Grand Slam Communication
I keep a spray bottle of apple cider vinegar.
It’s for the bug bites, to sooth the itch.
You’ll never guess what I found this morning.
My spray bottle was covered in ants!
And the worst part is that there was no ant trail.
Where the heck did they come from?
It’s an evil fire-ant conspiracy.
I doused the entire bathroom in a toxic amount of Raid.
And I got a new bite on my hand in the process.
Bob, by the way, never gets bit.
Stupid ants.
It’s yard work day.
I wore thick socks and boots.
With long pants tucked into the boots.
And a toxic level of bug spray.
I still got eaten alive.
What the heck?
On one ankle, I have a three-inch welt that goes all the way around.
It’s very painful.
It feels like an ankle monitor.
But without the exciting story of an arrest.
I can’t imagine anyone at a cocktail party being even mildly interested in my early-morning weed-whacking adventures.
It almost makes me want to take up crime.
Just for the storytelling opportunities.
Stupid bugs.
The Grown Son had a weird lesion on the back of his head.
I sent him to the dermatologist.
The doctor shaved a patch of his head to treat the area.
The Grown Son didn’t like the weird shaved bit so he give himself a buzz cut to even it out.
That’s when we discovered that the procedure had left a discolored spot on the back of his head.
It doesn’t hurt, and it’s getting better, so it’s all good.
It reminded me of the old Massive Headwound Harry skit on SNL.
The boys had never heard of it, so we had to watch it on YouTube.
The Grown Son was a little disappointed that his head wound isn’t nearly as impressive as Harry’s.
Maybe next time Kid, maybe next time.
What a storm we had last night!
We got an inch-and-a-half of rain.
This morning we had a few dry hours.
The Grown Son decided to take the dog for a walk during the reprieve.
He found out, much too late, that the weather app is a lying liar.
They both returned home drenched.
The Grown Son thought it was funny.
Wrigley, not so much.
I cuddled her with towels and blankets.
She continued to hold a grudge.
I gave her a peace offering of a slice of ham.
She happily accepted it, and then returned to her simmering resentment.
She is planning on spending the day snuggled on the sofa and rage sighing.
I may join her.
It’s not a bad way to spend a rainy day.
It’s Mother’s Day.
I miss the smell of her perfume (Bluegrass by Elizabeth Arden).
I miss her books.
She always had piles and piles of books, and I loved to rummage through them to find a new treasure.
I never left her house without an armful of new reads.
Now I have my own piles and piles of books.
But they’re mine, so I already know what’s there.
There’s no rummaging going on anymore.
She was always an early riser, and I miss waking up to the sound of her clattering around the kitchen.
It was so comforting to get out of bed to find the day already prepared.
Now I’m the first one up.
And I’m the one who has to do the preparing.
Back in the day, on Mother’s Day, we would make a nice brunch.
We would sit in the windows of our Bosch-like house, drinking coffee, reading, and watching the day and the sailboats go by.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
The door-to-door solicitors have been ruthless.
Today’s guy was outrageous.
He kept talking.
I told him I wasn’t interested.
He kept talking.
I explained that I was in the middle of a meeting and I had to go.
He kept talking.
I shut the door.
He kept talking.
Seriously.
The door was shut, and he continued to talk.
Who did he think he was talking to?
Did he think he was going to make a sale from the closed door?
Finally, eventually, he thanked me.
Or rather, he thanked the door.
And he left.
What a wacko.
It’s springtime in North Texas
Bluebonnets are blooming everywhere.
They are spectacular.
People are posing with the flowers and posting pics.
The images are lovely.
But I don’t get it.
How can people traipse into the middle of a field and not get eaten alive by fire ants?
Just the other day I was at the park, and I counted 25 ant hills from where I was standing.
Which means, of course, that there must be thousands of ant hills beyond that spot.
Don’t other people get bitten?
The bluebonnets are spectacular.
But I’m keeping my feet on the pavement.
Stupid ants.
Our friends are in the middle of a massive home reconstruction project.
They are living in a tiny corner of their home while the rest of the house is in shambles.
Recently, late at night, they heard their cat crying out.
But they couldn’t find Fluffy.
Had they accidentally left him outside?
Was he locked in one of the closed-off rooms?
Fluffy? Where’s Fluffy?
Using flashlights, they searched the construction zone.
Finally, they solved the mystery.
Fluffy was trapped inside of a newly-built wall.
They had to cut a hole to let him out.
In the morning, they had to explain the hole to their contractor.
Who laughed so hard that he cried.
And immediately texted pictures to all of his builder friends.
He wasn’t even mad that he had to redo the wall.
I guess that’s one way to celebrate National Hairball Awareness Day.
Today is National Hairball Awareness Day.
Seriously?
We need a national holiday for that?
Why?
How do you celebrate National Hairball Awareness Day?
What kind of food to you prepare?
What do you wear to the party?
What activities do you plan?
This holiday is way too stressful.
I’ll take Taco Tuesday any day over National Hairball Awareness Day.
I instinctively know what to do on Taco Tuesday.
This is why I’m not a cat person.
Here we go again!
In February we had Snowmageddon.
With no power or water for days.
In March we had hail.
Baseball-sized hail with lots of property damage.
And now, in April, we have had another hailstorm.
This time the hail was much smaller than baseballs.
But the storm was relentless.
In the light of day, there doesn’t appear to be major damage in the neighborhood.
The trees and fences are still standing, and the rooftops appear intact.
The roofer is coming back to re-inspect our newly-installed roof.
Our truck is currently at the body shop being fixed up from the last storm.
I imagine if there is any damage from the new storm, their liability insurance will cover it.
That’s the third strike, Mother Nature.
You’re out.