Yesterday we were getting ready to head to a thing, and were dressed nicely for a summer afternoon event. Not too dressy, not too casual. All in black as usual. Hair looking long as my little bob has passed my earlobes and is heading for my chin. Eyelashes for days.
(Sorry for boasting but I never ever look pulled together. I always resemble the haphazard almost-polished younger sister of a supermodel. The one everyone passes over with reassurances that someday she will catch up. It's maddening. So when I do look good I FUCKING KNOW IT, BABY.)
But the boys were taking too long.
Way too long.
So I grabbed the bag of recent purchases from the gardening shop and headed out around the side of the house. The roses we planted last year had some black spots on the leaves so I picked up some sulfur to clear it up quickly.
Lochlan said several times to wait, that we'd deal with it later but really what's the harm? I'll sprinkle some on. No need to get out the sprayer and mix it. Who has time for that?
I emerged back to the house fifteen minutes later covered head to toe with a moderate-to-heavy layer of yellowish-white powder. PJ swore and said I smelled like burnt matches. Lochlan just laughed so loudly I almost punched him. Ben said I won't get black spot disease and John smiled as wide as he could (bet his face hurt) and said simply Goths gardening.
Had to change. Then that turned out to be not enough and I had to shower. Then I looked as I usually do when we go out, not at all pulled together. I looked like the butt of a joke I played on myself because as usual I didn't listen.
At least I still entertain! I crowed to Loch who wouldn't let it go. Ever.
He leaned in and smelled my hair. That attempt at a burn you just made? I can still smell it, Bridget.
