Compensation

Remember I said that I've been crabby lately?  Well, yesterday wasn't any better and I didn't do any knitting or sewing or anything else worth taking a picture of or talking about.  I did a single load of laundry and cut out a pattern for a swimsuit bottom for LC but you don't want to see laundry, especially since it's still in the dryer, and I didn't cut out the lining for the bottoms and don't know her waist and leg measurements for the elastic so that didn't go anywhere either.  I'm blaming the absolutely dreadful hot and HUMID weather we've had lately for my malaise.

Supper was the only thing that made the day bearable.  We had a quarter of that marinated grilled pork tenderloin left so we sliced it and a handful of baby carrots, quartered another handful of sugar snap peas, and sliced up the smallest of the yellow squash, along with a bit of onion to make a stir fry.  Served over rice and sprinkled with a few toasted sesame seeds it was a tour de force of fridge raiding--and Weight Watcher-y as all get out.  (Which reminds me I need to put the sauce I made into a "recipe" so I don't have to keep doing it ingredient by ingredient every time.)


This morning a Downy Woodpecker came for a late breakfast.  I love their black and white coloring.  They look so neat and tidy, and ready for a formal party.


July 24--Michael Kevin Daly, Runner.  The young woman ran up Pecan Street, earbuds in her ears, a faraway look on her face.  Myra watched from the deep shade of her porch.  "Look at her running in the heat of the day," she said.  Her sister-in-law Lydia set her iced tea glass on a coaster on the rattan table between their rockers.  "Mm-hm.  You'd think her brain would be boiling in this heat.  At least she has the sense to stay on the shady side of the street."  Myra nodded.  "And neither Joe MacFarlane nor Fido can pester her over here.  I swear that man feels he can have an opinion about everyone and every thing and that dog has ruined my rose bushes more than once."  "You mean peed on them, don't you?"  Lydia looked across the street at the MacFarlane place.  "What's that lying in Joe's yard?  It looks like a bundle of laundry there next to the mailbox."  Myra glanced over and stood up so fast her chair fell over.  "It's Joe.  Lydia, call 9-1-1.  I'm going over to see what I can do."  Her voice trailed after her as she ran down the steps and started across the lawn.

And that's it.  I haven't knit a stitch since Friday night.  (I know, *gasp*)  I went to Walmart earlier for a new sprinkler.  I got the most expensive cheap one so if it doesn't work next year I won't feel like I'm throwing money away when I buy a new one, and I got the second-cheapest waffle maker so I can make some non-Belgian waffles to freeze for Durwood's breakfast.  He likes toasting them and then spreading jam on them for breakfast or a snack.  Maybe I'll brave the heat and go hook up the new sprinkler...
--Barbara