A Self Righteous, Passive Aggressive Moment

The next time my neighbors decide to throw a loud, obnoxious party until 3 a.m., I just might have to wake up at 6 a.m. the next day to do some yard work. In particular, I might have to mow the non-existent grass and blow around all of those leaves that are in my side yard. You know, the side yard right outside my bedroom window where all their drunk friends were parked, and thus where their drunk friends kept slamming their car doors all night. Apparently, a prerequisite for attending an obnoxious party is the ability to enter and exit things emphatically. I might also have to scream expletives while I'm doing said yard work, but that shouldn't bother them because it seems to simply be the way in which they communicate with one another.

Seriously though, I live in a really nice, family friendly neighborhood. If they want to throw down like that, they should have chosen to live on campus in the Greek Village. I realize I'm sounding like an old fuddy duddy, but people's complete obliviousness (or plain lack of regard) for how their actions might effect other people gets under my skin and drives me crazy. We've had parties here until the wee hours of the morning...but we keep the noise inside the house, not outside right next to where our neighbors are trying to sleep. Even in my college heydays I tried to keep the volume down whenever I had parties. Be young and fiesty, do whatever you want. But don't force the whole rest of the neighborhood to listen to your idiocy. It's just rude.

Sink or Swim

I am now officially a geo-bachelorette. We knew this day was coming, but despite all of our best intentions to "prepare" ourselves we didn't really succeed at that. I was taking an intense summer class, spending all my nights and weekends doing schoolwork. The Hubs was packing up his stuff and hanging out with all of his SC friends for a last hoorah. And then, suddenly, he was gone. The days had been so full of stuff to do that the reality of living apart for nine months didn't finally sink in until his Uhaul was pulling out of the driveway.

For the first week, I couldn't sleep. I would lay in bed until 3, 4, 5 in the morning until finally lulled into an infomercial induced coma. It wasn't because I was worried about him; I knew he was safe and settling in. It was just different. There was something missing. It's a good thing he still has a lot of clothes and other things here, because it allows me the illusion that he is just gone for a short trip, whenever I need to fool myself. If his half of the closet was completely empty, I have a feeling I would be much more of a basket case. Even more of a basket case than using his bath towel that he left hanging on the hook instead of putting in the laundry hamper, just because it's his. (Don't judge me.)

Fortunately, I have slowly been forced back into a regular schedule by the demands of work and my final semester of grad school. And it's quickly become apparent that staying busy is going to be my primary coping mechanism for this separation. Between taking a research class, working three jobs, playing on a kickball team, training for a marathon, and doing all the house and pet stuff on my own, I don't have all that much time to sit around and pine for him.

Speaking of house and pet stuff, I am pretty proud of myself for not letting things immediately turn to rubble. I've been keeping up with the always-necessary vacuuming, dusting, mopping, etc. I have not allowed dishes to accumulate in the sink, despite having a broken dishwasher for a while. I've shuttled the dogs back and forth from the vet's office (although I do have to stagger the visits because I can't wrangle them both at once--especially since one becomes panicky and irate whenever coerced into the exam room). I've done yard work--and not just mowing! I actually trimmed all of our overgrown trees and shrubbery! (There is an inappropriate alternate meaning there as well, but I will gracefully leave it unsaid.) I also took a solo road trip with both dogs, which, believe me, requires acrobatic-like skills during potty stops.

However, I am still afraid of the weed-wacker and the power washer. And I have not yet had sufficient initiative to drag the mower onto the other side of the house. And I borrowed The Hubs' friend to come install the new dishwasher instead of figuring it out myself. And now the vacuum cleaner is broken, with pet hair swiftly accumulating as I figure out what the heck to do with it.

There was no gradually acclimating to this scenario. We just had to jump in--I like to imagine cannonball style, with a dramatic splash--into the deep end. And while I'm not sprinting through the waters, neither am I clinging desperately to a raft. I'm figuring things out the best I can, moment to moment.

I'm doggie paddling.

Ollie has not yet embraced the "sink or swim" mentality. He's a clinger.