Ding Dong Ditch 2

 My straw bale garden has been growing and growing, and I am in full on harvest mode—desperate to off-load produce onto unsuspecting friends and neighbors.

Unfortunately, most of the people I know are in a similar situation and the search for produce-receptive people has become rather competitive.

I had lamented my lack of victims—er, my lack of “recipients” on Facebook, and a couple of friends messaged me with various “someones” they believed would welcome piles ‘o produce—specifically zucchini. 

I know, I know-- I too, found it hard to believe that such people existed, but desperate gardeners are not about to look at a miracle too skeptically, so when I was informed that a such willing person existed RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD from me, I immediately loaded up a brown paper bag with zukes, put on my mask, and headed over.

Now, the more suspicious among you might assume the mask was to hide my identity but I assure you, this was not the case. I was just trying to do my part to mitigate any possible virus transmission; the fact that I’d be harder to ID in a police line-up was only a secondary consideration.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t worked through the entire produce delivery scenario in my head. And when my neighbor opened the door to my rather quiet knock I wasn’t quite prepared, and panicked. Do I just thrust the bag into her arms and run? Was I supposed to have put the produce on the porch, then ring the bell? Wait—was I supposed to set fire to the bag first?

While these and other thoughts zipped thru my brain, I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Luckily for me, my neighbor is a very kind person and she not only accepted the zucchini, she invited me to sit on the porch and have a visit—at the approved socially-distant distance, of course.

Embolden by this success, I will admit that it has been over 48 hours since I last shined a spotting scope on my garden...What could possibly happen that my newly acquired delivery skills wouldn’t be equal to the task?

Hubris. 

I haz it.

Ding Dong Ditch

 Summer is at its peak and you know what that means: everybody you know is offering you zucchini. And by offering, I of course mean dumping it on your lawn in the middle of the night and speeding off.

Experienced gardeners try to avoid this situation by harvesting their zucchini early and often. It’s a lot easier to “share” your zucchini with others if it’s smaller than a large canoe. But harvesting squash before it becomes unwieldy can be more challenging than you might expect. Zucchini is a master of the art of camouflage. Hiding in plain sight is also a common tactic. Sometimes, these two tactics are used together.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just a l’il ol’ harmless zucchini, just hanging out here at the edge of the garden, right where you can keep an eye on me. Please go on about your business. I’ll just be here, minding my own. Probably check back with me in, say, oh two days and I’ll be the perfect size for harvest.”

DO NOT FALL FOR THIS SUBTRAFUGE. Zucchini apparently have a bad steroid/growth hormone habit and will expand exponentially once your back is turned. And even if the zucchini in question doesn’t grow to gargantuan proportions in that amount of time, I can say—based on my own real-life experience—that the minute you congratulate yourself and bend over to harvest your Just The Right Size Zucchini, before you can straighten back up, your eye will fall and at least three other squash that have been stealthily assuming prize-winning proportions behind the cover of the harmless, l’il ol’ zucchini out front.

What to do with the four squash you’ve now staggered into the house with? Sure, you have plans for the ONE harmless (deceitful) zuke but now you’ve acquired three more, larger fruit. Fortunately for me, I happen to be Facebook friends with a woman whose mother is my neighbor. My FB friend claims her mother would love to have some zucchini and I should just take it over to her.

So, I did.

Next week: Part two of Ding-Dong Ditch. Spoiler alert, no bail money was required, hooray!

Medicare

 I was in a hurry to leave the house one morning when my phone rang. When I said hello, a voice declared “This is Robert, from Medicare.”

 I hung up, as one does, because unless it’s the Robert from Medicare, I’ve got stuff to do today. I’m sorry I don’t have time to play, Robert. No time to ask you if your desk is next to Becky from Medicare, or if you ever get together with Jake From State Farm, and does he really wear khakis? Also-- I AM FAR TOO YOUNG TO HAVE MEDICARE, YOU EVIL PERSON. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME??? WHY??

Oh, sure—maybe you, Robert, were just innocently trying to scam my social security number. Maybe you heard from the other scammers about all the fraudulent activities my SS number was getting up to and wanted in on the action, I don’t know. What I DO know is that bringing age into the equation is the cruelest thing ever. Possibly in the history of ever. And I will never forgive you for that casual cruelty.

Take my credit card info, steal my identity, co-opt my tax refund—JUST DON’T CALL ME OLD, capisce?

 

Want to scam me by pretending to be a Nigerian Prince? Fine, bring it. I probably deserve a Prince or two. Want to convince me that several Doctors on FaceBook suddenly want to be my friend? Ok, fair enough, somebody has to be friends with Doctors, it might as well be me. But to try to trick me with something involving Medicare—which, as we all know—IS FOR OLDER PEOPLE, is the biggest sin imaginable! SHAME ON YOU ROBERT!

I miss the days when people would call my landline—yes I still have a landline, how else can I find my cell phone—where was I? Oh, right, landline. People used to call me up and offer to sell me aluminum siding. Or a surefire cure for septic tank troubles that also doubles as a preventative measure. I miss that.

I miss the days when you could prank call someone—not that I ever did of course, but I know people who did. You could ask them if their refrigerator was running, or if Prince Albert was—what was his deal anyway? Something about a can...Anyway, my point is this:

Whatever. I had a point. Which is I’m not old. Even if next year’s birthday is one of those that ends in a zero—I’m still not old. Robert from Medicare can go get stuffed. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn.

Adventures in SugarLand Part 2

 

Welcome back to Adventures in Sugar Land, where I share the hijinks my grands and I get up to. I also overshare the mayhem and mishaps, so buckle up—this ride might get a little bumpy.

When we last saw our heroes, they had just successfully completed a diaper change, stuck the landing, and were now relaxing in front of The Big Cat Cage at the Zoo. Editor’s note: It’s not really the Zo—never mind. Whatever. It’s “a” Zoo.

Where was I? Oh yes, THE Zoo—watching the big cats when suddenly my snuggly little grandson seemed a bit more squishy than usual...and sort of—dampish. AND OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT SMELL I DON’T THINK IT’S THE LIONS. Editor’s note: It’s not the “lions...”

Aiden, being the overachiever that he was born to be, has outdone himself. And outdone the confines of his diaper. Everything that one would expect to find in the diaper of a baby beginning to eat solid food is there—just not IN the diaper.

It’s up his back. It’s out the sides, it’s quite possible even in his ears, but by that point I was beyond the ability to retain my powers of observation and was in full-blown crisis management mode.

I know I’ve said before that changing a diaper is a lot like riding a bike—your skills may have gotten rusty but it all comes back to you. What I should have said is “changing a baby is a lot like LEARNING to ride a bike—there will be wobbles and spills, some tears-- and somebody is bound to wind up with a band aid on their knee.” SPOILER ALERT: No babies where harmed in the recounting of this Diaper Event, nor the re-telling of. Only my pride got a little bruised.

At one point in the diaper change I had a super squishy baby, with the shoulders of his Onesie down around his mid-section, hovering somewhere between the changing table and the floor; wishing I had six more hands and/or the ability to cause small humans to levitate. I was also lamenting the nation-wide shortage of PPE, because at that moment I sure could have used an Ebola-proof haz-mat suit. And some salad tongs, possibly a garden hose.

Baby Toes!

Mercifully, most of the rest of that event remains a blur. It’s quite possible I put the Onesie in the garbage and the disposable diaper in the laundry, but you know what? It doesn’t really matter--Aiden still squeals and smiles when he sees me, my knee has healed nicely, his parents are still speaking to me and I’m sure it’s just coincidental timing that his mother quit her job to stay home and run a wedding consulting business with a baby on her hip. 

Probably.