Shall we muse over after dinner drinks in front of the fireplace with a piece of blueberry cheesecake? Does anyone do after dinner drinks anymore? I remember when I was growing up that my parents would go out to dinner with friends, and then they would enjoy after dinner drinks or coffee at each others’ homes. I was tucked into bed when they came home but would often wake up and hear the lull of grown-up voices in the background and the smells of Kahula and coffee, or Amaretto.
It’s been a wild couple of days. I have bronchitis, so I am coughing and wheezing to beat the band. Is there much worse than a cough? I suppose there is a lot worse than a cough, but it’s always hard to believe when you have one.
I had to take my Mac to the Apple store for charging issues. AGAIN. It seems the issue has to do with the “charging environment” I am providing for it. No joke. This is what the genius in ripped jeans said to me after I had trudged across the mall parking lot in rain, wind and sleet with bronchitis. The genius gave me some suggestions for improving the charging environment, but I had to extract them from him like they were carefully guarded Apple secrets. I got loud. It seems Macs do better when they are charged directly from the outlet without using a power surge protector. However, he could not tell me this officially because it is not an approved bit of Apple information. My Apple seems to be charging fine now.
Have a piece of blueberry cheese cake and I will tell you my final tale . . .
It’s the start of a long Memorial Day weekend; the raining is falling, my campers are checking in two by two, my yard is one large swimming hole, and I have just witnessed a large woozle going over my fence.
Well, I’m not sure it was a woozle, but something about the size of an elephant (small elephant) with a very long stripped tail went over my back fence into the neighbor’s back yard. My fence is six feet tall, so I could not look over it in time to see what had just made its get away. Whatever it was probably came to catch fish in the lake that used to be my back yard.
A client asked me to keep his pup for the weekend. Unfortunately, the pup has some old-age health issues. The client took care to tell me that the camper would not be able to manage the stairs but failed to mention that he could not walk unless you held up his 70 pound hindquarters with a leash. The camper and I are working it out but, suffice to say, it’s a struggle.
Last night, I am in standing in the yard with a very large, wet camper. I am holding up and driving his rear end with a leash, which prevents me from holding an umbrella. The rain is coming down on us while the wind whips around me. I sink deeper into the mud with every step I take, certain that I can feel the woozle eyes ready to spring out of a tree at us at any moment. My furry friend turns and gives me the most pathetic look imaginable. I realize I have to do something . . . so, coughing and hacking, I start to sing Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head really loudly, while I do a little mud dance, figuring that a ding bat should be able to keep a woozle away. It worked. We trudged back into the house — wet, muddy, exhausted — but at least we were not attacked by a woozle. And for that, both my camper and I were very grateful.
Today, when Cole called (yes he called!) to tell me about his trip, I told him my tale. He laughed hard, expressed tongue in cheek sorrow about not being able to help me, and then said, “Mom, are you sure it was a woozle and not a honey badger?” I don’t miss him as much as I once did.
Thanks for dropping by Odd to muse with me! If the honey badger doesn’t eat me, I’ll see you at El Morno tomorrow. Just in case, you might want to leave me a comment!