Coffee heat rising

Spots of Light, Patches of Fog

Ugh! Just finished posting the daily multifarious ads for the multifarious bookoids on the multifarious Facebook sites and Twaddle, a time-consuming and tedious chore to beat all time-consuming and tedious chores.

Can’t complain too much, though: it’s only 8:37 a.m. Now the very worst chore of the day is off the desk. I can spend the rest of the next 16 hours or so loafing, playing with the dogs, sketching a new drawing, or maybe even writing a new Fire-Rider squib. So the sun burns through the fog, hm?

Here’s a little bright spot, surfacing in the side yard on a gray, thick, humid, HOT morning:

CactusFlower

Back in the fog: Ruby woke me up at 3:30 this morning with a threat to barf on the bed. Guess she was sickened by the antics at yesterday’s Republican convention. That was the only truly disgusting thing she got into yesterday.

At any rate, she escaped the bed before producing anything, and in fact recovered without woofing. Metaphorically, I mean.

Republicans. God. That’s not fog. That’s the Dark Night of the Soul. Check out this blood-curdling report from one of their elected delegates.

We’re all going to love it in British Columbia. Though I understand Newfoundland could use some new blood: maybe American refugees will be more welcome there.

Here’s what you need to take your mind off your own and America’s troubles: a nice, entertaining, escapist short story.

Seth

Scattered foggy patches: Have to pay the car registration. Thank you, God! No damned time-sucking emissions test this August. And it’s only $37 — in Arizona, car registration goes DOWN the older the car gets, the theory presumably being that they want drivers to keep their junkers as long as possible, and forgodSAKE don’t give them any ideas about replacing the clunk with safer, cleaner, more fuel-economical cars.

Arizona. The Land of the Bizarre.

Also have to fork over $340 to the Mayo, the amount Medicare and Medigap have paid toward the $650 bill sitting in accounts receivable. Presumably a check or two got lost in the mail. I’ll have to sift through three FAT folders of brain-boggling paperwork to see if I can find any lost checks

Fortunately, the community college district is sending (someday…let’s not hold our breath) around $565 to replace a lost check. That will cover the rest of the Mayo’s bill with a little left to spare. But what a fuckin’ nuisance.

The online bill-pay hoop-jumps and the search through file after file stuffed with incomprehensible paperwork will suck a massive amount of time out of this morning. Just the prospect is making me crabby as a cat.

It’s hot. It’s humid. The thermometer next to the chair where I tap away at this post reads 86 degrees. I need to clean the pool. Fog. Hot, clammy fog.

And finally, to end on a bright spot: Check out the great streaming channels emanating from Vermont Public Radio.

 

 

 

Don’t wanna work Monday

So I should be, at the very goddamned leastest, posting links to posts advertising my wares on FaceBook (two business pages, several “groups,” and my timeline: a half-dozen separate time-consuming mind-numbing actions), Twitter, Google+, and LinkedIn.

I should be hustling some new business for The Copyeditor’s Desk.

I should be writing new copy for Plain & Simple Press.

I should be writing some sort of personal-finance post for Funny about Money.

I should be trying, once again, to get into Goodreads so as to hustle my wares there, even though that cause appears to be too forlorn to waste more time on.

But y’know what?

Yeah. That’s correct:

i…

don’t…

wanna…

If it looks like work, if it sounds like work, if it smells like work, if it feels like work: I don’t wanna do it.

That’s not to say I’ve totally diddled the day away, so far.

compostThe new cute little composter arrived. It’s “Cute” (the maker’s term) because it really is quite small: maybe a third the size of the one the fake beekeeper destroyed.

At first as I unpacked it from its cardboard box, I was disappointed. Then thought…waaaitaminit here. Let’s not be stoopid about this.

As a practical matter, smaller is probably better. First, it’s a lot more manageable. The old one, when it was full, could be almost impossible to turn, so it took forever and a day to compost stuff — and I had to reach in there and toss stuff by hand. This thing will be easy to roll even if it’s full.

Second, the manufacturer has made two exceptionally smart improvements in the thing’s design. a) The lid and its opening are MUCH larger compared to the overall size of the tub; and b) they’ve developed a hinge held together with a long, sturdy pin. If you remove the pin, you can lift the lid off the tub, making it easy to lift or dump the compost out.

So. I decided I don’t just like the Cute Composter, I downright love it.

The little guy is now in his place by the side of the house, with a pile of leaves, exhausted potting soil from dead plant pots, and kitchen trimmings in his belly.

Yay! We soon will have compost, and this fall we will have a vegetable garden again, for the first time since the memory of Fatlady runneth not to the contrary.

Gerardo just blew in and blew out; while he was here, he had the underlings gather up some relatively seed-free dry leaves and deposit them in the little composter. It’s full just now, but I expect those will pack down as they start to degrade and as I sprinkle a little water in there. By planting time this fall, there should be some nice compost for the pots that will hold chard, lettuce, spinach, mâche, and some LGOs.

The writer’s group I belong to puts out an annual anthology. They’ve put out a call for submissions — theme has to do with “celebration.” I have an essay that fits, though it fits in a distant way.

So I diddled away a fair amount of the morning editing and tightening that — their length limit is 3,000 words, and the lash-up runs to a little over 3400 words. Managed to cut it down a bit. Last year they accepted an essay of about 3400 words, but they had a different editor. WTF…we’ll see what happens. Nothing ventured…

My son has wondered if he should throw his $20,000 emergency fund at a refinance of his house, given that this could cut his mortage payment by about 300 much-needed dollars a month. His dad advised him absolutely positively not to do that. When the subject came up yesterday, I seconded his dad’s motion. Discussion ensued; the question was left up in the air.

So I called Wonder-Financial-Advisor today. He thirded the motion. We believe he should hang onto the cash, given the still amazingly low interest rates.

The dad has urged M’hijito to make no move until after his 102-year-old grandmother passes away. The suggestion, never fully articulated, is that money could be forthcoming from the estate. Said dad is in charge of the grandmother’s finances and so should have some idea what he’s talking about.

But the question is: WHAT estate?

The old gal has been living in a nursing home for many years. She’s blind and deaf. By now whatever money she might have accrued must have been absorbed by her care. How could there be anything — ANYTHING — left?

Well, I personally don’t think there is any such thing. But why the ex- would advise my son along those lines not once but several times…hm? It escapes me.

Almost.

The immortal grandmother was the daughter — the only child — of a man who owned a lumber company that served Denver, Colorado. He was a prominent local businessman. When he died of advanced old age in 1977, his funeral was overrun by well-wishers from the business community. A LOT of people showed up.

I don’t know what happened to that business. But if he sold it, dollars to donuts he sold it for a substantial profit.

His background was Amish. As that factoid might lead you to imagine, he lived quietly and conservatively. Not sparsely, but frugally. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility that there was a trust. That could have protected the estate from the clutches of the nursing home’s collection agents.

And if that’s the case, there could be a small amount of money there. It wouldn’t have to be much to solve my son’s financial problems, such as they are.

So I diddled away some more of the day on the Internet, trying to track down the old man and, mostly failing that, trying to find some trace of the business.

Total fail on the latter. Inconclusive on the first. Became bored and so brought that to a halt.

It’s now the middle of the afternoon, and I still do not feel up, in any wise, to working. and so…

Away.

 

 

 

Existential Questions on the Quantum Level

Is it possible that the “beneficial nematodes” WORKED?

paloverde-beetle-300x208Two years running, I bought (rather expensively) packages of “beneficial nematodes” that are imagined by their sellers to attack the root-munching grubs of the hated palo verde beetle. These I applied several times during the fall and winter of successive years. And two years running, well over a dozen giant beetle escape holes appeared in the following summers — indicating a heavy infestation that sooner or later will kill the spectacular Desert Museum hybrid palo verde tree that shelters the west side of the house from the scorching afternoon sun.

This year I’ve found about a half-dozen holes so far — and it’s getting fairly late in the season. The mature monster bugs start to dig their way out at the start of the monsoon season, along about the end of June. By now, mid-way through July, there should  be lots more escape holes.

So. I wonder it it takes several years of treatment with these little worms that so harry the offspring of the massive and tank-like palo verde beetle? They live underground for about four years, hatching and eating and growing and maturing. I wonder if the nematodes work to best effect on the youngest grubs? Possibly those that are already a couple of years old are strong enough to resist infection by these tiny creatures. Hm.

This morning I found one, just (1) more hole, way over by the orange tree that I  believe to be besieged by these damn beasts. When I was spreading nematodes, the citrus infestation wasn’t yet evident. So I didn’t sprinkle any of the little guys over there. Hmmm…

Therefore…

Should I diddle away some more money on beneficial nematodes this fall?

In the low desert, the summer heat is too hot for the little guys, at least so saith the Arizona-based dealer in the critters. On the other hand, though, I’ve really been pouring the water to the west side, having discovered that what ailed the climbing roses was drought, not old age or disease.

Note to self: call the Arbico lady and discuss.

Am I crazy to diddle away money on gardening at all?

compostProbably. Back and forth with JestJack over the cost of food and the frugal benefits of vegetable gardening reminded me that I really, really miss the Israeli composter my friend La Bethulia gave me some years ago. It was ruined by a jackass who said he was a beekeeper who could remove what appeared to be a hive a-growing in the thing and who, when he discovered only a horde of bees attracted by some honey on some bread I’d tossed into the composter, dumped a ton of nasty powdered insecticide in there before I could stop him.

The compost is what DOES make your garden grow in a place where the ground is mostly caliche.

This thing is bar none, THE best composter ever designed. There’s no assembly — you just set the rolling tub in its cradle, open the door, and toss in the stuff you want to compost. As the stuff turns into magical mystery dirt inside it, the moisture it collects drains into the cradle thingie, providing you with compost “tea” that you can pour on your potted plants, making them very, very happy. The composter itself can be rolled over and over on the cradle, tossing its contents and speeding the composting process nicely.

And yes. I just ordered up a new one from Amazon. Am I crazy?

Why do dogs eat sticks?

Ruby (taking the morning air beneath the shady orange tree): [crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch…]

Human: What are you doing?

Ruby: Crunching. [crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch…]

Human: You threw up this morning! Might this not be the cause, oh worthy hare-brained dog?

Ruby: Feed me, human. Feed me! [crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch…]

Am I crazy to think my clothes get cleaner when I wash them by hand?

i. hate. the. samsung. goddamn. washer!
i. hate. the. samsung. goddamn. washer!

This discovery was made when I took to soaking jeans and other colored clothing in a pail, with a dollop of original Dawn detergent, and then running them through the hated Samsung washer’s “rinse” cycle. This, to opt out of the “braid” effect — and because the rinse cycle runs all of 21 minutes, where as a cycle that uses enough water to actually get everything in a washload wet takes an hour and ten minutes, for godsake.

You don’t even have to rinse the detergent out of the clothing. Just dump out the pail of water, let the water mostly drain out of the clothes, and toss them into the machine. The extra weight caused by the wet load triggers the stupid washer to dispense enough water to rinse the clothes effectively.

It turns out that when you let a load of laundry soak for a few minutes in dish detergent, then make the ridiculous “energy-efficient” washer rinse them and ONLY rinse them, everything comes out brighter and distinctly cleaner-looking than what you get after upwards of an hour of shloshing and tangling around in an ineffective amount of water with ineffective “HE” laundry detergent.

Everything that’s white comes out…you know, white. And without stains.

And you get the job done with a fraction of the power usage and a fraction of the wasted time.

WHY can’t I ever, ever, EVER post one of these squibs without finding a mistake after it’s published?

Old age? Innate incompetence? Freudian issues with computers?

What is the answer?

Earth to humans: Unknown.

House, Yard, and (Book) Marketing

Much cooler this morning than of late! It’s after 10 and only about 101 on the back porch. So far. That’s grand: it was balmy enough to walk the dogs a mile, then drop them off and go back out for another real walk of about 1.5 miles, then drop in the drink and clean the pool a bit, water the plants, fart around.

Tpaloverde beetlehe accursed palo verde beetles are back, damn their multiple eyes. This is the time of year when they like to come out — at the height of the alleged monsoon. We haven’t seen much sign of the annual summer rains, though — a couple of sprinkles a few weeks ago, some mild humidity, and that’s it. But I guess when you gotta hatch, you gotta hatch, rain or shine.

Last summer a guy at Home Depot, a fellow who presented himself as a retired landscaping business owner who KNOWS about PV beetles, claimed that a Bayer product the store peddles absolutely positively will kill the things. I doubt it — when you look the critters up you find almost nothing will kill them — about the only thing you can do is try to keep your tree healthy and hope it’ll last longer than the seven years it takes for the monsters to kill it. Besides, read the label and you find the Home Depot dude’s stuff is really a miticide. A three-inch-long Triassic bug a “mite” does not make.

Oh well. It IS an insecticide, and it IS ridiculously concentrated.  So I decided to try this strategy, which I don’t think will work, but I don’t think it will do much harm, either.

This morning I poured the Bayer product, uncut, down the four exit holes that have surfaced so far. By the end of the season, there’ll be at least a dozen — probably more like two dozen. There are so many grubs under the soil out there that I’ve actually found the damn things in plant pots next to the deck!

So far, I’m not seeing any visible die-back to the tree’s limbs. Yet. However, paloverde grows aggressively. In the city, where a paloverde is close to a house, you need to trim it back once every year or 18 months to keep its limbs off your roof and your neighbor’s. Pruning, no matter how carefully done, isn’t good for paloverde trees — it can damage the tree’s overall health. Supposedly, trees that are pruned are more vulnerable to these damned bugs.

They have, though, started to damage one of the Arizona sweet oranges — it’s dying back in the area closest to the paloverde’s infested roots. The things like citrus as much as they love paloverde, and supposedly they’ll finish off your fruit tries as fast as they’ll finish off your shade trees.

One arborist told me than when his crew cuts out a paloverde that’s dying from a paloverde beetle infestation, they find literally thousands of the grubs in the ground. Before a new tree can be planted — if it ever can be — they have to apply insecticide directly to the grubs repeatedly, trying to kill off as many as they can.

And good luck with that endeavor…

We’re told the adult females come back to their exit holes to lay their eggs. And yea verily, an expired momma was flopped on her back out there this morning, gone to meet her Buggy Maker. I figure if you pour a mighty strong insecticide down the holes and then water it in, the stuff will spread around by capillary action. Maybe it will kill whatever little guys are burrowing around nearby. And maybe it will kill the new eggs.

So that’s what I’m hoping for. Speaking of “good luck with that”…

Meanwhile, in the insect department, the plants on the kitchen counter seemed to be hosting a tribe of gnats. I figured they were attracted by the mangoes I’d left to ripen on the counter and then were overjoyed to find the swamp that had developed in the pot where the coleus cutting died. Threw out the coleus, swatted the bugs back.

This morning, however, closer inspection revealed that most of them were not the flying kind. In fact, they were the tiniest, most delicate little ants you’ve ever seen! Gnants!

And none too many of them. With the fruit in the fridge and the dead plant gone and a squirt of Dawn in the plates under the living plants, there wasn’t much for them to scavenge. But still, hope springs eternal in the antish breast.

They’re so fragile that a light spray of very dilute Dawn does the poor little things in forthwith. I felt bad about killing them, because they’re such charming little gnants. Yet off they must go: we’re not sharing the kitchen counter with the wildlife, thank you.

Followed them to their tiny entry way in a tiny opening in the kitchen door threshold. Brushed around that with some DE. Then scrubbed off the counter with Mrs. Meyers. And what the heck: the kitchen sink hasn’t been decently scoured in a decade or so: scrubbed that till it glows.

So that counter looks about as good as it’s going to look. Which isn’t very: it’s got several cracks in it, and I haven’t been able to find a tile guy who’s willing to fix it.

I’m thinking if I could find a slab of marble in a kind of beigeish color that would go with the existing Mexican tile, I might replace the stuff on that side of the kitchen — there’s actually rather little backsplash there, so if it had to be torn out and replaced, it wouldn’t take much to do so.

I really don’t like stone countertops, even though yes, I do understand they’re the permanent rage. I’d so much rather have tile. But what must be must be, I suppose. The big question is whether I could keep the sink if I had to install marble or butcher block. It’s one of those things that’s flush with the counter, so you don’t have to fart around with cleaning up the mess around the sink’s rim. It was a very expensive Kohler sink, too: there’s nothing wrong with it and I’d like not to bet rid of it.

On housewifely reflection, I realized that I haven’t cleaned and oiled those expensive kitchen cabinets since before the horrible medical adventures began — two and a half years ago! So I need to break out the Murphy’s Oil Soap and the orange or lemon oil, wash them down, and polish them up. (How does that kind of labor take on directionality?) That will make the kitchen look a lot better…later. Much later. It’s not a job to do when the AC labors to cool that part of the house to 83 degrees.

This fall: clean cabinets.

Put out a couple of feeders full of fresh bird seed for the feathered critters. Almost every variety of bird eats ants (with the possible exception of ducks and hummingbirds). I’ve found that attracting them to the backyard really does help with the Ant Wars. But lately, in the heat, I’ve been lazy about feeding them.

Also put out fresh sugar water for said hummers.

Speaking of wildlife, it looks like the resident duck has failed to hatch ducklings. She seems to be gone now, with no babes waddling around or drowning in the pool (which they will do, if any ever do hatch). I’m pretty sure she built a nest in the cat’s claw, a far better one than DuckDuck built last spring: deeper into the shrubbery and much harder to spot. But apparently she had no better luck in the reproductive department than did the previous occupant.

These ducks are quite charming. As long as they don’t produce babies to die in the pool, which will break my flinty little heart, they’re more than welcome to float around and tease Ruby. They really don’t make that much mess: the pool cleaner quickly cleans up the occasional dropping, which IMHO isn’t any more drastic than the purple stuff the grackles deposit in the pool as they fly back and forth. I’m pretty confident that the chlorine and acid take care of any microbes — certainly a vigorous shock-treat will do so.

I’ve been madly hawking my wares on the various social media. The Pinterestified images Jackie has been creating make perfect ads elsewhere, especially if I fiddle with them by inserting them in a horizontal ad. So I went through the P&S Press Blog and made a long list of the many, many, MANY posts I’ve failed to publicized. Then determined to flog three a day at all points:

My Facebook timeline
The Plain & Simple Press FB page
The Copyeditor’s Desk FB page
FB Group: Writers of Nonfiction
FB Group: KDP Select Authors (who reads this stuff? It’s ALL self-serving ads!)
FB Group: Book Promotion (ditto, in spades!)
FB Group: Books Gone Viral (who??? why????)
FB Group: Authors & Book Lovers Discussion (well, okay…maybe)
Twaddle
Google+

Sticking links to the various posts does seem to be doing something. Every day I get a slew of new people following The Girls on Twitter, and presumably I’m reaching more people on Facebook…if anybody actually reads that trash.

In fact, though, the Writers of Nonfiction group apparently is inhabited. The moderator keeps a grip on things there — she allows ONE day a week in which people can post their ads — and only as comments to a post there. Otherwise, the content is real conversation. And some of it is pretty good.

And strangely, a tiny but steady stream of users keep subscribing to the P&S Press page, for reasons I cannot imagine.

Welp, what with the ant cleanup frenzy and Cassie flying into a barking frenzy that elicited another endless spasmodic reverse-sneezing frenzy from the puppy and the bird feeding and the pedicure (multitasked while writing) and the current laundry load (multitask) and all that, it’s now past lunch time. I hunger.

And so, finally, onward with the day.

Fallon Best Laid Plans

Happy Fourth of July!

  Happy Independence Day to one and all!

So what are you doing to celebrate, if anything?

Here in the ’hood, the neighborhood association throws a big shindig in the park. When the dogs and I circumnavigated the park at 5 this morning, folks were out there setting up booths and bringing in the beloved fire truck and generally carrying on. It’s a great tradition, especially for those who have the stamina to tolerate the heat…it’s supposed to hit 109 today.

Not for me, thanks. The dogs and I trotted through our favorite part of the ’hood before the Old Guy who likes to feed other people’s critters. The shade-tree mechanic’s old yaller cat was sitting on the sidewalk  awaiting the arrival of the food hand-out. Cassie, who adores cats, and Ruby, who thinks a cat might be good to eat, admired the cat quietly, sat around and gazed at the cat, did not try to grab the cat while it sat there gazing at them. LOL!

Dropped the dogs off back at the house and then raced back out to get a real walk & jog, not possible when you have one dog trying to charge forward and one dog lagging behind, pleading old age as an excuse to sniff every blade of grass. Hence the view of the shindig preparations.

This evening I’ll be joining friends at the home of a couple who host dinner at their 12th-floor apartment, which overlooks the Phoenix Country Club and the Steele Indian School Park, both of which have spectacular fireworks displays. It’s a wonderful party and experience — a great opportunity to get together with people who scatter during the summer and a fantastic view of the nearby displays and more distant fireworks all over the Valley.

So that will be fun.

People started blasting away with amateur fireworks last night. For years, selling fireworks to the general public was illegal in Arizona.

But of course, our moronic legislators decided that this outrage abridged good old American Liberty and so passed a law legalizing sale of fireworks to one and all. In Arizona, it’s perfectly legal to blow your hands off — we have affirmed that it’s your God-given American right to do so.

Cities, whose emergency responders were already maxed around the Fourth, subsequently passed local bans within city limits. The legislature, incensed, responded to this rebellion by decreeing that all retailers would be free to sell fireworks, even in cities that ban the use of fireworks. This means you can buy whatever your little heart craves at the corner Albertson’s or Safeway.

Isn’t that cute? No more stealth trips to Nogales! 🙄

So of course, at this time of year every nitwit in the city is out throwing fireworks around.

Last night a couple of bird-brains who live nearby were setting off cherry bombs. You could tell by the sound when they’d put one under a can or a pail. They were in the alley and the street outside my east wall.

Corgis being fairly calm dogs, the hounds weren’t unduly alarmed, though they didn’t like the noise. I was annoyed, in the way stupidity has always annoyed me.

In junior high school, a kid I knew was blinded when a cherry bomb he set off  under a can blew up in his face. So my patience level with this kind of “fun” is low.

vinesaroundpoolIt’s SO hot and SO dry this summer, I’m concerned about the flammability of those massive hanging gardens of cat’s-claw vines that ensure my privacy in the backyard.

Even though Gerardo has them trimmed up off they ground where they lop over the wall into the alley, there’s still masses of plant material along the way out there. All it would take is some Roman candle to go astray and land in that stuff to set fire to it. If such a fire isn’t put out quickly, it will easily jump to the house. Those vines come all the way up to the back of the house along that far wall, and they join up with hop bushes and a tree that would carry flames to the roof and attic.

So I’m not real happy about having to go off and leave the dogs here unattended. Cassie has never figured out how to use the dog door, and I doubt if Ruby would have enough sense to get out if the house started to burn. What they’d do is try to shelter in their den in the back bathroom. Where, you may be sure, they wouldn’t last long.

How can a species that so prides itself on its allegedly superior brain be, collectively and individually, so fuckin’ stupid?

I’m thinking about taking the dogs down to M’hijito’s house on the way to my friends’ place. But a) that will require me to leave very early and b) I suspect he won’t appreciate it. He’s probably entertaining his own friends.

So this morning I asked the neighbor across the street, who was celebrating the start of Independence Day by working on his wife’s car’s brakes, if he’d kinda keep an eye out. He no doubt thinks I’m a crazy old lady. But that’s OK, if he’ll take a glance over at the shack after the racket settles down.

Meanwhile, I’m pouring the water to those vines, in hopes that they’ll soak up enough moisture to protect them some from incidental sparks. Don’t even know if that’s possible. But they need to be watered, anyway.

DuckDuck is in the pool as we scribble. Every time Ruby realizes the duck is paddling around, she trots out the dog door, parks herself by the fence, and sits there as rapt as a little kid at the zoo. It’s really very adorable!

Better get up and fix some lunch and make up the rest of those tomatoes into gazpacho. And so, away! Have a happy Fourth of July!

24-Hour Siesta Time

The_sun1Well, we could say it’s finally getting a little warm here at the Funny Farm. An hour ago, it was pushing 120 on the back porch. Not quite there: on the high side of 118, maybe 119. It’s 5:30 now and the temp has cooled to 115.

As nothing, though. A little berg called Piedra, west of Casa Grande on the I-8 on the way to San Diego via San Luis, supposedly was the hottest spot on the planet yesterday, at a Mercurial 127 degrees.

Keeping plants alive is a challenge in a heat wave like this. You want to water them several times a day to keep them from dying of plant heat exhaustion, but when you do that, you drown the damn things. Even the ultra-xeric plantings around my house are threatening to keel over. I’ve covered the single rose bush that gets direct afternoon sun with strips of shade cloth and old sheer curtains, but even with that protection, its leaves are burnt. The other roses, which really are the yard’s only plants that react badly to extreme heat, are planted in shady spots and so are doing OK.

Interestingly, though, the vitex in back is wilting. That is distinctly non-good, because it has grown into a tree and it helps a lot with the pool privacy issue that I created by removing the Tree from Hell.

The one in front, however, has not wilted. So I’m a little concerned that the limp leaves have less to do with the heat than with some problem with the tree itself. On the other hand, the one in front is a volunteer. It may be a little tougher by dint of its circumstances. Or maybe it’s a different variety of vitex.

Naturally, a sprinkler head in the front courtyard broke yesterday, causing a geyser and turning a quarter of the fenced-in area into a lake. Gerardo came by in the heat to dig it out and replace it. He hates the sprinkler system Richard put in lo! these many years ago, and we agreed that when the weather cools down, he and his guys should rebuild it.

Tomorrow a repair-dude is supposed to come over and fix the barbecue, whose igniter has busted. As long as they were going to charge me for a service call, I arranged to have him clean it. That is a job, and I’m not real thrilled about having a workman laboring out there, on my dime, at 1:00 in the afternoon. I’ve thought about calling the company and canceling, but on the other hand, that could mean the guy doesn’t get paid.

I dunno. I may call tomorrow morning and suggest we put off the job till the weather cools or at least until they can get him over here early in the morning, instead of at mid-day.

Sun