I’m covered with tiny leaves, seedlings, dandelion fuzz, and smashed bugs. In case you might have wanted a specific mental image. You’re welcome.

Just checking in before running to the shower.

The very correct weatherman gave me about three hours between thunderstorms so I’ve been mowing the grass.

And as I came back into the house, I started trying to remember how many times I’ve cut the grass without running over a garden hose and mangling it to bits.

Answer: none. Including this morning.

The clerk at TruValue Hardware looks at me all smirky now, whenever I slink in to purchase a new garden hose. I just know that somewhere under that cash register drawer is a piece of paper with my name on it, and tally marks underneath my name, one for each garden hose I’ve bought in the past twenty years. And the tally marks fill one entire side, and he’s started tallying on the back.

I supposed if I mowed more often, the grass wouldn’t get so tall that it conceals the garden hose, and I wouldn’t mow over it. Or the person who last used the garden hose COULD roll the entire thing up on the reel so none of it would be dangling over into the grass.

And now, Jim Nabors is singing “The Impossible Dream” inside my head, and in a few minutes I’m going to start screaming.

Because, you know, Gomer singing? That’s just WRONGGGGG.

Jehovah’s Witnesses at my door! Why do they always knock? Can’t they see the doorbell right there? No, thank you, Witnesses. I did a term paper on you my junior year of college. A ten-foot-pole isn’t long enough. Thank you for stopping by. I’ll pass on the Watchtower. Thanks anyway. Please go now.

Hey. I’m gonna get you too. Another one bites the dust.