Dear Diary:

From now on, just think of me as Marn, Warrior Princess.

It's been stupidly hot here for the last few days with humidity in the range that makes walking out the door feel like a visit to Let's All Sweat Like Pigs World. So I have been girding my loins and swimming in the cool wonder of my spring fed pond with my crocofrogs.

Oh yeah, like these puppies wouldn't scare YOU, ehI know.

I think we can all agree this officially makes me one of the bravest people you've ever met. At the minimum I feel this act of pure courage vaults me up to at least Warrior Princess class, with the title One Tough Broad coming within my grasp.

Oh, and before you pshaw or pooh-pooh my accomplishment (and really, don't you feel there are too many pshawers and pooh-poohers in today's world?), I want to stress here that it's not just the size of these monsters, it's the 'tude, eh.

See, because our place is so isolated, the spousal unit and I have the freedom to skinny dip. As we wade (waddle being such a perjorative verb, don't you find?) into the pond we create ripples and the monster frogs all come out. They live in the hope that these ripples might indicate something tasty and bite size has entered the pond--something such as, say, a small cow.

Only, it's just us and we're just a bit too big to swallow as far as the current generation of crocofrogs is concerned. I'm sure that if they continue to grow at their current rate, they'll be stalking us by the end of the summer. But right now, we're semi-safe. They float around us, just out of reach, and eye us.

Believe me, if you have any body issues at all, you do NOT want to be eyed by a crocofrog. Nosireebob, there's no creature on earth (with the possible exception of a Montreal saleswoman) who can make you feel as utterly inadequate as a crocofrog can. You can almost see the thought bubbles over their heads:

"Man, oh man, gravity ain't kind to middle-aged women."

"Has this woman EVER refused dessert?"

"With a butt like that she would be forced to wear a wide load sign."

And those would be the thoughts of the kinder, gentler, less judgemental and more supportive crocofrogs.

It's not enough that I get 'tude from the fauna, heck I'm also getting it from the flora.

You know my beloved gardens, the ones I sweat, fidget and fuss over constantly? The ones I spend eons planning, tweaking, and reading all sorts of gardening books and magazines for?

Well, they look quite nice, but you know what one of the prettiest corners of the property is right now? It's something Mother Nature created all by her lonesome.

Mother Nature reminds me who's the REAL gardener, eh.It's this little nursery bed where I raise on plants that I want for my garden but that I can't afford to buy mass quantities of. So instead, I just buy a few and keep dividing them every spring until I get what I need. It's a kind of loaves and fishes thingie.

In the middle of the Frances Williams hosta I'm propagating, some foxglove have decided to self seed and send their pink, cream and burgundy spikes skyward. It's one of my favourite little corners of the yard, and I had nothing to do with it.

Nature has a way of smacking you upside the head and reminding you that you can't control everything, that it's important to leave room for spontanaeity.

Accidents and inspiration can lead you to your destination.


Old Drivel - New Drivel

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -

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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.