Yard-work Selfies with Do-Rag and Uncooperative Dog

Stealing Dreams

If I dream about a book. A book like no book I've ever read before. With pictures, the likes of which I've never seen anywhere else. Written and illustrated by a girl I, more or less, know. A girl who, in real life, is a fine writer and wonderful artist, but has yet to publish anything bound... 

     Is this dream book mine for the writing? 

     Or am I stealing?

   
                                        I feel like I'm stealing. 

        

The Doctored Toad

We were talking about the color of my magic toad. Yes, he's red. Something to do with the clay in these parts, I reckon, though I truly don't have a clue. He could have been blushing, for all I know, mustering a spell of some sort.  

This little fella, however, magical as he appears, fell into some pond brine I had dumped out. Perfectly non-toxic stuff, though at full strength, I learned, isn't about to just wash off. A thorough scrubbing produced only this polished, cranky turquoise nugget, which was far better than the bottle green he was prior to bathing, but still, difficult to explain to friends and family, I'm sure.  

        

Toad Magic

         

Something Else First ...

We're going to discuss my old man watching ... promise. But first ... let me ask you this ... 

     Have you ever been loading groceries into your car, quite convinced that you have the entire parking lot to yourself, and, bent over, head inside of your vehicle, released just a teency bit more than a teency bit of ... well ... gas? 

     And then, maybe, while you were gloating and relishing and arranging your canned goods in the seat so they wouldn't spill if slammed on the brakes later, did you by chance hear a young female voice behind you say, "Sir. Excuse me ... Sir." 

     And when you turned, was it the girl who bagged your items inside of the store standing there with a rather polite smile on her face, holding a bottle of conditioner she forgot to put into your cart?

     Was it? 

     Did you? 

     Ever?

     No? 

     Really?

     Oh. Okay. 

     Me neither.  

Goals

By the end of this year, I would like to ...

          A: Become more interesting than a frozen pizza, because, apparently I am not.

          and ...

          B: Have a bikini model’s beach butt, because my dog has more junk in his trunk than I do. And I don’t care how old and how white I am, that’s just not right.

          

          Next up: ‘Why I’m Checking Out Old Men’. 

            

A Note of Caution

Call it the bane of a vivid imagination, but for years I was under the impression that an Old Testamenty kind of name, like, Zachariah, was required to contract Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. That since my primary mode of transportation didn’t have hooves, my britches suspenders or that I hadn’t gone bust in some misguided mining venture, posing for grim-faced tintypes as I pulled up stakes, I was reasonably immune to the disease. I figured the malady had fallen to the wayside somewhere around 1910, along with cookie dusters, and phrases such as ‘malady’ and ‘wayside’.

How wrong I was.

Beware the lowly tick, child. Beware.