Do I really need to move to the cosmos to find a little breathing space?

Swerve too far to the left, you're tippy toeing through fire and brimstone.  Make a beeline towards the right, heaven will be just over the next horizon, won't it?  Well...maybe :'(

My wishing self is on vacation near the breathtaking Maroon Bells, while my real self is neck deep in the house and yard cleaning blues with a pesky little calico making sure heaven is never within a hundred mile radius of my existence.

Problem solving gratification lasts a whole ten seconds before the next dilemma surfaces to coil around me like a starving python.  I need breathing room!  I need to move to Oak Hills with a maid, a cook and a gardener and sit by the pool drinking cappuccino and munching on french macaroons.

;(

Phooey!

                                          Lacey,

                                                    Lacey,

                                                              Lacey...

A lovely bisque rose with a hint of peach and a quadrillion little thorns down her stem!

OUCH!

Charlotte and Austin are free to do as they please...

Austin...carefree and an equal opponent in the battle of territory is left alone, while poor Miss Charlotte stays tucked under my bed safe from little miss schizo kitty.  Any instructions on the plight of multi-cat families obviously have never dealt with a spitfire calico.  I've tried all the remedies!  None of them work!!  Help!!!

I've squirted her soaking wet, banged pans, and lost it a time or two, and she laughs in my face just two steps out of reach.  I've taken on the role of her mom, god rest her soul wherever she may be.  Quite an act grabbing a teeth and claw fighting machine by the scruff of her neck and an arm tucked under her butt to make it worth her while to obey she who must be obeyed.  It doesn't work...nothing works!  

She lays on my lap until the cows come home, and plays with the peacock feathers until the sun wakes on the horizon...and she's still a thousand thorns in my side, apparently forevermore.  She's only been squirted twenty some times since I began writing this piece...my little water baby crimeaholic kitty.     

The bad thing about living in the south with a ton of clay soil under your feet is that there is no good thing about a ton of clay soil under your feet.  Hired a landscaping company to improve the yard drainage so the house would quit rising then sinking during the four seasons. Drainage pipes were sunk underground completely destroying the gardens they ran through, then filled in with top soil first and thick clay last.  Now I have a brick hard adobe garden with the once surface plants at the bottom of the trench.  Number one choice of garden tools this year is the rusty old pick ax...JOY, joy.  

   

Husband...home again...gone again...nothing more to say.  A bit weary of saying goodbyes too soon after the hellos.  So...it's just me, four cats and a little old terrier...and life goes on.