no filter no comment (Taken with instagram)
Mr. Zoom and I were sitting in the house when I heard a noise in the front yard. We looked out and saw a man picking some stuff off of our weird plant. Mr. Zoom said “Do you know who that is?” I said “No.” He said “That’s our dry cleaner.”
Of course it is. That happens to everyone. So silly of me to not commit the neighborhood dry cleaner’s face and form to memory for such an event.
He was gone before I could get a photo of him, so instead you get a pen showing you where the fondling took place.
How weird is my life.
If you have replied or reblogged and I haven’t sent you an Internet kiss in return, know that I’m not trying to be aloof. I don’t quite have missing e installation figured out for this iPad yet because there are cats in top hats and other things you lovely people bring to me multiple times a day that have to be explored NOW.
I appreciate all of you and all of your responses.
Ooooooh. OCD Obsessive Corgi Disorder.
We had the interior of the house painted about six weeks ago. How that even came about is a story for another time, but the point is that our furniture moved around quite a bit while we were at work each day.
I have a bad habit of walking around the house in the dark. Part of it is not wanting to wake the husband. He is a piece of photo paper when he sleeps. If the smallest dot of light appears anywhere in the house, he wakes up scarred and angry. He sets mousetraps for light.
A bigger part of it is hubris on my part. I’m at home, I can do this.
I don’t even have to tell you that I ended up knees to cement one night after walking full stride into a 2 1/2 foot high speaker box. I made a thudding thud sound as the box refused to be a very flexible and forgiving shadow. I also don’t have to tell you that the bruises were spectacular - it looked as if failure went out and got bombed on schnapps and fruity pebbles, came home, and yarfed on my legs.
What I do need to tell you is that when the last drop of bruise left my legs, I woke up, got out of bed, and walked point A to point B directly into the corner of our coffee table. Like a bug up a nose.
“It’s a bullseye,” I told myself as I waited for the new goose egg to hatch. And then I had a good cry. Because this repeat derposity on my part just frustrates the red hell out of me. And now I can’t use “furniture moved” as a means of making my own stubbornness seem less alcoholic.
If only. I want it to be a “tennis shoes thrown over a telephone wire” type turf warning by some rabid gang of mail room folks.