Ten after nine. Evidently Paul said my last entry was strong in sentence--meaning, I can write a tight sentence but my composition was totally addled. Well, Paul, I don't know you, man, but you hit the nail square on the head. A day of children will do this to your composition. A week of children, rain and humidity minus a spouse or partner will do this to your brain. I can still talk but I don't make a whole lot of sense. Mom and I have been laughing at ourselves lately.
But tonight we are serious. We have seven more hours of Gilmore Girls until we close the door on season five. Please do not scoff, now. Or scoff. I don't care. We have been doing the Gilmore Girls like some people do a marathon. Seamlessly, at a break between episodes, Mom and I get up and sprint into the kitchen--she slips dishes in the dishwasher, I refill the tea cups--or she runs down to the laundry room and I rustle up more chocolate--it doesn't take us long, in any case, to park our deserving derrieres back in front of the TV. If we are feeling very ambitious we will fold laundry while we watch. But it is a relief to just sit back and let ourselves go--I don't even scratch any backs, since Martin is away. Martin makes few requests of our relationship but nightly back scratches is one of them. He refills my tea cup and gets me cereal, and I give him a good back scratch in return. I wonder who has been scratching his back in Kentucky? Not you, Paul? Or, Martin, did you find a tree somewhere in the parking lot, shimmy up and down so the bark did the job?
What have I to report of Wazoo today? An advanced tomato plant is fighting to live. I have not helped it at all, and for this I feel a shred of regret. I'm hoping a mellow, cool night will perk it up. The burpless cukes are still in their tiny plastic dividers and not in the ground; neither is the extra green and purple basil I bought over a week ago. Laziness!
We found a dead bird on our deck--I felt more than a shred of remorse for that tiny sparrow, but the girls stepped over it heartlessly and Bea said, "Dead bird! Yup!" And then she went on her merry way. Mom saved me from dealing with the carcass by carrying it down the hill, where she threw it into the creek. I do not have a brave or sane past with dead birds. Once, when Martin and I were dating, a dead bird on my parent's patio sent me into hysterics. As I held the plastic bag for Martin to drop in the body, I began alternately laughing and crying and shaking the bag like an idiot.
I am so sad when a tree or a bird dies--I don't cry or fall into a small depression, but I feel that something is deeply wrong and it is distressing. Birds and trees give me such courage and joy and never demand anything in return, and I am deeply grateful to them.
I just heard the stair creaking under my mother's footsteps; then there was a clunk of a laundry basket against the banister and quiet conversation in the girl's room, which probably means I am needed to correct a daughter.
Paul, Martin, all you good AP readers, big pat on the back for the--what was it? One million, one-hundred thousand essays graded? And Martin, I will give you a big Scratch on the back very soon, if your plane doesn't go down or you are raptured before 12:30 tomorrow. I trust neither of these will happen.
9:26. Over and out.
