If I did one of those fucking Oprah gratitude journals, which I do not, I would have to list this physical place where I live in every day's entry.
We all know that and in fact, this whole entire blog may be one of those fucking gratitude journals and if that's the truth, I'm just a fucking nitwit who is too cool for school and too cool to admit that she keeps one and I DO NOT, IT'S JUST THAT WHEN I AM GRATEFUL I ADMIT IT.
So yes, it has been a Sunday but I did not fall completely into despair but rather did the things which I only do when I'm already in a bad mood because why ruin a perfectly good mood doing things you dislike? In this case, those things would be scrubbing toilets and trimming sago palms. If you do not know what sago palms are, they are the palms in the background of the above pictures. They are not technically palms at all and I have a love-hate relationship with them. Their fronds are slightly poisonous and sharp as tiny razors and so when you trim them, you end up with itchy arms but it's not a terrible toxin. It does go away quickly. Still. It's not that much fun. And yet, they have a certain jaunty and dangerous beauty.
I do not need to discuss toilet scrubbing. We all do that. One would hope. Although I can remember boyfriends back in the olden days who obviously had no idea after leaving their mothers' homes that toilets did not magically self-clean and oh, it was not charming.
I look back on those days and can't believe that I would voluntarily enter certain of those houses or apartments without wearing a full Hazmat suit and yet I did and I survived with only the usual expected resulting problems, mostly a terribly misguided belief that these boys NEEDED me. Obviously.
Oh. The incredibly sweet and stupid notions of youth.
Anyway, yes, I scrubbed the toilets and trimmed the sago palms and did the laundry and did not mop any floors whatsoever and I took a nap.
But Mr. Moon and I met up on the front porch for a martini and the chickens came up and I got some stale crackers to feed them and they pecked, pecked, pecked on the porch floor for every tiny crumb and seed and they made me so happy which they always do. I took some pictures, mostly of Elvis, my brave and gentle rooster. And then he jumped on one of the hens and had his way with her right there in front of us, his beautiful cape of wing spread over all so as to provide privacy, I suppose, and I wondered if our portrayals of Dracula as he spreads his cape over himself and his luscious victims while he pierces their throats and drinks of their blood came from someone's observation of just this behavior.
I do not know. I do not know shit, as I point out frequently.
The top picture is of Miss Flopsy who is way too skinny. She is my hen who sat on eggs last year, spending weeks and weeks on them, barely removing herself from her nest to eat or drink and that is what I fear for Miss Baby. I look at Miss Flopsy and I can see the dinosaur in her. She was a very fine mother and I feel very guilty that we let her and her babies out of the coop too early which led to the taking of every one of those chicks by hawks or owls.
But. Grateful for this yard which is beautiful either from the back porch or the front or the side. Grateful for my chickens with their bawk and their cluck and their hoooo as they go about their day. Grateful for the potatoes I'm about to scrub and cook. Grateful for the man who allows me to be in a pissy mood without taking personal offense. Grateful for my clothesline and the centuries-old oak trees I am blessed to share space with. Grateful for the second fragrant bloom of the wisteria, even if it is sparse.