This evening I received email from a stranger who referred to me only by my last name, eschewed capital letters, did not use a spell checker, and invited me to participate in a publishing project where my work would be used without attribution or remuneration. I refrained from asking this individual if they had beachfront property in Kansas to sell me.
The garden is looking splendid. The dicentra (that's the Bleeding Heart for those who prefer descriptive common names, and who doesn't?) has put out two new stems of dangling pink and white flowers. I am pleased with it. No further sign of marauding squirrels; I put my faith in the red pepper flakes, but possibly the dahlias gave them indigestion so they haven't been back. The snapdragons are coming on strong. If those are carmine, though, I'm a monkey's uncle. Pink, I call them. You decide:
The wallflowers are those two colorful bunches behind the front row of snapdragons. You can't really see the pale peach phlox tucked in there, but they're all flowering like mad.
Natasha's hair is officially Out Of Control. She's turned into some kind of dreadlocked alien Persian. Petting her is unpleasant as she is lumpy and matted. She doesn't think too highly of it, either. I have been attempting to comb her out for three months now and getting nowhere. So Friday morning off she goes to the Salon des Chats for an appointment with an electric clipper and some creme rinse. You know what what's killing me, though? It's going to cost twice what my own haircuts cost. Twice! Of course, as John helpfully pointed out, no one has to hold me down or wear protective gloves to cut my hair. Not lately, anyway.
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