Got home around 8 p.m. last night. It's a solid 3-hour trip to the San Juans, but it was worth it. Got some good shots of the orcas at play and will spend time sketching them today. The dogs and I feasted on Kentucky Fried Chicken - original - dark meat - lots of fries - keep the cole slaw and ice cream thingys for dessert. Stunk up Cowboy's SUV.
Hey! I had chicken! That's not junk food.
Took time to relax with a glass of wine. Rott had another root beer; Bully likes Budweiser. He drank two and belched all night.
House phone rings. Guess who....
"Hi Babe, glad to know you're home."
(Actually I could have been away. I put the house phone on "call forwarding" so it would go directly to my cell.)
"Of course, I'm home." All innocence here.
"Did you have supper?"
"Uh-huh."
"Was it junk food?"
"Had chicken." THAT IS NOT A LIE!
"The Colonel's?"
Crapola!
"Get into any mischief since the last time I called?"
The man has NO couth - absolutely none at all.
"Miss me?" I ask, changing the subject.
"You know I do," he says softly, melting my insides.
"What do you miss?" I sigh, hoping to get him hot and bothered - and frustrated - and needy - really needy.
"I miss lovin' you, babe," he says softly, reeling me in. "But you're still in for it when I get home."
Damn!
"Good night, Cowboy."
"Friday night, babe," he says before signing off.
Damn! Damn!
Wrote Day 1 and when I went to post it, noticed the NOTE under the mouse. "Don't play on the internet all night and try to get to bed early for a change!"
Jeez. Wellllll, I posted yesterday's story at 1 a.m. and then went to bed. I'd say that was early....
Day 2:
Got up early to jog. I'm working with a pair of Dobermans, training them to lead on both the left and right for a couple that are wheelchair bound. The lady can't use her left hand so the dog has to lead on either side. I take them with me - one on the left, one on the right. Warm up for 1st mile - Dobie straining to get on the left. I do my thing, correct her, pull her back and we start again. She fights me for the next 4 miles. At a jog, she can maneuver faster than I can. It's a battle and by the time we're home, I'm a little out of sorts. Have a lot of work to do with her.
Lo and behold! Who is standing in my driveway? David, the marine who swatted my butt the last time he was at our house.
"Hello jarhead. What's in the bag? Something for me to eat?"
"Mornin' SweetCheeks. Got somethin' for ya'." I am immediately alarmed.
I release the dogs, we go in the house, David puts the bags on the table, swings me up into his arms and spins me around on top of his head.
Why me, God?
"Got to ask you somethin, baby," he says putting me down because I threatened to hurl all over his clean uniform.
"What?" I ignore him as I check out the bags. Eggs McMuffins!!! Chocolate shakes! Apple crispy thingys! MY kind of breakfast!
"Got a couple of large packages at the base. You know anything about them?"
"No," I say with a straight face, digging into the food. "What was in them?"
"The first was a large carton of adult DEPENDS. Whoever sent it made sure it was *secure* and had to be signed for at the guard shack, the sign-in desk, and the bullpen marine guard before it got to me. The base commander was in my office when it arrived. It was embarrassing to say the least."
I am cracking up. This is part of my revenge for David getting me into trouble with Cowboy who gave me an UNDESERVED spanking. (See "Semper Fi my ass!")
"Sorry, can't help myself. That is so damn funny."
He glares at me. Jeez! I can glare better than that.
"What was the second package?" I ask trying not to grin.
"It was a goddamned box of extra thick tampons!"
I am howling.
"And on the outside of the goddamned box is printed with - For those extra heavy days - Shit, Sar! I'll never live that down!"
I am practically rolling on the floor.
"Maybe your bimbo Barbie sent them to you 'cause you spanked her."
"Naw, she's not that smart. And if someone gave her the idea, she'd never know how to make it untraceable and she'd never know the procedure for sending something secure. You, on the other hand..."
"Not me," I lie as smoothly as grease on a pig's ass.
"You know if I ever find out it was you...." he says in that menacing tone marines use to intimidate you, "I'll turn you over my knee and blister your naked ass."
Red alert! Red alert!
"Cowboy will kill you," I say just as softly. "And I will make your life a living hell."
And I would.
He doesn't push me any further but digs into the food. We share a love of junk food and he's not gonna tell Cowboy what I ate. In that, we are co-conspirators. He has to get somewhere and do whatever it is marines with superiority complexes and way too much testosterone do...
"Love ya', SweetCheeks. Remember what I said."
Yeah right - silly man has a death wish. Did I ever mention I am capable of raising PMS to an art form?
Sigh. Worked the dogs, spent extra time with the Dobies, showered and got to work. So far, IMHO, I've been very well behaved.
Sketched, cut fabric, did some bobbin drawing on a quilt I'm making for a charity auction, finished a piece of wearable art and after a bite to eat, worked in the garage on a six-foot paper mache (sp?) giraffe I'm making for our front hall. Still behaving - it's really very boring to be so well behaved. I feel a brat attack coming on.
I finished the wire body a few days ago and am now covering the giraffe in newsprint coated in a plain old flour and water paste and it's messy. I'm standing on a chair to reach the top of the giraffe, my hands filled with dripping newsprint and Bully boy starts beating me with his happy end as he spots someone walking up the driveway. Damn, that tail is so thick it can leave a bruise! Yep! Lost my balance, messy wet pasty paper all over Cowboy's black SUV. ALL OVER. There goes my good humor.
Here comes Mrs. Hair Up Her Ass. There goes my good behavior.
"Oh dear! What a mess!" she says with a wicked grin. "I think Cowboy's not going to like this at all. Uh-uh."
Brat Attack! Brat Attack!
"Ya' think?" I ask quietly - a tone she should recognize by now. I get off the chair, dip more newsprint into paste, swish it around, and throw it at her. Did you happen to hear her squeal? Sounded like a stuck pig to me.
You're not gonna believe this. My cell phone rings.
"Hi Baby, miss me?"
"Uh-huh." He must have a direct satellite link.
"Whatcha' doin', sweetheart?"
"Working on the giraffe." Don't give out any information that wasn't asked for!
"How's it goin'?"
"Good."
"What did you do, baby?" he asks quietly.
Damn! He does have radar!
"What makes you think I've done something wrong?" I muster up my indignation.
"'Cause you're answering in monosyllables and for someone who's a wordsmith, that's a red flag."
Busted!
"Well, uh... you know it gets a little messy working with the flour paste and uh..."
"Is it on my car?" he asks quietly.
"Uh-huh."
"Won't it wash off if you hose it down right away?"
"Yep, sure will." I sigh with relief.
"Anything else, baby?"
"Nope," I lie.
"You sure?" he asks.
Is a pig's ass pork?
"Of course, I'm sure."
"Friday night, babe," he reminds me.
I am soooooo screwed.
Misdemeanors so far:
1/Wandering off the end of the earth
2/Insulted Mrs. Hair Up Her Ass
3/Coated same with flour paste.
I think the dogs and I deserve a treat for dinner. Gonna broil ALL the steaks in the freezer.
Sigh.
Cowboy comes home tomorrow night. Checking the flights to London. I wonder if they still have gypsy caravans in Romania. I have dark hair - I dance - I can play the tambourine. Bet I could just blend in.
Pray for me.