Two 3.6-mile city rides, completing another five-day bike week.
No swim, because it was maybe going to storm.
Have I mentioned my idea for body art? The only idea that's ever appealed to me occurred to me after Blake woke from a nap and left on my shoulder a single buddy footprint, four toes and an ankle imprinted in my skin: a brand in just that shape. It would have to be a brand, not a tattoo, because the point is not just the shape but the imprint; but it cannot happen, because the only reason I would need a false imprint is if the real imprinter were no longer on my shoulder.
Buddy is going to be 10 in August. We're discussing letting his two outermost primaries be, to give a little more power to his glide. I don't know if cockatiels get osteoperosis, but they do get old.
Although not yet. We are on the couch, watching "Queer as Folk" and playing with iTunes. There is a parade with whistles and hooting on the show, and Blake is participating, prancing and bobbing. For the record, Blake would love a good gay parade. Parrots are chockful of ego and love to be conspicuous. Oh no: except that parades have balloons, and there hasn't been a parrot yet who could tolerate a balloon, nor similarly flippy flappy things like banners and pennants and the dread pompons and lethal pinwheels.
My sweet little scaredy-cat.