I’ve been a little silent since my announcement of the Easter bonnet competition last week, not because I’ve been gloating, (I have) but because last week was more than busy. My husband, Brantley, went to Memphis to work for a couple of days. The plan was that he would return home for three days, and then go back to Memphis for two more. However, his car broke down while he was there and the mechanic had to order parts to fix it. Instead of being gone for two days, he was gone for seven. This placed a major kink in my week.
As previously mentioned, Emma Nathews of Emily Dean Photography was coming into town to shoot more Awkward Smoking Pictures. (Be patient. You’ll see them soon.) Since Brantley wasn’t here to watch the offspring, I had to ship him to the grandparents mid-week. Maybe all kids are this way, but my son requires a pretty strict routine in order to maintain his, and my sanity. However, routine was nowhere to be found last week. Much like the shingles on my roof.
A storm from the week before had blown away large sections of shingles. After calling our homeowners insurance company, they put us in touch with a roofer. I called Brantley in Memphis, “I need you to talk to the roofers. I’m not going to know what they’re talking about.” He interrupted, “Lori, I can’t do that. I’m busy. You can handle this. I know you can.”
What was I thinking? Of course I could handle that. I’m Lori Wescott for crying out loud.
Imagine my surprise when the insurance adjuster told me that I had to use the specific roofing company that came out to do the estimate. “But, why?” I asked. “The roofer said five times that what he wanted me to sign WASN’T a contract.” Guess what? It was a contract. I’ll let you fill in the blanks on what happened next because it involves a lot of bad words.
After a lengthy, ugly cry I picked myself up and shook it off. There was no time for crying. I had to prepare the house for company. About thirty minutes prior to Emma’s arrival, I realized that I had forgotten to put fresh-cut flowers in the guest room. Our guest room is drab and a little cramped, so I always do my best to punch it up with some fresh cut flowers, a new issue of Us Weekly or People, and some candy. I had done none of this.
I called my next-door neighbor, the flower whisperer, and asked if I could cut some flowers from her yard. She told me that she really didn’t have anything vase-worthy at the time, so I decided to use what I had in my own yard- one sad little patch of Johnny Jump-Ups with one inch stems. They would have to do.
About an hour later I got a text from the flower whisperer saying she had left a spring bud vase on my porch that I could sneak up to the guest room. She must have had a gut feeling that my version wouldn’t be up to par.
Bet you’ll never guess which vase was created by me.
|The phrase, “Nailed it,” comes to mind.
The Wescott home is undergoing some updates. We are replacing all of the floors upstairs which has rendered me unable to use my bathroom, and left me feeling somewhat displaced. In preparation, Brantley removed the toilets and placed them in the shower so the tile could be laid. He was very pleased with himself over having done this, and informed me of the situation by saying, “I have a surprise for you in the bathroom.” Finding a commode sitting in the spot where I normally clean myself is not my idea of a good surprise, but what do I know.
|On second thought, having a commode IN the shower could really be a time saver.
To ensure that the workers do their very best job I am constantly forcing Gatorade and snacks on them. This, however, has led to several awkward encounters. Despite the fact that they all speak fairly good English I first communicated with them by shouting and doing sign language. Realizing how dumb that was, I then shook my head and quoted the Ricky Ricardo refrain, “Ay, ay, ay.” Later in the day when one of the men walked out the front door, Baxter used the opportunity to make a run for it. I’m sure they were impressed with my Spanish when, after retrieving him, I said that Baxter can be very “Andale.”
Brantley now asks that I leave the workers alone. It’s probably not a bad idea.
I’m not one to hang around a messy construction zone, especially when it’s in my house so Luke and I packed our bags and hit the road for a few days. In preparation for our road trip I needed to have the oil changed in my car, and the air pressure checked in the tires. Instead of going to my usual trusty mechanic I went to a different one, one that was near a restaurant so Luke and I could have lunch while we waited. Lunch came and went, and when we returned to the mechanic Luke decided he needed to go to the bathroom.
We walked into the “office” and were immediately hit in the face with the pungent odor of, well something pungent. It could have been the two dirty litter boxes, or maybe the fly-covered, open cans of cat food on the floor, but either way it was rank. I had a sinking feeling as I asked if they had a bathroom. The lady at the desk said, “Yes, let me see if it’s clean.” She then turned to right, leaned over, and said, “Yep, it’s clean.” I thought my eyes were deceiving me. There, in the very same room, was a toilet with a curtain in front of it. I thought I’d sooner die than let my kid use that bathroom, but the car wasn’t finished and Luke persisted. “Mom, I neeeeeed to go poopoo.”
For twelve long minutes I stood in that awful, stinky place while Luke made it worse. When he was finally finished we opted to sit in the hot car to wait out the rest of our service. As I helped Luke into the car I noticed his pants were wet. “Luke, did you peepee in your pants after all that sitting on the commode?”
He responded with, “No, Mom. I didn’t peepee. It’s just a little penis water.”
De. Liver. Me.
If you are an email subscriber who doesn’t visit the actual site too often, stop back in and take a gander at Loripalooza’s new look. I may continue to make a few minor tweaks here and there, but other than that we are up and running, shiny and new.
I credit my tech savvy friend, Beth, with all of the changes. Let me know what you think! If you don’t like the new look, I can get you Beth’s email address and phone number. (Just kidding, Beth.)