Squish

Brought to you by a fine spring weekend.

I had to make a deal with myself yesterday: no computer until chores were done. But I didn't mind for once, because some of the chores were more pleasant than surfing could have been.

First, I drove to the grocery store with the windows down. Thanks to using public transportation to get to and from my new job, I've put as many miles on my car this whole week as I would have in a single day under the old system. The Subarushi is getting on in years and miles, so it's nice to know it'll have to work a little less hard now.

Then I came home and caught Mother Media leaving me a message, so I grabbed the phone and chatted with her while putting my goodies away, opening windows, and, as usual, watering my plants. I had to tell her about the great evening I spent Saturday watching one of the "Best of Carson" DVDs the Easter Bunny had brought me. That EB sure knows how to shop.

My favorite bit (so far) was one from the 60s featuring Bob Hope, Dean Martin, and George Gobel as Johnny's guests. (Gobel was, Mother said, one of her own father's favorite comedians.) All three guests were smoking and drinking openly, and Johnny had a cigarette in hand, as Naughty Party Boys did in those days. Every time Gobel, who was nearest to Johnny, turned to tell the host something, the tipsy Martin, seated beside him, flicked cigar ash into his tumbler of beer. While Gobel played it perfectly straight, the audience, the other guests, and Johnny himself convulsed with laughter every time Martin flicked and Gobel brought the cup to his lips, only to lower it at the last second without taking a sip. Yep, that's entertainment. That, and watching a small arboreal rodent pee on Johnny's head.

Anyway, after visiting with Mother Media, I barely had time to start a load of laundry before Mork knocked on my door. Mork is the honest-to-goodness name of a local contractor who left a flier in my door, and he had agreed to come over on a Sunday to give me an estimate on replacing the white picket fence that surrounds Sensational Acres. He gave me a ballpark figure that wasn't too shocking and left me to the task of raking windblown leaves from my flower beds.

I won't lie, I dawdled over the raking and bagging. To be outside in a T-shirt with the sun on my arms and sweat on my forehead and the scent of new growth in my nostrils was the sweetest way I could think of to spend an hour in the early afternoon. I'm not much of a gardener, but I can't resist the allure of the brave new blades of grass and early plants. I took my shoes and socks off and squished about in the soggy dirt and will no doubt take a bit of earth to work with me under my toenails tomorrow.

Lolling in the yard doesn't buy us any cat food, however, so I had to go back indoors to work on a freelance project (next to an open window). It was small, fortunately, and I was out for a walk before the ink dried or the sun set.

As for the feline despots, they were remarkably benevolent — as long as I left the back door propped open so they could come and go as they pleased. They both spent great swathes of time rolling and scratching their backs on the grit in the driveway and stretching loooong in the afternoon sun. Call me a copycat, but I flopped down too and gave my yard a big warm hug.

Today around the world: April 4 is my parents' wedding anniversary.