It's all Maurice's fault. She came and got in bed with me at 6:00 this morning and she neglected to wake me up, but instead was so cozy nestled between my knees and hip. And suddenly, it was 9:30 and I was running late, late, late although really not. I mean...who cares?
So. Chickens are up and out, some busy waiting in line to lay their eggs. It's so funny how they decide that THIS nesting box is the one they want, damn the other five to hell. Mick is trying like crazy to get one of the hens interested in a little "fertilization" as I call it when Owen's around. We had a little discussion about that yesterday.
He also uses the term "making out" but that applies only to humans and whenever he uses it, I feel as if I am back in Jr. High. It astounds him (and probably nauseates him) that his grandmother and his grandfather still make out. "Just because you get old, it doesn't mean you don't like to kiss and hug your sweetheart," I tell him.
"And you're not really old," he tells me because he's so very polite. Yesterday he asked me if I was born in the olden days and we had to define what that was which led to a discussion of TV with only three channels and that led to Shock Theater and Tarzan movies.
One of these days I'm going to make him watch an old Tarzan movie with me. The Johnny Weissmuller kind. He'll probably laugh his ass off. Or maybe he'll like it. He, of course, was raised on the stupid Disney Tarzan with the songs by Phil Collins.
I would say "blow me" but that would be rude and profane.
Okay. I need to get moving. There is a plan afoot to descend upon the baby and then kidnap the mother and baby and perhaps father if he will come to go to lunch. And there are shoes to buy and so on and so forth and it will take me all day, without a doubt, but that's fine because, once again...who cares?
Mr. Moon is in the woods, he is happy and content, and I am a hunting widow who can leisurely lunch and shop and stay up all night reading if she so chooses.
Happy Friday, y'all.