Blah, Blah, Blah

Mr. Demonic and Ms. MiniD are away for the weekend. They are doing some final parent-child bonding in a resort condo up north before she heads off to college in August. Three years ago, when my son got ready to leave for California, my husband did the same thing for him. Of course, with guys, it’s all golf. With a teenage daughter, it’s a lot different.

I received an early report from Mr. D that Ms. MiniD and the friend she brought to tag along with have somehow caught the attention of some teenage boys staying at the same resort. (Like that had no chance of happening!) I wonder what the Boyfriend is thinking… He is still here. This condo is so far up north, my daughter has no cell phone coverage, so there’s no texting.

While my husband decided to retire early last night, the girls took the opportunity to hang out at the pool and charge up a steady stream of refreshments. They straggled in around 2 a.m. when the pool closed.

It’s nice to be in the house by myself. I can play the violin as loudly and as often as I like, with no comments from the peanut gallery. I can hog the cat, the bed, and the bathroom. (A squirrel update: all this recent talk about guns and they have been conspicuously absent. Well, maybe that monsoonal rain we’ve had the last three days had something to do with it, too.)

I am the ruler of the roost this weekend, my friends. I mowed the lawn between downpours. I cleaned the refrigerator, which needed it badly. I threw out so much mystery food, I should call the city and ask for an extra pick up and a game of Clue.

I enlisted the aid of an illegal alien to tear up some sod in my side yard. (Well, he IS illegal. I won’t give out his name because I don’t want him deported. He’s a nice guy.) The strawberries are spent, but I notice the raspberries coming in. There’s the promise of tomatoes, in about four weeks.

For dinner tonight, I thought I would go to the local YaYa chicken place. The chicken is seasoned Greek style and grilled, so it’s very healthy. When I got there, right about dinner time, they informed me that they were out of chicken. (!) This was a problem, since I’d spent the entire afternoon cleaning out my refrigerator, and now there was nothing (interesting) left to eat.

On my dejected way back home, I stopped at the market. Nothing looked good. I mean, nothing. The watermelons looked peaked and pale, with too much rind. The strawberries didn’t look as good as the fresh ones from the yard last week. The California peaches were way too hard. I wandered over to the deli section, which also includes hot food, and was totally unimpressed. I circled the entire store three times looking for salvation. The store manager probably thought I was casing the joint. A well-known local news anchor who recently committed suicide was caught shoplifting $300 worth of groceries from that very store, so I think he gives all middle aged women the evil eye.

In the end, I picked up a cantaloupe that definitely wasn’t ripe and a container of pineapple that looked yellow and yummy. Where I live, you just don’t know about fruits and vegetables until you get your produce home and eat it. What looks delicious in the store is often a piece of fruit with the consistency of a slice of redwood disguised in bright food coloring or shiny wax.

I’ll check it out later. For now… I’m just chillin’ – the queen of my castle.

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