Monday, May 21, 2012

More Hot

Yesterday it got up to 90 degrees, another record, and they stopped the Cellcom Marathon in the middle of it to protect the runners. Thank god.  I'm sure there were disappointed runners (nut-jobs) who had counted on their time to qualify for Boston but no race is worth brain damage or heart problems or death.  We went looking for a new fountain pump, were helped by a wonderful pond-owning woman, and then hit the grocery before coming home and hunkering down in the cool.  Skully came over and kept me company (and gave sage advice) while I cut out a project I've been procrastinating on, and then I tried to fix the fountain pump like Cathy from Menards showed me.  It didn't work.  Now that we've taken the housing apart and the filter mesh it doesn't work at all.  Not a peep or a hum when it's plugged in.  Drat.  Durwood said he'd make some calls and see if he couldn't find another one today.  He's a good egg, that Durwood.  There were a few tasters in Woodman's when we were buying more groceries than were on the list (as usual), one was sampling pizza (natch) and I burned my tongue (of course).  It still hurts.  Don't you hate that?  No gardening got done, nor did I trim off the deadwood from the big hummingbird vine, but it was too hot.  It was even too hot for Durwood to be out there and you know how much he loves the heat.  We had an 80% chance of rain last night--and didn't get a drop.  Not a drop.  We need rain, big time.  When it comes I promise not to complain--much.  As long as I have the tomatoes planted before the deluge.  Well, as long as I don't want to do something outside then.  Cross my heart.

May 21--Mesopotamia, Tribute Bearer with an Oryx, a Monkey, and a Leopard Skin.  Cecil kept his hand in his pocket touching his wallet, making sure it stayed put.  His clothes stuck to him in the stuffy heat of the shop crammed in the warren of the bazaar.  He picked up the tiny ushabti with a barely trembling hand and carried it to the small counter where the proprietor stood.  "How much?" Cecil said.  The older man looked at him without speaking for a long moment.  Cecil though he was judging how much to charge.  He hated these places without price tags.  "One hundred twenty five," said the store keeping in perfect, unaccented English.  Cecil wondered if they all spoke American money, if they'd learned from TV.  He shook his head.  "Forty," he said.  The proprietor's eyes gleamed when he realized that Cecil knew how to play the negotiation game.  "One hundred seventeen."  The proprietor let a note of outrage color the words.  Cecil frowned, turned the tiny statue over in his hand as if looking for a clue to its value.  "Forty-three," he said laying the statue down as if it wouldn't stand and wasn't worth it.  Now the game was truly enjoined.  The proprietor's leathery hand stood the figure up on its feet, letting a finger caress the ancient ivory.  "Ninety."  Cecil shook his head and examined his hand to see if any of the "ageing" had rubbed off.  It hadn't.  "Forty-five."  Both men had become calm and focused, stealing glances at each others' eyes and studying body language like a couple of alpha dogs squaring off.

Aha, so our shopper isn't a babe in the woods after all.  Go, Cecil.  I'm off to find some coffee and read the paper.  Hasta la vista, babies.

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