So, the boat.
We saw the boat on Tuesday and put the deposit down on it (in cash, with a written receipt received) that same night.
Wednesday, Matt – the seller – had to do something to the boat to finish fixing it. Thursday, Fred went over so that he and Matt could finish fixing it (some part or something had to be replaced. I’m not clear on the details and don’t care to be) and then take it out on the water. He got home at 6, annoyed that they’d spent all that time working on the boat and never got a chance to get it out on the water.
Friday, Matt had to work both his jobs, so he and Fred made plans for Fred to come over to his house Saturday at 11, they’d spend a few hours on the water, and then the boat would be ours.
Saturday at 10:15, the phone rang. It was Matt, who asked for Fred. I went out and followed Fred around on his riding lawnmower for ten minutes until he finally saw that I was waving him down (I swear to god, when he’s on the fucking riding lawnmower and I need to get his attention, it’s certainly as though he’s doing everything in his power to not so much as glance my way. By the time I get his attention, I’m usually highly pissed off.).
Fred picked up the phone, and I went back in the house to finish cleaning the kitchen. I figured Matt had finished whatever he’d needed to do that morning and was calling to tell Fred that he could come over early if he wanted.
Fred walked into the house. “And just like that,” he said. “We don’t have a boat.”
Turns out Matt had babbled some shit about something being more wrong with the boat than he’d thought, and how the boat needed to be repaired, and it “wasn’t going to work out.” Meaning the sale wasn’t going to work out.
He was actually calling to ask if we banked at a particular credit union. We do, and he wanted to just transfer the money from his account to ours. Fred wasn’t about to give out our account information to him, so we ended up going to Matt’s house to get our deposit back. He told Fred that he’d taken the boat to a certain marina to have work done.
The garage where he keeps his boat was conveniently closed, and we couldn’t see into the garage.
Later, someone Fred works with, who knows boats, called to let Fred know that he’d stopped at the marina where Matt had claimed he’d taken the boat and there was no 1987 Sea Ray Seville waiting to be worked on there.
My guess? Either he decided he didn’t want to sell the boat or someone offered him more money.
Douchebag.
My low level of interest in owning a boat has flatlined. I’m only hoping that if I put Fred off long enough, he’ll lose interest too.
But I’m scared to find out what he sets his sights on next.
5:40 Saturday morning found me digging frantically through the “Cats – Vet” folder in the filing cabinet next to my desk, searching to make sure everyone was up to date on his or her rabies shots.
In the back yard, under a bucket, an injured bat screeched angrily.
I’d been sound asleep when Fred woke me to tell me that the cats had gotten a bat. He didn’t know that any of them had actually come into contact with the bat – they were all kind of just huddled around it staring at it. He asked if I wanted to come look at it, and at first I didn’t want to get up, and then I decided I did want to see it (how often do you get a chance to see a bat close-up?), so I grabbed my glasses and trudged downstairs.
In the back yard, Joe Bob and Kara and Tommy were in meatloaf positions around the bucket, staring at it with some interest. We discussed what Fred should do, and ultimately decided that he’d carry the bat out to the back of the back forty, and leave it on the ground there so that either it could recover and fly off, or die in peace without one of our asshole cats trying to tangle with it.
Fred flipped the bucket up, and I stared down at the poor bat, who was on his back and flailing around angrily. Damn but bats are cute, even when they’re pissed off. Fred flipped it over onto its stomach (we both kind of hoped it would suddenly take flight and fly off with its bat family), and it lay there and screeched angrily. Fred leaned down to push it into the bucket, and I saw a dark shape swooping through the air at us. I yelled at him to leave the bat alone and back off, and he did. We waited for a moment, and the dark shape – another bat – swooped by again. When I determined that it was most likely not going to coming screeching through the air to attach itself to Fred’s face and suck out his brain through his eyeballs, I allowed him to push the bat into the bucket and carry it off.
Then I came inside and dug through the folder to be sure everyone was up on their rabies shots. Everyone except Maxi is up to date (she was supposed to get her rabies shot when she went to the vet the week before last, but she was running a fever at the time, so they couldn’t give her the shot) and she wasn’t around the bat, so I think we’re all good.
Famous last words, right?
Fred processed five roosters on Saturday, in fact he was mostly done with the processing by the time I got up at 6:30, and of the five he processed, one was half Silkie.
Silkie chickens, for the record, have black meat. It’s considered a gourmet food in some Asian cultures, and it supposedly tastes just like chicken, but man – that is some nasty looking meat.
Since I know some of you out there are the delicate sort and have no desire to see a cleaned chicken, I’ve put the picture elsewhere. Anyone who wants to see the blue-gray meat of a half-Silkie chicken, you can see it here.
What I like most about that Wikipedia page about Silkies is that it claims they’re known for their “docile temperament.” HA. One of you guys once commented that they look like Muppets, and now we refer to the Silkies as Muppets, only we don’t just call them Muppets, we call them ANGRY Muppets. Because when I open the door to the nest boxes and there’s a Silkie in there, she sounds exactly like you’d imagine an angry Muppet would sound, all puffed-up and screechy and “I’M LAYING AN EGG HERE GODDAMN IT, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!”
Also according to the Wikipedia page, The breed is renowned for its broodiness and mothering abilities. Now that, I’ll agree with. The white Silkie is on her second batch of baby chicks, and she’s very VERY protective of her babies.
Muppet Momma.
The thing is.
Well, the thing is.
Mondays? They’re exhausting.
(Hoyt)
(Sam and Lafayette)
(Terry)
(Lafayette and the top of Sam’s head)
(Bill)
(Terry)
You take your cool places where you can find ’em. (Please note the CLASSY brown paper duct taped to the top of the fireplace to stop the crap from falling down into the fireplace. Time to replace that with fresh brown paper and duct tape, I’m thinking.)
Previously
2008: No entry.
2007: six cats (permanently living in the house) are our limit. (Famous last words!)
2006: And you know when I’m saying it’s hot, it must be like burning in the flames of Hell.
2005: I’m going to kill my husband.
2004: “THIS IS NOT THE FRONT OF THE SCHOOL,” I said. “THIS IS THE SIDE.”
2003: No entry.
2002: Stop making those gagging noises.
2001: Is it just me, or does Mother Nature not like it when the spud or I fly?
2000: No entry.