But enough about me. What's new with you? I truly thank you for bearing with my slothful updates these days. But I'm finding that I do my best work more cloistered than a Trappist monk. Which facilitates a social life about as full as Nicole Richie after a public meal, but hey, I do what I can.
Random thoughts: when you were younger, say between the ages of 17 and 24, did you rub the sweaty back of your neck or the bridge of your nose and then stick your grubby, greasy fingertips into the frothy head of your beer to more quickly disburse the foam? The other day I had a flashback to a time when my friends and I actually did this at house parties and I thought, My GOD were we gross!!! Who on earth thought of that neat little trick? A syphilitic panhandler?
Also, what on earth does a Sergeant at Arms do? Is he subordinate to the General of Legs? (Sorry about that...I told you my brain's on auto-pilot for any non-book related issues. Just ask my family. I'm driving them crazy with my poor listening skills and subpar personal interaction of late.)
Finally, is anyone else as addicted as I am to the Sunday night Adult Swim lineup on the cartoon network? (Outing my true geekiness here.) Whenever I'm crabby all I need to do is hum "Jefferton ALIVE!" from Tom Goes to the Mayor and I start smiling.
Okay, that wasn't the last "finally." Here is the ultimate finale. Pictures from the garden I haven't yet killed. (Also known as the Procrastination Series.) See that monarch caterpillar? I got all excited and bought bird netting and everything to protect him so I could watch his magical transformation into a beautiful butterfly, and then on Saturday some asshole blackbird ate him.
A vertical view featuring how goofy the one blue Delphinium in the back looks. (I planted five of these babies, so hopefully they'll fill in and look less scraggly soon.) What you're not seeing: a clump of purple coneflower, white clips campanula, red impatiens, purple petunias, coral bells, lady's mantle, bee balm, catmint, alyssum, and a family of leprechauns that claim to relatives of David Caruso.
Bert the Bluejay.*
Clyde,* our resident Chipmunk. He's currently hanging out in the pile of lumber awaiting placement in our new garage.
My poor, defunct caterpillar, now likely so much bird splay on someone's freshly washed windshield. The circle of life, my friends. Sometimes it really sucks.
*Names have been invented solely for blogging purposes.