My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I'm a mite peckish because I dressed for my dance class this morning and woke early to go to the island to visit the baby before my class and the effing West Seattle Bridge was closed. Grrrrrrrrr. And the detour signs sent me to east Jesus and I finally got on the ferry much later and got lost on Vashon---finally found the house and the wee babe and sweet family but, ah, my morning was blown.

I cam back to the house to find that Fiona had escaped the chicken yard and Heidi, my tenant, had rounded her up and put her back. But I looked into their yard and Ethel was missing. I scouted my neighbor's yard, no Ethel. I went into my front yard and underneath the dogwood was Ethel, bucking away. I chased her around for a while, got Heidi and some towels and crouched in the underbrush to ambush her--and a wasp stung me on the ankle. I ignored it until Ethel was cornered. I grabbed one of her legs and hung her upsidedown while she frantically flapped and squawked. I managed to get her back to her yard, limping now from the searing pain in my ankle.

So I decided I'm not having an allergic reaction and as long as my ankle doesn't blow up the size of a football, I'll be fine. Ice and some baking soda paste but ow, it hurts like a fucker.

And everyone and their mother is at the lake, all the places I usually have to myself. I always think they shouldn't get to be in MY park because I'm devoted and they're fair weather visitors. I mean, what's so terrible about Seward Park in the rain and wind?

And the boats! Sheesh, there must be a hundred boats down in the cove and not just little rowboats but ginormous yachts, zillion dollar boats on a lake. Really, people?

Meanwhile my ankle throbs and stings and gives me the chills.

So I'm grumpy, even though I have the NYT to read and house is peaceful and quiet. At least July 4th is over and my neighborhood doesn't sound like Beirut.

I can complain if I want, dammit.