Two 3.8-mile city rides.
I rode through a damn sandblaster on the way home. A thunderstorm loomed thunderily in the northeast and another to the south, and me in the middle, I battled scouringly, searingly hot winds all the way home. Lordy.
Home. Bounce Shadowfax down to basement. Throw shoes and gloves and helmet into crate on landing. Peel clothing out of pannier and throw pannier on crate. Rescue Blake. Strip off bike clothing. Turn on swamp coooler. Shower. Make buddy chow. Collapse into Vito.
Damn it's hot.
Blake preened on my knee for a little but of course went for my foot when I stretched my leg out. I wondered briefly why he prefers my left foot to my right, but it's probably because I keep the right leg folded much more often. I wouldn't let him make with the friendly-like with my foot but threw him back onto his cage, where he is now whining. He is my child and it would be incest but mostly he tickles.
Trish said someone hit her site looking for a particular phrase she'd heard me utter. I searched myself and yep, there she is at the top of the list. I also read actual cockatiel sites, most of which said "It's normal, they have no shame, don't encourage it and don't punish it and yes, they do probably consider your face and your hands or feet to be separate entities." One cockatiel-advice site featured--let me guess, a conservative fundamentalist dumpy inorgasmic female--asking how to get her cockatiel to stop "because that's just NASTY."
I really hate people sometimes.
"Florp" as a title was supposed to be all about my adventures in Vito whence I am not moving for the rest of the evening. It shall not be a euphemism for cockatiel self-abuse--oh, the irony--because said activity doesn't require one.
It's still hot. I still haven't moved. I should probably read Oscar and Lucinda instead of blathering though.