We're gonna live like bachelors

The boy and I are solo this weekend. This means fries from McDonalds and unadulterated, straight fruit juice.

Still sick. Bloody hell.

Still trying to woo the Phoenix Foundation to Bishop. Getting close. Great press leading up to the release of Eagle vs. Shark and the re-re-release of the band's debut Horsepower.

I avoid the news. I know how sick I feel thinking about the folks left behind after the Virginia Tech murders. Nothing will change. This is America afterall. I lost a cousin to a holdup that went wrong. I almost lost an uncle. This is a reality I am uneasy with. I think about Wyatt growing old and being happy and hope for the best.

Planting out the garden with perennials and veggies with a vengeance. Come Autumn, I will probably be cut up six ways from Sunday. It's probably not my hips, says the brutally honest and refreshing hip specialist Dr. Mast, but my femurs. They are all cattywampus. I have the early signs of arthritis. A CT scan in June will help him get to a good diagnosis.

New words on the block

Macchiato
Devious
Opportunist
Sadist

Wyatt can also sing the first line of Happy Birthday, in tune to boot.

Worms eat our leftovers

One of my greatest gardening pleasures has been vermicomposting, having wee redworms dine on our food scraps.

Unfortunately, a few years back, I managed to kill all my worms when I added chicken shit and straw bedding into the pile. I gassed and cooked those poor things into oblivion.

I just had been too preoccupied with other things to try again. Until now.

A pound of new worms just came in the mail. The boy will delight. I will delight. We're rich again I tells ya, rich.

March was

one huge sinus infection that still hasn't gone away.
Just say "no" to a headful of goo.
It was just a wee pressie from daycare.

Oh well. We joined the ranks.