Saturday, Apr. 20, 2002
Dear Diary:

This morning the spousal unit and I Felt The Earth Move. Both of us. Simultaneously.

And when it was over he took me in his arms, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you think that was a train?"

"No, you big goof," I said, rolling my eyes. "The train doesn't make the dishes rattle. It was an earthquake." I endured mass quantities of spousal scoffage until his mom phoned and told us to turn on the local Vermont tee vee news.

Sure enough, there'd been an earthquake with it's epicentre near Plattsburgh, N.Y. which isn't that far from us as the crow flies.

I tried to be humble about Being So Very Right When He Was So Very Wrong And Mocked My Rightness, but it was hard, eh.

It was stupidly cold in the house this morning when we crawled out of bed after being so rudely awakened by the earth moving and all. The cold front the weather man promised us yesterday moved in overnight and we forgot to close all our windows.

See, for the last three days we've been in the middle of a record heat wave (temperatures around 30C which is mid-80's F for the Celsius-impaired) and we've been enjoying summer in April. Well, April temperatures came back with a vengeance overnight, and we woke up to a house that was 10C, which is about 50F.

I came as close to turning into a massive one piece goosebump as it is possible for a person to do when my bare feet hit the icy bedroom floor. Yikes.

A few weeks ago, with the prospect of spring coming, the spousal unit and I Had The Talk. The Talk involves him reminding me that we have approximately a kazillion acres of flower beds here, neither of us is getting any younger, and it might be a wise thing Not To Start Any New Gardening Projects.

I always nod because of course he's right.

But today ... well today I looked over at the pond and there was This Spot That Really Needed A Flower Bed and before I knew it there I was with the wheelbarrow and shovel, cutting out plugs of sod and then wheelbarrowing over load after load of compost to get the soil ready for the new plants.

My back began grumbling around the fifth load or so of compost. I should have listened to it, but I was in the grip of spring fever.

I have paid for my lack of attention.

It appears my back and I are legally separated. It's citing irreconcilable differences over how many wheelbarrows of compost it should be forced to move in a day. I'm hoping we can patch up our differences and not go through the pain of an actual divorce because I can tell you that the pain of separation is bad enough.

Besides, its people have told my people that if we do split up, it's taking my legs as part of the property settlement.

I need my legs. Think how hard it would be to dig without legs.

I have promised my back that from now on I will listen to EVERYTHING it has to say, and that it will always have my full and complete attention. I think that promise, plus a soothing liniment backrub from the spousal unit, have gone a long way towards mollifying it. We'll see how things are tomorrow morning.

Things always look better in the morning light, right?

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.