Potty Mouth

We have a large ladies' room here at work.

20 stalls-10 each on either side of the handwashing stations.

So lo and behold. I go to avail myself of the facilities this morning and find myself alone in the restroom. There isn't another soul in there.

As I go about my business, I hear the bathroom door open and another lady come in.

...and use the stall right next to me.

Really?

Really?

...and it wasn't pleasant.

Why in the world would a person go into a virtually empty restroom and use the stall right next to someone when there are 19 others to choose from?

This is a serious issue, Folks.

Dusk

That great time of evening when everything goes still.

Now is the time of year when everything is green and fluffy and full of color and scent.

The fire pit was fufilling its destiny with logs ablaze. I didn't have any marshmellows or chocolate or graham crackers.

Pity.

The frogs began kickin' up a fuss down at yon pond.

A bat buzzed us. Where it came from we're still not sure.

Sadie and Fred took off down to the fence. They growled off into the timber.

Was that another dog?

Nope.

It was a coyote. He loped out across the bottoms and then made his way back into the woods.

The guys chatted and Big puffed on his first cigar.

His first good cigar.

Big Daddy decided that all of those Swisher Sweets he and a buddy had been sneaking after their school shows should be replaced by a Romeo Y Julieta once he turned 18.

You know, I like being downtown. I love the romantic notion of renting a loft and gazing out at all the folks going by. Walking down to the corner for a coffee-watching folks go by during First Friday Art Walk-from my window.

But it is just a notion.

I'm a redneck girl at heart.

And sitting on my redwook deck at dusk is just about perfect for me.

Paint Your Wicker

In preparation for graduation festivities this weekend, I persuaded Big Daddy that we needed to paint.

We painted porches.

We painted decks.

We painted furniture.

We started out with a paint sprayer.

Several hours and several choice words later, Big Daddy gave up fighting the good fight and made a mad trip to Lowe’s for rollers and pans.

During his trip, I took over the furniture-a mixture of white paint and water to cover wicker that had weathered a lot of weather.

Now I don’t suffer shoes gladly normally, but yesterday I kicked them off so I could feel the grass squishing through my toes while I slung paint.

…and I do mean slung.

I slapped my brush over and around. I splodged it into cracks and crevices. I dappled it across the backs and circled the legs.

For my trouble I had white freckles across my nose and a smattering across my arms and legs. I left white foot prints across the driveway.

While I laughed at my idiocy, I suddenly felt the earth tremble. I staggered trying to keep my balance.

It wasn’t an earthquake.

The fervency with which my Dad rolled in his grave caused the earth to tremble.

He painted for a living.

He painted inside, outside, and underside and he did it all wearing white.

Aside: the scent of baby oil make me think of him. He would slather himself in it before painting outdoors. The reasons were twofold.

1. His vanity knew no bounds and he could tan while he worked.
2. Practicality. What little paint he got on him would wash off easier with an oily undercoating.

Anyway…. I inherited none of his talent. He was appalled at my sloppiness and let me know.

But…

While he’s up and about, shaking his head in disgust, I’d love it if he would stick around for another few days to watch his oldest grandson graduate from high school.

I know Big never got to meet his Grandpa. But I have a feeling Dad knows all about him. And it sure would be nice if he rattled and rolled around a little on Sunday- as Big begins his own paint job.

…not porches or decks or furniture.

As Big picks his colors, he’s going to need help with his brushes.

Maybe with your hand guiding him, Daddy, he’ll finish without leaving footprints in the driveway.