Sir Boxnoggin has thrown himself dramatically on the floor in the hall. He knows I have my running shoes on and my hair braided, and he is determined not to be left behind. Little does he know he’s the one chosen to come with me today, which means Miss B will nip and hip-check him ad infinitum for the remainder of daylight, for daring to monopolize my time so. He will, of course, give as good as he gets, and the two of them will wear each other out while I’m running errands.
I also have to grease the bird feeder pole again. I may even sprinkle a little cayenne in a couple places, despite the risk of the arboreal nutcases (ha!) deciding it’s a condiment and chewing through metal.
You’ll notice I don’t put anything past the fuzzy little terrorists.
Of course there’s last-minute stuff to get done before school. And of course my legs are still a little shaky from the weekend’s concrete games. And also of course, the day I do a huge chunk of laying concrete is the day our drought breaks a bit. I did want rain, but for God’s sake, must the weather be so ironic?1 I had planned to drive over the river today, but it’s looking like that can’t happen.
Revisions continue apace. I’m pretty sure Miss B is going to have to reassure Lord van der Sploot when I really get in the swing of a few new scenes. “DON’T WORRY, SHE ALWAYS SWEARS LIKE THAT… IT’S OKAY, WHILE SHE’S DISTRACTED SHE GIVES US HALF HER LUNCH… ALL I’M SAYING IS THAT THERE’S UPSIDES TO THIS, YOUNG ONE…”
So it’s been an Amy Winehouse morning while I get administrivia off my plate, a double ration of coffee, an easy run with Boxnoggin’s tail held high and his presence deterring a few social barnacles, and then running, running, running all day to make sure all is in apple-pie order for everyone else in the house.
Meh. I need a weekend to recover from my weekend, but what I’ve got is a Monday with a to-do list longer than my arm.
Be happy out there, chickadees. Over and out.