, , , , , ,

Dear Diary – I just want you to know I’ve entered the snapdragon stage of the year…part of me has snapped and part of me is draggin’! It’s gardening season!

Yesterday I armoured up and headed into my backyard to tackle the “jungle”, a long rectangular flowerbed aligning the fence next to our neighbour. Our neighbour just spent a lot of money paying a guy to landscape her oasis, and in order to be a good neighbour, I need to do my part.

I say flower bed rather loosely. It’s more like a strip of land ruled by an overlord called Elderwart. It’s a noxious tyranant who chokes out all living things in its path, and reproduces at an alarming rate. At the moment, the leaves are knee-high, and the delicate flowers that resemble queen anne’s lace, is nearing my shoulders. I realize I am not a giant among men (or women), but it’s beyond ridiculous.

I have battled this demon for over 20 years. Nothing kills it! I have dug pits 2 feet deep to remove it’s roots and offspring. I have severed and slashed ruthlessly and without mercy. Every year I vow that this will be the year I am victorious, and by mid-May, I hang my head my defeat.

I almost conquered it once, and it nearly killed me. Three Saturdays in a row from the time I rose until the evening dinner hour, I travailed, wreaking destruction and burying it under a thick, black cloth. But the overlord creeped under the cover of darkness to pop up along the edges and cracks, and seams in the cloth. I lost.

Yesterday, I laboured for an hour and a half (with a minecraft break in the middle), but only succeeded in clearing a 4’x2′ patch. I freed the sweet peas and I’m nearing the border on a lily. My knees were covered in dirt; I had pieces of tree in my hair. And today, my shoulder and butt muscles are screaming, “what have you done”?

I vow….this year is THE year I will conquer. Or burn it to the ground

Well it’s over, it’s over, it’s over, I won’t be pushed around
Move over, move over, move over, Get back or just get out
Set this plane up in flames
It’s over, it’s over, it’s over…It’s time to burn it down!

Skillet, Burn It Down

Dear Diary – I had a TMI moment (aka Too Much Information). A TMI is the suddenly manifestation of a mental picture painted “with broad, sweeping strokes” when your brain (whether it dwells in the gutter or not) spontaneously fills in the blanks after someone says something that may be completely innocent.

The Scene

Youngest Son asked me if I wanted to play Halo. It’s been kind of our chillig out thing lately. I was rushing up the stairs at the moment.

What I said

“Sure, but first I gotta pee and grab my stool”.

The step stool was so could finally wash the windows outside overlooking the porch. The muddy raccoon prints were painful reminders of a beautiful dream…a squirrel proof birdfeeder!

Dear Diary – It took us several hours, but Hubby and I finally scraped the mud off our boots and headed to the Mall Saturday afternoon. Hubby’s phone battery has been in the “vestibule of heaven” for quite some time, requiring charging daily so it can limp through the working hours. There are days I relate!

I got up at 9, as promised, so I would be ready to go and we could be there for the 10 a.m. opening. But Hubby was updating his laptop, so I drank tea and watched The Great British Sewing Bee instead. Then we realized my cellphone, which he was going to assume, was almost dead.

A couple hours later, we made the long trek to the Mall, very narrowly escaping collision with several drivers who drove like they were alone in parking lot! Safely parked, we headed to the nearest exit, when Hubby realized. He left his cell phone at home.

An hour later (which included a detour to the post office and a potty break at home for me after the extra breakfast tea), we arrived at our destination. Only the storefront was now part of the food court. We travelled along with the unmasked masses until we could find the “you are here” sign and find the new location.

It was a half hour wait at the store as an older gentleman argued with the sales clerk, who patiently explained over and over again until he stormed off in a huff. Our own transaction was remarkably painless, and would have been shorter had their only 2 tablets been in working condition. After a dozen attempts to write my e-initials on the screen, she went “old school” and printed out the contract.

Most of my settings, contacts, etc. transferred to the new phone, which is very similar to the one I had. The only big difference is that my cell phone hoots at me when I get a text. I’ll have to change that. For Hubby, this is the new adventure of finding all the important buttons. Most of my photos, texts and contacts are still on his phone too, hopefully not providing him with light entertainment. My ring tone and text tone are there too, so whenever the phone rings, we have to ask “is it yours or mine”? He’ll have to change that too.

Most phones come with a charger. This one did too. Only instead of having a “boy” end (USB to charge) and a “girl” end (to plug into the phone), this charger is both “girls”. Cute, but useless.

We’ll have to learn to share our one charger.

Dear Diary – Summer’s heat is coming an with it, Hubby’s complaints when I use the oven and heat the house even more, so I made a few things to tuck away. I made beet pickles, blueberry scones, chai scones…and bunny buns.

Or what was supposed to be bunny buns. They were adorable on Pinterest.

Mine looked more like an obese mixture of the dragon, Toothless, in the How to Train Your Dragon movies and a gerbil-like Pokemon.

It didn’t help that as they baked, they grew more obese, and their noses ended up stuck to the bottoms of the ones in front of them. Mmmm-wa!

Hubby complained that they were too “bready”. Ah…hello! They’re buns. Bunny buns!

I wanted to tell him to kiss my fluffy white keester, but instead, I just smiled sweetly…it makes him nervous because he has no idea what I am thinking

The next time your wife gets angry, drape a dish towel over her shoulders like a cape and explain,
‘now you are … Super Angry‘.

Maybe she’ll laugh.

Maybe you’ll die