I just like ten minutes ago got back from Oxnard, California where I was helping Little Chel get moved into her and her husband's new apartment; he's in the military and she's been working hard to ensure he has a nice home to come back to after his most recent deployment. Chel and her mom really did all the heavy lifting; I drove out there yesterday morning with a Tahoe full of carefully labeled plastic totes and I drove back today with a bag of brand new, pride-filled NAVY tee-shirts and some "onion blossom" flavored Pringles.
(A word about said Pringles: they were $1.41 on base so I threw them in the shopping cart on the basis of scientific discovery. We couldn't reach a taste consensus, but if you took a big wad of horseradish and rolled it in orange table salt? There. Eat that.
I just looked at the Pringles website and they don't even list "onion blossom" as a flavor option anymore. I am either in possession of a very valuable can of rare Pringles or a very salty can of slow acting poison.)
The News Upon Returning Home: Tomorrow the floor guy starts lining out the travertine floor, the door guy comes to replace the wrong French doors with the right French doors, and the electrician comes to finish up the light trim and switches.
The floor is going to take three days-- three full days of no walking on it, meaning we'll have no access to the family room for those three days. The family room is only accessible via the kitchen death zone, and frankly we're all a little concerned about Randy tiptoeing across a still wet and slowly shifting floor on Day Two in a desperate attempt to reach His Chair. All of Randy's "best stuff" is in the family room, and since we can't move his entire impromptu kitchen table desk into the bedroom, Randy has calmed himself by deducing that we'll simply crawl in and out of the family room window for the next three days.
"It'll be fine," he assured me tonight, catching my sweaty backpack when I flung it at him. "We'll just take the screen off one side of the window."
"What about the dog?" I asked, flinging my shoes into the closet. I'd just been behind the wheel for eight and a half hours; "fling" was seriously my only available mode of handoff.
"I'll boost him."
I was just about to deal with my dirty clothes but I stopped mid-fling.
"You'll boost him," I said. "You'll boost The Jake. Through the window."
"Boost!" He made what I can only assume to be a gesture representative of a man shoving a ninety pound dog through a window.
I pulled my socks off and put them in the closet, fling style. There was an inch of drywall dust on the dresser. The bedroom door still needed to be painted. Randy's Tahoe now smelled like tacos and feet.
"Sure," I conceded, "boost. Boost him." Problem solved. "You have to do it, though, I can't lift him to boost him." I looked at The Jake, then, wiggling his fat ass around the closet. I bet I could fling him, I thought.
"Oh, I''ll do it! I'll do the boosting!" He almost sang it, like a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders-- and put squarely and furrily in his hands. He looked so happy, I didn't have the heart to tell him about his footy taco truck.
"Yes. Awesome, do it. Boost the dog," I relented. I moved into my optimum flinging stance. "Okay, now back up a little. Tell me what you think about these chips."