The run took place a bit earlier in the morning than I'd expected, due to the fact that I had neglected to set the dvr for this morning's stage of the Tour de France. This stage just happened to begin at 3:00 a.m. this morning (ooooh did I rail and gnash my teeth against such cruel turns of fate). Although I'm an early riser, I'm not exactly that early... yet. Give me a few years. I seem to push back my natural rising time by about fifteen minutes every year or so... but for now, we only just made it for the last forty five minutes, which left us with an unanticipated slab of time to eat breakfast and head straight to the trail.
I'm happy to report that - in the eye of the July trial-blitzkrieg - the little DINKY-domicile is still doing well. Daddy-Dubya has survived all of Andrew's machinations to entertain him with activities thus far. He's scheduled to head out this evening after Andrew gets one last crack at Murder in the Bike Degree. Yesterday, we sent him off sailing with +Pamela Englett's boy-toy. They appeared to have had a blast, judging by how giggly and jovial they were when we all reconnoitered that evening. Seriously, it was a bit like interrupting the pillow-melee at a very strange sleep-over of sixty-something men. I think they may have become BFFs at the very least. It was very charming.
I might have mentioned that Daddy-Dubya was up here for a job interview. It sounds like it went well and there's a decent chance that he may be moving up to Redmond at the end of the summer. Andrew is, of course, pretty excited. It would be great to have him closer, especially since that's a lot closer to where Andrew works, so he'd have somebody who could really feasibly meet up with him and watch his crazy track race nights.
It's been a successful first visitor experience at our home, I think. There's certainly the inevitable footprints of a two-person home now harboring three people ... things get messier just that little bit faster, but I've mostly restrained my cleaning binges to times when nobody else is looking with the mantra "the cleaning people are coming on Tuesday, the cleaning people are coming on Tuesday..."
Which means just getting through Monday! Going back to work is going to be interesting. The trial is likely bumped, but that just opens up the door to all the second-tier priority things that have been pressing in at the creases.
House Guest Accomplished, Monkey Business Recommences - Well, I am quite pleased to report that - try as he might - +Andrew Wright did not, in fact kill his father in some athletic induced fireball.
Daddy Dubya reported that he planned to leave yesterday afternoon, so as to meet up with his cousin sometime in the afternoon or "late afternoon." Now, of course from my compulsively-early Thompson roots, that would translate to leaving literally after noon by one or two minutes, and ending up in Seattle by midday. However, I've been a member of the (W)right family long enough to know how this translates: I guessed he would probably be leaving just after 6:00 p.m. to meet up with his cousin some time around 8:00 p.m.
I didn't know how, but I was pretty confidant about my numbers... and apparently I was also pretty accurate.
Things were looking promising for a mellow and efficient goodbye when Andrew and I returned for our run at around 11:00 a.m.. Daddy-dubya was awake and eating breakfast. He seemed to be talking about leaving in a short while, even. Andrew, not having had a chance to even maim his progenitor, could not hesitate a moment, or all may have been lost.
But then it all crystalized - both impending lateness and peril: Andrew mentioned that he'd been trying to think of the best ride to take dear DD on before he left. I started making arrangements with the nearest funeral director. They kibbitzed on various maps of various routes for a short while before Andrew let DD pick what looked to him like the "easiest" route. Note to all normal people: things that Andrew does on a bike are never "easy" by any recognizable connotation of the word, and other words like "mild" or "slight hill" or "mellow" coming from him still mean "make sure you're current on health and life insurance payments and check your pride at the door."
Naturally, the next step was to concoct a suitable steed for this "mild" bike ride around Samish. Andrew spent the next hour or so in the garage refitting on of his little beasties to his differently-proportioned father. I'd estimate that they managed to fit the bike and start changing for this pleasant little "jaunt" at roughly 12:30 p.m. Naturally, things were forgotten and communications were confused, resulting in several cameo appearances from one or the other Wright fella a la a romping farce with appropriately timed slamming doors. By maybe 1:00 p.m. they were off and the house descended into eerie stillness.
By 2:30, Andrew texted me to let me know that that "mild" incline back to our house was... less mild to his father. I was put on standby for pickup duties if necessary, but they eventually decided to push on. At 2:50 p.m., they returned. Daddy-dubya was a saturated roseate, and his eyes still flecked with the life that has obviously passed in front of them on one or two occasions. He had mostly recovered his breath, but was sporting a rather chilling gash on his left leg. When I asked about it, he looked rather surprised and confessed no knowledge of the goring. He collapsed - still with a bashful smile - on our stairs while I poured him some orange juice. After sufficient recovery time, and plenty of conversation about the athletically deleterious effects of his blood pressure medications, he went upstairs to take a shower... for the next hour or so. Andrew was also upstairs... waiting for the shower.
At some time past 4:00 p.m. Andrew came downstairs and expressed surprise to find only me in the room. He asked where his father was, as if perhaps I had hidden him in the pantry perhaps, and I suggested that he must be packing upstairs. Actually, he was passed out on the couch. Well, first he was "half asleep" and by the second time Andrew went to check, he was dead to the world.
We agreed that if he wasn't up by about 5, we'd stir him. Andrew decided to kill some time with his kindle... by which I mean fall into a somnolent stupor while connecting with his kindle via a fine thread of saliva.
Apparently it's genetic. At about 4:45, something stirred in the upstairs, which woke Andrew. It did in fact turn out to be Daddy-Dubya, who debouched from his sleeping den a little after 5:00 p.m. He sat down in a chatty mood and asked us if we had any special dinner plans. I reminded him that we'd thought he was spending the afternoon with his cousin, so we rather hadn't made plans. A little light went off and he said "oh yes, I should call him!" before setting about making a sandwich.
From there, Daddy-Dubya nibbled at a monster-bagelwich while leisurely perusing his book. I believe at 5:40, he vanished again, although neither of us were certain where. At that point, we were both making our dinners, so we just lost track. There were several loud bumps and bangs upstairs that didn't seem to acquit with any concept of "packing luggage," but we didn't quite have the curiosity to investigate. Whatever voodoo was happening upstairs, DD did come back down at about 6:10 p.m. with some bags.
After some additional logistics were addressed, I made certain to get my key back from him. I have, of course, promptly lost the key. I knew I would do this, but I couldn't find my other keys at that point and decided to store the key in a safe space which is certainly safe enough to be completely Adella-proofed.
And several wishes of luck and love later, he departed and I certainly hope he made it to Seattle. I'm not sure we have a confirmation of that just yet. He joked that we had passed the first test of our new marriage in having him as a house guest. Really, he's quite the agreeable house guest, so we've got plenty of worse tests to endure. So, although I'm glad that our marriage did - in fact - survive, I think I am still much prouder that Daddy-Dubya survived. With Andrew's form of entertaining, this is hardly guaranteed!
Our Yard Got its Ears Lowered! Or, at least, it looks a bit like it has had a thorough buzz cut. It's as if the weeds obscuring all those little details of landscaping (I had no idea we had such a thing as scape in our land) was a magical cloak of invisibility. Surely when we first checked the place out, it looked like this, but once spring sprang ... well, we were so busy getting moved and sorting out our new DINKistence, I'm not sure I ever paid much heed to the mini-outdoors, except to occasionally cringe at its invasion onto our porch and to draft some armistice agreements before the outdoors continued its campaign into the kitchen.
About a month ago, our landlady stopped by with her family (and our blessing to do so, preferably while we weren't there), to show them the house. I'm a touch mortified to note that she witnessed it just subsequent to nature having exploded all over our once-cultivated "yard." She very gently reminded us that it was our responsibility to not turn her property into a swamp (really, she was very sweet and even offered to connect us to a friend who does yard work). I bet she would be glad to hear that we never quite followed through on our plans for the community peat bog...
We'd had some idle chatter about handling it ourselves. And by "we" and "ourselves," I mean " +Andrew Wright " since I'd originally made it clear that I'd personally seek out a home with an asphalt landscape scheme, as I had no interest in yard work.
In headier days of yore - when the money was intoxicatingly tight - he'd imagined he could handle these things as they came sprouting and springing and pullulating all over everything. "We" decided eventually that the equation may have changed now that "we" were (1) making a positive income, (2) both fairly busy trying to balance work, life, love and bikes.At the very least, there was no impending DIY yarding in anyone's near future. And yet, the problem was officially demanding redress. My suggestion of simply burning it all and/or repaving with concrete just seemed like a bit too much energy.
After some knit brows, I called my mom's yard service. They're quite good but not the most communicative of services. After an initial phone call, I had a hard time getting a sense of next steps, except that the guy would swing by my property sometime and let me know how long he thought it might take to tame the beast. Didn't hear from him for a week so I called and left another message. He didn't return my call, but did show up at the home while Andrew and Daddy-dubya were there. Happily, this meant that they could figure out how much of the mess was our property and get an estimate. And then the guy said "he'd get to it sometime this week."
Lo and behold, that sometime was apparently Wednesday. Between the cleaners taming our clutter indoors and the thorough tidying outdoors, I am feeling inadequately primped for our own living quarters. Most definitely, I will need a personal makeup artist and dresser before I'm allowed to go home again.
I'm dreading the bill, as this was clearly a massive job. I don't have photos of the before, but just imagine that anywhere that there's rock or brown lawn... that used to be covered with some sort of non-descript fauna. He estimated the initial job would take about 6 hours of "maintenance" (e.g. emergency intervention). We'll see how that panned out.
In other homelife news, yesterday was track-widow night. Andrew went off and gave himself several nasty scrapes and bruises attempting not to kill a little child on the track (apparently not-killing-children is the hot new race, right up there with point-a-lap and kirin... I think he definitely got some points for this one), I celebrated by watching similarly scraped up guys racing on similarly funny bikes in even more absurd Captain Bicycle superhero costumes: The Tour de France first individual time trials.
I'm just glad we all survived with most of our skin still covering our muscles! It was a breathless touch and go there, let me assure you. Spectator sporting is a dangerous sport. I could easily have gotten a muscle cramp from sitting funny!
Gymbunny Sock-reboot - yes, I know these are the same socks that induced that seizure/migrane you just had a few scrolls back. But they are multifaceted little devils, equally well contemplating a newly discovered landscape in the morning light and pounding mercilessly against the pavement with only my new kinvara virratas to cushion the clash.
Azita and I make a funny pair of regulars at the midday workout troughs - and really, aren't all midday regulars a little bit funny somehow? My look bridges sporty, whimsical, and totally disheveled as I wait in the entryway to workout-city, after a brief lope over from the office. Azita arrives looking catalog-perfection down to the coif and accessories. She also totes along roughly ten pounds of luggage in the form of a rather magnificent workout bag. I imagine that should we be kidnapped mid-rep and taken to a far flung destination, she would be well equipped for any imposed hotel stays during our captivity.
We average out a bit in the dressing room, although she certainly take a degree of care to anchor her hair and match her ensemble. I've still got a halo of sweaty hair, sunglasses perched atop my brow... and my dazzling leg-wear, of course, lest anyone errantly imagine I actually take myself very seriously. Although one wouldn't be to far to blame for imagine I am taking the workout bit itself seriously. I can crack a smile or two between reps, but I can't say that my lamaze breathing and intense stare elucidates frivolty and frolic... I may have burned slight holes in a few walls during that last final push on rep 10.
Azita, on the other hand, goes from fairly self-consciously together to a smiling head-toss mirth at each rep. The harder they get, the greater the gaiety. I can hear her teehee burbling like brooks over pebbles from across the gym. Actually very charming, although it's a lot harder to laugh along with her while holding really heavy weights. I'm not sure how she manages, but Cross-Laugh could really be the next new fitness craze!
She is also the gym-room socialite. Some of the other gym-ladies have gravitated towards her cheer and hellos. I'm kind of focused, but I enjoy the inclusion vicariously as her plus one on occasions. It's sort "that nice girl and her really athletic friend" classification. I guess I conserve all that charisma I indubitably harbor so I can channel it down into my rapidly fatiguing muscles.
And of course, after the workout, Azita painstakingly reassembles herself, while I stretch and log my weights in a phone-app (yeah, yeah, but I don't have a heart rate monitor, a gps, and three training websites to conjure up statistics based on all that like some husbands I know). I bound down the stairs, with her carefully dismounting each step so as not to be felled by the combination of gravity and some very tall shoes. We "air hug" goodbye, since apparently we are "both sweaty" at this point. I figure it's a nice, all-American complement to the well-distanced cheek kissers in more cosmopolitan locales.
And after dropping her off at her office, I'm off to bound yet again. I have to admit that once I change, I do towel off with a good pack of baby wipes. But I'll also remark that I rarely achieve any semblance of stylized or coiffed or accessorized as much as tug on some clothes I was wearing earlier and wet my hair. Makeup? Ha! I've coasting on my natural glow... and the radiation from my workout socks, of course.
Which I'll need today. The darling husband got a paltry pittance of sleep Wednesday night, due his track-racing shenanigans. He was, naturally, quite tired last night. And since we are married and it's very important to share with your spouse, I think maybe he wanted to help me be tired too! After a lateish dinner and a battle with some sudoku, he was off to take a ten hour shower - during which apparently he decided that he couldn't remember which side of the bathtub "we" kept our shower curtain (for future reference: "we" keep our shower curtain on the side of the tub that doesn't result in a minor flood of water spilling out of the shower onto the bathroom floor). Emerging clean shaven and nearly as soggy as the rest of our bathroom, he decided to make a sandwich while I proceeded with my bedtime preparations. As could be expected, he lingered out of sight until I was just about drifting into dormancy. This was the cue for his triumphant arrival in the bedroom, at which point he commenced a small spate of tossing and turning, followed up by a lovely percussive interlude of "scratching at a fingernail"... something like that.
He was so mightily successful with the evening show, he did an impromptu encore at about 4:20 (har har, 420 dude) when he got up to find a sweater, decided to cuddle upon returning to bed, and then decided he wasn't comfortable, goosed me goodbye, and turned over in such a way that the bedsheets rather garroted me. For a nice follow up, he gave me a very tender kick to the calf. I think I gave up at about 4:40 and tried to make coffee. Note to all: making coffee with a coffee maker works better if you actually turn it on! Just saying...
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