After the first hour checking Internet service becomes just another thing to do. It goes with that cigarette break. After four hours it’s laughable, and after six hours I begin to embrace being off the grid, as such was my evil plan in moving to Samara. It’s Pô, Burkina Faso, all over again. And this morning à la mode de Pô, we experienced an especially long electrical outage.
Electricity comes and goes. On average twice daily the whirring of the fans stops and the only sound is birds . . . or birds and monkeys. This quiet normally lasts for about two minutes, max. Today we were without power for about 40 minutes. Now this is very brief, by Pô standards. And unlike West Africa, at Mil Colinas I can dip into the lovely pool for a cool-down when the fans stop. Jill is not as fortunate. When she’s clearly hot I hold her under the shower and wet her legs and tummy. She says that she hates it, but the dog is a known liar.
So with no Internet I’m left with nothing to do but continue the nesting. This I love, despite the fact that I’d earmarked the morning to updating the blog. I accomplished a great deal. The laundry room is finished, and even Nut-Meg’s smelly-cat odor is finally removed. Finally. It took days!
True, not one piece of art is hung. I’d do it, but we have concrete walls and one simply can’t grab a nail and hammer and start banging-away. Much to my frustration and Rusty’s dread, hanging the art will require Rusty. And when it comes to the spacing and the level of each piece, I expect perfection. Won’t those tools come in handy, honey-pie?
Rusty is still working via Internet at his Texas job. Can I have a Hallelujah? And without Internet he was forced into town for the WiFi. Poor Rusty. All the way down the mountain with his laptop to work on the beach with beer and fish tacos. My heart breaks. I am so tired of feeding this man three squares a day. I said for better or for worse . . . not for lunch.
The home is even relatively clean; and I have yet to break out the big guns in the form of the Shark vacuum. The lightweight Oreck hand-held with extra long sucker-upper tubes is my new best friend (sorry, Becky); and I have Rusty to thank for not selling it in a garage sale. Where was the Oreck in West Africa? For Pô I packed every gadget known to man but forgot the Oreck -- oh, must be because vacuums aren't really known to man. The Oreck is so handy at picking up Meg’s fur-cannon tufts and bugs that I may simply leave it in the open . . . I’m thinking coffee table accessory. Lo que hay.