–Happy 35th Birthday to Husband! He’s taking it rather better than his 30th, but really that’s not hard to do. I made him Moxie’s Bacon Brown-Sugar Coffee Cake and gave him new undergarments (this was fraught with symbolism, since evidently men’s underwear-buying habits improve with their sense of economic well-being) and a Thai cook book and a new but otherwise identical version of his favorite sneakers, which have disintegrated. Little Girl was quite thoughtful and gave him a pepper mill since our good one is in storage, awaiting Europe, and the man needs–deserves!–his fresh-ground pepper. She picked one out that’s got bunny ears and was on sale for seven dollars! Well done, Little Girl.
–Lowered price on house. It’s been shown rather a lot, actually, but those damn power lines freak people out. Look, Little Girl was gestated and reared in that house, and she is perfect in every way. What other evidence do you need of their harmlessness? They are not even that near the house! Really, the worst thing about power lines is that they make it harder to sell your house later.
–The university called me in for an interview. This is gratifying, even if I doubt the logistics will work out.
–Here in my glass-walled tree house (please, no throwing stones, ha ha) we have twice heard a THWUMP and then the dogs barking downstairs. Birds–first an Eastern Bluebird, then a Woodpecker–didn’t realize the walls were there and, well, thwumped. The first time Little Girl was with me when I had to take a shovel and bury it in the sand out under a palm at the edge of the property. She was absolutely appalled that I did not “give it medicine, make it all better!” The second time I managed to keep my layman’s gravedigging from her, to avoid further questions like “Where’d the baby bird go, Mama? It say tweet tweet?” I tried to explain about how it was dead, and it couldn’t fly anymore, and we couldn’t take it to the doctor, and it was sad, but she just looked at me, displeased with my bird-neglect, putting a baby bird in a hole in the ground. When we later went to visit my mother’s, which of course was the home of the, if not exactly adorable (she was scrappy), then fascinating, rabbit Inga, who just died, too, she likewise was dubious when I said Inga was dead, she couldn’t hop anymore, and we wouldn’t see her again, and it was sad. “Where’d Inga go, Mama? My wanna give her a carrot!” Ah, yes. That’s life.
