Grand Slam Communication
I bought a green screen that attaches to the back of the chair.
I had nothing but problems.
I watched some YouTube videos and fixed most of the issues.
But I couldn’t get my camera settings adjusted properly.
I called the Grown Son in for assistance.
He was very helpful.
Not.
“Your camera sucks,” was his assessment.
Is there a YouTube video for that?
I want all the details!
I met a woman briefly on a Zoom call.
She said that her husband had been a priest for 20 years.
He left the church for her.
And then she disappeared from the meeting.
I didn’t even catch her name.
But I want to hear what happened.
It’s The Thorn Birds meets Fleabag.
Kind of.
Come back, Lady, COME BACK!
I want all the details!
I am working a volunteer event at the Humane Society next week.
I’m doing it as a favor to a friend.
I made him promise that I wouldn’t be sent home with a new dog.
My Wrigley is getting on in years.
It would be cruel to bring home her replacement.
And make her train it.
I’ve always rescued my dogs.
I’ll rescue again.
But not right now.
What is wrong with the ants in Texas?
I doused the bathroom with Raid yesterday.
Today there are still ants.
But they are not in a trail.
There is no rhyme or reason.
They were on the wall, they were in the sink, they were in a cabinet.
In California, the ants form a trail.
All you have to do is follow the trail to see where they are coming from, and then treat that area.
When you use bug spray in California, the next day there will be piles of dead ants.
There were no dead bugs in my bathroom today.
These Texas fire ants are seriously messing with me.
I think their mission is to have me use so much Raid that I poison myself.
I can only imagine their ant joy when I finally collapse from the fumes of my own bug spray.
Then they will march in and bite me, keeping me just barely alive.
So they can watch me suffer.
I was really hoping for a more dignified ending.
Stupid ants.
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.