Patsy Porco

Archive for the ‘Summer’ Category

Ode to July

In Humor, Summer on July 20, 2017 at 11:32 pm

 

sunflowers

 

 

fireworksI wait all year for you to show

And when you do, my heart’s aglow

I wear few clothes, but just enough

To hide the cellulite and stuff.

 

 

hotdogs

 

Your days are long and hot and funbeach

The water’s warm from all the sun

We swim, we picnic, we yell at raccoons

Who knock over our trashcans under the moon.

 

raccoon

 

Rudy and Otto 4

Every day in July is a gift from aboveflip flops

There’s so much to do and so much to love

Swimming, sunbathing, water sports

Baseball, hotdogs, flip-flops, shorts.

 

 

yankees

 

Growing a garden, eating outsidesunset

Cutting fresh flowers, avoiding riptides

Biking, ice cream, watching the sunset

Kids, pets, adults … all soaking wet.

 

 

watermelon

 

ice-cream-cone-1274894_960_720As long as it is, with its 31 days

It still goes by fast, in a sun-drenched haze

So, don’t bitch to me about the heat

Or I’ll kick you with my sunburned feet.

 

 

feet

 

All photos were free/royalty-free from Pixabay.

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A Summer Dinner Party

In Humor, Summer on August 2, 2016 at 9:47 pm

I’m working in my office on the second floor of our house and the windows next to my desk are open. It’s 9:30 p.m. My next-door neighbor has been having a dinner party on her deck for the last few hours. She’s well into her eighties. So are some of her guests. Judging from their voices, there are also some people there who are middle-aged. One of the men has an Australian accent. There is also a young man who is 21. I know this because I heard them trying to figure out how old he was in 2004, when some event they were discussing occurred. One woman said he was ten, but then someone else said that he was only nine because he was born in November and it wasn’t November yet.

Initially, I closed my windows, but it got stuffy so I opened them again. It’s enjoyable to hear them having a good time outside. Summer is so fleeting and outdoor parties are wonderful, even if you’re only eavesdropping on them. I keep getting drawn into listening to their conversations. I caught myself several times before I yelled a comment out the window. My work, needless to say, is going very slowly.

One woman is loud, with a capital L. One man talks over everyone else. The Australian, sadly, doesn’t talk much. It’s a treat when he pipes up with a comment in that sexy accent. Oooh, he’s talking now. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but how he’s saying it is enchanting.

So far, they’ve discussed everything from how to convert Celsius into Fahrenheit, the 2016 presidential election, the song, “Hot Legs,” Warren Zevon, YouTube, casinos, and wearing war paint as kids. The conversation topics change quickly, as they do at parties. Occasionally, the loud woman yells out, “Woo-Hoo!” or “Loser!” and then cackles demonically. One man announced that he’s having a “Casino Night” at his house. I wish I could go, but I’m busy that night.

It’s dark now and the party continues. The loud woman is now, for some reason, talking in a stage whisper. It sounds like there are several different conversations going on at once. It’s hard to concentrate. I guess I might as well get back to work.

I have to say that I really enjoyed this summer deck party. Summer deck parties beat winter indoor parties any day. Even if you’re an uninvited guest.

 

The First Weekend of Summer

In cookouts, Humor, Summer on June 27, 2016 at 1:34 am

If you recall, a few weeks ago, I tried to sell giant hosta plants from my garden on an online garage-sale site, but the site’s administrator asked me to take down my post because my plants were not hosta, but garden-variety weeds. Several people I know asked why the site’s administrator cared if I was selling weeds, as long as they weren’t illegal ones.

I agreed with them, but I preferred not to look like a moron who thought giant weeds were hosta, so I took down the post and spent this Saturday ripping those plants up by the roots. Then today, my husband and I went to a backyard party hosted by our friends, a husband and wife we’ve known for years. While we were there, the husband showed me his very impressive vegetable garden. He was especially pleased with the progress that his rhubarb was making. I took a closer look at the rhubarb and realized that I might have just thrown out ten or fifteen of those plants. The rhubarb plants sure looked like my weeds. But then again, so did hosta. I’m glad that the plants are gone, though. This way, there’s no temptation to make a rhubarb pie that might turn out to be a weed pie.

After the garden tour, we went over to the screened-in deck, where a few of the younger guests were comparing their tattoos. Only one of the older people there had a tattoo — the rhubarb-growing husband. His tattoo was temporary, and was bought and applied by his wife. Temporary or not, his was the popular favorite.

Mike's tattoo

When we got home, I was inspired to check on my vegetable garden. I know that what I planted are actually vegetables because I bought seed packets and they were clearly marked with words and pictures. My vegetables aren’t showing any progress yet, but that’s to be expected since I just planted them a week ago.

The bird feeder, on the other hand, has seen lots of action. I have one of those square suet cages that you fill with a cake composed of congealed fat and seeds. There are small openings in the cage so that only birds can feed from it. Somebody didn’t tell the squirrels, though. For the past few mornings, they’ve been hanging upside down from the lattice fencing around our deck, grabbing the cage with their little squirrel hands, and demolishing the suet. I’ve refilled that cage three times so far this week.

Always the optimist, I also bought a cylindrical bird feeder that is guaranteed to attract finches, and a bag of bird seed. I don’t even know if Connecticut has finches, but since I wouldn’t recognize one anyway, any bird is welcome. Yesterday, I put the new feeder and the bag of seed on our picnic table out on the deck. Today, while we were at the party, my brother was at our house, and he said that he looked out the window and saw at least six squirrels romping on the table. The squirrels had poked holes in the bag and were gorging on the seeds and drunkenly tossing handfuls into the air. He politely told them to go away, and when they ignored him, he threw flip-flops at them until they left. Then he hid the seeds.

After relating this harrowing experience, he suggested that I consider washing down the table before our next cookout. I definitely will, with bleach. But things could have been worse. My next-door-neighbor regularly sees raccoons copulating in broad daylight on her picnic table. Washing that table wouldn’t be an option. I’d have to burn it.

Dispatches from the Asylum

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