My life is becoming increasingly like the one in the picture above, except that I'm not secretly a beautiful princess that lives with a fairy entourage and it's not my birthday. (Also, it's not berry season. Yet.) Still, I'm most often alone except for my little woodland friends. Well, OK, my two cats and the birds and squirrels out in the backyard.
It's 1:00 and Jeff is gone until late tonight and he had to take my car because of a tire problem with his car which is a stick-shift which I've stubbornly never learned to drive. There wasn't time today to fix it before he had to leave, so to make a long story short (too late), looks like I'm going to be hanging around the house today. I could certainly get some serious cleaning done today if I felt at all serious about cleaning, I could write some more on my abortive writing project (see earlier blog entry titled "A Fine HowDoYouDo"), I could get serious about pulling the thousands of weeds in the yard, if I felt at all serious about the weeds. But let's be honest with each other: who cares.
So if anyone needs me, I'll be out back laying out in the sun, trying to move the color of my skin up from "eggshell white" to...well actually to something closer to a brown egg. This is what I was doing last weekend, and I managed somehow to get a scalp sunburn where my hair parts. That feels great when you brush your hair. But when I was out there last weekend, lying on the grass in the sun and reading, I slowly became increasingly aware that I was surrounded with thousands of birds and squirrels who were singing, tweeting, screeching, and flying/scuttling around me. This is what reminded me of my Medieval Art professor who, during a lecture about the bubonic plague, kept saying "bucolic plague" instead and seemed completely unaware that he was doing it. I don't think he was joking, either, but that didn't keep me from enjoying the mistake immensely every time he said it.
These days I do seem to be experiencing a sort of bucolic plague. And in regards to Briar Rose's picture above, I do have one robin friend that always seems to be perched on the fence at the end of the driveway when I come home from work. My car comes to a halt a paltry three feet away from him, but he doesn't care- he just sits there and watches me and I watch him through the windshield until he decides to fly away. It's become part of my routine, almost.
And what will I be doing tonight? Oh, I don't know- probably have a drink and watch some movies until Jeff gets home. But I wish I could have an evening that feels more like this song: Don't worry though-I won't actually eat a pigfoot or smoke a reefer or anything like she says.