Well, it’s the first day of Irish Woman and Boo being away from home, and things are going swimmingly.

I woke up when I wanted this morning. Well, I woke up of my own free will. OK, let’s be honest here – I woke up at the crack of dawn because the dogs heard a squirrel fart in the back yard and they had to pee.

Ah, the carefree life of a man left to his own devices.

———————————————

Part of my taskings in the absence of She Who Shall Not Be Named is to water her garden. I accomplished this last night once it had cooled down a bit, an effort that my darling wife noticed because she was alerted to my presence in the yard by the house cameras.

She did not get to her destination until quite late last night, because apparently there is a conspiracy between the airline and the city fathers of Fort Lauderdale to make her trip take double what she had planned. She was considerate enough to just text me when she got to her destination in the wee hours of the morning. (I want credit for not using the term ‘witching hour’ to refer to anything my wife does at thirty minutes past midnight)

We eventually connected this morning, and she thanked me for my attempt to not let her garden wither and die in her absence. She did ask that I revise my garden-puttering schedule so that watering occurred just after sunrise. It seems that watering just prior to dusk would invite mold and mildew into her assorted greenery.

Being the loving husband I am, I acquiesced to her request with nary a complaint. I mean, who am I to argue that dragging a hose around the perimeter of our yard at 6 AM, before both breakfast and coffee, is not something I look forward to?

Luckily for me, it started raining this afternoon. I was dismantling the outside stove, because apparently Shelob had set up her summer residence in the carbeurator, when a wave of humidity rarely seen outside of a badly maintained Filipino clam cannery washed over the property. I had just enough time to gather up the pieces and parts, all my tools, and assorted hounds before the first drops fell.

Seeing that the good Lord saw fit to micturate all over Kentucky this afternoon, I reached out to the love of my life to see if this meteorological phenomenon would satisfy her requirements for vegetal hydration:

As you can see, I have been granted permission to not spend my early morning wandering around the yard with a hose, at least for one day.

I do want to point out that Siri’s inability to transcribe for my lovely wife is an ongoing problem. Apparently, if you speak the King’s English with a Kentucky twang, Siri’s accuracy is a bit hit or miss.

———————————————

Speaking of hoses, I need to talk to the manager of whatever sweatshop is producing hosepipes these days.

After last night’s adventure of trying to connect the economy grade hoses Irish Woman purchased last week, I decided that getting something a bit more up-market might be a good idea. I’m not usually picky about my garden implements, but twenty minutes of trying to thread a cheap hose onto a faucet because whatever troglodyte manufactured it didn’t do any quality testing on the connector will make one decide it’s time to make an investment.

Luckily for me, the local hardware store is just 15 minutes from the house, so I popped right on over after coffee this morning. They even had the 75 yard and 50 yard long hoses I need in the brand and quality I wanted. However, when I shelled out almost $100 for both hoses, I made the executive decision that I shall treat these prime examples of rubberized hosemongery as if they were family heirlooms. I will also admonish my heirs and their heirs to continue to do so. Generations from now, they will be passed down from father to son with great ceremony, because it’s going to take using them that long to justify the expense.

———————————————

Not sure how the Internet knows, but suddenly I’m getting advertisements, suggested videos, and posts in Facebook for the place I did the coolest thing I ever did.

It just so happens to be the 30th anniversary of that time in my life soon.

I’m not usually very easily influenced, but I’ve been looking at flights. Other than trying to be a responsible adult, the only thing keeping me from hitting that “Reserve” button is the knowledge that I will probably never come back. Irish Woman would not look kindly on a “Sell everything and meet me at these coordinates” postcard.

That being said, if I fall off the net for a few months, just know I’m going home for a while. It’s not where I was born, nor is it where my ancestors are from, but I felt more at home there than just about anywhere else.