Proabably four times in the last few weeks, our power has been out at home. Sometimes we’re here to experience it, coming in from the backyard in the sunshine and flipping useless switches, sometimes we come home from work to a blaring stereo and blinking clocks.
Every time it happens, we find three or so dead birds, fried right up, piled under the utility pole with the huge gray box on top in the alley behind our house.
I am going to organize a campaign in the fall to banish the word “Best” used alone as a closing in emails and letters. As in,
Blahblah blah blah nonsense blah blah please let me know your feedback and I will relay it to the client.
I get a lot of these. I fucking hate it. Don’t do that.
We are going on vacation in less than a week, with my whole family, and I could not be more ready or more excited. And when I return I have pledged to be a little purging dervish, donating or tossing every single item in this house I don’t use or love. I’m thinking of giving myself a goal , like 1,000 things. Ambitious.
My bird is waking up whiny as we speak. Eeeeh. Eeeeeeeeeeehhh. Eeeeeeeeehhhhhhh. I’m going to go set her free again into the world of the fully awake.
This morning she sat still like a little churchmouse, hands folded on the Book of Common Prayer and eyes straight ahead, singing out of an upside-down hymnal. Cutest. Thing. Ever.