No Drooling

You'll short out your computer.  Here are the first tomatoes from the garden.  There've been a few cherry tomatoes but they haven't survived longer than it takes me to carry them into the house.  I haven't eaten one of them, Durwood's had them all, but that's okay.  He's the real tomato lover in the house, I'm more of a tomato liker, so I'm willing to wait for a fresh from the garden, warm from the sun tomato experience.  Also I can eat them standing next to the plant if I really want one.  He's been pretty house-bound this year, his breathing won't let him get out to the garden anymore which is a crying shame, but he can still eat fresh tomatoes with the best of them, and I'm happy to garden and harvest for him.

I'm off work today.  Mrs. Boss called yesterday and offered to work for me today since I'm working for her on Friday and I said sure.  I need to go to Fleet Farm for some birdseed and I should go to Home Depot for sinks and faucets and range hoods so Spanky can take out the avocado ones and put in not avocado ones on Saturday.  Yippee!  The last vestiges of the 1970s will be outta here (well, except for the burnt orange carpeting which just won't wear out).

My friend Lala did a poetry reading the other night and she said that I might like Billy Collins' poems since I'm a pretty literal, everyday kind of girl.  I told her that I did like Billy Collins, have some of his books, and like Ted Kooser too.  I especially thought she'd like a "moon" poem he wrote since she's a big fan of the moon, and I offered to send her a copy.  So yesterday I went down to the bookshelves and found all my Ted Kooser and Billy Collins books and brought them up.  I was sure I remembered which book that moon poem was in but didn't find it.  So I trolled through the ones I had, didn't find it.  Went online to read about Ted and the description of one of his volumes sounded like the right one.  I went back downstairs, went through the books again, still didn't find it.  Then I remembered that I lent a writer friend a couple volumes of poetry years ago.  Evidently they were never returned, so I found a used copy on Amazon and bought it.  Of course Amazon had the bad manners to remind me that I'd already bought it but I ignored them and placed the order.  One good thing is that I've got a trial membership to Amazon Prime so I don't have to pay shipping.  And I got an email last night that the book has shipped so I'll get it tomorrow.  Score!

July 31--Thomas Eakins, The Artist's Wife and His Setter Dog.  She's such a proper-looking lady, except for that one red sock peeking out from under her skirt.  She is small and pale, pleasing looking but not pretty, but there's a toughness about the bones of her face that belies her frail look.  See her hand?  It's small and tenderly drawn, the brush strokes a lover's caress.  You can see in her eyes that she had other things to do but loves her artist husband enough to sit for him. The setter too lies there like a puddle of russet fur but he would be on his feet at a word from him master who he is focused on.

I feel like I've frittered away a good part of the day since I slept until almost 8 o'clock and now it's after 10 o'clock and I'm still sitting here in my jammies and have only stripped the bed so far today.  Well, and gulped down a bowl of cheerios and blueberries.  I'd better fire up my day.  Or not.  Bye.
--Barbara