Oh, great, now I've got an audience

I woke up a couple of Sundays ago to the sound of Little League.

"You've gotta CATCH those fly balls, Kevin! Come on! You're not even trying! CATCH! THE! BALL!"

Very relaxing. They usually don't even PLAY on Sundays, but thanks to this spring's monsoons, they're way behind and making up games.

So, I got up and got showered and dressed and decided to do some gardening, i.e., dig around in the flowerbeds like I know what I'm doing.

First on the agenda was moving some tiger lilies to the side yard. Two successfully made the trip; the third, well ... sorry, tiger lily. See you next year? I mean, your roots are still in the ground, amiright?

The ferns I had stolen rescued from the park last year and planted along the back of the house were doing really well, so I decided to put some more in. I dug some holes, grabbed the bucket and the hand trowel, and headed through the park to the woods where the bamboo is taking over. See? I'm really doing those ferns a favor, because the bamboo takes over everything in its path, and those poor ferns won't even BE there next year, thanks to the bamboo, BUT! They can have a home in my backyard, poor things.

I'm generous like that.

So anyway, I'm headed through the park, and there is yet another Little League game in full swing, or maybe it's the same one from earlier, I have no idea, they all kind of blend into each other when the games start at 9 a.m. and don't wrap up until after 7:30 at night. And I'm feeling kind of self-conscious, passing by the game, except for, shit, the ball field is at least a hundred yards away, and everybody's watching the game and hooting and yelling, not paying attention to little ol' me with my bucket and trowel.


I dig up the ferns, which is a SNOT, because those things have big old tap roots which are hard to break through, especially since I refuse to bring my shovel, because: Walking through the park with a bucket and hand trowel? Semi-normal. Walking through the park with a bucket and a shovel? You're about to bury a corpse.

ANYWAY, I get the ferns, walk back PAST the ball game, and get them lovingly planted in the ground. Except, maybe not so lovingly, since one of them promptly kicked the bucket. That's the weird thing about ferns: Five out of six will take to their new home just FINE, but that sixth one? Will die, like, instantly. Sorry, fern number six. The bamboo would've got ya, anyway. (Me: Queen of Justification.)


And then, I decided to take a walk. (I know: THRILLING! I am getting to the point, here. Finally.) I head out of my yard and start walking past the cars parked at the ball field, when this random baseball dad, who was headed for his car, says, "What were you getting from the woods?"

And I'm, like, "excuse me?"

And he says, "Was it strawberries? I saw you with the bucket - were you picking strawberries?"

Dude was watching me.

Creepy.

I explained how I was digging up ferns. Ferns that were about to be consumed by the bamboo. Ferns that were not going to make it thanks to the pervasive bamboo and NO OF COURSE I AM NOT STEALING hahahahahaha

and he said OK well nice talking to you and got into his car.

hmmmmm

I was being watched.

Now that I've got an audience, does this mean I need to put on a show? I sure hope not. I never was any good at that talent-show kind of crap.

... waaaaaait a minute .... I DID get that Dancing with Cats book at the booksale ...

HAHAHAHAHA NO.

I'm already the neighborhood crazy lady, thankyouverymuch.

Plus, Little League is almost over for the year, anyway.