The Joshlings went back to school this week, which means that their paternal unit is now home with me on Tuesday mornings (Tuesday is his day off). Since you know that we love each other to a saccharine degree bound to end in a Ryan Gosling movie, Nicholas Sparks novel, or all of our friends unfriending us from Facebook, you can imagine that we’re glad for the extra time together. This is how we spent today.
I got up early in the morning to resentfully begin work while he slumbered on, one tattooed arm draped over his face and his sleepy mind vaguely wondering where the warm spot next to him went. He woke later to make us coffee and bacon and sourdough french toast. Being served breakfast by someone who loves you is thoroughly good, and I would definitely recommend it to all of my friends. Josh even loves me enough that he says nothing when I eat my breakfast bite by distracted bite over the course of an hour, forgetting it, returning to it, and consuming it long after the warmth has fled. He watches me eat cold eggs (cold eggs!) with secret horror, privately wondering what inner demons possess me to let my food get cold and then eat it, but he says nothing. Because he loves me. And he probably also figures it’s the same inner demons that make me like pickles (the snack of Satan), anyway.
After breakfast we move on to our separate chores; I pissily troubleshoot my internet connection again while he swears ferociously at the screen door. I’ve been torn as to whether or not I should include swearing in this blog in the manner in which we actually do swear (which is terrible and we should be ashamed of ourselves), because I appreciate honesty but don’t want to offend my gentler readers. So, I’ll report Josh’s comments toward the screen door as though they were auto corrected on his phone: “MOTHER DUCKING PIECE OF SHIRT! Duck! Son of a BUTCH!!! BABY THIS DOOR IS NOT EVEN SQUARE. IT IS NOT EVEN DUCKING CLOSE TO SQUARE. Come and look. Look. Look at the ducking door. Look at it. Son of a butch.”
Josh vs. the Screen Door is kind of an ongoing affair, and due to my undying love for him, I will not articulate here which combatant is coming out ahead in that conflict. He’ll win in the end, but the door is putting up a good fight. He’s right, of course. Our door frame is not square. Our door frame has been through the wars and is nowhere near square. The screen door fits on some edges and gaps like shameless hillbilly teeth on other edges. I can’t begin to guess how you go about fixing something like that, which is why I personally would never undertake such a project to begin with. It’s why I have Josh. With my dad’s help and advice, we will probably get it working around the time it’s too cold to want the door open anymore, but we’ll still use it. By god, we will use that son of a butch.
Overall, we coexist well in our TTH, but there is one problem, which is that we have one bathroom. One tiny, tiny bathroom. We should avoid inviting women in the late, large stages of pregnancy to our house, because I’m afraid they might get stuck in the cramped confines of the commode and the Jaws of Life would have to drive through our forest of backyard house-eating plumbagos in order to rescue our expectant guest. I couldn’t even include pictures of the bathroom in the Great Indoors post because it was like trying to take photos inside an ear canal. Two people cannot fit in there even if they’re friendly and have no self respect or boundaries, so it’s difficult when Josh is in there shaving and listening to House of the Rising Sun while I need to pee.
J: (*bzzzzzzzz* There is a house in New Orleans) What?
M: Hurry up!
J: (*bzzzzzzzz* They call it the rising sun) What?!
M: JOSH I NEED TO PEE.
J: (And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy) Oh… I’ll be out in a second.
M: LIKE A RACEHORSE.
J: (And God I know I’m one) I’m just making it smell good in here right now. *spritz spritz cologne*
M: PEEING. NEED TO PEE. RIGHT NOW.
J: *appears* Kisses! You like my shirt?
M: I hate that shirt.
J: I know, that’s why I’m wearing it.
All joking aside, we’re doing well here. I miss Josh when he’s off at work. I’m happy when I come home from the ranch and see his dirty Honda with ‘DROUGHT TOLERANT’ written in dust on the back, parked under the pepper tree slowly endeavoring to destroy its engine. (It’s worth noting here that his car is still cleaner than my car). The house is small (you may have picked up on this), but it’s organized well so that we’re not always tripping over each other. I enjoy hearing his Rob Zombie from the kitchen while I’m torturing telecom customers in the office, or knowing he’s outside trying to save the shade plants I fried in full sun while I’m vacuuming copious amounts of Jet-borne dirt off the floor.
Tonight Josh isn’t here; he has abandoned me to tenderly care for a neurotic German Shepherd who shyly hates everyone and drives Josh to criminal impulses and insomnia-driven verbal rampage by barking all night, every night. If you have a pet sitter you should thank him or her, because your pet is probably a jerk while you’re gone. As on all such nights when Josh is away pet sitting, I find it slightly disorienting to be here alone at night without him. The itty bitty house feels big and lonely when there’s only me here, and it feels strange to work at the ranch past sunset knowing there’s no particular reason to hurry home. The other thing about Josh being gone is that I have to cook myself dinner, so you know, obviously that sucks:
M: I burned the sweet potato tots.
J: How did you manage that?
M: I don’t know, I put them in for the time it says and they’re all black on the bottom.
J: Baby, you are supposed to turn them halfway through.
J: What are you having with your sweet potato tots?
M: Leftover sweet potatoes.
J: You’re having sweet potatoes with your sweet potatoes?
J: I need to come home.
Yes, yes he does. I clearly can’t survive in the wild alone. After so many years of declaring that I am an unfriendly ice princess who requires copious amounts of solitude in order to become slightly less prickly, it’s nice to live with someone I miss when he’s away. It’s a happy thing to find I was wrong about myself, and a happy thing to learn that it doesn’t matter how small the house is if it’s home. My small world is good, and I am grateful.