Monday, July 25, 2011

Sasquatch Watch

So it's Monday, and I'm transitioning back into the real world.

For me this means several things, chiefly among them that I'm not revered as a Marketing Genius at work, I live in a sweltering house with no A/C, and my cats use the litterbox. A lot.

Oh, and that my neighbor kids are unclear on the concept of your inside voice being perfectly acceptable for the outside as well. As I type this, one of them is inexplicably yelling "SASQUATCH!" at his brother.

Since said brother is in middle school, I'm guessing I know what this means and I'm distinctly uncomfortable thinking about it. Especially since the apparently hirsute one is my petsitter and, according to The Boy, has likely viewed the contents of my bedside table.

So, your resident Marketing Genius here had her mid-year review today. No big surprises were revealed. I'm apparently still solidly Meeting Expectations and not in any way "Outstanding." Never mind that my work has been consistently lauded by outside Marketing associations as award-winning and Hall of Fame-worthy.  Or that I personally think I'm the cat's pajamas. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter (oh wait, yes I am) it'd just be nice to occasionally get more than a little "atta girl" from the people who set my salary, control my career path and set my salary. Did I just say "salary" twice? So the boss and I are gonna do another regroup in three months to see if I've managed to do something Outstanding other than creating and managing the very campaigns for which others clearly recognize my Outstandingness.

At least I'm not Out Standing in the Unemployment office trying to get my gubment cheese.

So I schlep home for the first time since last Thursday morning and walk into a house which feels like a blast furnace. Let me thank those well-meaning Coloradans who assured me during my house-hunting that I didnt even need a/c because Colorado is a little slice of temperate heaven where we ride our unicorns over rainbows and never break a sweat (perhaps even need a sweater), except on the ski slopes where they almost certainly knew I'd never venture.

I realized as I walked into my bedroom that I left my best standing fan at The Boy's house this morning. So now I'm without fans at both work and home.

Perhaps the best part of the inferno that is my upstairs is the smell emanating from the cat box. Seriously, if Colorado had seagulls, I'm fairly certain they'd be circling the ceiling of my office where I've cleverly closeted the box o' shit. Make a note, dear reader, if you ever come to visit me, do not, under any circumstance, hang your clothes in this closet. Unless you REALLY like seagulls and riding alone in elevators ("Oh no, that's okay lady-- you go right ahead, I'll wait for the next one. Even if takes infinity.")

Luckily for me, tomorrow is trash day. So as soon as I can stand to be upstairs for more than a nanosecond, I'll be emptying that little treasure trove.

(On a side note, the little darling from across the street has now hollered "Sasquatch!" for the 16th time and I swear I can feel my ovaries shriveling.)


What I SHOULD be doing is weeding my front flowerbed. Because the President of the HOA happened to catch me on my mad dash into the house this morning to drop my dog off (Jax and I spend our weekends at The Boy's house in the mountains-- or as I've come to think of it, "my weekend home"). I was pretty sure we were going to have an uncomfortable talk about the Little Shop of Horrors-sized weed shrub that has sprung up out there...but instead he told me he was going to trim my tree for me (apparently the Sasquatch-loving children of the neighborhood feel our trees hang too low for them to cut across our lawns effectively) and that he'd also pull those weeds for me.

I was humbled and grateful for his help and then scurried off to Meet Expectations downtown. But when I came home, the offending monstrous weed was still standing. Hello, what am I paying HOA dues for? How about you catch a little case of the hurry-ups, Wolfgang?

Yes, Wolfgang. You can't write this shit.

So now I'm on the deck, halfway through my second Dos Equis (you think The Most Interesting Man In The World weeds??) contemplating my duties as a homeowner. And giggling because I just said "duties." I'm wondering how a yard sign that reads "I'll take care of this weed situation just as soon as your kid puts a lid on it" would go over. And blogging about the minutae of my day because that's a better and less itchy way to loll (or LOL, see what I did there?) away the evening.

Yep, this is living.  And perhaps I'd like a little cheese with my whine.  But since I'm never home anymore, I have neither cheese nor wine. 

And for the record, the only drinking problem I have is that I'm now out of Dos Equis.

1 comment:

  1. I think you might be giving the boys too much credit on the Sasquatch thing...speaking as a former boy, we yell a lot of things with no rhyme or reason, and if you think you've discovered said rhyme or reason, you're still probably wrong...I have a phrase that I say to Bandit that is a bastardized version of some Jamaican rap-speak at the beginning of a Dr. Dre song - it makes no sense, and has no reason. And I'm 37. But yeah, I'm sure he's been through the nightstand.