I’m counting down the minutes until the Royal White Lace and Promises Gig to be held on Saturday Morning!
Let there be Crumpets and Lemon Tea and Catty Remarks, like “One would think St. George’s Cathedral could afford an upgrade from those metal folding chairs”, or “Ooooo! HATS!!”, or “Is the Queen carrying the nuclear codes in that purse?”
I invited BUC. He selected an iridescent weather resistant netted table runner with no train. And Mums. BUC likes his Mum.
Reminds me of a wedding I was in. My Flexible Husband-to-Be took me to Dinner. When presenting me a ring at the table, a fumble occurred. I got down to look for it, and when I stood up, the lace table cloth stuck to my hair. So. We got married. In a Mystery Dinner Theater. In a Four Act Play. Titled “Who Cut the Cake?” I played the part of The Bride. That’s old news.
BUC lives in the NOW. He’s hoping Harry has a change of heart.
Clink some champagne on Saturday. Happy Nups, Y’all!
One way to get to know your neighbors is to volunteer for a committee on the Homeowners Board of Directors. And use your red-yellow-blue-black yard art as your platform.
Here’s the intro to my campaign letter to the neighbors:
Who is this new-ish neighbor?
What does she think she has to offer the Board of Directors?
When she threw her hat in the election ring, what was she thinking?
Where do our minds meet?
Why is there a metal chicken in her yard?
I went on to state I knew nothing about the current organization but was hoping to scrub in and help. I closed my getting to know you flyer with something like…
When you feel blue, just drive (slowly) past our place, and have a look.
Hopefully BUC makes you smile. Don’t worry. There won’t be more yard art.
We are, after all, in [exact location redacted]. If we run out of conversation starters, here’s a few phrases about me: Girl Scout. Dog Mom. Recovering Apiarist. Former Ballroom Dancer. Community Activist. Ohio Farm Kid. Wife of a Hopelessly Romantic Sailor. Looking forward to seeing you at the HOA meeting Wednesday night.
They haven’t thrown me off the board yet. But it’s early.
I’m shocked and delighted every. single. day that my shit isn’t piled up on the curb when I come home. My flexible husband says it’s only because there’s too much of it.
After returning home from a particularly gnarly day at work, my little sister, my brother-in-law, and my flexible husband greeted me in the living room. And they seemed a little disappointed. I ignored that part. Hugs and pleasantries were exchanged. I began talking. (this will become a recurring theme.)
I must have paused to breathe or something several minutes later because one of them took the opportunity to ask me why I didn’t put my car in the garage like I usually do. Guess I was excited to see my visitors?
Rewind two hours prior:
My flexible husband recruits my sister and brother-in-law to go on a Chicken Caper. In a Subaru Forester. A deal at the artsy-fartsy shoppe is made. The males of the species manage to stuff a six-foot wild country color metal rooster in the back, with my sister sitting criss-cross-applesauce between its razor sharp tail feathers and its metal re bar talons for the ride home.
All three of the chicken crew experienced bodily damage while on the caper, as there are no dull edges on this yard art. At my flexible husband’s direction, the chicken was placed in my parking bay near the garage door– so that it would be the first thing I saw when I came home.
When asked what the chicken’s name would be, my flexible husband replied in an obvious tone, “The Big Ugly Chicken. BUC for short.”
When asked what happens if she hits it with her car, my flexible husband replied in the same tone, “Problem Solved.”
I have been known to decorate my living spaces in the “early eighties garage sale” theme. And when I passed an artsy-fartsy shoppe on West Bay in Largo, Florida featuring giant roosters on their sidewalk, I hadda have one.
Here’s how that went down:
I tell my flexible husband I found the perfect birthday gift. For Me.
As we pass the artsy-fartsy shoppe, I point it out, clapping gleefully.
My flexible husband stomps on the gas, and says I’ve lost my mind.
By now you’ve guessed I got my chicken. But the lore and joy this hunk of junk has brought me has to documented.