Hump Day

And I'm feeling blech about it right now.  I'm so frustrated with Blogger that I could spit--and I would too, if I could, but I'd just end up with spittle on my shirt.  (I can't chew gum either, standing still I mean, not even talking about walking and chewing gum.  I always bite my cheek--OUCH!!)  I've been trying and trying to get Blogger to let me change the primary email account on this blog but it won't because "the email address belongs to someone else."  Yes, you morons, it belongs to ME.  Me, who is trying to get you to delete my "itol" address because I don't have it anymore, so when people to whom the posts are sent directly try to respond their response gets sent to what is essentially a Dead Letter office somewhere in cyberspace.  Gah!  (and, Cookie, I can't remember how to transfer stuff to my Kindle even after you came over and showed me.  I'm so ashamed.  And pathetic.  And old.)  Are you making big plans for the holiday weekend?  I'm not.  Well, maybe medium-sized ones.  I want to dedicate all of Friday, until time for yoga & knitting that is, to sewing since there's a certain person having a birthday one of these days and I thought I'd make her something swell.  And it will be swell if I get off my arse and get it sewn.  (right, Skully?)  I kind of invited myself along diving with friends, on Sunday he said.  Actually it wasn't "kinda" I did invite myself along.  I should call his wife just to make sure that the day's right.  (You know how husband's can be clueless, right?  They're dear things but they're kind of... drifty on the details.)  Saturday I want to get the garden in, unless it's a bazillion degrees out, and then I'll just get up early when it's still cool and lay out landscape fabric to kill off the weeds instead of pulling them.  Hmm, maybe I'll do that tonight after work, after sundown but before dark, and let the little rascals (the weeds, I mean the weeds) cook for a couple days.  That should show 'em who's boss, right?  I really want the garden fairy to come over with a big rototiller and some weed killer and clear it out for me, then I can plant with ease--and a whole lot less sweat and sore muscles.  I asked the neighbor if he still had his tiller and he does but it's beltless and sitting wrapped in a tarp behind his garage.  He said he keeps trying to stake it out like an unwelcome and aging wife (oops, did I say that?) but the thing won't die.  I've convinced Durwood that we need to put some baby back ribs in the smoker on Monday for the holiday.  I think I'll fire up the charcoal grill too and slap a crapload of veggies on to roast.  I can do a lot of them and then we'll have their yumminess all week.  Isn't that brilliant?  I know, sometimes I even impress myself.  Oh, look what DS and I found when we were decrappifying the basement on Mother's Day.  It's my beloved Durwood in his younger, Gillette salesman days.  Isn't he just the handsomest thing?  He always looks fantastic in pictures, not that he doesn't look good in person because he totally does, but even his driver's license picture looks good.  I, on the other hand, usually look like I've just gotten out of Taycheetah (local women's prison) for lighting the couch on fire with my husband napping on it.  (I actually took the PADI Rescue Diver course just to get a new certification [ID] card because my picture looked just like that.)  Oh, hell, look at the time.

May 23--Auguste Renoir, In the Meadow.  The unmown grass was like velvet in the shade.  Marie leaned on her hand and she delighted in the cool dampness.  She was tempted to lie down and let it soak into every molecule but she wasn't eager to get her dress and all her underthings damp.  It had been a hot walk out there from the village.  She might have changed her mind about walking so far on such a hot day but Juliette was not one to change her mind.  If she decided that they were having a picnic on Tuesday then they were having a picnic on Tuesday.  For all her blond softness, Juliette was a force to be reckoned with.

You have a fantabulous day.  I intend to do my damnedest to have one too.  Ta-ta!
--Barbara