After a nice day in the hills yesterday enjoying the wildflowers and shit, we spent the day today in Modesto yardsale-ing fighting off little old blue haired ladies in Crown Victorias with their prescription windshields. Those bitches are fucking vicious, man. Not so much for the bargains, but for parking spots right in front of the yard sales. We'd just be cruising around and we'd listen for the sound of horns and that's where we'd find the yardsale - a whole shitload of powder blue Vickies manuevering around, trying to park in some pre-established pecking order. God help you if you just think you can whip right in and grab a spot, especially if you're a youngster under 70. Mad Mable and her slut-buddy Irate Irene ain't having none of that shit - They're shooting looks like you will move your shit on out motherfucker I can pay for that Ranger CASH so back the fuck off.
Once I figured out that if I would just park down the road and say ma'am a lot, I could reseat my revolver and relax. They were actually quite nice once you got them out of their fucking cars. I turned a couple of them onto some III business cards.
So we did pretty good at the yard sales. I scored a couple of books and 3 sets of mule deer antlers, all of them six points to a side. Lisa got some girlie shit.
Then I came home and finished spading up the garden area. It's not that large, maybe 30' x 8' for the row crops and an area about 8' x 8' for tomatoes and peppers, with a few squash hills in between. Still up in the air about where to put them fucking melons, though.
Anyways, I've spent all week spading up that area - not that it was difficult - it's that I hate gardening, especially if I'm putting in a new one. Fucking hoe and shovel works sucks, man. No way I could be a Mexican.
The garden area is spaded, leveled and ready tomorrow to be rowed out and planted. Then it's up to Lisa to keep it weeded and watered and alive. Contrary to my aw shucks image, I am not one of those country boys that like the feel of the soil running through my fingers. Fuck that, weeds have feelings too. I do however love the taste of
I'm still waiting to see how CharlieGodammit is going to treat the garden - am I going to have to fence that motherfucker off or what. It's really hard to tell with him with how he acts towards something new. Now he's sat there for the better part of a week clearing that area out, laying in the shade watching me sweat. He has shown no inclination whatsoever to go into that area. I haven't seen a footprint one in there, in fact, I've found several dog turds on the edge of it, but nothing in it so I'm thinking that he's actually settled down and realizes that this is my area and he'll respect that and other than occasionally lifting his leg on some lettuce as he passes by, stay out of it.
Either that or he's biding his time acting all innocent and shit pretending not to notice that he's losing a big chunk of his yard. Motherfucker's going to wait until I'm all done seeding and planting and then he's going to wait for an excuse, something like he had to bark 3 whole times before he was let in, and then he's going to fucking go to town on Lane's Gardens. I'm going to walk out some morning to do my gardening work and I'm going to round the corner a find a Big. Fucking. Hole. There's gonna be lettuce hanging from the swing tree. Pole beans strowed all around the yard. Tomatoes everywhere and unthinkable acts committed with the squash and cucumbers, the chickens next door will never be the same.
Yeah. That's probably it.
After a nice dinner of chicken in curry sauce, rice and sauteed broccolli, we sat around and loaded a shitload of 5.56 into stripper clips.