Pair of old shears that Mr. Moon found under the house, rusted shut forever.
It's Sunday and the great gaping maw of it yawns before me, the pancakes and bacon made and eaten and the kitchen cleaned up.
May I speak a bit more about how much I love my dishwasher? I run it once, twice a day! I do not wash anything by hand that could be put in there. Only my iron skillets and cutting boards sit in the dish drainer now. Did you know that seashells are dishwasher safe? I use big, flat pieces of shell for spoon rests and they go right in that beautiful machine and come out sparkling! I still hold my drinking glasses (mostly mason jars, but still) up to the light and say, "Look how clean!" No longer do my coffee mugs have permanent brown stains. My canisters have been washed free of decades of flour and sugar. Hell, I even put my flour-sifter in there last night!
I am like a child with a brand new toy and my delight is completely inappropriate but I do not care. I do not care at all.
But one cannot spend all day loading and unloading her dishwasher. No. And quite frankly, I have no idea what we're doing today. Mr. Moon is trying to reclaim his pressure washer from a neighbor in order to clean a boat and that's a good project for him. I could certainly find something to do but I feel vastly unmotivated. I have something stuck in the tough skin of my foot and when I step on it wrong, it feels as if a nail is puncturing it. I need to get a light and a pair of tweezers and see if I am bendy enough to do something about that. Go on a search and removal mission. Another thing that needs to be done today is to fashion a cat door for Maurice who has been renamed The Sleep Killer. This whole ignoring-her thing is not working. She has taken to throwing herself at the door right beside our bed when she wants out.
"What is she doing?" my husband asked me in the depths of the night.
"Trying to open the door," I said. Or perhaps she is simply trying to break through it. That's what it sounds like. I do not know. But this cannot continue.
Horrifying Fact: The other day when I was shopping with Lily and the boys I inadvertently held up a 12X's magnifying mirror to my face and almost passed out. I will never be the same. I was going to use it to show Owen what he looked like in a pair of red sunglasses (very fine!) and, as I said, I inadvertently looked in it myself, the angle being my mouth, my chin, my neck.
I'm still rocked by what I saw in that mirror. I make a conscious decision not to look in ANY mirror if I can avoid it so you can only imagine. I'm about to turn sixty-one and I can't even fathom how that's possible. And please, I beg of you- do not tell me that age is nothing but a number. My number is too high for that bullshit and now that I've actually seen the whiskered, sagging, wrinkled and cratered surface of my face that clearly, there is no way to un-see it, no way to think that, oh, I look pretty good.
For eighty. I would look pretty good for eighty.
Let's see- do I have anything else to discuss?
Ah, not really. All the chickens are fine. Even Trixie is out and about. The babies are getting their full feathering and Elvira looks so much like her grandfather. I am looking forward to their first egg-layings like a fourteen year old girl looking forward to getting her first period.
I hear a mockingbird singing and of course the crickets are buzzing. It's not as hot today, Hallelujah! and maybe I'll go weed a bit. The wild gladiola which barely blooms at all needs pulling, the garden is giving me nothing but cherry tomatoes which are growing increasingly smaller until soon they will be the size of b-b's. And peas, I'm still getting those. And zinnias. The lovely, lovely zinnias.
All right. It's one thing to waste my time, it's another to waste yours.
What are you doing today? Do you have anything planned? Oh. I hope so. Sunday's can be so fraught with angsty despair. It sounds as if someone in Lloyd has decreed this to be Drag Racing Day. Other than that...nada.
It's all right.
Be at peace.
Budding pine cone lily.