The CBC in its online news articles has a habit that drives me to distraction: instead of writing captions for their photographs, they lift them word-for-word from the text of the article.
I am sick and tired of reading those twice. I’ve a mind to write a letter of complaint. Meanwhile I’ll just bitch here on my blog.
The CBC, of all news publishers, should know better.
Enough complaining. I spent the first three hours of yesterday sitting on the step with my coffee, texting back and forth with some friends, and finishing Zara’s Dead.
It was a beautiful morning, warm in the shade, threatening another day of severe heat. That’s not how things turned out though. Shortly after I had the pleasure of watching a black-capped night heron land in a tree next to our dugout, big ol’ clouds blew in from the west and the air turned cold. I vamoosed indoors.
I’m so all about comfort, right down to the perfectly moderate temperatures insisted upon by Goldilocks.
That fire thing on the front lawn has been there since last summer if not the year before, and yet every time I see it, I start — because it looks like it’s a man with a hat. I could remove the upside-down pot but it keeps the rain out so that when we can have a fire, the wood inside is dry. We haven’t been able to have one yet this year; a downpour is first required.
Emil was getting out of bed after a late lie-in, so I made pancakes and since the afternoon promised to be cool, cooked up two dozen muffins and took butter out of the fridge to soften for a batch of cookies. Not exactly making hay while the sun shines, but baking goodies when it doesn’t.
He wants to go to Uncle Neil’s. I want to mow a bit of grass and hoe some weeds out of the vegetable garden while the weather cooperates. We could go to Margo tomorrow. Emil reminds me that it’s supposed to be the same tomorrow (he heard me say so earlier, when I checked the forecast); also that he has to go home tomorrow evening so today might be better for going somewhere.
“But I’m not going to pester about it,” he has said — about three times.
That grassy hill behind the swing is a pile of dirt left by a guy who delivered soil to fill in around the foundation after Scott put in rebar and insulation. “Scott will find something to do with it,” he said before driving out of the yard. That was 100 years ago and I’ve given up trying to keep the weeds and quackgrass from growing all over it. You try hoeing on a hill.
I swear kittens throw their voices like ventriloquists. There are six in the barn at present, and should be seven. Every once in a while I think I hear some teeny mews coming from a rarely frequented stall, and go on a search, with no results whatsoever.
The other six all come out to see me and they love to be petted and stroked. They’re big enough to play so I sit on the low concrete ledge at the sliding doors and watch them for a few minutes. Sweet little buggers. One joined the adults at the feast voraciously but the rest didn’t seem to realize it was edible.
My friend Secret Agent Woman has written an absolutely stellar post following her mastectomy. Twice she has posted such updates and both times without permitting comments (for a while anyway), so I am making mine here.
First: That is fabulous writing, girlfriend.
Second: Your pain pains me. I wish I could alleviate your pain.
Third: Your husband is a prince; you knew that already. It made me tearous*.
Four: I’m one of those people who has said something insensitive to a friend facing a mastectomy. I thought I was letting her know that I was willing to talk about anything if she wanted to. I gasped at some of the conversations she recounted having with people saying stupid things to her. How could they not know better? I didn’t see that I’d been an idiot till she informed me much later; then I was shocked and sorry and also reminded that I’m not as smart as I think I am. God those reminders are a killer, aren’t they?
I can make up words* if I want to. How do you think we got words in the first place? Someone had to make them up.
And don’t anyone tell me that a woman I’ve never met is not a real friend. I care about her. What she’s going through matters to me.
Also, by the time you read this she may be permitting comments again. I wasn’t lying to ya.