We have a gopher or a groundhog. We don’t know which. We couldn’t get a very close look at him (or her) because he was shy. But, we did see him run under our shed, and we think maybe he’s taken up residence there.

I’m just hoping none of the neighbors try to kill OUR groundhog. If you wanna see me get real pissy real quick, kill something cute and furry that’s hanging out on my property.

Anyway, my greatest hope regarding our newfound friend is that groundhogs eat crabapples. That would be just perfect, because it would save me from having to pick the rotten ones up off of the lawn.

*Reverie.*

Maybe I’ll even be able to teach him to fetch.

Michael frequently calls me “sweetheart.” It’s a word with three meanings. He once explained his usage to me, but it was unnecessary. I’ve always been able to tell which version of the word he’s using by hearing the tone of his voice.

But, in case you ever get to meet us in person, I’ll try to clarify things for you:

Meaning 1 -

Sweetheart - The usual meaning here. It’s simply a title that conveys I’m his loved one.

Meaning 2 -

Sweetheart - The most literal translation is “how sad for us that you are such a moron.” Usually pronounced with emphasis on the last syllable, it’s used to express sympathy toward me and a certain amount of wonderment that he’s married to the stupidest living person on the planet.

If used in a sentence, it might read, “SweetHEART, why are you wrapped up in a blanket with a blazing fire going in the middle of April? Didn’t you know I had the air conditioner on?”

Or, possibly, “SweetHEART, how did you get lost, only four blocks from our house? HOW?!!!)

Meaning 3 -

Sweetheart - This is similar to meaning number two in that it conveys pity for me. However, in this case, he’s just generally feeling sorry for me because I’m inept or klutzy or both: “Sweetheart, we didn’t hear you screaming that you pulled your knee out of it’s socket. Sorry. We had the television up too loud. But, you must be ok now or or you couldn’t walk on it, so shut up and let us finish watching our cartoon.”

A brief footnote-

Somewhat ironically, around our house, the word “bitch” is always used lovingly and pronounced with reverence…

The way cable television works is a mystery to me. It’s just a bunch of wires and gadgets, and I don’t know which doohickey connects to which thingamajigger to make the pictures come onto the television screen. (I hope I haven’t lost anyone with all the technical terminology I’m using, but I think it’s important to be clear, don’t you?)

So, next Tuesday a cable repairman is coming to our house. I have plenty of time to bake a cake and hire a band, but I’m not optimistic that he or she will fix the problem, as this will be the eighth Insight technician I’ve met over the past two months. They’ve all been very polite, but I’m rapidly losing faith in their ability to fix thingamajobbers and whatchamacallits.

The problem we have is sporadic, and therefore, difficult to diagnose. The connection can be fine for hours at a time and then will suddenly start cutting out every couple of seconds. Usually, it tends to start acting screwy right at the end of a really excellent flick. The better the movie, the greater the likelihood of the connection cutting out during a pivotal scene.

Of course, when the repairman is here, the television will act great - the picture will be better than ever, and every station will come through in detailed digital glory. In response to this phenomenon, I will stammer defensively at the technician, “No! But, but, you should see it when you’re not here. It’s reaally baaad. Honest!”

But, the most frustrating aspect is this: Every single time the company sends someone out, they call the night before to see if some act of God has finally fixed my cable so they won’t have to be bothered. For example, “This is Ima Dipp with Insight. You have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow. Are you still having the difficulty with your connection?”

It takes all the strength in my body not to scream at them, “Well, I don’t know, did you f*ckin* fix the problem?!!!!”

This leads us quite naturally back to the beginning of my post where I told you that the way cable works is a mystery to me.

Well, dear blog friends, the tragic part of this story is that I’m beginning to realize that the jumble of wires that makes up my cable connection is just as much of a puzzle to the folks at Insight as it is to me. And that is very sad and stupid and stupid and sad.

But, the bright side of this epiphany of mine is that I now feel qualified to help out. So, when Tuesday rolls around, I’m gonna be ready to offer the tech helpful suggestions like, “Hey, dude, what’s that in your toolbox? That’s a funny lookin’ instrument. You should totally use that next.”

If I start assisting them, I bet they’ll move mountains to get my cable fixed.

I’m taking a moment to recover from mowing the front lawn, and am strongly considering astroturf.

Pant.

Pant.

Pant.

I still have some weeding to do.

By the way, who were the geniuses who decided that the flowers and plants which grow most abundantly are ugly weeds and must be ripped asunder whenever and wherever they show up?

Life would be so much easier if all I had to do was be on the lookout for stray Azaleas sprouting up in my lovely Crabgrass.

Here’s a poser for you, a moral dilemma, if you will:

If a person - me, for example - were to leave the house during the beginnings of a rain shower to pick up some vegan pepperoni for another person - say, Michael, for example - and I were to get caught in a sudden and very scary looking thunderstorm, which involved hail the size of pachyderm balls and midday pitch darkness and possible funnel clouds on the horizon, well, is it a good idea to leave a note?

I mean, if I were in that position, and I found myself stopped at a traffic light, praying to Zeus that I’d survive this frickin’ incredible storm he’d dreamed up, would it be acceptable to jot down a few words to my soon-to-be-widowed husband?

I was toying with something along these lines:

Dearest Michael,

Just wanted you to know that it’s TOTALLY your fault I’m dead.

Please kiss Charlotte for me and tell her Mommy loves her and that I’d be there with her if I could.

Oh, and please don’t let her see my remains if there’s a pole stuck through my skull or something. Tornadoes have been known to do extremely odd things like that. Heaven knows, we wouldn’t want her to be traumatized any more than could reasonably be expected in this situation.

Now I know you’ll say to yourself, “There was no way I could’ve known the storm would get so brutal so quickly. It wasn’t my fault. It was just bad luck.”

Well, honey, if it helps you get to sleep at night, you can believe that, but just remember: I blame you. Need I remind you that cheese pizza was just fine with me?

So, goodbye forever, my love, and best wishes for your eternal remorse.

Toodles,
Debbie

PS - You’ll find the pepperoni on the seat next to my corpse. Enjoy your death pizza.

Pillow talk:

Me - Aw, c’mon. How dumb do you think I am?

Michael, purposely ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question - Very dumb. I think I could bring in a rock to replace you.

Me, calling his bluff - Oh, yeah? Well, why don’t you go find a rock then?

Michael - I just might.

Me - Good luck finding a pretty one.

Michael - It doesn’t have to be pretty. It just has to cook.

Me, caressing his stomach - I see. But, what about my other wifely duties?

Michael - You don’t have any other wifely duties. I can always just write “headache” on the rock.

Uproarious laughter ensues.

*He’d have to be far boulder than he is.