Adventures in Mowing the Lawn

I've given official titles to all the sections of my lawn: The Northern Steppes; The Southern Slopes, The Eastern Heights, The Western Wilds, Deadwood Forests, Tomato Garden, Cedar Flats, and The Back Forty. 
(Lest you farmers give me more credit than is due, that's forty feet--not acres.)
 
If I don't safely navigate my star ship through each level of lawn, I'm not a worthy "Narnian Ninja" and will not be allowed to travel with "The Nine". 

This morning was adventurous: On the Southern Slopes, my starship was nearly enmeshed in the web of an untidy Dish spider. Fortunately, I was able to disentangle the vehicle and dump the web fragments into the Blue Abyss just before the Abyss Scavenger came roaring by to slurp it away. I know this means I may meet the angry steel Dish Spider someday...got to be very cautious on the Southern Slopes next week.


...and yes, I was that child who sank battleship cookie sheets in the dishwater and rescued poor, drowning spoons.

The Doctor's Lobby

Doctors' lobbies are not my favorite places to visit. Actually, I would rather never see them at all. I don't have anything personal against doctors--someone has to handle all those difficult jobs--but I'm sure glad I didn't choose to be one.  For a doctor, just meeting people on the street must be awkward, knowing all you know about them and wanting to call them Mr. Kidney Stone or Little Miss Chronic Mono. Also, nobody ever visits you unless they are sick, until they want something from you, like your autograph...under a prescription.  It has to be depressing.

No wonder the doctor's lobby is a tension-ridden place. There are all those crabby people sitting around cradling their fevers; they're hoping for a little sympathy to atone for their having dragged themselves out of bed and onto the sensible, washable, straight-backed chairs that line the foyer.  Patients, already in a rotten mood, are then confronted with the  receptionist. Right there, in plain sight, is a sign that says one must sign in as soon as one arrives. So one drags oneself over to the window and contaminates the pen as he or she signs a wobbly name. Miss Cheerio smiles and says loudly, "So why did you need to see the doctor today?"
Talk about a loaded question. What if I don't exactly want the strangers in the lobby to know my business with the doctor? Do I confess my bunions, warts, indigestion, and frequent hallucinations? Or do I mumble something like: "Oh nothing really. Just wanted to wish the medico a happy birthday and see if he thinks I'm pregnant at fifty seven."
I've thought and thought about it. At the risk of upsetting a really good doctor's staff, I've decided to meet the challenge head on. If I ever have to walk into that place again, I'm going to reply to the insistent receptionist: "I have all the symptoms of the pneumonic variant of bubonic plague and I just wanted a professional to confirm it before I report myself to the CDC." Then I'll sneeze all over the sign-in sheet.

The Disadvantage of Wearing Crocs

The disadvantage of wearing Crocs
While out of doors and taking walks
Is the finding of rocks
Beneath your socks.







And the biggest problem with wearing heels
To proms and parties and dress-up meals
Is how one deals
with the pain she feels.









You have to remember, when wearing sneakers,
That they might be annoying to quiet-seekers
Because some are creakers
and some are squeakers!

Befuddled

His eyes confused, befuddled;
His fine logic was all muddled;
His transitions, somewhat addled;
All his sequences seemed rattled.
He was discombobulated;
In a word--twitterpated!





(A silly little poem for a Sunday Scribblings prompt)

Peach Products

Last night we cut up peaches and canned eight pints of peach stuff. I'm not sure whether to call it jam, preserves,cobbler filling, pie filling or waffle syrup. That will have to be decided when we open it and see how well it set up. All I know is that it tastes scrumptious. It took Turtle and me a couple of hours to peel and slice the fruit...and I wish I could say the job was finished. However, under the red checkered tablecloth, ripening quietly and steadily on the cool kitchen bar there is more fruit--demanding attention. Sigh. Why does making jam/syrup/filling/yummy peach stuff take so much work?



Ah well, school enrollment is today and students will be following bells all day tomorrow. I've papers to run off, books to find, a bulletin to revise, and a room to clean. Hopefully, by next week all the students will be sitting quietly in their desks, looking as different as my peaches on the bar. Yep, there will probably be a couple of pears in there and maybe a plum or two. They will ripen nicely...but I think the analogy had better stop there. I've philosophized myself into a corner.