Sometimes the most interesting thing about water is what's underneath. Oh the places we call home...
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Cat of the week: Edward
This week's CoTW is a true gentleman, tuxedo and all. Edward and I met yesterday and he decided my lap was a fine place to be. He purred, he played with a straw, he basked in attention. He's a sweet, gentle, friendly guy with lots of curiosity about the world around him and lots of capacity for love.
His reference number is A437380 and you can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
This week's CoTW is a true gentleman, tuxedo and all. Edward and I met yesterday and he decided my lap was a fine place to be. He purred, he played with a straw, he basked in attention. He's a sweet, gentle, friendly guy with lots of curiosity about the world around him and lots of capacity for love.
His reference number is A437380 and you can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
Animals doing cute things. Or cute animals just being cute
As you know, I'm a sucker for animals. Love them. Every day I visit one of my favorite websites, the ever-adorable Cute Overload for my daily fix of kittens, dogs behaving badly, tiny pigs, and other critters designed to make you squeal.
Today the BBC is adding to my cute quotient by these videos. In a world that is, sometimes, sadly lacking in reasons to smile, I share these with you in the hopes of brightening your day.
Snow-crazed stoat goes berserk
Baby meerkats make their debut
Jack Russell tree-climber
As you know, I'm a sucker for animals. Love them. Every day I visit one of my favorite websites, the ever-adorable Cute Overload for my daily fix of kittens, dogs behaving badly, tiny pigs, and other critters designed to make you squeal.
Today the BBC is adding to my cute quotient by these videos. In a world that is, sometimes, sadly lacking in reasons to smile, I share these with you in the hopes of brightening your day.
Snow-crazed stoat goes berserk
Baby meerkats make their debut
Jack Russell tree-climber
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
To sleep. Perhance not to sleep
I've been an insomniac all my life. Even as a child I'd lie awake half the night, waiting to fall asleep. I shared a room with my two sisters and I'd listen to them breathe (or snore) while playing little mind games to get myself through the night. I'd doze off and on and was OK living life on 3 or 4 hours sleep a night.
I'm still an insomniac. Only it's harder and harder to get by on so little sleep. And so, after a lifetime of yawning and dragging my way through the day, I've given in to sleeping pills. And I cannot tell you what a revelation it is.
I've tried everything. Cutting out caffeine. Hot milk. Warm baths. Holistic herbs and meditation. But nothing as ever worked. Now the little Ambien-wonderpill has made me fall asleep and I love it.
Friends, don't worry. I'm not an addict. I take maybe 2 or 3 a week, but those 2 or 3 nights have made a world of difference. I fall asleep, for the first time in my life, within 30 minutes. I sleep deeply (until the cat wakes me up at 3 am) but then I actually fall back asleep again fairly quickly. Again, for the first time in my life.
Without the pills it takes me anywhere from 90 minutes to 3 hours to fall asleep and then it's only for an hour or two at a time. I'll wake up, be wide awake for an hour or so and then drift off again for another few hours. This is honestly the very first time in my life when I'm getting continuous, quality sleep and I'm amazed at how it makes me feel. I have more energy. My back hurts less because I'm not tossing and turning and my muscles can actually relax for a bit. And it's easier to get things accomplished during the day because I'm not dragging my tired ass around.
On the nights, like tonight, when I'm not taking a pill I'll do my best to fall asleep naturally. But I know from 40+years of experience that it'll be a lost cause. I'll curl up in the darkness and try to shut my mind off. I'll do my best to relax. And two hours later I'll give up and watch a movie until I can't keep my eyes open (by which time the cat will be awake). But just knowing that in a night or two I'll be able to catch up on my sleep has made me much happier and makes the white nights easier to bear.
And, for those of you who are asleep, I wish you sweet dreams. I'll be having my own on Friday.
I've been an insomniac all my life. Even as a child I'd lie awake half the night, waiting to fall asleep. I shared a room with my two sisters and I'd listen to them breathe (or snore) while playing little mind games to get myself through the night. I'd doze off and on and was OK living life on 3 or 4 hours sleep a night.
I'm still an insomniac. Only it's harder and harder to get by on so little sleep. And so, after a lifetime of yawning and dragging my way through the day, I've given in to sleeping pills. And I cannot tell you what a revelation it is.
I've tried everything. Cutting out caffeine. Hot milk. Warm baths. Holistic herbs and meditation. But nothing as ever worked. Now the little Ambien-wonderpill has made me fall asleep and I love it.
Friends, don't worry. I'm not an addict. I take maybe 2 or 3 a week, but those 2 or 3 nights have made a world of difference. I fall asleep, for the first time in my life, within 30 minutes. I sleep deeply (until the cat wakes me up at 3 am) but then I actually fall back asleep again fairly quickly. Again, for the first time in my life.
Without the pills it takes me anywhere from 90 minutes to 3 hours to fall asleep and then it's only for an hour or two at a time. I'll wake up, be wide awake for an hour or so and then drift off again for another few hours. This is honestly the very first time in my life when I'm getting continuous, quality sleep and I'm amazed at how it makes me feel. I have more energy. My back hurts less because I'm not tossing and turning and my muscles can actually relax for a bit. And it's easier to get things accomplished during the day because I'm not dragging my tired ass around.
On the nights, like tonight, when I'm not taking a pill I'll do my best to fall asleep naturally. But I know from 40+years of experience that it'll be a lost cause. I'll curl up in the darkness and try to shut my mind off. I'll do my best to relax. And two hours later I'll give up and watch a movie until I can't keep my eyes open (by which time the cat will be awake). But just knowing that in a night or two I'll be able to catch up on my sleep has made me much happier and makes the white nights easier to bear.
And, for those of you who are asleep, I wish you sweet dreams. I'll be having my own on Friday.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Album
In the crowded antique store, next a hideous lamp featuring a coy shepherdess casting a longing glance at a long-misplaced shepherd, I found the album. The cover was battered maroon leather with “Our Photographs” lettered in flaking gold leaf, the final “s” just a smear of color after an “h” missing its neck.
The pages were thick and black; corners felt-softened through the years. Inside was a parade of black and white faces secured in place with black cardboard triangles. Weddings. Vacation trips. A graduation. But mostly just snapshots of people captured for no special reason except to save their faces. A few of the pages had captions written in silver ink, someone identifying individuals for ancestors who apparently didn’t care enough to save the book.
“Edgar and Tommy at the Lake” showed two young men mugging for the camera. Twenties’ style bathing suits looking laughable to modern eyes. The blur of a running dog suggesting movement denied to the forever-young faces, caught for posterity in exaggerated poses of the circus strongman. In the background the unnamed lake glistened flat and still like a Sears portrait studio backdrop.
“Janie, Mirella, and the Quigley’s, Logan Street” was written under a photo of children standing in front of a white house, the shade of some unseen tree rendering half the group in shadow while the others squinted into the distance.
The photo I liked the best had no caption. It depicted a young woman with a preposterously large had seated proudly in the driving seat of an immense dark car. Beneath the hat was an oddly modern-looking face. She looked more like a contemporary woman in her grandmother’s clothes than a woman of her day. Put her in jeans and a sweatshirt and she’d fit in at The Gap. But here she was an early daredevil with a Ford. I wondered where she was going, or where she had come from. Did she know Edgar and Tommy and Janie or was she another branch of the family?
Towards the end of the album there were blank pages waiting to be filled on, and one snapshot tucked in between pages, not stuck down. It was a crooked picture, slightly out of focus, of a couple sitting on a rock. Even with the bad photography it was easy to see that he looked at her like she was the sun and the moon. She was gazing towards the camera, past the photographer, at something that made her laugh. There was something about them that told me they were in love.
I turned to the inside front cover. $15.00 it said in faint pencil on a white label. Little enough for someone’s memories, I thought, and tucked the book under my arm.
In the crowded antique store, next a hideous lamp featuring a coy shepherdess casting a longing glance at a long-misplaced shepherd, I found the album. The cover was battered maroon leather with “Our Photographs” lettered in flaking gold leaf, the final “s” just a smear of color after an “h” missing its neck.
The pages were thick and black; corners felt-softened through the years. Inside was a parade of black and white faces secured in place with black cardboard triangles. Weddings. Vacation trips. A graduation. But mostly just snapshots of people captured for no special reason except to save their faces. A few of the pages had captions written in silver ink, someone identifying individuals for ancestors who apparently didn’t care enough to save the book.
“Edgar and Tommy at the Lake” showed two young men mugging for the camera. Twenties’ style bathing suits looking laughable to modern eyes. The blur of a running dog suggesting movement denied to the forever-young faces, caught for posterity in exaggerated poses of the circus strongman. In the background the unnamed lake glistened flat and still like a Sears portrait studio backdrop.
“Janie, Mirella, and the Quigley’s, Logan Street” was written under a photo of children standing in front of a white house, the shade of some unseen tree rendering half the group in shadow while the others squinted into the distance.
The photo I liked the best had no caption. It depicted a young woman with a preposterously large had seated proudly in the driving seat of an immense dark car. Beneath the hat was an oddly modern-looking face. She looked more like a contemporary woman in her grandmother’s clothes than a woman of her day. Put her in jeans and a sweatshirt and she’d fit in at The Gap. But here she was an early daredevil with a Ford. I wondered where she was going, or where she had come from. Did she know Edgar and Tommy and Janie or was she another branch of the family?
Towards the end of the album there were blank pages waiting to be filled on, and one snapshot tucked in between pages, not stuck down. It was a crooked picture, slightly out of focus, of a couple sitting on a rock. Even with the bad photography it was easy to see that he looked at her like she was the sun and the moon. She was gazing towards the camera, past the photographer, at something that made her laugh. There was something about them that told me they were in love.
I turned to the inside front cover. $15.00 it said in faint pencil on a white label. Little enough for someone’s memories, I thought, and tucked the book under my arm.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Crosswords
Rectangular newspapers overflow round tables, but the large cup of coffee anchored it securely.
15 Across: Like Shakespeare's Ariel
The muted sounds of bad light jazz (is there such a thing as good light jazz) played over the coffee house's sound system as the man with the studiously artistic hair worked the puzzle.
9 Down: Chile capitol
In between thinking, drinking, and checking out the legs of the redhead sitting under the reproduction Toulouse Lautrec, he clicked the pen in a habit that would have been annoying, had anyone been close enough to hear him.
23 Down: Terminal stiffening of sinews (two words)
Across the room a couple with matching laptops and expressions of boredom ignored each other. She tapping her foot to something other than the jazz. He casting surreptitious glances at that redhead.
33 Across: Guess Who's _____ _____ Dinner?
Behind the counter the girl with the nametag that read "Oslo" filled a glass jar with Madelines and counted the hours until she could get back to the latest Nora Roberts. Her co-worker, who had no nametag, expertly poured foam and wondered where the readhead got the shoes.
51 Down: Chandler's Philip
Under the poster the redhead wondered why she bothered coming to the place anymore. It was always filled with losers doing the damned crossword puzzle.
Rectangular newspapers overflow round tables, but the large cup of coffee anchored it securely.
15 Across: Like Shakespeare's Ariel
The muted sounds of bad light jazz (is there such a thing as good light jazz) played over the coffee house's sound system as the man with the studiously artistic hair worked the puzzle.
9 Down: Chile capitol
In between thinking, drinking, and checking out the legs of the redhead sitting under the reproduction Toulouse Lautrec, he clicked the pen in a habit that would have been annoying, had anyone been close enough to hear him.
23 Down: Terminal stiffening of sinews (two words)
Across the room a couple with matching laptops and expressions of boredom ignored each other. She tapping her foot to something other than the jazz. He casting surreptitious glances at that redhead.
33 Across: Guess Who's _____ _____ Dinner?
Behind the counter the girl with the nametag that read "Oslo" filled a glass jar with Madelines and counted the hours until she could get back to the latest Nora Roberts. Her co-worker, who had no nametag, expertly poured foam and wondered where the readhead got the shoes.
51 Down: Chandler's Philip
Under the poster the redhead wondered why she bothered coming to the place anymore. It was always filled with losers doing the damned crossword puzzle.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Road Trip
The smell of the first rain on hot sage in the desert. Coming down the long sweep of the mountain to that sleepy 4-way stop at the bottom, roads stretching endlessly flat in three directions. Empty roads. On the radio Patsy Cline was going Crazy and I had the windows rolled down, drinking in the scents and feeling thunder echo around me. Jackrabbits in the distance, flashing impossibly long ears in and out between the manzanita. Patsy gave way to Johnny Cash. Johnny to Elvis. Elvis to Willie.
The rain came harder now. Falling in fat drops, crying dust tears down the windshield. In the slate-colored sky lightning frescoed brilliantly and was gone. In its absence the sky flattened and smoothed itself into a sheet of gray velvet. One solid sheet, no clouds, no definition.
Left, right, or straight? Signposts hinted at options but gave no answers. And the absence of cars gave me time.
I could see trees and the beginning of a town to the left. Ahead, nothing but a long stretch of pavement. To the right, more flat -- but a road ribboned out in a more interesting fashion, hints of curves hidden and discovered by the landscape.
Willie faded away and Hank began to berate Your Cheatin' Heart. I smiled and turned right.
The smell of the first rain on hot sage in the desert. Coming down the long sweep of the mountain to that sleepy 4-way stop at the bottom, roads stretching endlessly flat in three directions. Empty roads. On the radio Patsy Cline was going Crazy and I had the windows rolled down, drinking in the scents and feeling thunder echo around me. Jackrabbits in the distance, flashing impossibly long ears in and out between the manzanita. Patsy gave way to Johnny Cash. Johnny to Elvis. Elvis to Willie.
The rain came harder now. Falling in fat drops, crying dust tears down the windshield. In the slate-colored sky lightning frescoed brilliantly and was gone. In its absence the sky flattened and smoothed itself into a sheet of gray velvet. One solid sheet, no clouds, no definition.
Left, right, or straight? Signposts hinted at options but gave no answers. And the absence of cars gave me time.
I could see trees and the beginning of a town to the left. Ahead, nothing but a long stretch of pavement. To the right, more flat -- but a road ribboned out in a more interesting fashion, hints of curves hidden and discovered by the landscape.
Willie faded away and Hank began to berate Your Cheatin' Heart. I smiled and turned right.
Cat of the week: Ob-La-Di
My choice for cat of the week was extra hard this time around. In fact, it was a three-way tie between Mann (a polydactyl orange with a sweet personality), Kitty (a 10-year old sweetheart who's a perfect lap cat), and this guy. Ob-La-Di won because he has the sweetest, loudest purr of any cat I've ever met. Seriously, you can hear this cat purr in the next county.
Actually, Ob-La-Di (ID#434606) was going to be my CoTW when he first came in a few months ago, his photo wasn't available yet. He came in with his brother who was adopted in December. This guy is truly one of those "why hasn't be been adopted yet? This doesn't make sense!" cases. Ob-La- Di (or Obi, as I call him) is a perfect kitty. He's a bit shy at first but after a few minutes came into my lap (which he generously shared with another cat). Once there he purred non-stop, snuggled against me, bumped noses, licked my hand, and generally charmed me entirely. He's a sweet, gentle, loving little guy who just needs a good home. I cannot understand why he hasn't been scooped up. He's a charmer.
He's only 10 months old so he still has a lot of kitten energy and he obviously has a heart larger than his sleek little body would suggest. You can find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
Photo of the day: The Yellow Aisle
Now that I'm carrying a camera with me everywhere I'm always looking for things to photograph. With yellow as this week's theme, I was amused to turn down the canned fruit and veggies aisle and notice entire shelves of yellow. Apparently they stack the corn next to the pineapple. Add to that their yellow "on sale" signs and it's a whole row of yellow. Too bad I'm allergic to pineapple.
Now that I'm carrying a camera with me everywhere I'm always looking for things to photograph. With yellow as this week's theme, I was amused to turn down the canned fruit and veggies aisle and notice entire shelves of yellow. Apparently they stack the corn next to the pineapple. Add to that their yellow "on sale" signs and it's a whole row of yellow. Too bad I'm allergic to pineapple.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Photo of the day: Qwack
Ah, the long-suffering rubber ducky. Heralded in song and story. Well, song, anyway. (Thank you Ernie.) Ours sits by the tub and has never actually joined either of us in a bath. But it taunts the cat who glowers at it from across a watery expanse. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) wants the duck but just can't figure out how to get it without getting wet (something to be avoided at all costs). Thankfully it has never occurred to her to try for it when the tub is empty. It's as if it doesn't exist then. Perhaps she thinks the water brings it when it pours into the tub and once that's happened, it's all over, the Red Sea has been flooded again. But one day I know I'll come home and find this guy lying in the hallway, tiny bite marks marring his happy little bill.
Ah, the long-suffering rubber ducky. Heralded in song and story. Well, song, anyway. (Thank you Ernie.) Ours sits by the tub and has never actually joined either of us in a bath. But it taunts the cat who glowers at it from across a watery expanse. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) wants the duck but just can't figure out how to get it without getting wet (something to be avoided at all costs). Thankfully it has never occurred to her to try for it when the tub is empty. It's as if it doesn't exist then. Perhaps she thinks the water brings it when it pours into the tub and once that's happened, it's all over, the Red Sea has been flooded again. But one day I know I'll come home and find this guy lying in the hallway, tiny bite marks marring his happy little bill.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Stella Mare
Years ago I knew a woman named Stella. She was big and brassy and spoke like a Joan Blondell character in a pre-Code film, only with a Polish accent. Stella was what is known in literature as "a character." I met her when I was Assistant Manager at a bookstore. Stella loved three things, her husband, Leo; her family; and romance novels. She would purchase all the series romances every month. Once I got to know her, I would put together a box with all the latest ones and she would always ask for me when she came in. Over time we got to be friends.
Occasionally Stella would join me on my break and we'd have coffee in the food court and she'd tell me about her latest adventures. She had a lot of them. At the time she was in her late 60s and was always doing wild and fun things. She tried surfing, scuba diving, karate and even roller blading. On the safer side she also took up yoga, Ikebana, and French cooking. She also told hilarious dirty jokes. I wish I could remember them, but I do remember hooting with rude laugher in front of the frozen yogurt shop.
Stella was a Holocaust survivor. She never talked about her time in the camp except once, in an offhanded way, as if it were no more a part of her life story than the guitar lessons she took for six months or the Vespa scooter she wanted for her birthday. I always wondered if her lust for life was due to her experiences with the Nazis. Perhaps losing her family and suffering so much herself made her appreciate life more; maybe feel the need to try everything so as to live life to the full.
I never asked her, though. There was always a "No Trespassing" sign around that time of her life. The fact that everything else was fair game made this silence all the more obvious. She told me about her sex life (great), her beloved dogs (the "angeldevils"), and about her sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids. But she never told me about her life before she came to the US.
Stella and Leo loved to travel and once she "adopted" you, you were bound to get some wonderfully tacky souvenir from her vacation. She brought me a snow globe from Hawaii, a dried pinto bean Rosary from Mexico, and a "can of flattened armadillo" from Texas. I gave her a hideous Halloween sweatshirt with a glow-in-the-dark pumpkin on it and she wore in in April. She also baked wonderful sugar cookies with little flowers stamped in them. They would literally melt in your mouth and whenever she came into the store with a batch work would pretty much stop while we all moaned in ecstasy.
A few years into our friendship, Stella and Leo moved to Phoenix to be closer to two of their sons and their families. I was happy for her, but sad to lose her from my life. We stayed in touch with cards and letters at first, but it was one of those friendships that was destined to fade from lack of face-to-face contact. She was, briefly, one of those "adopted family members" that come into my life now and then...given to me by fate to compensate for the emotional distance of my "real" family. She was an honorary grandmother for a while and then moved on. I have no doubt she adopted some other lucky people in her new home, bringing them cookies from her kitchen and ashtrays from Miami. I wish I knew what happened to her, I hope she's still alive, still happy. Maybe studying pottery or learning how to snowboard.
Stella, wherever you are, I hope you're doing well. Thanks for the memories. And I wish I could remember that joke about the nun and the cowboy.
Years ago I knew a woman named Stella. She was big and brassy and spoke like a Joan Blondell character in a pre-Code film, only with a Polish accent. Stella was what is known in literature as "a character." I met her when I was Assistant Manager at a bookstore. Stella loved three things, her husband, Leo; her family; and romance novels. She would purchase all the series romances every month. Once I got to know her, I would put together a box with all the latest ones and she would always ask for me when she came in. Over time we got to be friends.
Occasionally Stella would join me on my break and we'd have coffee in the food court and she'd tell me about her latest adventures. She had a lot of them. At the time she was in her late 60s and was always doing wild and fun things. She tried surfing, scuba diving, karate and even roller blading. On the safer side she also took up yoga, Ikebana, and French cooking. She also told hilarious dirty jokes. I wish I could remember them, but I do remember hooting with rude laugher in front of the frozen yogurt shop.
Stella was a Holocaust survivor. She never talked about her time in the camp except once, in an offhanded way, as if it were no more a part of her life story than the guitar lessons she took for six months or the Vespa scooter she wanted for her birthday. I always wondered if her lust for life was due to her experiences with the Nazis. Perhaps losing her family and suffering so much herself made her appreciate life more; maybe feel the need to try everything so as to live life to the full.
I never asked her, though. There was always a "No Trespassing" sign around that time of her life. The fact that everything else was fair game made this silence all the more obvious. She told me about her sex life (great), her beloved dogs (the "angeldevils"), and about her sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids. But she never told me about her life before she came to the US.
Stella and Leo loved to travel and once she "adopted" you, you were bound to get some wonderfully tacky souvenir from her vacation. She brought me a snow globe from Hawaii, a dried pinto bean Rosary from Mexico, and a "can of flattened armadillo" from Texas. I gave her a hideous Halloween sweatshirt with a glow-in-the-dark pumpkin on it and she wore in in April. She also baked wonderful sugar cookies with little flowers stamped in them. They would literally melt in your mouth and whenever she came into the store with a batch work would pretty much stop while we all moaned in ecstasy.
A few years into our friendship, Stella and Leo moved to Phoenix to be closer to two of their sons and their families. I was happy for her, but sad to lose her from my life. We stayed in touch with cards and letters at first, but it was one of those friendships that was destined to fade from lack of face-to-face contact. She was, briefly, one of those "adopted family members" that come into my life now and then...given to me by fate to compensate for the emotional distance of my "real" family. She was an honorary grandmother for a while and then moved on. I have no doubt she adopted some other lucky people in her new home, bringing them cookies from her kitchen and ashtrays from Miami. I wish I knew what happened to her, I hope she's still alive, still happy. Maybe studying pottery or learning how to snowboard.
Stella, wherever you are, I hope you're doing well. Thanks for the memories. And I wish I could remember that joke about the nun and the cowboy.
Photo of the day: To be Read
They sit there. Those National Geographics. Silently mocking you with your lack of initiative as you grab for the remote control to watch something you could well do without. Meanwhile, the stack grows and, with it, your sense of guilt. I'm four months behind, you tell yourself as you look at the famous yellow-bordered covers. And you know if you pick it up you'll find out about mice and Mesopotamia. Tree shrews and Tunisia. The Amazon rainforest and life in the mountains of Chile. But still you turn away. One day, you say to yourself. But does that day ever come? Or do you have a shelf life on your magazines? Nothing older than six months? A year? Until your rack fills up? I know they're supposed to be a joy and yet, sometimes, don't you feel weighed down by all those magazines silently mocking you from the floor?
They sit there. Those National Geographics. Silently mocking you with your lack of initiative as you grab for the remote control to watch something you could well do without. Meanwhile, the stack grows and, with it, your sense of guilt. I'm four months behind, you tell yourself as you look at the famous yellow-bordered covers. And you know if you pick it up you'll find out about mice and Mesopotamia. Tree shrews and Tunisia. The Amazon rainforest and life in the mountains of Chile. But still you turn away. One day, you say to yourself. But does that day ever come? Or do you have a shelf life on your magazines? Nothing older than six months? A year? Until your rack fills up? I know they're supposed to be a joy and yet, sometimes, don't you feel weighed down by all those magazines silently mocking you from the floor?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Photo of the day: Weeds
Day two of the yellow theme and I'm thanking the weed gods. While wandering around the neighborhood yesterday I noticed an unsurprising mid-winter absence of flowers. And an equally unsurprising abundance of weeds. This is one of my very own weeds. Yup, didn't need to trespass on anybody's lawn for this one. Just went out for the morning paper and there it was.
Day two of the yellow theme and I'm thanking the weed gods. While wandering around the neighborhood yesterday I noticed an unsurprising mid-winter absence of flowers. And an equally unsurprising abundance of weeds. This is one of my very own weeds. Yup, didn't need to trespass on anybody's lawn for this one. Just went out for the morning paper and there it was.
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