Hiiiiiiii! How are you? You look great!
It's been a minute.
There are three reasons for this. First, it's Spring like whoa and I have been spending most of my spare time in the garden transplanting strawberry runners (yes, more,* again, STILL) and spreading compost and planting and weeding and thinning and watering. When I'm not doing that there's plenty of mowing to do, and poop to shovel and haul to the compost pile. Heading up today's agenda is some research on and the subsequent purchase of a new wheelbarrow, because ours has rusted through and started to break apart when you move it, which hampers its usefulness. I'm a little bit sad about letting the old girl go, because she is (was) a heavy-duty construction barrow The XY bought around the time Little Child was born and then put in storage and moved to the final MFA Marital Manor without ever unboxing and assembling it. I snagged it during the divorce, mostly out of spite (I mean, seriously, who spends three hundred dollars their family needs for medicine on a goddamn deluxe wheelbarrow because it's marked down from three-fifty and then hangs onto it for years STILL IN THE BOX? The XY, that's who! Fuck that guy, man**), and Hotter assembled it the Spring after we got married. It served us well but the finish on it was kind of crap, which is perhaps why it was on clearance in the first place, and it's been steadily rusting through pretty much since its first use.
I'm going off on a tangent about my wheelbarrow because I don't want to talk about Reason The Second for the radio silence. Hotter's health lately is...ungood. Transplant did a shotgun workup on him and found no obvious reasons, although his creatinine was up (the good news, if you want to call it that, is that his creatinine was almost certainly up due to dehydration from the many debilitating and unexplained GI symptoms, not because his donor kidney is in trouble). In the absence of anything to treat they provided a veritable jellyjar of Zofran, which has improved his quality of life somewhat and hopefully also his hydration status (repeat labs pending), but meanwhile he's pretty sick and we don't know why, which is unfortunate because while I have learned to make peace with life's mysteries, this leaves us with no clear prognosis or solution.
Reason The Third is, in light of Reason The Second, pretty dumb, but it provides a serviceable segue from Reason The Second and so I'm feeling a little muzzled on here by the whole "work knows about the blog and my boss reads it" angle. Given the hours that I usually work (this week and last I've arranged a three-on, four-off schedule to be able to care for Hotter and help keep the children and animals from rising up against order in general and all that we hold good and decent around here), my job is a big chunk of my life and things happen there, both good and bad, that are interesting and funny and heartrending and thought-provoking, and it irks me that I don't feel like I can share them with you. Now, Corporate Overlords, if you are reading this that is NOT a complaint against Eclecstasy. Part of it isn't even about Eclecstasy, but rather comes from within: I actually like some of my co-workers, and don't want them to worry that anything they say in front of me can and will be broadcast on the innernet for the titillation of the masses (all three of y'all still reading this, not counting Hotter). Because then who would sell me drugs and show me dick pics, amirite?***
The title of today's post is brought to you by a corny joke I plan to use on Big Child when he gets home from school. You take a teenaged boy and tell him to answer everything you say with "ketchup and liquor," and then you ask him what his parents used to put in his baby bottle to make him so smart and what his favorite flavor is and what he had for breakfast and what his mom's fridge is full of, and when he's on a roll and distracted you ask him what he does if he's out walking and sees a pretty girl up ahead.
* The bed we bought Poppy in that post? She ate it the next day, because she's an ungrateful twat. An ungrateful twat who is once again sleeping in a nest of torn-up Hotel California sheets.
** He has not paid child support yet this month and is generally being an arsehole, hence the faint tinge of hostility you may have picked up on above.
*** That was my being facetious and goading the Corporate Overlords for giggles. I would no more buy drugs from a co-worker than I would look at a dick pic from a co-worker, because you don't shit where you eat.****
**** KIDDING! I mean, you don't shit where you eat but obviously I was kidding about the drugs and dick pics, because nobody who works for Eclecstasy would dream of sullying its hallowed halls with sex or drugs even if yours truly was so craven as to have any interest in those things*****, which I am not and also do not have any time for seeing as how all of my non-work hours not spent caring for my family, pets, and garden are devoted to helping little old ladies cross the street and fighting crime.******
***** Anymore. I mean, obviously I did have sex the three times, and okay fine in college I did about half of the drugs (by which I mean I tried anything that didn't involve snorting or a needle in order to become a more well-rounded writer and reporter of the human experience).
****** I was kidding there, too. I don't have any hours left after those things, and am, besides, generally terrified of the elderly and confrontation. But I do do good deeds. If I'm driving and come across a turtle in the road I stop and move it to the shoulder, and that's something, right?