The sprinkler system developed multiple personality disorder this morning, and while I was puzzling out the operation of the controller with the help of an iPad Mini and much bad language I noticed that spring, like fascism, seems to be creeping up on us.
More spring, please. And less fascism.
This is the first day of spring? So where’s the sun?
Frankly, I’m stumped.
(Rimshot.)
And yes, I know, nobody in his right mind living in a desert climate complains about rain. But right mind and I have not shared the same ZIP code for the better part of quite some time. And I have bicycles that are badly in need of riding.
The good news is, after today and tonight we’re looking at a stretch of sunny and 70s. The better news? We don’t live in New York City.
… I finally got Herself out on a bike.
Why, yes, I think it might sprinkle a bit. Why do you ask?
And later, it did.
Herself and I spent some quality time together this morning, cleaning up the wreckage from yesterday’s blitzkrieg hailstorm.
I had to get up on the roof to broom off some of the detached greenery (and clear the gutters while I was at it). And then we set about collecting the stuff on the ground. This was about the time I decided that owning two-fifths of the block was something of a giant pain in the ass, or more specifically, the lower back.
We filled one of those big rolling trash bins and another smaller can with salad and sticks before saying the hell with it and going back indoors for lunch, after which we lost interest more or less permanently, especially since it looks like another storm may be blowing in here directly.
In other news, poor Cuddles lost his pretty pink shirt in the Giro. He has one flat stage for liver-gnawing purposes, tomorrow, before the ground tilts upward and the shit gets serious. Should be fun to watch. Rigoberto Uran Ran Ran Ran Da Doo Ran Ran looked tougher ‘n’ whang leather out there today, and taking time back from him will be like trying to steal stupid from Louie Gohmert.
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