The Perils of Pol-LEN

Even on a rainy day, springtime is lovely in our back yard.

Today’s rain washed pollen into yellow puddles on the driveway, a clue to the source of my morning headache and clogged ears.

Speaking of headaches, here’s another one that wonder dog Scout called to my attention:

Yes, the little bastard is standing ON the squirrel baffle.

Now THIS is just plain cocky!  The sumbitch is rubbing our noses in the fact that WE’RE the ones who are baffled.

This aggression will not stand, man.

- The Dude, The Big Lebowski

(Also George Bush in 1990, sort of.)

PsychiaTree

The street behind us is lined with maples.

Every year this particular tree turns like this, even though the rest of the maples on the street color normally.

I think it’s bipolar.

Booty Calls

The sock-it-to-me humidity that smacks me in the face these days when I open the door to step out for the morning paper brings the heat of July to mind.  Those were the weeks when we were juggling the fun of Camp Grandad and the work of keeping the beach-house-not-on-the-beach ready for showing, plus treks to the doctor to figure out why my heart was threatening to mutiny.

We kept Granddog Ivy during Camp Grandad, so whenever there was a showing, we’d hide the dog bowls and beds, mop the dog drool from the sunroom floor, spray the de-doggy spritzer, and head for the dog park. Ivy loved the park and could hardly wait to start running.  Miss Piggy detested it.

It’s easy to see why.  Even at 16, she’s still got it.

Not that she wants it.

Eventually she dug a hole under a bench and parked her butt in it.  We realized that she was so miserable that she’d prefer to stay in the car.  After that, we parked in a shady spot, left the back door of the station wagon up, and she’d contentedly chew her bone, trying to polish it off so that she could start on Ivy’s while she was romping..

The dog park used to be all grass, but it’s just around the fringes now and the dogs run in the sandy soil.

Can she look any more ticked off?!?!

Ivy, on the other hand, loved making new friends.

These young moms were at the park every morning.  First they would gather for sit-ups and floor exercises, lying in the grass under the tall pines (not in the dog park!)  then they would circle the park, taking the tougher, uphill route.

They deserve merit badges:  Size 2 tags in some new jeans.  Go, Little Mamas!

The only size 2 items in our house are some lead pencils.

You have to stay in shape. My grandmother, she started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She’s 97 today and we don’t know where the hell she is. ~ Ellen DeGeneres

I don’t exercise.  If God had wanted me to bend over, he would have put diamonds on the floor. - Joan Rivers

Blimey, They’re Slimy!

When I came upon what looked to be a petrified pile of dog poop in the yard, I was baffled.  Who did THAT?  It wasn’t Ivy’s or Miss Piggy’s.  (Sad as it sounds, I do have expertise in that area.)  I went back into the garage to get a shovel so that I could remove it.

When I scooped the shovel underneath, the ‘pile’ fell apart and I saw what it really was.

Coitus Interruptus on a spade?

EEYYYYEEEWWW!

Before you make too much fun of me for not being able to tell a snail from a pile of poo, picture the two interlocked.  Thankfully, it’s not an everyday sight.  How do they even find each other?

I was so grossed out that I opened the garbage lid and tossed them in.

I’ve felt guilty about it ever since.  Had I trashed rare snails?  Had I ‘offed’ somebody’s mother and the baby daddy?

When I googled to read just how serious my sin, I read how very hard it is for snails to survive in a world with badass humans who kill them.

Can snails contribute to Wikipedia?

It didn’t take long for the Ghost of Snails Past to begin its haunt.  A  few days later, I walked into the sunroom and found it waiting for me on the sliding glass door.

The Haunting.

Yep.  It had suctioned itself to the sliding glass door.

GROSS!

Since the ugly little bastard was playing on my guilt, it probably thought it had a free pass to slime the door.   What to do, what to do….

I took the safe option:  I yelled for Dearly Beloved.

He dispatched it to a safe area, that being in a natural area wa-a-ay away from the garden AND the door.

Enough with suction-ing creatures attaching themselves to my house!

Then I went into the guest bathroom and looked at the mirror.

That one stays.

Rear Window, Canine Style

It isn’t just some of our grandsons who attend Camp Grandad.  There is also a canine unit.  When it gets noisy around here, our bedroom, which is on the backside of the house, is a quiet place to take a breath.  The room is restful, the view serene.

Usually.

Yesterday, Granddog Ivy quite suddenly became intrigued with gardening.  We had no idea what inspired this sudden interest, but she viewed, sniffed, and pawed it from every angle for over two hours.  The CSI Miami team could not have been more thorough.

I took pictures through the bedroom window.  Not wanting to distract her, I didn’t use the flash.

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Suddenly. . . the aha moment!

She nosed down and with a sudden quick motion, flung something up onto the slate path and jumped up after it.

What was it?

Don’t let it be a snake.  PLEASE don’t let it be a snake. . . !

The hunter, relentless in her pursuit, had captured her fast-moving quarry!

I hope the squirrels were watching.  We relocated the turtle outside the fence, but we’re not making any promises to the tree rats.

Asp Me No Questions

When a prospective buyer looked at the beach-house-not-on-the-beach recently, she and the realtor climbed the steps to the raised garden.

Under the shade of the large hickory tree is a slate patio,  one of our favorite spots.  We felt that any lookers would fall under its spell.  Here’s what it looks like on a typical summer  day:

That day…?  Not so much.   The space was already occupied.

The realtor told us that the snake coiled on one of the center stones was the size of her upper arm.   In fact, it was so large and coiled so perfectly, they thought perhaps it was someone’s pet.

What kind of snake was it?  She’d never seen one like that before.  It was beige, she told us.

Beige, like a python.

“The buyer is still interested,” the realtor said.  Still, we haven’t seen or heard from buyer or realtor again.

The good news is that we haven’t seen the snake, either.

I like to keep a bottle of stimulant handy in case I see a snake, which I also keep handy.-W.C. Fields

Be Gone Ya!

Some years I leave my potted angel wing begonia on the screened porch all year and try to remember to toss a blanket over it on extremely cold nights. The plant always manages to survive, but it does look peaked sometimes.  This past year, it was the summer heat that really did a number on it.  Not knowing what temperatures winter might bring, I was afraid to let it remain out there, so we brought it inside around Thanksgiving and put it in front of a bedroom window.

It convalesced, to say the least.

Recently, when I asked Dearly Beloved to put it back on the porch for the summer, he resisted, telling me, “No, no, I think it looks good in here.  I like it right where it is.”   

Really?  

REALLY?

Don’t Come A Knockin’ Until He’s Out There Rockin’

Remember this house?  The one that was sitting on packing crates on a lot about five miles from the ocean.  The lot is at the intersection of two very busy roads, one of which is the beginning of I-40.  That one continues across the country to Barstow, California.  We have a friend here who rode his secondhand bike that entire distance.  Twice.

I drove past again last week.

The “house raising” was done because the city considered the site a flood zone.  A snaky zone, too, I fear, unless the air pollution from all the cars and trucks whizzing past deters them.

The owner is definitely making progress, although I’d bet that he doesn’t get many callers ringing his doorbell.  No Girl Scout cookies, no Watchtower, no politicians.  That probably means no pizza delivery either.   Now I’m curious to get back and see whether there is even a driveway so that he can receive mail.

Stay tuned.  Next time there may be a rocker on the porch.

Never Iron a 4-Leaf Clover*

My friends Beanie and Hoot toured Ireland via back roads and lanes in September.  They planned their own itinerary, rented a car, stayed in small inns or B&B’s, ate at small local restaurants, and visited the neighborhood pubs for the delightful music of local musicians who gather for impromptu sessions.

Beanie’s  photos make me want to go there.  You come, too.

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May the Irish hills caress you.
May her lakes and rivers bless you.
May the luck of the Irish enfold you.
May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.
~Irish Blessing

*You don’t want to press your luck.  - Daryl Stout

Beverly at How Sweet the Sound has plenty of Irish links  on her Pink Saturday post.  

Proof That BroJoe Reads My Blog

Also proof that he has a diabolical sense of humor.

Why else would he send these…?

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You can’t be friends with a squirrel! A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit.     

-Sex in the City

(These are also posted on BroJoe’s World with a different text.)