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I've come to the conclusion that I should probably keep appropirate* clothes near to the door in future. I can imagine very few instances where answering the door half-dressed is advantageous; yes, it scares off fundies, but doesn't dissuade salesmen. The final nail in that coffin is that I'm not aware of the existence of an Association for Random Hot Homosexual Sex, further limiting the situations where partial nakedness is helpful at the door.
Take today, for instance. It's 11:30, and not very long after waking from a particularly enjoyable sleep-in. Suddenly, there came a rapping as of someone violently whapping, as of someone violently whapping, whapping at my abode's door. And so, I open it in a kind of half-asleep haze that kills useful things like second thoughts, dressed in little more than a t-shirt, hair proudly declaring that I've slept well and haven't yet remembered where I left my brush**.
Turns out, there's two of them. Boys, both. About sixteen-ish, both. They make ready to speak as I open the door, then stop, and frantically gesture trying to work out who's actually going to say something. My eyes roll in as un-merry a manner as can be. One eventually braves that undiscovered realm of human speech.
"Um... we... uh... accidentally kicked... um... our ball... um... over the... uh... fence."
I nod, tell them to wait while I get it for them, and then go to do so - stopping to slip on a pair of pants, partly as protection for my legs against pointy bits of affectionate dogs. Stepping outside, I find their ball, and take it back to the door.
And find the doorstep deserted. Oh, yay. So, I go back outside, and there they are, engaged in an activity best described as a blend of impatient hopping and vocal tittering. I promptly throw their ball at them - and none too badly, either. It flies reasonably well, they seem to die from surprise (seriously, grow up), and then it hits the telephone line.
Did I mention grr?
So, I collect the ball again and fumble it badly. It assaults a tomato plant under the coercive influence of gravity. Also grr.
I collect the ball once more, and then just hold the damned thing out over the fence. They stare, confused; I glare pointedly and give them a few seconds more, then just drop it, walk away, hug my puppies, and go inside.
Later on, the postman comes. Finally. Normally, here, they start delivering post on weekends and twice on weekdays. My postman has come up with a revolutionary innovation that forever changes the face of this tradition - no weekends, and only every second weekday. The theory I'm working on at the moment is that a neighbour must be threatening to string piano wire across the footpath on Tuesdays, Thursdays and weekends out of sheer hatred of the noise of the postman's bike.
Later again, I went to have a good, close look at my cherry trees****. They seem to have cute but tiny red cherries, which on later inspection aren't quite ripe yet. They also seem to have a complex and intricate little ecosystem built up around them.
Cherry trees grow. The ants munch on some of the cherries. The spiders feed on the ants. The birds feast on cherries and spiders. I would like to take some of the cherries, but the few ripe ones seem to have been shared between ants and birds... or have creepy little spiders crawling on them with murderous intent lurking in their eyes - and with that many eyes, murderous intent really starts to add up.
So, in conclusion... does anyone have any idea how to properly look after cherry trees? I'm of the opinion that may help fix the 'tiny' part of that. Any directions or advice must be understandable to a person who has no real understanding of gardening - ie, me.
*for the benefit of those who haven't yet seen me use 'appropirate', it's not a typo. Wave your mouse over it. :)
**it was filed on the little bookcase beside my desk, between Cascading Style Sheets: The definitive guide and Learning Java***. Um... yay me?
***which is something I haven't actually convinced myself to do, despite getting the $90 book 'free' almost a year ago.
****I say 'mine'. The last person to live here planted the things, but they're mine now! Bwahaha. Or something.
Take today, for instance. It's 11:30, and not very long after waking from a particularly enjoyable sleep-in. Suddenly, there came a rapping as of someone violently whapping, as of someone violently whapping, whapping at my abode's door. And so, I open it in a kind of half-asleep haze that kills useful things like second thoughts, dressed in little more than a t-shirt, hair proudly declaring that I've slept well and haven't yet remembered where I left my brush**.
Turns out, there's two of them. Boys, both. About sixteen-ish, both. They make ready to speak as I open the door, then stop, and frantically gesture trying to work out who's actually going to say something. My eyes roll in as un-merry a manner as can be. One eventually braves that undiscovered realm of human speech.
"Um... we... uh... accidentally kicked... um... our ball... um... over the... uh... fence."
I nod, tell them to wait while I get it for them, and then go to do so - stopping to slip on a pair of pants, partly as protection for my legs against pointy bits of affectionate dogs. Stepping outside, I find their ball, and take it back to the door.
And find the doorstep deserted. Oh, yay. So, I go back outside, and there they are, engaged in an activity best described as a blend of impatient hopping and vocal tittering. I promptly throw their ball at them - and none too badly, either. It flies reasonably well, they seem to die from surprise (seriously, grow up), and then it hits the telephone line.
Did I mention grr?
So, I collect the ball again and fumble it badly. It assaults a tomato plant under the coercive influence of gravity. Also grr.
I collect the ball once more, and then just hold the damned thing out over the fence. They stare, confused; I glare pointedly and give them a few seconds more, then just drop it, walk away, hug my puppies, and go inside.
Later on, the postman comes. Finally. Normally, here, they start delivering post on weekends and twice on weekdays. My postman has come up with a revolutionary innovation that forever changes the face of this tradition - no weekends, and only every second weekday. The theory I'm working on at the moment is that a neighbour must be threatening to string piano wire across the footpath on Tuesdays, Thursdays and weekends out of sheer hatred of the noise of the postman's bike.
Later again, I went to have a good, close look at my cherry trees****. They seem to have cute but tiny red cherries, which on later inspection aren't quite ripe yet. They also seem to have a complex and intricate little ecosystem built up around them.
Cherry trees grow. The ants munch on some of the cherries. The spiders feed on the ants. The birds feast on cherries and spiders. I would like to take some of the cherries, but the few ripe ones seem to have been shared between ants and birds... or have creepy little spiders crawling on them with murderous intent lurking in their eyes - and with that many eyes, murderous intent really starts to add up.
So, in conclusion... does anyone have any idea how to properly look after cherry trees? I'm of the opinion that may help fix the 'tiny' part of that. Any directions or advice must be understandable to a person who has no real understanding of gardening - ie, me.
*for the benefit of those who haven't yet seen me use 'appropirate', it's not a typo. Wave your mouse over it. :)
**it was filed on the little bookcase beside my desk, between Cascading Style Sheets: The definitive guide and Learning Java***. Um... yay me?
***which is something I haven't actually convinced myself to do, despite getting the $90 book 'free' almost a year ago.
****I say 'mine'. The last person to live here planted the things, but they're mine now! Bwahaha. Or something.
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Date: 2005-12-14 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2005-12-14 11:23 pm (UTC)