Sunday, March 11, 2012

Not winning.

Oh dear. This is just not my weekend.

Before you continue reading, I should warn you that this is a pretty whiny post about not-very-bad things. First-world problems. Even less than that perhaps: "White, middle-class mini-annoyances" would probably be a better descriptor.

So feel free to skip it entirely and head on down to the post about NYTimes weddings.  Much cheerier.

I posted an ad and a picture on Craigslist last week about the wood that was leftover from our maple tree demo.

Free wood! Great for woodcarvers and fire-place lovers!

I've never been so popular on CL before.  I got emails from about a dozen people. The most urgent one said: "You forgot to put your house number on the ad but my husband is headed in your general direction RIGHT NOW with truck and chainsaw. Please send us your address!".

Before people arrived I carefully selected a few pieces that I wanted to save, and stacked them, thirty feet away, up against the house. Three were for my parents, as they want to try growing a specific type of native blueberry that only grows in rotted logs. The last piece was for me:  I wanted to construct an end table, like this or this, for our study. Doesn't it look like a lovely place to rest a cup of tea whist snuggled in with a good book?

I didn't ask for much, just one lousy piece of wood, that I could turn into a cool piece of furniture and have to remember the magnificent tree that graced our yard.

And wouldn't you know, someone swiped 'em.

I give the guy two truckloads of free wood, let him use my wheelbarrow, and grudgingly give him permission when he wants to come get the logs at 7 AM on a Saturday.

I sent the guy a frantic email yesterday: "I really need that wood back!!' [Sounding, I'm sure, like a crazed nut-case]. And while he was very apologetic about taking the pieces, he'd already chopped them up for firewood.

damn it.

I don't blame the guy. Actually, I take that back. I do blame him. It was obvious to all the other wood collectors that these four pieces were spoken for, why couldn't he have assumed the same? Regardless, I'm not too terribly angry at him.

I'm just in a massive funk about the demise of my special tree limb and this is so not like me. Plus I feel stupid for pining over a stump. [No pun intended there as it was a maple, not a pine tree].


And then I woke up this morning and changed poor little Ben's diaper, only to find that he had a massively red and swollen penis.

Thus, we experienced our first trip to Urgent Care.

Chris is out of town.

Fortunately, the hospital visit went smoothly and we headed out with a prescription for antibiotics in hand.

We stopped at the pharmacy on the way home and discovered that:

1) the doctor forgot to sign the perscription, and
2) I'd left my wallet at home

And that, my dears, is the straw that broke the camel's back. Also known as the last string holding together the bits of Sonja's self control.

[Shall I talk about myself in the third person from now on?  I kind of like it. Saying "Poor Sonja, somebody stole her precious wood" sounds so much better than "I this and me that". wah, wah, wah.  kidding. I won't resort to the third person. Unless I become royalty, of course].

Anyway, thank goodness for
1) cell phones, and, most importantly:
2) moms that literally live 30 seconds away and can come to the rescue, with credit card in hand.

Those same moms also seem to know exactly when comfort is needed.

[In re-reading this post, it would appear that I am far-more concerned about my missing stump than I am about my poor little bambino and his swollen boy-parts.  Not true, of course. I just don't exactly want to go into much detail, given that little Ben will probably read this blog at some point in his life. I want to still be on speaking terms with him following his perusal of this post. Plus the kiddo is going to be a-ok. Hooray for modern and affordable medicine. ]

Speaking of the bambino, I hear him waking up from his nap so I'm off to go hand out hugs and kisses.