I don’t know what the temperature is, but it is humidity. Fortunately, this was not one of my fast walks; this was a posture walk. That doesn’t necessarily mean it was more pleasant, because in a posture walk I pretend a BIG fishhook is going around my breast bone and a line angled upward is pulling me forward. Actually, there is no exterior pull, which is harder to imagine than the fishhook circling my sternum, believe it or not.

My Predator/Reaper hat I inherited from my husband, who is not my late husband, and so I guess I didn’t inherit it, I was given it . . . are you will me still?  . . . Well, that hat got soaked with sweat. I’m going to quit droning on and have some iced tea.

Ah, what a way to start a day, with this message in my email:

Bad luck can strike at any time, be prepared with burial insurance

Several years ago, when realtor.com became a fixture on the internet, I would hop around to various places and look at homes that were really inviting, and, inevitably, way too expensive. I took it in my head tonight to look at some homes that were a little more down home. I found this one with a terrific view, a non-so-good photo of one of the areas, an oddly large bathroom and a storage/garage area that is sort of in keeping with my organizational skills.

Maybe later I will look up cabins in Tennessee.

That dumpster in my driveway is losing its allure, its promise of a de-cluttered abode. It is still here today; it will be here tomorrow and then GONE. But, for these two days I need to be trash-focused, and not the kind you see in tabloids. No, this trash has layers of dust on it, spiderwebs hanging over it and sometimes unknown stuff clinging to it. And, after a little while of dealing with it, I also am accessorized with the above. Gosh, it’s just so much fun.

Well, we did get rid of the “foam-leaking sofa”, probably to Summer’s relief because she could not stand to hear me refer to it as “foam-leaking.” Some teenage thing, I suppose. I have even been IN THE DUMPSTER myself. It isn’t really homey in there, although I guess I could have rested on a bag of foam.

This morning starts a three day spurt of intense dumpster filling. Yesterday, while digging through some boxes of old stuff, I found this little puppy – and I am not using slang here.
IMG_1416

I published this quickly and I am going to ask Summer to make a longer video with perhaps a more energetic song for your viewing/listening pleasure. (Uh, having Summer choose a song may be a shaky decision here.) So far the puppy is unnamed and we are open to suggestions.

I’ve been here in Fairborn since Saturday morning and I am heading back today – but I am waiting for rush hour to clear because it is raining very hard over the very busy exits and entrances and construction barriers on I-75. I don’t know if the rain with be easing up, but I think if I leave at 9 I will be after the commuters and before any people hit the roads heading to malls and wherever they go for solace on a rainy day.

I have on my grungy shoes because of the rain. Looking at my feet propped on the coffee table is not a nice sight, but it is better than bemoaning a nicer pair of shoes turning into giant heavy sponges of squishing water.

I have a task right now – to bound out on the balcony and pull back the potted tree to the relative safety of the corner. Hang on, little guy . . . here I come.

With all the dumpstering and yard work and sorting of stuff, I’m not quite certain of anything.

Ah, the “and” part: We used the weed-eater to cut down these really huge weeds that we thought might possibly have been the inspiration for sci-fi movies. They were not tall in relation to their width; no they were big, ugly leaves that reached out to cover the area of an end table. Of course, the wise thing to do would have been to cover those leaves with weed killer, but we couldn’t wait. We needed to defend ourselves; we will go back later and put down some anti-weed stuff and we will probably arm ourselves with more than a weed-eater.

I love my curved pruning saw; well, love may be too strong a word, adore might be more appropriate. I mean you don’t want to get too intimate with a saw.

With the exception of the saw, all our tools were corded – I have given up on battery-powered tools for yard work. We probably used 350 feet of cord – light green, dark green and yellow. We put the yellow one next to the tool we were using, making it more noticeable. Of course, now I am toying with the idea of adding more cord . . . and more . . . and more – sort of like those million light Christmas displays.

We were able to make it look so much better so fast because it was so overgrown to begin with. I suppose we could have filmed it for a cable TV special. The only thing that went awry was that we left a spool of weed-eater cord hanging from an old clothes line; we thought of it about three miles down the road, but we were hot and sweaty and tired and figured it could hang there for a little longer. Besides, we might have pulled up to see those huge weeds had called the Mother Ship for re-enforcements.

We were going to go on Sunday – to mow, to weedeat, to trim, to spray poison ivy killer, but it rained and was cold. We planned then for Monday but the skies were a heavy overcast and the temperature low and the dew would hang on forever where we were going,  just a couple of miles south of the Michigan line, so we planned for today. And, yes, the sun is out and the sky is blue. Somehow this isn’t like waiting for Christmas.

First on the agenda is loading the car with tools and cords and mosquito stuff; that’s such a festive activity. Almost as much fun as unloading said car, but not nearly as much as the traditional untangling of cords.  We have to be very careful about scheduling the bush trimming – a little too frustrated and gosh, that bush might be a stump, a little too much of good spirits and that bush might start to resemble some sort of “art work” statue. Of course, there is the crazy option which is a variation on the chain saw massacre.

May the force be with us.

My cousin Glenda forwarded to me an email she had received containing getting old jokes. I could relate them all here, but I’m going to highlight the one that tickled me the most and seemed like something my dad would have said.

Just before the funeral services, the undertaker
came up to the very elderly widow and asked,
‘How  old was your husband?’
’96,’  she replied: ‘Two years younger than me’
‘So  you’re 98,’ the undertaker commented.
She responded, ‘Hardly worth going home, isn’t it?’

I forwarded the message to LZP and he sent back this reply:

Count Old Kook in