The Accidental Vacation or How I Survived My Encounter With the Barking Loft Dog

It took me a day to realize it, but this—this week, I mean—is my own personal summer vacation. The kids are at camp from 9:00 to 3:00, and because it's too soon to be in go-go-go mode for the annual school auction, I'm left to my own Nesting Ground devices. Such freedom is usually the death knell for any kind of productivity on my part. The more time I have available for myself, the less I seem to accomplish. But I think I may have grown out of that phase.

Yesterday I did my Ryder Park workout, even throwing in an extra run up and down the stairs that are cut into the hillside. Despite the power lines (they've worked them into the architecture; it's kind of impressive, really), it's a pretty spot:


Afterwards, I headed to the loft for some writing time. I was the only one there for more than an hour, and then the Australian guy arrived (he works downstairs) and promptly got into an argument with his computer. He was yelling normal things like, "Oh, come on," and "Go to hell!" and "Hurry up, would you?" but with an Australian accent. Totally amusing. Anyways, I'm writing what amounts to a fairytale, I think, and here's a paragraph:

Instead, the girl’s mother turned to the hearth, for which her husband was sincerely grateful. He loved nothing more than a hot stew served by his wife, who stood behind him as he ate, perspiration falling like tears down her cheeks. During the day she checked and double-checked to insure the house stores were well-stocked. Nothing rankled her more than sending a kitchen maid to the market at the last moment for allspice or a handful of figs.

Today, after doing some auction stuff (we may not be in go-go-go mode, but we ARE in go mode...), and stopping by to help my parents set up their computer, I found myself once again at the loft.

The door was locked (indicating people were at lunch), and because I am often quite unlucky, the Loft Dog was drowsing right at the entrance. When he heard me try the door, he looked up and growled. I stared deeply into his Loft Dog eyes. "It's me," I said through the glass. He didn't care; he growled some more. "Well, I'm going to open the door," I said. I did just that, and as soon as my key clicked he started barking like I'd stolen his ribeye or something. "Okay, okay, okay," I said. I fought the urge to run which, if you know me, was something of a miracle. "I'm going upstairs," I said over his barking. He walked in front of me as if trying to keep me from his owner's desk. "Don't come, okay? Don't come up here." I walked calmly so as not to entice him into RUNNING AFTER ME AND MAULING ME AND BASICALLY EFFING UP MY PERSONAL SUMMER VACATION.

You will have guessed by now that since I am blogging rather than sitting in the emergency room, the Loft Dog did not follow me. And so I spent two blissful hours tapping away on the keyboard writing stuff that wasn't very good. Which is really sort of the point at this...point.