Sunday, July 31, 2011

I scored.

Seven years ago today, Bubba rolled the dice on the rest of his days and married me.

No backsies!

Since then, well, it's been fucking fantastic.

Because HELLO I married the funniest man alive.

It's amazing I'm still alive, given I've been laughing myself slowly into the grave for the past 10 years.

Happy anniversary, you nut.

I fucking love you. Like, a lot. Even more than when we got married or when you took me to the Caymans for my birthday or when you walked the dog last week when you got home even though I was already home but hadn't walked her but you could tell I was super wiped out and didn't want to walk her - you walked her. And you didn't even say anything about it and then you made me a cocktail when you got back from your walk.

Come to think of it, maybe it was just the cocktail that made me love you so much at that moment, but still, I'm chalking it up to your ability to read my mind, know what to do to make me happy without even asking about it and then you just do it because you're good like that.

And because you're a very good bartender who always makes sure our bar is stocked with my brands and then never gives me any crap about the fact that I have "brands".

And then when I open the bar and exclaim, for the 70th time since I saw it on Arrested Development, "Thank god. At least they have my brands!", you always laugh.

I mean, yes, it's totally hilarious because that show is hilarious and that is an excellent repurposing of that line, but because you get it, and you remember how hysterical it was when we first saw that episode of Arrested Development when it was first on the air before the soul-sucking networks canceled it in a fit of ongoing stupidity. And you get how that show is hilarious and don't look at me like a psycho when I say that X thing is "so dramatic and flamboyant and it makes me want to light myself on fire."

No, you totally laugh. And then you sing Final Countdown, slap my behind and make us cocktails.

You're just the funniest and most enjoyable fucker on the planet.

Plus, you're obnoxiously handsome and really good with your tools.

All things I enjoy in a man. And you can take that last comment about the tools in any which way you like because they all apply.

That frosting ended up in my nose and I could still smell it the third day we were in Hawaii.

Happy 7 married years, Bubb - I love you and all your hijinks madly.

Monday, July 25, 2011


This is not a sub-60 10K time. As you can plainly see. And that is because of a few things. Not that I'm making excuses for my slowness, because if I was REALLY worried about a sub-60 10K time, I'd just train to run a 10K in, like, 50 minutes instead of 58:15 so that I'd have lots of room for error, but that brings me to my first asterisk.

*This wasn't a 10K.
Yeah, color me fucking surprised because the whole time I was signed up for and, therefore TRAINING for, this thing, I thought it was a 10K. It's not. It's a 6 miler.


So, then, in theory, it should have been that much easier to run it in less than an hour.

In theory.

**There were approximately 15,000 people running this race.

15,000 people crammed shoulder to shoulder into a narrow two lane road that runs 6 miles along the ocean between the Santa Cruz and Capitola wharfs.

15,000 people, of which at least 10,000 were not familiar with common race etiquette. Specifically, if you're a slow runner or walking or WALKING A GOD DAMNED DOUBLE STROLLER FOR GODSSAKE, walk on the right and let those faster than you (AKA everyone) pass by easily on the left.

Also, if you're a slow runner or walking or WALKING A GOD DAMNED DOUBLE STROLLER FOR GODSSAKE, don't line up with the 5 minute mile pace sign.

Look, I've said it before and it's going down again - just because you got to the race first doesn't mean you get to line up ahead of the elite runners at the starting line. This isn't first come first served - it's fastest runners go first, so that they don't have to crush you and your multiple-cup-holder-having strollermobile as they sprint to the 6 mile finish line in 26 minutes.

Don't believe me about the Supah Fastness? Go look.

Seriously, standing in front of these freaks of running nature could get you killed as you're sliced in half as they rocket toward the finish line.

Not that I am one of these fabulous freaks. I'm not. I'm your average run of the mill girl who goes out to a race and lines up with the 9 minute mile pace marker because she's fucking delusional to think that everyone ahead of the 9 minute mile pace marker is ready and equipped to go the distance in 8 minutes per mile or less and wouldn't want to be caught slowing down their mighty fastness.

It would appear that I'm in the minority here, though, since I spent the first two solid miles of this race weaving in and around people who were walking, pushing strollers, admiring costumes, adjusting tu-tus or just plain huffing slowly up and down the gently undulating hills ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE COURSE.

Which explains how, despite the 6 mile official distance of this race, I actually traveled 6.28 miles (per the Garmin), of which .28 miles were clearly spent traveling horizontally. Hooray.

***And that's the final asterisk in this ridiculous race report - this alleged "flat and fast course" was anything but flat and fast.

Now, I don't mind hills like I used to. Frankly, they're almost a relief since I know the other side will offer up a nice downhill so I can catch my breath, but don't tell people that it's flat if it's not, particularly if you don't offer up an elevation chart to support your obviously faulty claim.

Granted, I've driven this road before a few times, so I was aware that there were hills, but I bet at least...oh, I'm going to guess...5,000 or so out-of-towners had no idea of the undulations and then ended up being the psychos lurching up these unexpected rises in the ground when they appeared before them. Which would explain the shrieks I heard as I passed some folks going up the first hill.

It never gets old hearing people scream, "I thought this was FLAT. What are these HILLS?"

Yeah. It was a dark time for some.

And that whole "fast" business is probably only true if you signed up as an elite runner, which I did not for obvious slow ass reasons, because then you get a special orange bib and get to line up at the front and slay all who stand between you and the finish line.

The rest of us schmucks get to line up with our pace groups and spend 6 miles slugging it out with the other 14,800 or whatever people who don't qualify for a land speed record when their Nikes hit the pavement.

Though rather than shine a completely dim light on the whole event, I will say that I enjoyed myself in the sense that physically, I felt good and my legs felt strong. I got to trot along with a friend of mine (Hi Carol! You're a monster!), look at the ocean, get in a decent workout and sprint wildly down some gentle hills.

And at the finish line I got to wander around endlessly searching for the refreshments and my goodie bag that were one hundred miles away and down a steep grade on the fucking beach where I left them in lieu of a $1 bottle of water from a nice lady closer to the finish line. Seriously? No water at the finish line? Not an orange wedge for a thirsty runner? Lame.

And here I wanted to end on a high note.

Um...Jada and Bubba were waiting for me at the finish line! That was good. Also, there were balloon arches marking off each mile, which I loved.

So, there you have it - I'm happy with a race if there are balloons and a dog. Apparently, I should have signed up for the kid's registration and saved myself a few bucks.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

My money's on the tomatoes.

OK, I have a race tomorrow and I should be losing my shit for your entertainment right now over that, but I just can't go one more minute without HOLY SHIT IT'S #1 (and 2) TOMATO DAY.

We're #1! (and 2. Which is less exciting but still delicious.)

So, fine, *today* is not the day, *Today* was last Tuesday and the #1 Tomato wasn't some big bruiser that I watched from its pea-sized green infancy and correctly predicted would ripen first and then cuddled and gently squoze and mother henned over until it peed my hand and therefore was plucked, but it was still the #1 Tomato and hot damn was it good.

And its #2 was also good.

I'm actually not sure which one was #1 and which was #2. The numbering system is failing me. Shocking.

Since Tuesday, well, it's actually started looking a lot like summer out in the garden and some of those frustratingly green tomatoes have started to turn yellowish, orange-ish and in some cases, downright FINALLY red.

I call this shade of red, "FINALLY".
Now, you might think that with all the First Tomato Plans we've had in the past, that we'd have had similar plans for this year's first tomato. That maybe we were sitting nearby, sharpening the chef's knife against the steel, possibly drooling, and stacking up slices of toasted sourdough in anticipation of perhaps a beautiful #1 Tomato Sandwich, but you'd be wrong.

We had no plans. We had no bread. I don't even know how to properly use the steel to sharpen knives and, hey, I've got that proprietary tomato knife that's just taking up precious drawer space otherwise. So, when the #1 Tomato broke free of the the plant and sat its fat little butt down in my hand (followed by its buddy who did the same), it just became an odd part of our dinner that was already in progress.

Yeah. Normally potstickers and green beans aren't served with tomato wedges, but then normally I'm not so overwhelmed by green beans that the tomatoes take me by surprise.
As it turned out, fresh tomato isn't the worst accompaniment to sauteed fresh green beans in a soy tahini sauce and pork potstickers.

Frankly, I might just start making this dish with tomatoes on top from now on because, let's be honest, fresh tomatoes from the garden make everything better.

I'll have to try them on ice cream.

Or with a quesadilla.
I'm afraid I've been treating these tomatoes terribly. I mean, who honors the first tomatoes of the season by throwing them on a plate next to a quickie quesadilla and a bunch of Sun Gold cherry tomatoes that just happened to make their way all the way back to the house after a stroll through the garden?

Me. I'll save you the mental exercises. It's me. I do this. I spend all winter pining and planning and bemoaning the absence of fresh tomatoes only to pluck the first ones from the plants and then just throw them into any old thing I'm eating without any sort of celebration or parade or sacrificing of first borns.

I should be ashamed of myself.

Or I guess we can just look at it like I was so excited to have tomatoes again that I shoved aside all the pomp and circumstance and just let it happen.

Yes, let's look at it like that.

Though I do have plans for these guys.

Firstly, I must tame the plants because OH.

And by OH, I mean OH SHIT.
And also tonight, in preparation for the race that I feel woefully unprepared for tomorrow, I'll make the first tomato salad of the season with a tomato from today's impromptu Too Big For The Tea Mug harvest and some of the buttload of cucumbers that are shoving things out of the crisper and hope that the magic powers of the tomato extend to fortifying unprepared runners for a road race.

There's a Better Boy at the bottom. Which explains why this mug was immediately at capacity. Also, look at the cute bee on the rim. CUTE.

Yes. That will be a better way to honor the tomatoes. And get rid of some cucumbers. And distract me from the fact that I'm running a 10K tomorrow after spending my last Long Training Run drinking beer from a boot.

Good job, me. Go tomatoes.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

First things first.


It's been too long.

I mean, I really meant to post as soon as I got home from my fab weekend with Africankelli in Colorado and then right after the biggest moment of the year occurred and then when I remembered that HOLY SHIT I HAVE A RACE THIS WEEKEND AND NEED CONSOLING but, alas, stupid other things have gotten in the way.

Laundry. Work. Walking the dog to get cat food and then not wanting to leave her tied up outside because there was a freaky homeless dude in the only good tie up spot and I knew he'd steal her so I just took her into the store all illegal like and acted like Oh, having a dog in Walgreens is totally normal why are you looking at me weird.

You know, stupid other things.

Anyway - my weekend with Kelli was - of course and just like previous years' trips - completely 100% awesome and exhausting.

People, this woman - my very very good best friend Kelli - has boundless god damned energy. Seriously though. Just to prepare you for the recollection I'm about to share. Because you should know that it all happened in about 2 1/2 days.

I wonder if this girl even KNOWS me. Like, AT ALL. (Best welcome basket EVAR.)

Obviously. We begin every girls' trip with a happy hour. Any old hour will do.
You should know, the happiness only increases by the hour. So, we try out multiple happy hours.
It helps to have beautiful views while drinking heavily. Also, lightning! Fun bonus for drunk people.
This was as wide as my eyes would get. And I swear I'd only had, like, three drinks.
Cocktail desserts!
Hi. Have you had salted oreo cookie ice cream? No? Then you have not lived. A life I'd want to live anyway.
We're both working really hard here to have Not Drunk faces. I do not think we succeeded.
Hey! Fun! I've changed my outfit! And again. I'm trying to look Not Drunk. Yes, this was at lunch.
Guess it's hard to look Not Drunk here.
Well, wouldn't you know there's a beerfest in town. Oh damn.
Plus! Sheila who I love. And - handy - I happened to bring my Dirndl. Weird.
In case you were wondering what every dude I passed actually saw of my Dirndl. Yes. It's obscene. I just thought I'd put it right out there so you don't have to get all peepy on my photos. Unless, of course, you're a fan of the Biergarten Festival, because they definitely captured my best side.
We had our innocent moments with cute babies.
We visited Kelli's friend's uh-mazing garden. I tried to quietly hide out and not leave.
Plus, she has the sweetest puppy. Her name is Snap and LOVE.
Did I mention that Kelli's friend Jan is also a beekeeper? Yeah. We checked her bees. RADNESS.
Also, in being the MOSTESS HOSTESS, Kelli gave me my own dog for the weekend (the black one, Raja, was mine. The cute ass terrier is Kelli's).
Oh, and we went to my first game at Coors Field where the Rockies lost to the Brewers because who gives a crap. Go Giants!
Rockies, Brewers, who cares - new ballpark + margaritas are here.
And because you can't just always be a drunken ass, we went for a hike and a run.
Also, sweating.
Hey Colorado - quit being so fucking beautiful already!

 That Colorado - so sassy.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Team Melons - you're effed.


I say, "Dong" ever time I find a new cucumber on the plants. Or when I see a cucumber I've seen before on the plants. Or when I weigh one and it weighs almost half a pound. Or when Bubba walks around naked.

Because it's all dick jokes and gin cocktails around here, friends.

(Because of the cucumber garnish.)(GET THERE FASTER, PEOPLE.)

But seriously, Team Melons, you're looking a bit effed right now. And by, "effed", I mean SUPER FUCKED because your melons are moving slow as shit and the cucumbers have already put out two dongs. Even though the first one was the size of my thumb because it's one of those sour gherkin types that old Jews like pickled. Also, young Jews do, too. And naked gentiles!

Look, every strange niche audience loves kosher sour dill pickles, regardless of their size.

Also, I believe these audiences (and possibly others, though I can't speak for mainstream society because, obviously.) also enjoy watermelons. Which is unfortunate because the likelihood that we're going to see a lot of those this year, enough to feed the masses of freaks who love these fruits, is awfully slim.

Yeah. And this is the BIG one. EFFED.

It's not been hot enough for the watermelons, so they're not even putting out flowers yet. It's basically sad in the melons department. Like, they're alive, but they've clearly decided to rest on their laurels and just amuse passersby with stories of years passed, when they were big and abundant and being forced into too-small boxes against their will.

It was a glorious time of produce abuse to be sure. And they're really riding that gravy train. As though it will even get close to making up for their below average performance this year.


We'll see. Maybe temps will warm up and the melons will pick up the pace. Maybe the nasturtium will get the hell out of the way and let the melons drive. Maybe Bubba will walk out to the garden in the nude and give the watermelons some motivation to get to work.

...because obviously melons are motivated by things that look like cucumbers...YES! You get it.

...because Bubba usually walks around our yard nude while carrying cucumbers...YES! That's exactly what I meant.

I love how intuitive you guys are.

So yeah, that's the update on the bitter rivalry between boobs and dicks in my garden. Dicks - 2, Melons - 0.

Now I'm going to go spend the weekend with Africankelli, if you don't mind, because this gal really needs some girlfriend time and also a lot of drinks.

Monday, July 11, 2011

I need a helmet for my whole self.

In the last week I have accumulated more random injuries than I did in all of 2010. And not for any really good reason.
Firstly - I got in an altercation with our printer and walked away with a chunk out of my hand after a disagreement over what "Calibrating" should entail.

I think you'll agree that when a device displays "Calibrating" on its nearly unintelligible display, that at some point it finishes "Calibrating" and then does what ever the fuck it was told to do.

Well, my printer disagreed, and for that I had to beat it into submission. It thought, before I laid down the smack of a lifetime, that "Calibrating" was an everlasting status and its soul purpose on this spinning green and blue planet and so therefore was going to continue on in this manner until it ceased to exist.

And cease to exist it nearly did, because I was so sick of seeing "Calibrating" on its display that I lost nearly all of my shit and actually punched the machine. Repeatedly. Seriously - I gave that thing a round the horn beating of a lifetime. Then, I turned it off, turned it back on and HELLO success.

And they say hitting doesn't solve problems. BEG TO DIFFER, people. Beg to differ.

So, that accounts for injury #1: Cut on palm of hand. Blood on walls of server closet.

Injury #2 is a bit less, let's say - infantile in origin - abrasions on right knee, right wrist, right hip, right shoulder

See - I finally pulled my act together, made some poorly conceived promises out loud to myself and Bubba and began riding my bike to work a few weeks ago. You know, couple days a week, pedal the old roadbike to the office and back because of The Biggest Loss of My Adult Life also known as the expiration of the Hybrid HOV stickers on 7/1/11.

Well, that's all fine and dandy until sand happens. Yeah - some people use the old cliched phrase, "Shit Happens" and I am now petitioning to have it changed to "Sand Happens". Because it does. On the sides of speed bumps which I'm trying to avoid while riding the 20 miles home on my very light road bike with very narrow tires.

These tires, they do not handle road debris well. If the debris is too large or pointy, they blow. If the debris is too small and numerous, they slide. If the roads are wet, they slip. It's a bit dangerous I suppose, but the fucking thing is fast as hell, so I am coping with it.

Except for last Friday when I went to avoid the mild jarring sensation of going over a speed bump by stupidly going to the side of it and then scritchhhhhhhhhVOOPCRASH I was laying on the sidewalk staring at the world sideways with my bike still clipped to both shoes.

Hello, glamorous.

I walked away with a gash on my leg, scrapes and bruises on my wrist, hip and shoulder. Good times. I'm just glad the bike was in one piece. Which it confirmed it was after I got up, dusted myself off, ignored the blood leaking out of my knee and asked the bike in my most concerned voice, "Are we OK, bike? Ready to go?"

Yeah - I'm mostly retarded. But if someone had questioned me, I'd have just said that I hit my head rather hard and to leave me the fuck alone. Good thing I was in the middle of nowhere so no one felt compelled to check on my well-being.

Injury #3 -  I tripped over a shitty pointy shrub in the dark while taking the dog to pee at a gas station in Idontknowwhere.

Yeah - not even sure how this happened, but I am now more than ever in love with the fancy gas station on I80 that has a dog park attached because I've never once opened up my entire toe on a poorly pruned and nearly invisible shrub there.

My big toe had a chunk taken out of it that's about the size of a tic-tac. Seriously. Blood everywhere. Bubba thought I was being a weirdo wuss emerging from the darkness with the dog and a limp until he saw my toe and the blood trail leading to the parking strip with the Evil Shrub. I should go back and make a chalk outline of my toe, but I won't.

Injury #4 - I'm not sure if these are considered actual injuries, in fact I'm sure they're not, but they're so fucking annoying, I am lumping them in with the shit I mentioned above. Plus, they've helped me develop a new theory about why it's dangerous to be a klutz in the summer months.

See, I have some injuries, as you might have heard, and they have not yet begun to fully heal. So, you know, I'm a bit scabby on my arms and legs. Which - whatever - it happens when you're a grown-up but act like a 9 year old. The thing that blows is that these scabby exposed wounds apparently attract mosquitoes.

Why would I make that connection? I'll tell you - people who are probably closer to being scientists than I am - this is the first time I've ever had a mosquito bite ON MY TOE.

What kind of fucking mosquito bites someone on the damn toe? COWARDS, these mosquitoes.

Also, I have four bites on my right leg, all around the lovely knee gash from the aforementioned biking incident.

So, the fact that I have 5 mosquito bites all localized around open wounds and Bubba, formerly known as Senor Mosquito Bait, has ZERO, leads me to believe that not only can mosquitoes smell blood, they fucking flock toward it, and if you have any open wounds, you better cover that shit up otherwise consider yourself an all points bulletin to the hungry blood suckers whizzing about the summer air.

So yeah - that's about it. I have a bunch of cuts, gouges, scrapes and bruises and mosquito bites all in various stages of healing, bleeding, itching and turning glorious shades of blue, so there may not be any skirts in my immediate future unless I want to defend Bubba and my relationship to any onlookers.

Seriously - it looks like he spent the weekend beating me and then leaving out for the animals to pick apart.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

The garden is the boss of me

I know you super master menu planners are out there, all with your weekly menus and corresponding shopping lists and meals that are not 100% green beans, and that is all fine and good but what do you do with all the green beans?

What I'm saying is, we have a lot of green beans right now.

And the tepee looks on while hatching its next batch of beans.

And before that, we had a lot of lettuce.

And coming soon - we'll have a lot of tomatoes. And then melons.

We only get things in lots around here. Because of the garden. (And if you want to see what all's coming in from the garden - the tracker is updated.)

So, that means that we have dinner based on what there is a lot of. So, you might say that the garden is my menu planner and corresponding shopping lists wrapped up in one handy friendly package.

I say, the garden is the boss of me and - make no mistake about it - if I cross it, there will be hell to pay. In the form of giant tough green beans that can't be pawned off on anyone regardless of their lack of taste in produce.

You can't just slap a "Hey, this is local and organic" on a giant overgrown green bean and have people accept it. Not around here anyway - we're all such snobby produce wanters.

Anyway, so we have green beans, as you've likely heard.

When I'm first harvesting a crop, I get very crushy about it. I take its picture a thousand times and then, when I'm sick of them, the photos make me ill. So, in a few weeks, this photo will have me barfing.

And, since the garden is so totally the boss of me, I went out to the garden to figure out what we were having for dinner last night and confirmed that, yes, green beans were definitely on the menu.

Hooray. I mean, HOORAY! I'm still at that point in the season where I want to eat the beans. Because we've only had them for a few weeks now and the farmshare hasn't started loading up on them, but that's about to change this week so my HOORAY! will so be WHAT THE FUCK ENOUGH ALREADY, but you'll know when we get there.

If only just based on the amount of swears you see here. If I had one of those word cloud things, it'd probably change over the next few weeks to the point where the only big bold words would be GREEN BEANS and FUCKING A but I don't, so you're spared.


Yes, let's get back to hooray because TINY TIMES - I picked our #1 Tomato last night!

It's only BIG TIMES when it's a standard tomato. But I'll take it. For now.

It's more like HOORAY! since it's only a cherry tomato, but still, I got excited. Particularly after I hunted and poked and bent in ways that are unseen outside of Bikram in order to find this tomato that I *knew* existed somewhere in the depths of the Sun Gold tomato plant that is totally overrun by the nasturtium right now.

Someone save us. Please.

They are one, the Sun Golds and the nasturtium, and that makes it hard to find the Sun Golds in the mass of plants.

Did you know that Sun Golds AND nasturtium are a golden yellow color? Because they are. And I knew that, too, but when the little nasturtium started voluntarily sprouting all over the god damned place I didn't pull them out because awwwwwwww they're volunteers and now I have a confusing mess on my hands.

OK, so these are peppers and nasturtium, but you get the color thing. Good job.

Specifically, I have yellow nasturtium growing in, up and amongst the Sun Gold tomatoes and red nasturtium growing in, up and amongst the Better Boy tomatoes and...well...I'm in for a lot of disappointment this summer because I've already gone in after THE FIRST TOMATO OH MY GOD so many times only to pull back a handful of red nasturtium flowers.

Which admittedly are pretty, but NOT AT ALL delicious like a red ripe tomato, and so I foresee a season of OH, it's only a nasturtium.


Meanwhile, I've gotten off track.

What I wanted to tell you guys was that the garden, in its infinite wisdom and overflowing bounty, told me that we'd be having beans, 1 tomato and basil for dinner last night and I'd better just dust off my brains and figure out how to make that into an edible meal.

Good job, dusty brains.

We had a lovely and very local pasta primavera-ish dish where the most exotic and far-reaching item was the whole wheat pasta from Trader Joe's and the localest (oh yes, localest) item was the basil, since it sits a bit closer to my kitchen than the beans do.

The squash came from the farmshare and OH how I was happy to dispatch that crop before it went moldy and nast in my crisper. Yeach.

If you're wondering where the tomato sauce came from, well, I think you know that I had a few tomatoes last year and that I canned a few of them and froze a few of them and I've been making sauce from them in anticipation of the newly someday arriving 2011 tomato crops and this time they ended up as the tomato in the pasta primavera-ish dish.

So - again - localest!

And that is how the garden became the boss of me. Also, it pointed its finger at me and shouted, "BOW DOWN MINION" and I did so obediently, but I assumed you have experienced similar things so have until now left it unsaid.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

A video where you will probably see dog poop.

I was picking beans this morning and remembered that someone had said something about "Enough with the bees. What about a tour of the garden?"

Then I went back to picking beans. Because, well, I like picking beans. Especially when I'm on the shady side of the bean tepee where it's not 90 degrees at 8:30am.

Yeah, it's been hot. It's like the weather was all, "Oh, shit - it's 4th of July weekend. We can't have cool weather. People need to sweat their clothes transparent on 4th of July otherwise up will become down and right will become wrong. The world will end! Therefore - let's be hot. Like REAL hot. Like Hide In The House And Watch Le Tour De France Hot."

And then it was. Hot, that is.

And we watched the Tour. And braved the heat to bike for tacos. During which time I wore a skirt and flip flops and rejoiced in the glory that is riding my bike in a skirt. And then we came back home supah quick and lay prone and still in front of the Tour some more. And then napping and cocktailing happened, followed by more cocktails, BBQ with the neighbors, spooning with Jada who does NOT enjoy fireworks (or spooning, except when it's either that or fireworks) and passing out with the attic fan whipping up a tornado in our house in an effort to cool things down because you know we don't have A/C.

Yeah, so this was supposed to be an intro to the video that I took of the garden and I sort of got off track telling you about my 4th of July weekend. Oh well. Now you know I like to ride my bike in a skirt and force the dog to spoon with me.

I'm sure you're better for knowing that.

For the video though...

I was out at the beans, balancing on the back of the garden spying chair trying to get the ones at the very tippy top that I can never reach so who knows why I insisted on having a tepee so fucking tall, when I remembered the video thing. And since I'm very lazy and don't like anything to come between me and my second greatest love of harvesting (Bubba is the first, gin is the third, running is the 542nd and so on), I put the nagging reminder out of my head until I had half a basket of beans picked and was then faced with either moving around to the sunny side of the tepee where it was 90 degrees and rising OR going into the house in search of the camera.

I think you know I went into the house in search of the camera because EW.

It's been hot. And I wasn't quite ready to do HOT again so immediately. Also, wearing a black tank top did not help things.

Anyway. I got the camera and made sure to look over the fences to make sure that my neighbors weren't over there to hear me talking to my camera like a psycho and then I did a little walking, poking and rambling tour of the vegetables, lavender and miscellaneous fruit trees.

For you guys. Because someone I like a lot asked for a video tour of the garden and who am I to turn down a request for self-promotion? No one. That's who. And, hey, I even threw in some non-garden stuff for good measure. Because I'm a giver like that.

The bees make an appearance. Not a meaningful one, but they're there and they say, "Hi."

Also, Jada was kind enough to set aside her busy schedule of napping in different shady spots and looking bored to take us in and out of the video. Thankfully, she decided to save her butt licking for an off-camera moment.

So yeah - if you've ever wondered what it's like to wander through my vegetable garden at around the mid-summer mark, here you go.

I will admit right here, up front before you go pressing Play, that my commentary is the result of 4 days of intense heat that has cooked the personality right out of my soul. So, I'm boring. BUT - if you guys like this kind of thing and want more - I can swear more or do a cartwheel next time I film one of these things.

Your call. Except no cartwheels.