I am pleased to announce that the Broken Appliance of the Month award goes to the dishwasher. Even though we’re not quite through July, I’m pretty confident nothing else will swoop in to claim the title. (I’m looking at you, stove replaced last October to salvage Thanksgiving dinner). The cottage dishwasher has lost its mind and doesn’t know whether it’s on or off, clean or dirty. The lights on the front panel flash randomly and so frequently that I no longer need to harbour thoughts of installing a disco ball in the kitchen. However, I’ve figured out how to entice it to run the gauntlet through the short-wash cycle and as long as that trick continues to work, I’m safe from dishpan hands (or a bill for a new dishwasher).
About a week ago, a rare sunny break in the monsoon season produced the first shore trespassers. Lest you think this is a ho-hum thing, think again. First, I have to go out on the front deck (balcony, really), to the one spot where I can see down to the lefthand shoreline to verify the existence of trespassers (as opposed to noise coming from canoeists or kayakers just passing by). Once the existence of unauthorized visitors has been confirmed, I need to find a pair of shoes suitable for walking down the gravel path to the water (lug sole and nonslip). Once I reach the bottom of the (not insubstantial) hill, I must squeeze around the pile of gravel that’s been waiting in vain to be deployed to the underprivileged portions of the path for at least two years, then navigate the tree roots blocking underfoot on the way to the cliffette above the area where trespassers tend to congregate on the outcrop of Canadian Shield rocks that lure them in, as if by mythical Sirens. And as always, if I’m involved, it will not end well. For them.
I must add that there is a “No Trespassing” sign clearly visible to anyone who approaches our slice of the island from the northwest. My typical (incredibly eloquent) rebuke to summer-frolicers who decide it would be a good idea to frolic on what amounts to my front yard, is to ask them which part of “no trespassing” they don’t understand. There a few responses to this.
One is that they didn’t know it was private property (because all vacant land on a lake has a dock and a pumphouse shed and a house-like structure that’s visible if you could be bothered to look up). Another is that they were “just resting” (while eating their lunch and drinking a beer and relaxing on the rocky shoreline). But the most common resp0nse is to say nothing, while taking their leisurely time to pick up their stuff and saunter back to their boats. Entitlement at its best.
In other news, the lack of resident cottage cats is beginning to assert itself. I must explain that our screen porch is less of a screen porch and more of a toolshed and workshop (don’t get me started), but it is also the repository for the recycling bins. Recently, threw an empty pickle jar into the appropriate bin and noticed something strange. There were a whole lot of tiny pieces of blue plastic on the floor around said bin. I picked it up to inspect what was up. There was a two by two-inch hole chewed in the bottom. And also, a smoking gun: a dead as dead-can-be mouse right underneath. After my noisy exclamation of alarm, I took the high road and decided to pretend to be the person I’d like to be. The mice and voles and moles are welcome to do their own frolics-with-abandon this summer. And Dennis will be buried soon. I promise.
hilarious