Where Did The Day Go?

Busy day.

One of the things they don't tell you about making foods fresh is how much time you can spend prepping them.

Yes, everything, for the most part, is better fresh. But fresh takes time. Today I bailed out of the horseback trail ride with glee, because I needed time to make a quart of ranch dressing, a half-pint of chimichurri, and more of my lemon chicken soup for my lunch. Add in clean-up, and laundry, and you've got your full day in.

Wait, I also took the old dog for a walk.

I got no Piker Press work done at all, which means that tomorrow, my erstwhile "Day of Rest," will be conflicted as I watch football with my laptop in my lap.

Fiddling with the Press will be more recreational than watching shitty football match-ups,  so I should be grateful.

Sometimes you just point the camera and click -- and hope for a usable photo. This was one.

That dang warbler was singing up a storm, but of probably ten clicks, this was the only one that revealed the bird, as it has a habit of moving to a different branch every three seconds. (This is a trait that helps the bird be safe from hawks, foxes, snakes, and soul-sucking photographers.)

There are a number of warblers in this area, and I was not readily able to identify the name of this one. The bird book I have, rather after the fact, noted that the various species do interbreed, sometimes making identification difficult. Perhaps this specimen is the offspring of star-crossed lovers, wishing for rusty stripes on his chest or screaming yellow patches beneath his wings and on his rump, one or the other, giving him a solid identity.

And in the mean time, both Bernie and I fell ill of a damned cold, which lays one low and makes one wish for death to visit soon; in addition, the Tenth Anniversary Issues of the Piker Press (what the hell was I thinking, inviting former contributors to rise to the occasion and submit again?) are crushing me with the work load; and the horse had to be exercised to offset the chance of colic ... let's add to that the furniture being rearranged due to Joan Maria's arrival in seven weeks, and a sudden scooty urge to refinish a coffee table (it's looking great, pics soon) and polyurethane three art boards, three coats apiece, and the gardens -- my cukes are up! My volunteer cosmos are opening their first buds! -- the days have flown by wickedly quickedly.

My novels screech at me for attention, my dog needs a severe brushing and a bath, and my toenails must obtain a trimming before Mass tomorrow. How the hell am I supposed to find my way to boredom as a Senior Citizen?

Cheryl, I know you're out there; I read a first chapter on an essential watercolor technique book that says the first thing you have to apprehend is the stretching of paper. Soak it, flatten it on a waterproof surface (hence my polyurethaning the boards) and then tape it up for work. I'm not convinced of all this, but I shall give it a crack in weeks to come.

In the mean time, I had hoped that I would not have to take cold medication tonight, but my sinuses have cast their ballots against my plans, and their proponents have lit bonfires and staged protests.

Drugs it is.

Try To Pick One Thing ...

... Of all that has happened since the last post.

How to proceed?

There's been the insanity of trying to keep up with the Piker Press 10th Anniversary issues and their glorious presentation of many talented authors, the wild and wooly weather that has given us flooded gardens and a much-needed boost to the Sierra snowpack, a new movie to review, major furniture movement in the house, a potato orchard, new submissions to the Press over and beyond the Anniversary issues, a 37th wedding anniversary, a shivering traumatized dog after thunderstorms ...

Oh yes, and then add in cooking and laundry and exercise and scoping out bits of Modesto as I researched old St. Stan's church so as to move on to the next phase of Loon and Donkey, one of the novels I'm working on.

Today was allegedly the last day of crazy rain, hail, thunder and lightning (and unbelievably, snow, on the topmost peaks of our mountains to the west) ... I know we could use still more snow in the mountains to the East, but I (and my tomato kittens) would prefer some clement weather until next November.

Tomorrow, Bernie and I embark upon a tour of artists' studios in this area. I'm looking forward to this event very much, but find myself resenting the time that will be taken from working on the Press.

It will all work out.