Lynn Kellan's Blog, page 17

Brothers are weird.

Brothers are weird.

Therefore, you need to be wary when they buy you a present.

Often, their presents are weird…like the one I got from my brother:

My brother is an adult.

I expected his gift-giving to improve.

Not sink to these goofy levels…but then I saw this:

Maybe he got me a collector’s item worth MILLIONS!

My opinion of my brother skyrocketed!

I checked if I had the RARE version.

I didn’t. Darn it. But then…

I took a closer look.

He’s kinda cute.

Okay, let’s be perfectly honest with one another.

This figurine is downright uber-GORGEOUS.

Rugged good looks, a drool-worthy body…

Dang, my brother got me a GREAT gift!

I named my new friend Tim. He stands by my computer monitor.

Right now, we’re just getting to know one another.

But this could turn into a beautiful friendship.

Uh, being attracted to a doll isn’t weird, is it?

.

This post brought to you by Concerned Sisters.

Our brothers are making us…weird.

Friends smell good

(1) Friends go on walks together.

(2) Friends accept you,

even when you’re shy, weird,

and bark at inappropriate times.

(3) Try to make at least one BIG friend.

Just in case you need a bodyguard.

Or a ride to the grocery store.

(4) Friends will never scare you.

Unless it’s Halloween.

(5) Some friends have four legs…and some don’t.

This post brought to you by Friends .
Sometimes, I prefer the four-footed variety.

How ’bout you?

I fought the deer and the deer LOST!

I’m at war.

I’m protecting my property from complete decimation.

My “enemy” is formidable.

And hungry.

Have no fear.

Get a bowl.

Mix 2 eggs, 1 cup milk,

1 tablespoon veggie oil,

1 tablespoon dishwashing liquid,

garlic powder or crushed garlic cloves

add 1 gallon of water and store in a sprayer.

Spray this lovely liquid on your beloved plants.

It works, because it tastes yucky.

It’ll make your hostas and roses and flowers blechy.

Blechy is a scientific term that means “really icky tasting.”

Spray on your beloved plants (especially after it rains) and the deer will stay away!

How are your gardens doing this summer?

Love,

Lynn

My dog is a vegetarian

 

My best friend betrayed me. Again.

It began so innocently.

It always does.

I just wanted to grow some strawberries.

‘Cause me likes strawberries. Lots.

(I speak poorly when I’m hungry.)

So…I planted strawberries.

A whole bunch of ‘em. Last summer.

I got ONE strawberry last year, but LOTS more grew this year!

Oh, the joy.

The contentment.

The dreams of strawberry shortcake.

The mouth-watering plans for salads and smoothies.

The sudden discovery of something wrong.

The abject disappointment.

The rage.

Something was eating MY strawberries.

Someone was denying me MY harvest.

Some individual was in BIG trouble.

If you look VERY closely, you can see red strawberry juice on her whiskers.

I am seething with a red haze of self-righteous anger.

What should I do to reclaim my garden from this villainous usurper?

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This post brought to you by Dogs Who Are Vegetarians.

We love to eat fruit when mommy isn’t looking. *burp*

Honk if you love traffic jams.

Lately, there have been a lot of traffic jams in our neighborhood.

We don’t mind, because they are caused by this:

The geese shepherd their goslings across the street every evening.

Climbing up that curb takes a lot of time when you have tiny webbed feet.

Even though it’s rush hour, everyone waits patiently.

No one blares their horn or curses or waves their arms around.

We just sit. And watch. And marvel at how quickly the little ones grow.

Soon, the geese are weeping in the center of the road, aghast at the cost of college tuition.

And the goslings are walking around in their high school caps and gowns,

which causes even more traffic jams and delays.

It really is a very strange time of year.

Is that a duck driving my boat?

They say the second happiest day of your life is when you get a boat.

The MOST happiest day of your life is when you sell your boat.

I decided to buy a boat for my guy.

Because I like to make him happy.

Problem is, which boat?

Shall I go with the boat from Gilligan’s Island…

…or should I go Miami Vice?

 I decided to go with something a little more Duck Dynasty.

…because the only dynasty we’re likely to build

will cost a few ducks.

Get it?

Ducks…not bucks.

Bwah ha ha ha hah .

The post brought to you by Bad Jokes.

Courtesy of allergies and late nights watching Game of Thrones.

Hello June, goodbye waistline.

In my house, June heralds CATASTROPHE.

We have four birthdays in two weeks.

Oh, the cake. The calories.

The hedonistic gorging on all things bad for you.

Not good for the waistline. Or the cholesterol. Or the shorts.

This year, I will walk to the bakery.

I will fight off cougars and mountain lions with my bare hands.

I will not give them my four cakes, no matter how menacing their growls.

To preserve our celebrations, I will carry the cakes up a mighty oak.

I will eat the cakes while I watch the cougars prowl below.

Unburdened by my bakery bonanza, I’ll swan dive into the river and swim home.

Surely, given my plans, I won’t gain any weight this year.

Then again, driving to the bakery is more convenient.

And watching my kids swim is much more entertaining.

And eating cake shouldn’t present a life or death situation…

unless, of course, your spouse threatens to eat the last piece of cake.

*

This post brought to you by Chocolate Cake.

What is your favorite birthday cake?

Take two waffles and call me in the morning.

Yesterday, I ate two waffles for breakfast.

It heralded a “normal” day.

“Normal” departed after I put away the dirty dishes.

Turns out, a new pet snuck into the house.

Believe me, this “pet” was HUGE.

He could barely fit under a juice glass.

Like any good mother, I ran away.

When I returned, something awful had happened.

My kid named the new pet.

She insisted we find it a new home.

I promised to bring Ocho to the SPCA for adoption.

I hopped in the car, with Ocho, and drove into the big city.

I encountered a problem along the way.

A very slow, erratic, annoying problem.

After trailing behind him for a mile, I hit the gas.

The fast lane isn’t usually my style, but I was on a mission.

I made it to the SPCA in record time.

I reached into the back seat for Ocho.

His juice glass was empty.

He was in my car. Somewhere.

I walked all the way home.

*

This post brought to you by Cars For Sale.

Do any of you want to buy mine?

My husband doesn’t like it when I dress like Khal Drogo.

Spring is dangerous.

All of the beautiful flowers fill you with inspiration.

Now that winter is over, you start to believe you can do anything.

You agree to ridiculous things, like writing four books in six months.

You start drinking coffee.

The caffeine zooms your typing speed into the stratosphere.

You write two books.

You start to believe you can meet your deadlines.

And then…

Allergies.

I weep.

I sneeze.

I gnash my teeth.

I curse Mother Nature.

I curse pollen. I curse in front of my kids.

I curse in front of the Principal and the Pastor and my Mom.

I watch Game of Thrones and dress like Khal Drogo and speak Drothraki.

My husband thinks I’m weird. My marriage suffers. Tension reigns. I sneeze.

The end.

I ran over my dog and she still loves me.

Twenty times a day, I run over my dog

…because she sits RIGHT behind my desk chair.

The near-misses and actual collisions have produced much anxiety for me and the dog.

So, I decided to get her a nice, fluffy bed to enjoy at a safe distance from my chair.

She *HATES* the doggy bed with a passion that belies understanding.

She refuses to get into said doggy bed and I have NO idea WHY!

It’s soft, comfy, and clean…unlike my floor. What gives?

I spent $30 for that doggy bed. Thirty bucks!

I am determined to use the blasted thing, gosh darn it.

So, I took matters into my own hands and deposited her into the bed.

Have you ever seen such fear and distaste on a face before?

It’s like I’m making her eat worms. Or locking her in a dank cell.

After numerous attempts, pleading, and a few tantrums, we made the bed work.

My dog no longer sits an inch away from my desk chair.

She sits an inch away from the doggy bed, which is an inch from my chair.

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This post brought to you by The Law of Unintended Consequences.

May your consequences by predictable…unlike mine.

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Suggestions to entice my dog to use the bed are most welcome!