Things I Do That I Can't Do With Child Around and About
1.) My headphones have this nifty little microphone attached that swings down and, if you squint really hard, looks sort of like something a performer would use. I have performed numerous shows for the delighted pleasure of my bed and television. For those lucky enough to have never heard me sing, I am being propositioned by the local Coyote pack (Lodge 418, the Death Howlers) to take up the midnight shift. The benefit package is nothing to sneeze at either. Apparently, freshly killed rabbit and snake are a perk of membership. So I am just guessing that I won't be chucking all to go out and sustain a singing career.
On the other hand, skidding around the area in my undies and passionately singing Belinda Carlisle's Summer Rain (I feel so *connected* to this song, don't you?) is something I am not quite ready to give up until Child comes back, at which time he covers his ears and begs me to stop. I have gotten him to go to bed on time with threats of singing him to sleep.
2.) Watch QaF vids. I just can't when he's within a five mile radius. There's some sort of instinct in him that homes in on me doing something he has no business seeing, and right when the most explicit bit comes up, there he is, at my shoulder, eyes wide, asking "Mom, what are they *doing*?" and yes, I've covered biology, but damned if I'm covering the variations of sexuality at this point. It's just not happening anytime soon. Just no. The egg thing? Was enough. Really.
3.) Clean my sheets. Child is a *dirty* magnet to freshly washed sheets. I have no idea how he does this.
Things That Didn't Cause Our Deaths Today
The air conditioner went out.
Yes, all the way here, I can hear out_there wince in what comes next--namely, that the family gathered to marvel over the contraption trapped in our walls providing centralized cooling. what does this do, we wonder, poking at metal bits and non-metal bits and other Inexplicable Things that change hot, humid air to nicely chilly. My, we say, that is intersting, as we stare at pipes and tubes and brackets.
You'll all be deeply relieved to know I had no part of the proceedings other than offering to solder (sauter? Does *anyonE* know the proper spelling?) the bits together, should anyone procur me some fun welding things. There were--loose bits. Even now, none of us are sure if they were supposed to be loose or not, but there you have it.
Dad, showing more wisdom than is his wont, decided to call a repair person type, and I lent my skills into googling for one open on Saturdays, while Mom took the door off the Air Conditioner Closet Thing and stared into it at all the things within. It is a mess. I mean, I think it was a mess before we took up the Mantle of Handiwoman-ness, but really, now?
Wait, I'm jumping ahead.
A guy was found and contacted, but no idea when he'd arrive. Unacceptable, we screamed unto the sky, cause *fuck*, it's ninety something degress at eighty percent humidity. I get less wet taking *showers*. Family breathed hot air in considered thought, and Mom decided, hmmm. When I do this, VCRs hide and my computer cries. Staring at the unit with a look saying that soon, it would beg for negotiations for peace, she took out a screwdriver, some twine, and some duct tape, and started putting things that looked broken together.
No, not joking. A screwdriver, twine, and duct tape. And lo, our air conditioner is working, and none of us, even my mother, knows why or how. We will sleep cool tonight, and very probably wake up dead tomorrow for having offended the Air Conditioning Gods or something, 'cause really. TWINE. DUCT TAPE. I think there was a toolbox involved with such gadgets as That Weird Thing that You Use to Pull Stuff and That Hammer Thing and That Thing with Batteries that Goes Vroom and the Myriad Variations of the Wrench adn the Screws of Many Useful Sizes and Types. I'm just not sure if she *used* any of it.
*shakes head* It's like--our thing. My genetic preclude a lot of things that normal people have--sanity, a bend toward cleanliness, common sense, not to mention financial sense of any sort--but we do have this. We can fiddle with major appliances and not die. When the Apccalypse, the Revolution, or the Second Coming appears on the horizon, I don't care where I am, I am chugging my way back to my mother, who will doubtless, beyond reason, make the car run without gas and rig fires using, well, duct tape and twine and probably restart the industrial revolution using flour and a fingernail or something. It's really creepy, now that I think of it.
In other news, I am now on the homestretch of Landscape and no closer to the end than I ever was. I think of this story as a marathoner thinks of the finish line--not with joy, but with the grim satisfaction of knowing the little bastard is *done* and never will it haunt me again. With that, I'm downloading permetaform's vids from here, since by God, I passed the seventy thousand word mark and *deserve* it. besides, lierdumoa was totally pimping her and, as her taste is flawless, I am all over it.