Actually, it was the first hummingbird to discover the nectar feeder. And the squirrels have completely hogged the suet feeder. And something small and feathered and brown came and splashed in the bird bath. Sweet. And then I coughed up a lung, and scared them all away, and the RLA dragged my sorry ass back to bed, and not in the fun way.
After the RLA threatened to stop talking to me if I didn’t see a doctor, I saw a doctor this afternoon. What a shock: it’s either my annual bronchitis or walking pneumonia. He didn’t feel like dicking around with x-rays, so I’m on some antibiotic that will cure either condition. Needless to say, I am back on my back in bed. There’s a fucking groove here, I swear. Bah.
I’m up. The chest-cold, hacking, productive cough has returned. I hate this. I’m over this. I refuse to go to a doctor, however, and will continue to exert mind over matter, the Secret, quantum mechanics in the direction of my poor widdle lungs and heal myself. Or not.
Yesterday’s mail brought two pounds of Finn wool, processed and un-dyed. I’ve decided that the RLA and I shall become the Next Big Thing among indie dyers. The RLA is unimpressed. He still wants to be the Next Big Thing among quilters. I’m willing to try. But first I have to dig down to the strata in my studio which contains the sewing machine. There seems to be an accretion of wool between me and the Bernina.
Maybe over the weekend, I can dig down. If I’m not in bed, coughing up lung. It remains to be seen.
I was in bed by seven tonight. And up again at eleven. I’ve had a nice hot toddy, and maybe I can sleep. Maybe. This is getting so fucking old.
My mother always read to me, and it spurred my desire to read on my own. My very favorite book was the 1948 edition of the Anthology of Children’s Literature with color plates by N.C.Wyeth (which also stirred my interest in art and illustration). She would read the same poems every night to put me to sleep, starting with Mr. Nobody and including The Duel, and her favorites by Robert Louis Stevenson.
At the Sea-Side
Robert Louis Stevenson
When I was down beside the sea,
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.
My holes were empty like a cup.
In every hole the sea came up,
Till it could come no more.
I took my tattered old copy of the Anthology with me on Sunday when I went to visit her. She was hunched over in her wheelchair, and had just finished eating. As usual, I kissed her hello, and said her name and got no response. So I opened the book, and started to read. First I read Mr. Nobody and surprised myself with how quickly it brought me to tears. But I soldiered on. And as I got to the RLS, all of a sudden, my mother’s head came up and she fixed me with the most intense stare. She knew I was there, and she was there in a way that I hadn’t seen in at least four years. She tried very hard to say something, but her speech center is shot, and only a garble of things that might have been words came out. But there was intent. She held my hand tightly.
Next week, I think we’ll read again, and maybe I’ll try some Just So stories on her.
In less maudlin and heart-wrenching news, RJ came over on Sunday afternoon to help me establish a bird watching area/sanctuary in my back yard. We put in a suet feeder, a hummingbird feeder (under the red hibiscus and over my old cat’s grave), a bird bath, a seed feeder and a squirrel feeder. Whew. Today, the squirrels discovered that there was a huge pile of corn and sunflower seeds to be had for the taking. I’m chuffed.
Finally, tonight the Sussex Spaniel came out of retirement to win Best in Show at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show at Madison Square Garden. It was the first time in show history that five of the seven dogs competing for best in show represented breeds that had never won best in show. They were the Scottish Deer Hound, the Sussex, the Pulli (I was rooting for the Pulli), the Brussels Griffon, and the Giant Schnauzer (in black)(and that was another thing, of the seven dogs, five were black or dark grizzled grey). It was a gorgeous set of finalists, and good to see some under represented breeds win their groups. The Sussex is named Stump, and he’s ten, which is a Grand Old Man in dog show years. Yeah for dogs. Jojo, the dog of very little brain, watched with me, but the Noble Dog Nails was having none of it. He went to bed with the RLA.
And now, so shall I.
Do you know how hard it is to find rock lyrics that have to do with selling and money? I mean, aside from the obvious ones? Anyway. I’ve updated the old Etsy shop with three of my hand-spun yarns and some of my cool beaded stitch markers. They’re cheap and they’re available. Kind of like me, thirty years ago.
You know how much I love, love, love watching women on the train perform their morning rituals… moisturizing, plucking stray eyebrow hairs, applying foundation. Hell, applying their entire make-up routine in the middle of a public space… a crowded, un-hygienic space. But today I saw a woman, a young woman do something truly horrific: she shaved her mustache. To be more accurate, she didn’t shave. Nor did she pluck. She used a pair of scissors to cut the hair on her upper lip down to skin level. I suppose that would be considered trimming her mustache. Either way. It was a WOMAN. TRIMMING HER MUSTACHE IN PUBLIC!
There. I hope she’s happy. Not only did she scar me for life with this performance, but she also caused me to post in all caps. And bold. Gah. The humanity.