And what a lovely day it is. Gonna hit 80 by noon, supposedly. The windows of the house are open, and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, gas exhaust, as the wife mows the yard...just that alone makes it sweeter. At the suggestion that perhaps I should do it, I go into my 'wounded bird' routine, flapping around in a circle and looking as crippled as I can.
Hey, later, I'll make it up to her, and fuck her into a lovely nap. But she's got to shower first. All that sweaty smell, mixed with yard-stench, makes her smell like a hippy.
The kids are attempting to kick and toss a football (Nerf) to one another. I have a pistol handy, because there is a car out there that is the extension of its owners penis, he washes it every day, literally. The car. I have no idea nor care how he cares for his penis.
Anyway, if the kids so much as touch his car with the barest tip of one of their little fingers, I fear I shall have to shoot the fellow to calm him down.
Oh, who am I kidding, I always have a pistol handy. Or an AK-47.
Okay, I am now liveblogging Nat's meltdown. She got frog-marched into the house for pitching a fit because Johnny got to push the wheelbarrow full of grass from the mower to the grass-dumping spot, and much drama ensued. Okay, she just pulled her own shit together, and is back outside chucking the football with Johnny. Whew. And I only had to talk to her once.
The wife is tickled because the landlord bought a new mower, which is essentially a heavy-duty Honda like the other one, but 2/3's lighter, and more easily controllable. Plus, it is new, and hey, shiny! Good for you, honey, now get back out there and mow for Daddy.
Oops! Now Nat's either back in the house, or being forced to sit on the stoop. Take that, violator.
Darn it, I get crepes again for breakfast/lunch. With apple pie filling, and Cool Whip on top, drizzled with pure Vermont maple syrup. Life is hard, so hard. Pity me.
And tomorrow, I have to have fresh raspberries as filling, with heavy cream drizzled on them, unt again mit der drizzled maple syrup. I will decide then whether I want a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side, or Cool Whip. Maybe both. Maybe sliced bananas on the side. Fry them in butter and bourbon? Maraschino cherries and crushed pecans on top? Crushed walnuts?
Life is so hard. Pity me.
My philosophy of food is to make it so wonderful, you just want to fuck it. Only being able to eat it should be a letdown. With my birthday coming up, I see baked macaroni in my future. And a coconut cream pie. I despise all cake but carrot. Unless it is from an extremely high end bakery or restaurant. You can keep your giant frosted Twinkies, which is all store bought cakes are.
Okay, Nat came back in the house and grounded herself, crying piteously. She came up here to see me and wailed 'I can't even pull a weed out! I just wanna watch Spongebob...' so I stood up, and let her hug on me and sob her weed-pulling-impaired anguish out on me until I got tired of it, and then I held her away from me and said 'I know what you need, baby' and she sobbed and said 'What?' and I said 'Easter Candy!'
So we bounced downstairs, and I got her a paper plate out and poured Sour Skittles (damn, those are good) out on it, tossed in three pink Starburst, and a couple of chocolate eggs, and some Kisses. With nuts in them. Now, Patrick is dressing like a transvestite, Spongebob is trying to pass him off as his 'girlfriend', all of the male sea creatures in Bikini Bottom are hitting on the transvestite starfish, and Nat is munching happily away.
And Johnny is happily working his butt off outside with the wife. And I'm back up here working my fingers to the bone for you all.
And all is right with the world. Well, mine, anyway.