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Do you remember last summer in  ~ Picnic In A Hurricane ~ when My Captain built a picnic table strong enough to withstand a Class V hurricane?

This year, I embellished it.

Behold the blue tape.  The blue tape was everything here.   Once that was down, the supercalifragilistic-aint-nothing-gonna-peel-this-paint Primer was applied.  Two coats.

Then contact paper.

I painted white over the primer, and then My Captain’s showed off his anal-retentive skills with an Exacto knife on the contact paper.

And we had ourselves a template.

Can you see the squares?

Then I applied the blue paint for the blue squares.  (Because blue paint for red squares would be weird.)

It took several coats.

Long story short, when everything dried and we peeled all the layers of contact paper and tape off….VOILA!

Please don’t start about the less-than-perfect way I painted down in the cracks of the table.  I’m not a pro, man!  I’m just a housewife/former medic/ former martial artist/ former whitewater kayaker/ former landscaper/ former bartender.   Painting Cracks was never in my job description.  Quit pressuring me!

Once I’d finished with the checkerboard, I went ahead and painted a khaki colored edge around it, because Martha Stewart would have wanted it that way.   And I’m all about pleasing dear Martha.

Our first players were none other than Em and Critter.  I had not made any playing pieces, so they made do with saltwater taffy and lemon drops.  Frankly, those were way better than anything I would have come up with.

Except they couldn’t ‘King’ each other because they kept eating the pieces.

I didn’t hear any complaints, though.

I’m a world-class talker.  A hell of a story teller.  A master at public speaking.  I can work a room like nobody’s business.

It’s been said I’m full of crap.  I take that as a compliment.

We all have our strengths.  Mine is the Gift of Gab.   No one knows if I’m that way because I was one of four kids and had to fight to get attention, or if I was dropped on the floor as a child.  But whatever the reason, I excel at loquaciousness.

I talk a lot, too.

And I’m chatty and garrulous.

And I own a thesaurus.

There are few people in my inner circles who can tell when I’m dead serious, straight up sincere, or spinning a joke.  And the master of those few people is My Captain.  He can call “Bull-shit” from a mile away.  Usually, he does it lovingly.  But sometimes…sometimes he does it without words.

I’ll be entertaining myself hugely by weaving an outlandish yarn with someone, and he’ll shoot me one of these looks:

and I’ll know I’m busted.

Nothing gets by him.  Oh, believe me, I’ve tried.

And if you don’t think that I quiver in fear when I receive one of these nail-me-to-the-wall looks,  you’re sadly mistaken.  If I was a puppy, I’d probably pee on the floor a little bit.  Heck I’m not sure I haven’t done that anyways, when he’s given me that look.  My Captain is not one to be trifled with.  A smart woman would stop trying.

Which tells you a lot about my intelligence quotient…..

I spend a lot of my time alone around the house.

My Captain is one of the hardest working men in the fire department, if his overtime sheet is any indication.  And between school and spending time with their dad, Varmint and Critter are often gone as well.

So I get used to being alone, and doing things people do when no one is looking…like walking around in my underwear, singing in the shower, belching and farting anytime, and anywhere, and using the bathroom without closing the door.  I most EMPHATICALLY do NOT drink milk right out of the container in the fridge…but only because I don’t like drinking milk.  Otherwise, I probably would.

I’m into shortcuts, and I’m into keeping things real.  Obviously I’m okay with a certain low level of polish and couth.  And I’ve never had to worry about whether or not My Captain minds…because he often isn’t here to see me be so, well, casual.  I do TRY to be a little more classy when my family is around.  Whether or not I succeed is irrelevant…intent counts, right?

But lately, for some reason, my poor private habits have been spilling over into my social ones.  And this isn’t good.  For example, in the past two weeks, I’ve sat on the toilet without closing the door when My Captain IS home, and as luck would have it, he’ll pass by and see me.  All I can do is smile sheepishly and hope my cuteness factor outweighs my disgusting factor.

I’m not sure why sitting on a toilet is so embarrassing.  Everyone does it, everyone needs to do it, and everyone knows that everyone else needs to.  But every stinkin’  time he catches me on the toilet, I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.  (Really, Mama?  THAT was the most appropriate analogy you could make?  Weirdo.)

I keep wondering what he thinks when he catches me in such a position.  He never says anything.  He just shakes his head and grins at me.  I don’t worry that he is judging me, though, because, let’s be honest here, he’s a firefighter.  And he lives half of his life around other firefighters.

These are people who have races to see who can poop corn first after chili night.

So catching his beloved wife on the toilet from time to time is probably more endearing, than concerning.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

(But we never have chili night at home, just to be on the safe side.)

On any given day during Summer Break, if you were to look on the back deck of The Little Cottage, you’d see a number of boredom busters:

Twister, Water Guns, Mega Bubble Wands….

…an expanding/contracting geometric sphere, a ‘Bop-It’ annoy-a-tron…

But this year’s favorite toy is something Grandma Jane gave to My Captain last Christmas.

It’s a granny doll that you shoot at people.  Complete with Red Super Granny cape.

It’s a rubber band propelled flying granny doll that squeals upon impact.  Truly, it is The Bomb.

 Varmint plays target practice with it.

Just last night she had Critter and Em running back and forth in front of her to see who she could nail with the gray haired projectile.

They spent hours maniacally hurling Granny at each other.  That sounds so wrong.

Grandma Jane just watched and snickered.  That chick is warped, I tell ya!

(And My Captain wants his toy back.)

All morning and afternoon, My Beloved Captain and his father, Papa, toiled in the sun on “The Mudpit” patio project.  It was such a beautiful day, and I felt bad that they were missing the fun of it.  They never complained, though.  They just kept measuring and sawing and hammering and sweating.

Then, unexpectedly, we heard a motorcycle pull up.  It was none other than My Captain’s best friend, Ty, who is another fire captain, out for a Saturday afternoon joy ride.  He hung out and chatted for a few minutes….

….and then we heard another motorcycle pull up.  This was our friend Richard and his girlfriend, Kelly.  Richard owns a roofing company, and he is helping My Captain on the particulars of ‘The Mudpit’s” roof.

Here’s the funny part of this: Both Ty and Richard, who have never met before, ride similar Harley Davidsons.   Neither knew the other was coming.  But our driveway was quickly beginning to look like a Harley Rally.

My Captain, Ty, and Kelly all went to the same high school together, which is really kind of nice.

They got a chance to catch up a bit, while My Captain and Papa worked.

And Richard took a look at the structural base for the metal roof we’re going to be putting on soon, to make sure it met his specs, while My Captain and Papa worked.

He gave his professional advice on things like materials and design, while My Captain and Papa worked.

And mentioned that the bathroom vent is going to have to be moved because the roof is going to hit it, which is a huge pain in the butt, but thank goodness he mentioned it now, while My Captain and Papa are working.

It was a lot of testosterone driven manly-man talk, grunting, chin scratching, and head nodding, all while…..

….My Captain and Papa worked.