My 4 a.m. sweatathon kicked off with annoying regularity, leaving me awake, annoyed, and with the sensation of being microwaved from the inside out. Hubby has a cold, so a fan was out of the question and I opted instead for half of an over-the-counter sleep aid, very mild, but it was enough to send this lightweight back to dreamland until my 9:30 wake up call. Don’t laugh. I don’t usually sleep in, but between delayed jet lag and the early-waking/night sweat purgatory that is par for the course at my age, my sleep patterns have been grossly disrupted and, yes, I DID sleep in this morning like the lazy toad that I am.
“This is your morning wakeup call,” says Handsome Hubby.
“Ugh. I didn’t even hear you leave.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you were dead to the world, so I let you sleep.”
“Uh… sorry for no breakfast,” I said, not so much because I’m a June Cleaver type as I have a glut of eggs in the rack that need cooking, and a breakfast taco is a great way to use them up.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because HH neither forgives nor aknowledges his lack of morning taco. It’s kind of a passive aggressive dance we do sometimes, but at least we both know the steps so it’s ok. “So,” he says, changing the subject in a cheerful voice, a post-Pepsi-max and I’ve already been sitting in traffic for an hour and a half without my usual taco voice, “whaddya got planned for today, then?”
He always asks me this. HH is a veritable human To-Do list. It’s almost like he makes a living managing people and projects or something. “Well, since we cleaned our wardrobes out yesterday, I’ve got to get all these bags taken down to the charity shop, and I’ve got to get the ironing done. I’ve only just woke up, so … my day is in its early planning stages, actually. I’ll try to have something more concrete for our lunchtime go/no-go meeting.”
HH knows I’m just kidding, but then, he knows if he doesn’t help me marshal the fairies inside my head, I’ll get nothing accomplished. I appreciate it, really, even if it is a little irksome that he is so put together and I am such a flake of late.
So I lug four huge black bin bags full of clothes and shoes bound for the charity shop and one bag of rubbish to the car and then stow all 5 suitcases in the barn, no easy feat, I have to admit. Laundry is sorted into colours and the machine set to work, and I decide to tackle the ironing pile. Only, who wants to iron without the TV on?
I turn on the TV, but there is a bar across the screen that says the Sky box is getting no signal. I step outside to investigate, and, voila, my vigorously beautiful Virginia creeper is, indeed, growing all over the satellite dish on the side of my house. I’m too short to pull away much, so I get the long handled loppers, which, by the way, are useless against the creeper. There are just too many little stems. This is a job for my lawn shears and a ladder.
I hesitate to think what HH would have made of me, teetering atop the extension ladder in my wet sandals, manning the long shears like I knew what I was doing. He is already convinced I am bound to die in some freakish accident, though for the life of me, I cannot imagine why! Fortunately, I survived my mission with all limbs intact and without falling and impaling myself. I peek through the living room window and assure myself that the dish is now receiving a signal. Whew. The ironing awaits…
But, because my tangential brain fairies are so very observant, I note that the creeper is also encroaching on my living room window, and one cannot iron in the dark after all. The ivy gets a quick tidy. I look up, and note that it is even worse around my bedroom window. Naturally, since I have the ladder and my scissors are at the ready, I trim around the bedroom window as well.
While I’m at it, I figure I should check on the buddleia we have growing out of the side of our chimney out back. Yes, my friends. There is a tree rooted in the ancient mortar of one of our chimneys. The little so and so just will not die. Sure enough, it has grown a full 3 feet since we last cut it, and what is more, it has sent out a shoot into a place higher up on the chimney, even closer to the roofline. Yay. I cut them both back and spray with weed killer. Again.
Meanwhile, I have had to fight the stinging nettles at every turn, since they grow so lush and thick in an unattended garden. If you have never felt the burn of stinging nettle, just imagine mosquito or fire ant bites. The plant is covered in little hairs dripping with formic acid, and the lightest brush with their leaves raises a burning rash that can last for hours. The weed killer is already out, so I make the rounds spraying along the footpaths for nettle, which is growing in great clumps everywhere. Some stands are 4 feet high!
Finally, I am able to stow the shears, lopper and secateurs, the weed killer and ladder are safely under lock and key, and it is time to start the ironing. I go into the house, look down at my nettle-bit ankles, and notice that the carpet is in desperate need of hoovering.
Now I ask you: Who can iron with a dirty carpet?
And so, the saga continues. I promise to get the ironing done. Once I finish this post…
Feature photo: My ivy covered cottage! Can you see my satellite dish on the right? I know – neither could I! Haha! Also, that is my Lilykins perched on the stable door and posing for her picture. Life isn’t so bad, really… 🙂
PS: This is my 100th blog post, can you believe? Thank you all for reading, commenting, following and generally supporting this crazy little ride. Y’all are wonderful! xxx MH
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