Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

"Facts are Facts"

So, we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. Christ only knows for HOW LONG he's known we've been playing with them, but he's had to suffer in silence. He's had to endure; every day is a struggle just to //survive// in this house, every day is a new day of hardship, of cruel and deliberate mind games that are only noticed by his keen, watchful eye.

He lodged a formal complaint yesterday with his wife, Italics's mother/my mother-in-law. Unfortunately, he was a little TOO eager to lodge his formal complaint and it came tumbling out before Italics even had a chance to properly close the door behind himself.

(LOL, DUDE, I'M GOING TO TRY AND KEEP "AND THIS IS WHAT I'D LIKE TO DO YOU TO, YOU FUCKING INCONSIDERATE CUNT..." TO A MINIMAL IN CASE THIS SHIT EVER DOES GET BACK TO YOU SO ALL I'LL SAY IS THIS, RIGHT NOW -- YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT BEING SUBTLE, AND YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT MAINTAINING A LOW VOICE. YOU'RE SHIT AT TALKING ABOUT PEOPLE - LYING ABOUT PEOPLE - BEHIND THEIR BACK. YOUR LIFE WOULD PROBABLY BE 70% EASIER IF YOU LEARNED THE FINE ART OF SUBTERFUGE AND TACT, BUT, AT THE AGE YOU'RE AT, NO ONE IS EXPECTING ANY SIGNIFICANT, POSITIVE CHANGES OR IMPROVEMENTS FROM YOU. <- THAT'S NOT MEANT TO BE A COMPLIMENT, BTW. JUST IN CASE, YOU KNOW, IT READ THAT WAY.)

So we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. His allergies have been horrendous, and have been triggered by Italics and I randomly opening and closing the vents. (Apparently he's tried to combat the problem by OPENING WINDOWS AND LEAVING THEM OPEN FOR HOURS AT A TIME DURING THE DEAD OF WINTER. <- LOL, THE FUNNY PART? THE PART THAT MAKES ME LOL AND WANT TO ATTACK HIM WITH MY NEW DEEP FRYING SLOTTED SPOON? I CANNOT, FOR THE FUCKING LIFE OF ME, KEEP WINDOWS OPEN DURING SUMMER. YOU KNOW, SUMMER. WHEN IT'S BALMY, AND SULTRY, AND THE SUN IS AT ITS ZENITH. IF I LEAVE OPEN WINDOWS IN THIS HOUSE DURING A FUCKING HEATWAVE THAT SCOTLAND HAS NEVER BEFORE SEEN IN ITS RECORDED HISTORY HE'S ONLY 10-15 MINUTES BEHIND CLOSING THEM, SWISHING AROUND IN HIS SPEEDOS. <- OH, HONEY, YES. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE'S NEARLY 70. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE DOESN'T HAVE THE PHYSIQUE FOR IT AT MORE. WHAT MATTERS IS HE IS A /MAN/ AND /MEN/ WEAR SPEEDOS.)

His allergies are out of control, and he's barely hanging on...but then She - mother/mother-in-law - points out that he's standing next to a bouquet of flowers, flowers that he's allergic to. (Since he's developed a rather severe allergic reaction to my favorite sort of flower (NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, SAYS THE WITCH WHO SPITS) there aren't as many blooms as there used to be in this house least I get blamed for biological warfare. But there are flowers in the house, right now, because Italics's mother's birthday is this coming Sunday. <- SO IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, OKAY? THE FLOWERS HAVE -NOTHING- TO DO WITH ME!) He didn't appreciate her response. He ALSO didn't appreciate her reminding him if he actually TOOK his allergy medication he wouldn't be in the state he is.

And when she V. obviously wasn't buying the blame (LOL, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, I HAVE //NOTHING// BETTER TO DO EVERY FUCKING DAY OF MY LIFE THAN DEDICATE MYSELF, MY ENTIRE BEING, TO THE CAUSE OF MAKING HIS LIFE A LIVING HELL, ONE AIR VENT AT A TIME) it's the third strike and he goes into fussy-bitchy-prickish mode. She politely requests that he not act that way (be that way? Christ, who knows, all of this shit was learned second hand via Italics), please, because it was her birthday weekend and she wanted to enjoy it. He more or less told her to SHOVE IT, but with as little words as possible.

(I've been pretty laid back and taken shit he's done in the past few weeks - OH, MR. AWESOME HAS BEEN SPECTACULARLY AWESOME FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, OR SO - with as much patience as I can. <- EVEN ITALICS HAS NOTICED I HAVE BEEN TRYING EXTRA CRAZY HARD RECENTLY. I think my golden running streak would've gotten tarnished last night if I had been in the same room where a husband made out to his wife - who, in so many words, has had a hard time coming to grips with this particular birthday, and has been in tears several times recently about it - that he could give a fuck about trying just a little harder so they could have fun and enjoy what's turned out to be an otherwise hella stressful, hella emotional birthday weekend. I don't step into other people's marriage, but I would've stepped into that - with stilettos on. WITH CUT-THROAT RAZORS TAPED ONTO THE STILETTOS, OR SOMETHING.)

I was too tired to be upset, too tired to be angry, or pissed off. I rolled my eyes and mentally gave my mother-in-law a hug. What am I supposed to do, anyway? A near 70 year old man we live with is now intentionally, consciously, knowingly, willfully lying about us and what we are (or aren't) doing.

I nearly blew a gasket last year when Italics informed me that he overheard his father tell the plumber - who was working on the heating which was broken - that it was //our// fault that the heater broke because we insisted on have "25 minute long showers". I mean, that's lying about us PLUS lying about us to a complete stranger who doesn't know any better, who doesn't know the history or circumstance or anything because he - Italics's father - just wants to momentarily feel vindicated about a situation THAT NEVER HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(AND I'LL BE UPFRONT AND SAY THAT YES, ITALICS AND I, ON OCCASION, TAKE SEX SHOWERS. BUT WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER FOR NEARLY A HALF-A-FUCKING-HOUR. (BUT WE DID, ADMITTEDLY, HAVE A HAND IN THE OLD TUB CRACKING DURING A BOUT OF ANAL SHOWER SEX. <- OLD TUB, OKAY? PLASTIC OLD TUB NEARING 20 YEARS OLD WITH TWO PEOPLE STANDING ON THE WEAKEST POINT. IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN EVENTUALLY, DUDE.) AND WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER - NOT IN THE PAST THREE OR FOUR YEARS - WHEN EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME. SO HOW MY FATHER-IN-LAW CAME UP WITH "...AND THEY INSIST ON HAVING 25 MINUTE LONG SHOWERS ALL THE TIME" IS BEYOND ME.)

Look, the guy's a liar - how do you get AS upset like the first time you found out? You don't, because FINDING OUT THAT SOMEONE IS DELIBERATELY LYING ABOUT YOU IS OLD HAT. All he's proven - at least to me - is that he's a living, breathing liar, and the fact that the 25 MINUTE ZOMG SHOWER thing wasn't a one-off. I live with a liar, now excuse me as I feign surprise and shock and dismay that A LIAR FUCKING LIES ABOUT SHIT, HENCE THE DESCRIPTIVE LABEL OF "LIAR". (OH, BABY, HE'S TAKING THAT NOUN AND MAKING IT A VERB!) For once I just rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders and got on with it (better off just getting use to second hand hearing about what you are or aren't doing around the house, especially when you aren't doing what you are - or aren't - being accused of).

The internet died two days ago, just a few minutes after Italics woke up. I managed to scribble off one epicly disjointed (LOLOLOL, MORE SO THAN USUAL! NOW WITH 50% MORE "OBNOXIOUS" AND "DISJOINTED"!) email to a friend and then? And then...nothing. Dead. (Terrific wonderful news for me (one less thing that day to demand a slice of my time), and awful horrible news for Italics (not only did it mean he had to figure out what was wrong and fix it, but it also meant he couldn't work - you know, work, the shit you do in order to GET MONEY AND LIVE).)

We were supposed to go out to the movies and grab something to eat. (NEW YEAR'S COUPLE RESOLUTION: EAT OUT ONCE A MONTH. EVEN IF GRABBING A BURGER AT REVOLUTION, EVEN IF JUST SNEAKING IN A CHIPPER OR BURGER KING TO A MOVIE. WHATEVER YOU - COLLECTIVELY - DECIDE TO DO, MAKE SURE YOU DO /IT/ ONCE A MONTH, TOGETHER.) We still did, despite everything.

(If you don't know me, or don't know me well - I'm sick. I've been sick for edging on three years now. The first year was spent trying to convince doctors I was actually sick ("HEY! WE'RE PROFESSIONALS! AND WE'RE TELLING YOU YOU -AREN'T- EXPERIENCING THOSE SYMPTOMS, AND EVEN IF YOU ARE THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING!"), the second year was spent being insanely, crazily sick interspersed with waiting 18 weeks for a single consultation with a specialist and another 18 weeks just to get an appointment for medical testing I was prescribed (LOL, YOU THINK I'M JOKING?). I'm not terminal, it isn't fatal, but it's chronic, and since the problem lies within my stomach (so far they've found a hiatal hernia, a smooth muscle in my stomach that's significantly weaker and not working like it should, and symptoms that point towards a severe case of GERD) it affects every area of my life - eating, drinking, exercising, moving, sex, going out...the list just goes on and on.)

(Even when I'm feeling super awesome I'm still sick, and it comes up to bite me with SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE. WHICH IS TOTALLY NOT COOL, BECAUSE I ONCE WAS A VERY PHYSICALLY ACTIVE PERSON. And when I mean SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE I mean brushing my teeth, taking a shower, shaving my legs, styling my hair, putting on make-up, and picking out something to wear is enough to put me out of the game for the rest of the day. In fact, you probably lost me after "shaving my legs". I hate it. It's bullshit. I'm 28 fucking years old, I should be climbing mountains. I WANT TO BE CLIMBING MOUNTAINS, DAMMIT. But having a shower and dolling myself up is my mountain, at least right now.)

One thing I've never really told my husband, Italics, is how thankful I am at how he makes going out one of the most number one priorities in our life. (Mostly because I'm lucky if I can leave the house once a month. I've been able to temper myself so I have the energy I need to exist and coexist in this house, but anything that requires me to cross the threshold into the outside world usually requires a reservoir of energy that I may or may not have.) Sometimes I feel, especially when I'm sitting in the computer chair fully dressed and strapped into my shoes and watching him run around, like I've gone into labor, and the single most important thing is TO GET ME OUT OF THE HOUSE AND TO THE HOSPITAL, STAT, WITH NO EXCUSES FROM SECOND OR THIRD PARTIES.

("Going out" is somewhat complicated because neither Italics nor I can drive. I mean, I CAN drive, but I can't drive stick, and that's the only sort've car parked outside. So, since moving here in 2001 at the tender age of 21, I haven't driven. Not once. If we want to go out we have to rearrange it with my in-laws. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone and we've both been up for nearly 20 hours (our sleeping patterns are a bit weird; half the month we're up during the day, and half the month we're up at night so sometimes when we catch a 11:30am movie we've actually been up since 7 or 8 pm the previous night) and we're both feeling varying degrees of sick (between me and my stomach problems and Italics and his back problems) and we don't know when or how we're going to get home. Since getting seriously sick, as you can imagine, we've limited "going out" so a "situation" isn't created when someone forgets to pick us up or assumes, without asking us, that since it's a "nice day today" we wanted extra time out (but since he didn't take his phone we can't correct that assumption he made on our behalf.))

As expected Italics's father takes off just as I'm shoving a foot into the shoe, and we exchange "OH SHIT" expressions since neither of us had a chance to request his chauffeur services, AND OH MY GOD WE HAD SCHEDULED GOING OUT - BETWEEN US - FOR DAYS AND WE NEVER GO OUT AND WE'RE REALLY FUCKING LUCKY IF I EVEN MAKE IT OUT OF THE HOUSE ONCE A FUCKING MONTH AND WHAT ABOUT OUR RESOLUTION AND -

- Italics's mom came home early and took us. Normally I'd feel guilty about putting any sort of pressure on her, but Italics said she was OVERJOYED to hear that I was feeling up to LEAVING THE HOUSE so FUCK WORK, SHE WAS COMING HOME EARLY. (See? CLEARLY I'VE GONE INTO A METAPHORICAL STATE OF LABOR.) Although by the time we managed to get in the car I had already spent an hour nodding off at the computer (SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE) and Italics was worried about dragging me out of the house BUT NO, I SAID, I WILL NOT LET FATIGUE GET THE BETTER OF ME, I WANT A SEMBLANCE OF A LIFE, PLEASE, AND IF THAT MEANS I HAVE TO FUCKING SUCK IT UP AND FALL ASLEEP IN SEVERAL DIFFERENT PUBLIC PLACES WHILE WE'RE OUT THEN SO FUCKING BE IT.

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Besides, it was time to send off DAS HEXENHAUS (our gingerbread house) to the tentacle creatures of the deep (which we do annually). (MOST OFFERINGS ARE EITHER TAKEN TO THE CEMETERY OR COMMITTED TO THE PLASTIC TERRACOTTA BUCKET KNOWN AS "DEAD CROW DIRT", BUT, ONCE A YEAR, WE TAKE THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE WE ASSEMBLE TOGETHER DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON TO THE OCEAN (THE NORTH SEA) AND LET THE TIDE TAKE THE HOUSE AND THE ICING AND THE GUM DROPS AND SUGAR PRETZELS AND CANDIED WITCH WITH HER MAGIC MUSHROOM DOWN INTO THE DEPTHS OF MY/OUR CHTHONIC WATER.)

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The pitch black water touched the pitch black sky, and the only thing that separated one endless expanse into another were the citrine lights from North Sea ships dotting the horizon. Somewhere in that inky darkness, as the tide came in, a small gingerbread house went out to sea. Somewhere just a pin prick of white floated on black, and then disappeared beneath a wave of salt water and sand. ("TENTACLE MONSTERS OF THE DEEP, COME AND TAKE YOUR GINGERBREAD HOUSE!) The Deep Ones, the Tentacle Ones, have been sated for another year. (Unsuspecting sailors and captains? You can thank me later for not capsizing and meeting your ancient, watery grave when a hungry ass Kraken decides your ship looks like a floating meze.)

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The Wrestler was shit. Expected more, got less. I didn't feel anything either way (I anticipated choking up once, or at least LEARNING SOMETHING ABOUT MYSELF while watching the movie, or taking away something poignant and meaningful), and was significantly less than impressed with getting fed artistic intent with a shovel. (Maybe you can blame that on one too many "bros" in the dialogue?)

I ate a small box of popcorn which, in retrospect, was one of the stupidest fucking things I could've done. (Corn - especially popcorn - is the kiss of death. It's already hard enough to digest for the average person, let alone someone who has mysterious stomach/digestion ailments. When I eat popcorn it's the equivalent of having something nuclear go off inside of me that stays tightly contained between my stomach and my hernia, so there's a tight ball of explosion (implosion?) that doesn't expand, doesn't emanate, but burns like a dead star.)

I forgot I wasn't on my medication. (I have another round of testing on the 27th of this month, and in order to get a sense of what's wrong with me I have to be off my prescription for at least two weeks so it isn't in my system.) I forgot I wasn't home. (YOU KNOW, AFTER NEARLY THREE YEARS OF HAVING A BODY THAT DICTATES WHAT YOU CAN EAT AND WHEN YOU CAN EAT SOMETIMES YOU BRASHLY DECIDE TO TAKE THE REIGNS AND EAT WHAT THE EFF YOU WANT AND FUCK THE CONSEQUENCES. ADMITTEDLY, THOSE TIMES ARE A LOT EASIER WHEN YOU'RE -AT HOME- AND NOT OUT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A MONTH WHILE DEALING WITH THE REPERCUSSIONS.) And the popcorn? It smelled like popcorn. And we were at the movies. And we hadn't been out for over a month. And...well, "and".

I thought I'd be okay since I managed a half-bag of popcorn when at home during Christmas, but I //forgot// and in doing so - even after chasing it with two extra strength antacids - I got sick. I got so sick that there was no chance we could stay out for dinner. I got so sick that there was no chance we could go grocery shopping (I needed ingredients to bake two birthday cakes). I got so sick that I honestly, truly believe that I've already ruined the one resolution I made for us - go out to eat once a month, regardless of dress, regardless of menu, just go out and eat something, somewhere, once a month, together - because I don't know when or how I'll be able to leave this house again by the end of the month.

And, so, I did the most mature, rational and logical thing a woman could do in my situation - I sat on the bench in front of the theater we came out of and cried. (Okay, so I tried NOT to cry, but, still, there was some sniffling involved, and there was some hoarseness of voice, and, uh, a little bit of moisture.) I tried to keep shit in perspective (i.e. "You have a digestion problem, you know you can't eat certain foods but you chose, out of your own freewill, to eat one of those foods while out. It's popcorn, for Christ's sake. There are people out there with DIABETES and CRAZY FATAL FOOD ALLERGIES; you aren't one of them.") but it's always hard to rope in the horses once they start galloping (i.e., "BUT I'M FUCKING TWENTY-FUCKING EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I CAN'T EVEN HANDLE EATING A FEW HANDFULS OF POPCORN AT THE MOVIES. I CAN'T EVEN FUCKING HANDLE LEAVING THE FUCKING HOUSE. I AM TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I FEEL LIKE I HAVE SOMETHING //COSMIC// GOING ON INSIDE OF ME AND THERE IS NO MAGIC PILL I CAN TAKE, NO SPECIAL OPERATION THAT'LL MAKE THIS BETTER!").

My woe-ing was kept to a minimal (for someone with such a volatile personality and temper -that- was a miracle within itself). I did feel sorry for myself, though, and I let myself pitifully wallow in it while doubled over and gasping for breath - except for the time I had to physically move to another bench when another cinema patron and his chilli dog with fried onions sat right next to me. (SORRY, DUDE, BUT THE SCENT OF -YOUR DINNER- ALMOST INSPIRED AN EXTRA TOPPING THAT YOU DIDN'T PAY FOR, IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT.)

There is something bizarrely exhibitionist about crying in public when you're sitting next to your partner. The entire time all I could think of - well, LOL, other than "WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" and "FUCK POPCORN, FUCK IT, FUCK IT AND ITS PIED PIPER AMBROSIA SMELL" - was "FUCK, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE PASSING US THINK WE'RE FIGHTING, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE GLANCING OVER TO ME THINK THEY'RE WITNESSING THE STALEMATE OF A RELATIONSHIP, PLEASE DON'T..." as if me curled up into a speck of a being was reflective of our relationship, or the state of it.

I lost an entire day after that. Not that it was MISPLACED or OH FUCK THIS SHIT KEEPS POPPING UP AND I HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED THE SCHEDULE I SET MYSELF TODAY - but lost. Gone. Didn't even stand a chance of even having it. You get sick, really sick, and it takes a day to recover. Sometimes two, sometimes three. It's time that isn't yours; time that doesn't really belong to you, but your illness.

I forgot how many times I nodded off when sitting at the computer, when sitting at the couch, when sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers. There just wasn't -anything- there. The internet wasn't working, but was, but in order to access it I had to use my father-in-law's new laptop because it'd only connect to the net in the lounge. I hate laptops, I hate small keyboards and I really fucking hate small keyboards that arbitrarily decide to drop letters. I hate the internet not working so I have to use a fucking laptop with a small keyboard that arbitrarily decides to drop letters while shuffling and moving files from different computers just to be able to upload entries here to Graveyard Dirt.

(I hate the bamboo wallpaper of the new laptop which is a fucking EYESORE TO ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY USES A COMPUTER WITH ANY SORT OF REGULARITY, but, LOL, Italics's parents fucking //love// it WHICH, REALLY, PROVES MY POINT, DOESN'T IT?)

So I said "SELF, YOU SHALL CALL KATE, BECAUSE SHE BROKE HER ARM A FEW DAYS AGO AND COULD PROBABLY USE A SYMPATHETIC FEMALE VOICE RIGHT NOW" and flipped open my address book. Much to my shock, dismay and amazement Kate's number wasn't there, which meant I had to turn on my mobile and figure out how to display my address book.

That would've been -perfect- had I actually known how to bring up anything but a contact's NAME in my address book. When trying to display her number I accidentally called, and once it started ringing I felt obligated to follow through (I was, originally, going to call her using the house phone because I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT FUCKING CELL PHONES AND, ALSO, SMALL KEYBOARDS AND LAPTOPS, AS YOU ALREADY KNOW). Our conversation spanned from a whole "HELLO?" to me shouting "OH SHIT!" as the battery of my phone inexplicably died within seconds of use.

I scrambled for Italics's new BLADE RUNNER phone knowing that her number would've been locked up in his sim card, but LOL, I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO CRASH HIS PHONE. (It might've had something to do with me RANDOMLY PUSHING UNMARKED BUTTONS HOPING THAT ONE OF THEM WOULD BRING UP SOME SORT OF CONTACT LIST OR SOMETHING.) I ran to my computer to find my text document of numbers but FOR JESUS'S FUCK SAKE IT WASN'T THERE WHICH MEANT I HAD TO GO BACK INTO THE EFFING LOUNGE, REBOOT THAT FUCKING NEW LAPTOP WITH THE EYESORE BAMBOO WALLPAPER, RECONNECT TO THE GODDAMN INTERNET AND USE A MOTHERFUCKING KEYBOARD THAT RANDOMLY DECIDES TO DROP CONSONANTS AND VOWELS JUST SO I COULD ACCESS MY FUCKING EMAIL ACCOUNT TO POP OPEN AN OLD EMAIL FROM LAST YEAR TO GET KATE'S NUMBER.

As it turned out I FUCKING THREW OUT THAT FUCKING EMAIL AND IT'S BEEN 40 FUCKING DAYS, OR WHATEVER, BECAUSE IT WASN'T FOUND IN THE TRASH WHICH MEANT ALL I COULD DO, AFTER ALL OF THAT, WAS EMAIL KATE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE SHORT, POSSIBLY CONFUSING CONVERSATION OF "HELLO/OH SHIT". BUT THEN, IMMEDIATELY AFTER, I HAD -JUST- ENOUGH POWER (SINCE I HAD PLUGGED IN MY PHONE TO RECHARGE) TO TURN MY MOBILE BACK ON, AND IN DOING SO I SAGELY LEARNED THAT SIMPLY BY PRESSING THE "#" KEY IT DISPLAYED A CONTACT'S NUMBER WHICH I QUICKLY SCRIBBLED DOWN IN A TEXT DOCUMENT BEFORE CATASTROPHE STRUCK, AGAIN.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I'M EVEN WRITING ANY OF THIS DOWN, IN CAPS LOCK EVEN, BUT I AM. BECAUSE, HONESTLY, I FEEL SLIGHTLY DELIRIOUS BY THIS POINT OF WRITING. (OH, HONEY, I STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE ANY SENSE ABOUT SEVERAL PAGES BACK, SERIOUSLY.) LET'S JUST WRAP UP THE REST OF THAT PARTICULAR DAY IN A NON-COMMITTAL WAY BECAUSE I SERIOUSLY DOUBT ANYONE WHO SERIOUSLY READS THIS SITE HAS EVEN GOTTEN THIS FAR. (WAIT, WHAT, YOU HAVE? LULZ.)

Due to the entire DEVIOUSLY PLAYING WITH WINDOW VENTS FOR OUR OWN NEFARIOUS PURPOSES incident grocery shopping got pushed back an hour. And then another hour. And then another hour. And then my husband finally took pity on me and went shopping because I was waiting for several ingredients to bake my mother-in-law one of two birthday cakes and by that point in the evening I was only partially conscious, slumped over my computer desk after an entire day involving MERCURY RETROGRADE PHONE ACTIVITY and BRAND NEW LAPTOPS WITH SHIT KEYBOARDS AND SEIZURE INDUCING WALLPAPER.

By 11:30 PM the Fruits of summer buttermilk coffeecake with orange flower water was baked, a loose interpretation of "coulis" was cooling (I used the remainder of the frozen fruits of summer bag to make a compote using pomegranate juice and Cointreau.) (TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR WORDS. UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS TOO TIRED FOR PHOTOS SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD ON THAT.), and Italics's parents were in bed after a night of uncomfortable atmosphere (YOU REMEMBER ABOUT THE WINDOW VENTS AND BIRTHDAY WEEKEND THING FROM WAY AT THE START, RIGHT?)