You might wonder what happened to my post this morning. I know that my 13 readers demand their daily dose of Viv randomness. So here it is, hopefully it will stem the tide of panic from my dedicated following.
Yesterday I got the “Your startup drive is full, please delete files” warning for the umpteenth time. I emptied the trash and deleted as many stupid photographs as I could but the writing was on the wall.
Also, when I first got this computer in 2008 (Jesus, time flies) it felt like a racehorse. Now it feels like a horse drawn carriage.
I stopped into our neighborhood computer repair joint, iSupportU. They took a quick look at my Macbook and confirmed that it was full-up and said for under $200 they could double my hard drive space in 24 hours if I could leave it right then and there. Done.
Now I’ve got it back and while it doesn’t feel like a rocket, I can get something done again.
I must admit that it was nice having a day away from my computer. I could answer important emails and conduct business with my phone, but I spent so much less time sitting in front of the glowing screen and more time doing things like listening to music.
Like this song by Beth Orton. Just listen to it while you read.
It’s a rainy day and it kind of feels good to be blue. I have been off for some time now, it’s no secret. But today things feel good, if not a little melancholy.
Zeb had his bird club over for a post excursion tea. Did I mention that my husband is 75? The upshot is that he cleaned the yard and porch off so as to not embarrass himself. I excused myself to go to a pole class at Vertical Fusion in Longmont and walk the dog.
Not that I have anything against his bird group, they are such lovely people, I just haven’t danced in ages because of the weekly Wednesday snowstorms that conspired to keep me off the Diagonal Highway.
When I came home the porch looked like this:
Rather than like this:
When a client showed up to check-in today I opened the door and didn’t feel like I had to apologize for the shitty first impression. It felt good. Really good.
The cushions are still craptastic but one of these days I’ll get the new ones back from the upholsterer. I spent a fortune on new cushions covered with marine grade fabric that has a slick finish. Hopefully that will deter the furry little assholes (squirrels) that shred the fabric to line their nests.
Zeb shit a brick when he saw how much it cost. I’ll admit, it was a lot.
But I know how much that kind of fabric costs (and I didn’t even get the really cool stuff that cost twice as much) and I sprung for new foam because the old ones were dry and why polish the turd? and yes, I can sew but I have done this before and I just end up ruining really expensive fabric so I ponied up for the nice ones and I hope it will be worth it.
This shitty couch is the first thing clients see when they come to my door and I don’t want it to look shitty any more. Whenever I’ve brought up replacing it with a new(er) one, Zeb declares his love for it until last night of course when he was all yelly like, “I only spent $50 on the entire couch! We could have gotten a new one!” Christ. Do you love it or not?
And I was being passive aggressive. We live a very unconventional life. I’m well equipped to adapt because of my, uh, eccentric father, a first husband that was full-on OCD, and a mom that dragged me all over tarnation. Plus, I’m game, what can I say? I like this about myself.
But when I got the estimate for the upholstery job – and it was a lot – I balked for a second. But then I was like, I don’t often get things my way. Zeb might disagree, but on the big things, I make unusual circumstances work. So I was like, Fuck it. I want it. This house is our number one most important asset and I’ve heard past clients grumble about the Sanford and Son’s-esque porch. Imma do it.
It’s not the best way to be in a partnership, I know. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like a partnership, just two people trying to pay the bills and put food on the family one way or another.
Anyway, time to cut the crap.
Just some odds and ends from the bedroom. Unmatched socks, socks with holes, lighters, old ear plugs and such. I’ll call it ten. It’s all trash.
Featured image courtesy of www.engrish.com