The lively green tree frogs are on the move, and I’m on it. With a cup in hand, I captured two and introduced them to the newly constructed frog hotel near my morning coffee rocking chair spot. We built the house using three two-foot PVC pipes with 90-degree bends, buried them in rock, and topped it with dirt. In the soil, I planted several stunted hostas I’d relocated from the front flower bed—none of them ever grew past 4 or 6 inches, their leaves often burnt and sad. I’m hopeful the shady porch spot will help them thrive. Also, since frogs love broad-leafed plants, maybe the hostas will make it feel more like home to them.
Now, I’m not sure if scooping someone up and flinging them into your hotel is legally sound hospitality, but that’s what I did. The first frog instantly leapt to the railing. The second held still, majestic and statuesque, long enough for a photo op. A true professional.
Meanwhile, my stomach feels like a washing machine on a boat in high seas. It’s hitting that spot between my eyes now, and although I’m mentally commanding everything to stay down, I can tell my fried dinner—homemade chicken, other crispy things, and a rogue cookie—is staging a mutiny.
Soon, I’ll curl up on this couch under a soft blankie and let Adam Sandler’s spiritual sequel to Happy Gilmore soothe my stormy belly. I loved his movies as a teen—still remember Lue Turner’s birthday party where a bunch of us girls went to see Billy Madison at the theater. Most of the jokes flew straight over my head, but it didn’t matter. We quoted it endlessly and made inside jokes like we were fluent in comedy.
I don’t care if it’s dumb. Actually, I hope it is. Tonight is not the night for a pinky-up, elitist film. No, siree. What I need is an overflowing plate of ridiculousness—something to get my mind off my queasy body and into a silly little world someone else made up.
Well, it’s movie time.
Here goes nothing…
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 