Only the Names Have Been Changed...

 

...To protect the innocent. Or the guilty. Whatever, I don’t judge.

Recently, a friend called and asked if I’d like to go to Puerto Vallarta with him. In July. For a “Dental Tourism.” Of course, I said no. Mexico? In July? With Dentists? (Sorry Dr. LeMert—no offense intended.) I hung up on his nonsense.

Then I called him back and said YES—because Mexico, a potentially heavily medicated friend, an opportunity to “pad my 401K”—because blackmail is such an ugly word—beach, pool, margaritas and nonsense? I’m IN!

My new friend 'Rita

 

The Weather in Vallarta was HOT—with an extra helping of humidity. After the first two days we stopped eating in all the cute little sidewalk cafes and started looking for restaurants that had their glass windows closed. Closed windows equal air conditioning—everyone knows that. And air conditioning in 90% humidity is a gift from God, be a shame to refuse it. Which is how we spent 10 days in Mexico eating Swedish food—because air conditioning.

About day eight, the weather was a little cooler, so we decided to mix it up a bit and walk a half mile away to a chic restaurant along the river, and sample their delicious menu—and their A/C. The food was delicious, the service was impeccable, the setting was beautiful. It begins to rain lightly—excellent! That should cool things off for a walk home!

It rained all through dinner. Actually, “rain” is not the correct word—apparently “cyclone warning” is more applicable. (Editior’s note: and THAT’S why you check your weather app, even when you’re on vacation.)  

Singing in the rain...

Any way—long story short, that’s how we came to be wading back to our hotel in the middle of a tropical deluge, belting out “Singing in the Rain” at the top of our lungs and only a hint of Tequila on “somebody’s” breath.

THE END. 

Unless Philip’s check doesn’t clear. Then I’ll have more stories to share.

"Philip"--possibly not his real name.

This Week in Gardening: It’s Raining Slugs

 

Attack of the Slug Ninjas.

 

Look how skillfully he avoids the slug bait on the soil! 

It was a busy week in the garden last week, I hardly know where to start. I killed approximately 286 slugs, but still lost nearly every marigold I had in the process. I finally decided to dig up my remaining plant “stubs” and relocate them to the Plant Protection Program-- AKA the top of my patio table—when nothing else seemed to work. The previous week of rain, rain, and more rain overwhelmed my “slug bait” and it was Mardi Gras for Slugs, 24/7. Maybe living at table-top height will give my plants a chance to grow instead of being slimed back to dirt level. Every. Dang. Day.

The slugs also ate ALL of my zucchini starts and I have mixed feelings about that. On one hand WHY ON EARTH did I plant an entire PACKET of zucchini seeds? And on the other hand, it’s semi-bemusing that I have--inadvertently--found a cure for too much zucchini, one that doesn’t involve ding-dong-ditch. On the third hand (which I don’t have, but really could use) it’s kind of embarrassing to admit one is incapable of growing—of all things! —zucchini..

A garden pest of the cuddly sort

All but two of my dahlias from The Dahlia Guy rotted during our wet spring. If the dahlias did manage to sprout, they were promptly eaten back to ground level by the slug onslaught. I warned TDG when I acquired the tubers that I was not a safe space for dahlias, but even I thought I’d be able to manage one season of growth. Sadly, the slugs were not content to wait that long. 

Marigolds are DELICIOUS

Slugs have even eaten my Ghost Pepper plant out in my straw bale garden. I would have thought that since the fruit of the Ghost Pepper is super-hot, some of that zesty nature would have made its way to the leaves, but either this is not the case, or my local slug population has developed quite the sophisticated palate. Either way, Ghost Pepper has now been un-baled and added to the PPP/Patio Table.

Judging by this week’s forecast, I’d say the Slug Hay Day had reached its zenith. Sun, sun, and more sun ought to keep the little slimy munchers at bay.

How it started

How it's going

Weather Rules: 2020 Edition

I don’t make the rules. 

Apparently.

My understanding of the weather was that it followed certain basic patterns—rules, if you will.

Rule #1: It starts raining in earnest in November and does not stop until April.

Rule #2: The prior rule maybe superseded by periods of snow.

Rule #3: The rains, from April to July, turn to showers and may be periodically interrupted by the sun. Or snow.

Rule #4: Summer—warm to hot, day after day of sunshine, no rain—you know, SUMMER? Summer begins on July 5^th—unless July 5^th falls on a weekend, then summer begins on the following Monday and runs—WITHOUT RAIN—until the second weekend in August, (Logger’s Jubilee, for the uninitiated) which **may** have a shower or two. THOSE ARE THE RULES.

Imagine my dismay to find Mother Nature flagrantly flouting this time-honored tradition! What use are rules, if she’s not going to follow them? Why was I so stoic all thru June, if not to be rewarded with WALL TO WALL SUNSHINE in July? How will I grow enough zucchini to menace my friends and family?

Last week, I started wondering if maybe we shouldn’t unplug Mother Nature, count to ten, and then plug her back in. Something was clearly WRONG. Since I didn’t know where her power cord plugged in, I had to settle for percussive maintenance, and stomped around, muttering under my breath.

That seems to have worked—based on all the happy little sunshine icons my phone weather app is now showing me for the foreseeable future. You’re welcome. But it got me to thinking—perhaps I should run as an alternative candidate to Mother Nature? I’m mildly qualified—I’m a mom, I love nature, except for the part where the mama lion eats the baby gazelle. Or the part where she **doesn’t** and then goes back to her starving babies. Clearly, that part needs improving. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.

Oh, sure, if I get the job I know I’ll have to put up with people complaining all the time; “Snow, I love snow, more snow.” Or “I like it cooler, could we take the temperature down a few degrees?” Or “Last week was perfect, can we just have last week all the time?”

Fine. If you like your weather, you can keep your weather, I promise. But for the rest of us—I’ll just lay out some Weather Rules, and since we all know what to expect—NO COMPLAINING.

Ill Tempered Beast

Welcome back to this episode of Over My Garden Gate, in which we discover our plucky heroine isn’t quite a plucky as we thought.

Oh sure, she got on board the This Is a Serious Pandemic train early on and settled in for the long ride with nary a complaint, mostly. She had her snacks for the journey, and plenty of TP, and with that mess of curls she calls a hairdo who could tell she already overdo for a haircut in March? She packed her favorite soapbox and at every whistle stop along the way was happy to preach the gospel of Stay Home Save Lives.

When you shelter at home—who is going to see the whole hair mess anyway? Not to mention the later addition of masks—GENIUS! No haircut, no mascara—no problem! Put on a mask when you go out in public and voila! No one can recognize her! It’s like putting glasses on Superman—no one knew who he was! Secret Identity! Also, she stopped wearing contacts and only wore glasses—so exactly like Superman! Maybe she IS Superman!

Superman. Probably
Who can know?

It’s true, she had a brand-new grandson she hadn’t held since he was not quite a month old, and a slightly-used 20 month old grandson whose vocabulary was developing daily with out her there to influence it. But thank goodness for the invention of Snapchat and FaceTime! Our plucky heroine could receive multiple pictures of Baby Aiden in real time and do a nightly book club slash story time with John Boy Shane, and it was a lot to be thankful for. Word of advice? Toddlers shouldn’t be served wine in their sippy cups—but it’s totally fine for Nannas. Sippy cups save spills, amirite? Cheerios and string cheese are delicious snacks. It’s almost like being there!

Our heroine’s pluck took on some serious damage when one of her sons underwent emergency surgery mid hospital crisis, and no one could go visit him. But God is good--all the time--and her friends pulled her through; after a second hospitalization he was finally on the mend and Life in Lockdown continued on.

The sun was out, there was grass to mow and flowers to plant and multiple home improvement projects start—in a super plucky fashion, our heroine bravely started project after project without actually completing projects One, Three and Seven because—well, because she’s an idiot, but that’s a story for a different time.

But the wear and tear on her pluck became cumulative. And when the rains came, and day after day became darker, and soggier, her pluck went AWOL. Our heroine suddenly snapped one day last week and became an ill-tempered beast who could be neither soothed nor solaced, nor sung to. She stomped around the house, cursing the rain and the virus. She declared she was bored, and mad, and sad; she hated rain, threatened to break all her crayons, and run away from home. Did I mention it was raining? Still? Again? And that it would probably never stop? Ever ever ever? The cats sought shelter under the bed, and the neighbors vacillated between calling a Realtor or calling a Priest...and then the strangest thing happened...

Tune in to next week’s episode, where we discover the fate of our heroine. Does she get her pluck back? Or do the neighbors end up lighting torches and storming her castle? Does she get one of those cute little white jackets with the sleeves that buckle in the back?

To Do List

The rains came, the flood didn’t, the snow went away. I can scratch off “shovel driveway” from my To Do list. Hooray! And I didn’t even have to shovel to achieve it!

 Every year, when the snow melts, I start hoping for an early spring. Look! I see snow drops! Daffodils can’t be far behind...oh.

 Right. I still have half a bag of unplanted daffodils sitting on my steps, waiting for the next ground thaw so I can poke them in the dirt. “Plant Daffodils” was on my to do list at one time---way back in October. Then I got the flu, topped it off with pneumonia, which cumulated in a trip to the ER, a whopping, big bill and an additional two weeks of recovery time.

By then it was Thanksgiving, and my to do list was full of mashed potato making/eating/reheating/eating more. All thoughts of daffodils were long gone.

At some point between Christmas and New Year’s, daffodils made it back on to my list. The sun warmed the ground enough in a few spots that I was able to stick some daffs in the diggable earth. It sure will be interesting to see where those spots were.

Wherever they were, there wasn’t enough of them to plant ALL of the daffodils, so back on the front steps the bag went—a location guaranteed to guilt me into finishing the job. Or not—because there they still sit, growing either mushier by the day or trying to grow right there in the bag.

Last week I was confessing this to my co-workers, and one—who shall remain nameless, but whose name rhymes with “AzzelHanna”—suggested I could just wait until the survivors had little green tops and then carefully tuck them, already growing, into pots. That’s genius, really. I’ll put it on my list.

Next week: Part 2 of To Do List. Probably. If I remember to put “Finish To Do List” on my to do list.

July Weather Rules

It is true what they say about the weather. Don’t like it? It’ll change. First it was too dry—in March!--, then it was too rainy. Then it was July and the Weather Rules were *supposed* to kick into action.

Everyone knows that in the Pacific Northwest—specifically eastern Lewis County—summer does not reliably arrive until after the first week in July. Odds are, July 4^th will be a bit rainy, but as soon as we get it behinds us—full bloom summer. Unless July 5^th falls on a weekend. If it does, the weather could remain rainy, but NO MATTER WHAT-- the sun is guaranteed to come out on the first Monday after the 4^th of July holiday. IT’S A RULE. NO RAIN AFTER JULY 5. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

Statistically speaking, this is a FACT. A warm, dry, beautiful, sunny fact...

Pre-rain petunias

It is after July 5. I woke up to rain this morning. I am not amused. My petunias are not amused. I’m ready to write a strongly worded letter to the weather gods and tell them just what I think about this unconscionable turn of events. I recall what Mark Twain said about statistics: There are lies, damn lies and then there are statistics. I do not find this at all comforting. The wording in my letter becomes a bit more pointed and saltier. I realize I have no idea what sort of postage is required to send a letter to the weather gods. There is a great deal of heavy sighing and consulting of the weather app on my smart phone. Looks like rain will remain for the next couple of days, possibly some partial sun on Friday. **sigh**

Well, at least rain is prime Slug Hunting Weather. Put on your gloves, grab your jug of salty water, and go out and collect the slimy lil’ buggers. Nothing like a little vengeance as a pick-me-up.

So Very Pretty

In the Sume Family, if one of us does something bone-headed—some might call it “stupid”—we just look at them with understanding and say kindly, “It’s ok, you’re very pretty.”

If I am the receiving end of this comment, I often respond “Thank you.” Usually followed by 

“Hey!” as the meaning behind the perceived compliment slowly sinks in.

Last Sunday---and please don’t think I’m bragging here— I was extra-special pretty. Industrial strength pretty. Capital P Pretty. I was so pretty I even self-identified as pretty.

It’s a long story, and kind of impossible to explain—one of those you had to be there stories--- but thank heavens no one was there to witness it. I won’t try to explain exactly what happened, but I will give you the pivotal pieces of the story and let your imagination do the heavy lifting.

I was hurrying to visit my grandson---a visit that would entail two of my favorite things: holding the baby and watching football. I parked, got out of the car. I was wearing sunglasses that I decided to toss on the dash just as I was closing the door. The sunglasses fell back out of the car, missed being crushed by the closing door and dropped on the grass, unscathed. Pretty lucky, right?

Anyway—some time between congratulating myself on my good luck and successfully securing the sunglasses back inside the car I managed to close the side of my face—specifically my left eye—in the car door.

That’s right. I shut the door—not on my sunglasses—I shut the door ON. MY. FACE.

Who shuts the car door on their face? I mean, how would you even DO that?

The answers to those questions are “me” and “I truly have no idea.”

I was standing there, cupping my eye, leaning my head on the car roof, thinking “Boy, that really HURTS,” trying to decide if I was going to cry or if I should just suck it up and go hold my grandbaby when I became aware that the falling rain was warmer than one would expect in October. As I might have mentioned---I’m very pretty. And pretty bloody. I was quite the sight to see, and my son was dispatched to the drugstore for medical supplies.

Not me, not my eyebrow, not even close.

By the time he returned, I had bleeding under control. As he carefully applied the liquid bandaid to my brow, he very gently broke it to me that my career as an eyebrow model was probably a thing of the past, but--no worries!—I was still VERY PRETTY. 

And, clearly, I am. So very Pretty.