4-26-07


Maybe we should call it “Lucky Acres” instead of “Crooked Acres”. (Nance, when I saw these four-leaf clovers, I felt very joyful indeed. Heh!)

* * *

It occurs to me that I didn’t mention that the pond – the one in the back yard we’re paying someone to fill in – isn’t a naturally-occurring pond. It was a man-made pond, and the only thing filling it up is rainwater (there’s no spring), which is why it gets so low all the time. I don’t know if the previous owners did any kind of research as to where the best place on the land would be to dig a pond, or if they were like “Oh, it’s always kind of wet here. This is a good spot!” (that’s probably what we would have done!) or what, but like I mentioned, it’s taking up prime real estate and doesn’t stay full enough to keep fish, so we’re fillin’ it in.

* * *

Monday I packed up the pantry, since Fred and the spud aren’t using anything in there anyway (I left oatmeal for Fred and cans of ravioli for the spud so they wouldn’t starve to death). I came across a bottle of Kraft Light Done Right Bleu Cheese dressing, and paused.

“This dressing looks odd,” I said to myself. “I wonder if it’s out of date?”

The best-by date? September 2005.

GAH.

(Needless to say, that bottle didn’t make it to Crooked Acres.)

* * *

Since I’ve been living in Crooked Acres, I’ve slept with my cell phone beside me at night (though I don’t need to do that anymore, since we’ve got real phones hooked up now!). Sometimes late at night the spud will text message me with a question or to tell me something, and I can just roll over, read her message, and text her back.

Saturday night, my cell phone beeped to let me know I had a text message. I rolled over, looked at who the message was from, and didn’t recognize the number.

The text message: Hey.

I responded: ?

They said: Your pictures will look good no matter what.

Honestly, I thought maybe a reader had found my cell phone number and knew that flattery is the key to my heart.

I said: Who is this?

They said: Spencer I sent you the wrong thing.

I figured they realized they’d been texting a wrong number, and rolled over and went back to sleep.

Ten minutes later, my cell phone beeped again.

They said: Hey.

I responded: ?

They said: Talk to me.

I said: Dude, you’re texting a wrong number.

They said: Who are you

I said: Robyn Anderson

(What I wanted to say: YOUR MOTHER. Now go to bed!)

And I didn’t hear back from them again.

I should totally send them a bill for the 10 cents per text message I’m going to be charged on the next cell phone bill. Though I guess I should have told them first thing they had the wrong number.

* * *


“Daddy’s home! DADDY’S HOME!” (Mister Boogers does not hate the Daddy.)

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Previously
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.

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