The patio is in and (mostly) finished, I just need one more pail of crusher dust to sweep into the cracks between the pavers and I need to separate the sod from the soil on the tarps, where there are two medium-not-grand Tetons of what they dug out to make room for the pavers. If I had been home yesterday I could have been working on that right along with the patio expansion and then I'd have had a bunch of soil to backfill around the edges and some sod pieces to put on top to finish it off. Now I get to come home from work today and get to grubbing in the dirt. Because, of course, last night two shows we like to watch had near-the-thrilling-conclusion type episodes on so I was busy from 7 to 9 watching TV. It irritated the crap out of me that I was sitting there watching, and I know I could have taped them (yes, I said that right, we still tape things on videotape; I agree, we're Luddites), and I kept looking out the patio doors and frowning at the medium Tetons of dirt and grass, but for some reason I sat instead of dug. Sometimes I just don't understand myself.
May 18--South Island, New Zealand. The view of the sea from the road snaking along the top of Twelve-Mile Bluff was breathtaking but Charlotte didn't have time for sightseeing. She was too busy keeping to the correct side of the road, the left side, making sure not to drive off into thin air. She was driving fast, too fast for the unfamiliar car and road, not even considering the whole right-hand drive thing, but she had to get away from Hugo any way she could. At first she had been flattered at the fierce attention he paid her and every part of her life, but soon she began to feel as if he were a fungus that infiltrated everything around her. She felt as if her world were shrinking around her, squeezing her so that she could barely breathe. Last night had been the last straw. Hugo had ordered her to change her clothes before supper. He said she wasn't to wear pants, that it wasn't appropriate. She had called the restaurant to see if they had a dress code only to find Hugo's finger pressing down on the phone button, cutting her off. He had been livid that she would challenge him and had locked her in her room. She had cried first and then she had raged and then she had schemed. All night she lay away planning her escape. When he left for his golf game and left the door of her room unlocked she had abandoned all her things. She went down to the lobby, rented a car, and drove away. That was an hour ago and she still felt his breath on her neck. She caught a glimpse of the same gray SUV she had seen off and on since she left the resort. Surely it was just another tourist enjoying the wild coast and the endless blue sky.
When will women learn not to get involved with controlling men? When?