I am lying on the couch (yes it's a gorgeous day out, your point?) reading and napping. Blake is on my naked left shoulder (most of me is in the navy satin pyjamas my MIL gave me for Christmas). He's mostly napping too, and I roused when I felt him stir. I reached for him and held him out over the pooper. He did his prepoop stretches, left wing and leg, right wing and leg, both wings up over the back, and pooped. I sleepily moved my right arm back toward my left shoulder, but before he was close enough to hop back, I stopped my arm and inspected my shoulder more closely.
I know this means I have enough fat to make this possible, but if so I never want to be thin: I have a perfect little buddy footprint in my shoulder. One, because he was napping, damn it. The other was tucked warmly into his belly feathers. A buddy footprint. Than which nothing is cuter. There's not much plantar surface on a buddy foot. But there's some, I know, because it's imprinted in my skin, and a little halfmoon where some weight must have rested on the cuff on his bent leg.
Should I have the vet remove his cuff? Not that anyone has ever harassed me for having a possibly stolen-from-the-wild bird but I like it for proof that no, he wasn't, he was born into prison thank you.
A little buddy footprint, there on my shoulder.
Or something. Tendonitis is much more likely than carpal tunnel syndrome, which is just so trendy anyway. I mention this only to give context about why anyone took my blood pressure Wednesday afternoon.
I had a smoke hangover, I drove because I was damn tired, I was going to go to Another Target at lunch but I went to the doctor instead [see medical care, not seeking of, because no transportation to and fro], and did I mention it was damn hot and I was damn tired?
Nevertheless, my blood pressure, at 1:15 p.m., was 88/54. Could the tech possibly have done that right? I've been falling over after standing up too fast for years now, but that's nearly dead, isn't it?
Then she took my pulse. I doubt its accuracy because she held her finger to my wrist for maybe 15 seconds but I think 10 really. Sixty. 60. Again, nearly dead.
45' elliptical, incline 20 (does that mean 20%? it's as inclined as the machine goes), resistance mostly 12 but sometimes 10 or 11 out of 20. Total strides, uh, over 5600. It felt good. I did not afterward swim at noon. I thought I might go and play at the city pool, after some yardwork, in the later afternoon.
I swept the front walk, finally, cleaning up after moving dirt from here to there. I was going to stretch groundcloth over the fill, but RDC thinks it's not distributed properly yet to which I say "Here's the rake." Otherwise I weeded the backyard and garden. Damn, I hope buffalo grass is determined stuff. Otherwise I don't know how it will ever scratch a roothold among the crap back there. There's some plant I hate with dandelion looking leaves but with pokers and teeth on them, that irritate my skin. Bachelor's button, which is not a weed because it has a pretty flower. Ditto dandelions. Fucking bindweed. Some other damn thing I call chicory for no reason other than my near-total weed-name ignorance. I clipped zillions of cherry sprouts and some hammocky sort of weed that grows even more like a weed than a regular weed and if you leave it alone often becomes an extremely weak, falls over in the slightest wind, tree.
Anyway it's all gone now, every single bad plant, killed with handclippers because I hate the (rechargeable) weedwhacker.
As we stood in line, SPM told stories. He talked about the daughter of some friends, who is three with the vocabulary of a five-year-old, and how she will very clearly state what she wants. She has the entire Baby Genius series, and SPM listed them, "Baby Einstein, Baby Mozart, Baby Beethoven, Baby John Holmes."
I knew he was making a joke but I didn't know its nature.
This is even funnier, considering that last winter he and his wife mentioned the porn catalog I had left for them back in September when they watered our plants while we were in Grand Teton. I was flummoxed as to what they could possibly mean and realized, some hours later, that the only catalog I would possibly have had that I would have assumed to be of interest to them was The Common Reader. The raciest it gets is Anaïs Nin and Colette.
So Baby Porn Star was pretty funny.
The other thing I learned is the word "ganja." I am certain I had never heard it before, and I would love to know its etymology. Marijganja? I don't know.