We awoke this morning to unrelenting wind and driving rain, atypical for our little patch of the Sonoran Desert. It was still dark, causing me to wonder if the washes were running, how the livestock were faring, and if anything had been swept away or, on the contrary, deposited homeward. Leaving myself bare, I looked at Hunky Husband and pondered, “I wonder what it will look like when the sun comes up.”
Not missing a beat, he said, “Lighter.” The smart aleck.
This is my life. It is not boring and one has to stay on one’s toes or be slaughtered by multi-directional, not-quite-rapier wit.
An hour later, I still cannot see what the storm hath wrought but, in the dim light, I am assured that none of our livestock are tumbling down our semi-annual river and our home has not leapt from its moorings so I think we’re okay. It’s probably silly to worry about a simple rain storm when elsewhere snow is drifting and waves are roaring but, hey, I’m nothing if not egocentric. We got five whole inches of rain last year; two in a 24-hour period makes an impact.
Meanwhile in the house world, all remains a this-is-the-filthiest-I’ve-ever-seen-it mess. This is not helped by these.
Or the rabbit who thinks he is a cat
(or bloodhound depending upon his present company). His potty training is not going well, still thrown way backwards since our Thanksgiving absence, and he is now in solitary confinement in the master bathroom (which is fairly large so it’s not like we’ve thrown him down a dark hole with a pocket watch and given him the idea he is late for a very important date).
This one doesn’t help either. He has a penchant for knocking things over, graceful feline my you-know-what. Felina can literally pussy-foot her way across a tabletop of clutter and never graze one object but Apollo takes after his Rocky-born namesake, Apollo Creed.
He does make it up by keeping our laps warm during those rare relaxing times. Of course, he also never fails to accompany us to the restroom because no one wants to do their business in solitary peace. I have had Marshall the bloodhound, Apollo the part-Siamese-if-you-please, and a certain Pint-sized farmer all join me in the tiny throne room. Oh, joy. You know, I grew up in a usually-quiet family of three (or four if you include Terry Dog), two parents and me. Lately, I’ve been thinking I conked my head one too many times during those aforementioned eighties, leading to my current predicament/blessing. Help, Mr. Wizard.
So now I must rise and shine (flicker?) and dive into the overwhelming clutter and dustbowl that is my home. I feel like I am in the scene in “Apollo 13” after Tom Hanks’ character and his wife have thrown a party and she says, “The house is too dirty; we’ll have to move.” Wish me luck (or send a housekeeper or ten). I’ll need it.