Matin heureux!

Auk.

I had planned to sleep in for a bit today; I'd even set things up such that I was coming in to Eviljob about three hours later than usual.

So much for that shit.

After I'd gone to sleep at about four a.m., my beloved lawnguy, Harley David, decides to call me at SIX FIFTY IN THE MORNING. That's six-fucking-fifty ayem, in case my Rabid Bitch needs translating. And not only does he call me at six-fucking-fifty ayem, but he then asks if he woke me up, and tries to claim that *his* clock says it's 7:45.

I asked him if he was aware that god sends people to hell for lying, and hung up on him.

So he calls back at six-fucking-fifty-three in the morning. He's totally sorry, but since I'm up...

AUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!

He wants to come over early, and to make sure I don't have the back gate locked (Jesus...I forget one time, and I never hear the end of it!). So I tell him fine, come over whenever. I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep now anyway. Damnit, damnit, damnit. I'm torn between which pressing engagement necessitated that I get up so damn early; did he want to go surfing? Get laid? My personal guess is that he wanted to get me and whomever else done, get high, and watch whatever big fight was this afternoon, or whenever in the hell it was today.

Sigh.

Harley David has been my lawnguy for almost two years. I keep him because, well, he kinda is an okay person, generally, though he calls an awful lot. I think he gets lonely, or bored, or something. Also, his work is good, and he's cheaper than some of the other outfits roving throughout this subdivision. And he saves lizards. Don't ask. Sigh. And he also made really nice little flowerbed-like-clearing-things on either side of the garage for the teensy little plants with purple flowers that I think were once decorative, and are on their way back to being decorative. Plus, he understands what I'm talking about when I tell him I want him to make really nice little flowerbed-like-clearing-things on either side of the garage for the teensy little plants with purple flowers that I think were once decorative. Speaking Ancodia is a major Plus. And the more expensive people I was using before used to just mow over them, and were okay with letting the grass grow over the little clearing I think was once there.

Butsoanyway.

So I was in a grumpy-ass mood all morning, even though I got to have coffee and got to Eviljob super-early. But now I've been up (it feels like) forever, and I'm no longer tired. And he didn't do the hedges in front.

Story of my life.

I'm not being frou-frou by not doing all of this myself; I would never get around to it, and my yard would quickly become the Jungle of Despair it so desperately wants to be. And then I'd feel even less like doing it. Plus, I don't own a lawnmower. Plus, then I'd have only son-friend to do extra things around the house when I get around to having it done. Which, okay, isn't often, but...whatever. My intentions are good. I want to be this great Suzy Homemaker-Martha Stewart woman. It's never, ever going to happen, but I occasionally half-start projects and get usually son-friend or Harley David to help out. Sometimes I make Meg do it. Not that Meg's any better than I am at attention span or follow-through when it comes to domestic stuff; we both inherited it from Mom. Only I'm a better cook; Meg can barely manage Pizza Rolls, and Mom cooks some very weird things. Mom is famous for making things like Pasta Primavera...with overcooked noodles, canned green beans, and catsup she's thrown some spices into.

Well, that's what it tastes like. Did I mention that Mom's divorced? The aforementioned pasta primavera might be accompanied by...oh, whatever she laid her hands on: baked potato, rice, black-eyed peas... You name it; anything in the kitchen is fair game to appear on a plate. Back when Dorkface was dating, requirement number one for any future Mrs Dorkface was that she cook. Well. And clean. Somewhat.

Well, he didn't want to end up in a doomed marriage for which he had to keep hiring housekeepers and cooks. I can't say I blame him.

Butsoanyway, this is the stock from which I come, so I hire someone to do my lawn. This is me, being realistic about my limitations. So I ended up with Harley David (needless to say, not his real name). And luckily for Harley David, I had left before he showed up. Grr.

So the day started off sucky, and from there couldn't do anything but get better. Romeo's doing fine; he likes the new bed I bought for him so that he has somewhere to go now since Weebie has commandeered his old bed (she did this a few months ago), and I bought a bed for Squoosh, too. I figured I should, since he's staying, and he shouldn't have to sleep inside or on top of his cat condo, or get Puff-Puff's hand-me-down bed. He might not think it smelled right, since it was another cat's, plus he deserves better than hand-me-downs, plus, it would be wrong to do that; that was Puff's property.

Unlike certain courts I could mention, I get the importance of owning property that is yours, only yours, and no one can take away from you. But whatever.

And if anyone ever reads this and has heard some girl kvetch at or about her beloved lawnguy, no--not me. Err...ummm... Her. Not her; she's somebody different.

I should take some Excedrin PM and get some sleep. Finally. For once.