Sunny, With A Chance Of Whoops.

This weather is perfect for outsidedness. Big Al, our tail-less resident lizard, agrees.

Today’s adventures started out in the backyard. The recent winds left the air and the ground extremely dry, and the lush brown foliage was clearly unhappy.  I unrolled the garden hose and with a fair amount of struggle and some colorful vocabulary, attached the spray nozzle. Or so I thought. I turned on the faucet and shot myself square in the face. Praise God for clean sinuses. The hose connector had been dropped on the patio one too many times and was now bent, or jammed.

One dozen Kleenex later, I reapplied my face, dried my hair, and headed out for Home Depot for a replacement. I found the connector I needed and also picked up a new spray nozzle, because the old one could have instigated the whole fiasco in the first place. I wasn’t taking any chances.

I’m happy to report that the second attempt at watering was a success. I confess that before I turned on the sprinkler (which you’ll be happy to know attached without incident), I was sorely tempted to go skipping barefoot through the grass. Alas, the wind we discussed earlier had left the entire lawn littered with pointy seed pods and crunchy brown leaves from the trees across the fence. Leaves which are the organic equivalent of Legos. Seeing as how I’d expended my daily allotment of four-letter words, I refrained from the frivolity and instead, let our thirsty grass have a good long drink.

The rest of the afternoon was fairly uneventful, that is, until the phone rang. Caller ID declared that the number was unavailable, and normally I let such calls go to voicemail, but job-seeker that I am, I answered. It was a charity, looking for donations.

Noooooooooooo.

I politely declined the caller’s request for a pledge of $50, then $35, then $20. There was a long pause, then a snippy “All right - have a good one-CLICK”. I don’t even remember what it was for. Some organization collecting funds for, I don’t know, underprivileged, orphaned barn owls with diabetes, addicted to meth. Doesn’t matter. Don’t call me asking for money then act like a jerk when I tell you I don’t have any.

I won’t let it spoil my afternoon, though. Right now, I believe I’ll pour a glass of cheap girlie-wine and hang out lawnside with my buddy, Big Al.

Unless he’s collecting money for a new tail. Then Big Al can pound sand.