I love fog even more than I love rain. Especially when the sun breaks through, then I get to use the word crepuscular, which, as we have established, is a really disgusting sounding word for such a lovely sight.

Just enough time for a foggy jump before school.

Yeah, I know I said I love rain, and I do, truly. But as in all relationships, familiarity breeds contempt. Or if not contempt, then at least ennui. After ten days of significant rainfall, the cracks were beginning to show in the relationship, and the aroma of damp dog was becoming overwhelming.

This morning there is sun, and I am happy to see it.

When my friend Sharon visited back in the spring, she brought me some pepper seeds, addressing both my love of spicy food and growing things in general. I was thrilled when the peppers actually sprouted, more thrilled when they bloomed, and damn near beside myself when the blooms turned into little baby peppers.

I’ve been checking every day waiting for the first one to get ripe. Last Sunday I looked and it was just the most glowing shade of vibrant red, pure perfection. I snipped the little sweetie off it’s stem and rushed back inside. “Look!” I said to the husband, who was getting himself some more coffee. “Our first pepper! Let’s eat it right now!” I rinsed it off, and cut it in half.  We each popped our pepper half in our mouth.

Then our lips melted off our faces, and our heads burst right into flames.

Both of us rushed for the ice-maker. It was seriously the hottest pepper we’d ever eaten, and we are no lightweights in that department. It looked so innocent, so cute. See what I mean? It’s a dollhouse pepper. How could anything that cute and tiny burn the face right off your head?

About two hours later the husband walked past me and said, “My lips just stopped burning.”

This morning, in a rare burst of sunshine, I went outside for a quick wander around the garden and stopped to look at the demon pepper plant. I was stunned to see that several of the peppers had been eaten down to the seeds, just munched right off the stalks. I had seen chipmunks around the planter, and if they were eating these peppers, well, that would explain how they were able outrun the owls and hawks around here. Little flaming turbo jets shooting out your furry butts will cause a predator to think twice.

Looking closer I found this guy. Quite possible the toughest creature on the planet, considering that in two days he has eaten six of those peppers.

I would imagine he is going to morph over the winter into Mothra, and come out in the Spring shooting flames out his antennae.

And hell, yes, I saved those seeds.

It has been raining here for days now. I know there are people (especially those being evacuated from their houses in boats) who might be moments away from a breakdown because of this, but I actually rather like it. And oddly enough my strategy of embracing my busy week and not expecting to get any real work done was a roaring success. I actually was able to get some actual work done, and it was even better than if I’d spent uninterrupted hours on it.

In other news, the house guest’s visit was 99% uneventful. Sure I woke up once to hear things getting a bit shouty in the living room after midnight, but that’s to be expected, and perhaps even encouraged since it can get pretty funny. But there was no puking, and only a brief glimpse of semi-nudity, thanks to underwear that has obviously been purchased in the last calendar year. This was a flying visit, sixteen hours total, so we may have found the key to success, brevity, sweet brevity.

This is one of those weeks when I will get no work done. I have found it’s easier on me mentally to just admit that upfront. Then if I do manage to accomplish something work related, it’s like a prize. There are holidays, business stuff, and insurance reps, dinner guests, and ooh, hey! Remember this? Or this, Part Deux? You’ll have to scroll down below the pic for the full story. Note to self: Find a better hiding place for the good booze.

Yeah…the House Guest of Doom is scheduled for a visit. Once again I am torn between hoping for an uneventful visit, and wishing he’d do something so egregious that it causes him to be banned for life. Although, at this point, I can’t even imagine what that would be. Who knows what we’ll get this time. Semi-nude martial arts in full view of the neighbors? Kitchen implements used for personal hygiene? At the very least there will be seismic snoring from the guest room for 12 to 14 hours at a stretch.

Also, today is our anniversary. The hubs is a sentimental guy and puts lots of stock in these sort of things. Emotionally, I’d have to say I am the guy in this relationship. I’m the one who forgets and then dashes out to buy a card at the last minute, which doesn’t really stack up against his Day of Misty-Eyed Remembrance and Baked Goods. I try and make up for my general callousness with really funny cards.

What can I say? My parents weren’t big on anniversary celebrations. Well, maybe it was just my dad. In an effort to prove this, my mother gave my dad the same anniversary card for several years in a row, and it was something like five years before he recognized it. Literally, it was the same card over and over. She would give it to him at breakfast, he’s look surprised, read it, and then admit that he forgot their anniversary. She’d put the card away and give it back to him the next year. It wasn’t until my sisters and I were in on the joke and giggling like mad when he opened the card that he suspected he was being played.

A few months ago my friend and fellow artist (and commenter) Athena and I were having coffee and she mentioned that the musical Wicked was coming here on her birthday, but that no one in her family wanted to go. I offered to go with her, and tickets were bought. We went last night, and it was really, really great.

Usually it seems like musicals either started out as a bunch of good songs with some half-assed attempt to string them together in a narrative or a pretty good story that someone insisted on slapping a bunch of really overblown songs onto. See? I am not the target audience. Not easily impressed at all. Not only did I not leave regretting spending money on the ticket, I happily gave them even more money for my very own flying monkey.*

So, thanks Athena, for suggesting we go see the show. I was blown away by the whole production. I looked through the other offerings in the Broadway series this year, and I am just so thankful that you didn’t suggest Little House on the Prairie: The Musical (What I said above? Prime example.) They are proudly advertising that Melissa Gilbert will be playing Ma. I’m sure there will be a musical number called Half-Pint. Click on that link to experience…well…ummm…don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I like you a lot Athena; you are a really good friend, but I am afraid I’d have had to pass on that one.

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*Absolutely the best thing about being an adult (besides drinking liquor legally) is being able to buy the silly crap that you would have begged your parents for when you were a kid.

** Careful observers, and those who have been to my house, will notice the flying monkey exactly matches my home’s color scheme. As if I needed another reason to buy him.

Oh, yes. I kept working with the shot from a few posts back. You know, whenever I need a break from my assignment. I’m not shirking, just refreshing my point of view.

Right now life, family and work are intruding on each other with frustrating frequency.  I feel like I am spinning my wheels most days. If I have one especially productive day, it seems like the next three or four are crammed with interruptions and commitments that keep me from getting anything done. For instance, we need to get a railing made for the stairs at the end of the patio. Yesterday the husband decides it’s the perfect day to go visit the wrought iron company that made our gates. I suggested he just call and let the guy come have a look at the existing gates, measure accurately, and go on about his iron-making. The husband is sure we don’t need to do that. So we spend an hour in the blazing sun on a slab of concrete painstakingly measuring and diagramming the steps. Then we get in the car and drive across town, walk into the shop and tell them what we need and the guy at the desk says, “Oh, we won’t do a custom job unless our guy comes out and measures. It’s for your protection, really. If we go by this, and it doesn’t fit, then you’re on the hook for something you can’t use.”

See what I mean? Two hours of my rather limited work time shot to hell.

This morning I was going through the photos I had downloaded off my back-up camera, when I found these shots of the sunset as we were on our way to Amsterdam.