|Courtesy of Hollywood Dame|
Speaking of moving, I mowed. Lawn-mowing is said to fall to the military wife. And since this responsibility in our household usually falls to the hus, brother-in-law, paid gardener (ugh) or no one, I felt it was time to step up. Well, I stepped up, and then I stood back (with shot muscles, sweaty bangs and mosquito bites) to survey my land of missed strips, wavy mow paths and long patches around trees and the corner stop sign with a mixture of pride and dismay.
It was really hard. I will now never go for a run or hit the gym on a mowing day, because my entire body fell victim to this cruel joke from nature ... I started wrapping up the cursed lime green extension chord, (which I had to flip this way and that to avoid shredding - even though I wanted to) because I had had to wait for the sun to ease, and dusk had made it impossible to finish the back, or even begin to edge.
Today, I finished, with Cary showing me how to navigate and toss the chord effortlessly - and he advised me not to mow over logs and dog poop. Oh. Then I went inside and tried making Adventist meatballs (you know, Loma Lindites and Wally World residents, the ones with that tasty ketchup-y apricot sauce?). But then I threw up because I felt so domestic. Just kidding. I blogged about it instead to purge myself.
The only other contextually exciting thing I've done with my time - while Cary sailed through Aerobatics and started plowing through Instruments (the poor guys is getting zero sleep and somehow still managing to learn a plethora of precision and non-precision approaches [or, in my words, a gazillion different ways to find out where you are in the sky and in relation to what] - is enjoy a delicious Irish meal at McGuire's in the downtown area of the other P-town.
|Courtesy of Delish|
Our server said she sells about one of those a year, usually for a winging; one guy tried every burger on the menu (including the PB burger and hot fudge burger), then ended his routine with the Benjamin sandwich. The place also has yummy sausages and sauces (that's almost what she said), and bathrooms with signs that make almost every first-timer go in the wrong door.
We chased our Irish meal that weekend with a celebration of the Irish Carroll's 28th birthday. (Yes, I'm a cougar by five months, or is he a Lolitary? Wait, no, that makes me sound worse.) The attempted Vegas-themed house party (I heart you house parties), was celebashed (my new word that takes a celebration bash to the next level - meaning parents get sitters, couples flirt and strangers may come and go) with one of Cary's squadron mates? colleagues? water soldiers?.
The celebash included chocolate birthday cake, Gray Goose shots (the word in the kitchen was that Belvedere is even better, but it's preference [and price] seems to depend on which coast you reside) and intoxicating games of distracted Texas Hold 'Em, (Will a game ever be played when every player knows how and stays focused? But will it then loose its charm?), and Taboo (which led to the realization that boys will always cheat to avoid feeling like girls are more articulate). Whew, 'nuf parenthesis, yeah? I should learn how to write.
We laughed evil-y for a few moments.
Okay, the one other exciting thing of late is that I found out Bill's house from True Blood is within driving distance. Spring oh spring. Thank you for shortly bringing us True Blood season four, Lady Gaga's junior album and the new Sookie Stackhouse installment. All we need now is Harry Potter #8 and Breaking Dawn to bump up its release date as well as be four hours long instead of two separate. Can I get an amen?