Not the best pictures, but I so love these colors.

First comes mower, pushed by minion… and fast on his heels is Cleveland, screaming curses like a drunken overseer in a sugar cane field. I don’t believe I’d even blink if he drew a whip out and gave the boy a few lashes with it.

Is it too much to ask someone to do what you’ve paid them to do, and not a million other little things?

And should I be happy that the sky just opened up and it’s pouring on them? Or is that just wrong? I’m so conflicted.

All the standing water magically dissipated overnight. I was all set to go get some drano this morning, until Arthur took a shower and water backed up into the sink. The kitchen sink. What other water would back up into the kitchen sink? Lemme tell you, there’s not enough bleach in the world to make me feel comfortable about flushing the damn toilet now.

I’m calling Roto Rooter!

12:30p Someone once said that blogs are ongoing conversations. I can accept that in some instances but have never really aspired to that form in its strictest sense. Today may break that particular barrier for me.

The Rooter guy isn’t here yet, though promising an arrival window that’s come and gone. Speaking of, I have to go. If you know what I mean. Sorry for the TMI, but really… I can’t run any water/flush any toilets until this gets sorted out.
I hope they get here soon. It’s raining.

1:45p The Rooter guy’s snake sent bits of porcelain off my toilet flying everywhere, flooded the guest bathroom and sent me running outside screaming ‘STOP, you’re killing my toilet!’
Cleveland, drunk off his ass, rushed inside to help. The turn off valve is stripped, so we -in true cracker fashion- looped it and used tie wraps to stop the water.

Then, I believe, he made a rather poor pass at me. The day is complete.

3:00p Just returned from Home Depot. I invited myself along on the new toilet buying trip so I could upgrade the john if necessary. Chose an American Standard, which will be going in any moment.
The plumber is taking everything very well, even a phone conversation with hubby.

3:45p New john installed in spite of Cleveland, who stopped back by on his way to work, reeking of alcohol. He bossed the plumber around and then left no mistake as to the nature of his overture to me earlier. Lord, I can take a little lighthearted flirting, but this is getting ridiculous. And I have to nip it in the bud. NOW. Before it pisses me off and I tell him something I shouldn’t.

Or get my gun out.

I don’t speak Creole, so we have to rely on his broken English for what little communication that exists between us. For example, I can now understand when he asks for a glass of water, but frankly even that’s iffy. It comes out as something unintelligible and sometimes, like today, he is forced to repeat himself again and again. Hell, I can’t understand when he pronounces his own name.

I digress.

The workers, Cleveland and Emmanuel, had gone home for the day and I had emerged to do my part, weeding one of the front beds and trimming away the various palm fronds. Though sweating like some mutant farm animal, the heat wasn’t really bothering me too much, so I soldiered on. Emmanuel came walking by the house, saw me and strolled over to watch the labor. He seemed disturbed and said ‘tomorrow’.
Not understanding, I replied ‘Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night!’
No, he shook his head and then let loose with ‘Wimmindonutcleen’.

After finally grabbing onto the gist of his message with both filthy hands, my laughter threatened to erupt all over the situation. ‘Women don’t do outside work in your country?’ I asked.
‘No’, he replied, looking disgusted. ‘Tomorrow’. I knew what he meant; I needed to quit and he’d do it for me tomorrow.

Oh, hell no.

‘No, darlin’, this is my work. Here in the United damn States of America women can do any damn thing they set their mind to do and I’m working in my damn yard.’

Another hard look from him and I would either really burst out laughing or tell him to move his ass along…

Instead I said ‘I’m okay, really. I grew up on a farm in Texas. This little bit of work is no big deal.’

He seemed satisfied and took off, leaving me to wonder about a land where women are not supposed to work outside. I’ll just stay here, thanks.

I can call people of all ages ‘honey’ and ’sweetie’ without being thought deranged. I’m just someone’s Snickerdoodle baking grandma, don’t you know.

Same with smiling and talking to babies while out in the world. No matter where; I’m no longer the lunatic who wants to steal their child. My etched crevices have given me the respect I need as a crone to freely make faces at the brand new people. To babble senselessly or call them munchkin names while the parents look on, doting on their DNA and marking what a special hold they seem to have on old people.

Age has brought out the Texas twang in my voice, much the same as it did for President Bush. I listened to him speak when he ran for Governor and during his tenure in Austin… he talked fast, with nary a dropped syllable. Quite the opposite from his later years. We get lazy, I suppose.
But along with the twang it’s now perfectly all right to drop inane sayings, such as ‘we’re burnin’ daylight’, ‘giraffes are selfish’ or ‘plow around the stumps’. Nobody knows what I’m talking about, but it really doesn’t matter, since I don’t, either.

If you really want to have fun, position yourself in the middle of the store and blurt out something akin to ‘we never knew where Aunt Vi buried his body…’ I look forward to shocking more people every year.

Nobody cares if we get polish on our toes as well as our nails… and when we smell something burning, it’s automatically assumed that we’re having a stroke. And everyone thinks we pass our time knitting and baking cookies. In fact, many of us are hooked on The Sims 3 and only bake when there’s a birthday or holiday.

It’s strange, this getting older business. Mired in the past, thrust into the future whether one wants to be or not… traitorous body parts fail us or shock us into submission with their changes.

Thank God I don’t feel 52. And by the way… I’ve never said ‘get off my lawn’. Hubby has, though. He’s 62.

The scrapping stuff is still scattered everywhere, so it was easy to pick back up this morning where I’d left off Friday night. But upon turning this picture over to apply tape, I found a message.

Her words will be included as a caption. Not that she’d be proud of them, but because I don’t want to lose that history.

Click for a larger image.