Wildlife

There are apparently two squirrels who compete for the seeds that helicopter down on to my back deck. One is a healthy, feisty fellow, whereas the other is a scrawny, mangy derelict. Today they happened to be on the deck at the same time, and the healthy one (the one seen in the video) chased the mangy one away. My husband and I have worried about Mangy Squirrel and would like to find a way to feed him/her/it without other squirrels getting into the act. However, we don't need a pet squirrel, and I fear that if we take Mangy Squirrel under our protective wings, we'll de facto have a pet squirrel. I'm not at all sure how Simon would react to sharing his domain.

In my usual lack of transitioning to the next topic, I've been plagued with sinus problems: headache, earache, itchy watery eyes, and all the rest. That's the result of the Great Outdoors that we've been enjoying so much lately. If I take medication, then I'm sleepy and thick-headed. Not a good trade. I'm reminded of the "Bloom Where You Are Planted" flag hanging in my office. The subtitle is apparently "And Sneeze Where You Are Transplanted."

Speaking of turns of phrase, I posted "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get" on my Facebook page (which I hardly ever visit). Trish R-M posted back, "The behinder I get, the hurrier I go." Trust her to have the wit to twist my high-school English teacher's old saying. I can't even imagine what she would be able to do with Mama's description of nervousness: "I'm shakin' like a dog sh**ting peach pits!"


We mailed anniversary stuff to my older son and his wife today. In less than a week, they'll celebrate their 13th anniversary. We sent them money in one of their cards, but I'd also found some pretty towels with a fleur de lis embroidered on them, so I sent them those, as well. My sons both collect things with fleur de lis patterns. I've already purchase a couple of travel mugs from Community Coffee with that design to give as stocking stuffers for Christmas.

It just occurred to me to be glad neither of my sons is interested enough in my life to read my blogs. Maybe I should be aghast or ashamed, but in a way, I'm glad that my impact on their lives has been relatively neutral, neutral enough that they don't lie awake at night and quake in terror at their memories, the way I've done. I'd be quite happy if they never felt anything like what I've felt regarding my own mother, even if that means I'm a benign footnote in their lives: "Oh, the woman who gave birth to me? Just a mom. No real biggie."