It was a kid-less weekend.
For the most part.
The boys went off for an overnight with Bruce early Saturday, and I drove Mia down to Sister Melanie's for a girls' night.
And then I was by myself.
The last time I had 24 hours to myself I mopped the floors.
That was almost 2 years ago.
Saturday morning I read this.
It's about the atrocities being committed in Cote d'Ivoire and folks try to cross into Liberia.
It left me feeling afraid and sad and angry and embarrassed and disgusted at the ability for people to be conduits of evil
and awestruck at the ability for people to survive.
how do you go on?
It left me feeling deep gratitude oh my god i can't imagine thank you we're safe here
It made me pray all day.
If that's what you call it.
So I didn't mop. I tried to pack. Again.
We've yet to have more than a handful of perfect spring days. Saturday was one of them.
Pack schmack. I'm gonna do yard work.
I mean, why should the new tenants have to deal with a whole winter worth of Dusty shit bombs in the back yard?
And I needed some sunshine on my shoulders.
So I picked up all the dog poop.
I removed the blue balls and Christmas lights from the porch it looks plucked and bald unadorned
I cleared some of the dead weeds leftover from the fall.
I picked up all the shingles that this wicked winter tore off the roof.
I looked to see if the lilacs were budding.
Half of the lilac hedge is bent in submission.
I thought it was from last year's Snowmageddon.
All that heavy snow took the poor lilacs down.
I thought they'd spring back in the spring, but they spent the whole year remaining prostrate, unable to stand tall.
I took a closer look.
Those beautiful lilacs were being strangled by some
nasty vining choking look alike fuckers that were relentlessly taking them down.
Fuck you. You can't strangle my lilacs goddamit.
No fuckin way.
Clippers. Handsaw. No gloves.
I spent 2 hours liberating the lilacs.
My hands were scratched and bleeding halfway to my elbows.
Fuck you vine you cannot do this you think you can do this? you cannot strangle the lilacs i'm gonna cut you off at you're ankles so fuck you. I'll bleed and my skin will sting and my nails will break but fuck you i'm taking you down with my bare hands. fuck gloves. fuck you.
ummm... michelle... it's just a vine doing it's viney thing. And they're just lilacs.
It wasn't until my fourth trip dragging away the defeated vines michelle what the fuckin fuck is goin on in your head?
oh. right. Cote d'Ivoire was goin on in my head.
talk about transference.
After that I had to get out of the house.
So I got in the car all dirty and smelly and scratched up with leaves and briars in my hair thinking I need a new bed.
The Sleepy's sales lady didn't bat an eye at my appearance but I was certainly ready with a look lady I was liberating the downtrodden and my knees and my back hurt and I want a nice new soft bed for my nice new house so the next time there's liberating to be done I won't be so achey.
Not a chance. Liberation is hard work. It leaves bruises.
yummy soft yummy bed to be delivered to the new house next week. yum
By the time I got home I was done.
Fuck packing. I'm tired. I'll pack another day.
Drank a beer and took a shower. My hands stung from the scratches. Guess it was my Purple Heart.
Made up my makeshift bed on the living room floor.
Drank another beer and ate leftover chinese and watched Season 2 of Lost.
I woke up Sunday morning in a quiet house feeling safe and calm and yummy and
a little liberated.