The year is 1985. Mojo's senior year of college. It's spring break for my Favorite Older Brother and Favorite Younger Sister, so they decide to fly to St. Louis to visit me for a week. At the time I had the Van, AKA "The Pumpkin"--a short Dodge Sportsman that we bought as an empty aluminum shell with grand plans to customize it. Which we never did. The color was, according to the books, "Metallic Bronze" but it looked like a dingy brown orange, so my Favorite Older Brother had christened it "The Pumpkin".  MORE Mojo! »

....for, despite my chronic complaining on the Craptacular, I am in person one of those annoying perky types who just about always revels in my Boundless Love for All of God's Creatures. Plus I am up bouncing around between four and five in the morning (yeah, I've always been a morning person; oh, great, more reason to detest Mojo and all she stands for) while you slugabeds are still bemoaning your fate and slapping at the snooze button.  MORE Mojo! »

Attention all burglars: I may have alluded to this before, but in case there is any confusion allow me to reiterate: Mojo has THE WORST WATCHDOG on the face of the earth. It is to the point that, when I hear a car in the driveway, I look over at Rosie snoozing away in her bed and I say "Okay, someone's here. How long will it be before you notice?" Generally speaking they have to be walking in the house before she'll get up. I've come in and hung my coat up and flipped through the mail and checked for messages, and then finally shouted, "Okay, I'm here! I think I'll rob the house!" before I finally hear her rise up from her bed and come look at me through the balcony railing. Not come DOWN, mind you, until I ask her to--no, she'd just stand there wagging her tail if I didn't insist she come greet me properly. (And you think MOJO's lazy!)

Of course this is not the case when my Favorite Husband comes home. Oh, no, heaven forfend! Him coming home involves some sort of national holiday, the shameless flirt. Yay! Daddy's home! He's SO much more fun than Mojo, the woman who FEEDS me and BRUSHES me!

So anyway. Lately I've been waking up around three or four in the morning. I'm sure this is NOT due to perimenopause, as one friend has suggested, but instead due to a combination of my going to sleep around eight in the evening and living the vibrant, exciting lifestyle Mojo so enjoys. But since my Favorite Husband needs his beauty sleep, I tend to sneak out of the bedroom and bop quietly around downstairs until he happens to get up, which is around five. Early on I tried to get the dog to come with me, but she is such a slugabed I usually don't try anymore.  MORE Mojo! »

Ever since we moved up here and my Favorite Husband spent heaven knows how many hours constructing the Infamous Fire Pit, I have had vague daydreams of planting hostas around it, so that in the summer instead of trying to mow right up against the rocks I'd have this magical impenetrable ring of giant leaves around it. Because that's what hostas do, don'tcha know.

Finally this spring, after years of talking about it to my Favorite Husband, who just grunted and shrugged at the notion, I got up the gumption to buy eight baby hosta plants and I planted them in a pleasing circular pattern around the perimeter. And once I did, my Favorite Husband began objecting strenuously to the entire idea. His argument was that planting plants around the fire pit would rend it inoperable as a fire pit, etc., etc., etc. A point rendered moot the next time we had a fire.I think when push comes to shove, he simply didn't want his macho fire pit to turn into some sort of sissy flower garden. I chose hostas specifically because they were more vegetative than flowery, and they can put up with a fair amount of trampling and abuse while still doing their job. Anyway, they're there for now, and I suspect I can keep them there until he forgets about his objections.

But this isn't about hostas. It's about Grumpy Angry Garter Snake, who has decided to live oot and aboot the fire pit, and--unlike many garter snakes, who run for their lives when humans approach and/or philosophically accept Mojo digging in the dirt near their basking place--Grumpy Angry Garter Snake openly resents our presence and claim of ownership of pretty much the entire property.  MORE Mojo! »