telling tales out of class . . .

Monday, shamed by the Homeowners Association meeting, I did some weeding, bagged the results and set them on top of another bag to wait for pick up day. Yesterday, I dragged both bags to the curb. Yesterday, was also Frank's first solo outing . . . he took his baby to the tire store. Just three short minutes after he departed, I get a call announcing he had run over one of the weed bags while backing out of the driveway and would I please clean up the mess. Grumble, grumble, grumble. I pouted for twenty minutes or so before meandering out, fresh trash bag in hand, to clean up the mess. There on the curb was bag #2. Bag #1 was no where to be seen. But there was a trail. Not a thick you-can-sweep-it-up trail, but still an obvious trail. It led from the curb, around the cul-de-sac and off down the street. I followed it like some wayward blood hound toward the entrance to the neighborhood, expecting any minute to see the remains of the bag. Nothing. Just the thin trail of dust and dirt fading off into the sunset.

When Frank returned, he did mention that someone pointed out the remnant of a black plastic bag hanging from his left front wheel well. Sigh. Now you understand why I am better off not weeding.

Today, we ran errands. One of them entailed a visit to Target where Frank snagged himself an electric buggy. He sat a stride the beast and took off with a hearty Hi-Ho-Silver. Away! Of course I think he tried to run down half the other patrons (and me), with his lean mean traveling machine. You should have seen us scatter. Then there was the end cap display he nicked . . . and the precarious corner he made in the garden section. With a maniacal gleam in his eye, he complained about its lack of speed and its one 'square' tire . . . . Surely he was channeling Mr. Toad. What a terror! They were glad to see us go.

Note to self: Remove the link to my blog from Frank's computer. He is not fond of me telling some of our adventures . . . this could be one of them.