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I returned from Costco, parked in my neighbor’s driveway, and hauled fruit and other perishables up to the house, our sure-footed roofers skipping and dancing around on the shingles. To my horror, inside the living room was a drift of sawdust and dirt sifting down from the two skylights. Arrrgggh. They were supposed to put down a tarp. Dirt and flotsam coated the sofas, table, rug and tile. Apparently the roofers knocked on the door after I left, and Himself, huddled in his basement office, never heard. Grrrr. So I’m grumpy, my neck and shoulders sore in that pinched-nerve now-I’m-ticked mode, and later I have a cleanup job: dusting, vacuuming, pounding the sofa cushions.

Yeah, I know. Grouse grouse grouse.

Anyway, I was also alarmed to watch the roofers back a trailer up the steep driveway, one guy standing behind and yelling helpful things in Spanish. “Guacomole! Asada!” And as the trailer careens off to one side, the spotter jumps, waves his arms and screams in alarm: “Huevos rancheros!!! FAJITA!!! FAJITA!!!!” Then a sort of yi yi yi holler.

I came back downstairs and put cotton in my ears. Some things you just don’t need to witness.

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