Boo

Life at Chez Ragged is a bit frazzled at the moment. That's not really news, is it? Maybe it's more of a confession.

The weekend was hectic. The weekend was good. The weekend is over.

On Friday we met my folks for dinner and a play, "The Sugar Bean Sisters", followed by nine packets of pictures from their cruise. (You see, I know I bore people, but it's my heritage. A girl can't escape her heritage.) We came home drenched from torrential downpours, our vision blurred from one too many photos of the Panama Canal and one-liners from the play ringing in our head.

Only at Chez Ragged can you complain of lack of storage, whine over the absence of floor space and then buy a humongous treadmill. So, that's what we spent part of our Saturday doing, deciding where exactly this monstrosity would fit. Well, that, lunch out, watching "Match Point" and sweeping water out of our basement.

The removal of a desk, much deliberation and compromising later, we opted to put it in our overcrowded office. It wasn't until Sunday, however, that we moved it into the room, where it sits idle, only being tested for a brief 5 minute trek to make sure it was indeed receiving power. I fear we have purchased a chaise lounge for the cats.

On Sunday we completed what we'd procrastinated the day before, met up with Cynical's family for lunch and play before picking up our own indoor walking track.

After some good cardio-raking, Cynical began dinner and I went to visit a friend who had recently returned from a trip to Guatemala where she picked her son, the most beautiful little boy since Prince E.

I returned to chicken parmesan and a treadmill in need of assembly. Cynical read the directions, I provided the appropriate sized bolt and washer, we did some tightening and there before us stood The Treadmill and a big, huge empty box. (I suspect the latter would do us more good.)

It wasn't a purchase taken lightly, but I must admit that now I worry that it's taken on a life of its own. I am certain in my sleep I heard "Get off your butt and start walking on me" echo through the vents. I fear I am more afraid of the big black contraption than any mask a trick-or-treater will don.

The rest of the night was a mad dash to get ready for Halloween festivities both at home and at work. You see, I am a bit of a cruise director at my place of employment, our own Julie McCoy. Seems I talked us into a "Grease" them and that left me hunting for white socks, scarves, the soundtrack and other bits of garb to help my co-workers move one step closer to the goal: a big pumpkin of candy, the prize for best-dressed.

Oh. . . and we just realized that we leave for San Antonio at the end of the week. Needless to say there are multiple lists being made, frantic e-mailing going on and anxiety swirling.

(It will all come together, but I suspect that due to our complete lack of preparation, which is relative considering I am a self-diagnosed OCD sufferer, the treadmill will sit unused, unless you count holding my suitcase while I contemplate what one wears to Texas in November.)

A clay pumpkin atop our mantle.