Especially on line. It’s so easy to make typos. And auto correct can be a jerk. I make plenty of mistakes myself. I try to overlook it when I see it on line. HOWEVER… Today I read an entire conversation about a dessert tortoise. The first post was about a pet dessert tortoise. And all of the responses were about other people’s pet dessert tortoises. Every single person in the thread spelled desert wrong. In my mind, I pictured a slow-moving tortoise covered in whipped cream and chocolate syrup with a sprinkling of salmonella. It’s a desert tortoise.
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That works.
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I forced the issue. He participated grudgingly and only at my insistence. And now he resents his missed opportunity. If only he had graduated in a quarantine year… I’ll check with your calendar when the next pandemic is unleashed.
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If you don’t have diabetes, you won’t understand the glory of watermelon. It’s a rare treat. I only bought a little slab. I didn’t buy the whole melon. Because we would have eaten it all. And it’s really, really, really not good for us. But oh, it was delicious. I will dream about that watermelon all summer. While I’m not eating watermelon.
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When I left California, I really hated to leave my Jacaranda tree behind. But they’re purple. And they’re pretty.
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Every day this week, the weather has remained dry. Today I finally decided to water my vegetable garden. I can’t wait for the rain. It was when I approached the gate to access the hose that I saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was horrified. Rat poop! On the fence! Rats have touched the very fence that I have to touch to access the hose! The Husband, however, was kind of happy. Over the years, he has devised a fool-proof method for dealing with rats. Bob is very proud of his disgusting achievement.
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I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then I decided that “stump” is so much more descriptive than “heel.” I will notify Webster’s dictionary.
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I know that my rows were not up to the razor-straight standards that he demands. Some of the rows were downright wobbly. All I could think of was that scene in True Detective where Woody Harrelson gets up in Matthew McConaughey’s face and snarls at him, “You don’t mow another man’s lawn.” I’m a little concerned. If I’m lucky, Bob will say, “Nice job,” with false sincerity. And then he’ll never let me near the lawn mower again because he can’t trust me to do it right.
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I can’t even go back to canned tomatoes. It’s gotta be fresh. I’m ruined.
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This time it was not a murder hornet. I know because I saw it. It was an ant. I don’t know if it was a fire ant. It wasn’t red. But it was huge. And it was squished by the time I got done with it. It bit me right under the flip-flop strap. And now I’ve got a painful welt and I can’t wear flip-flops. Until I found a different pair of flip-flops in my closet with a different strap angle. Whew! I can still wear flip-flops. Stupid ant.
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