Pissy. Pissier. Pissiest.

I woke on the wrong side of my web this morning. Really. The wrong side.

The Ultra I Cannot Believe I Have To Face This Day wrong side.

There’s another fucking open house; and I’m not ready. A good deal of it is my own fault - I crammed too much in too little time, and left not enough for cleaning, organizing, emptying of the fireplace grate, moving some stuff off the front porch….and while the majority of the list is complete (including wiping down the windows in the french door that spearates the office from the kitchen that drove my agent nuts) I’ve still my bedroom (read: furcovered bedroom) and my bathroom (read: consignment area for previously worn clothing) and…the ubitqutious trip of the front porch.

I’m still in a tee, and panties, glasses, and a baby hair clippie. I don’t want to do anything today. I don’t want other people through here - mostly, I don’t want to bother getting ready, yet again, for no one to show. It’s depressing. Disappointing. Incredibly frustrating. Hence, the pissier part. Now I’m doubly pissed. I’m not done, she’s due here in a little over an hour, and I don’t want her dicking with my ac levels, ramping up my electric bill, so she can not wilt in the midday heat that has attacked the northeast. My guess? She plans these open houses with central air to combat her lack of it at her house - she may not even care if no one shows.

I’m starting to think she may nap in my bed.

Plus also? While I’m being pissy, I might as well go nuts - H has not called. B has not bothered to have him call me, or hint that he should call his mama, or any of the things that he harrasses me to do, to have H call him. Evidently, it’s not that important. I got offered a killer job, big money, big moving package, and I cannot take it, because it’s in Ohio, and it might interfere with B’s parenting time.

I’d be more inclined to worry about that, if I actually thought he DID any parenting.

To top it all off, I’m supposed to go to a baby shower tonight, so I can hear all about the Happy Couple, The Impending Happy Event, the Lovely and Happy Nursery they’ve planned for the Damn Near Second Coming. In this frame of mind, it might be safer for all invovled for me to drop off the blanket, and slip away prior to the cutting of the cake, and the intimate details of the blessed event, instead of bringing forth my sense of impending failure, and doom.

Hmm. Maybe I’m being a tad dramatic.

Fine. I’ll be a grown up. Or at least fake it nicely. I’ll finish up the house, but I’ll avoid the Estate Agent. She bothers me, and I’m not sure I’m up to seeing her 21 year old brimming with youthful confidence face at the door. She can kiss my ass about the stuff on the steps to the garage, if I don’t get to it; I’ll go to the shower. I did RSVP. They are expecting me.

Plus, they’ll have cake.

Cake, makes just about anything tolerable.

Maybe, even in this state of mind.

Withdrawl...and the 7 mile program

I think I’m addicted.

To his smile. And his laugh. And his voice. And…well…..his text messages.

Mostly. The messages. They get me through the day. I know. You’re thinking how sad, pathetic and lonely I must be to be addicted to text messages for heaven’s sake - but. I will give him this: he gives GREAT text. He’s funny, and witty, utterly charming, and half the time, I find myself checking the new message, say, in CVS, and laughing out loud. At something the kids did. Or telling him something mine did - in that totally casual we’re pals kind of way - the same way that I’d sit with a girlfriend and laugh about the obese woman in flowered tight tights under daisy duke shorts, staring at ME for wearing capri pants, in the summer. Only. I don’t really want to make out with my girlfriends. Attractive, though you all may be.

I think, I’ll stick to kissing him.

And, he’s an awsome kisser. The kind that makes your neck flop bonelessly back, giving him full access to nibble up and down your neck - which before now, was an unheard activity in this house. I’m soooo not into baring my neck. It’s so….intimate. Personal. But I like the way he holds me, and hugs me like it might be the last time on earth, and how even when he’s being ultra over the top sweet, it’s still hilarious.

Like when he brings me chocolate, but it’s HIS favorite kind. Now, before? I totally would’ve thought that was a passive aggressive way to get to eat my chocolate - but, here’s the thing…he didn’t know what my favortie was, so he brought me both of his favorites, so I’d have a choice.

Yup.

sigh.

I’m a total sucker for the little things.

And now, I’m cut off, as he’s devoting his time to his kids (damn right he is) and while I fully endorse that, I’m …. missing him. And the text messaging. Which we do as often as most people inhale. And the laughing.

But…this whole distance-forced-no-contact thing has given me plenty of space (all three days of it so far) to do some thinking. I’ve made some serious progress.

Before, I just thought I liked him.

Now. I know.

I really like him

I think, I met someone.

Okay, so the long term potential is low…rating a possibly maybe - as in, most likely not, but. I’ve met someone. And I like him. And, he’s not the one from a previous entry - we already know I like him, and, we also are well aware that his short term, not to even mention his long term potential is nil - thus, imagine my surprise, when I sat, chatted, and came away wanting to see more of this guy that I met.

He works the nightshift, a good job though, comes with a fab uniform (cops usually do, you know) which totally surprises me that I’d like. Afterall, I don’t salivate over the UPS guy, and DHL? Please. It’d be like banging Ronald McDonald, whom I’ve always detested - partly because he has pissy hair like I do, and like I’d ever willingly pass that along to my children, and, I refuse to ever date a man who wears more makeup than I do. Plus also? It weirds me out that a children’s based chain would allow a freaky overdressed bigfooted clown around the kids, unattneded. Could be, I’ve inner clown issues, but I’m losing the main train here.

Right. The uniform. Which looks so yummy on him….I’d love to see what it looks like draped over a chair. Or on the floor. Or a counter. So originally, I gave some serious thought to whether I’d like him out of the uniform - as in, not naked an out of it, (see above); as in, he didn’t come in it. Wait.

Allow me to rephrase.

If he weren’t a cop at all.

Okay, so partly? I wondered, for a brief moment, if perhaps my fascination with him was due strictly to the fact that he’s acceptably safe - intrinsically safe - unlike my ex, B. Who is intrinsically….unsafe. And then, I recalled: I met him out of uniform. Before I even knew he was a cop. I liked his company. He made me laugh. We met through our kids, actually, and chatted while they were in classes together. He has a wicked sense of humor, thinks I’m hot, and tells me that, and, says I’m quite possibly the funniest human he’s ever met. He calls when he says he will, and gets it that I’m doing the naked mambo anytime soon. Respects that … and not in that creepy, annoying, I’m Just Saying I’m Okay With It To Get Laid way. I feel good about myself around him, which is HUGE to me, and, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to kiss someone, and let them touch me. I know! Shocked me too. Naturally, it took me three months to get his number, and about thirty minutes after I had it to use it.

But….and there’s a BIG but. He has kids. And does not want anymore. I do. That’s a HUGE issue. I mean, I totally respect him for making the choice, and….er….getting fixed; some people just know they don’t want any, some, or more children. However. I’m not sure I’d ever be truly happy with someone who’d already made that choice, and knowing me, still didn’t want any kids. Like there’d be something wrong with ushaving kids….

Most likely, it’s simply an outcropping of the Biggest Gun In The West Syndrome…I have to be the hottest he’s ever dated, better looking than his wife ever was, thinner…funnier…sexier..better at everything….which means too, I’d have to pop out better looking children. Which he doesn’t want, so already I’m down a point!

But. I suppose. I’m getting ahead of myself. Because really? I honestly enjoy his company; whether it’s a couple beers after his softball game, a cup of coffee before he goes in, or text messaging, or hanging out while the kids do their stuff. Being his friend means a lot to me - it’d be a friendship I’d treasure - and I don’t want to lose that.

He’s an amazing kisser though. He can pick me up. God. What a turn-on. In the uniform? To. Die. For.

So maybe, I should put all that other stuff aside for a bit, and go running with him, chat and laugh at the kids stuff, text him back, send him rediculously inappropriate jokes while he’s working, and think about him out of uniform.

He doesn’t have to be The One.

He might just be The One to christen the house with me before I sell it.

Now, wouldn’t HE like to know that!!

Designer Label

Perhaps, I should come to grips with the fact that my Inner Slob is simply sugar coated with Kate Spade and Lilly Pulitzer. My Inner Slob doesn’t care that my linen closet won’t hold up to Martha’s white glove and organzational treatment - due in part to the uneven height of the linens occupying the closet, and partly due to the vast array of towel colors, in various bleached out hues vying for space. The sheets for beds I no longer own, that my dogs have either eaten or destroyed in other fashions, still snuggled up to the ones that actually fit the beds I do own, droop over the top shelf, partially hiding the array of unused bath products lingering in infamy on the shelf below.

My Inner Slob knows that most people will simply check out my designer label front, and assume that my home is as well groomed as it’s deed holder.

I’m embarrassed that my cashmere sweaters are still in their drawer, and not tucked into a cedar chest, to ward off moths, mustiness, mildew - and, to make room for…uh….both of the pairs of shorts I can squeeze into at the moment. Perhaps, if I take a cue from my Exterior Me covering my Inner Me, I can come to grips with keeping this place in show room condition - okay, yes. It would be lovely to have ONE closet that looks lovely. And the countertops being free and clear of clutter and excess unopened mail - isn’t that why God made drawers to hide things in? My pantry is hiding appliances behind the can goods and pasta boxes, and I’m terrified to think exactly where I’ve hidden say, the bathroom cleaner, or worse, my vibrator.

I’m hoping that no one looks behind the panels covering the plumbing to the jacuzzi tub in the master (where all the sex books a friend sent me live), or, heaven help me, goes through that off-the-closet attic space, where I’ve crammed everything from a carpet shampooer, to several boxes of unmatched socks, (yes, I said several boxes) old toys and The Things That Have No Home. Like the mattress and box spring that Lucy ate. Down to the coils. But I’ve not found anyone to haul away yet. I’d put it out, and dress it in linens, like a guest bed, only Guage had a horrendous accident on the sheets, and Horace ate the comforter. Three strikes, it stays in the attic.

Honestly.

I think this house is lacking closet space in the same way I don’t think I need to lose ten pounds, I need to grow three inches taller. Then, there’d be room for all that Junk In My Trunk. Or livingroom. Office. Whatever.

I could shove all the stuff I don’t know what to do with, or, more accurately, don’t want to deal with, into them, and slap a kate spade label on it.

‘Cuz god knows, anyone will buy anything with the right designer label.

The For Sale Sign is mocking me....

The For Sale sign is mocking me. Everytime I drive by it, I have to catch my breath, and while I’ve scrubbed, polished, stuffed, hidden or “decorated” a lot of things, I think the hardest part of this whole Home Transformation is yet to come. Or, pehaps, if I’m totally candid, it has already, I’m just putting it off.

It’s all centered around cleaning out the office. The one true space that both B and I occupied for the brief time that he resided here. Most people would say the bedroom, was thier One True Space with thier partner; not us. We never centered around the bedroom - and while I faced down the whole I Didn’t Deserve A Nice Bedroom Demon, when Mags was here (bless her heart for dealing with all of me in my Soon To Be Moving Glory - it’s not pretty) - this room just taunts me.

I suppose, in much the same way that the kitchen cabinets in the last house embodied B’s mother, and the unshakable proof that he’d thrown me under a bus for her, and I would never be the top slot on his list; this office embodies Us. And to go through it, means I finally have to go through and give up all that adolescent crap about Happy Ever After, how we could work through everything, and be fine, and fabulous, with another baby, a girl, with a successful company - how leaving this space virtually untouched since his departure, means that on some level, I’ve not completely hashed out my feelings on the divorce, and this house.

Our Savior House.

I’d like to think that all that’s required in selling this place is to attack the months worth of backed up unopened mail that litters the floor, put away the pictures, in an album (or thirty, there are quite a few to put away) vac up the dog fur, that accumulates on every surface of th house; maybe clean out my inbox. However. It’s not that simple. It’s in this office that B and I hashed out our separation agreement; it’s in here that I mourned the loss of my faith in him, again, and his trust - it’s that corner of moulding that had to be replaced, when he....reached his limit with me. Thank God for Gauge, Baby Gauge, who stopped him before any more damage occurred.

As if there wasn't enough already.

It’s in this very office, or room, or space - that I had hoped to reconcile my feelings of abandonment and betrayl, and I think, on some very metaphysical level, that until I finally go through here with a fine tooth comb and simply accept what’s occured, and what’s yet to come, prepare for it, and move past it, the house won’t sell. So today, I’ve brought out the trash bags, fired up the vacuum, and opened the filing cabinet. It’s so … overwhelming, both the desire to finish this project, and the feeling it’s insumountable - which is silly, it’s just an office - but today, I’m going to Finish It. We’re not getting back together. I don’t want to. I don’t love him. And hanging onto this house full of dreams that never were, and won’t ever be, seems rediculous, childish, and passive aggressive. In letting go of the office, the house, I have a feeling that I’ll be letting go of invisible leashes that have kept me tethered here. In this space. With this man, who is not my soul mate, not my friend; who instead became my worst nightmare.

Plus. I can see the For Sale sign, winking at me in the sun, through the windows, and I’m telling you, it’s thumbing it’s nose at me.

All suited up, with no where to go

Buying a suit these days is not as easy as it once was - I remember the days (dear heavens, I sound like my mother) when you could casually waltz into Ann Taylor, Talbots, Nordstroms, Neimans or Sax, and request your traditional, mult-function, three piece suit: jacket, slacks, and a skirt. Preferably pencil skirt, A-line if you must, but a skirt.

I'm not interested in making a first impression in a hot pink two piece set, with a white, gauzy skirt overloaded with dancing flowers, and, wait for it.....a monkey. Yep. A monkey. The woman in Nordie's tried to convince me (did I mention, I sell clothing for a living??) that really, all us girls (what am I, a twenty year old new college grad, going out for her first $20K a year job?) are being daring. I'm not interested in daring.

I should be what is daring, and interesting to look at, captivating, all on my own. I'm doing something dreadfully wrong if I need flipping flowers and a monkey to stand out from the crowd.

The other choice, should anyone else be hot on the search for the Penultimate Interview Suit, is one that makes you look as though you were attacked, by Jos A Banks, or, worse, you were playing dress up in Daddy's closet. One of them came with a tie. Did I mention, I'm a girly girl? And I looked rediculous? I was horrified. Seventeen suits, only three of which had skirts later, I finally touch upon a passable choice; however, no blouse or "layering piece" should you be in that industry. This opens up a whole new Pandora's Box, and I must say, customer service in several of the stores I visited was non-existant. No wonder people love it when they get me. I practically provide the customer service you see on that Julia Robert's Pretty Woman shopping trip - what do I get? A woman so unhelpful, she put me in mustard yellow, and when I mentioned, I looked as though the jaundice might kill me, she replied I just wasn't "made up" properly.

For the record? There is NO makeup under the sun that is going to make me and mustard yellow ever compatible.

Finding the blasted suit is nearly an interview in and of itself- there is nothing quite like facing all your visible flaws, and finding ways to either cover them, address them, hide them, or accept them.

On the road to acceptance? I'm still smack in the middle of Denial.

I've no concept really of how little an ass I have, and how it makes everything I wear look baggy, and saggy, and well. Like I'm wearing pampers. I also figure, in an interview, the boss better be looking at something other than my as - er, top of my thighs - and if I'm sitting on it, who cares if it throws off the balance of the tulip hem? I don't. I don't look at my ass. Or lack thereof. I have a hard enough time facing my hair, which has decided that now is the perfect time to be pissy.

After four hours, several stores, one latte, and three mints and a free water later, I'm suited up, with a pink shell, with my backup Second Interview Cooler Outfit on hold, so that when it goes on sale, I can snap it up.

In case you were curious?

It's not the monkey suit.

Clearly, the way to seriously sell your house in a slumping market, get it all the attention it derserves involves also making your Estate Agnet uncomfortable, and afraid that she’s pissed you off.

Which, evidently, is right where you want them.

I did an Open House, and heard all about mulching the flower beds, and cleaning out the garage. My fatal error it would appear, lies in assuming, incorrectly, that she was referring to the back yard plantings, not the front ones. The ones, oddly enough, that are burried under four inches of prime, moisture trapping black bark mulch.

For all you trendy wicked together plant people out there, you automatically see dollar signs falling for every inch they lay down. This stuff is not for the faint of wallet. However, it’s bug-nesting resitant qualities, along with its superior moisture-trapping-ness, is nothing to sneeze at. I put it in, so that creepy crawlies didn’t nest in the mahogany wood that is my deck, having been lured there by the odoiferous, ugly red bark mulch that every cheap schmuck around has. The kind that attract flies, bees, ants, especially the big hungry carpenter kind, and, don’t hold as much water as I do with PMS.

That said, pehaps you can imagine my surprise (read: outrage) and general displeasure (I was IRATE) with the commentary on more than three occassions about the mulch. Which is when I let her have it, with both wheel-barrels.

I started off nicely - my beautiful home, with it’s gorgeously finished basement (relax, there is a point to bringing that up) is located atop an old gravel pit. Thus, I’ve lovely drainage, and, should the monsoon weather patterns from India develop over here, my basement shall remain dry, and lovely, while the storms are a-ragin outside.

However. Having pointed out that lovely attribute, it is hell to keep enough moisture up to grow anything other than tumbleweeds and crabgrass. So. Instead of contractor grade cheap shit, I went whole hog, and put in the expensive, I’ll save the planet with my absorbant mulch route. My house doesn’t smell of rotting cedar, and while a vole made it’s home beneath the front porch, I think that was due more to shade, and the attraction of ugly mulch.

I dropped 5K in mulch alone.

FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS of mulc is something that this other Agent who is looking at buying this house is calling dirt.

Pointing this out, I got a litte hot under the collar, and now my agent is terrified I’ll drop her, and find someone else, as she offended me about my “exterior planting choices” and she’s eager to make it up to me.

She’s already lined up someone else to look at the house.

At this rate, I’m starting to wonder what else I can be really pissed about when she’s showing the house. Maybe, she’ll get it sold so she doesn’t have to deal with me, and my attitude anymore.

Safety....in 75 mg doses

I don’t quite understand this, so perhaps, you can possibly enlighten me. If I’m taking a particular medication, the smallest dose of this med, should you be interested to note, and I find that on a several overnight outting I’ve forgotten to bring it along, one might suggest I call the pharmacy, and request just enough to say, get me through til I get home to the complete prescription I have awaiting me there, tucked snugly up in the cabinet containing all my coffee, tea, and mugs. I think the honey lives there as well. And the seasonal tea pots - including the snowman one with the broken carrot nose…but I digress.

So, I happily call said pharmacy, and request said meds, only to find out that she is uncomfortable prescribing only a four day dose of 75 milligram meds; instead, she’d rather fill the entire thing - which would be fine, should I have a whopping $140 to my name for the damn meds.

Now. This is the point I don’t get:

If you’re concerned that I’m not taking it as prescribed, why, on God’s Great Green Earth would you insist I take the whole script, instead of realizing that it could simply be a waste of valuable meds that some other stressed-out-home-selling-schmuck might desperately need while navigating the inroads to placing a house on the market, panicking, looking at other homes, and thier staggering home prices, while silmutaneously looking for a job…..oh wait. That stressed out moron is me. And this is the funny part - if you’re into really dark humor, that borders on human testing of stress loading: the meds? the anti-ANXIETY meds I’m on? The 75 miligram baby dose meds? They’re the kind that you cannot really overdose on. I mean, FOUR DAYS is not going to kill anything, except maybe a squirrel, and only because it won’t freak out when that circling hawk lands upon it, scooping it up in it’s talons, and feasting upon it. That poor, blissed out, furry little guy will skip the heart-attack fast track to being dinner, and simply stare into the maws of it’s maker…or, rather, diner, but whatever. You get the point.

Sadly, I am not the size (or weight, but, as I’m currently not taking the meds, we’ll skip the actual numbers here) of a squirrel, nor, now that I’ve waxed, am I that furry, so FOUR PILLS is really going to do anything except perhaps peel me off the ceiling, and allow me to breathe.

In.

And.

Out.

Without needing a paper bag.

So I stood there, with two children in a oversize tub, sending water hither and yon, while dousing the family dog, and examining their penises, (which, they are proud to report, are bigger than anything they’ve seen at swim lessons) on the phone with the Pharmicist From Hell. She lectured me on dose-loading, and skipping meds, and not following instructions. She then launched full scale into my carelessness for leaving it behind, and, why couldn’t I drive the hour each way to retrieve it? I think I nearly hyperventilated, but as I’ve been doing that for days now, it’s becoming quite a great way to catch a buzz.

I’ll tell you why.

My realtor just called. She’d like to show the house again. This weekend. While H is supposed to be home. Can we be gone most of the day both Saturday and Sunday? Have I gotten around to cleaning out the garage, and the office? Mulching the back two trees, and baby bushes that line the deck? The floors? Anything else that was on her list? Honestly. How did I expect my home to sell if I’m not willing to put in a little elbow grease?

Which means, I’m picking the safer route: I think other people’s lives on the road are worth MORE that the $140 it would take to keep me OFF the roads.

Ok. So not everyone’s life. I mean. Should my ex-husband be in a crosswalk today, and I had the right of way (spare me how jaywalkers have the right of way) on green (or, maybe red….hmmm), I’d totally take him out.

But that’s a tale for another day.

Like one, maybe, when I’m fully medicated.

House v. Home

My Estate Agent calls yesterday, with a request: could I rent the machine from Home Depot, and refinish my floors in the downstairs?

Right. I’m going to apply a product I know nothing about, to use a machine that will strip my floor bare, and, sidebar, I’ve no idea how to operate, the night before strangers are traipsing through my home. I told her to sand and buff my lilly white ass.

Iv’e spent a fortune on “dressing” (read: returnable) items, and have staged the house, and while it’s lovely? I so think that H and I should take up residence somewhere else until it’s sold. He’s been back from his visit with his dad for like eight seconds, and already the soundtrack to our life is along the “Don’t Sit There, Leave That - It’s A Decoration” lines, and less of the “This Is Home, Knock Yourself Out” soundtrack.

Plus, while I always notice how black his feet are, upon his return, this trip, I’m more aware than usual….as in, I nearly bleached him before letting him in the door. I don’t want him on the floor, and he’s bitching at me that he’s not a baby, when I insisted upon carrying him across the rugs I just shampooed, lest he leave dark prints in the clean wake.

I know it’s not fair, but honestly, you can only have a show house …. to show. Not, evidently, to live in.

Which honestly, is why I’ve always had a lovely home, not a lovely house. Homes are for block messes, lego pieces, artwork on the fridge, and crumbs in the sheets. Home is where you can stomp through to the tub on dirty piggies, and giggle at the black streaks you leave on the tub floor. Home is for digging, playing, stomping, sidewalk chalk, dog fur and leftovers.

Currently, my house is in better shape than it ever has been - the fridge is scrubbed within and inch of it’s life, and I came home to find all the food organized by size, shape, type and color. My Agent had time on her hands.

And I wondered, not for the first time tonight, if she had so much flipping time on her hands, why didn’t she redo the wood floors???

I’m supposed to be Cleaning and Organizing.

Or, really, hiding stuff, that I don’t want other’s to see, while touring the house on Sunday.

Instead, I’ve Biore stripped my nose, which, in my current state of procrastination, has fascinated me to the point of near speechlessness. Started some laundry, because clearly, I cannot do anything if I don’t have clothing for every possible task clean, and finally, eaten about half a row of chocolate chip cookies.

Suffice it to say, I think that running into my neighbors now that the house is officially On The Market has gotten a tad under my skin. I know they mean well, truly, they do, but it’s hard hearing that they’ve been expecting this. Oh, they’re say to see me leave, Jack in particular, but he could have spared me the fact that there was a neighborhood bet to see when I sold going on.

And then he nearly ran Lucy Goose over, on his way past. She was snooping around under his truck. But still.

We walked an extra two miles after that, taking it all in, as I feel like tonight might just be the last night here. It’s not, but it sure feels that way. I tripped over my own nostalgia going up the stairs, into the room that I’d done up for Riley, and then into the one for Hunter; the bath that I hand painted, with frogs, and turtles, just like they both wanted. I won’t be able to do the basement playroom like I had here, and I’ve not had the heart to tell H that yet - he’s just getting over the shock of finding the For Sale sign in the yard.

Frankly, me too.

I think, this calls for more cookies. Not really the best way to handle the stress, the pressure, I know, but a tastey one.

PS. Gauge seems to be On The Mend. He took down four pancakes for dinner, along with his meds, and while his fur (or lack thereof) looks awful, and he’s still itchy, he’s staying a little mroe away from the water bowls. Kisses to all that sent well wishes - that is, big, fat, slobbery ones.

Time Warp....

It’s gone so quickly.

I met with the Estate Agent this morning, who is young, but, looking like the right person with whom to go - and, she’s already lined up a buyer to take a look at the place. And. Oh. Yeah. Can we do an open house this weekend? Sunday maybe?

Gulp.

Double Gulp.

I think I stammered out a yes. Lots of work to do before then; but I called Mags and she’s coming up on Friday, to help me whip this place into shape - that is, if I can get the doggies down south anytime soon. They certainly cannot be here - which means, I’ve got to find a way to trust B to administer the meds, in the right dosage, at the right times. Blast him - he cannot even do that for himself, but maybe the fear of having 200 pounds of dead dog on his hands will light a fire under his ass.

And speaking of lighting fires- you’d think this might spur me into doing something more productive and proactive than sitting here, contemplating getting a hair cut, but I think I’m in shock. Not the teensy kind either - the Holy God What Have I Done kind. Packing, looms ahead of me, should I move, and a job? Finding one, and whatnot. Not to mention changing schools for H. Finding new caregivers, and dog paths, grocery stores and fruit stands. And the work on the house, at least three months, give or take, of living in the upstairs, out of a mini-fridge, and a microwave. Not that I mind that part -hell, I’ll make it sound exciting to Fox, who’ll think we’re camping - and truth be told, that’s the only kind of camping I’d go for - but still. The dust. Noise. Expense. Choosing cabinetry and appliances, all over again…kind of daunting.

Plus. The garage on the other house is waaaayyyy smaller, so how am I going to cram all this stuff in there?

The absolute best part about all of this though, is that B is going to have to, for once and for all, get everything he’s ever had up here, out. Gone. Kaput. Finito. Which will be such a relief. No more ghosts of his hanging about, driving me nuts, with his passive aggressiveness.

Am I really doing this?

Quick. Someone pinch me.

The Estate Agent is coming tomorrow.

Which has started an avalanche of both physical and mental considerations, the least of them being, how filthy is the house, the most of them being, am I ready to give up my den, my hibernating cave, and move back into real life?

It’s occured to me, more than once, I’ll admit, that living In The Middle Of Nowhere has provided me the Ultimate Out: I cannot date, as I live too far away, which is why I don’t host cocktail parties, dinner parties, shindigs and other alcohol inducing get togethers. I’ve hidden behind the excuses long enough, that even I believed them - and I was happy here, hiding out.

But then, I met Maggie, and Helen, Robin and the others. We had dinner, and their neighbors, of which they all are, and have many more, loved me. There is a house in forclosure, and while it needs work, it’s totally doable. We’d be closer to real people, and friends! for both me, and H. Attractive. To say the least. Good schools, right down the street; H could take the bus. Decent daycare, for when I land that full time Big Girl Job, with the high salary, and the benefits, plus, The Girls would always help out, and I’d get to repay the favor too.

To be honest though? I’m more terrified than excited: I’d have to get down off my Living In Nowhere cross I’ve been haning out on, and Get A Life, and no longer hide behind the other truth: that B rent my life, as it were, in half, and I’ve needed the time to recover. I don’t begrudge any time I’ve spent out here, not at all - it gave me the time and space to sort through my feelings, on many subjects and people, redevelop who I am, and who I want to be, along with cementing my realtionship with Hunter.

It’s almost like Spring has arrived. Finally. To my house.

Leaving feels right - even if these buyers don’t turn out to be The Ones. I just have a feeling that this is an omen, telling me it’s time to move on, both physically, and mentally.

Get some new girlfriends, meet some new people, go on some dates.

Let go of B, and R; the dreams that never came true out here, from how my life was supposed to be.

Sorting through all this has consumed the better part of my weekend; plus worryign about Gauge. Who, by the way, has a kidney infection, and some sort of issue beyond that, but we’re not totally sure what it is, and I”m not dropping four hundred dollars to find out. We’ll treat this part. And his seasonal allergies, that are plaguing his ears, and the rest of him. Go from there. One thing at a time.

Which, I suppose, is how life is: one foot in front of the other.

One meeting with an Estate Agent at a time.

Wish me luck; God knows I need it.

Pisser

Ever try to get a urine sample from an unsuspecting Great Dane?

Me either.

Til today.

It really should have two participants - beyond the dane - so that one of you can "catch" and the other can distract the dane from the "catcher", in midstream.

As there is only one of me, perhaps you can imagine the great difficulty, and resulting hilarity. H has laughed hard enough that he too offered me a sample, just...not one in a cup. More of...on the deck. And really, I cannot blame him. It must be quite a sight. Mommy ever so slowly sneaking up on Gauge, hoping he just doesn't notice that I'm sliding a cup under him while he lets loose all that water he's been sucking down incessantly. Watching as I nonchalantly slip the offending ziploc tupperware container, while whistling - as that will fool him, no doubt! - at arms length... only to find that I've missed. The er...target... landed on my arm, not in the cup. Damn. Foiled again. Yes. I said AGAIN. TYhis has happened on more than one occassion.

I realize he's not feeling well, and that's he's itchy too boot, but honestly, I'm starting to think this is something my vet thought up simply for his own amusement. I've got him hopped up on more benedryl than I would take, with aspirin to bring down the temp, he's losing hair on his ears, face, arms and back paws, after scratching himself silly.

I suppose, I'm just not sure which of us is being inflicted more horrendously at this final stage of idiocy - him, or me. I'm inclined to think me, really, as he's not the one getting whizzed on. And damn, that dog can whiz. The funniest part, is that no matter how fast I am, or how accurate I think I'm being, he manages to shift his weight, or take a step at just that last crucial moment, and...I'm both pissed off and on.

With nothing to show the damn vet.

At least he's taking the kiddie meds better than I expected - he's to the point now, where he lines up at the counter, at just about the right time, and waits there, til I get out the mini-turkey baster and load him up. Cherry, it turns out, is his favorite. And while we're worried (significantly) about his kidneys, and whether or not they're failing, his liver output, and his rediculous drinking habits, I've got to say, this is something I'll remember always.