Heat be gone

Last weekend my sister and I visited a quaint little town on the water, the kind with a bunch of cute shops with adorable, expensive things for women to drool over, and, for the men, large, expensive yachts in the harbor to drool over. Having no men along on this trip, we set about shopping among such treasures as an antique ("previously beat-up") wooden cabinet for the incredibly low price of $10,000, and several purple lawn flamingos, which apparently were so rare and expensive they did not even carry a price tag.

But our objective quickly changed, in the face of record heat, from searching out treasures to keeping our various body parts from melting together and sliding, in one great heap, to the ground. The town saw record heat, measured in pounds of sweat shed per tourist. We ourselves shed a personal best of – well, never mind. Tourists even longingly eyed the dog bowls of water thoughtfully placed on the sidewalk by various merchants. No dogs were in sight, of course, being too wise to be out in such heat.

In the interest of keeping cool, we consumed approximately 357 gallons of ice cream each. The local ice cream store was air-conditioned and located in a gift shop, which encouraged customers to roam while eating their ice cream, and even to get more ice cream if they finished before completing a circuit of the store, which in our personal experience happened several times. Our ice cream experience also included wearing Death by Chocolate and Mango on our persons. When the ice cream/gift shop personnel began to hand us applications for employment, we went on to the next air-conditioned store, where we feigned great interest in the previously beat-up cabinet.

During such heat, experts suggest wearing a hat. Of course they also suggest this during the frigid winter, which makes you wonder whether their own personal hat is on a little too tight. What next? Telling us we should wear a hat to bed? While showering? While spelunking in the bowels of the earth?

But we digress.

After dutifully covering my head for a time, during which time I shed 4.5 pounds more sweat than I had without the hat, I came to the brilliant deduction that, if wearing a hat in winter keeps heat from escaping your body through your head, wearing a hat in summer...fries your brain. Which may explain why we seriously considered hiring one of the many boats docked to take us far out into the river and just dump us into the cool, soothing waters...

Eventually, of course, our sanity returned and we rejected this rather extreme measure. Instead, we headed for more ice cream. There was just a little spot left on our shirts for some Muskoxen Tracks.

Further dog tales

You may have noticed that a new blog post did not appear on Friday (if you did not, do not be alarmed; neither did 99.993% of the general population). We are happy to blame the problem this time on our Internet provider, which, though obviously at fault, has declined to issue an apology regarding the inability of the blog to update. The provider further claims no knowledge of the origin of the problem, but will be happy to have a look at our line in, oh, 2013. If it has some free time. Oops, wait, sorry, 2013 will be taken up planning the company foosball tournament. Let's see...next availability would be...

Anyway, we are happy to announce that things are up and running again, at least for this moment. We make no promise that things will remain this way.

You want your home to be a place where visitors feel comfortable hanging out. It is possible, however, for visitors to get a little too comfortable, and to start mistaking your home for their own ("Ya got anything besides Miracle Whip for my sandwich?") Such appears to be the case with our front yard, which consists of 24 square feet of brick walk and approximately 672 square miles of weeds, and is frequently visited by the various neighborhood dogs.

I have noticed an alarming trend lately of these dogs relieving themselves within this 24 square feet of our property. They are not shy about doing so, and do not mind if I happen to be right there watching. The first dog, whom we shall call Old Jack, was not too old and feeble to notice that I had just cleared the weeds from one end of the brick, and promptly christened the newly cleaned area.

"That's okay," I told Old Jack's mortified owner. "At least I already cleaned that part."

Next to visit, while I was still pulling weeds, was Baxter, the Best Dog in the World. Baxter is normally very polite and would not think of using one's walk for his personal needs, but evidently having sniffed out Old Jack's presence, added his own specialty brand to the walk.

I began to suspect that there was a sign somewhere, visible only to dogs, that advertises a "Free Canine Toilet (No TP necessary)." This was confirmed sometime later when I noticed that another unknown dog, apparently not wanting to be outdone, left a considerably larger gift for us.

And so I send out a fervent plea to all the neighborhood dogs: If you have to go on our property, at least wait until the weeds grow again -- which should be about 10:17 this morning -- and aim for them. This might kill them, and I'll have an easier time pulling them up.

Men destroying things

A certain percentage of persons with a Y chromosome see the home as a place to let our their inner child, at least that inner child who feels compelled to take things apart in order to better explore their secret, intricate workings. This enthusiasm on the part of the inner child, and these individuals with Y chromosomes, is unfortunately not equaled by a desire to put things back after they have taken them apart, or to fix things after they have destroyed them.

This tendency is even detected in professionals who supposedly make their living by putting things back together. Let our basement be Exhibit A.

Some time ago, 10 months to be precise, Joe determined to free our hidden fireplace from its confines of drywall, plaster, dead animal bones, etc. Once the fireplace was freed, the spirit of liberation caught fire and he moved on to freeing the wood beams in the ceiling -- in the process also liberating various electrical lines dating to the Eisenhower era, attractive water and sewer pipes, etc. -- as well as crumbling brick and stone behind several walls. In this effort he was joined by several professionals. When it was done, they all stood around admiring the disaster zone they had created.

And then the pros left.

Three months ago.

The basement remains a condemned area, despite our having six additional professionals come to give us an estimate on making it all look nice again. "Cool," they say when they see it. Then they immediately erase all memory of us and our project from their minds, and are never heard from again. When we attempt to locate them, we are met with increasingly unhelpful voice messages:

"Hi, this is Frank of Wally's Destruction and Sometimes Remodeling. Leave a message and I'll return your call."

"Hi, this is Frank. Business is very busy right now, but if you leave a message I might get back to you."

"The number you have called is no longer in service. No such person as Frank exists. Do not bother him anymore."

I'm sure somebody somewhere has done research on this compulsion to leave things in a state of chaos. Perhaps someday scientists will come up with a cure, maybe a pill that afflicted Y-chromosome carriers can take apart and swallow the pieces individually ("Pill must be disassembled with a single open-jaw drive torque wrench [with angled handle]").

Until then, I am considering taking the prudent step of hiding all our tools of destruction, so that no more can occur. But it may not be necessary. We can't find anything in all the mess anyway.

Dog tales

This installment of the blog offers a look at some of the dogs of our neighborhood, who outnumber human residents by 16 to 1, and who, through some misguided canine instinct, are always insisting on interacting with an individual who really has no desire to interact with THEM. This individual is usually me.

Are you the owner of a toy store from which two tiny, stuffed dogs have mysteriously gone missing? If so, they are residing down the street from me, and not only have they been transformed into real live dogs, they seem to believe that they have been transformed into gigantic, ferocious Dobermans.

Toy 1 and Toy 2 accosted me in the garden one night when I was politely minding my own business. This is a dog characteristic that I have yet to turn to my disadvantage: Dogs are never interested in people who are interested in them, and will resolutely ignore such individuals. Someday I will remember this, and when I happen to see a dog bounding toward me -- which happens a lot -- with its tongue lolling about, maybe if I act just as happy to see him, with my tongue lolling about, he will leave me alone. Maybe it won't work, but I'm pretty much out of other strategies.

But this particular night I became dimly aware that some yipping and yapping I had heard in the background was gradually getting closer. I turned and saw two fur balls hurtling straight for me, bent on avenging some offense. I was evidently assumed to be some criminal, and they were doing their best, through much yapping and growling, to hold me in place until some higher authority could come and give me my just due.

I decided to take a direct approach. "What's all this noise about?" I said. "You guys are the ones trespassing on my property. I should be growling at you."

I stopped short of doing so, however, mindful that neighbors could be nearby, although not the particular neighbor who owns these dogs, who was probably enjoying the peace and quiet that must have descended on her home when the dogs escaped.

Eventually the dogs decided I was not the dangerous criminal they had thought, or maybe they just got distracted by something smaller than them, such as a microbe, or maybe they finally saw their owner coming and decided they'd better move along in the opposite direction.

This owner might take a cue from my co-worker, who owns two dogs that really are gigantic, though not ferocious, and who has had to be creative in encouraging the dogs to stay with her when they are all out for a walk.

"They love cheese," she says of the dogs, "so before we go out, I go to the refrigerator and take out 3 pieces of cheese for each of them. I show it to them, and put it in my pocket while they are watching, so they know exactly where it is. They know that if they stick with me, that cheese is theirs. I never have any trouble with them running off when I have cheese."

So I'm thinking that our neighborhood, which discreetly stocks doggy trash bags throughout the community, could also start handing out cheese to dog owners needing some assistance in heeling their dogs. But it probably wouldn't make any difference. Once the dogs would see me coming, all thoughts of cheese would immediately flee their minds.

Garden art

For several reasons, gardening experts recommend having a variety of plants in the garden. I have followed this advice diligently, and finally, after a few seasons of careful selection and attention, can boast a variety that consists of: live plants and formerly live plants.

The balance between these two types of plants, however, is delicate, and is always threatening to tip in favor of the second, which gardening experts generally frown upon. I have therefore engaged in serious contemplation about how to prevent this, and have determined to deliberately fill the yard with things that are not living.

This was my mother's long-standing policy regarding poinsettias at Christmastime. She had a fake poinsettia that she pulled out every year and deposited in a place of honor on the coffee table in the living room. It always remained fresh and vibrant until it was time to pack it away for the next year. Visitors frequently expressed amazement at her beautiful poinsettia, as long as they stayed some distance from it, such as outside the living room window.

But I do not have fake plants in mind for the garden. I am envisioning a blend of indoors and out, a place where the two can blend in complete harmony, and a chance to finally get rid of some of the clutter inside our house.

For instance, the newly painted Fire Engine Red ladder, propped against a tree, lends a decided air of quaintness to the garden. And it may prove a benefit to our wildlife as well. Joe observed that now the squirrel – whom we affectionately refer to as Public Enemy #1 – can just use the ladder to climb up the tree, from whence he can commence his daily scolding of us. For what, we have never quite figured out.

But we will need further decoration and camouflage for the formerly live plants. We have acquired several excess chairs, which, if placed judiciously around the yard, would provide a setting of welcoming hospitality. Those wire hangers from the dry cleaners that seem to vastly outnumber the clothes that came on them? They would make great sculptures to hang over the patio! Old pots and pans could be pressed into service as wind chimes, and old shoes as bird feeders.

Extra bedsheets could be hung tastefully and unobtrusively -- especially the bright flowered ones -- over part of the patio for a canopy, or on a few sticks for a soothing patio umbrella. The possibilities are endless! In the spirit of recycling and further quaintness, we may even park an old pickup truck in the yard.

One's garden should say who one is. Ours will clearly say "Are you distracted enough by our junk that you don't notice we have killed most of our plants?"

We'll be sure to keep that old pickup in running condition. We may need it for a quick getaway when our neighbors start protesting.

Today, alas

Due to a technological Perfect Storm, all access to the blog was blocked for the Princess earlier today. The cause has not yet been determined, although certain disgruntled insects, who feel they were portrayed in a very unfavorable light in a recent blog post, are strongly suspected of being involved. Our regular programming may appear later today, or not. Stay tuned.

Slug fest

Certain countries aren't the only places that harbor individuals bent on doing harm. Nasty individuals are lurking much nearer to home, such as the large rocks in our garden, which appear to offer a safe haven for a strong contestant in nature's Ugliest Creature Pageant: slugs. Slugs are one of those species that make you wonder what the Lord had in mind when He put them here. You might also wonder this about sauerkraut, but today we will confine our discussion to slugs.

Genetically speaking, slugs are related to giant slimeballs, but with antennae. (Editorial note: We would include a picture of a slug here, or at least a link to one, but due to the severe Gross Factor of slugs, the Princess has a contract clause stating that in the performance of her blog duties, she will not be required to look up photos of disgusting creatures. You can look them up yourself if you have a strong stomach.)

Besides being ugly and slimy, slugs are also bullies, making huge holes in your defenseless plants with slug-size Bazookas. It is thus advisable to encourage slugs to leave your garden, preferably on a permanent basis. There are three general ways to do this.

1. The happy way: Slugs are only too happy to end a busy work day with the Bazookas by indulging in a drink of beer. You can entice them with a trap consisting of beer in a tuna fish can, which, once they have crawled into it, will cause them to sway and begin singing "Auld Lang Syne." No, not really! But the beer does drown them. Before setting out beer baits, you should be aware of any minimum slug drinking age in your neighborhood. You might also put up tiny signs reminding the slugs to "Please Drink Responsibly."

2. The painful way: You can buy slug pellets to spread around your plants, which, when the slugs ingest them, will cause them to stop eating. Soon they will become too weak to lift their Bazookas, and eventually they fade away and become part of the Great World of Dead Nature.

You can also spread diatomaceous earth around the plants that slugs are attracted to. Diatomaceous earth consists of ground-up fossils that are as sharp as glass, so that when the slugs crawl over this stuff, it slices through their skin, and -- well, you get the picture. If you feel this method is too cruel, you might supply the slugs with some beer along with the diatomaceous earth.

3. The personal touch: Many experts, particularly those concerned with the environment and slugs' rights, recommend picking the slugs off your plants by hand. Since slugs prefer to work in the darkness, this usually entails crawling around the garden at night with a flashlight, fully aware that these slimy creatures are also out there crawling around, and might mistake you for a plant. But don't worry too much; miniature Bazookas don't really do that much damage to human flesh.

The personal-touch method of slug control is advocated by Martha Stewart, who no doubt also offers a line of handmade invitations specifically for this situation ("Slugs: Looking to travel? Please join us for an informative discussion on seeing the sights outside the garden. Time: Dusk. Place: Edge of garden."). Martha does not mention what the gardener is to do with the slugs once in hand, but I imagine olive oil and garlic are involved.

We hope that this discussion of slug-riddance methods has been helpful. If you know of any slug recipes, please, do not share them with us.

More odd news

We regret that the Princess's brain received insufficient rest the previous night to allow her to coherently write a post today. ("How is that different from usual?" you might say. To which we say: "Pfffft!") For today, we hope you find some amusement in these odd news items:

America is under attack on many fronts, but now faces stiff competition in one area in which it has traditionally been the undisputed dominator: gigantic portions of food. http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20100607/od_nm/us_australia_burger

Let's hope Chef Yukako Ichikawa does not decide to offer that burger at her restaurant: http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20100604/od_nm/us_restaurant_rules_odd

Invasion of the Mummy Bugs!

Today we continue our look at the troubling and sometimes violent world of insects. Last time we saw that some aphids, which are common pests on plants, are forced -- thanks to the historically weak Aphid Union -- to work for ants, who herd them around and dictate which plants they can live on. The ants do this so they can have a monopoly on the aphids' sticky honeydew substance, which is considered a great delicacy among ants. Like other oppressed populations throughout history, such as teenagers not allowed to use iPhones in class, the aphids take what revenge they can on their captors: They secrete the honeydew from a very sensitive part of their anatomy, and then laugh at the ants behind their backs.

But at least the ants do not actually harm aphids, which is more than can be said for the parasitic wasp, believed to have escaped in 1952 from a horror novel. These wasps buzz around looking for defenseless aphids, which pretty much includes all aphids, because the wasps need a suitable host for their eggs, and according to wasp insurance guidelines, aphids are a Preferred Provider of Maternity Services.

So a wasp will inject eggs into the aphids, without even the benefit of anesthesia, and the eggs develop into larvae, and the larvae inevitably develop into adolescents, who inevitably need something to eat. They help themselves to the nearest cupboard, which happens to be the aphid's innards. Gradually they take over the aphid's body from the inside, eventually turning the aphid into a walking mummy. From there they join up with other mummies and plan a hostile world takeover --

Whoops! We may have gotten a little carried away.

As long as we are marching up the chain of diabolical insects, we might as well talk about the phorid fly. Phorid flies make the parastic wasp look positively like Mother Teresa. Phorid flies come from South America -- Exporter of All Horrifying Things that Fly or Crawl -- and have been brought to this country on purpose specifically to deal with fire ants. Fire ants, not coincidentally, also come from South America, which is evidence that our immigration laws really do need some tweaking. But that is another topic.

Like the parasitic wasp, the phorid fly deposits its eggs in the fire ants, and the emerging flies similarly take over the ants and turn them into mummies. But they don't just stop at controlling the ants' bodies. The flies -- through amazing new insect GPS technology -- find their way to the ants' heads and chew through what little brain must be in there. They secrete some special, secret enzyme, the recipe for which has been jealously guarded by generations of grandma flies, and the ant's head just -- plop! -- falls off.

My mother, though a gentle soul normally, has had the misfortune to meet fire ants up close and in person, and would therefore approve of the charity work the phorid fly is doing on behalf of our scientists and government. So would six-year-old males.

A bug's life

Today we bring you news of the insect world, which we have discovered to be shockingly violent. I'm sure most of us would rather remain ignorant of the goings-on in this hidden world, unless you are a six-year-old male, in which case insect violence is right up your alley, and you are amazed that some adults get paid to play around with bugs, and you too look forward to this opportunity someday. Meanwhile, you do it for free.

The first bit of shocking news about bugs is that the slave trade is alive and well among them. Ants, who are so proverbially revered for their work ethic (possibly due to their German heritage), are in actuality lazy but merciless foremen. Having a fondness for the sweet liquid stuff secreted by aphids on plants, known as honeydew, ants follow the aphids around and suck up the honeydew. This sounds pretty good, until you realize that the aphids secrete the honeydew from their backside, which apparently the ants have not really stopped to think about. I personally am stopping to think about where "honeydew" melon might come from.

But ants like this honeydew so much that they always want more, and they have figured out -- no doubt from the Internet -- how to "herd" aphids to go right where they want them to. Ants have also developed certain methods of "detainment," by which aphids are strongly discouraged from leaving a certain plant. These methods are so frightening that we are sure you do not want to know about them, unless you are a six-year-old male.

It is true that ants offer aphids some protection from predators ($9.95 a month, plus tax), but this protection is limited. Ants, for instance, are no match for parasitic wasps, whose life goal is to turn aphids into mummies. Throughout the aphid world the name of these wasps is feared, or at least it would be if aphids had any inkling of what these things can do to them. Unfortunately we will have to wait until the next blog post to find out what this is, because the Gallant Hero is kicking me off his computer.

In the meantime, you might want to ponder the origins of honeydew melon. Especially if you are not a six-year-old male.

Today

The Princess regrets that due to Severe Procrastination Disorder, today's blog post must be postponed in lieu of packing for the Princess and Hero's short trip to the North to visit the King and Queen. Amazingly, clothes and sundries do not pack themselves, although the Hero, Vigilant Pursuer of Efficiency, is ever searching for a way to make this happen. He is confident that, although perhaps not in his lifetime, this life-changing improvement will someday be a reality.

Next week, we bring you a shocking expose of the insect world. Stay tuned.

Don't mind us--or, No, we are not breaking into our own home

There could be many reasons that two otherwise typical people have been recently observed climbing over the porch railing to their back door whenever they exit or enter the house, as if they were unaware of the perfectly good set of stairs nearby. They might need some exercise after ignoring their Y membership all spring. Perhaps they are practicing in case they are ever cast in a movie about a couple breaking into a house. Perhaps they really are breaking into the house.

But let me hasten to assure our neighbors, friends, and Neighborhood Watch that no, we are not breaking into our house. We are merely avoiding our recently painted steps, which despite all the assurances from the Home Depot paint department that the paint color would deepen to a lovely shade of dark red called Dozen Roses, have turned out Fire Engine Red even after two coats of paint. For two days they have been shrouded in plastic, so that the threatened rain showers do not wash all our efforts away, and also because the plastic helps shield the glare. And also so that our homeowner's association does not discover that the glare is coming from a forbidden outdoor color.

We also painted our decorative ladder Fire Engine Red, although with only one coat, it more closely resembles Fire Engine Streaked Pink. For years Joe has been plotting to get rid of this ladder, ever since I brought it home from a junk store, where its charm captivated me. Its charm has not captivated Joe. It did not pull its weight in terms of usefulness, being merely decorative, and to him mere decorativeness is a grievous sin, ranking right up there with pride and greed and hogging the bathroom.

After unsuccessfully campaigning for the ladder's removal, Joe began devising ways we might put it to use. He contemplated suspending it from the kitchen ceiling as a home for lights, or possibly pots and pans. Or possibly it could assist us with getting into the attic. Finally he banished the ladder from the house, and I hung it on the fence in the backyard, where it made a nice home for carpenter bees until we painted it and covered up all their holes.

But now, with the steps unusable for a while, we may be able to put the ladder to good use. We could prop it up to the family room window and climb in the house that way while the steps dry, and thus alarm the Neighborhood Watch AND the Homeowner's Association. Never mind that the window has been inoperable from the inside for four years. It is so old and battered that, from the outside, it is probably the work of a few minutes to open it, especially for unauthorized entrants. Which we are not. Really.

A cruise to remember...the smell

Opinions are divided as to whether taking a cruise to Antarctica is a good idea or not. We base this extremely scientific analysis on a grand total of two people we know who have been on such a cruise. These two people, although married and having gone on the exact same trip together, nevertheless have extremely different viewpoints on the experience. In fact, the head nodding of one and the head shaking of the other pretty much canceled each other out, leaving us with a neutral view of the idea.

"It's such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you just have to go," the wife said.

"Don't go," the husband said, "unless you really, really, REALLY like penguins."

Because penguins are apparently the only thing to see in Antarctica, other than some ice.

"You smell them long before you see them," the husband went on. "All they do is stand around and poop all day."

The cost of the cruise, around $10,000, may deter you from considering such a trip, but consider that included in that cost, depending on your cruise, may be the chance to leave the safety of your boat -- designed to withstand ice in the likely event you encounter some that will crush you -- ride in a little blow-up raft to an island, disembark, and stand around with, as the husband noted, "five thousand penguins, all pooping." Note: Human visitors are NOT allowed to do this.

But, according to one cruise company's Web site, if you go during penguin mating season, you are also promised "spectacular courtship rituals." This is a time of year when the penguins take time out from their busy pooping schedule to have a little fun, and apparently they are not shy about having an audience.

The husband blamed his mother-in-law for "getting us into these things." The mother-in-law, 88, declared 10 years ago that she was "not traveling anymore," and since then has visited not only Antarctica but also Africa, Asia (twice), and numerous other exotic spots. Joe and I thought we'd like to try not traveling like that.

The trip was not entirely a waste, the husband admitted. "They give you a special parka for the cold, which you get to keep," he said. "And I bought a baseball cap that says Antarctica." I imagined the penguins discreetly running a nice little side business for the tourists ("Get your parkas here!"). Now if they would just sell pooper-scoopers...