The Wretched Boy, for reasons that are fairly involved, is moving to Portland to seek his fortune, demonstrate that he can be an active adult with responsible displays both fiscally and hygienically, and (this is the really inexplicable part) we are helping him. Today he called to say he has a job interview Monday, so can he come stay — ?
Shannon & I were pleased, pleasedashell, that he’s on his way up from where he’s been. Good to see him improving. Then it hit me.
He is going to be living with us for a time.
Last time this was the case, Shannon hid in our room for six months, I was in living hell, and finally had to kick the W.B. out. I don’t want that again. I demonstrated this by becoming fussy while helping Shannon in the garden.
We talked it out a bit, I figured out (with help) what was making me fussy, and we agreed: temporary, rules, kill him early if needs be, and then out he goes again. No return to domestic hell for any of us. I started to perk up again.
To cement that in place, we ran away from home this evening, to the Rose Festival, where we saw decent mock-ups of dinosaurs, ate carnival food (read: greasy but tasteless), had a batter-dipped deep-fried apple with cinnamon sugar, whipped cream, and caramel sauce (ooooooh, yum), and navigated our way through the teeming masses watching the beginning of the parade before it went into full swing. Home again, jiggedy-etc.
And now, an aimless LJ post wandering about the screen. I’d rather not edit it into a point, so: