...there are five people on the roof, ripping into our old shingles like pros. Which I guess they are, really. As the kids and I left the house to enjoy a bagel breakfast without the benefit of brain-rattling noise, R couldn't stop talking about how 'those guys are really strong' and 'I bet some of them die when they have to do that in summer' and 'can I be a roofer when I grow up'. I answered his questions like this:
1) Yes, they are incredibly strong and when they finally go home at night, I bet they are incredibly sore.
2) I hope none of them die in summer and I don't think they do but I'm sure their already hard job is even harder then. Imagine what it must be like to be a roofer in Arizona or Florida!
3) Yes, you can be a roofer when you grow up BUT you'll be a roofer with a college education because that's kinda required in this family (*unless you become the next Justin Bieber or join a boy band or something and you make so much money that Dad and I can live off of you like creepy stage parents). For either option, you'll need to work out like a mad man (voice lessons not required!), though, so remember that at swim practice tonight.
Then we ate bagels. Then I took R and A to school. Then I went and bought doughnuts for the roofers. Then they decided not to destroy the shrubs planted against the house. Then I took Poppy out to run around in the pasture. Then she wouldn't come back. Then she chased the sheep. Then the roofers laughed. Then my neighbors helped distract her long enough so I could catch her. Then I cursed Cesar Millan. Then I cursed Victoria Stilwell. Then I cursed the dog (silently, in my head, in order to avoid further screwing up her already tenuous psyche). Then I brought her in, gave her some water, and crated her adorable little butt.
The cats are currently hidden in the deepest recesses of the basement (hopefully, or else they caught the first Greyhound Bus that passed through town and we'll next hear from them via postcards from a fishing dock somewhere). The frog has big, wide eyes and a wish for a better hidey hole. The crayfish died last week... probably in preparation for the chaos to come. Ubl is enjoying his last few days in his luxury outdoor digs before snowbirding to Greeley where he will be (oh so glamorously) hibernating at a vet's office in a well-oxygenated refrigerator. Creepy, no? The sheep don't seem to care that there's such a ruckus going on at the house. I'm guessing they think it's only fair since they had to live through the madness of having their barn re-roofed a while back.
Then, a little later the boiler man is coming over the assess the health of our 44-year-old boiler. I have my fingers (toes/legs/eyes/checkbook) crossed that we can get a few more years out of it. For now, I think I'll find things to do out of the house so I can preserve the fraction of my remaining hearing (love, love, love that drumset, C!).
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