Monthly Archives: July 2013

Lucy, You Got Some Splaining to Do!

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“Lucy, you got some splaining to do!”

Yikes! There is a hole in our gate!

Yikes! There is a hole in our gate!

The hubster likes to lapse into his Ricky Ricardo persona when he requires an explanation from me.  He claims to have a special affinity with Ricky since he often feels like he’s living in a perpetual I Love Lucy episode.

Granted I do have a knack for getting myself in trouble, but I’m not daffy, I don’t want to get into show business and I’m not a tall, leggy, redhead.

“What is it now, Ricky?” I said, playing along with his game.

“There is a hole in the gate outside.”

“There is not,” I argued.  “What are you talking about?”

The hubster led me outside and stood me in front of the garden gate.  Ruh Roh!  He was right.  Indeed, there was a small hole in the fence.

“What did you do?” I gasped.

“Me?  I didn’t do that,” he said, placing his hands on his hips and giving me an exasperated look.  “Obviously you did it while you were mowing the lawn a couple weeks ago.”

“I certainly can’t remember doing it,” I said.

That was the honest truth of the matter due to the concussion from which I suffered.  The mower had kicked up a rock, the size of my fist, and it had landed on my head and that’s the last thing I remember until I went to the Emergency room five hours later to have a CT scan.  I know I finished mowing the lawn, but I have no recollection of doing it.

“Loooooosee…”

“Now Ricky, don’t get your knickers in a knock.  I’ll look for the piece that’s been banged out and we can gorilla glue it back in place.  It will be as good as new,” I said, puckering up my face and preparing to give him a full on Lucille Ball bawl. “I was only trying to help.  How can you be mad at me?”

The hole looks worse up close and personal.

“I’m not mad at you.  I was just showing you what you did to the fence.”

My face brightening as I dialed back the drama a notch.  “So you’re not going to play Babalu on my backside? I’m so relieved.”

“Get on inside the house.  You’re a crazy woman.”

“I’m a crazy woman?”

He gave me a sly look.  “See, finally something we both agree upon.”

I sighed.  “Okay, this round goes to you Ricky, but tread lightly because when I recover all of my senses, it’s not going to be so easy for you to best me the next time.”

Squirrels Can Swim! | Writer’s Word of the Week – Mordacious

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Sopping wet squirrel

Sopping wet squirrel

Our five year old Shiba Inu, Rupert, has appointed himself the sheriff of our property and zealously protects our home from any perceived threat.  He has repeatedly warned the neighborhood squirrels that he is on the job and that they risk life and limb should they decide to invade our privacy; however, the squirrels in our area are brazen little hussies and quite unable to resist the siren’s song of temptation sung by the blueberry bushes in our backyard.

The husband and I were puttering around outside yesterday when I heard Rupert kicking up a ruckus.

“Now what,” I said, turning towards the noise.  Sheriff Rupert was standing at the edge of the pool, fixated on something in the water.

“Huh, I didn’t know squirrels could swim,” said the hubster, scratching his head.

I lowered my gaze to see a furry little creature crazily paddling across the pool.  I was admiring the squirrel’s remarkable swimming abilities until I saw the wheels spinning in Rupert’s clever doggie brain.  He was trying to work out exactly where the squirrel would exit the pool.

I sprang into action.  “Catch that dog right now or you’ll be eating squirrel for supper,” I shouted.

“I can’t catch that dog.  No one can catch that dog.”

Okay, so the hubster had a fair point.  Rupert has lightning fast reflexes and can outrun and outdodge any human alive, but I still didn’t think we should allow the poor little rodent to be dispatched to squirrel heaven because of her momentary lack of good judgment.

“Then run interference,” I cried as the squirrel wiggled out of the water and onto the pool deck.

We proceeded to race about the backyard like lunatics with the squirrel in the lead.  Finally my husband caught Rupert’s backside for half a second, giving the squirrel just enough time to scramble to the top of our lilac bush.

Which brings me to our writer’s word of the week—MORDACIOUS.  It means sarcastic, caustic, or biting.

The Sheriff

The Sheriff

You’d think the squirrel would have been more appreciative of our help as she drip-dried on the tree, but she felt the need to verbally chastise us for ten minutes with a few mordacious looks thrown in for good measure.  That’s gratitude for you.