Breaking Up is Hard to Do

"It's too tough boss," my prized fighter said.

"You've almost got this," I said massaging his shoulders.

"I'm not as good as I thought I was."

"Don't let it mess with your head."

"I'm tired."

"You can do this!" 

With some fights all you have to do is enter the ring and your opponent topples to the ground like a fallen oak tree. Other fights are battles with an enemy who won't stop fighting, won't stop attacking, won't stop being an aggressive jerk. Unfortunately, the fight at hand was not the former type. If it had been, this story would over by now. Nope, this fight belonged to the latter category, the hard, fight-to-the-death one. The only unknown was: who was going to die first? 

The fighters in the ring were formidable. In my corner was my protege and fighter--Mr. Wonderful--the best all-around Mixed Martial Artist, DIY destroyer. And I, I, was his manager, trainer and biggest fan. In the opposite corner was his formidable foe--The Slab. 

After breaking down the concrete and the sarcophagus walls, all that was left to destroy was The Slab. 

"I've got this," Mr. Wonderful said bouncing on the balls of his feet hungry to enter the ring.

"Thor's hammer will take care of The Slab," I said confidently passing the tool to my fighter. "In my day I used this to knock down the sarcophagus walls." Mr. Wonderful nodded, then putting his trust in me started swinging. He swung that hammer left, right and six times to Sunday but nothing worked. The Slab reflected each battering ram as if it had been a feather brushing against Half Dome.

The bell rang and Mr. Wonderful darted to his corner and hollered.
"It's not working!"
"I see that," I said because I had witnessed every deflection of The Slab's formidable nature.
"Now what?" my prized fighter shouted from the ring.
"The drill."
"I don't have a drill bit that big!"
"Size," I said wiping my fighter's face, "Is irrelevant. All that matters is what you do with the drill. Harness its power!" I said handing him the tool.

After finding a drill bit the size of the Statue of Liberty, Mr. Wonderful rammed the drill into The Slab. He brrr'ed, whrr'ed and qzvrr'ed throwing his muscular, massaged shoulders into this attack. His efforts were impressive, his strength was massive but there was one problem.

"It's not breaking!" Mr. Wonderful said when the bell rang. 

"I see that," I said because my eyesight was 20/20. Indeed, The Slab was a very worthy foe. "It's a lot stronger that the worst enemy I ever faced in the ring," I said reminiscing on the previous day when I single-handedly broke up the sarcophagus walls. Ah! The good old days. So much could change in a day!

"Now what?" my fighter said his words tinged with fear. I felt the fear too, a growing realization that after all we'd done to clean the clock of this opponent we'd still have to admit defeat. But as they say in MMA demolition: It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings and… we had't heard the aria yet.

"Use the jackhammer."

"The 25 pounder?" 

"The 75-pound jackhammer!" I said as Mr. Wonderful sagged against the ring's ropes. 

"That's a lot of jackhammer." 

Never was there a truer sentence. I'd discovered how heavy the tool was when I rented the thing from the home improvement store. I couldn't lift it into my car alone. In fact, I needed eight pudgy 20-Somethings to get it into my vehicle.

Ringside once again, I helped lower the 75 pounder to my fighter. 

"If this doesn't work," I said "Nothing will." I watched him hoist the blade between his feet while standing atop The Slab.

"So," he said wilting under the weight of the machine. "This is your last idea?"

"That's right, kid. Make it worth it. Or you'll end up on you tail back in Topeka, Kansas."

He nodded. I handed him earplugs. I pushed the power cord into the electrical socket. He squeezed the handles. The machine blasted, belting out a tune every fat lady loved. Using all his weight, Mr. Wonderful steered it into The Slab. The jackhammer's blade sunk into the concrete. It worked! Then it stopped.

"Keep going! It's working!" I said jumping up and down.
"It's heavy."
"I know. Exactly 75 pounds heavy." I saw the exhaustion in his body and face. "Show this opponent who's boss and make that machine sing," I said handing my fighter a glass of water. He guzzled it down, nodded and promptly made confetti of The Slab.

How the fat lady sang! There's nothing as beautiful as a fat lady singing. Except perhaps a pit in your backyard that is concrete-slab free.

"You beat The Slab!" I said dancing around Mr. Wonderful. My champ nodded then collapsed on the sofa. Tomorrow he'll tell this tale of how he beat The Slab but until then, I'll leave him be so he can hear the fat lady belting out that beautiful aria in his dreams.

Thor to the Rescue!

"More coffee?" I said noticing the empty cup on the breakfast table.
"Please," Mr. Wonderful said handing it to me.
"More bread?"
"Please."
"More procrastination?"
"PLEASE!"

It had gotten to this point in our lives. Mr. Wonderful, the ultimate DIY die-hard, was tired of DIY-ing. More correctly, he was tired of breaking up concrete having already devoted two days of his life to it and knowing he'd have to do at least one more but… he just didn't want to so he was looking for methods to stall, to put off the work, to play hooky.

I have to admit, I didn't blame him. The reason for the procrastination was that after breaking up all that concrete we'd found another concrete structure located under the previous concrete slab. This structure had four walls and was built as: 1) The dump bucket for the pool's original filter; 2) A support for the pool; or 3) A hiding place for pirate booty. Anyway you looked at it, the structure resembled a sarcophagus, you know, the thing they used to bury England's dead kings in.

"Maybe Richard III is buried in our backyard!" I said hoping to move my spouse to break the thing down.

"They already found him last year. Under a parking lot. In England," Mr. Wonderful said putting his feet up on the table and sipping his espresso. It's hard to trick a well-read spouse but I kept trying.

"Maybe pirates buried gold doubloons in our backyard! Arrr!" I said limping across the floor with a fake peg leg.

"I'm glad they used concrete bricks manufactured in the 20th century to hide their 18th century booty in," he said without looking at me. It's hard to trick a spouse who knows his history but I kept trying.

"Maybe I'll just do it myself," I said marching outside with a hammer.

"No way!" he said chasing after me.

After descending into the pit, I swung a hammer at the sarcophagus wall only to have my swing interrupted by Mr. Wonderful's arm. 

"I'll do this," he said.

"I got here first." We debated who would do the arm breaking hammer work and who would do the back breaking rubble removal work. What a toss up. He wouldn't hear of me hammering and instead insisted that I continued removing concrete chunks. Since the amount of rubble in our backyard rivaled that found in Dresden after World War II, I didn't argue. Like the sarcophagus, the rubble, too, had to go.  

As I removed wheelbarrows full of rubble, Mr. Wonderful swung at the sarcophagus's walls to no avail. The thing had been built to last and it was outlasting Mr. Wonderful's strength, stamina and interest. 

"Let's switch jobs," I said. Mr. Wonderful kinked an eyebrow. "I want to hammer," I said. "Please?" Finally we swapped tools. Gripping the hammer I swung it like Venus Williams at Wimbledon and BAM! Part of the wall broke off. I swung again. WHAP! More of the wall fell. Again, THWAP! And the walls tumbled down like Jericho. Mr. Wonderful paused to look at me with shock.

"You're good at building things," I said gritting my teeth. "And I'm good at breaking them."

"Don't let me stop you."

I swung again this time with a smile. There's a time to procrastinate and there's a time to channel your inner Thor. What comic book, fanboy geek doesn't want to pretend to be a Norse god making the world right by breaking things with a cool hammer? I confess to being one of those comic book, fanboy geeks. BLAM!

By the end of the day, the sarcophagus walls were gone as were my arm muscles. Ahhh, it's not hard pretending to be Thor if it'll help your spouse. POW!

A Painful Break Up

"You getting ready to work?" My 86 year-old neighbor said clutching his newspaper.

"Yes, Harold," I said spreading black plastic on the driveway.

"This job going to be a big one?"

"Yes, Harold."

"You have all the tools you need?"

"Yes, Harold."

"Can I watch?"

"No, Harold!"

Mr. Wonderful and I were embarking on the biggest DIY job we'd ever done on The House and the last thing I wanted was an audience. If Harold had offered to help us with the work, that would have been a different matter. But I didn't know how much weight his 86 year-old arms could carry, how much stress his 86 year-old heart could take and how much white wine his 86 year-old liver could digest. Yep, on this morning my spouse and I began with a glass of Chardonnay then promptly put on our boots and went to work.

We drank before noon because we believe in pleasure before pain. And oh boy, the pain was coming. In steps.

Since our entire backyard was covered in hard surfaces--concrete, brick, titanium--we'd decided to remove some of it, specifically the concrete slab which used to be the foundation for the pool's original filter. You know, the one the Ancient Egyptians installed. 

Here was our day:

Step #1 Went to The Home Depot to rent a circular saw with diamond tips.

Step #2  Back at The House Mr. Wonderful steered the saw, cutting through the concrete. He followed the straight lines we'd made with the sidewalk chalk. We're very high tech.

Step #3 Went back to The Home Depot to return the saw and and rent a jackhammer.

Step #4 The jackhammer weighed 25 pounds but felt like 160 pounds. It broke up the concrete successfully turning the formerly flat surface into a pile of rubble.

Step #5 Mr. Wonderful went back to The Home Depot to return the 25 pound jackhammer, meanwhile-- 

Step #6 I loaded concrete rubble into a wheelbarrow and dumped it on the black plastic in the driveway, meanwhile--

Step #7 Harold looked on with excitement wishing he could participate!

Step #8 I lifted out the last of the broken up concrete chunks and underneath discovered… more intact concrete. Arrgh!

Step #9 Mr. Wonderful returned to The House, saw the extra concrete that needed to be broken up then collapsed on a lounge chair. Arrgh!

Step #10 Harold wanted to get his hands dirty but couldn't. Arrgh!

Step #11 Mr. Wonderful's stiff arms were in pain, meanwhile--

Step #12 I experienced burning back pain, meanwhile--

Step #13 Harold felt massive mental anguish at not working our job.

I crawled to the fridge, retrieved the Chardonnay and despite our sweaty clothes and dirty boots, we drank the wine because it lessened our misery. Although Harold remained sore from being 86 years old and not toiling away. I grabbed a juice glass and poured our neighbor a splash of Chardonnay. He sniffed and drank it. The beverage helped him, too.

We survived an agony-filled DIY day. But realized we'd have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again. But then, that was tomorrow. Today we'd worked well and drunk Chardonnay. Yep, the pleasure eased the pain.

It...Begins

"It's clean," I said sweeping my arm across the backyard.

Mr. Wonderful shook his head. "It's hard." 

"It's good for clay pots."

"It's flat."

"I don't mind it."

"I do."

In this way Mr. Wonderful and I discussed another fixer upper job on our fixer upper House. More accurately, a fixer upper job on our pathetic "backyard", more accurately the jumble of concrete that composed said yard. It would have been easier to discuss if my spouse had smiled or laughed while debating this latest project. But he couldn't because we'd agreed on some things before we bought the place. During escrow we both knew: 1) Repairing The House would be a labor of love; 2) The House had good bones; 3) The backyard was a disaster.  

For everyone on the planet, a "backyard" consists of grass or dirt located behind one's house. That is, everyone's but ours, which was composed of various concrete slabs, brick walks and wiggly stone pathways. Judging by all the hard surfaces, the former owners either hated Mother Nature or they held stock in a stone company. Whatever their situation, it was clear that our backyard looked less like a fertile patch of Southern California goodness than a hard-surface landing strip for a 747s, 757s and the entire fleet of Space Shuttles. 

Nevertheless, removing all that concrete--what Mr. Wonderful wanted--would be a lot more expensive and back breaking than just leaving it where it lay--what me and my new manicure wanted. As a first time homeowner in Southern California, I didn't know anything about concrete-covered backyards because I'd never seen them before, but apparently out here they are as common as out-of-work actors. There must be a reason for it--the concrete, not the actors. Perhaps concrete provided unknown benefits to our yard, our pool, The House? I wanted to make sure we wouldn't be making a mistake before we dug it up and I broke a nail so I asked the experts.

"It's cheap," our 86 year-old neighbor said sweeping his driveway.

"Okay, Harold," I said leaning against the fence dividing our properties. "But is there any other positive to having a concrete backyard?"

"I said it was cheap, didn't I."

Somedays Harold was a talker and sometimes he wasn't. Today was one of the latter days.

I saw Jerry pruning his rose bushes so I bounded over to ask him if we should remove the concrete or leave it.

"You'll never have to pay a gardener," he said adjusting his San Francisco baseball cap.

"Besides money, is there any other reason to keep the concrete?"

"Removing it is hard work, you could bust the gas line, you could electrocute yourself, you could strangle yourself with PVC pipe. Should I keep going?"

I shook my head.

Born and raised in San Francisco's earthquake country, Jerry had a pessimistic side to him I'd never noticed before.

I caught a glimmer of Charles' car as it pulled into his driveway. When I flagged him down I saw his hair was windblown, his face tan, his teeth white as milk. To remove the concrete or not, that was my question.

"We have concrete in our backyard, too. And I hate it," he said with a laugh.

"Does it help your pool or house?"

He laughed some more.

"But would you spend the time and money to remove it?"

"If I had the time or money, sure!" He said slapping this thigh.

I'm a sucker for a good laugher. And Charles was one of the best.

That night after dinner, I agreed with Mr. Wonderful to remove concrete from our backyard. Not all of it, just some of it. Then I handed him a piece of sidewalk chalk and asked him to delineate what he wanted gone. After drawing all over our property, like the kid's book Harold and the Purple Crayon, I sat down in shock because there was so much remove.

"It's a lot," he nodded. "But when it's gone, imagine how great our backyard will be!" Then he laughed loudly, a warm smile spreading across his face.

Of course I said yes. I couldn't argue with that laugh. 

Once Upon a Squirrel

Once upon a time the tumbleweeds were blowing in from the west. It was a hot, dry morning but my cowboy boots kept my feet cool. Or at least my boots' odor eaters did. I was up early doing what cowboys do: surveying the ranch, assessing the critter damage and drinking green tea from a dainty Japanese cup.

My morning property survey had proved that: 1) The mockingbird was still on its nest, which made my cowboy eyes twinkle; 2) The drought tolerant garden was doing its drought tolerant thing, which made my cowboy face smile and; 3) My old enemy, that thieving squirrel, didn't like drought tolerant gardens, which made me slap my cowboy knee with glee. 

Not seeing that blasted squirrel was worth all the time, trouble and backbreaking work of creating that garden. So the front yard was now squirrel free. As for the backyard I hadn't seen much of the furry critter since my ranch helper had scared the begezuss out of it. Every cowboy should have a ferocious protector like Jackson, my pussycat. So the backyard was also free of poacher squirrels. As I shuffled across the driveway back to the homestead I sighed with relief. Finally this cowboy could relax--

What was that? A movement overhead at the neighbor's caught my eye. Looking up I saw it--walking the telephone wire like a circus tightrope walker. It was none other than that poacher thief--the squirrel. It scampered to the telephone pole then raced--head first--down to the ground. 

Its mouth was empty as it bounded into the street right for my ranch lands. I knew what it wanted: to get on my property and steal more fruits, vegetables and pool rafts. To be fair, although it had never stolen a pool raft with this squirrel it was just a matter of time before it had a margarita in one hand, an apricot in the other while floating around on a raft in my pool. I turned in my boots and took five paces toward the varmint. It saw me and stopped in the middle of the road. 

Partner, it was a showdown, like High Noon, Unforgiven, and Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. Anyway you looked at it one of us was going to win while the other was never going to steal anything else from my ranch again. 

I took a pace forward. The squirrel hopped once toward me. I took another step toward it, the squirrel bounded several hops toward me. It wasn't stopping. I waved my weapon--my arm--overhead. It did not care! It laughed in my face! It was leaping toward my property and I realized once it got on my land it would run up a tree--out of my reach--and jump from tree to tree thereby reaching my backyard and vegetable garden goodies. The varmint! Who was I kidding? I couldn't fight this bad guy by myself. I needed help from my cat but my ferocious Jackson was sawing wood. Again.

The squirrel bounded again landing two feet from my property line, I was just two feet away from losing every fruit and vegetable in these here parts, when the mockingbird came out of the trees flapping! It got in the path of the squirrel and flapped its gray and white wings in the varmint's face! The bird was fierce, relentless, tough! It spooked the thief who turned and raced back to the telephone pole it had crawled down from.

The mockingbird watched it go. I watched it go. I applauded the mocker and thanked her. She didn't pay attention to me. To her she was just keeping peace in this western town. Oh, yeah and preventing the squirrel from getting anywhere near her nest. The squirrel's reputation had precede it.

Once upon a time there was a squirrel who menaced an innocent cowboy so the area's lady mockingbird sheriff took care of the problem, which is another reason you should never kill a mockingbird.

Shopping Together

"It's the weekend!" I said digging into my breakfast omelet at the restaurant table.

Mr. Wonderful smiled.

"A mini vacation. We can see our friends, the beach, the moon!"

He smiled.

"We can do anything today!"

"Let's go to the home improvement store."

My heart sank. Here we were enjoying our first sunshiny day without home improvement and he wanted to drop this for hardware? What idiot ever named him Mr. Wonderful? Oh yeah, right. 

Since we bought The House, going to The Home Depot, Lowe's and any other home improvement store west of the Timbucktu had become our Saturday ritual, our Sunday ritual and a Hump day must do thingy. Today I would have preferred doing anything else like walking on glass, eating glass or poking my eyes out with glassy glass needles. After all we'd just finished redoing the front garden and already Mr. Wonderful wanted to start something new. What dingbat named him Mr. Wonderful?! Oh yeah, right.

"New" was not entirely true. Actually we were finishing up some interior painting we'd started before Christmas and Mr. Wonderful wanted to finish it now. 

"What's the rush?" 

"It's been six months," he said getting behind the steering wheel. 

"So?" I said sliding in next to him. "Who's counting?" 

"I am."

What a dilemma. Should I choose my marriage or my sanity?  

I made a proposal. I'd go to the hardware store (again) with Mr. Wonderful as long as we could: 1) Go to a different store; 2) Swim in the pool and; 3) Get smoothies. With a raised eyebrow and a bucketful of apprehension he stared at me for a full minute. What bozo named him Mr. Wonderful?! Oh yeah, right.

Finally he agreed. We ordered Jamba Juice smoothies--I got mine with extra boosts of vitamin C, patience and endurance. Then we strolled the aisles of a home improvement store we'd never been to. It was like being on vacation! They had paint but it was on the left hand side of the store not the right--Amazing! They had patio furniture but it was inside not outside--So cutting edge! And like every other store on the planet, they had concrete floors but theirs were polished to the color of fine mahogany--What a great idea!

He pushed the cart and I jumped on the front for some city surfing. We busted up laughing. Then I pushed him and he surfed. We laughed even more. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, we saw a friend of ours.
"What are you doing here?" I said giving Bob a hug.
"Getting supplies. Hey! Where'd you get the smoothies?" I let him try mine. "Great combination." The three of us chatted and laughed for an hour and not once did I think where we were. We hugged Bob goodbye and paid for everything at the checkout.

As the sun climbed overhead we painted; Mr. Wonderful on the ladder and I on my knees. For several hours I was bent into positions the human body was not meant to do. Ever. When we finished I spent another hour washing paint from the brushes and cleaning up. 

"How you feeling?" he asked.

"Tired."

"What about that swim in the pool?"

He'd remembered our deal. What Einstein named him Mr. Wonderful? Oh yeah, right!

A Love Story

Shiny, new and oh! So handsome!

I wasn't referring to Mr. Wonderful, my cat or Leonardo DiCaprio as "The Great Gatsby" although they all looked good in fur. I was talking about my fabulous new dishwasher. Even with all the amazing, articulate adjectives in the English language, I couldn't express how I felt about it because this was a love story--with romance and comedy--unlike any other.

The Romantic Comedy opens with a fun, spunky girl who's dating a big, loud jerk as wide as a refrigerator. The Frig doesn't deserve our girl but she's too nice to break it off with him. Ugh! They're so mismatched. Then the Frig dumps our fun, spunky girl! Can you say LOSER? 

Our girl is sad for exactly two seconds then looks for a new beau--online! Gone are the days of trolling bars, clubs and the Trader Joe's produce section to find the right guy. Now she can see potential beaux's pictures and profiles while at home wearing her Hello Kitty bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

Then she finds him! A guy named Ken Moore. She contacts him, they decide to meet in person. She goes to his crib--a place loaded with other available men but none as good looking as Ken. She is drawn to Ken's modern lines and strong, quiet nature. He to her fun, spunky personality. They are meant to be together! Can you say ROMANTIC?

But an Act Three problem surfaces when a Salesman glides across the showroom floor to tell her about another model he knows. This appliance is super quiet and very attractive but wow! So much more expensive. She pulls out her phone to google product reviews of both. She reads them all and gets more confused than following Ikea's how-to directions.

She leaves both appliances and exits the store. Perhaps she should forget Ken and go with the super expensive one because the most expensive is the best one, right?

Walking along the river with a gorgeous view of Downtown, Ken calls to her in a daydream. The spunky girl realizes she doesn't need the expensive guy who swooped in at the end. She needs the one she fell for initially--Ken! She runs down the street past her parked car because now we're at the end of Act Three and this is the moment of truth because this is when spunky girl runs like crazy to find Ken.

At the store, she embraces and kisses Ken, then hands over her credit card to buy him! Can you say COMEDY?

She loads him in her car and rolls him inside only to have Jackson sniff Ken all over like he's a salmon dinner. Mr. Wonderful gives Ken the once over approval then offers to hook up Ken. And Leonardo DiCaprio as "Gatsby"? Well he loves Ken because they both look good in fur.

If You Build It, the French Will Come

So you love France, French fries and fromage? This means one thing: you should make your own Petanque court. Since Mr. Wonderful and I just made one, I'll tell you how we did it. 

1) Buy the supplies, including: gravel, DG (Decomposed Granite), landscaping cloth and edging stones.
2) Grab a bottle of Ricard and mix yourself some pastis. 
3) Drink it in one go. 
4) Forget pleasure for the next 16 hours because it's time to build a Petanque court. 
5) Rope off the outline of the court. Regulation Petanque courts measure: 4 meters by 15 meters (aka 12.8 feet x 48 feet). Since my 86 year-old neighbor, Harold, wouldn't let me co-opt his front yard for a regulation court, I had to minimize these dimensions to fit my yard. 

6) Dig down 6 inches to form a trench, aka the court-to-be.

7) Line the perimeter of the trench with the edging stones.

8) Flatten the dirt in the trench and fill it with gravel.

9) Flatten the gravel and cover with landscaping cloth to prevent weeds from growing in your court.

10) Fill the trench with DG. This adds a honey color to your court and makes you think you're in France, along the Mediterranean or anywhere but in your own backyard.
11) Wet the DG and flatten it. Getting it wet helps it to lay flat.

12) Voilà! You have a Petanque court! 

Now that you have a court for Petanque, just beware of the French--they'll show up on your doorstep begging to play a game or deux. If they bring a bottle of Ricard... I'd let them play.

Profitez! (French for "Enjoy!") 

Big Plans, Little Spaces

"I want the Pétanque court here," I said waving my hand at the front yard.

"Uh-huh," Mr Wonderful said beside me.

"And the garden beds here, here, here and... here."

"Uh-huh."

"And the fruit trees--"

"Where does the airplane runway go?"

Mr. Wonderful had a great sense of humor. Often his jokes had me laughing so hard I'd forget to breathe and just snort. And his impressions! You should hear his Robert De Niro--"Are you talking to me? Are you TALKING to ME?" Wow. It was like being married to a taxi-driving, raging-bull, mobster with a heart of gold-en cannoli. 

But this time his comedic comment didn't tickle my funny bone. In other words: there weren't any snorts.

Maybe his comment wasn't funny because he was doubting me. No one likes to be doubted, especially people taking a big risk like the Wright Brothers, Neil Armstrong and George Washington. Ripping out my grass and planting California natives was as bold as creating the first plane, flying to the moon and creating a new country. Kind of. 

Maybe my spouse's comment wasn't funny because he thought I hadn't thought this through--I thought. Months ago I took the lead on this turf-less garden project and immediately dove into researching plants, visiting nurseries and talking to green thumb experts about what to plant in our corner of paradise. I knew what I wanted and had it all planned out of where every single plant would go. Kind of.

Maybe my husband's comment wasn't funny because he didn't feel involved. We had renovated so much of the house's interior together--as a team--but now with this garden project I was doing all the heavy-lifting. Which meant I had to include him so he and I were functioning like a well-oiled team. It would be like he was Joey LaMotta, the manger-brother, to my Raging Bull Jake LaMotta. Kind of.

So I grabbed a pencil and paper and got to work. I made a diagram of the layout and plants I'd planned for the garden and broke it into three zones: 1) The drought-tolerant plant zone; 2) The Pétanque court zone; 3) The California native zone. 

"You have big plans for the little space that is our yard," he said.
"We can do it but only if we do it together," I said extending my fist to his. He paused then gave me a fist bump.
"Okay," he said with a smile.

Clearly I'd made him an offer he couldn't refuse.

Next up: Making the Pétanque court!

V is for Vineyard... in the Backyard

"This year let's plant tomatoes in the backyard," I said at the home improvement store.

"Sure," my husband said putting a flat of tomatoes in the orange cart.

"And zucchini."

"Sure."

"And Cabernet Sauvignon grapes."

"... Excuse me?"



PLEASE NOTE:

This blog post has been removed.

However you can find it, and more, in my collection of wine stories called Evolution of a Wine Drinker available on Amazon.com!

Thank you!
--Alicia