I checked the temperature gauge before venturing outside yesterday. At 6 a.m. it read an eye-popping 89 degrees. The air was so moist I could grab a gob and wring it out. My heart sagged. “Move,” I muttered. I’d certainly broil soon, dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt to keep the imperious roses from drawing blood. A mosquito net veiled my perky straw hat, and a baggy, elasticized mesh jacket fell half way to my knees. (Vampire mosquitoes and no-see-ums find me irresistible. This outfit stops them cold.)
My feet dragged as I collected the garden gate keys and moved outside to deadhead, which is usually a pleasant, satisfying job. Now, even doing this gentle, slow motion task made me bake. Temps would rapidly rise to around 99: the heat index would make it feel like 104 well before noon. Wonderful.
Pinch, snap, dump. Pinch, snap, dump. Finally, two hours later, every bloomer looked bouncier minus the weight of its dead mate.
I stole a minute to admire the gorgeous multicolored daylilies, which were undismayed by this weather. Hmmm: two lovely flowers, weighed down by fat buds, wanted propping. I did that.
Finally, it was feeding time. Last week plants had dined on fish emulsion. They enjoy variety, so today I chose bottled Miracle Gro. It’s dispensed using a green and yellow bottle-attachment thingy that I hadn’t operated for a season. I should have reviewed how it worked.
First, I released the hose lever. Water pressure instantly rose. But nothing came out. Huh. What had I forgotten? I peered into the thingy’s business end, saw the problem, turned lever #2— and dammed up formula blasted my netted face, hair, hat, and shirt. Gasping, I fumbled for the hose lever and turned the wretched thing off.
Oh, jeez: not again!
Now, normally I can laugh at myself. (One-trial learning, for me, usually takes two trials.) But now, fuming, I hurled the hose and bottle thingy down and hopped around, dripping formula. I tossed netting and hat away, and punished the air with clenched fists, unnerving the neighbor cat, who crept away. Lordy, I was mad. At me.
I had just enough functioning brain to remember that I live in a beehive. Neighbors are close, and can see and hear everything. I certainly didn’t want to call attention to this humiliation, so my rant happened in pantomime.
Here’s the last straw part of this dumb-Dee-dumb dumb comedy.
I’d flung my hat onto a little patch of cranebill geraniums. When I snatched it back, plopped it on my head and began to stomp off, hat and hair buzzed. Somebody was freaking out under there. Awww…. This was the ultimate silliness. There was actually a bee in my bonnet! Which, like my hair, was formula-sozzled. Which made the insect mad. It wanted out. NOW. Or it would inject a pointed reminder.
Hastily I tossed the hat again: the disgruntled bee buzzed off. Lucky me! He’d been too shocked to stab his barbed hinder into my hot head.
“Whoa,” I muttered. “Enough with stomping fits, you silly twit.” I crept into the house, shed my soggy clothes and showered the mistake away. My face still flamed from residue embarrassment. Why are levers so compelling?
A. I see one.
C. I turn it.
I always skip B, which is: think, for just an instant, first.
But, searching for a pony in the poop, I clung to two facts: I hadn’t chosen fish emulsion this time, and—mouth firmly shut, I hadn’t swallowed the stuff. Did these truths demonstrate a rising learning curve? Maybe.
It was small comfort…
My feet dragged as I collected the garden gate keys and moved outside to deadhead, which is usually a pleasant, satisfying job. Now, even doing this gentle, slow motion task made me bake. Temps would rapidly rise to around 99: the heat index would make it feel like 104 well before noon. Wonderful.
Pinch, snap, dump. Pinch, snap, dump. Finally, two hours later, every bloomer looked bouncier minus the weight of its dead mate.
I stole a minute to admire the gorgeous multicolored daylilies, which were undismayed by this weather. Hmmm: two lovely flowers, weighed down by fat buds, wanted propping. I did that.
Finally, it was feeding time. Last week plants had dined on fish emulsion. They enjoy variety, so today I chose bottled Miracle Gro. It’s dispensed using a green and yellow bottle-attachment thingy that I hadn’t operated for a season. I should have reviewed how it worked.
First, I released the hose lever. Water pressure instantly rose. But nothing came out. Huh. What had I forgotten? I peered into the thingy’s business end, saw the problem, turned lever #2— and dammed up formula blasted my netted face, hair, hat, and shirt. Gasping, I fumbled for the hose lever and turned the wretched thing off.
Oh, jeez: not again!
Now, normally I can laugh at myself. (One-trial learning, for me, usually takes two trials.) But now, fuming, I hurled the hose and bottle thingy down and hopped around, dripping formula. I tossed netting and hat away, and punished the air with clenched fists, unnerving the neighbor cat, who crept away. Lordy, I was mad. At me.
I had just enough functioning brain to remember that I live in a beehive. Neighbors are close, and can see and hear everything. I certainly didn’t want to call attention to this humiliation, so my rant happened in pantomime.
Here’s the last straw part of this dumb-Dee-dumb dumb comedy.
I’d flung my hat onto a little patch of cranebill geraniums. When I snatched it back, plopped it on my head and began to stomp off, hat and hair buzzed. Somebody was freaking out under there. Awww…. This was the ultimate silliness. There was actually a bee in my bonnet! Which, like my hair, was formula-sozzled. Which made the insect mad. It wanted out. NOW. Or it would inject a pointed reminder.
Hastily I tossed the hat again: the disgruntled bee buzzed off. Lucky me! He’d been too shocked to stab his barbed hinder into my hot head.
“Whoa,” I muttered. “Enough with stomping fits, you silly twit.” I crept into the house, shed my soggy clothes and showered the mistake away. My face still flamed from residue embarrassment. Why are levers so compelling?
A. I see one.
C. I turn it.
I always skip B, which is: think, for just an instant, first.
But, searching for a pony in the poop, I clung to two facts: I hadn’t chosen fish emulsion this time, and—mouth firmly shut, I hadn’t swallowed the stuff. Did these truths demonstrate a rising learning curve? Maybe.
It was small comfort…