Just really been answering memes mostly lately; when I get home from work I simply want to escape into a book. It's end of fiscal year again and it drives me wild--the rushing for last-moment spending and the hoops we have to jump through to spend it. I preferred support work; it was logical. Purchase orders are just annoying and aggravating, and I have no intention of aggravating myself in the hospital again like two years ago. Summer can aggravate me fine all by itself. The fact that EOFY and summer happen at the same time is an inopportune happenstance. On the other hand, having EOFY during fall or winter would just ruin it, so it's best left where it is--all the annoyances (sun, ants, sweat, heat rashes, mosquito bites, purchase orders, and an electric bill that looks like the national debt in one fell batch).

I try to take mini-vacations. For instance, James had to work today, so after picking up a few groceries and doing other errands, my time washing another load of clothes and vacuuming was interrupted by a matinee--rather a Lily Tomlin festival, actually, as I ended up watching The Late Show with Tomlin as a flaky young woman who has her cat kidnapped, involving her with Art Carney as a crusty old gumshoe who's looking for the thug who killed his ex-partner, and then Tea with Mussolini, in which she's an archaologist in Florence, Italy, among a colony of expatriot Englishmen and women who look down upon Americans, especially the rich and flamboyant Elsa, played by Cher.

Where was I? The car. The car is a blast to drive. I'm doing just what I'd hoped to do: when it's not quite so warm I open the windows and the moonroof rather than running the A/C. The moonroof is great for venting warm air out of the interior as well. I have the interior all arranged: a collapsible soft container for a trash basket and another to hold my car blanket and "Fred the traveling pillow" who's a godsend at weekday lunches when my eyes itch and burn from the fluorescent lights and I go take a nap under the trees in the back part of the lot. And more collapsible containers in the rear with the obligatory liter bottles of water and a quart of oil.

And Pidge--well, Pidge is what my mom would call a "hot sketch." After weeks of avoiding my hand as I tried to tame him, he suddenly decided it was okay to voluntarily sit on my finger. However, he feels it his bounden duty to assert his royal budgieness and assure me he's doing this under duress by nipping at my hand through the entire process. I'm not sure he doesn't prefer James to me--which would make sense since his breeder was male--but he won't stay with James, either. I took him upstairs yesterday for the first time and he looked at it with all the wide-eyed abandon of a five-year-old on his first trip to Disney World.

Otherwise he's funny. While the television is going he makes a constant chatter, whether singing to his mirror or his cuttlebone (don't ask) or lulling himself into a bird nap (it's the funniest sight: head under the wing, one foot up, and chattering away). The cage is large enough that he can hop from one perch to another and back again, tug or play on his rings, swing on his swings, and strengthen his growing wings by flapping them. He's an energetic flapper and sends himself to the floor of the cage with a great thump half the time. And of course he must preen. He seems to be going through his three-months molt already and is losing the baby stripes on his forehead.

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. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 8:02:00 PM

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