Marking Time
My Busy Man went from his new Executor job to his old IT Manager job with the efficiency of a freight train today. I waved as he zoomed by. Not sure if he noticed. Have a nice day, Dear. I don't know if the farm job has executor blessing to continue, or not. I think it is still in his "In Box." Maybe. It is hard to know what he was shouting from the freight train window as he zoomed on by. For sure, he reacted to any discussion of it like a Honey Do Man with a bachache. I hate it when he reduces me to an added stress in his busy day. It is almost as dignified as being an deficit in an executive portfolio.
I have been pretty depressed since I finished cleaning off the grow shelves this morning. The horehound I harvested for the still is drying on the sandbox work table. Setting up the still didn't find its place in the domestic flow. I don't know what I will do with dried horehound either, but it's all one big experiment, anyway. What time is my spa appointment? My roots are showing.
Been telling myself, "Rest is good." I'm not bored. Just resting. Fakin' it till I make it?
Replies
Hugs Arfie. I'm sorry your husband seems too busy for you at the moment. I hope things calm down and you two can have some relaxing time together soon. I looked up Horehound. I've never heard of it before but apparently it has a lot of folk medicinal properties as an antimicrobial, anti-cancer, and digestive aid agent. It can be used in Tea. Otherwise I'm not sure what you would do with it. Does it smell nice? Could you make sachets from it?
I think pampering yourself and having a spa day sounds good. Theres a great homemade body scrub you can make with brown sugar, honey and olive oil that always made my skin feel so soft afterwards, but then you smell like brown sugar and cookies. I can't smell it so it doesn't bother me, but some people don't like that. Best Wishes!
The "Spa Days" are sarcasm, Dance. I am glad that spas are available for the people who enjoy them, but they are not my cup of tea. I can't even handle the smell of 'em, much less the small talk. It drives me crazier when people, hubs and sons in particular, treat my field work like a run-away housewife spa trip. Invalidation maximus. . .
The good news is that my busy man and I are finding a shared balance between his inherited busy executive perfection and my white trash housewife underemployment. This morning was downright gratifying. Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer.
P.S. Horehound was originally imported to North America by European dairy farmers who used it to scrub their milk buckets. The farm I have been working was originally developed as a dairy farm. The horehound has been feral for several decades or so and . . . Researching that folklore is pretty high on my personal wish list. Methinks there is more there than superstition and weed warrior banes. We'll see. Maybe. Depends on how long it takes to get from the cucumbers to the hair dye in the blue hair factory?
Idea? Follow that wish list. You can wave to your hubby as he zooms by on his track. It's all I can manage to come up with. BTW, horehound is sale-able to farmers who like to de-worm their cows that way. (No clue if it works, but our cows never had worms.) Tastes like bitter mint, to me, but maybe cows don't mind it as much.
I pretty much do treat my hubby like just another zoomer in the gridlock. Well. . . I guess I don't wave at too many of the zoomers in our Boom Town Gridlock, but I see him outside of the mobile isolation chamber once in a while. When I do, I look up from whatever I am doing and at least wave. If he slows down enough, I ask about his day. I don't expect him to be interested in my day, but those days when we actually share interests are precious. I try to keep my expectations real, but. . . I find myself wishing from time-to-time. When he is working his perfect way into heightened stress symptoms, I even feel morally obligated to raise the Nag Flags.
I often wonder if our segregated interests and agendas have a part in our family dysfunctions.