Whoo. I'm listening to PALM: Pick a Lane, Motherfucker, a mix Trish made, and while I am spared the hell of stop-and-go traffic on a daily basis, this might actually get me back in the gym. She is all edjimicating me, music-wise. I've mentioned my unhipness before, yes? or it is otherwise screamingly obvious? Mudhoney, Weezer, Wheatus, the Offspring, Soul Coughing, Foo Fighters. It's all new to me. She is clearly trying to drive me insane, because if Me First and the Gimme Gimmes' covering "Leaving on a Jetplane" nearly broke my head, and Mudhoney's cover of "Pump It Up" is--while not nearly so mind-bending--possibly enough to drive me over the edge.
Anyway, she and Jared picked me up Saturday night and they had the Obligatory Meeting of the Bird. Blake preferred Jared, who is taller (making Blake higher) and wore fabric easier to climb than Trish's. He chucked a little, refused to be pet by such rank amateurs as these, and performed only by bowing to the candelabra (and immediately trotting back to the edge of the table begging to be picked up again). They also had the Obligatory Trot through the House, and Trish won my undying affection by declaring Formigny the Clue House, because of its staircases (short and secret passagey) in opposite corners.
Trish voting for Japanese, I brought them to Japon. Whose chef's name is Wayne Conwell. And which had these beaded metal string curtains which looked like they should be the manes of the Heavy Metal My Pretty Pony. Over dinner, we, by which I mean Trish and I, commiserated with each other about the Johns of C (Cusack and Corbett). Then we gossiped about journals, except none of us had anything particularly new. Then it was late (for me), we were three people sitting around a small table over a drink, so I suggested we all drink to each other's legs. Trish had already abused me for not having seen "Office Space" but I abused her worse for not having memorized "Jaws" and not getting my joke. But Jared did. It was muchos fun.
We all wound up back at my house after midnight, so we officially comprised a very small, very short EasterCon. Just like the cool kids.
My body hating me as it does, I woke at 6 after getting to bed at 1. Instead of admitting how long I stayed inside trying to nap (difficult, what with the two cups of Earl Grey in the morning), I shall only admit that the one thing I accomplished was compost.
I assembled a new bin RDC brought home and turned the compost, putting all the raw stuff in the new one (which does not yet have squirrel and mouse holes bitten through it) and putting all the almost-dirt in the old one. The almost-dirt is going to be only almost-dirt, but I filled up the new one with leaves. I just read that you should shove a bunch of your leaves in a trash bin and attack it with a weed whacker, just like those little hand-held, single-serving blenders, and that will be handy to reduce the volume of my leaves.
I say all this to postpone the ugly truth. I killed a mouse. Or more. I've known for months that mice live in my compost bin, where they have asparagus stumps and orange rind and whatnot to feast on. I suspected they would, in this season, be nesting. But I turned the compost anyway, chasing out two grown mice as I pitchforked all the natal dirt. My last step is always to wet the compost, this time with the five-gallon bucket of roof drippings from Saturday's rain. Heavier stuff sinks, lighter stuff rises. Lighter stuff like a bald, eyes not yet open, but pretty big considering the size of its presumable parents, baby mouse corpse.
It was not a Frisby. It just can't have been.