With My Bare Hand

The summer solstice may have arrived but I am still wintering with my mother. 

The refrigerator decided that it was done refrigerating and I have misplaced my new red glasses. Luckily, I usually buy two pairs. Because of the pandemic, lots of major appliances are backordered. 

At work, I have been in my department by my lonesome for a year now. Hulu decided to bump up House Hunter International to another membership level so I'm no longer able to zone out with that show... 

Finally remembered to check the lint trap and I'm washing a load of clothes that includes new underwear because, recently, there's a shortage in my house.  My contact dermatitis is flaring...

When I was in junior high school, there was a woman who helped us teenagers get jobs and she would call me by my last name and say, "What's the good news?" Even as a teenager, I recognized that it was a different way of conceptualizing things.

So, what is the good news?

I have not killed my hanging basket filled with Petunias or my Celosia which reminds me of the Flame of the Forest in Jamaica. And my Zinnias are doing something.

Not as flame-y as when I first got them. Also, neighbor's cat.

Update: I've been intending to hit publish on this post for days now. My uncle, who was helping cut weeds, mowed down the majority of my zinnias even though I had pointed out to him where they were at. Plus, I had markers.

My uncle did point out poison ivy to me and I'm pretty sure that I picked up some with my bare hand to to put it in the yard trash bin.

Goodbye, Zinnia.