Sprinklered!

How dare you?!

Early morning walkies with the Dusty man.  My keppie shuffles random thoughts about Nora Ephron and why I'm still sobbing every time I see a report on her death, and Ann Curry, and why can't someone pay me millions to leave Sherman Oaks, and why is my dog moving so slowly, and why am I moving so slowly, and what should I blog about today?  And then, I hear the dreaded tick-tick-ticking sound, the tttttttttttttttttte tte tte tte ttttttttttttttttttte that tells me a water bomb is about to go off in my face and there's nothing I can do about it.  "Oh, no!" is all I can manage, before up come the evil sprinkler heads, on both sides of the sidewalk, followed by major blasts of H20ski.  "Oh my God!"  Drench city.  I haven't run through the sprinklers since I was a kid.  Back then, it was plain ol' middle-class fun for those of us cruelly denied a swimming pool.  You talk about a tough childhood.  Every time it's hot, your mother says, "Hey, gang, let's run through the sprinklers," and you must find a way to muster excitement.  "Yes, Mummy, let's!"  Of course, she's not running through any sprinklers.  She's just had her hair done.  So this morning, Dusty and the SJG run like maniacs through the sprinkler spray, and we get all wet.  Hahahaha.  The joke's on us.  I laugh my tushy off.  And then I come home and dry off and tell you all about it.  Today I've been sprinklered in a big way.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring?