... it would have been THE. PERFECT. SHOT!

But I didn't get it. I didn't get it!

Why not?

Because I am a lily-livered, cowardly chicken, that's why. If I had a shred of chutzpah, this post would have been adorned with the consummate illustration of road crews Hard-Not-At-Work.

Today as I neared home from a day at the office, I rolled up to an intersection of the highway that's been ripped asunder since, oh FOREVER. Since the light had just turned red, I scrambled at the opportunity to snap a fantastic photo when I counted ten, count 'em TEN orange-vested, hard-hatted construction workers posed in various motionless, un-working stances.

Three were deep in conversation, tools used only to prop themselves upright. Talking about anything but the job at hand, I'll wager.

Two were squatting: mesmorized by a river of water dribbling from one of the supply trucks parked in the corridoned-off, yet newly-paved lane.

Another four, all with their arms identically crossed in front of their chests, smirking at watching the endless line of vehicles crawl past at a snail's pace.

The tenth fellow almost looked busy.... at least he was sitting in a small front-end loader.

Which wasn't running, of course.

It really is a misnomer that they are called "Workers".

Unfortunately, just as I was lifting my camera to snap the previously proclaimed Perfect Photo, one of the "workers" (leaning on his shovel, natch) turned his sunglass-covered eyes RIGHT AT ME.

Crap! I dropped the camera on the passenger seat and stared straight ahead praying I could make my escape unscathed.

Was I afraid of him? Well, duh. He had A SHOVEL, remember?

I sat there pretending nothing was amiss, all the while imagining him tapping on my van's window with his weapon implement. Finally the light turned green and I sped off, cursing my bad luck.

And my spineless poultry-like demeanor.

So I didn't get a shot of them. Instead, I'll just leave you with a picture of ME.

*Cluck, cluck, cluck.*







Chicken Little image copyright Walt Disney Studios

The other day while in my craftroom I was, as usual, accompanied by most of our Furry Family Members.

Dog curled up on the rug, dangerously positioned right behind my chair? Check.

Cat spread out precisely on the spot where I needed to work? Check.

Another cat dozing on the shelf at the window, awaiting her turn as The Center Of Attention at precisely the spot where I needed to work, once I shoo the first cat away? Check.

(Yes, I installed a shelf just for the cats to view the backyard from the craftroom window. Cat owners do crazy things like this you know.)

All was peaceful until I was startled out of my chair by a loud KER-ASH!!!!

Tawnee, our 14 pound Ragdoll cat had fallen off her window perch. Not only had she fallen off the shelf, she also bounced off the desk below it, landing nearly atop the rudely-awakened dog.

Dazed, she got up and simply stared at me with her big blue eyes while I checked her over. Nothing broken, but I am sure her cat-ego was severely bruised.

Once again.

For it's not the first time she has defied the age-old myth that cats always land on thier feet. Nor will it be the last, I'm sure. She truely lives up to her Ragdoll monniker.

It's a fairly common occurance for her to be leisurely basking in the sunlight on her cat stand, stretched out as far as she can, falling asleep, rolling over and plummeting to the ground. And she NEVER lands on her feet.

It's a shame that she can't read.... she really does need to learn how to be a proper cat:


And I need to learn to stop laughing when the poor thing lands with a THUMP on the floor.

At first I assumed I had a mosquito bite.

A safe assumption, for if you've ever been here in the summer, you'll have experienced the horror of being ignominiously chased indoors, screaming like a little girl by staggering swarms of the vile buggars. It's a common Manitoba custom to discover one's arms and legs covered with raised lesions and splotches of ex-mosquito carcasses (carci?) to scrape off one's body from June to September.

Last month I was ignominiously chased into my car after attempting to purchase some herbs at a local garden centre outside of town. Mere hours later, along with the typical damage, huge welt appeared square in the middle of my back; the precise spot I couldn't scratch well.

Although that wasn't worrisome as it wasn't as itchy as a normal mosquito bite.

What was worrisome was when it developed into a large hard, red bump. Which is still there... slowly diminishing in size, but every time I lean back in my chair, I am quickly reminded of it's lingering presence.

Nope, it's no mosquito bite, that's for sure. What exactly it IS though, I am not positive.

But if I suddenly acquire the ability to shoot uber-sticky-bad-guy-immobilizing web from my wrists or begin to literally climb the walls, I'll let you know.

Here's hoping the spiders around here aren't radioactive.

But then again, that WOULD be cool.

Nope, I doubt I'll turn into Spider Woman.

With my luck, the only super transformation I'll have is into Big Red Lump Woman.

Not nearly as glamourous.

Nope.

Not by a long shot.