Preface: I have a bad case of bloggers block. It's not the kind of block that stems from having nothing to say, but the other kind. The kind caused by having too much to say, and no time to say it. And as the time gets smaller, the stuff-to-be-said said gets bigger. And now that I've found a little time, I am unable to pick the best of what needs to be said. It seems I must say it all. It's like I need to take a big brain poo. And everybody knows that you can't just choose what poo to poo. Ya just gotta. Poo.

So...I'm going to do just that. And when I am done I will feel good and fine and lightened. You, on the other hand, might not feel that good or lightened. In fact, you may not be able to get past the poo. Who can say? But here I go, anyway.

Blog Post Starts Here. That Other Stuff Wasn't It.
I've been on summer break since June 9. Yesterday was the first* day since June 10 that I didn't HAVE to do something. Or be somewhere. Or wait for someone to be here. Or make something to take somewhere. To someone.

And it went something like this.

Wednesday, June 11:
Dishwasher and Microwave Installation. ::This story was originally going to be a post of its own. And even though I've reduced it to highlights, it still is pretty lengthy. The poo, she goes.::

Installation Specialist Skip was scheduled to arrive at 10:00, but called at 11:00 to say he was running late. At 12:00 noon, Skip and his well-glazed assistant B.J. (Bong Juice) showed up to wrack my world.

Skip appeared to know what he was doing regarding all things plumb and install-y. B.J., who looked about 20 years-old, had the wide-eyed and slightly stunned appearance of lobotomized anime. "Deer in Headlights" was my initial impression. However, because said phenomenon involves involuntary cognitive function, I felt it an inappropriate designation in that the word cognitive has no business in a 5-mile radius of this dude.

Highlight 1: After removing the old microwave from the wall, Skip commenced to clean the wall area before installing the new one. I was sitting several feet away at the dining room table, when Skip asks, "Do you have anything a little stronger for cleaning the walls? This stuff smells real pretty, but it doesn't cut the grease." I look over and see that he's holding a bottle of Febreze, which he apparently had just squirt all over the wall.

And he was right, it smelt real pretty over there, even from where I was sitting. Later I wondered what his wife thought when he came home smelling of April Dawn.

Highlight 2: When B.J. wasn't serving as Skip's right hand man pinky toe, he was hauling stuff out to the truck. Every time he exited or re=entered the house, he left the door open and I would shut it. Finally I said "Does that door need to be open right now? The flies are coming in."

"What door?" he asks. At the time he was sitting so close to it, that when he finally realized what door, he had only to lift his hand half a foot in order to reach it.

Highlight 3: The dishwasher is almost installed and Skip is on the floor in front of the new machine, in a full body-press against the cupboard. For the record, Skip is a big guy. John Goodman big. From this position, talking real slow, he says to B.J., "I need you to go downstairs and turn the water back on. When you getthere, look at the ceiling. I'll wiggle the hose from up here so you know which one it is. The knob will be right next to it."

B.J. says nothing and goes downstairs.
Skip wiggles his hose through the floor.

Downstairs: nothing.

Skip yelling: "Do you see it?"

Nothing.

I look down the basement stairs to see B.J. staring at a hoseless ceiling. He's in the wrong room.

"Wrong room," I say.

Skip beats on.

B.J. looks around the wrong room, confused, like maybe I am the mistaken one. When he finally looks at me, I point to the doorway that is about 3-feet in front of him.

"That way."

While B.J. animes into the laundry room, I hear Skip swearing under his breath. And banging his hose. And I'm okay with all of it.

When Skip senses a weak but palpable sign of life down there, he yells "Find the knob! Then turn it!"

Nothing.

"Do you see it?? The knob?"

"Uhh. I don't see no knob, but one of them pipes is shaking like crazy. Is that bad?"

Thursday, June 12
My sister and I are throwing a wedding shower for my niece in two days, and I agreed to provide three packs of my photo notecards, for doorprizes. I therefore spent the rest of the day and most of the evening printing, cropping, folding and sticking.



Later in the evening I call my sister to find out what else we need to do before Saturday. She tells me that the banquet facility is handling everything. We're good.

Friday, June 13
Cakers' first grade class was having a picnic/party at a cottage on a lake, about 40 minutes north of town. And I didn't wanna go. Not only was I too busy, but I held not an iota of a speck of desire to spend 6 hours on a beach, with 18 first graders and their moms.

At the risk of sounding something awful, I need to say that I don't belong with these people. They're too wonderful. And mom-sy. And stay at home-sy. And they all know one another. And most are young enough to be my daugthers. And I hate the small talk. And the big talk. And the hair talk. And pilates chat. And recipes and the last field trip and...well, lets just say I'm chronically not fit for human consumption. Period. And for that, my daughter must pay.

A couple of weeks ago I tried to get out of the trip by telling Cakers I have to work on the shower. She cried. Then she went to school the next day and told her teacher I could't be there. And her teacher told her to tell me that that a much less lame and otherwise more nurturing and involvedclassroom parent could swing by the house and pick up my Cakers, and bring her to the event.

My ass.
So I signed me up.

Then I prayed. For a loop hole.
And I got one. The weather. It was forecast to be bad. As in storms. Horrible, scary, thundery and potentially tornadic storms. Gawd, how I loves me some well-placed tornado warning.

All Friday morning I scoured the various TV and on-line weather stations and local news sites. All predictions were the same: Thunderstorms throughout the day, some severe. 85% chance.

Clap the thunder. Bolt the lightening. Sound the sirens. It was a done deal.

But there was one little problem: In every single radar screen on every single weather site I perused, there was not the tiniest hint of precipitation. Not a dot. Not a burp. Not a hint. Neither a wisp or whisper.

Nada.

Eventually, my desperation for a rainy day lead me to sites in Minnesota and Wisconsin. Then Canada. Russia. Japan.

Still, nothing.

I hit an all time mutha-scumma low when I considered lying and telling her the party was cancelled. Of course, as soon as the thought hit my brain, I shunned it. Then shoved it right away. And not so much because it was wrong, but because I never would have gotten away with it. Ever.

So we went to the lake and I actually had a good time. I talked to a few moms, using my most smallish talk. I even initiated the small talk. And nobody died. Or threw up, even.

Saturday, June 14
The shower is at noon. I haven't spoken to my sister since Thursday night, when she said everything was covered. At 10:00 a.m. I'm still in my jammies, hair askew, when the phone rings. It's my sister. She tells me we need helium balloons, center pieces, candy and candy dishes. Can I do that?

I know better than to lose my mind on her. She is a Chaotic. She lives the chaos. Breathes it. Chaos floats my sister like the scum of the Great Salt Lake floats a nice fat pig.

Going off on her will only make it all the better.
I know this. For I am a Chaotic Survivor.

Anyway. We haggle a bit about what really needs to be done, the time limitations and who really should/can do it, then come up with a quick plan. While I didn't go all bitchcakes on her ass, I did calmly remind: "Two days ago you said we didn't need to do anything else. I was kinda going by that. It would have been nice to have put some thought and planning into this part...That's why I asked you about it."

"Yeah, I know." she says. "So, can you get the balloons, or what?"

...To be continued.

*Not counting the cottage weekend.