Archive for June, 2008

been swimmin’

Best fifty bucks I ever spent. We’ve been at the pool whenever we can. Kiddo likes to watch me swim underwater. We need the relief. During the last heat wave here, the kiddo plopped a bag of frozen fries on her head and walked around, oblivious, through the parking lot.

Had my blood drawn today. Fasting glucose. I hate those things. Ugh. Done.

Been watching I’m Not There over the course of the weekend. I’m all over the map with it. What I’m most struck with is not the main character, but the photography, which has shades of Fellini, some Arbus, and mostly Robert Frank. I could have lived contentedly in the Beat era in particular. Maybe more than any other, actually.

Getting more birds tomorrow. Finches, of course. They’re a semi-rescue from a lady who has 17 birds. (!). I want a nice flock, in a really nice, wide cage, where they can fly, something social. Miles will probably always be my number 1 though. He’s the sweetest, smartest bird. My bird obsession; thing, whatever owes alot to Miles.

I’m doing a creativity experiment this summer and probably will post mostly once a week. No particular day. Regular peeps know already how much I love randomness. Still be around though. Hopefully with something to say. Maybe some show and tell. Maybe. Tease, I am.

Happy Summer!


what this little girl is made of

“I’m not touching it.”

“But I like worms. Pleeeease.”

“Good. If you like the worm, then YOU pick it up.”


And so “Wormy” is hoisted up onto Speed (the kiddo’s scooter). Only, Speed is now a hearse, cuz this wretched noodle is dead. Dead, dead, dead.

“I’ll not lose him.”


I’m starting to feel a little clammy; and begin to wonder if this thing will end up sitting on my kitchen counter, or *EEK!* the couch, where it could get lost. Then my mind begins to slither and entertain notions of feeding it to the birds, possibly. They might appreciate a worm. They sure would. If I can summon up the courage to slice it up for the birdie buffet.

“He’s not going to hurt you, Mama. I like the way he feels!”


“Did you know he can’t see?”

“That’s right, Sweetie.”

“How come you don’t like Wormy?”

“I don’t dislike him. I just don’t like him in the manner that you like him, Sweetie….”

“I think you should carry Wormy now, Mama.”

“No, Sweetie, he needs you. He’s perfectly happy with you. He doesn’t need me.”

At all. Jesus God!

“You know, Mama, I think Wormy needs to take a swim.”


And there he goes, pushed unceremoniously off the small bridge and into the stream below. Food for fish!


did you know?

That Cool Whip is made with a major ingredient used in condom lube? Iiiiiiiinterestinnnnnnng!

Bush’s Pension?

Ok, most of us already knew, but here’s the  proof in the pudding. The real reason George went to Iraq. What timing. *Gag*


I try to avoid regrets in life. I do. But if I’ve had one lingering regret, it’s probably that I didn’t provide the kiddo with a sibling or two. We’d have both enjoyed a larger family. On the other hand, I thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to spend a great deal of time mediating tedious fights between warring factions.

Except with the other children. That would be of the fur and feather variety.

I almost lost my dear little Stella last night, no thanks to a naughty little feline. Her name is Nelly. In her prior life, before I took her in, little Nelly spent a good deal of her time outdoors hunting things, quite successfully. All she really required from humans was some affection now and then, and periodic cover from cold nights. I love Miss Nelly, but we have a philosophical difference of opinion on the birds, whom I regard as my precious darlings. Not Nelly. She just sees fast food in front of her eyes. And a challenge.

I stepped away from the cage for one minute on a small errand. That minute was enough for Nelly to reach up and somehow pin Stella down on a corner perch through the bars of the birdcage and draw blood. Maybe more. Stella is gimping on a leg. I won’t know the extent of the damage until a couple more days observation. Thankfully, she is capable of flying and perching at present time, but she’s pretty stressed out and even takes to the nest for refuge, which is unusual for her.

I’m horrified. But not mad at Nelly. She is what she is. Which is a predator and a carnivore. Oh, and a conniving sneak. Neither felines nor finches are going anywhere, so I’ve been spending the morning racking my brain for a solution in which both the Furs and the Feathers can co-exist with no more harm coming to pass. If only Fort Knox were available for rent. Barring that, plexi-glass and squirt bottles are looking very attractive. Miss Bloodthirsty has been exiled to her bedroom until further notice.

But I hate sequestering her. This cannot be a permanent solution. It just wouldn’t do. In doing so, I’d be skating ohsoclose to ROZ TERRITORY. Actually, if you asked my own siblings, they’d probably opine that I’m aboard a screaming jet plane heading toward those parts, if I’m not already in residence. Yikes! Anyway, in this eccentric domain, six cats occupy at least three different areas of my mother’s house, seperately; never to interact, because Roz insists they cannot figure out a pecking order (or whatever hierarchy felines go by) and get along. She may be right. She’s got some hefty vet bills to make that case.

But though this arrangement may be one solution, it’s a highly inconvenient one that takes up much of my dear mother’s time and energy. It’s also caused some resentment among us all, because these felines are a dire consideration whenever my mother is invited anywhere that requires a suitcase. And all but two of the five of us live more than four hours away. None of her geriatric siblings wants to trundle up and down three flights of stairs in service to these cats while she’s away. So, unless it’s for a wedding or a funeral, she pretty much stays home so she can attend to all of the litter boxes and chow bowls.

I will not be Roz. I won’t. I have another half; a resourceful half. I am also the daughter of a man whom I’ve always felt would have been an awesome engineer if given the right opportunities, and dammit, I too can muster up some sort of clever solution; the kind my brilliant father would come up with upon a few seconds consideration. It might just take me a little while longer while I call up the dormant genes, wherever they are. Because I’m not going to let some six-pound-soaking-wet otherwise adorable furball outwit me. Nosiree.


After I get that squirt bottle.


our absence. We haven’t been around much, I know. My child has discovered her new calling. At the skateboard park. Yes, my moppet wants to be a skatie. It’s all she talks about the minute she wakes up. We found it right next to the pool where I’d planned for us to be hanging out at most of our summer. She’s lukewarm about that.

We’ve watched Charlotte’s Web so much, I caught myself sniffling at Charlotte’s demise yesterday. Even though her multiple eyes creeped me out. Did you know that Robert Redford plays a horse in the recent version? And what is Sam Shepard doing as the narrator? No, no, no. He’s supposed to remain frozen in time as Chuck Yeager, chasing Barbara Hershey on a horse in The Right Stuff. Hawt.

The kiddo herself loves bugs now. And shows everyone on the track every single caterpillar and arachnid she comes across, dead or alive. You know, the kiddo is often described as shy at school, but around here, everyone knows her, and what she’s feeling, at any given time. But instead of greeting people with a cordial wave and hello, she points, much to my embarrassment, and asks  “who ARE you?!?!”, in the sort of demanding tones usually reserved for armed interrogators. Must work on that.

We’ve been scarfing entirely too much chocolate. Painting each other’s toes. Laughing at the birds. The kiddo walked in on another mating between the two yesterday and asked me what was going on. “Oh, they’re just playing, sweetie,” I covered. “Ohhhhhhh…..they’re having a wedding, aren’t they, Mama!”.


Miles and Stella. Hmm. Miles is clearly a devoted suitor. He sings to his lady all day. Stays at her side on her swing throughout the night, though I know he prefers that nest he just built. He’s always working on that thing, pulling up the newspaper lining and giving me looks when he can’t manage it. Stella, she’s one cool customer, that hen. Makes him chase her, then ignores his serenades while munching delicately on a lettuce leaf. She’s as indifferent as Miles is intense. I watch her nonsense and I want to go at her beak to beak and say “whattsa matter, my boy is not good enough for you?!?!?!??”

Clearly, I have gone to the birds.


Mini rant: I’m not a Mets fan, but I’ve been a huge Willie Randolph fan since back in the day. So I have to say this: in what world can they justify firing such a classy guy in such a graceless fashion? Just one more reason why they are the MUTTS

Saw The Diving Bell and The Butterfly last night. Sublime.

June 2008
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