I'm BACK, Baby!

Well.

That's passed.

Again.

I don't truly know why those phases come or what makes them pass, although certainly an out-of-the-blue "I love you" chips off a big piece of the big black cloud and lets some sunshine in. It made me want to say, "You do? Reeeeally?" in a high squeaky voice like a seven-year-old. I did not say that, however. One doesn't want to tempt fate.

And I'm so glad that so many of you understood that horrible bottom's-dropped-out feeling. It's so good to know I amn't a complete freak. (AA Wisdom: We are not unique.)

The news:

The boyz had their grooming sessions yesterday. Kim called me while I was in the supermarket . . . I could tell she was near the end of her rope . . . "I don't know what to do with Max!" Max has become . . . floppy . . . as his muscles waste away. He can move, walk at a good clip, but standing while somebody runs a clipper up and down his legs and along his belly is difficult for him. We planned for me to get home and put away the groceries, for her to finish Angus, and then call me to come and help prop up Max.

Near two hours later, Kim phoned. Angus, who has always been mellow, calm, la-di-da . . . had gone ballistic. He turned into a complete wiggle worm who wanted No Thing to do with the clippers thank you very much. Choking himself on the loop around his neck, gagging, screaming...

Poor Kim. 

I put on my sneakers and hurried to her shop and between the two of us we got the grooms finished. She was disheartened: she's dog-whispered her way through interactions with far larger and more intimidating dogs than these. I was relieved to have it all finished, for their health and comfort. I know these dogs. I know they can be completely impossible, especially now when they're growing a bit senile. They remain as wiggly as five-week-old puppies.

Poor Kim. She doesn't drink, but if she did, I bet she would have done it up last evening!

When I got home I removed the dogs from the car and set their feet on the green green grass of home and then I removed the crate from the car. I have a new-to-me car, you see, and I feel I can no longer carry the dog crate as a permanent fixture as I did in the old car. I carried a lot of permanent fixtures in the old car. Two (I believe) pairs of shoes, two pairs of gloves, the dog crate, several papers that seemed, at their arrival, too important to throw away and not urgent enough to remove to the house for handling. In addition, there was a hairdryer that I used at the floorcloth class I took a few years ago, a few makeup items that had thrown themselves from my purse at sudden stops and then migrated under the seat. In short, the old car was messy. And dirty.

The New Car, provided by Husband the used Volvo dealer, is a 2003 Volvo XC70 in . . . get this! Platinum green metallic! It changes color depending on the light . . . from a seagreenblue to sage green to any number of other gentle, sophisticated shades. Gorgeous.

Husband knew the car was coming in on a trade soon and he waited for it so he could make it mine. The previous owner was a long-time customer, and so he knew the history of the car and that it had been well maintained. Even so, he and others spent a lot of time making everything perfect for me. For me! 

Oh, I love it. It's like the most comfortable sofa ever, with wheels attached.

It has leather upholstery. Mmmm.

It has heated seats. Mmmm. They make my back feel so good. They make me feel a little as if I've just wet my pants, too, but y'get used to that.

It has those cute little windshield wipers on the headlights. Husband says those things are always broken. But they're a cute little conceit.

It has all wheel drive: I almost can't wait for snowy winter commutes to roll around again. (Yeah. Right.)

It has a rain sensor! Set the windshield wipers for "int" which I think means "interval," and they know when to wipe the windshield! Not too often, not too infrequently. I love that. Makes me want to drive in the rain.

On Thursday, Husband mowed the lawn for the first time this season. The scent! Intoxicating.

Early on Thursday and Friday mornings we watched deer playing in the field. Five deer, three of them smaller than the other two. Not fawns, but smaller . . . and clearly, young. Those three scampered around in big circles, ran in and out of the wooded area, and generally spent a good amount of time being happy to be alive. 

My seasonal visiting mockingbird is back onsite. I heard him yesterday, running through his repertoire. He stays for only a week or so and then moves on, but how I enjoy his performance while he's here.