I’m hot.

And not in an I’m too sexy for my hair/shirt/skirt/flip-flops way.

I’m hot, as in we’re pushing 90 Fahren here in my neck of Burbville.

And with my winter-thick Canadaland blood… I Am A Goner.

Goner.

It’s like a heat wave.

And you know what that brings to mind…

Martha and the Vandellas. Heat Wave (1963)

I’ve always been smitten with M & the V’s, because early Motown + girl groups = swoon.

But especially today because — you know — heat wave.

Okay. I admit it. I have a thing for Motown.

Period.

In Other News ~

The Pigmunk is under control, at least where the strawberries are concerned. I was cooking BLT bacon a few days ago and I looked out the kitchen patio doors to see that wily chipmunk dashing through the lemon balm, up the wood rounds and through the potted wandering jew, making a leap to the garden crypt, dashing through the herbs, and scouting for any weakness in my chicken wire cage.

[insert air-sucking deep breath after run-on sentence]

Any. Weakness. At. All.

I tried to get him on video for you, but by the time I had the smartphone out and the camera open and swiped to video setting, that critter had shrugged his little chipmunk shoulders and moved on. I thought I might have heard a little chipmunk swear, but it’s hard to say.

Enter Demon Squirrel.

Demon Squirrel shuffles the soil out of my pots of basil and lettuce and tomatoes and carrots making space for his peanut plunder. Sometimes he leaves the broken peanut shells on the alfresco dining table and container soil scattered on the chair cushions. He’s a smart-ass demon squirrel is what he is, with ‘tude.

And then Baby Undead Bunny hops onto the scene.

Literally.

Before ~

Anticipating a bright future are they.

Baby Undead Bunny took a leaf-munching trip right up the stalks of my Asiatic lilies until he got about four rows to the blossom… and moved on.

We’re done here. Burp!

After as seen from above.

Stealth Baby Undead Bunny.

And these pesky gardinators are so freakin’ furry-cute that I’m hard pressed to care too much.

Sorta.

Kinda.

Of course, there’s a fine line between sorta-kinda-hard-pressed-to-care-too-much and This Means War!

Uh-oh. I counted three shots. My bad.

Here be Monday all freakin’ furry-cute and hot.

Let’s roll.

Elen