First, let me say that I'm beyond touched at all the sweet comments left at the "taking time off" post. You guys are the best. The past few weeks have proven therapeutic and I'm ready to revisit the land of Blogostan. Thanks so much for your kindness and patience.
Okay, I tried to participate in Talk Like a Pirate Day, but I've discovered that I can't maintain an accent to save my life. I'd start off with "Arrrrrgh, th' cat's taken a dump on th' stairrrrhs!" but within two sentences, I'd migrate to a bad Scottish accent and bust out with "Ooch, Mojo, ye're staippin' in it!" Similarly, whenever I do my impression of my best friend's Mexican-American dad, it's a matter of seconds before I'm in my Father Guido Sarducci voice. On the other hand, I can do the bad Scottish and Father Guido voices indefinitely. Invite me to your next party!
J and I took our little party on the road a couple weeks ago, visiting the Eastern Shore town of Chincoteague. The town itself is charming and cute, but we totally fell in love with the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge. This national park area has everything you need for the perfect day of outdoor fun: beautifully maintained bike trails, lovely vistas of marshland and seaside, and a fantastic Atlantic beach. (It also has mosquitos. Bring spray. And don't use your teeth to unclog the sprayer if sand gets in it, the way I did. Your mouth will be foul-tasting and oddly numb, and your boyfriend will threaten to take you to the hospital.) Since it's close enough to make a day trip, we'll undoubtedly be back next summer.
Speaking of which, now that my nemesis is on the wane, it's time to venture back outside. J and I have big plans for the yard. We've hired a landscape designer to come up with a plan for our little half-acre of paradise and we're hoping to do most, if not all, of the labor ourselves. What makes this disturbing is that I'm totally into it. I had a blast helping J take down the chain-link portion of the fence last week and I am positively stoked that we're renting a post puller tomorrow. Seriously. I've got a little chant about it and everything: "It's Post Puller Day, heee-eeey!" If you had told me 10 years ago that I would one day greet the rental of garden equipment with the same delight that I greeted the boozefests of my youth, I'd probably have asked to be put out of my misery right then and there. But there's no denying it: what dodgy ecstasy was to my 20s, power tools are to my 30s. Oddly, the chance of accidental disfigurement is about the same.