I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies

I don't know much about babies, period. Which is why I think I can be forgiven for buying size 3 diapers for a baby shower gift. Babies are about 7 lbs when they're born, how long can it take them to gain another 10 lbs? Puppies grow fast, I assume babies do too. Size 3 was the smallest size they had in the super-size boxes. I didn't want to look cheap.

It's not like they're going to dry rot before the kid grows into them. Of course, they are going to take up a lot of storage space in the meantime. Dad laughed so hard, he cried when I told him. That alone makes my ignorance a blessing in disguise. Although I'd like to know when he became such an expert on diaper sizes or babies?

I also took a package of cloth diapers. I'm told they're great for throwing over your shoulder when you're burping a baby. That tip came from the mother of a 6-month-old boy and 3-year-old triplets. I think she qualifies as an expert. Of course, she's also the one who told me not to buy the newborn size disposable diapers. I didn't think to ask how many other sizes there were.

Next time I'm sticking with Winnie-the-Pooh. You can't go wrong with Winnie-the-Pooh. I'd probably have gone with Winnie or Eeyore this time too if my invitation hadn't gotten lost in the mail. I didn't find out about the shower until the last minute. That left me with no time to hit Target. I had to make do with local stores.

Plus, diapers were encouraged. People who brought diapers to the shower got a prize, even if the diapers were the wrong size. I guess they figured I meant well. On the positive side, I probably definitely established the fact that I shouldn't be called upon to diaper any babies. Not a bad day's work.

It's going to be a long summer

Last night Dillon learned to flush the toilet. It wasn't a new trick I was teaching him. He was in the process of trying to scale the toilet to escape the thunderstorm. In the process, he raised his paw and flushed the toilet, two times in a row, just as pretty as you please. He looked a bit surprised the first time and paused to peer down into the toilet bowl. By the time he did it the second time, he'd managed to knock the lid shut with a resounding thump, so he wasn't as startled when the water began to swirl.

I don't quite understand why he's suddenly decided that going up is the way to escape. He also gave serious thought to climbing into the refrigerator when I was fixing supper. I practically had to drag him out, slowly closing the door on his head wasn't making much of an impression. He stayed close while we ate and didn't jump up to check out our plates when we finished. Usually he dances around us as soon as we start to get up from the table.

When it became obvious that he was determined to climb the toilet in my bathroom, I coaxed him down the hall into Dad's bathroom and introduced him to the comfort of a tiled shower stall. He was a bit hesitant at first, but once he'd ventured inside, he seemed to settle down. He laid on the floor with his nose pointing into the corner. I sat outside on the floor and read my book. Why do men enjoy reading in the bathroom so much? Give me a nice comfy laz-y-boy and a good reading lamp.

They're predicting more storms for today. Oh, joy.

Rest in peace

What do you know, apparently my complaints registered. This post will make more sense if you read the previous post, Going Dotty, first. Dad came back from Littleton complaining that he'd forgotten to take a rag along with him. He did remember to take plain water and that's what he decided to use to attempt to clean the tombstones instead of Spic and Span. Chalk one up for me.

I think he's decided to leave well enough alone. The moss is growing in the ground surrounding the stones, so it's just going to come back and according to Dad, it's not that bad anyway. Besides, "At our age, what difference does it make?" he asked. Good point. I know some countries have holidays where people honor their dead ancestors by spending the day at the cemetery cleaning their stones. I can assure you, that's a holiday I don't plan to adopt. I'm all for letting the stones acquire that weathered patina that comes with age. Shouldn't that actually make them more historic and valuable? That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Going dotty

No good deed goes unpunished. Since I had a few extra minutes this morning, I decided to clean the bathroom. I took everything off the vanity counter and cleaned it and the sink. Then I moved on to the commode. I'm holding off on the bathtub until later today. They're predicting thunderstorms again and there's no point in scrubbing it out only to have Dillon crawl in again.

Later, I looked down and noticed that my navy shorts had orange spots scattered across the front. At first I thought maybe some of my foundation had splashed down there. The bottle top doesn't seal very tightly. But the spots didn't flake when I scratched at them and rubbing them with a wet cloth didn't do any good either. Then I noticed that the orange went all the way through to the back side of the fabric. I went and checked out the Lysol bottle. Sure enough, it contains chlorine bleach.

I don't why bleach would turn navy to orange instead of white. These are my cheap beat-around-the-house shorts from JCPenney, but still, I just bought them. I like polka dots, but orange spots on navy shorts looks a little too much like Bozo the Clown. I went to work with my blue Sharpie pen. It was sort of like a grown-up version of connect the dots. Hopefully the ink is as permanent as advertised. It certainly stains anything I don't want blue.

Hopefully Dad is having better luck cleaning the tombstones in Littleton. Uncle Thomas was concerned about moss or something that he says is growing on them. He apparently thought that delegating the chore of cleaning them to Dad was the best course of action. I was assigned the task of researching cleaning methods. I did an internet search and printed out a couple of articles for Dad.

This morning, he came down the hall with a bottle of Spic and Span in his hand and said he was going to see what Thomas was talking about. "You're not supposed to use Spic and Span on tombstones," I reminded him. "I'm just going to try it on a little place to see what it does." "According to the article, what it does is mess up the stone," I replied. "Why did you have me print those articles if you were just going to ignore what they said?" He just headed out the door with his bottle of Spic and Span. I wonder what color his polka dots will be?

Are ants amphibious?

I went to refill the hummingbird feeder and discovered that the base was filled with ants. The feeder was not completely empty, so they were floating or maybe swimming around in there. I wasn't aware that ants could breathe underwater, but I swear they looked like they were doing a pretty good breaststroke. I dumped the remaining sugar water out, shook the base vigorously, and then flooded it with water until I'd managed to force them all out. They still appeared to be moving when they washed out onto the porch rail.

Sure, go right ahead

I reminded Dad Sunday night that I would be in Raleigh all day on Monday. "You're on your own for lunch," I said. Then added, "The seminar doesn't end until 4:30. I'm going to be tired by the time I get home. So don't be sitting here waiting for me to make your sandwich. There's pimento cheese, bananas, and cold cuts. You're perfectly capable of making your own sandwich." I left unsaid the thought that he was simply too spoiled to think he should have to. He assured me that he and Dillon would get along just fine.

The seminar actually ended early. Since showers and thunderstorms had been forecast and the sky had been gray and threatening all day, I headed straight home. At one point I was driving in sun heading towards a black sky. Sure enough, I ran into rain that was coming down so hard it slowed traffic from 75 to 45 on I-95. When I got home, Dad informed me that he'd just managed to coax Dillon out of the bathtub. There had been no thunder or lightning, but I guess Dillon was erring on the side of caution.

I was worn out. I'd left home at 7 a.m. and it's amazing how tired you get just sitting in one position all day long. I zapped some frozen chicken asparagus pasta in the microwave. I didn't offer Dad any. He'd had hot dogs for lunch and he doesn't particularly like chicken asparagus pasta, so I saw no point in wasting it. Besides, I'd already warned him that he'd be fixing his own supper. Plus any lingering goodwill I might have felt disappeared when I saw all the dirty dishes waiting for me on the counter. Wouldn't you think that just once, he could wash the dishes instead of merely adding to the count? He hasn't washed a single dish since he moved in.

I fed Dillon, ate my pasta, did a load of laundry, and washed the dishes. Dad just sat in his chair, reading his book. Finally he got up and went into the kitchen. "I'm going to make myself some cheese and crackers. Is that okay?" Why wouldn't that be okay? Did he think I was going to say, "Oh, no, don't do that. I'd be glad to fix whatever you want?" If so, he was disappointed. I assured him that it would be fine with me and Dillon, who was watching every move and wagging his tail in anticipation, was looking forward to it.

Nooooooooo!!!

I loved Panera's orange scones. Whenever I was anywhere near a Panera's, I picked up a couple of the rectangular-shaped cakes covered with bright orange icing. I didn't care that the icing was the same unnatural color orange as Fred Flintstone's toga. It was delicious, a burst of orange-flavored goodness exploded in your mouth with each bite. When I was traveling, I planned rest stops around Panera's locations. Those days are over.

There is a Panera's at the mall located 2 exits down from the hotel where the seminar was held yesterday. I gave up lunch to dash over there during our break and pick up a couple of orange scones. I eagerly searched the display case for those bright orange rectangles. No joy. In their place, in front of a card reading orange scones, were pale frosted triangles. They didn't look right, but I bought 2 anyway and hoped for the best.

I should have known better. I bit in and instead of that bright burst of sugary orange goodness, I got a subtle, slightly bitter taste of orange. Obviously they changed more than just the shape and the color. They changed the recipe. I'm sure these are more authentic and natural which is why they're also not nearly as good. If I wanted authentic orange flavor, I'd eat the stupid fruit. I want my scones sweet and artificially flavored if that what it takes to produce the explosion of sweet orange deliciousness that I got from each bite of the original Panera's orange scone.

I'm sure it's too much to hope that like Coke, they'll acknowledge their mistake and revert to the original recipe. I guess it's for the best. Think of the calories and money I'll save now that I no longer have to stock up on orange scones every time I'm within driving distance of a Panera's.

Business casual-an oxymoron?

I went to a Paralegal seminar on the probate process yesterday. The registration packet said to wear business casual. Admittedly, defining business casual is a tricky business. I decided to err on the side of business. I wore a pair of black pants and a light green cotton sweater set with sleeveless shell and 3/4-length sleeve cardigan. Stylish, comfortable, and it meant I could ditch the cardigan and survive what turned out to be a really stuffy conference room.

A number of my fellow attendees went strongly with the casual. The last attendee, a man in his late 30's, walked in the door 10 minutes late wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts, tee shirt, and running shoes with ankle socks. That's only business casual if you work at a car wash. A young woman was wearing nylon wind pants and a gray cotton hooded sweatshirt. Another young woman went with a pink hoody paired with gray knit pants. Both woman kept the sweatshirts on all day. Perhaps they figured they'd sweat off a pound or two before they went for their runs?

At the other end of the spectrum was the British man in his 40's wearing a tweed sport coat, long sleeve shirt and tie, and brown oxfords and looking very professorial. Do the Brits do business casual? Perhaps they're smart enough to realize there really is no such thing. Of course, I shudder to think what the other participants would have worn if the instructions hadn't included the word business before casual.

It's not federally protected

I went out to the shed last night to get the lawnmower so I could mow the grass. On the way there I noticed a big iron pole, that Dad uses to tamp things down, lying in the grass. Then I stopped short when I discovered a Rose of Sharon bush has now been planted directly in the center of my path to the shed. The path that I use to roll the lawnmower out into the yard. Obviously since he doesn't mow grass, he doesn't factor little things like that into the equation when deciding where to plant the next obstacle.

The bush is still small enough that I could have simply started the lawnmower up and mowed right over it. I didn't. Instead I went the long way around while considering my options. I don't like taking the long way around. That bush just became an endangered species.

Walked right into that one, didn't he?

I spent an hour or so this morning at the car dealership having my oil changed. Before I left, I told Dad to answer the phone if it rang while I was gone because it might be me wanting a ride home. "Well, when will you know if you'll need a ride or not?" he asked. "How would I know?" For someone whose only daily appointment is to be on time for meals, he's obsessed with schedules. Given that he was sitting in a chair reading at the time, I didn't see where it was a serious inconvenience to be on call for an hour or so.

I got back a couple of minutes after noon. Luckily I had leftover quiche in the refrigerator, so that's what we were having for lunch. I put the pie plate containing the quiche on the counter with a plate beside it and told him to come cut the size slice he wanted me to heat. When he was done, he just stood back. "Now you can set the table," I instructed. "What am I, the butler?" was his supposedly humorous response. To which I snapped back, "Well how do you think I feel? I get to be the maid every day." He shut up and put the silverware out.

When we'd finished eating and I was doing the dishes, he actually put the iced tea container back in the refrigerator. Usually he doesn't even put away his own Pepsi bottle, just assuming that I'll take care of it. I'm sure the respite is only temporary. By tonight, he'll have reverted to form. His mother apparently raised him to believe that cooking, cleaning, and laundry are all women's work. I don't know if Mom ever tried to disabuse him of that notion or not, but if so, it didn't work. At his age, expecting him to change is pretty much an exercise in futility, but every once in a while I have to speak up. Especially when he leaves me an opening big enough to drive a tractor trailer through.

If I had a tassel, I'd turn it

I'm now officially a graduate. At least, I assume I am. I chose not to "march" as they refer to it, so I can't pick up my diploma until June 7th. Perhaps the entire college staff goes on vacation after the spring terms ends? I went through the graduation ceremony with Janet last year, as her hooder (I put some kind of scarf/vestment around her neck when she went on-stage), and once was enough. It's too bad you can't send out graduation announcements every time and haul in the loot like when you graduate from high school. One member of Dad's family continues to try, but we ignore them.

In the closet

Dillon and I spent most of last night in the closet. He was trying to escape the thunderstorm. I was trying to keep him from climbing the wall or digging through it. I'm not sure exactly which he was attempting, but in the process he managed to pull three of my good skirts and one top off the hangars. That's how I came to be rearranging my closet at 2:30 a.m. After rescuing my clothes, I lay down on the floor trying to offer him some comfort. I don't think it helped him, but at least it meant I didn't have to get out of bed the next time I heard the scratching, thumping, crashing sounds coming from my closet.

I wasn't sure if I was providing comfort or reinforcing his opinion that the world was coming to an end and I was also trying to escape impending doom by hiding in the closet. I am sure that the floor was hard and the carpet scratchy. When I realized that I was going to be there for a while, I put a throw rug down to protect my elbows. Unlike Dillon, I could only fit the upper half of my body into the closet. It occurred to me that if someone came into the room and saw just my legs sticking out of the closet, they were going to think something was seriously wrong. Of course, they would have been right. There is something seriously wrong with having to spend three hours in the middle of the night in a closet.

Yesterday, Dad said he'd take Dillon's fear of noises and storms over Katie's barking. I informed him this morning that Katie's barking would be music to my ears. I love Dillon, but I'm also very fond of sleep and I prefer not to have to pick my clothes up off the floor unless I'm the one that threw them there. We're expecting more storms today. Good times.

I've got to give him credit

I don't always agree with Dad's landscaping projects. Some I'm indifferent to, some don't really turn me on, several have made me downright angry. When he said he was going to put the red rose bush over by the fence up on a trellis, my question was why? It wasn't bothering anything running along the ground. He insisted that it really needed some support.


Once he got the trellis up, I couldn't get over how nice it looked. This is the view from my porch. I'm not a huge fan of red roses, but they really are lovely displayed on the trellis. Before, they were just there if you cared enough to look for them, now they are a focal point that I admire every time I look in that direction. What's even more amazing, he managed to do it without losing any blood in the process.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

I love this sculpture. Unfortunately when I try to post the picture here, part of the third stone is cut off. Dad would say that's no great loss. I happen to disagree; the shape of the stone is part of the appeal of the overall piece. To me, the 3 shapes evoke an image of movement, just like the act of walking a dog. To see the whole thing, you have to go to the Dog Art Today blog.

From the Dog Art Today blog: "The work, called Walking the Dog I, II,III, is by leading British sculptor Peter Randall-Page, who is currently enjoying rave reviews for his exhibition at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Inspired by the Gallery’s famous building and its three founders, it is the first sculpture to be included in the permanent collection..." of the Dulwich Picture Gallery in London. "The running dog pattern is an architectural motif 'consisting of a repeated stylized convoluted form, something like the profile of a breaking wave.' "

I made the mistake of showing the picture to Dad, who happened to wander into my study this morning while I was drinking my coffee and cruising the net. He stared at the screen in disbelief. He didn't see anything that looked like a dog or qualified as art. He couldn't imagine any museum, or anyone else for that matter, buying such a thing. When I insisted that I liked it and would love to have it in our yard, he just kept shaking his head and making disparaging remarks. I pointed out that anyone who used to have prints of poker-playing dogs hanging on their walls was in no position to criticize art. He retorted that at least those prints looked like dogs.

Of course if I did put a sculpture like this in the backyard, I'm sure Dillon would promptly christen it. When I shared that thought with Dad, he looked down at Dillon and commended him on being a dog with discerning taste in art. Dillon looked confused, but wagged his tail in appreciation of the compliment.

Unfortunately, Dad left the room before I went to a decorating blog and found a picture of a beautiful bedroom where an old panel door, with the paint worn off in many places, had been hung sideways on the wall as art behind a bed. I've also seen old panel doors used as headboards and old screen doors hung on the wall as art. I went out to the den to ask Dad is he still had his collection of old doors in the basement. He looked puzzled, but nodded that he did. He began collecting them as potential replacements for the rotten door that used to lead to the basement. I told him how people were using them as decorative elements these days. He's got an old fireplace mantel in the shed that has great potential as a headboard, but it would probably only fit a twin bed. He went back to shaking his head with a sorrowful expression, bemoaning the state of the art world today.

Make your bed

I told Dad this morning that I was thinking of emulating his style of bed making. This sent him into gales of laughter. When he could finally speak, he said he was pleased to hear I recognized that he had a style. Mom always said that no matter what the rest of your bedroom looked like, if the bed was made the room looked presentable. Dad argued that since you were just going to get back into it that night, making the bed was a waste of time. Left on his own, he never made the bed.

Since he's moved down here, he does make the bed, but in his own way. In the summer months, he removes the bedspread and the quilt and simply pulls up the sheet and the light summer-weight blanket. He smooths out all the wrinkles, lays his pillow on top, and proclaims the bed made. Since the blanket is white with pink roses, it actually looks pretty nice. Even if it doesn't coordinate with the blue and cream Persian rug.

I find myself throwing the blankets and comforter over the foot of the bed every night to get the weight off my feet. Since Dillon's bed is already at the foot of my bed, that leaves no walkway to reach the windows or the far side of the bed. I have a pretty flannel sheet that I use as a lightweight blanket in the summer. I could simply pull that up, put the pillows on top like Dad does, and be done. Except that I can't figure out what to do with the heavy blankets and comforter.

I don't think leaving them in a chair in the bedroom all summer, like Dad apparently plans to do, is an acceptable solution. There is not a spare inch of space underneath my bed, in either of my closets, or the linen closet. The only really convenient place to store the blankets and comforter is where they already are, on my bed.

Dad asked if I'd considered suspending them from the ceiling, sort of like a hammock. Very funny. Then I'd probably be like Dillon and develop a Chicken Little complex, expecting them to fall on my head at any moment. I guess Mom knew best. You really should make up your bed.

The sky is falling

Dillon and my mother both suffer(ed) from the Chicken Little complex, at least when it comes to my prowess in the kitchen. I dislike drying dishes, so I construct towers of dishes in the drain as I wash. I take pains to make sure the towers are structurally sound and won't come tumbling down. Not because I'm afraid they'll fall on my head, as Dillon obviously is, but because I don't want anything to break, as Mom always feared would happen. No one has ever been injured, nor a single dish broken (knock on wood) by one of my towers. But Dillon still retreats a safe distance into the den when I start the noisy process of wedging yet another pot or pan into the tower.

Casserole Surprise

While I'm busy putting the food on the table for lunch, Dad starts serving his plate. I guess since he eats slower than I do, he figures he needs a head start. The meat loaf was the last thing I put on the table today as I was sitting down. By that time he'd already put a big helping of squash casserole on his plate. I thought that was a little unusual. Squash isn't his favorite vegetable and he's usually leery of casseroles.

When he saw the meatloaf, he got a funny look on his face. "I thought that (pointing to the squash casserole) was the main dish," he said. "Nope, that's squash casserole." "I wouldn't have put such a big serving on my plate if I'd known that," he replied. Since I'd just finished griping at him that he could help put the food on the table instead of being in such a hurry to fix his plate, I sort of thought he deserved getting too much of something he didn't want. On the other hand, I was impressed that he'd taken so much of something when he didn't know what it was. I used to have to practically list the ingredients of unknown dishes before he'd take some.

The squash casserole was really good. I had seconds. Dad ate all of his and commented that it was the best way to fix squash that he'd ever eaten. I told him I was happy to hear that because we'd be having it again. Here's the recipe.


Two-Cheese Squash Casserole

For a tasty and colorful twist, substitute sliced zucchini for half of the yellow squash.

Prep Time: 25 minutes
Other: 43 minutes
Yield: Makes 10 to 12 servings

(I halved the recipe and cooked it in a 2 qt. casserole dish)

Ingredients

* 4 pounds yellow squash, sliced
* 1 large sweet onion, finely chopped (I used a regular yellow onion and it was fine)
* 1 cup (4 oz.) shredded Cheddar cheese
* 1/2 cup chopped fresh chives
* 1 (8-oz.) container sour cream
* 1 teaspoon garlic salt
* 1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
* 2 large eggs, lightly beaten
* 2 1/2 cups soft, fresh breadcrumbs, divided
* 1 1/4 cups (5 oz.) freshly shredded Parmesan cheese, divided
* 2 tablespoons butter, melted

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350°. Cook yellow squash and onion in boiling water to cover in a Dutch oven 8 minutes or just until tender; drain squash mixture well.

2. Combine squash mixture, Cheddar cheese, next 5 ingredients, 1 cup breadcrumbs, and 3/4 cup Parmesan cheese. Spoon into a lightly greased 13- x 9-inch baking dish.

3. Stir together melted butter and remaining 1 1/2 cups breadcrumbs and 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese. Sprinkle breadcrumb mixture over top of casserole.

4. Bake at 350° for 35 to 40 minutes or until set.

Southern Living, MAY 2010

There are some sorry people in this world

My grandmother’s (Dad's mother) former neighbor, age 92, and her daughter, age 65, were murdered over the weekend. A man renting the house next door to where Grandmother lived on Hwy 158 was arrested for stabbing them to death. You hear these stories of older women being killed in their homes and it makes you start giving serious consideration to buying a gun.

I told Dad that's why it's good to have a big dog. It's even better if that dog is vocal and ferocious sounding. I gave Dillon a pointed glance since he's rarely either of those things. I have to depend upon his size and color to intimidate people. I guess he thought he'd show me. At 4 a.m. the next morning, he woke me doing his best Hound of the Baskervilles imitation. He wasn't the only dog in the neighborhood barking. I don't know what had them all wound up. Normally I'm the only person Dillon barks at and that's to tell me to hurry up and get in the house so he won't be alone anymore.

Maybe I should just post a Beware of Dog sign, like the alarm system signs at houses that don't actually have alarms. It plants the thought and encourages the bad guys to pick a softer target. Of course, if I grabbed a ball or a dog biscuit and threw it at the bad guy, Dillon would knock them over and stomp on them trying to reach the toy or treat.

Happy Mother's Day

"As is the mother, so is her daughter." -Ezekiel 16:4


I'm still trying, Mom.

All the pretty horses

I was at Belk this afternoon checking out the polo shirts they had on sale for $8.99 each. There was a middle-aged black woman glancing at the display. "Are those supposed to be polo shirts?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. They had button plackets at the neck and collars. "Where's the horse?" she asked. "The what?" "You know, the horse. Polo shirts are supposed to have a horse embroidered on them."

Apparently she was looking for Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, not generic ones. I thought she was being a bit optimistic about Belk's sale prices if she thought they were going to sell Lauren Polo shirts for $8.99. "These are the cheap, no-name polo shirts," I informed her. "I know that's right," she said, shaking her head and walking away. Apparently she really likes that horse.

Simply lovely

I have no idea what this bush is, it was planted by the previous homeowner and has grown tremendously in the years that we've been here, but isn't is lovely?

Note the wooden footstool at the base of the bird feeder. That isn't there to give the neighbor's cat a leg up, but to prevent Dillon from gorging himself on bird seed. The stool covers the spot on the ground where the most seeds fall as the birds eat.

It's baaaack

Dad informed me last night that the black snake that was living in our shed last summer has returned. I don't know how he's so sure it's the same one, they all look alike to me, SCARY. Although he only caught sight of the tail end of the snake as it disappeared under the door, he claims it's bigger this year. Oh, goody. Because he has a perverse sense of humor, he stepped on its tail and watched it slither faster to escape. What's better than having a snake in the shed? Having a pissed off snake in the shed.

Thankfully since it's been so dry recently, the grass doesn't need mowing at the moment. My lawnmower and gas can are stored in that shed. Last summer, I'd throw the shed doors open, standing as far back as possible, and scope out the inside before reaching for the lawnmower. I warned Dad not to push the gas can too far inside the door because I'm not entering the shed. Years ago the next door neighbor's son had a snake fall down onto him when he entered their shed. I'd either die on the spot or cripple myself for life trying to get away if that happened to me. I don't plan on setting foot inside that shed for the rest of the summer.

While I don't want a close personal encounter with our resident black snake, I'm not altogether sorry he's back. Supposedly he eats small rodents. I'm all for him keeping the mice and rat population down. I wouldn't object to him eating other less benign snakes either. I'd just prefer that he stay out of my way, a sentiment I'm sure he shares. Especially now that Dad has proved humans are a major pain in the ass.

Time for pie

A friend from college is coming to visit today. Naturally I want things to be nice when she arrives. Yesterday I cleaned the back porch. Dad says it'll never be the same. That's a good thing. I washed the wooden screen door so hard the paint started coming off. Dad said that he considered washing it down, but thought it would be a waste of time since he'd planned to replace it. "You're still replacing it," I assured him. I didn't want him to think that just because it looked better, it didn't need replacing. It doesn't close firmly at the bottom. That's just an invitation to creepy critters like snakes to come on in.

Last night I started assembling the ingredients for hot chicken salad. This morning, I baked a chocolate pie. Things were going well. Until I decided to have breakfast. My cornbread burnt in the toaster oven. Of course if you went by smell alone, you'd think the house was on fire. I opened the front and back doors and turned on the ceiling fans. Then I did a quick internet search for helpful hints on how to get rid of a burnt smell in the house.

One suggestion was to set out bowls of white vinegar. My favorite suggestion was to soak a bath towel in white vinegar and water, or just plain water. Then wring it out so that the towel was just damp. Then walk through the room where the smell is the strongest, slinging the towel around in a circle over your head. Supposedly the towel will absorb the burned smell. That may be, and it sounded like fun, but I had visions of lamps and things crashing to the floor, water splatters all over the couch and walls, and Dillon hiding under the bed. I stuck to the bowls of vinegar and it does seem to have helped.

The smell of the pie baking in the oven helped as well. I do love an excuse to make a chocolate pie. Now I have a new one. If the house smells, it must be time for chocolate pie.

Room with a view

It's been a pretty good weekend. Except for the part where Dillon threw up 3 times yesterday. I don't know if it was something he ate on the trail or if the antibiotic gave him stomach problems. The good news is, he didn't get sick in my bed. The bad news is, he got sick in 2 of his beds and once on my bedroom carpet. Katie used to ask to go outside when she was going to be sick. Dillon's a typical male, he figures someone will clean up after him.

He didn't get any supper last night. I gave him plain rice for breakfast this morning. That stayed down just fine. By supper tonight, he wanted to make sure there would be no repeat of being sent to bed with no dinner, so he practically climbed into my lap to let me know it was suppertime. When I stopped in the bathroom for a minute on my way to the kitchen, he woofed at me. Obviously my boy is feeling better.

Before all of that started, Dad and I went to the nursery and stocked up on hanging baskets. I got dragonwing begonias. This one is on the clothes line. Two more are on the porch.



A beautiful purplish blue flowering basket.



And these gorgeous Solenia Light Pink Begonias.



I bought 3 of the Solenia Light Pinks. I haven't decided if I'm going to plant them in pots or try them in the ground around the bird bath.

This morning we went to Lowes and bought a Blue Delphinium, some basil, parsley, a couple of packages of zinnia seeds and one of sunflower seed. I got the Delphinium, basil, and parsley planted. I'll work on the seeds in a day or so. It hit 92 degrees here today. I ran out of energy and enthusiasm before I finished.

All of the flowers certainly do make the backyard pretty. Standing at the kitchen sink and looking out the window is now a very happy place to be. If the hummingbirds will just start coming to the new feeder I hung on the porch, my view will be complete.