Despite the drizzling, or as Thing 2 calls it, wrinkling, last weekend’s garage sale was a decent success. We made a few hundred bucks, got our basement back, and hauled almost everything that didn’t sell over to Goodwill. Then we dropped half our earnings at Farren’s, went to a friend’s house for mint juleps — we don’t care about the Derby, but have mad respect for its drink — and ended the night with garage beers. Or in my case, garage beer. Negotiating with customers and hauling around junk all day must have wiped my ass out. I refuse to believe it had anything to do with the amount of Maker’s I drank after my two glasses of wine at dinner. By 9:00, I was pretty sloshed and found myself wondering if that makes me old or wise. I suppose the two go together.
We had a few Victorian-era chairs that didn’t sell, but couldn’t bring ourselves to donate them. Turns out they came in pretty handy for those garage beers; we dubbed them our thrones and vowed to keep them for all of eternity as we maintain order throughout the kingdom. Now if only I had a tiara…
In the few good minutes of consciousness I had remaining, I found myself deeply appreciating Quasimoto’s debut album, The Unseen. I later learned that MadLib recorded it during a weeklong mushroom binge, so it makes sense that my bourbon buzz could relate.
I asked my husband why the CD was in the garage and he told me, “Because it’s awesome.” I trust and enjoy his commentary while listening to cool shit with which I should be more familiar, and learned that, in his opinion and in spite of my sloppiness, “It’s one of the finest experimental low-fi records ever.” Our conversation then turned to the tragic realization that break dancing is a lost art. In my attempt to disprove such a sad theory, I moon walked my drunk ass to bed.
Hammock Season Returns
I got home from work the other day just in time to witness the husband’s first hammock hang. This is a pretty big annual event in our backyard, and spotting it can be likened to witnessing the mating of rare wildlife. After the recent falls I’ve experienced getting into my lounge chair, I think I subconsciously wanted to see him flip right on over. But alas, he nestled his way into the comfortable womb, and I had the six-year-old deliver him a can of icy cold beer. That ought to make daddy happy. Or not. The next thing I know he wants me to bring him his phone and his hat. You give someone a beer…
After successful rests in our respective parts of the yard, I prepped toppings for the five pizzas I knew I’d be making after a play date at the park. Spinach, red peppers, red onion, pineapple, mushroom, and chopped garlic all hung out in bowls on the counter for a few hours. Returning from said park, we walked into The House of Garlic. Apparently, once you open that shit up, it permeates the warm air with ease. All night and into the next day, in spite of the windows being wide open, it smelled not so much like a house with a garlic problem, but more like a house with a vampire problem. Our sinuses are thriving, though.
Along with hammocks, this season gives way to another opportunity for sitting around wasting time: fishing. This husband to whom I keep referring bought the kids fishing poles for our upcoming road trip to the east coast. (Fifteen hours on the road each way — you can expect to hear about this trip, should any of us survive.) Of course they need to practice their casting, but I had to set a few boundaries after I got clotheslined trying to make dinner one night. Fishing for mommies is not my bag.
Don’t Quote Me
Without giving credit or shame to anyone, here is a small collection of quotes I’ve been savoring…
“What do you like with your vodka? Fresca? Oral?”
“I didn’t black out. I just stopped remembering.”
“What’s the opposite of organic?” “Dickish.”
“I’m not a princess. I’m a fairytale.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not saying that to be mean, I just don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, so you’re saying it to be stupid.”
“I think eating meat is just as dirty as smoking cigarettes. That’s why I only do either when it’s dark.”
“These people are bunker building bullshitters.”
And finally, a parting image…
“Bea Arthur can scramble her own Portuguese breakfast.”