Hey Aunt Chrissy! Notice anything amiss in the above photo?
So there I was...coffee cup in hand, checking out the back 40. Stewey was finding the exact blade of grass on which to have his morning constitutional, when I became transfixed by the vegetable garden.
"Something's not right here", I mused as I slurped my caffeinated goodness. "I could swear there were more things in this damn garden. Didn't Aunt Chrissy plant anything other than tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers?"
It was about that time that I turned to my left and noticed a lovely little brown bunny rabbit pushing a tiny little shopping cart full of broccoli.
Yup. Stewey gets NO claim to fame as a steadfast hunter around these parts. As a matter of fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't circulate a flier through the neighborhood bunny hutches announcing that broccoli was on sale this week. (*)
No stitching last night. Aunt Chrissy and I went to the fancypants eyeglass boutique to pick out a new pair of specs for yours truly. My current fancypants eyeglasses have been a little problematic, so the fabulous chicklets that own the place told me to come in to find something brand spanky and new. So in about two weeks I'll be sporting some chic' purple glasses that will probably make people wonder exactly when the midlife crisis came upon me.
After a little stop at the Outback for some sustenance, we took a lovely drive up to Diamond Lake to see the latest project that Aunt Chrissy has been working on. Without gushing too terribly much, I can tell you that I am completely awe struck that my dopey little sister has the smarts and experience to manage the construction of something that will eventually appear in Architectural Digest. Stunning. Just freaking stunning, Aunt Chrissy. You should be very very proud. God knows I am.
So we're off again like the proverbial herd of turtles. Once I'm properly dressed, I'll mosey on over to Lowes for some pepper sprinkles for the garden perimeter. That should close the buffet for now.
At least until Stewey decides to put peppers on the menu.
And again I say, damn dog.
(*) This is where I tell you that we do not hunt in this house. First of all, the idea of killing a tiny little living creature (except bugs and spiders, of course) makes me a little wobbly around the edges, and second of all, the only things my dog knows how to hunt are bargains at the local Macy's. So please don't fret that Chez Spinster has turned into a bloodfest or anything. We're still holding hands and singing KumBaYa while the bluebirds twitter about and the wildlife frolics in the sunshine.