Tubby Loot yet? Have you, huh? All the cool kids are buying something. How can you not want Tubby’s bitchy face on the front of your shirt? (Okay, okay, I’ll stop mentioning it. Y’all know where to go if you’re interested in the swag.)
* * *
Pet store kitties are
here.
* * *
After a great big fuckarow with my email over the weekend (I can’t even explain to y’all what happened, because I have no clue what the hell I did), I am finally set up the way I want again. I never realized just how damn many email addresses I have going on. At the moment, I have 7 email “personalities” set up in Eudora, and that’s just assuming I didn’t forget one or more of them.
I have a non-domain email address, a robynanderson.com email address, one for the giveaway list, one specifically for GFY, two for notify lists that I belong to (though I’m trying to get them all changed over so that I only have one notify list email), and one for postcards from Maine.
It’s easier to filter all the notify list emails into a certain folder if they’re coming in to a certain email address, y’see.
Could I be more boring, yammering on about my email address? Could I? Because I don’t think I can, no.
* * *
Saturday afternoon I opened the front door to go out and take a picture of the Four O’Clocks I have planted in a pot on the front porch, and to my surprise, standing on the hose which stretched across the front step, was a bird.
“Uh, hey,” I said to Fred. “Come here!” He did, and stepped outside with me.
The bird looked at me, looked at Fred, looked at me again, and then decided that perhaps we were just a tad too close. He fluttered his wings and flew a few feet away, then turned to look at us.
“He doesn’t have any tail feathers!” I said. “Oh, poor bird! What happened to his tail feathers? He can’t fly very well without them!”
“I think that’s a baby,” Fred said. It occurred to us that there was a nest in the next door neighbor’s front yard – we only knew that because we could hear the baby birds screaming to be fed on occasion, and there’s a Robin (as opposed to a Robyn) who spends a lot of time looking for food in our front yard.
“He’s letting me get way too close to him,” I said. The bird would let me get within a foot of him before he’d flutter away. I followed him across the lawn to a spot underneath the tree he’d fallen out of.
“Bessie, leave that poor bird alone!” Fred finally said, so after one last look and a few shots of the Four O’Clocks, I came inside.
* * *
Yesterday, with Fred itching to get out of the house, we headed for Decatur and took a walk along the walking path at Point Mallard Park. I have no pictures for you, because when Fred grabbed the camera to bring with us, I said “If you’re bringing the camera, you’re taking the pictures!” Sometimes I feel like I don’t get a chance to fully enjoy some of the things we do because I’m so caught up in taking pictures.
A few hours later – me soaked with sweat – we arrived home. I put a couple of empty soda bottles in the recycling bin in the garage and then went back out to move my Jeep back a few feet, since it was parked squarely across the hose, and Fred wanted to water the lawn.
“Bessie!” Fred called in a low whisper. “Your buddy is back!”
“My buddy?” I said, not having any clue what he was talking about.
He pointed toward the butterfly bush. I looked, and then looked blankly at him. He pointed again, so I looked closer.
‘Twas the baby bird, hanging out on the butterfly bush.
(Yes, it’s a crappy blurry picture)
He sat and stared at us, until Fred tried to get him to stand in his hand. The bird wasn’t up for that, and hopped down from the bush, running across the yard. Finally, Fred got him coralled back toward the butterfly bush and then left him alone. From underneath the butterfly bush, the bird regarded us warily as we headed inside.
It’s like fuckin’ Wild Kingdom around here, it really is.
* * *
Those Four O’Clocks, by the way. I had no idea they get so big. For damn sure I’m going to plant them in the ground next year, though, because in the pot they have to be watered almost every day, or they start to wilt.
While I’m showing off my garden, check these out.
Some gorgeous Glads, aren’t they? I know you’re not supposed to cut them, because the bulb get it’s energy for the next year from the flower, but I couldn’t resist, so don’t give me shit. Seriously, don’t! They’re already cut and there’s nothing I can do to un-cut them! So there!
* * *
So, remember when I was bitching about how much I sweat these days (a side effect of the Synthroid, I’ve learned)? Y’all probably thought I was exaggerating, so I have proof. This morning, I hadn’t even started cleaning cat cages at the pet store, and
this is what I looked like. (No comments about the hair, thank you)
No wonder I have to drink almost a gallon of water a day to stay hydrated.
* * *
The least comfortable place to sleep in the house, yet the most in demand.
]]>