It is NOT the First Day of the Rest of My Life

I'd like to think it is.

But it's not.

This past few months have been a whirlwind, as have most things in my life been. January, I was asked the big marriage question, and I accepted, and was told to pick a random date. I did, and on April 13 (seemed to be a lucky thing, although it was a very inconvenient Monday), I became, once again, a wife.

In May, I took another Major Trip with my sister, DeeDee, back to Italy and Greece – leaving said new husband in control of five dogs, a house with multiple renovation issues and a job that takes him literally hours to drive back and forth from.

Don't get me wrong, he did his best.

But. Well, you know.

Things went well at first, with a six-hour time difference shooting me texts of love and well-being. The last five days, however, contained a totally different message. The dogs were barking, causing an issue (once again) with Mr. Drunk and Disorderly across the street, who, at the first of every month when he receives his Social Security Disability Check (translate to : Free Money From The Government Because I'm Mental), buys a substantial amount of beer and liquor (I believe bourbon is his panacea of choice) and raves in the middle of the street about dogs barking and he can't sleep (at 1 p.m. in the afternoon). Hell, I'd bark, too, if I saw a giant orangutan in the middle of the street, waving his arms about like a drunken sailor (which, is oddly enough an appropriate term). "Warning, warning," they bark, "crazy lunatic outside!"

So, this occurrence of planetary magnitude and tidal timing happened just as Husband arrived home, tired and grouchy from his long day of ordering people around, and of course, it did not bode well.

The police were very understanding.

However, Mr. Drunk and Disorderly (notice I at least give him the respect of a title), had scurried back into his rat hole when he saw the police car, and would not answer his door, leaving said Husband to extricate himself from gooey here-say.

All of this does not translate well in texts from 5,000 miles away. And my ankle hurt. And I had a travel headache that would not go away, even with copious amounts of ibuprofen and Prosecco. And my daughter, co-conspirator in Taking Care of Dogs and House, was missing in action. And in a country that has no clue what iced tea is.

The story ends well enough. I'm on my way to discovering The Steps To Obtaining An Injunction 101, so that said drunk and disorderly orangutan cannot cross the non-existent middle line of the street to set fire to my house with the dogs in it. I've made the decision to leave my retail job two weeks early to embark on my art and writing career (again), which Husband is in shock about, as he sees dollar signs literally floating out the window (although he was the one who suggested the Life Would Be Easier If You Could Be Here speech almost 8 months ago) and the dogs, which didn't bark once all day long, and getting used to the idea of someone being here (no more ordering pizza without permission).

But it is not the first day of the rest of my life. It's just a new chapter. And I need to be the heroine this time.