I have, sitting next to me on the table, my passport.

I must admit my utter relief that it was actually mailed on Friday...because...because it came from New Orleans. I knew that it was coming from there. I also knew with the dire warnings abounding that if it was not mailed on Friday, it most likely would not have been mailed for weeks or months. For even if the passport worked on a digital system, the photos and my birth certificate were mailed to that location, were physically located there.

How small I feel that I am utterly thankful for this package that left that devastated city before the storm. I have gained so little compared to what people have lost.

I sat at my desk, in prayerful thankfulness, for the hands that finished my application ahead of the storm. Who knows where those people are. Their homes are most likely destroyed. Their jobs lost or delayed. Their lives profoundly and fundamentally altered.

I am sitting here, logged on to work and watching the news.

What I find unbelievable, above and beyond the images, is the talk of rebuilding New Orleans. Why? Why actually rebuild a city below sea level? How could anyone who is looking at the devastation think of rebuilding there?

What I find incredibly sad is the looters. What place must a person find himself/herself in to blatantly steal at such a time? Not water or food. Not clothing or survival gear. Toys. Electronic equipment. Jewelry.

What a sobering reality of the human race.

My writing student came to work again today. She is so close to finishing the rather large press archive project she started that I have been practically begging her to squeeze in time to volunteer even as she is getting ready for school to begin.

This morning, as we were talking, I referenced a street that I had forgotten to take. I called it by the wrong name. As we were driving home, I saw the sign for that same street and pointed out my mistake. She asked me how in the world I remembered something like that from this morning.

The answer is quite easy: I made a mistake.

I remember my mistakes. I remember the times I misspeak, misspell, misact, misunderstand.

I remember the times I am wrong. I remember the times I am an embarrassment. I remember the times I am a disappointment.

As I grew up, those times were remembered for me by my family. What fun it was to bring up those times in company or around family gatherings over and over and over again. I would be accused of being too sensitive when I became upset, but none of their memories were of good things. No successes. No praises. No celebrations. All times when I was wrong in speech, action, or understanding were what they related about me to others. And to this day, among my family, my wrongs are still pointed out. My mother will find the negative in anything that I share with her. Oh, I hope you didn't... You should have... You know you are...so you have to be careful... Ever helpful advice that is carved on my heart with a clumsy knife.

So it is really no wonder that I remembered.

Although...perhaps I should say that I remember the words and the feelings of those moments. I cannot close my eyes and see a vision of those memories. I do not relive them in sight and smell, but I do in sound and feeling. I can repeat those words, oft verbatim, for examination and recrimination.

Funny, I found the answer to her question so easy, so obvious.

But...perhaps...that the answer is so obvious is key to that which I do not understand about myself, but that which I long to change about who I am. While I fervently hope, and am fairly confident, that I do not remember only the negative about others, I am confronted with the reality that, in so quickly answering her question, I do so about myself. Perhaps if that were not so easy, so automatic, so very ingrained in my being, I would…

Perhaps…

My father came over for breakfast and a visit to the $5.50 DVD bin at Wal-Mart. While we were there, I had planned to purchase another hibachi because mine had rusted through in just a year. However, the grill that he had thought I should get early in the summer, was now half-priced.

I have been keeping my eye on one that was quite a bit more, but was a consumer best buy and fit all my grilling objectives. However, it was a serious depletion of cash. The one my father picked out was more of a hibachi on a stand with a substantial heat distribution cover and a connection to a propane tank (no more of those little propane cylinders). I pointed out the rather small cooking area and that there was no second rack for vegetables, but he asked me if there was someone else in my life since he knew Kashi wouldn't be eating any chicken. He also pointed out that it would mean no more bending over. Even though it was all stainless steel and rather easy on the eyes, I just couldn't see spending the money on such a small grill (even though I have no one else for whom to grill).

However, at half-price, it is essentially just two-and-a-half times the cost of a hibachi and will certainly last much longer. So, we brought it home and put it together (boy was I glad he was with me) and then he rather patiently moved it about the deck as I shifted the fountain, a bush, and several plants to find the best arrangement. The view outside my kitchen door and window is now quite pleasant, but the one outside the dining area sports a view of the back side of the grill. I opted for a pretty kitchen view since most of my "dining" takes place on the couch.

It took me over an hour to break down the packaging for the grill and will have to fight with the lock on the front gate to set out the garbage tomorrow, which is a bit of a drag. But, when I awoke this morning, I did not expect that I would finally have a grill after seven years of window shopping!

Now, I just have to inaugurate it...Chicken anyone?

In reading through yesterday's post, I think I shouldn't write when weather fronts are passing through the area. I confess I become rather grumpy when I am in pain. I should be thankful that I still have Kashi. I should be thankful that I found my bike lock and could secure the back gate. Again, I should be thankful that I have my dog and that he is safe and that no harm came to him when he was gone.

And I should be thankful that the pain I feel when fronts come through is temporary. That though the pain might even be unbearable, it, too, will pass.

I admit, those things are not the first that come to my mind when this happens. While I can say that I do not sit and feel sorry for myself, I have to be honest enough to admit that I become quite short tempered.

Perhaps I should just hide away when weather fronts pass through here.

I am struggling with anger just now.

I have lived here over three years in peace and quiet. When searching for a home, one absolute requirement was a fenced yard for Kashi. I wanted him to be able to run and play after being stuck in an apartment for seven years.

Sunday was terrible. I was terrified at the thought of losing him and fearful for my own well-being while searching for him. My oxygen saturation numbers have been low all week. My boss had me near sprawled on the floor with laughter over a story, yet deep inside I was concerned because of my breathing.

Each time I have taken Kashi out, instead of just opening the door and letting him go, I have carried him down the steps and checked both gates before letting him down. At night I have to get out a flashlight to do so. Small though he is, his weight is enough to trouble my breathing. He is also no longer free to hang out for a while, sniffing the bushes, lounging on the bench, and chasing the squirrels.

I resent this intrusion on my home. I resent no longer feeling safe in my back yard. I resent Kashi's freedom being curtailed.

Today, I am angry. When I left for work, both gates where closed. When I came home, the front gate was wide open and some things on my deck had been moved around. If I had not been carrying Kashi, he would have gotten out again.

Both gates, being old, have issues with being closed, so simply putting a lock through the latch is not an option. I did go to Wal-Mart and Target looking for a bike chain that I could slip through the fence, but all I could find were cheap ones with combination locks tied to them. Last night, I did, however, remember about my own bike lock from back when I did tours and such and set out searching for it. I now have the back gate wrapped with the lock, and I forced another padlock on the front gate.

This will be a bother for me as I work in the yard, extending the time I have to spend in the heat. I do not understand why someone would start opening my gates.

I just do not understand.

Today I wrote a letter to the editor of The Wall Street Journal under the name of the president of the company. This is the third time I've drafted such a letter. One of the other two was published. He does edit them for me, teaching me in the process...the language of real estate, the craftsmanship of OpEd pieces.

I want to learn this language, this genre. Although, I suspect much of this process will be learning to set aside my own literary likes and dislikes, my own diction and cadence. Never has the idea of "less is more" been more applicable.

I was intimidated about even suggesting we respond to an article in this publication. I happen to think getting published there would be a coup, but I know the changes are a long-shot. Perhaps, though, the attempt itself might play a role in getting out the message about affordable housing anyway.

I am satisfied with what I wrote (especially after his edits, his tweaks of my words and slashes of my passionate portions). Though I must admit that I am anxious about the response of my boss. She is such a talented writer. What if she finds it juvenile? Unfocused? A poor attempt?

I also wonder, if I am able to conquer this genre, when I look back at this piece if I, myself, might think it so.

For now, I am satisfied with the work I did today...and I am thankful once more that my job allows me to write, to explore and improve my own literacy skills.

My best friend is on vacation, and I am going through withdrawal. Plain and simple.

I miss her. I am used to talking with her nearly every day, sometimes several times in the same day. I am used to sharing all of my life with her and hearing about her days.

I have been resisting the urge to call, only relenting twice since she left last week.

I am happy that she is getting to spend time with her family...especially so where her husband is concerned. They both deserve a break, a time to savor their daughter and each other.

But...I miss her. This withdrawal stuff is hard!

93 That is my number tonight. One treatment when I came home after walking Kashi. I keep checking the gates.

~ ~ ~

My friend is craving pizza. I share her feelings. She believes that there is never a bad time for pizza. And that variety is key to the eating of much pizza.

The deli across the street makes the most delicious pizza, that is when it is not overcooked. I am not overly fond of browned cheese on my pizza. However, I have not been eating pizza lately. I have been eating wraps. Many, many, many wraps.

I have lost ten pounds, and I am quite glad that I seem to finally be making progress in my battle against the prednisone enhanced figure I sport. I prefer being svelte to being plump. While skipping the medicine could help my waistline, it does not help my breathing. So, being able to breathe and shed some pounds at the same time is fine by me.

But...I miss eating pizza!

Saturday I had a rather wonderful day. I got to spend time with a friend, puttering around her home and sorting and packing some things whilst we chatted. Work done as such is always a pleasure to me. I also enjoyed being able to help someone.

I kept her up WAY past her bedtime talking and looking at photos. Really, it was a lovely time.

And then there was Sunday.

Since I was also up WAY past my bedtime, I slept in until noon. After reading the bible and listening to a sermon, I played with Kashi some. He went out twice in the morning and once in the mid afternoon while I lounged on the couch, each time puttering around the yard a bit. Then I let him out in the late afternoon. When he didn't come back in after about fifteen minutes, I decided to join him outside to play fetch.

He was gone.

Someone had opened both the front and back gate. Doing so takes some work. The front gate sticks and is a bit of a battle to open. The back is just a hair easier since I keep a piece of 2x4 wedged in the opening caused by the tree that is pushing the fence out a bit. Someone deliberately opened both gates... and the more I think about it, I am fairly sure that someone was no child.

Why would anyone do that?

I panicked and ran around the front and back of my house calling for him. I did not have shoes on and tears were streaming down my face. I ran back inside and called two friends and my father, begging for help. No one was coming. I quickly put on my tennis shoes and grabbed my inhaler because I was already struggling to breathe. I also called my best friend and asked her to pray.

I called until I was horse, but I could only walk because my breathing was so labored. I didn't want to get into my car and look because I didn't think it would be safe for me to do so between the tears, my breathing, and my anguish.

My father had begun to lecture me about chaining the gates closed and my mother said I had better punish Kashi when I found him. While I found the criticism hard to bear, it was worse knowing that someone had let him out. Why would anyone want to do that to me? I also knew that time was running out before I would have to do something about my breathing.

Buckets of tears later, I finally found him, but then had to carry him two blocks home because I had not thought to grab his leash.

Once home, I called those whom I had contacted and tried to calm down, but my panic over his disappearance had shifted to my inability to breath.

By the time I got to the hospital, my oxygen sats had fallen to 81. I spent a long, lonely night on oxygen and solumedrol, wanting to be anywhere but intensive care. I talked my way out of the hospital at 7:00 because I really didn't need to be there. I just needed help the afternoon before.

I came home, played with Kashi, got dressed, and went to work. I had no desire to languish at home because I do not want to think about nearly losing my dog. He does not know about cars and the danger of running around the streets. He has been my companion for over ten years. He has been my sanity as well. I do not want to think about the person who would so casually open both gates.

My writing student was going to volunteer again. She is so close to finishing a rather mammoth project, helping to create an archive of all our press since the company was started. I did not want to miss the opportunity to work with her again. I did not want to think about the person who would so casually open both gates.

I rushed around the last hour at work and carried some things I shouldn't have. I followed that by chatting with my writing student on the way home. So, not long after I found myself coughing again. So far, I have had two nebulizer treatments. I supposed I should go back to the hospital, but I would just get stuck in a room for more of the same treatment as I have done here at home and end up thinking about the person who would so casually open both gates.

I just need time.

Before I found Kashi, I knew I had little time left to find him. I knew that I had crossed the danger line some moments before and would soon move from being reckless to risking my life. I am not sure what to think about the fact that I do not know, even with how little time I had left, if I would have stopped searching.

Right now the oximeter reads 90. I am willing it to rise. I want to stay home, where Kashi and Fancy and Madison can help me to forget about the person who would so casually open both gates.

I discovered that my domain had expired, without notice, yesterday. I panicked and renewed for five years, immensely relieved when the transaction went through.

But, while my money was taken, the site was still down. I panicked again. I contacted the registrar company for the domain five minutes before their office was to close. Unfortunately, the person who has hosted this over the years has been out of contact for a very long time. Although I am down as the owner, her contact phone and my contact email was no longer valid. So the registrar of the domain was unable to verify me nor contact her. I panicked more.

I panicked in the midst of a writing lesson. I set the students to writing and begged, cajoled, and pleaded with the registrar for some way around this mess. Some way around this mess when the registrar's office had now closed and would not be open until Monday morning again. PST.

I suspect he heard the desperation in my voice for I was able to offer proof of who I was and all was reset, reconfigured, and redirected. He stayed nearly an hour after work to help me.

I never knew, until this evening, how very important this online journal is to me.

Now...all I can do is wait and see if the redirection worked since nothing with domains is instantaneous.

I am waiting. I am checking. I am waiting. I am checking again. I am being foolish and should go to bed. I am waiting. I am still checking.

Apparently, I was never born.

I applied for a new passport with the copy of my birth certificate that I used the first time around, when I needed a passport as a missionary.

Not only was the passport application denied, but the copy was confiscated.

I have been struggling to get the state of Texas to acknowledge my birth for a week now. It is not going well. I need a birth certificate, with an embossed, raised seal, in color, to prove I am who I claim to be. To prove that I exist.

Perhaps...all I am...is a figment of someone's imagination...

Patience is a virtue, eh?

This day. Such sorrow.

I do not understand how often those who seek the best are punished and those who do not are rewarded.

I do not understand why people can get away with lying, cheating, and stealing. I do not understand why emotions overrule professionalism. Why I have to accept that is a dirty game.

Never mind truth. Never mind fact. It is completely unbelievable to me that those who ignore policy, procedure, deadlines, responsibilities, and ethics are acceptable.

This day. Such heartache.

My best friend is in the bosom of her family and the belly of God's beauty out in Colorado.

While I am truly grateful that she has this journey, this time of love and wonder, I miss her terribly.

Two weeks...is also...too long to go...without playing Scrabble!

There was a rather ugly moment today at work, and I was caught in the middle. I do not know how to steer clear of games. I struggle against the overwhelming desire to defend. I feel battered and bruised, struck down over and over again even though I am trying to honor my job.

I am in sore need of wisdom and discernment...or at least the knowledge of how to duck and cover.

I cannot stop thinking about one of the women I saw yesterday in the nursing home.

You see, she was holding a baby doll, a rather realistic one. I watched her nearly the whole time I was there, glancing again and again at her care of the doll. She soothed it, stroking the arms and legs. She patted its back. She played with the tiny fingers and toes. She held it...with such love.

She was a mother.

She could play the game of bean bag toss. She couldn't answer any of the questions the therapist asked as to the day of the week or time of the year or the weather. She could communicate at all. But she could nurture a baby.

Alzheimer's had robbed her of all else...but not of being a mother.

I journeyed out to Manassas to spend the day with my grandfather, walking in his world. My step-mother, his daughter, was on vacation, and I did not want him to feel alone.

We first went to see his wife, who is living in a nursing care facility. She has Alzheimer's disease. He slipped his hand in mine on the elevator and asked if I were going to be okay being on the ward. I squeezed it and assured him that I was fine. But it was a sobering moment.

My grandmother's room is just off the elevator, and while I didn't know what to expect since I hadn't seen her in a long while, I was not prepared to see her sleeping in a chair. A chair that was a combination of wheelchair and cage.

My grandfather rather delightedly exclaimed, "There's my bride!"

He kissed her gently on the forehead to wake her, and we wheeled her down to the sunroom to visit. As we did so, one patient after another, sitting in the hallway, reached out to touch me. I stopped and shook hands with many of them, trying not to cry.

She was excited to visit, but most of her conversation was set in the past and hard to understand. When she laughed, we laughed. When she fretted, we soothed her. He fetched her some juice, which she drank, but soon there after spit up a bit on the floor. Tears pooled in his eyes, and he became the one who fretted. My grandfather then combed her hair and straightened her closing, touching her with loving hands. Watching him made tears pool in my eyes.

All through her conversation, I asked him about there life together. We had a double conversation of sorts. When I asked how they met, he replied that it was a double date, but with a ghost of a smile on his face. When I asked if my grandmother was his date, he replied, "Nope. But when I saw her get in the back seat, I tossed my friend the car keys and crawled right in after her." He stroked kissed her again in remembrance.

A therapist came in and played a game of beanbag toss with many of the other patients in the sunroom, but my grandmother was unable to participate. When she began to fall back asleep in her chair, my grandfather grabbed my hand and pulled me out of there.

There were no words that were adequate for the moment, so we drove to dinner in silence.

After dinner and some errands, we sat in his living room going through every photo in his possession. Narrating them was difficult for him because he has lost most of his sight in his left eye. He lost his right eye over sixty years ago. Magnifying glass in hand, he told me of this journey and that. Of this day and that. Of this person and that. I learned more of him today than I have known my whole life.

I have missed too much.

Sorting through the photos, I found a love letter, on US Army stationary, from him to his wife. What a privilege it was too read of such love. To witness it at the nursing home. To know that for sixty-one years he has honored that love, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad. I was humbled.

Before I left, he made me red beans and rice with sausage to take home. I watched him struggle to read the measuring cup and wanted to help him cook, but I remained with the photos, occasionally asking questions, trying not to stare. He packaged up my meals with such care as to safely make the journey back to my home. Four meals he gave me to eat, but I tasted a fifth.

I tasted love today.

A phone call came today: Basel Cell Carcinoma

I was talking to someone about how the surgeon had told me that I had to keep the incision covered for the whole time the stitches were in and that I found the prospect of doing so difficult given the awkwardness of trying to reach my shoulder. Her suggestion was to take gauze and put strips of tape over it and then slap it on my shoulder. No problem.

I tried her suggestion. I had a problem. My, uhm, upper undergarment pulled at the tape until it ripped off my shoulder a while ago. The raw skin is now hurting as much as the incision.

Apparently wound care is not one of my talents.

My legs itch. My shoulder aches. It is sweltering.

But...I actually buried myself in Megan's story this evening and cranked out over six pages. I am working up to a scene I know will be difficult, but in doing so, I stumbled upon a passage or two that I really like.

It's strange to me that I have shared what I have written thus far on this novel with a few people whom I thought might get the message I am trying to compose and yet none of them have given me any real response. I have to work hard at hiding my disappointment. I like the story. I believe it is an important message. And there are portions of it that even I think are quite good. [Any reader of this site should know by now what a harsh critic of myself I can be.] Yet I have essentially received silence when querying what those readers thought of my tale. Silence wrapped up in vague responses of "I like it." or "It is good."

Times such as this night, times when I write and read and know immediately that what I have composed is solid writing, that I wonder if I am just plain crazy as to not see the lack in my story or if I am too close to Megan and her tale for any true judgment or if they are all simply blind.

I wonder and I am disappointed, but I am driven all the more to finish...if but for no one else than myself.

I had a biopsy today. For a rather small growth, the surgeon took out a rather large chunk of my shoulder. Ten stiches later, I was dreading the moment when the "drugs" wore off and a bit grateful to hop off the table and make my escape before she feel the need to snip a bit more.

I have to wait three weeks for the results. A time to practice faith, focus, and...well, distraction.

I had a rather strange and disturbing occurrence this evening. I was working from home, making up the time off work for my "slice and dice" session, when someone took over my mouse, my computer, and opened up a Word document to start talking with me. I discovered that he had been watching me work for a while. Though I am fairly sure that he meant the contact in a positive light, I felt a bit exposed and violated. How long had he been watching? Had he done so before? Are there others to whom he has done this? Did he only have access to my work connection or could he access the rest of my personal computer through the connection? Had he ever watched while at work where it would have been easier to do so?

I didn't work as much tonight as I normally would, especially since I would have welcomed the distraction from my throbbing shoulder, because as I typed, I kept wondering if he had gone home as he said he was when he broke the connection...

I heard the call, I answered. The lawn cared for, my "reward" awaited me on the kitchen countertop. My, my every last bit of my "double" portion of that cake was mighty fine, mighty fine.

Need I say more about this day?

Today was a surprising day. A good day. [Of course it was destined to be a good day since the front passed.]

I slept late and then rolled out of bed to visit my family in Manassas. I was not looking forward to the drive, but when I got there, and mentioned a chocolate sheet cake my stepmother had made a few years ago yet still lived strongly on in my memory, she offered to bake one if I fetched the ingredients.

Not long after that, I was zipping my way to the grocery store with my father. Given that I have been eating cereal at night for two weeks since I am generally too tired to go shopping after work, I took the opportunity to load up on supplied. I near horrified my dear father, though, when loading up the cart with four bottles of juice, nine bottles of Gatorade, five twelve-packs of soft drinks, and two gallons of milk. [I was thirsty.]

In addition to drinks, I got a london broil (a big slab of steak that I cut up into four meals), spinach and tomato basil wraps, some rather delicious honey mesquite barbecue turkey breast, provolone cheese, salad fixings, and baby red potatoes. Of course, those who know me know that I got some chicken, some chicken, and some more chicken.

I remembered the sugar that I ran out of just the day before (a memory victory), but when I was putting it away I discovered the half-bag that I had put away before when it would not fit into the sugar jar.

I did get gas and then picked up my grandfather for dinner. The chocolate cake was just lovely. I troublshooted Dad's computer and then made my way home. While it took quite a while to bring all the drinks inside, I was grateful that I had the added fillip of getting my shopping done while visiting the folks.

Yes, my step-mother rather thoughtfully wrapped up a rather large piece of that sumptuous cake!

No, it did not last more than 12 hours in my home...

Last night I worked until 1:00 AM and then...because I could not believe I did it again...I wrote for another two hours on one of my novels.

I am tired.

I worked hard to be cheerful all day, especially with my boss who is tired herself.

Doing so was harder as the day wore on because the pain in my wrists was becoming unbearable. I still cannot believe how I managed to drive home, though I will not say that tears were not a part of doing so. I am trying to be grateful for the pain. Grateful because it must be the arthritis and the arthritis is often triggered by storm fronts rolling through and a storm front would mean relief from the sweltering heat.

Kashi is trembling beneath the dining table, terrified of the lightening. I am trembling on the couch, thinking of dosing myself with the codeine cough syrup upstairs in the cupboard. We are both desirous of the front pass and hope the rain comes soon.

I had hoped to spend some quality time with Megan tonight, but she will have to remain in the story where I left off.

I did have a nice moment this afternoon... I was calling someone at work and fell into a discussion of football. His brother actually plays for the 49ers! Sigh. I cannot wait for the season to start...

I was reflecting upon my words of yesterday and am wondering if I am ignoring how very frustrated and angry I get at having to wait and wait and wait instead of moving ahead and how that is affecting most everything I am doing.

Frustrated and angry sounds rather horrible to me.

How about stymied?

I work late most every evening and on weekends. It seems as if each thing that I am doing is agonizing slow, oft fettered by the very people I am trying to serve. And yet I keep trying. If I am honest, I will have to admit that I am resentful and jealous of the people at work who talk on the phone, work for other businesses, do school work, chat online, sent dozens of personal email back and forth, create flyers and such for their own purposes, and otherwise not work...taking advantage of those who are so busy that they do not, or choose not to, see what is going on beneath their noses. They are skilled at the "quick minimize." I have been praying about that resentment and jealousy, but still I struggle.

Today I came the closest I have ever come to simply losing it at work and screaming my head off. I discovered two cartons of envelopes that I had ordered last year for all the sites shoved in a storage room. A few months ago, I had discovered the accompanying stationary and couldn't believe it had not been sent out to the sites when it came in instead of put in a cabinet in the supply space. I instructed the admin to get it out to the sites right away and it took nearly a week for her to do so. Why? Why not send the stationary order out in the first place? Why hide the other part of the order? If she genuinely did not know what was in the cartons when they were delivered, why didn't she ask? I bet myself at least three slices of pizza that those envelopes will still be sitting on the floor by her desk next week.

I want to at least quit working at nights and on weekends.

I just don't know how. I see the work that needs to be done. I cannot leave the fields fallow...or the chairs pushed back from the table.

I am fair lost without my boss at work.

I think I depend upon her too much. She is the island of sanity in a sea of chaos. A bit melodramatic? I don't think so.

How do you keep finding ways to stay at a job when you are confronted daily with people who have absolutely no concept of time management or strategic planning? In some ways, I believe this company has stumbled to its success. The work is honorable and much needed. The staff is talented and dedicated. But their inability to set or meet deadlines and having to spending probably 90% of my time being reactionary and walking along a disorganized path drives me to near despair. I want so much to be able to do what I can do. I absolutely hate having projects taking four or five times longer than they should.

And I feel like such a failure because what I deliver for my boss is a pale shadow of what I know in my heart I could be doing. I cannot set aside that knowledge.

Am I turning into a flimflam?

I itch.

I just counted 22 more welts on the backs of my thighs. That makes for a total of 119. I am trying hard not to scratch...

Madison is setting on the eggs just now while Fancy is preening herself. Because neither of them have yet learned to build a nest, leaving the eggs exposed on the bottom of the cage, the eggs never mature. 'Tis a pity since both of them work so hard at setting on them.

Recently, I built a "tent" out of a TV guide and a wooden bar in the corner of their cage, which the birds really enjoy. They moved the next set of eggs there and worked hard on keeping them warm, still not understanding the need for a nest.

Once the eggs start to dry up inside, they usually break beneath the weight of the bird sitting on them at the time. Of course, this means the egg usually gets stuck to their chest feathers and I have to soak them in water to loosen the egg. Neither Fancy nor Madison take kindly to my efforts to free them from the egg. Occasionally, when they take off from the cage in flight, the abrupt motion will be enough to loosen the broken egg. Such was the case this morning.

Of course, I didn't have to worry about picking up the cracked egg and throwing it away because Kashi promptly pounced on it and ate it.

Since Madison and Fancy joined my family, I have been less inclined to eat eggs myself. Kashi has no problem with doing so.