree huggin trip than an overpriced cocktail, noms and loosing a handful of bills at blackjack?
The casino and hotel are out of place to begin with, two dozen stories of glass with an amusement park lot for cars complete with shuttle bus in the middle of nowhere America. Dozens of once thriving motels dot the road before and after the casino, their pools empty, weeds as high as my shoulder eking out through the cracks in the pavement. Reminders of a simpler time when people visited to get away, not to gamble their life savings.
The first experiential assault beyond the landscape interruption: the casino is dry. No beer, no wine, no adult beverages of any kind. How does that work? They expect people to gamble sober? This has to be a challenge to the house odds of success. Still, the sandwich consumed at one of the two restaurants wasn’t all bad and the cheese fries consumed were a gamble of their own – with our cholesterol.
The casino itself is a sad, sad place. Visitors have to sign up to play, and are equipped with an ATMesque piece of plastic with their name printed on it. The card is attached to a coiled tether with a clip on one end – when playing a game the card must be plugged into the machine. Big Brother meets child leash…beyond demeaning and creepy.
Wandering around the floor, I was nearly toppled over by the sheer tragedy of the other patrons. Grandmothers and grandfathers abounded with their tracksuits, oxygen tanks, walkers and cigarettes dangling from their fingers and lips. All plugged into machines, fixated on the screens. Both the hope and hopelessness of the scene floored me.
The card tables added another level of disappointment. Crammed in tightly, our parents (and parents parents) were fixated on the computer displays in the table. Computer displays because there were *no cards* present…the dealer merely hit a Simple Simon style button on their console to deal, hit, stay.
We were in and out in one lap, one slot (to say we did) and less than 20 minutes. If this visit and this exposure to the death of America is what I get for being spontaneous, you can have it. I’ll stick to my plan from now on.
We ran away to the mountains. We climbed and laughed and yammered and slept in without waking to cats on our heads begging for their breakfast. We reminiced and made plans and were thankful to the universe for putting us where we needed to be when we needed to be there.
We enjoyed watching the colors change and the shift in landscape while more minutes zoomed by.
Has it been so long that we actually dress alike? Close enough.
Happy 3 years, poop.