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Dec. 20th, 2007 12:59 pmToday is Goldfish Brain Day. I don't know what the proper celebration for Goldfish Brain Day is because I forgot 2 1/2 seconds ago.
Update on the tomato plant: I was right and the caterpillars had been got rid of when I got rid of them. What is wrong with it is crickets. Donna says that crickets eat the flowers and that's exactly what's been happening. All my lovely flowers snipped neatly off just below the base. I'm hoping to persuade someone in a cricket-free environment to host my super-intelligent and nearly-sentient plant so it can reach its full potential. Or at least so that someone can get the benefit of ripe tomatoes over summer. I've asked James (because pre-teens with green thumbs are perfect) but if he can't do it, is anyone else interested? (The crickets come from public land - I can't get rid of them. Besides, crickets are cute.)
Update on Gillian: the stress and my neck are interacting in a curious fashion. If all of you could please refrain from tragedies and accidents and operations gone wrong and family quarrels and moving countries and any other possible trauma (minor or major) for the next few weeks, my neck will thank you (since the tomato plant is sulking and won't thank anyone right now). If you do have such events, your traumas take precedence over my neck, but my neck will grumble a bit. They did yesterday, when I hurt even more, so of course they do today and tomorrow as well. They do every day except for Boxing Day.
Boxing Day is my father's birthday and there are things that must be done so I don't miss him too much (for anyone who doesn't know this crucial piece of information, my living father is actually my stepfather - the person I was most like in the world died far, far, far too long ago).
On Boxing Day I'm thinking of seeing if I can put Perceval together and calling him Horatio (since I no longer own either Yorick or George, the two heads that both belonged to the skeleton that lived under my bed when I was a bright and cheerful teen). I'm not sure that it can be done because I think whoever took Perceval apart didn't put enough hooks on him, but we shall see. I'm torn between soliloquising "Alas, poor Horatio. I knew him, Yorick." or singing "Oh the mandible's connected to the whatever-you-call-it-bone." I will have to mug up for the latter (pun intended, of course) because it's thirty years since I knew any of the names. I wonder if alcohol would help?
Update on the tomato plant: I was right and the caterpillars had been got rid of when I got rid of them. What is wrong with it is crickets. Donna says that crickets eat the flowers and that's exactly what's been happening. All my lovely flowers snipped neatly off just below the base. I'm hoping to persuade someone in a cricket-free environment to host my super-intelligent and nearly-sentient plant so it can reach its full potential. Or at least so that someone can get the benefit of ripe tomatoes over summer. I've asked James (because pre-teens with green thumbs are perfect) but if he can't do it, is anyone else interested? (The crickets come from public land - I can't get rid of them. Besides, crickets are cute.)
Update on Gillian: the stress and my neck are interacting in a curious fashion. If all of you could please refrain from tragedies and accidents and operations gone wrong and family quarrels and moving countries and any other possible trauma (minor or major) for the next few weeks, my neck will thank you (since the tomato plant is sulking and won't thank anyone right now). If you do have such events, your traumas take precedence over my neck, but my neck will grumble a bit. They did yesterday, when I hurt even more, so of course they do today and tomorrow as well. They do every day except for Boxing Day.
Boxing Day is my father's birthday and there are things that must be done so I don't miss him too much (for anyone who doesn't know this crucial piece of information, my living father is actually my stepfather - the person I was most like in the world died far, far, far too long ago).
On Boxing Day I'm thinking of seeing if I can put Perceval together and calling him Horatio (since I no longer own either Yorick or George, the two heads that both belonged to the skeleton that lived under my bed when I was a bright and cheerful teen). I'm not sure that it can be done because I think whoever took Perceval apart didn't put enough hooks on him, but we shall see. I'm torn between soliloquising "Alas, poor Horatio. I knew him, Yorick." or singing "Oh the mandible's connected to the whatever-you-call-it-bone." I will have to mug up for the latter (pun intended, of course) because it's thirty years since I knew any of the names. I wonder if alcohol would help?