NICE GLASS

My pal Maggie and I spent this afternoon at the Wichita Art Museum being "art snobs." If the truth be known, neither of us can draw a straight line and we both pretty much bombed Miss Walker's 7th grade art class back in 1962, but we appreciate those with talent. We specifically went to the museum to see a video, "River of Glass," about the works of internationally-known glass blower Dale Chihuly.

Since Maggie and I are old schoolmates of one of Chihuly's assistants, we feel we are on a first-name basis with our good friend Dale, and we do admire his work, even though we will never be able to buy any of it unless we win the lottery ten times over. This video basically followed him around the world as he and his crew set up massive exhibits. It started in Finland, where big blue pear-shaped tear drops were blown in a glass factory and then heaved into a river, floating off into the sunset together. I wondered what the heck happened to them...if Dale's crew rescued them downstream or art-hating vandals took potshots at them. Maggie thinks they're probably lost at sea.

The video moved to Ireland, Mexico, and Venice--each time Dale's unique glassworks being made a part of the environment. It was amazing to see the staff unload all the boxes of glass, set up the framework, and put together wild creations. I could never do such work. Why, just last night I was reaching for a cup in a kitchen cabinet and I accidentally upset a little juice glass, which went crashing onto the floor. I'm still sweeping up the remains. "Fragile, handle with the care" is not in my realm of comprehension. I'm glad there are people like Dale Chihuly who are capable and sure-handed enough to let the art-challenged klutzes of the world enjoy the beauty they envision.

HANG 'EM HIGH

My emailing pal Niner pointed out to me recently that it seems very few people hang up their clothes to dry outside anymore. She's right. Dryers are more convenient, plus they keep the electric companies happy.

Hanging laundry on the wires strung in our backyard was one of the few household chores that I truly enjoyed as a kid. Even before I could reach the lines, I helped out by handing Mom each item. She had her own little system going, grouping together similar items. We'd start with the sheets and bath towels, working our way down to the socks and undies. They'd flutter themselves dry in an hour or so, then we'd be back to take them down, fold them, and put them away. Best of all: they always smelled sooooooo fresh.

As I got into my teens, though, I became less enthusiastic about hanging up clothes, concerned about my bras flying in the wind for everyone to see. We lived on a busy corner, across from the football field, and I was certain that the guys checked out my bust measurement when they went to and from practices. "Hmmm. Sure looks like a 34B to me. What do you think?" It became mandatory that my bras be hung as far away from the street as possible, on the middle line, hiding them from wayward eyes.

As an adult, I've never had a clothesline, but I think Mom sometimes still hangs out her laundry on warm, breezy days. The two iron T-bars, supporting three lines, were set in cement, permanent fixtures. There's one big change in her yard, however. A high school was built adjacent to the football field a number of years ago. Mom said she got tired of finding condoms on her lawn, so she had a guy build her a privacy fence stretching the entire south side of her property. Now, anyone who wants to see unmentionables hung on the clothesline has to work mighty hard to figure out a bra size!

MR. MANNERS?

A few nights ago the grocery store down the street was robbed around closing time by a masked, armed bandit. The middle-aged check-out gal, who works two other jobs, bless her, had the presence of mind to just hand over what was in the cash register, and he was quickly out the door with his load. Big Bore, who has an air-tight alibi because he was home asleep at the time, thinks the robber is a local yokel who will soon be arrested, while my theory is that he was just a felon passing through town who was trying to collect some gas money.

The day after the robbery, I was in the store to get some apples and one of the teen-age checkers, who was not in the store at the time of the crime, told me how it all went down.

"He was real polite," she said of the robber. "He said 'please' and 'thank-you very much.'"

I beg to differ. Anyone who points a gun at someone else's head is not a poster boy for the mannerly. He is a jerk-wad who needs to be scraped off the street and tossed in jail.

This morning, when I couldn't get to sleep because I'd had a nightcap of coffee and peanut butter, I got to thinking some more about the robbery. Big Bore makes daily visits to this grocery store. What if he'd been there during the hold-up? I posed the question to him later in the day. Without hesitation he said, "I would have thrown a big can of beans at his head, causing him to drop the gun."

Ah, I should have known this would have been his response. Big Bore is always thinking of new ways to serve beans!

PAINTING THE TOWN....GREEN

Today I volunteered to help the local 6th graders spiff up our city park, as part of their Earth Week activities. The boys were in charge of mulching, while we gals made up the paint brigade. When the head honcho started pouring out the paint for us in smaller containers, I had a terrible flashback. Oh, no! It was a deep forest green--the same color of paint that I got in my hair when my almost-next-door-neighbor Literary Diva and I were snooping in the Bore garage one really boring afternoon almost 50 years ago!

I don't know why the Diva and I were in the garage in the first place. It was, and still is, a dark, dank junk pile with a rock floor. We certainly weren't there to find a gallon of paint, but that's where we ended up--and a streak of green found its way to the upper part of my ponytail, "accidentally on purpose." Of course, it had to be oil-based paint, so a little dab of White Rain shampoo wasn't go to get it out. Mom Bore said I had two choices: let her cut off my ponytail or let her wash my hair with kerosene. Neither choice sounded like much fun, but I opted for the kerosene and away we went to the bathroom.

Mom had me lie down on my back on two dining chairs, with my long, green hair flowing into the tub. She brought in the can of kerosene and started scrubbing away with a washrag. It wouldn't have been so bad, but my big brother Beans was quite interested in what was going on. He stood out in the hallway striking matches, threatening to turn me into a human torch. I began screaming bloody murder, while Mom shooed him away with profanity before the whole house exploded.

When I saw the evil green paint this afternoon, I decided to overcome my dread, face my dismal past head-on, and not run away. I ended up painting the railing around the ball diamond bleachers--a two-hour job in the wind, being VERY careful not to get any green in my ponytail or too many other places. A few dabs of gasoline cleaned me right up in no time, but I have a feeling there are going to be a lot of 12-year-old girls, dressed in forest green, getting yelled at when they get home after school.

MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

Yesterday I tip-toed through the tulips at Botanica in Wichita. I took my trusty camera, attempting to show how beautiful the gardens are at this time of year. Spring is nature's apology for making us suffer through winter. ---When I was a college English major, it seemed that, next to love, nature was a frequent topic for the great poets. I never could figure out why T.S. Eliot proclaimed April "the cruelest month" in his poem, "The Wasteland." I much preferred William Wordsworth's response to spring: "....my heart's pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils." ---I haven't gone so far as waltzing with the flowers in my yard--yet, but shaking a leg and a leaf might be fun to try.

LEG UP

Good ol' Mom Bore used to coerce her five children into helping her out around the house by happily shouting, "Let's play legs!" This usually meant cleaning up after ourselves so we could find the pathway to our beds before we went to sleep. Maybe we'd each put away 10 items that were out of place, sweep the floor, put away the dried dishes--something piddly that didn't take very long to do but still eased Mom's workload. She would whistle, act like it was fun, and offer her assistance, so no one griped too much about "playing legs."

Yesterday I went back home to take Mom on an outing to Independence, but as soon as I walked into the house, she showed me a list of chores she needed done. "Legs!" I thought. Nothing was too demanding--fill her car's windshield wiper reservoir, open the basement windows, take down the storm window on the front door and replace it with a screen, etc. I checked everything off in about 10 minutes. I'm proud to report that my leg-playing was a job well done. Mom made sure each task was completed according to her expert specifications, meaning that I destroyed nothing in the process.

MY NEIGHBORS' KEEPER

Not too long ago the flower garden above was a pile of weeds, sticks, and scattered rocks. Underneath were perennials screaming for help. The owner of the home and big lot next door to our house has been out of state for over a year, and the people who were renting to buy got the heave-ho. They packed up and left in the middle of the night, so tending to the flowers obviously wasn't among their priorities.

I had enjoyed the spring beauty of this circular garden for 26 years, and now it looked like a tangled rat's nest. This called for action. Flaming Bore to the rescue! I spent an afternoon de-wedding and clearing out all the debris. Another retired, busy-body neighbor saw what I'd done and volunteered to haul away the mess. Now, two weeks later--presto!

The word around the 'hood is that new rent-to-buyers are moving in at the end of this month. If they don't take care of the garden, I'm going to ram them into submission with my Welcome Wagon!

MY BIG HAIRY IDEA

Friday morning I couldn't find my little bottle of hair de-frizz but, as I was looking for it in the bathroom cabinet, a brilliant idea hit me. Why not try something else, even though it isn't really marketed as a hair product? After careful, scientific consideration when rummaging through all the miscellaneous tubes and bottles, I settled on Vagisil. If it's good enough for my vagina, surely it would be safe on my hair! And to tell you the truth, I think it performed BETTER than the real de-frizz. This got me to thinking that I should continue cross-using other products on my hair. There is so much outdated mystery junk in my bathroom that I should stay busy with this experiment for months! In fact, I'm thinking Milk of Magnesia might be a great creme rinse/conditioner--provided I don't mind my hair having the slight scent of wintergreen. Yikes! Never mind.

WEEKEND UPDATE

Critter's grounding has been extended, much to her dismay. She slipped out the front door Friday and carelessly darted across the street again--no cars this time, thank goodness. I tried putting her on a cat leash, which was hopeless. She just wanted to lie down and chew on it.

Worst Yard Crap of April 18th went to a yard that had not one, not two, not three, not even four, but FIVE bathtubs on display!! They were all claw-foot tubs, painted a subtle forest green, so I guess it could have been worse. The runner-up crap was at the same residence--a life-sized concrete armadillo. Say it isn't so!!

My second night crawler hunt went much better than my debut. I wore a little el-cheapo stretchy glove on my right hand, so I could get a better grip on those wormy worms. I'm by no means ready to turn pro, but I'd say I'm on my way to amateur status.

THE UNDERGROUND WORLD

Just when I thought I had experienced everything grand that life has to offer, along comes Big Bore with an intriguing idea that I had never tried before: hunting for night crawlers! Now I had long heard about this unusual sport in local circles. When he announced that he was going to the city park the other night to get some bait for his Thursday fishing outing, I volunteered to come along and learn the fine art of wrangling worms. It was time for me to get jiggy with it!

Armed with two flashlights and a bucket, we set off for the park after dark. Big Bore gave me instructions: be quiet and when spying the worm crawling on the grass, quickly, "Grab, Pinch, and Pull." It sounded easy enough to me, but I was soon to learn that night crawlers are crafty characters that have warp-speed reflexes. They definitely do not want to become fish bait.

Since I am near-sighted, my hunting method was to scour the ground from the hands and knees position. Once I spotted a worm, and these were most impressive champion-sized worms, I might add, I'd lunge in for the grab. More often than not, though, my prey would beat me to the punch and slither safely back into its hole in the ground. On the rare occasions when I managed to get a grip on one, a tug-of-war began. There is a trick to it. Don't squeeze and pull hard enough, it gets away. Get too forceful, it rips apart. "Come to mama. Come to mama," I'd patiently coax it. Alas, my life has plunged to the point where I'm having up close and personal conversations with worms.

At the end of our 70-minute session, the score was Big Bore 75+, Flaming Bore 5. Well, he's more experienced, but he thinks that with practice I'll increase my numbers. I hope he is right because I can't wait to get back to the park to try rounding up worms again. I have been thinking about how I can improve my technique. Next time I'm going to put some stickum-glue on my fingers. As long as the worms don't adhere permanently, I think this should work out just fine. Expect an update on this very deep subject in the near future.

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

When I go out on long walks, I play a little game called, "Yard Art or Yard Crap?" I either admire the classical tastes of my fellow Eurekans or turn up my nose at their abominable selections and wonder, "What the hell are they thinking?" Then I choose a winner, in this case a loser, for "Worst Yard Crap of the Day."

My interest in judging the town's yards began about 20 years ago during the "Invasion of the Killer Butterflies." It seemed that every other house displayed a colorful, crafty, wooden Monarch, about two feet squared. One lazy Sunday afternoon my friend the Library Lady and I drove around town taking a census. The championship yard had 36 butterflies, attached to everything--the porch, trees, light posts, fencing, you name it. We thought we'd about seen it all when we discovered the King of All Butterflies stuck to someone's garage. Its wing span was a good 15 feet! We screamed and sought safety.

Well, fast-forward and I'm still fascinated with what people put in their yards. Yesterday's 5-mile walk yielded a minefield of good and bad. I always give high marks to a bird bath, but bath tubs on the lawn are a no-no. The winner of "Worst Yard Crap for April 16" had not one, but TWO bath tubs on display. They were the crusty, claw-foot kind, without the claws. A few feet away were two rusted metal lawn chairs tied to a tree. Now, what's with that? Runner-up was a porch ornament--two smiling, concrete worms dressed like a cowboy and cowgirl. Where do people get the wacky, erroneous idea that this crap is enhancing the value of their homes?

I think if they want to infect their neighborhoods, they should be considerate and restrict their hideous choices to the privacy of their backyards. That's what I do. Nobody has to see my old blue bowling ball, mounted on a spray-painted black wheel base, but me! And that's the way it's staying!

GROUNDED!

Last night, Critter Kitty about became a slice of road kill. Now that the weather is nicer, she has become more of an indoor/outdoor girl. There's a big vacant lot next door, and she likes to run around in it, chasing leaves. Big Bore and I are usually outside with her, and yesterday evening we were sitting on the front porch talking about our activities of the day while watching Critter play. She was hunkered down, spying on a robin, when the bird suddenly darted up in the air and across the street. Critter took off after it...looking like one of those ravenous African lions you see in National Geographic films, in pursuit of its prey...not seeing a van approaching.

"Critter, get back!" I screamed. There was no stopping her. "CRITTER!!!!!" I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the results of cat versus car. The second scream was so loud, though, that the cat AND the van stopped in their tracks. The driver eventually slowly moved on, and Critter toodled on across the street, oblivious to her narrow escape. Relieved that my baby had used up one of her nine lives, I went after her. She was rolling around curbside, in her best "Aren't I cute?" position.

"You get yourself home, little girl. You about gave me a heart attack!" She submitted herself to my hands and I carried her back to the house. "You are IN trouble."

Big Bore and I decided we have raised a heathen child, and we must be more careful about supervising Critter. This means, that for now, until my heart rate gets back to normal, outdoors is off limits. She stays inside!!

A BEAN BLOG

In the Flaming Bore household, Big Bore is the cook. Today he is making good ol' Beanie Weanies, a stove-top gourmet Sunday Special. Mmmmm-mmm! Smells good, tastes good, and oh-so-good for you. I don't know what special ingredients he plops in the pot, and I don't care. Just ladle up a bowl and I'll lap it up. He says if I want to sing Hawaiian, he'll add pineapple chunks. If I care to speak German, he'll toss in some sauerkraut. Hmmm, I think that's his attempt at bean humor.

I hate grocery shopping, but Big Bore considers his trips to the supermarket to be adventures of the highest degree. He pours over the weekly sales flyers, plotting out the best deals, comparing prices, mentally making out menus. He buys in bulk, as if an army lived here instead of two people. Whenever there's a bargain on beans, with none of this "Limit 2 cans please" crap in small print, he's off to the races. Watch out, Van Camps, here he comes! The Beanie Weanie King is in the building.

I'm ready for seconds. My colon wishes you a nice day.

HUR-RY UP!

In follow-up to my previous blog about horsing around, last night I re-watched my all-time favorite movie scene involving horses--the chariot race in Ben-Hur. The Academy Award winner from 1959, it was part of Charlton Heston Movie Night on AMC, since the actor died this past week. I'm still amazed at how that scene was filmed. It involved 78 horses, 15,000 extras, and took five weeks to film! Nowadays it would all be digitalized by computer techno wizards, but this scene was the real deal...well, stunt men were used, so it wasn't actually actor Stephen Boyd high diving into chariot oblivion, but, still, it's a wonder it could be staged. I get breathless just writing about it.

Big Bore and I started watching the epic at 8 PM, but he ran out of horsepower and didn't last past the 2-hour intermission of the almost 4-hour movie. When the big scene was about to start, I went galloping into the bedroom yelling, "The chariot race is coming up!" --thinking that he would surely want to jump right out of bed and cheer on Charlton (aka: Ben-Hur) with me. "Oh, boy," he mumbled and went on back to sleep. Big Bore apparently adheres to the "Just Say Neigh" philosophy of watching late night movies.

YEE-HAW!

Before I grew up, I apparently had a past life as a cowgirl. My little red tricycle has been cropped out of the above picture. I'd like you to think I was actually galloping on a wild stallion up and down South 9th Street, protecting my neighbors from the bad guys. Stick horses were more my speed, however. Like most kids growing up in the 1950s, I did get to live vicariously through the magic of television westerns--and there were plenty to go around in those days.

My two favorites were on Saturday mornings: My Friend Flicka and Fury ("The story of a horse and the boy who loved him.") They were pretty much interchangeable: boy on ranch, boy has horse, boy is always screwing up, and horse saves the day. I preferred Joey, the orphan kid who lived with his adopted dad Jim, foreman Pete, and rode Fury on the Broken Wheel Ranch, over Ken, who lived with his parents, foreman Gus, and rode Flicka on the Goose Bar Ranch. Joey was a bit older and cuter and not a crybaby like Ken, who always seemed to be blubbering about something. When Joey was in trouble, he didn't bawl about it. He just had this pained look on his face like: "Well, I mucked up again!"

My favorite Fury episode was when Joey was hanging out with his pals Pee Wee and Packy and they got lost from each other. It actually started out as a game where they'd go in different directions, and they'd use a symbolic yell, "Eee-Ah-Key!" to keep in touch with each other. Well, of course, eventually someone got lost and hurt and the "Eee-Ah-Keys" were no more to be heard. It's getting dark. It's getting scary. But who should save the day and reunite the boys? Fury, of course!! The horses on these shows were always 10 times smarter than any adults. They even had ESP.

I never got the opportunity to get on a real horse until I was 17, and that was out at the Fredonia 4-H barn with a friend leading it. I was scared spitless. My second attempt was on a trail ride in Wyoming. My horse, Smokey, kept moseying off the path, mainly because its rider (me!) was unknowingly guiding it that way. My aching butt gave up on horses after that little adventure. If I ever get the nerve to saddle up again, it's going to be on a merry-go-round!

PEDAL PUSHER

I went out to the local high school this morning to tutor a kid who is taking a college composition class online. It looked like a nice spring day outside, so I decided to bypass using the car and, instead, ride my 33-year-old red Schwinn for the 3/4-mile trip. Bad decision on my part. Once I began pedalling, the wind chill ate right through my sweats. Oh, I'll be a stud and keep going, I thought. It's not that far, afterall. Well, by the time I cruised up to the school bicycle rack, my hands were practically frozen to the handle bars, my red ears were numb, and a river of snot was running down my nose. I had to do a wipe down before checking in at the office.

The ride home wasn't quite as bad, since the north wind was behind me, but when I head downtown pretty soon to get the newspaper, I'll either be taking a different mode of transportation or pedalling in a parka.

BIRD POWER

I woke up with a basketball hangover this morning--and I don't even drink alcohol! Last night KU made the greatest court comeback of all time, after the Memphis Tigers choked up a gigantic hairball. The Jayhawks are now the NATIONAL CHAMPIONS!

I regret to say that with two minutes left in the game, I was preparing to write my concession speech. No team would be able to overcome a 9-point deficit. Wave the white flag. The party's over. But the boys in blue didn't quit. Just the right amount of Kansas Mojo suddenly hit the floor--missed free throws by Memphis, on-target field goals by KU. When Mario Chalmers's 3-point Hail Mary ripped the net with two seconds left in regulation play, to tie the game, I was screaming and jumping and waving my holey, good luck Kansas t-shirt in the air. There was no doubt who was going to carry the momentum into overtime and win the game! KU-75, Tiger Kittens-68.

I'm going out to buy myself a new t-shirt...one that says KANSAS JAYHAWKS--2008 NCAA BASKETBALL NATIONAL CHAMPIONS!!!

PULLING MY WEIGHT

I got started yesterday cleaning up Mama Bore's garden plots--three hours on hands and knees picking up wayward leaves and digging up stubborn, unwanted vines, the invasive kind that get rooted in one spot and end up five feet away. I wore my classic, trusty gardening outfit-- gray, extremely baggy sweat pants with worn, blackened knees, and a gray t-shirt. Mom served as my sidekick, in charge of trash bags and carrying on conversation. She said I am her favorite gardener because she can breathe down my neck, boss me around, and I never get upset with her. Whatever she wants done, I'm game, as long as it doesn't involve killer bees. I especially like playing "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" with her electric hedge clippers. "Vroooom!!!"

We still have a lot left to do, but this was a good beginning. I'll probably go back later in the week, mulch what I cleaned up and then attack the south side of her driveway. In the meantime, I'll wash up my gardening ensemble and keep trying to get the dirt out from underneath my fingernails.

KICKING UP MY HEELS

EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!

The Kansas University Jayhawks cordially invite you to the NCAA Championship Basketball Game, Monday, April 7, 2008, after beating the tar out of North Carolina last night, 84-66! What a game! It was bi-polar in nature, with KU starting out in high gear, running up an amazing 28-point lead, the sticky Tar Heels fighting back to within 4, then the Jayhawks going into overdrive, winning by 18. If I knew how to turn a cartwheel, I would have, regardless of 9-1-1 needing to be summoned after the attempt! GO HAWKS!

PSYCHO BIRD

The old Alfred Hitchcock chiller-diller movie Psycho was on TV yesterday, so, of course, I had to watch it again. My first viewing was when I was a college senior at the Sunday night "free flick" on campus. I went by myself, which was a big mistake because the walk home made me jittery. I kept sensing that homicidal Norman Bates was lurking in the bushes, ready to jump out at me with his carving knife. I still can't take a shower without thinking of him, dressed in shadowy drag, swiping open the curtain and hacking away. And, I never take a shower in a motel. Never!

One day last week I was walking to town when another Hitchcock thriller came to mind. A strange, ear-piercing cry drew my attention to the trees, where hundreds of large black birds perched. I stopped to stare at them, wondering why they were squawking up such a frenzy. Were they hungry....for me???? As I approached an old schoolyard, I remembered the scene in The Birds when actress Tippi Hedren sat outside a schoolhouse listening to children inside innocently singing a repetitious ditty ("....risselty, rosselty, hey donny, dosselty, now, now, now....") while menacing crows flocked to the playground, roosting on the monkey bars. With each chorus of the song, more and more maniacal birds gathered for the attack. Shudder!!

I love a good movie scare now and then, as long as it is, in Norman Bates's creepy words, "....harmless, harmless as a stuffed bird."

LET'S PLAY

(Flaming Bore looking motherly in "Our Town")

At a gab fest last night with some gal pals, I learned that our school may be dropping its speech and drama curriculum after this year. The teacher has resigned and the classes are small...mainly because kids have fewer electives thanks to (shudder) President Bush's No Child Left Behind debacle. I think it's a darned shame. Where else are young people going to learn to speak coherently? Oh, never mind. I forgot. Text messaging has eliminated any need for oral discourse in the real world.

Still, I think theatrical productions are important. Although I was never leading lady material and was always assigned minor roles, I had some of my finer moments in high school "acting up" behind stage. I had lots of extra time on my hands waiting in the dark to deliver my four or five lines, so I got to sit on guys' laps rehearsing and giggling, well, actually just giggling. It was a great setting for learning the fine art of flirting.

Our junior play was "Teahouse of the August Moon," a comedy about an army captain (played by Windy; see March 13th and 30th blogs) sent to Americanize a Japanese village after World War II, with the help of an interpreter, Sakini (played by Rat; see Jan. 17th blog). The rest of the cast of 40, including a goat, were the villagers. I was Old Woman's Daughter--so insignificant that I didn't even have a name--so you know that my best lines were, indeed, delivered behind the scenes with the guys. (Old Woman, my stage mother, was played by Literary Diva; see March 24th blog.)

Our director was Mr. C., the Spanish teacher. Now, we did have a speech and drama instructor at our high school, but she had learned through prior experience that she no longer wanted the chaos in her life of whipping a mob into shape for a major production. She was married to the school superintendent, so it was easy for her to cop out and have the directorship dumped on someone else. That's where Mr. C. came in. He was young, creative, and enthusiastic, so he filled the bill.

The most memorable event in the play, in my mind, came during rehearsals. A golf cart was being turned into an army jeep, and the boy driving it, Jimmy Mac, was hesitant about how to maneuver it through the double doors into the auditorium. It was tricky, and Mr. C. was getting impatient with Jimmy Mac's attempts, so, being the director, he finally decided to show him how to do it. That's what directors are for...right?

The rest of the cast was sitting in the audience seats watching attentively as Mr. C. proceeded to take charge. Out in the hallway, he gunned the engine of the golf cart, which then roared into the auditorium, out of Mr. C.'s control, blasting out the first row of seating. Fortunately, no one was seated there, but a group of us in the second row screamed and jumped, then began laughing hysterically with everyone else...except Mr. C., who was muttering swear words as he dislodged the cart from the busted chairs. I have no clue how he explained the accident to the powers-that-be at our school, but it was the last play he directed at FHS and, sadly, he moved on to another school a few months later.

Our senior play, the drama "Our Town," was directed by an English teacher fresh out of college. It was nowhere nearly as much fun as doing "Teahouse," and no collision insurance was required, but my character did have a name.

READY, SET, PULL!!

It's that time of the year when I start my hate affair with dandelions. Ever since I retired and have nothing else better to do, I've waged war against this pesky enemy. I don't mess with chemicals, preferring to get up close and personal, on hands and knees (combat position), pulling out those evil weeds with my handy-dandy deluxe dandelion yanker.

It always amazes me how quickly they pop up out of nowhere. One day, no dandelions--the next day there they are, shaking their nasty yellow heads at me. I get out my yanker and dive into the lawn, performing an emergency dandelion-ectomy. It' a dirty job, and I love to do it.

I inspect the yard almost every day. Once I'm done digging up our infected turf, if I have any energy left, I check and attack our neighbors' yards. I don't want their dandelions to turn to seed and then blow into my yard. No, no, no! Prevention is the key! Once I have totally eradicated the dandelions, it will about be time for bag worms. The Yard Guard never gets a break!

GLAMOUR PUSS

I've blogged earlier about three of my cats, and the fourth one is getting rather huffy about that, so today I'm writing about Miss Muffin Puffin Stuff, also known as Muffin, Muffy, Muff, Little Miss Hissy-Pissy Pants, and Stop that, Muffin! She is a humane society graduate I met up with last year when I was volunteering. A beautiful Himalayan/Manx mix, Muffin is our blue-eyed Diva. She is fine with humans but disdains other cats, including the three with whom she shares the house. She will lay in waiting behind the refrigerator to intimidate them as they go in and out the kitchen/back porch cat door. "Stop that, Muffin!"

Since Muffin thinks she is a person, her favorite place to be is on the bed, preferably ensconced on pillows. Having to share with her people pals makes no difference to her. She'll plop her fuzzy butt anywhere she pleases. Once I was giving Big Bore a back scratching and she walked up on his back to help out by "making dough" with her front paws. He might have enjoyed it more if her claws hadn't been ripping into his skin.

Muffin is strictly an indoors kind of girl. Going outside to mingle with the masses is beneath her. She is happy to sunbathe on the back porch window perch and watch the world go by.