I’ve found two four-leaf clovers; one when I was eight and the other when I was 35. And both times it felt like I’d won the lottery.
Desiring to keep the first forever, my mom taught me to spritz the delicate leaves and stem with hairspray before sandwiching it between two pieces of saran wrap. After it dried, in the dictionary it went. Although the word four-leaf clover wasn’t in there, you can bet I alphabetically placed it exactly where it should have went.
A clover patch snagged my gaze earlier, as it often does on idle spring or summer days. Hoping for numero three, I taught Evelyn about them and she helped me look.
I want to bitch, except I won’t let myself every. Well, except for this one; My sore throat is in the beginning stages, and coupled with a crampy stomach, it has put me in a mood. A leave me alone kind of mood.
Earlier while studying Spanish, I stumbled upon an app that paired me with people with similar language needs. I’ve matched with three individuals from Peru, Mexico, and Spain. It’s fun leaving voice messages in Spanish and massaging out the nervousness I feel going into a conversation. One guy used um’s, and you knows, in English a lot, and even though his Spanish accent was extreme, the fillers made him sound natural. I need to add them to my Spanish-speaking repertoire.
Turns out they’re called muletillas, aka “verbal walking sticks.” Instead of um or you know’s, it’s “Eh”, “O Sea,” or “Me estoy explicando?” (Am I explaining myself?) which gives the speaker time think of what to say next.
I’m getting sicker by the minute!
Now my throat is scratchy, and my left nostril is plugged. (Isn’t it funny how just one side gets bound up?)
With all these 90-degree weather days coming, I’m putting more vegetable seeds in the ground. Tomorrow I’ll plant the carrot seeds and the sprouted potatoes we should have eaten for dinner weeks ago. Also, the strawberries have flowered, and it’s only a matter of time before we pop those sweet berries into our mouths.
Lastly, since the duck’s death, it’s been interesting watching the remaining duck’s behavior, from slowly walking one by one in a line to their stopping and standing in an erect fashion. Poor things are traumatized.
Well, um, yeah, you know….