Girlfriend in Tacoma

Jul. 25, 2008 at 9:15pm

Having an affair with Murphy

(what can go wrong, does.)(arrrrr.)

Popping in to Cork so I could have a sip and a visit with the irrepressibly cute and nice Odessa at Rebecca V Gallery (and then to meet the very very fun Andrew?? I think his name was?  Why am I so sucky at name recollection???) --I noted, quite happily, the selection that included Bitch, Evil, and Pure Evil wines.  I nearly settled on Pure Evil until I discovered that Go Girl Red was a mere $5.  Whee! Since the label for Rose the Riveter by the same winery that makes Go Girl Red (Olympic? I think?) is my current mascot, as I have this whole "We Can Do IT!" Mentality, I decide, oh yeah.  Empowerment as I sip, with a little RAWR! power to get me going once I get home to mow. 

A nice hour plus passes, and I have to go home to mow.  Sad, so sad.  But, remember, I am RAWR! --so off I pop, as the sun considers setting. I must mow like the wind, swift and free, to race the rays of light as they slip away.  Or something poetic like that.

SO fire up The Beast (the lawnmower I wanted to name Christine after my first encounter with her) and she starts, complacent and sweet.  I have full-on peppy aerobics instructor cardio-ified energy as I zoom over the dandelions of the front patch of greenery (dandelions are the only greenery growing in my front lawn, truth be told, though horsetail weeds and clover seem quite happy with my flower beds, thanks) --and then, The Beast/Not Christine does that passive aggressive bitch thing that happens when someone hates you and they want to let you know it with that coy, sweet, "oops!" (giggle) as they screw you over.

What passive aggressive bitch thing, you ask?  She threw a wheel.  Right front, poof.  Gone.  Bolt nowhere to be found.  Bolt of same size nowhere to be found in ANY of the man's seventeen tool chest/sundry bins/piles of fuck in that hellpit called a garage.

I am woman, Go Girl, RAWR!.  I can do this.  I don't need no stinkin' wheel, right? (I have the left, after all.) SO I mow sans right front wheel, and have about 5 crunching grating blade-against-rock moments, and as I back up The Beast, I get the one sharp/hard/injury-making object in the yard straight up the back of my achilles.

I conceded defeat, much as I did when the seventy pound box that was the kid's new chest of drawers fell down the stairs I was trying to schlep it up two days ago, taking me with it.  Well, then I just picked the box up a different way and told it who was boss despite the nearly broken foot and bruises up my shin.  But the box had no blades.  Not so, the mower.

Tonight, I will go all RAWR! with my domestic deific-entity ness, and clean, sew, and gerbil-bond (though not, like, with needles or glue) like nobody's business.

If the kids have to wade through fields of grain to find the bounce house on Sunday, so be it.  

We will all survive.

Because we are all RAWR! like that.

comments [1]  |  posted under RAWR!, Tacoma, wine bar


by chrism39 on 7/26/2008 @ 8:50pm
We are, remind me what time the party starts.


musing her way through arts, culture, dining, shopping, exercising, and parenting, all while wearing a pungent, truffle-like aroma.

Recent Posts