Yesterday the temperature got up to 87 when I went out to get plants for my Memorial Day urn  assembly; if you remember my whining about mowing on Sunday, then you know that was at least 43 degrees within 72 hours. (And Sunday, the wind made it feel like 37.)  I came home with geraniums, asparagus ferns, spikes, and trailing ivy and plopped them down on the patio table in the garage. It’s an old, old, old Brown & Jordan table with the criss-cross top, so I can water the plants and let it go right down into the garage drain. This doesn’t sound like much, but, to me, it’s, if not a big deal, then at least, a little blessing.

When I got inside, I striped off my jeans and long-sleeved shirt and hopped (literally) into shorts and stuck my arms and neck through the holes in a sleeveless soft top . . . and then I drank iced tea – peach flavored, dontcha know. By early evening I was a little sleepy and I dozed. I dozed my way through the cell phone and house phone ringing. Then I woke up, thought I’d never sleep during the night and lay down to wake up in daylight.

That’s when I saw I had missed calls from Der Bingle and Quentin. They both left voicemails: Der Bingle’s pointed out other people here need to keep their cell phones turned on and ANSWER THE  . . .  HOUSE PHONE; Quentin’s was short and nice and sounding like himself – although a bit stuffed up. He said his snout’s doing well and he feels okay. He’ll get some of the stuff out of his nostrils on Friday and should be good to go for work by Monday.

Since he’s an IT guy at his workplace, I imagine they’ll be glad to see him back.

I don’t know if there will be any snout pictures or not. I think his face is bruised up, but all should eventually look the same and the view the surgeon has should be much better.  Now the main hope is that is doesn’t get a cold and have to SNEEZE. Ack! What a thought.

Quentin had a bone spur removed from his nasal/sinus area today. We have word that he is doing okay  – although there is a suspicion his snout will temporarily be enlarged and his eyes those of a raccoon.  This should mean no more lingering and deep-seated  sinus infections, but right now, I think it means a big OUCH.

Shane is sending good vibes.

Because circumstances threw me off the LaGrange mowing schedule, the grass was high – and in the north part, it was the first mowing of the year. So . . . I had to do it AND IT WAS CLOUDY, COLD AND WINDY. It felt like 37 and I wore a shirt, a sweatshirt, a windbreaker over it . . . and gloves. The really distinctive aspect of my appearance was both hoods were up and with strings pulled tight. My face was a circle of two eyes, nose and mouth – not even a chin.

Because the grass was high and, in some parts not previously mowed this season, I had to go very slowly to baby the motor and not be surprised by over-the-winter debris hiding under the green waves.  That translates into about nine hours of chugging.

Yes, I am trolling for pity . . . Rose frowned – not an easy task for her – and told me to buck up and shut up.

It was supposed to be somewhat sunny and about 60 in LaGrange today. Well, it’s not going to be that. I am donning jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt. Guess I won’t have to worry about sunscreen – I should be concerned with goggles because it is going to be    w      i       n     d     y. 

Well, if I don’t get started now, I will just stay sitting; I know myself.

Some days are just off-kilter. Today was one of them. But, like other days, it is passing. So, then, we come to tomorrow . . . and it is supposed to be sunny, if a little cool. Cool would be good because circumstances have kept me from mowing – and I mean THE BIG MOWING, not this little pansy stuff here.

Yes, it is Mother’s Day, and, yes, it is Sunday; but I’ll be taking care of Mother’s yard, and, following her example, not roaring a motor during the worship hour at the Methodist Church just down the road.

I told someone a couple of weeks ago that I first started “mowing” that yard before I can remember – following behind my grandfather with my little toy mower. I said, “And I’m still doing it.” She asked, “Not with the same mower?” No, but, you know, the view is sort of the same. And come to think of it, I won’t be wearing short, short seersucker pants with ruffles on the butt. Maybe, though, I’ll wear my Lands End hot pink utility, convertible pants. STOP! Don’t visualize it without bracing yourself first.

I’ll read a bit now and then curl up and doze the night away, perhaps dreaming of a laser mower – one shaped like a golf club with the laser beam emitting from the head, complete with controls for distance . . . don’t want to  – oops – chop a tree down.

I got my little friend on my key chain as a present; she has served faithfully, but is getting tired. I am letting her retire to a nice keepsake box ( with pasture) – or maybe on the window sill where she can keep up with things. Her moo is getting weak, so I will probably take out the screw in her little tummy and put in a new battery.

Now, I’m going to go look and see if of her cow friends wants to volunteer to join me from www.simplybovine.com. I hope she’ll give me a good reference.

They came back so quickly!!

I mowed on Saturday and yesterday morning I looked at the front yard and the dandelions were all over. Actually, they had a sort of grouping to them: they looked like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, only yellow. I was tempted to get the mower out right then, but I was committed to washing windows.

I should have been committed for even thinking of washing those windows. I have old-fashioned paned casement windows – a total of eight in the den. The corners of the panes are the hardest. Let’s see: four corners per pane, eight panes per window, eight windows. That would be 256 units of pain.

Today, though, I did mow, using my electric mower and it started to sprinkle . . . but it stopped, so I didn’t have to. Unfortunately, the Mormon Tabernacle Dandelion choir was no more (for now) and so I did not hear a HALLELUYAH.

Summer and I rearranged things in her room today in an attempt to get the most comfort from her air-conditioning vent. It went okay; we moved a desk and her bed. The bed was easy enough and the desk wasn’t difficult, but there was a little surprise when I started to lift my end of the desk: the top came right up. I quickly let it go back down and told Summer that the top apparently comes off. She didn’t understand at first and replied that, no, we didn’t need to take everything off the top to ease the desk in a hovering scoot around the corner.

I said again, “The top comes off.” And she told me again we didn’t need to take the stuff off the top. Finally, I lifted on my end and said, “Look, the top of the desk is coming up and leaving the bottom standing where it is right now.” She pulled a little on her end and exclaimed, “The top comes off!” For a moment we stood there holding a thick piece of wood with a lot of things on it, including a TV. Then we set it down and bowed to the inevitable: she lifted the TV off and put it on the floor and I took the papers, books, pencils, snacks, cable box and deposited them on the bed.

We then lifted up the five-foot top and realized we had no idea what we were going to do with it; it wasn’t a drill team maneuver but we did find a place for it to lean. We moved the base; we put the top back on . . . getting the TV and the cable box situated required some cord untangling and heartfelt thanks to the person who had left a long length of cable slack. I had to sit there cradling the cable box (still attached to the TV) while Summer detached the wall cable from it and got the kinks out and then reconnected it.

We turned it on for a test and there was Sponge Bob in his square pants. I sighed. The school counselors told her she was their best science student . . . and Sponge Bob? He should at least have trapezoid pants. Then, again, my brother-in-law, who went to school on a Mensa scholarship, can recite all the lines in every Three Stooges episode.

We finished up and for some reason the exercise left us both with sore buttockal muscles. And that would be too much information.

When I was ordering online, I passed over the Station glasses because I had a feeling they were thin and more likely to break; they are thin and they probably do need more careful handling than the tough Gilbratar glasses. However, standing in the store with the glass in my hand, it felt so nice – delicate and refined. What it didn’t say on the website is that they are Krosno from Poland. (Well, it may say Poland – I can’t remember.) I bought a few for myself and I am using one now. Actually, I not only like them – I really, really like them.

They are like the Jax glasses Crate & Barrel used to carry; Der Bingle has some of these and he really likes them. (Maybe even really, really likes them.)

Just thought I’d let you know.

My first cousin Lana is younger than I from late August of one year to early May of the next. So, now, we are the same age. I don’t know why, but this time of year, I always feel like “Ha ha HAHAHA d’ HAHA” and chortle some.

Happy Birthday, Lana Jane.

Oh, yeah, there’s this picture of us from some time back:

That’s me on the left and Lana on the right. (Susie is between us and Glenda is right behind her. We were the little ones.)

Now that I have my giggling out of the way . . . for a moment . . . HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LANA.