Well, no. Wait a second.
Ugh. Spring. When a middle-aged woman's paranoia turns to poison farking ivy.
Every year as soon as it gets warm enough for me to be able to last more than five minutes outdoors without my teeth chattering, I go out and tackle the back yard. I've made substantial progress in the last couple years -- I've created some damn impressive brush piles taller than I am, and raked piles and piles of leaves into compost heaps and to use as mulch around trees. I've pulled vines off tree trunks until my hands bled.
And so far I've been afflicted with two scorching cases of poison ivy. The worst was last summer, right around the time we went to New York for a vacation. And it was hot, and I was sweaty and decided sleeveless would be easier to stand -- despite the fact more than one member of various restaurant waitstaff clearly wondered if I had leprosy. Dreadful.
I am not entirely sure if I have it now, actually. I stupidly shed my long sleeves when I got hot and sweaty, so I got scraped up by who knows what all. Branches and rocks and tree trunks. So I might just be garden-variety itchy. Fingers crossed.
I am a notorious spaz when it comes to yard work. I try to pull branches that are too heavy for me. I get tangled in stickerbushes. I can be heard for blocks, if not miles, howling at the advancing forces of Mother Nature. This year's stellar moment came when I was dragging a tree -- yes, a whole tree, thank you -- across to the brush pile, caught my foot on a half-buried TV aerial that has been out there since we moved in (Thanks, Daddy... when are you going to come out and finish the job of getting rid of that damn thing?!) and face-planted into the mud with the branch hitting me in the hip on the way down. I was ... displeased. I have, at least, learned not to kick my objects of hatred, or I'd probably have a broken toe on top of the other bruises and scrapes.
On the plus side, the work I did looks great. It was a good day's effort. If it ever stops raining, I might take pictures.
And the YP has become a bit more helpful in his old age. He is usually good for hauling three or four piles of sticks before he gets bored. Then I insist that he stay out and keep me company.
"All right. I will tell you a story."
"Excellent! Go ahead."
"Once upon a time, there was a Young Prince. And he had breakfast."
"Oooh. Did he have ... monkey toes?"
"Ew. No."
"Did he have .... Fish sticks? Beef stew? Broken glass?"
"No. No. NO. He had pancakes!"
"Pancakes! With ... ice cream?"
"No, syrup."
"Chocolate syrup?"
"MaMA. Maple syrup."
"Ohhh. So he had pancakes for breakfast. Then what?"
"That's the end. For now. This is a chapter book. The beginning chapter is breakfast, the middle chapter is lunch, the least chapter is dinner...."
"Wait, what? What's dinner?"
"The least chapter. The least chapter is dinner, and last but not least is dessert!"
"Oh, I see. Well, are you going to tell me another story that is not part of the chapter book?"
"No, now I will go pick out songs for you on the iPod. I'm stopping stories and doing music. Does your iPod have lots of 80s music?"
"Why? Are we starting with Hang the DJ?"
"What is that? No. My iPod is missing some. I want you to add the songs they played at school for 80s day."
"What songs were those?"
"I don't know. Your songs!!"
"Not exactly helpful, my friend. Can we figure this out later?"
"Yes. Mama! Look out for that ... well ,never mind. Are you bleeding?"
And yes, as a matter of fact, I was. Again. Sigh.
I've got to admit, monkey toes sounds more interesting to me in a breakfast story too!
Posted by: cosmiccamper | April 11, 2009 at 11:46 PM