When Duck's not kayaking, he does landscaping. Actually, landscaping is weekday business, kayaking is Sunday church.
He's accomplished at both. Yard work has broadened his horizons, and he's acquired new skills. He now curses in fluent Spanish. Half the time, I haven't the foggiest what his problem is.
This morning, it had something to do with the shampoo. I don't know why. It's Avon. It ought to be good.
Earline has dibs on the Sandtrap and Mercer County Avon market. As they say in Cosa Nostra notions, "sewed up." Competition tried to heel in, but that hapless carpetbagger was found bludgeoned by her Avon Beauty Bag, impaled upon her stilettos, case never solved.
Earline, a peppy strawberry Pop Tart of a toadstool, puts the muffin in muffin top. She drops by the home place unannounced, dismounts her filly, disturbs whatever I'm doing, and hawks her latest while the horse mutilates Duck's ginger blossoms.
She doesn't consider "writer" or "house-husband" as legitimate endeavors exempt from interruption.
At the last sales meeting in Kansas City, Earline and the associates were informed men are THE untapped cosmetic and grooming market. Good luck in Mercer County.
But Earline figured she'd start with the funny boys in her own backyard.
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