My friend Michael came over on Saturday and we smoked and drank and cackled. The next day I was extremely hung, to paraphrase Auntie Mame, and spent the day sitting or laying down. I have a good book, but at times it hurt my brain, so I just sat. Beulah came up and sat on my lap and became obsessed with the pleather pull on the zipper of my hoodie and would pull it down, and it's all I'm wearing on top, and I'd pull it up and it just seemed like the perfect thing for the moment. So: hung over zombie woman being undressed by a chicken.Don't resist me, baby. It's gonna happen.Yeah, that's what I'm talking about.
Hey, I'm done eating chicken shit, can I go back in?
I've given up on preventing Lulu from eating the chicken poops. So, now she gets to come out with us at night. The first thing she does is graze for poops, and then she finds a spot and pees in it: LULU WAS HERE. Or something like that.
I re-arranged the back deck and brought out one of the Religulous chairs. Dinsdale immediately took to it. Maybe he's not getting enough praying in his diet.
It was overcast for much of the weekend, which I don't mind. We had, again, a tantilizing hint of a thunder storm, but nothing histrionic.Oh, and I got a sketch done - the extent of my artistic outpourings.
On Sunday morning, Sammy ran in the house with his tail all big, like a toilet brush. I couldn't figure out what spooked him, until a while later I happened to look up at the clear roofing covering the porch and there was a raccoon. I immediately ushered the girls back to their coop and tapped him with a broom, and he ambled off to another part of the roof of the house. So, no free ranging on that day: I let them out when my nephew and I were hanging in the back garden, and kept them in, under my eye. I'm so torn about raccoons: I think they're beautiful, but they're hell on chickens and cats. Also kind of sad: there was only the one raccoon, and I know they travel in pairs, so this was probably a widowed 'coon. Confidential to solo raccoon: maybe you should try looking for a mate a few blocks over.
The 'skeeters are a little fierce this year. For all I know, the hospice next door has a pond or some shit. You can see one right on Lulu's forehead. I was forever telling her to hold still and then, as gently as I could, smacking the 'skeeter flat dead. Lulu was all 'WTF?' When I trundle out to the garden now I grab a handful of lavender and crush it up and spread it over vunerable body parts and it seems to help.
The house to the north of me is an Alzheimer's hospice. Which, I guess, is like living next to a madhouse. I think in some ways my irritation with the south overcompensates for my dearth of any regarding the north. There are two sounds that are sort of the bookends of my summer so far. One, is an old guy in the house who is the Pavarotti of all phlegmy throat clearers. The other is the Good Humor truck, which plays Turkey in the Straw, an infernal tune rendered even more so by it's tinny production values and Chhhh! Chhhh! accents (in the 80s, I had a keyboard player who had a Wasp and that was like the coolest sound it made: Chhhh! Chhhh!). The two factors, the old man and the ice cream truck, sometimes gang up at once and I have to run inside.
The back garden is now surrounded by cheap cheesey picket fencing with a 'gate' that is just a section that I cut. I bemoan the lack of manliness in my life, if only to have someone around to build me crap.
The yellow house is the neighbors to the south of me. At night, it often serves as beautiful contrast as the evening colors change. The people who dwell in it, well, meh. I'll bitch about them at some later date. The wooden fish was carved by the girley-man who lives there: he's a woodworker, apparently, and the fish along with others was perched on the fence that (thankfully) divides us. It would fall into my yard, I would put it back up, it would fall down, and so it went, until this year when I was casting about for garden 'art', I found it behind one of my plum trees, so it's mine now. It points directly to the house I appropriated it from.
They like to eat the paint that is flaking off an old plant holder. It's not old enough to be lead and I've tried hiding it in various places, but they always find it. So, what the hell.
Ester's feather are so pretty. After this:
When they had enough of me, they waddled away, but not before Ester, light of my eye, jumped in the forbidden triangle. I'm sitting in the Adirondack chair, with ottoman, so I'm all 'HEY, GET OUTTA THERE, BAD CHICKEN!' while struggling like a beached whale trying to get out of the damn thing (and without upsetting my glass of wine). All this time I assumed Beulah was the gang leader in this. But Ester, unlike Beulah, did not dash around in 10 different directions until finally getting out. She gave me a look, combination hurt and indignation, and hopped right out.
This morning I misted the walls of the girl's coop: I hope that helps. When they came out yesterday, they were running around with their beaks open: I'm assuming they probably cool themselves, like dogs.
The garden is coming together:
Hops, verbascum, rose campion and a big bin of weeds that it's been too hot to schlep to the curb:
Happily, he has moved past the habit of screaming for me in his mew-piteous-mew voice while I'm on the other side of the gate.