I probably should learn to write my unhappy blog posts, and then delete them. Or not. I think that exorcising one's demons is a good way to deal with them. I would rather face the darkness head-on, rather than let if gnaw away at my insides.
Despite the fact that I have my third spring cold of the season (what's up with that?), I'm feeling much better.
I'm back to my usual tricks of laying in the dirt during my lunch hour and harassing my local lizard population. It seems to be mating season, because our resident male, who I've named Tip for his missing tail-end, is very busily demonstrating his splendid manliness. Don't all the ladies swoon for a man who can turn his neck-skin blue, whilst doing rapid push-ups? I certainly can't get enough of this sort of display.
Doesn't Tip look like he is posing for a formal portrait? I should note that it isn't my practice to name wild animals. This male lizard is named Tip, and all the females are called Tipitina.
All of them.
I tried not to name the numerous barn cats when I lived on the farmhouse and worked at the Glimmerglass Opera. I knew that if the cats got names, then I would get overly attached to them and end up sweet talking Robb into adopting three dozen semi-feral pussycats.
Of course, I wasn't very good at keeping these sorts of promises. I "somehow" learned the names that the farmers gave the cats, or assigned descriptive monikers (not "names") to certain cats. So, there was Fathead (the sweetest little cat imaginable), which Matthew named to annoy his sister. Spaz, who completely lived up to her name, and who I didn't name. The Fun Cat. Grey Momma. Eyeball Kitty. Tumor Kitty. Stumpy Rumpy. And Linguine, who now lives with us, and whose name means "little tongues."
And while we're playing with words, I have two for you.