http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
For the 4th Ms. Pikachu was with a cousin at an amusement park.
We went downtown for the F-16 flyby. They were late, which was okay, so were we. One pass and they were gone, certainly heading for the next scheduled town.
The 4th must be the one day a year where their navigation and timing skills are put on display. They got here, but were 10 minutes late; .500 isn't bad if you're swinging at baseballs. Practice, practice, practice, they have 364 days to get it right for next year.
My is-it-worth-it rule is that time spent at a destination should be more than the time spent getting there. The flyby was under 10 seconds. We walked farther downtown to see what festivities there were. You couldn't help noticing blankets staked out along the river to reserve spots for the fireworks. Apparently the absent owners did not fear goose doo-doo. There were plenty of geese.
There was a robot tournament where two, count 'em two, competing robots tried to push the most canisters over an incline. It would be a fair guess that those in attendance were family and classmates of the competitors. There was a tent where a pancake breakfast was held earlier, and a banner for the start/finish of a race held that morning. That was it.
Most of the activities have been moved to a rural college campus. It would seem to be time to move the rest of it. There is no reason to shut down the main road through downtown for an empty tent and a crowd too small to get arrested for unlawful assembly.
It didn't seem worth the time. But Trainboy thought the robot with pincers was cool. So it was worth it for him.
Time for lunch. Trainboy says he wants pizza. To Chuck-E-Cheese we go. Pepperoni pizza, games, what more could a kid want. We returned home bloated with cheese products, and leftover pizza. What a deal.
The wife and I planted some flowers in the planter. It was partly cloudy, but still very bright. It rained on us anyway. Trainboy thought it was hilarious.
The wife changed into her Supernurse costume and away she went to save life, liberty, and buttheads from themselves. Before leaving she reminded me that fireworks were at 9:45. It was up to Trainboy and me to amuse ourselves in the meantime. I did laundry, he did Cartoon Network.
Sometimes it amazes me how much laundry needs to be done. Clothes, sheets, towels, it's an unending cycle. The Circle of Laundry. Why aren't more women depressed? Why hasn't there been an explosion in nudist colonies, where everybody sleeps in a sleeping bag, showers, and air-dries?
Cavemen only showered when they were caught in the rain. They bathed when they went fishing. If they only had one greasy bearskin they were happy. Cave women thought the men were manly and they too were happy. At least until they decided they needed a newer, more fashionable fur.
What am I doing here? Haven't a clue. So, uh, back to the narrative.
I tire of laundry and want to get out. I check the tablet on the fridge for things to get. There are things. Trainboy and I head to Hy-Vee to get them. We get tartar sauce, Kraft's, Lemon Herb. I put three of them in the basket. Trainboy gets thoughtful, "Dad, I think we need another one." No arguing with that, it all gets used. A fourth one into the basket. Grab a bottle of Lea and Perrins for me, and we're both happy.
We head back to dairy and get a gallon of chocolate milk. You might say, "Isn't it cheaper and easier to just buy white milk and add Nestlé’s Quick?" You might. I would have to say that if my milk-averse kid only wants chocolate when it comes out of the jug that way, I'm not arguing with a six year-old. I'm surrendering faster than the French. It's peace at any price, in this case, $3.09 a gallon.
I like the fruit and yogurt parfaits at McDonalds, but you have to go there to get one, and how often is that? Not often enough if you like them and you only go there if they're offering a toy in the kids' meal the kids want.
Sooooo, as long as we're in dairy, into the cart goes a 32-ounce container of yogurt. Then it's off to frozen foods for frozen fruit, get some trail-mix, and we are set for some serious yogurt bingeing.
A bag of Doritos for Trainboy. A bag of toffee-covered peanuts for me. Works for us, time to head back home. Forgot paper plates, and whatever else was on the list doesn't matter either, we got the important stuff- our stuff. We are guys, guyly guys.
Back to doing laundry. Have to get it out of the dryer before it wrinkles. May I just digress a moment here, may I? This may not matter to anybody else. This may be laboring under suspicion no more founded than trickle-down-economics. Be kind, don't laugh. But I prefer to dry clothes on the 'warm' setting rather than 'hot.' If left unattended it seems they don't wrinkle as quickly, or as badly, that way. It also means the clothes finish drying just ahead of the washer finishing. It makes for a much more efficient operation imho.
Don't wait for the awkward silence to pass; it won't unless you keep reading.
Around 9:15, toiling upstairs with another load of laundry to put away, it was obviously getting dark outside, and the fireworks thing came to mind. A half-hour till fireworks seemed like plenty of time to me. Put on the shoes and away we go. Guys are like that.
A half-hour seemed like plenty, it most certainly was not. The area had probably been packed for hours. What to do, what to do. I pulled into a business and parked in a no-parking area. They weren't open, I didn't care, so call the cops, and you think they aren't busy already?
We walked two blocks to a bridge with a nice view and inserted ourselves into the crowd. The bridge walkway was full of people in lawn chairs who were still trying to maintain their space. Forget that. We'd just got there and had no need of being comfortable for a few hours.
There's a space wide enough for my knees, and there I stand. Trainboy goes up on the railing and my arm stays around him. The people on either side of us scoot to even out their spaces. I don't care; it's just Trainboy and me on the bridge.
People shoot their own fireworks. When they drop to the water he declares, "It made fish sticks!" He says it every time; he always thinks it's funny.
"Oprah, Umah. Umah, Oprah." That still isn't funny. But I digress again.
Another rocket into the river, another "fish stick" comment. I tell him that if he caught one, and had tartar sauce and bread he could have a fish stick sandwich. "Ha, ha. Good one dad." I've just been patronized by my six year-old son.
The fireworks start. It's a good show. It's timed to music broadcast on the radio. The car is blocks away. Usually you can figure that at these things there's always a teenage boy who's plowed all his burger-flipping money into a giga-watt sound system that worth more than the mini-car it's in. He's proud to show it off, and it's the one day a year you don't mind. No such luck tonight.
It’s fireworks without music, we tough it out. How did the pioneers do it?
After about thirty minutes of a pyromaniacs dream Trainboy notifies me his butt hurts and he wants to go home. That's my boy. We walk back to the car, and from the sound of rapidly succeeding explosions the grand-finale must be starting. Get in the car, turn on the radio, hear the last few bars, and we are out of there before the traffic jam can even start. Trainboy had wonderful timing. Sometimes it's all in the buttocks.
We're home in a few minutes. We kick back to toons, chocolate milk, and fish sticks.
Supernurse gets home, and resumes her disguise as mild-mannered Superwife. She shares pizza with Trainboy- he's a growing boy. I fall asleep on the couch- it's just a guy thing. Some might call it a weenie's camp-out.
And that was the 4th.
Publicserf
Saturday, July 05, 2003
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
HodgePodge for $50.
A little bit ago Trainboy announced that he'd farted in the bathtub. It must have been important to him. Thanks for sharing.
When we were getting groceries he pointed at a garlic press and informed us, "Those are levers." He was right. Not bad for 6.
Ms. Pikachu was the only student to attend all the scheduled summer flute lessons. No bonus, award, or mention in the newspaper. She was robbed! Certainly the instructor can see that either Ms. Pikachu is a serious student, or she has a serious mother. It's the mother.
It seems to me the human body needs 'x' amount of sleep per day. Deprive it of sleep and sooner or later it will get it back. The debt accumulates. Stay up too late too often and you risk a premature burial. Fortunately for me, I'm married to the SuperNurse/HolyWife. I'm not dead till I miss church. You, on the other hand, had better get your sleep.
I don't care for the current fashionable pants that are halfway up the calf. Every time I seem them I think, "Big rain forecast?" The worst are the mid-calf pants with bell-bottoms. Good God, is it just a test to see who will wear anything if it's declared fashion? They scream, "I am clueless, I am pliable!" Either that or, "I've grown eight inches and vomit so much I haven't put on a pound." I try to convince myself these capri/clamdigger/flood pants have an upside- they show a little leg. But they don't work for me, it's not enough leg. So greedy, and I'm comfortable with that.
There you have it- nothing is too petty for me to bitch about. My feminine side is a real bitch.
Living in the 'hood you can see every variation on current fashion by just sitting on the porch and watching the local posers pass by. Sometimes it isn't pretty. A couple days ago a fellow walked by with his shirt just on his arms. It was as though he'd started to put his T-shirt on and decided, "no, I ain't going to put my head through the hole like everybody else. I'll wear it like this to be different, maybe attract a fine babe or three, and I'll still have it handy to pull on if I want to go into a store and buy beer." It wasn't hot outside. It was fashion genius. He was the day's King Poser in a kingdom of posers.
To save some of these posers the mental challenge of coming up with a new way of being special, how about these:
-shave your face, but let the neck grow
-cut gaps into your eyelashes
-when that gets tired cut matching gaps into your eyebrows
-grow long temple locks like an orthodox Jew, and shave the rest of your head
-wear a diaper on your head, it gives you that paternal look chicks dig
You say those are stupid ideas? well yeah. But they're different, apparently that's all that counts, and that's all that was promised.
But on the topic of 'things chicks dig-' what is it with women getting excited when men growl? You remember the Ohio Players? There was one guy who had his fro' over one eye and ended every phrase with "ow." You'd think breathing hurt. But every time he went "ow" women screamed, you could almost hear the eggs splash. All those eggs splashed like rain- really appropriate when they did "Fire."
On Star Trek the Klingons are the personification of males' aggressive tendencies. But all the growling they do for foreplay is just their Phil Donahue touchy-feely give-the-women-what-they-want side. They'd rather have a beer and a woman who's instant-on. Yes, behind those tribe-of-linebacker facades they're just guys in need of plastic surgery and comfortable clothes.
The wife ironed my shirts last night. She said she'd ironed the church baptism robes and just decided to do my shirts while the iron was hot. Was I going to argue? That would be a "no." It was strange, but I took it as a sign she loves me, for whatever reason.
I had to take the Intrepid to the mechanic because the air conditioner wasn't conditioning. It was just recharged a month ago. He did his thing, and we went to Wally World for more stuff. When we picked the car up he informed me the evaporator has a leak, fixing it would run around $1,000. He recharged it, and charged me half the usual price. He said at least we'd be cool through the weekend. Two Dodges, one without air, one losing it. Why can't Dodge make an air conditioner that lasts? It's enough to make me buy...... something else. Something stylin', somethin' swervy', sumpin' growly.
Maybe a Ford.
That will close out Hodgepodge for today.
The wife/editor has informed me this post wasn't funny, but that it doesn't have to be.
Oh well.
Just a disclaimer: I don't really care what women wear, the wife keeps my opinion from mattering anyway. Ladies, if you want to wear capri pants that's your decision, go ahead. Don't be dissuaded by what other people think, that's just a different herd-think. They're probably comfortable and cool, form should follow function. Just don't wear them in an Islamic theocracy. But I still think bell-bottoms that are mid-calf are senseless. And my opinion still doesn't matter here, or in Paris.
If that isn't enough butt-kissing let me know.
Publicserf
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
HodgePodge for $50.
A little bit ago Trainboy announced that he'd farted in the bathtub. It must have been important to him. Thanks for sharing.
When we were getting groceries he pointed at a garlic press and informed us, "Those are levers." He was right. Not bad for 6.
Ms. Pikachu was the only student to attend all the scheduled summer flute lessons. No bonus, award, or mention in the newspaper. She was robbed! Certainly the instructor can see that either Ms. Pikachu is a serious student, or she has a serious mother. It's the mother.
It seems to me the human body needs 'x' amount of sleep per day. Deprive it of sleep and sooner or later it will get it back. The debt accumulates. Stay up too late too often and you risk a premature burial. Fortunately for me, I'm married to the SuperNurse/HolyWife. I'm not dead till I miss church. You, on the other hand, had better get your sleep.
I don't care for the current fashionable pants that are halfway up the calf. Every time I seem them I think, "Big rain forecast?" The worst are the mid-calf pants with bell-bottoms. Good God, is it just a test to see who will wear anything if it's declared fashion? They scream, "I am clueless, I am pliable!" Either that or, "I've grown eight inches and vomit so much I haven't put on a pound." I try to convince myself these capri/clamdigger/flood pants have an upside- they show a little leg. But they don't work for me, it's not enough leg. So greedy, and I'm comfortable with that.
There you have it- nothing is too petty for me to bitch about. My feminine side is a real bitch.
Living in the 'hood you can see every variation on current fashion by just sitting on the porch and watching the local posers pass by. Sometimes it isn't pretty. A couple days ago a fellow walked by with his shirt just on his arms. It was as though he'd started to put his T-shirt on and decided, "no, I ain't going to put my head through the hole like everybody else. I'll wear it like this to be different, maybe attract a fine babe or three, and I'll still have it handy to pull on if I want to go into a store and buy beer." It wasn't hot outside. It was fashion genius. He was the day's King Poser in a kingdom of posers.
To save some of these posers the mental challenge of coming up with a new way of being special, how about these:
-shave your face, but let the neck grow
-cut gaps into your eyelashes
-when that gets tired cut matching gaps into your eyebrows
-grow long temple locks like an orthodox Jew, and shave the rest of your head
-wear a diaper on your head, it gives you that paternal look chicks dig
You say those are stupid ideas? well yeah. But they're different, apparently that's all that counts, and that's all that was promised.
But on the topic of 'things chicks dig-' what is it with women getting excited when men growl? You remember the Ohio Players? There was one guy who had his fro' over one eye and ended every phrase with "ow." You'd think breathing hurt. But every time he went "ow" women screamed, you could almost hear the eggs splash. All those eggs splashed like rain- really appropriate when they did "Fire."
On Star Trek the Klingons are the personification of males' aggressive tendencies. But all the growling they do for foreplay is just their Phil Donahue touchy-feely give-the-women-what-they-want side. They'd rather have a beer and a woman who's instant-on. Yes, behind those tribe-of-linebacker facades they're just guys in need of plastic surgery and comfortable clothes.
The wife ironed my shirts last night. She said she'd ironed the church baptism robes and just decided to do my shirts while the iron was hot. Was I going to argue? That would be a "no." It was strange, but I took it as a sign she loves me, for whatever reason.
I had to take the Intrepid to the mechanic because the air conditioner wasn't conditioning. It was just recharged a month ago. He did his thing, and we went to Wally World for more stuff. When we picked the car up he informed me the evaporator has a leak, fixing it would run around $1,000. He recharged it, and charged me half the usual price. He said at least we'd be cool through the weekend. Two Dodges, one without air, one losing it. Why can't Dodge make an air conditioner that lasts? It's enough to make me buy...... something else. Something stylin', somethin' swervy', sumpin' growly.
Maybe a Ford.
That will close out Hodgepodge for today.
The wife/editor has informed me this post wasn't funny, but that it doesn't have to be.
Oh well.
Just a disclaimer: I don't really care what women wear, the wife keeps my opinion from mattering anyway. Ladies, if you want to wear capri pants that's your decision, go ahead. Don't be dissuaded by what other people think, that's just a different herd-think. They're probably comfortable and cool, form should follow function. Just don't wear them in an Islamic theocracy. But I still think bell-bottoms that are mid-calf are senseless. And my opinion still doesn't matter here, or in Paris.
If that isn't enough butt-kissing let me know.
Publicserf
-
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
This one turned out almost painfully self-absorbed, oh well.
-Buddy Hackett and Katherine Hepburn are dead, and not necessarily in that order. Not that the order is important either. Last in first out, or first in first out, only an accountant would care. The gentlemanly thing would be a lady first, so all right, Katherine and Buddy it is. If that’s too familiar- then it’s Ms. Hepburn and Mr. Hackett. By now everybody should be happy, depending on your perspective.
As a kid death announcements weren’t of any interest- usually never knowing the deceased. Unless it was a relative close enough to get me out of school I didn’t care. Going to a funeral was never any fun, but it was still a day out of school. Death could have an upside. Deaths during summer vacation were such a waste.
Now I’m middle-aged and each death is a black frame on fond memories. Hepburn, Hackett, Peck, Stewart, Berle, Landon, Harrison, Orbison, - I’ve admired some, laughed at a few, and enjoyed them all. They were old friends without ever making their acquaintances.
Entering my own autumn, the leaves of the older generation fall faster and faster. There is sadness at their loss. And there is sadness knowing my generation will soon begin to move through its final burst of color to fall in turn. It is just a matter of time. The clock ticks, the calendar turns, the leaves fall. The ground will catch us all.
When younger, death couldn’t come soon enough. I would pray that I’d die soon, “Please take me home, right now.” Right there is a pretty good indicator of an unhappy childhood. But God is no vending machine; he reserves the right to say “no.” That seemed to be all he had to say. My luck seemed to be worse than Bill Bennett’s. Not realizing it, it was better, God wasn’t saying “no,” he was saying “wait, you can’t believe what’s coming.”
And suddenly I was dating the cutest girl, and she thought I was worth a “yes.” It seemed like a miracle- I was married to her. It still amazes me. Then it was two children as adorable as their mother. Blessings beyond belief, it was worth the wait. Death is no longer something to rush to. Heaven is an eternity; time as a husband and father is only a few ticks. Heaven can wait. God knows it’s nothing personal.
It is a great comfort to be a Christian. Some might mock my faith as wishful thinking, it is not, it is faith. Wishful thinking is wanting something I can’t have. Ask the wife, she has the list. My faith is knowing that heaven is coming, and I’m going there. I believe it because the Bible tells me so.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
This one turned out almost painfully self-absorbed, oh well.
-Buddy Hackett and Katherine Hepburn are dead, and not necessarily in that order. Not that the order is important either. Last in first out, or first in first out, only an accountant would care. The gentlemanly thing would be a lady first, so all right, Katherine and Buddy it is. If that’s too familiar- then it’s Ms. Hepburn and Mr. Hackett. By now everybody should be happy, depending on your perspective.
As a kid death announcements weren’t of any interest- usually never knowing the deceased. Unless it was a relative close enough to get me out of school I didn’t care. Going to a funeral was never any fun, but it was still a day out of school. Death could have an upside. Deaths during summer vacation were such a waste.
Now I’m middle-aged and each death is a black frame on fond memories. Hepburn, Hackett, Peck, Stewart, Berle, Landon, Harrison, Orbison, - I’ve admired some, laughed at a few, and enjoyed them all. They were old friends without ever making their acquaintances.
Entering my own autumn, the leaves of the older generation fall faster and faster. There is sadness at their loss. And there is sadness knowing my generation will soon begin to move through its final burst of color to fall in turn. It is just a matter of time. The clock ticks, the calendar turns, the leaves fall. The ground will catch us all.
When younger, death couldn’t come soon enough. I would pray that I’d die soon, “Please take me home, right now.” Right there is a pretty good indicator of an unhappy childhood. But God is no vending machine; he reserves the right to say “no.” That seemed to be all he had to say. My luck seemed to be worse than Bill Bennett’s. Not realizing it, it was better, God wasn’t saying “no,” he was saying “wait, you can’t believe what’s coming.”
And suddenly I was dating the cutest girl, and she thought I was worth a “yes.” It seemed like a miracle- I was married to her. It still amazes me. Then it was two children as adorable as their mother. Blessings beyond belief, it was worth the wait. Death is no longer something to rush to. Heaven is an eternity; time as a husband and father is only a few ticks. Heaven can wait. God knows it’s nothing personal.
It is a great comfort to be a Christian. Some might mock my faith as wishful thinking, it is not, it is faith. Wishful thinking is wanting something I can’t have. Ask the wife, she has the list. My faith is knowing that heaven is coming, and I’m going there. I believe it because the Bible tells me so.
Monday, June 30, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I’m catching up here. I’ve moved a couple posts to their correct days, just because I could. Kinda hate to make excuses, but I'm tired. One of these days the blog will look better, but not today.
Arriving home from work there wasn’t anybody in the house. Look out the kitchen window and there you have it- the wife has started to mow the back yard. Feeling manly, in an irritated kind of way, I go out back and mow the back yard. It’s a safe bet you won’t see any other yards in the neighborhood being mowed by a guy who looks like he just got home from the cubicle. Then the lawn is mowed, and then it is time to get some groceries.
Then I wrote this. Now I’m going to post stuff back to 6/27 and go to bed.
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I’m catching up here. I’ve moved a couple posts to their correct days, just because I could. Kinda hate to make excuses, but I'm tired. One of these days the blog will look better, but not today.
Arriving home from work there wasn’t anybody in the house. Look out the kitchen window and there you have it- the wife has started to mow the back yard. Feeling manly, in an irritated kind of way, I go out back and mow the back yard. It’s a safe bet you won’t see any other yards in the neighborhood being mowed by a guy who looks like he just got home from the cubicle. Then the lawn is mowed, and then it is time to get some groceries.
Then I wrote this. Now I’m going to post stuff back to 6/27 and go to bed.
-
Sunday, June 29, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
6/29
Went to church Sunday morning. We always do. Admittedly, if I could I’d probably sleep in and just ask for forgiveness. Not the HolyWife, uh uh, Sunday has one reason and one reason only- get your butt out of bed and into church. Through droopy eyes I admire the strength of her resolve. Appreciating how she takes her spiritual responsibilities so seriously- I get dressed.
Church was a dud. Our preacher was off to a convention, we got someone in missions instead. The guy is out there living his belief, have to admire him for that. But he could really use some work as a speaker. So hard to stay awake. Through still-droopy eyes I ogle the wife and stay awake. It’s okay, God understands, I tried, but the flesh is weak. Sometimes you have to play it.
After church we went to the airport. There were supposed to be plane rides for the kids after the pancake breakfast. There was hardly anybody left in sight. Just a few middle-age kids playing with their radio-control planes. And we are out of there.
To Best Buy we go. We get the Monkees’ first-season DVD set. You laugh. I don’t care. Sure the show was dumb and got dumber, but the music was good. Good tunes performed well. The kids love the music. While traveling the Trainboy will bounce in his seat to the beat. Ms. Pikachu always requests her favorite Monkees CD. I love the music, lots of favorites. It’s a good time. Then it’s on to home. You’ll get the rest of a Monkee rant later. Promise, threat, take your choice.
I got out a shovel and scraped off the grass/weeds in a strip near the fence in the back yard. On the cleared strip went one of those flower seed rolls. It’s really too late to do it, but better late yadda yadda. Then there came the recollection of a can of flower seeds left from last year that’s supposed to be for prairie wildflowers.
Widen the strip. Sweat some more. Sprinkle seeds on strip and on the seed roll too. Supposedly the seed roll could be left as is. The canned seed is supposed to be covered. They need dirt. Trainboy and I go to K-Mart to get dirt- three bags full. Trainboy spots a toy VW, I get a spontaneous hug. Life is good. Got a couple Icees too, we are deserving. Three dirt bags does a nice job of covering the seed. If the seed is still any good we could have a nice butterfly garden. Oh joy. Really. Oh joy.
Mow the front lawn.
Then it’s back inside and a week’s worth of laundry awaits. After a couple loads I sit down on the couch with the kids. They’re still watching the Monkee DVD’s. They love ‘em. Lots of kid laughter. I fall asleep before finishing an episode. Wake up in the middle of the night and go to bed.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
6/29
Went to church Sunday morning. We always do. Admittedly, if I could I’d probably sleep in and just ask for forgiveness. Not the HolyWife, uh uh, Sunday has one reason and one reason only- get your butt out of bed and into church. Through droopy eyes I admire the strength of her resolve. Appreciating how she takes her spiritual responsibilities so seriously- I get dressed.
Church was a dud. Our preacher was off to a convention, we got someone in missions instead. The guy is out there living his belief, have to admire him for that. But he could really use some work as a speaker. So hard to stay awake. Through still-droopy eyes I ogle the wife and stay awake. It’s okay, God understands, I tried, but the flesh is weak. Sometimes you have to play it.
After church we went to the airport. There were supposed to be plane rides for the kids after the pancake breakfast. There was hardly anybody left in sight. Just a few middle-age kids playing with their radio-control planes. And we are out of there.
To Best Buy we go. We get the Monkees’ first-season DVD set. You laugh. I don’t care. Sure the show was dumb and got dumber, but the music was good. Good tunes performed well. The kids love the music. While traveling the Trainboy will bounce in his seat to the beat. Ms. Pikachu always requests her favorite Monkees CD. I love the music, lots of favorites. It’s a good time. Then it’s on to home. You’ll get the rest of a Monkee rant later. Promise, threat, take your choice.
I got out a shovel and scraped off the grass/weeds in a strip near the fence in the back yard. On the cleared strip went one of those flower seed rolls. It’s really too late to do it, but better late yadda yadda. Then there came the recollection of a can of flower seeds left from last year that’s supposed to be for prairie wildflowers.
Widen the strip. Sweat some more. Sprinkle seeds on strip and on the seed roll too. Supposedly the seed roll could be left as is. The canned seed is supposed to be covered. They need dirt. Trainboy and I go to K-Mart to get dirt- three bags full. Trainboy spots a toy VW, I get a spontaneous hug. Life is good. Got a couple Icees too, we are deserving. Three dirt bags does a nice job of covering the seed. If the seed is still any good we could have a nice butterfly garden. Oh joy. Really. Oh joy.
Mow the front lawn.
Then it’s back inside and a week’s worth of laundry awaits. After a couple loads I sit down on the couch with the kids. They’re still watching the Monkee DVD’s. They love ‘em. Lots of kid laughter. I fall asleep before finishing an episode. Wake up in the middle of the night and go to bed.
Publicserf