On my mind:
The people in cottage 5 were apparently very fond of armpit sausage. I, and not just because of my vegetarianism, am decidedly not. And yet, I must find a way to eradicate the olfactory remnants of said sausage. Suggestions welcome.
Later today we have a guy coming in who stayed with us about a month ago, and was so impressed with the place that he offered to come back and paint a couple of our cottage exteriors for free. He claims to do it for a living, but, as he is currently on disability, has some free time and wanted to barter for a little vacation here. It sounds good, but I'm concerned that A) you get what you pay for (free paint job = freedom to put the paint where ever he pleases), and B) if he's on disability why is he able to work, and does this imply that he's generally dishonest or at least willing to take advantage of people and situations, particularly ones that are loose, based on goodwill, and somewhat poorly defined? We'll see!
On Thursday last week we decided to finally get our futon off the damned floor because we're grownups and graduated from college long ago. It never occurred to me that we have a damp crawlspace under our house and that the underside of the futon, the very futon upon which we rest for 8-10 hours nightly, for at least a third of our lives, might become a fungal breeding ground. Makes you feel good about yourself and your place in the world, I'll tell you that. So, I called up 1800mattres (you can see I left off the last "S" for "sleep," though it used to be for "savings," but I guess they abandoned that motto when they decided to charge $1,000 for a bed) and I had my mattress the very next day! Seriously, thank god for these people, and thank god for a grown up bed that is at sitting level. My previous worries about Poopies taking a header off a raised bed have been quelled by his sudden ability to grapple up and down like an agile mountain climber.
Speaking of grappling, four months into our reuniting, the Cap'n and I are still trying to come to terms with everything that's happened over the last year. It appears it's taking me awhile to thaw. Which isn't all that surprising if you know how freaking panicked I was for damn near a year, and alone, and sad, and inverted, but is surprising if you knew that I used to be a very warm and loving person. Anyway, yesterday we hit on a really sad but much-needed low note, and I believe that in the face of the terror of losing everything I love I've begun to defrost. Bout fucking time. Can't someone just find the damned reset button?