Kinwork:
Lisa:
Read
Exercise
I searched for that book I mentioned the other day. I had "Jane Eyre" and "girl closet tray read" and lo, I found it: It All Began With Jane Eyre: Or, the Secret Life of Franny Dillman, by Sheila Greenwald. If the book itself doesn't have that tone (I'll find out when it makes its way to me through the library), its title sure does. Deliberately, I'm sure.
Finding it made me grin. So did my first episode of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" last night, which I thanked Eliza for. So did my first swim, rather than only immersion, though in only fake, rather than real, water, in over a week, just a leisurely mile but enough.
So did this:
I love its little punk-ass haircut. Which I have just (the next day, watching Blake, perched on my shin, preen in a sleepy kind of way, and fluff his plumage in a sleepy kind of way) realized is vaguely cockatielian, which is so a word.
And its jauntily angled nose.
And its little blind stare.
Also, it tasted good. It grew, I plucked it, it modeled for the camera, I devoured it with salt. Such is the life of a tomato.
Well, Blake's more than a friend, but that's the phrase. He likes the cave, the space under the arm of the couch, between its side and the wall. Back there, he's easy to clean up after. Today, sitting on the couch, I set up his box at the open end of the cave as a Buddy Containment Device. He can't wander all over the floor if he's penned in by his box, or so went my reasoning. I'm not as bright as a cockatiel, though: the first time he got bored, he nudged the box aside and trotted out on the wall side, my clever little thing; the second time, I braced the box with my tall glass of water, and he nudged the box forward and emerged on the couch side; the third time, he gathered his strength and did a standing jump from floor to box top, six inches up, scampered across its top, and hopped off the opposite end. At least all of these ways were noisy enough that I could hear him and recontain him otherwise.
Thank goodness I was cooking dinner: an obvious and also honest excuse to cut short my conversation with Babushka. It is tomato season and she damn well knows it, so she opened the door and said "Yoohoo, honey!" (she's forgotten my name again) and came right in. I had been moving between porch swing and kitchen and not locked the door: a mistake. I picked six tomatoes today, including Mr. Nose; I gave her three. I didn't give her any cherries this year but selfishly kept them all myself. I can't begrudge her a decent homegrown tomato or three.