I sat down here to type you and just as I was poised for my first word of nonsense, Milhous jumped up here and knocked an entire cup of coffee off the table. Remember yesterday when you discouraged me from driving them all to a field? Now look what you’ve done.
By the way, no one laughed at my brilliance with “feld not field” yesterday.
Let’s say you actually don’t know this. My last name ends in feld. Like Ziegfeld Follies. Like Seinfeld. And yet? Every single day of my life I get called “field.” Well. Not now, because I go almost nowhere so no one can call me anything but invisible.
I have been taking walks after my workouts and as a result have ended up socially distantly sitting in my neighbor R’s yard a bit more. She has a fire pit that of course isn’t going RN because it’s 407 degrees out. But she has a nice bricked area and Adirondack chairs, which for some reason Ned always called hurricane chairs and now I want to say that too and god help me.
He also called Mel Blanc “Mel Watt” and I want to do that too.
I know we’ve discussed this before but it always tickles me: What do you say wrong because someone said it wrong? It’s usually a child who fucks it up first, as they do everything. My cousin Maria said someone was “big-bone-ded” once and now I always say that, and it’s good I didn’t become an orthopedist. “Madam, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re big-bone-ded.” If I were a doctor I’d call people madam and sir. I’d also twist my mustache knowingly instead of Nairing it.
Look at my poor pear tree! It’s literally weighed down with fruit. I guess I have to, I don’t know, trim it? After it sheds its fruit? Somebody hep me. HEH. Good god. [Stagehand gets cape]
That tree is nothing but work. You cannot eat the pears. They never get soft. Be sure to tell me to put them in a bowl or paper bag. But there must be SOME way to get them edible. I sometimes wonder if Trudy the fox comes in and eats them at night. Someone does, as when I endlessly clean them some are munched, but we also have a squirrel who risks his life daily to hang in this yard so it might be he. Between Milhous and Edsel trying to kill him on the daily I can’t imagine what keeps him here. Maybe he’s a pear addict.
That ovary hanging on the tree is one of a trio of wasp deterrents my mother sent me at my birthday. Allegedly the wasps see it and take their gin and tonics and go elsewhere. They think it’s a large, impressive wasp nest. It’s kind of like how a man will aggressively hit on you till you say you have a boyfriend, and all of a sudden he respects the man and leaves you alone.
Anyway my pear tree looks like it belongs in McDonaldland or something, doesn’t it?
I risked the COVID and went to Lowe’s this weekend for a rake so I could gather ye pearbuds while ye may. I entered through the outdoor garden part, grabbed the rake like I was in some sort of race against time—literally—and paid outside at the garden center. Then I came home and Howard Hughes’d my hands. I like how I see some people on social media all, “Here we are, all 70 of us from around the country, on our annual trip!” and I’m running out of Lowe’s like it’s burning building. I’m Pee Wee Herman with the snakes running out of there.
Speaking of kittens, and we weren’t, but we always kind of are, since the angry feral mom ran off and abandoned her children, Chris and Lilly have moved all the kittens into their screened-in side porch. I sort of can’t imagine and also totally envy their chaos. If that damn mom comes back there pregnant again I can’t imagine the kind of trouble she’ll be in with C&L. Raising her passel of mealy-mouthed brats.
I gotta go. I got 2 hours into a task at work yesterday and I had the wrong version. So now I’m behind. Also I have to make more coffee; thanks, Milhous. If he were any kind of a good cat he’d be prancing in the kitchen on his blond hindies, making it himself.