Posted by: canthold | October 18, 2007

The Results of a Gloomy Morning

We seem to have reached the gloomy portion of our weather program. Lots of gloom and threats of rain. A little rain. An occassional peeking of the sun.

I wish I had had a camera this morning on my dog walk. The sun was rising behind a hill and looked like a burst of flames – seeing how the clouds are in the atmosphere – making for wonderful colors. That’s the only nice thing I have to say about that.

Since I’ve been so busy with house-guests and weekend get-aways and school carnivals, I haven’t had any time to clean the tree debris that has fallen all around my decks and on my roof. I sweep the path from the steps leading down to my front door to my door so that no one will slip on the way in, but that’s about it. The rest of the pine needles just pool on the front deck.

And my dog pees on them.

My dog has some strange elimination habits. He like to pee on piles of leaves. (And poop on hillsides like he’s a goat.) With my laziness I have more piles where they shouldn’t be and he’s doing his business right there. This is not ideal by any stretch, but I need to wait for the weather to change so that I can feel like climbing onto my roof to clear the debris and not be afraid of slipping. Of course it would have been much easier if I had done it before it rained, as dry leaves and needles are easier to blow than wet ones. Though, blowing the gutters clean is kind of fun when the spray of standing water flies up and goes all over the place.

I need to do something to thank my neighbor below for taking my giant branches to the dump for me. I think we’ll bake him cookies. Do you think that’s a good thank you? I would give him wine, but he actually seems more like a beer guy, but that feels like stereotyping and assuming he’s one kind of alcohol or another reminds me that I don’t like giving alcohol because what if he’s a recovering alcoholic or just an abstainer? Or what if he were a wine snob and the bottle wasn’t nice enough? Or what if I chose too nice of a bottle and he didn’t know the difference between a good vintage and stagnant gutter water?

Cookies it is. Oatmeal. Without raisins. I’ve been wanting to bake some oatmeal cookies for about three weeks since discovering oatmeal again on Weight Watchers. I want to trick my girls into getting some good old fashioned fiber in their diets. Wish me luck, they’re awfully picky.

In fact, I’m supposed to take them to a dietitian on Friday to make sure I’m feeding them well enough. They’re vegetarians and live quite a bit on that food group we call sugar. I know it’s my fault for letting them have what they do, but I like to blame my husband, especially since he’s not here to defend himself. And besides, they’re kids. If they remember their childhood as fun, then who cares? They can join Weight Watchers when they’re 40, too, after they’ve spent a lifetime of eating whatever they want only to discover that their older bodies are rejecting the good times and now requiring oatmeal instead of Smarties.

Meanwhile, my morning is wasting away. I still haven’t showered and I’d like to take my little television watcher to the farmer’s market. It is, after all, Thursday. I have visions of the three-pound bunch of grapes that I bought last week and want to get another one. The gloomy weather, on the other hand just makes me want to curl up on the couch and binge. Not a good sign.

Oh Sun! Where are you?

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Responses

  1. It has been insanely gloomy here as well today. All day long it was drizzling on and off, then getting too hot in my house so I had to open the door all day and then suddenly, the boyfriend went to play a show (he’s a musician) and he calls me telling me the power went out because of thunder storms. I made sure he was OK there and then immediately thought “OH NO! I can’t have a thunderstorm here while he’s away…This is bad. Badbadbad.” I’m a baby when it comes to thunder, yet lightning is fine by me. If/when you find where the sun is hiding, tell it to bring some snow with it, k? Rain isn’t my thing.


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