Tuesday, Jul. 05, 2005
Dear Diary:

The spousal unit worked until dark last night to get the last boards on the decking of the back porch. Not only were they down, but he sanded and then vacuumed them. Did he manage to get this done during the weeks of drought we've been having?

Oh no, he got it done the night before monsoon rains are predicted.

Okay, fine.

So I got up at a stupidly early hour, dragged out the stain for the decking and began to stain so I could protect the newly laid boards from the predicted late afternoon rains.

And of course it began to rain far before the weatherman predicted it, at the moment when I was standing directly under the edge of the roof staining some facing boards, because, really, if the universe is going to dump rain on you, it wants to dump the maximum amount of rain on you it possibly can.

So I got soaked by the waterfall of rain cascading off the porch roof on to my back which did wonders for my already craptastic mood.

Okay, fine.

The spousal unit, being a carpenter and all, is very fussy about tools. There is a right tool for each job and he likes to see the right tool used for each job. Me, I am more of a free spirit.

When he came out of his workshop to go into the house for his coffee break he moseyed over to the porch to see how I was doing with the staining. He caught sight of something on the unstained portion of the porch decking and his face clouded.

"Tell me you didn't use a kitchen spoon to open the stain," he said.

Before him was:
Exhibit A: the open can of stain with the lid beside it and
Exhibit B: a kitchen spoon.

I did not exactly lie to him, but I've found an expression that says, "I do not know of what you speak" tinged with a soupçon of "I do not speak the English so well me" can sometimes help me skate over these bumpy patches in the ice.

The spousal unit rolled his eyes. "You know you have that paint can opener in your glove compartment." Yes, this is true. The spousal unit put a paint can opener in the glove compartment of my car because, apparently, one never wants to go through life unprepared to deal with rogue paint cans.

However, my car was a full six meters or about 20 feet from the porch whereas the kitchen spoon was right at hand.

Really, it was a no brainer.

The spousal unit rolled his eyes one more time at my callous disregard of the proper use of tools and then continued wending his way into the house to get his coffee.

Then, because the man apparently has a death wish, he opened one of the kitchen windows that faces out on to the new porch and with coffee cup in hand began critiquing my staining job. The job I was doing so he would not have to do it. The job that had left me wet from the rain, skin splotchy with bits of stain spatters, and breathing stinky stain fumes that were leaving me tired and cranky.

That job.

Okay, fine.

"You've got a blob over there by that support beam," he pointed out helpfully.

"I think you could work a bit more stain into that knot over there," he added, pointing to another area of the porch floor.

Is it wrong to fantasize about taking your paint roller, loading it with deck stain, and then running it over the face and hair of the man to whom you have pledged your life troth, the man who is the father of your only child? Is it? Is it really?

Well, I suppose so.

So, um, I think we can all agree that a mature, self-confident 54-year-old woman such as myself can take a little constructive criticism and would never, ever, fantasize about such an infantile act.

Nuh uh. Not me. Not ever.

Two of the reasons long marriages rack up the years is:
a) some people learn early to develop a good poker face to hide what they're really thinking and
b) humans are not telepaths. If we ever become a species of telepaths, the race is doomed, doomed I tell you.

On the weekend I went down to Enosburg, Vt. scene of my recent humiliation during the 10K Milk Run there, and hooked up with Jen and Audrey.

What does a woman in her 50's do with women who are young enough to be her daughters? Why, hit yard sales, of course! One of those "I brake for yard sales" bumper stickers does not begin to convey the joy I take in picking through other people's discards.

No, what I would need to convey my commitment to this sport is a bumper sticker that says, "I will abandon my vehicle on a major highway and cross two lanes of high speed traffic to pick through other people's crap."

Sadly, I have yet to find said bumper sticker. Even worse, as you can see from the pictures, Audrey scored the Yard Sale Find of the Century, getting to a huge blue velvet hat with a black ostrich feather plume before I did.

It's hard not to be bitter.

Oh, and even worse? They promised me home made brownies and then took said brownies home with them.

I'm a mature, grounded 54-year-old woman so of course I can forgive them for this [airquotes] accidental [/airquotes] oversight.



Mileage on the Marnometer: 720.42 miles. 10 per cent rubber duck10 per cent rubber duck10 per cent rubber duck10 per cent rubber duckhalf way smooch Half way there. Oh, man, please let this be over

Goal for 2005: 1,250 miles - 2000 kilometers

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