It seems as if the only thing I can count on, is the fact that I can't count on things to go as planned. Flexibility is becoming my middle name. As you have all heard (ad nauseum), a lot gets packed into my two "free" days a week. This past weekend was no different - Saturday (as originally planned): All laundry washed, hung out to dry; fast trip to feed mill to stock up 'cause prices are going through the roof; trip down to pick up the Guinea keets I finally located; oh-right, finish cleaning out the small coop for same; the regular chores; neighbor for dinner.
|My partial list (look familiar, Sylvie?)|
Saturday (as actually occurred): came home Friday evening to find Scrappy listless and limping slightly. Saturday - called vet at 6A to plead for appointment. Took Scrappy to vet to discover he had Lyme's Disease - now I am adding medication twice a day for 30 days to our schedule. I did get the feed and I did do my regular chores. And I did have my neighbor over for dinner. And the only reason I did get all the laundry done, was that I woke up at 2:30A Saturday morning and couldn't go back to sleep.
|Scrappy - giving us his 'pathetic' look.|
Here is where the adult supervision comes in.
So, that left Sunday. The plan? Go north to the blueberry farm for my annual picking day, leaving the house early - to miss both the heat, the traffic and the crowds; visit parents; get gas (in Vermont, where it's over 15 cents a gallon cheaper); clean the house; process the blueberries; iron for the week. Have all this done by 4:30P, so I could sit down with a glass of wine and watch my Netflix movie.
The reality: I do not want to get out of bed at 4:30A, when dogs woke me; I poke around doing everything but getting ready for the day; go out to find that everything living needed water; water same; chores; load eggs for farmers market and cooler for blueberries (and my homegrown veggies for Mom) in car; realize I have to move 150# of feed out of car and into various bins; dose Scrappy and give them both guilt chewies; leave house almost an hour later than planned. By the time I had dropped off the eggs and driven up to the blueberry farm (usually an hour's drive, when one is NOT behind every octogenarian for six states - all going where you're going, or so it seems), it was hot and there was a crowd. Blech. I usually - make that always
- go picking with someone else. Normally, that is Melanie, her daughter, and Marianne. I couldn't go with Melanie and her daughter last weekend, and Marianne is up to her lovely elbows in family stuff, so that left moi. I planned to pick my usual 10# of berries in an hour.
Two+ hours later, in the hot sun, I had picked 22# of blueberries. There is something about meandering around in the rows of blueberries, listening to the birds and the annoying-but-necessary birds of prey recordings, that can just make you lose track of time. Plus, it was a fascinating chance to look into human behavior. This is also known as practicing nosey-ness. Lots of families out picking blueberries - with a few, it was a bonafide fun outing for the whole family. For most, the 'fun' lasted about 5 minutes and then the full-blown whining started. And that was just the adults (kidding!) At one point, I kept hearing a fellow yakking away, but I didn't hear his companion's response. So I sidled down a few rows and -- yep -- there he was on his cell phone. I looked at him in disbelief and said, loudly, "Oh, fercryinoutloud! Is there no place on this planet that is sacred?!" He gave me a frightened look and moved a half-acre down. Fine with me. Harumph.
Needless to say, by the time I dragged my soggy, overheated self back to my car and dragged my two large buckets up for weighing, visited with my parents (briefly) - my mother almost literally ran to get me a glass of iced tea - and went home, you better believe not much else happened. No house cleaning was done. No ironing was done. No dinner was cooked. No movie was viewed. I did manage to foist off about a half-pound of berries on my mother and another 5# to Kay. This morning, when I opened the fridge, there it sat. A large, broken, blue plastic bucket, filled to the brim with blueberries. Staring balefully at me. Is there a support group for over-pickers?