Waiting Mode

Am waiting to hear if the closing happened on the Barn.
Am waiting to see if my wrist will cure itself (here's a hint: it's more swollen than it was last week, even with me wearing the brace and trying very hard to be left-handed, which I emphatically am not).
Am waiting to get all the last bits together to finish YG's camp packing, so that the two duffles can be consigned to UPS (which means I'm waiting for the waterproofing on her hiking boots to dry, for the new camp-cot sheet to replace the old lost one to arrive, for laundry to be done so that I can scavenge jeans and underwear for the bag).
Am waiting for the child to go to camp so I can establish a new summer rhythm.
Am waiting for the older child to start summer school (June 25th) ditto.
Am waiting for the Advil to kick in (see #2 above).

What are you waiting for?

Backyard Zombie

At 5:17 the dog started to bark. Not casual barking, but real full-out crazed There's a Serious Threat Out There barking, and at the back door (usually she's in the front window, barking furiously people walking dogs across the street from the house). So I stumbled through the kitchen into the sun room and looked out into the back yard. To my considerable surprise there was a man out there, a short, white haired man in a dirty automotive coverall, his back to the house; he had the hose in one hand and was watering our lemon tree.

Okay, we are not gardeners. But we live in a quiet mind-your-own-business neighborhood, and I can't believe that any of my neighbors would come water our plants without so much as a "mother may I." So I opened the inside door (there's a security gate on the outside, remnant of the days when our house was owned by a paranoid little old lady living by herself) and cleared my throat. Emily was still barking her head off behind me, her tiny hackles standing straight up. The old guy turned around and smiled at me, brains drooling out of one corner of his mouth. "UH-uhhhhnh uhuh!" he said, gesturing at the lemon tree. Okay, so we let the tree get a little dry--but why would that bother a zombie?

I stepped back and slammed the door. The door is glass, but there's that gate (suddenly the little old lady didn't seem so paranoid). The windows are new, double-glazed. I was pretty sure one little old zombie wouldn't be able to get in. But the dog's barking was driving me crazy, and how the hell had a zombie got into my backyard? Seven foot walls on three sides, and an eight foot gate to the alleyway. And--frankly--the old guy didn't look like the zombies I saw out on Arlington, clambering over cars and chasing down pitbulls and pedestrians. He looked like an old Italian retiree who should be pottering around in the community garden down the block. That gave me an idea. I went back to the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator, then came back with an armload of stuff.

I opened the window. "Hi!" I was as cheery as I could manage. "Thanks so much for watering the tree! Want a snack?" And before he could lumber toward the window and grab my head I lobbed three tomatoes, a green pepper, and a bunch of basil out the window.

"Uhhhhh!Ahh!" He picked up the tomatoes, examined them, and roared in disapproval. He gestured at the tomato in his hand, shaking his head, spraying bits of brains. "Ahhh Ugahhuahh Michagbbbha!" He turned to the back of the garden, climbed up onto the roof of the laundry shed, and disappeared into the garden behind. I was pretty sure he'd gone back to his own garden, to bring back samples of what a real tomato tastes like. I locked the door and went down to the basement for the shotgun. When the old guy came back with his tomatoes I'd be ready.

Happy Zombie Day