My empire for a couple of accent marks. Yes, I'm in more of an empress mood than a queen mood, although I did deliver two Rubber Duckies decked out as Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth (there was also a Shakespeare and a couple of devils). I brought them to my friend Steven, who just moved in with his boyfriend, Joe. They've been together three years and didn't know until a month ago that they each owned a Rubber Duckie. I should think that would have come out (as it were) around the second date, but what do I know? I haven't dated in so long, I forget how to cry.
But the menagerie of which I speak is
- Miss Pook
I know you want to pronounce #5 like Nero Wolfe -- near-oh -- but that's not correct in this instance. This is a black cat who is engaged in some drawn-out negotiations with my beloved Mittens, and since it's Italian for black, I'm insisting that we pronounce it nay-roh, and yes: roll that R. For three evenings in a row, Nero has sat outside my door and meowed until I've brought him food. Mittens has been off at the far edge of the lawn. (This is the third year of a drought; I use the term "lawn" frivolously.) Because Mittens hasn't prevented the feeding, I assume she wants Nero for a friend.
Last night, though, Nero used Mittens's pet door and came right up on the porch. I didn't like that -- at least, not until I have Mittens's permission to like it. I gently nudged Nero back outdoors, but he took off like a bottle rocket and ended up across the street somewhere. I haven't seen him since, and I won't be here at his regular feeding time.
I want to know if he's a legitimate stray and needs to be fixed and vaccinated. I also want to know if he's really Nero or if Nera would be more appropriate. I don't actually know how to tell the gender of a cat. I mean, I don't even know if close inspection would reveal that information.
Let's move on, shall we?Miss Pook, Melanie's cat, has adjusted to her status as guest well enough to finally quit hissing. In fact, she joined me in bed the other day, even though Benji, a critter of the canine persuasion, was on my other side. Sunny continues to need, um, let us call it personal care. She's a geezer, but we trust she'll last through Tax Season, when her father will finally be able to spend some time with her.
In the meantime, I have finished making papier-mache eggs for now. Oh. I'll put a photo of them in here. That'll throw off the headline, won't it? Good! As usual, how Mister Google will integrate the photo and the text is a mystery.
My table is absolutely laden with blossoms. The hyacinth I recently raved about has lost its juiciness. The individual little blooms just dry up. I'll plant it by Monday, I swear. Maybe I'll plant the violet then, too. Three of the lilies are still putting out a gorgeous aroma, although they've lost a bit of their visual beauty. I was walking Benji the other day and Keith stopped me to offer a vase full of white irises and red carnations. He lives next to a funeral home and gets the leftovers. He assured me they'd been rearranged. Yes. I suppose it's important to know these aren't real funeral flowers anymore. Perhaps their chakras get cleansed through the rearranging, so death drops off like brittle leaves.
And then ... remember Steven all the way from the first paragraph? Well, he gave me two miniature pink tulips from his arrangement. I didn't even know they made miniatures! So I may not have a new Easter dress (thank god!) but I sure do have flowers. Yay!