natural woman

After a day of working in the Houston heat, who's calling who a stinkbug?
It's not that I don't think bugs are very cool. They are. We saw a half-dozen fascinating bugs and spiders during today's clear cutting. Here is a picture of a caterpillar perfectly disguised as a stick and below it a photo of a tough-looking stinkbug. (These are not our photos—our camera sucks on close-ups—but they are exactly what we saw in the backyard.) Now, as I said, bugs are cool. Just as long as they're not crawling up my bare arm. Then, I don't much care for the little motherfuckers.

I am happy to announce that the Sawzall-aided destruction of the weed trees in our backyard is complete. I actually had to get up on the roof for one set of precariously-situated limbs. Nothing like standing that high off the ground (how high, you ask? two broken legs in a fall high. I'd estimate) holding a hefty machine that heats up and vibrates steadily while lopping off limbs that could stun an ox if properly aimed. Still it was exhilirating to finish with danger. I am woman, hear me saw.

Came inside to cool down and shower before surveying what our next round of carnage would entail. I wear comfortable but not too loose-fitting clothing while playing lumberjack and all I want to know is how that much sawdust, dirt, etc. finds its way into crack and cleavage? [This is rhetorical, so you assholes out there don't need to put a lot of effort into providing me with cute answers.] I could start an indoor garden. If I were so inclined. Which I'm not.

end of the nature trail

A final mockingbird* update:
The three relocated baby birds flew out of their nest on schedule. We were able to witness (unobtrusively from inside the house, of course, looking through our back "Discovery Channel" window) the last of the trio trembling on the edge of the nest—with parental units flitting about anxiously—not unlike the first time you walk to the edge of the diving board and stand there in terror while all your friends and family are squawking at you to "go ahead, you'll be just fine." The bird looked around as if to say "what a truly bad idea this is...throwing myself off a ledge into the unknown." However, Instinct is a dominatrix and finally launched the reluctant adolescent. The bird fluttered to the ground, then, hopped and flew awkwardly until it reached the gazebo. We assume that it will live happily ever after.

The fourth, hand-fed, runty bird has thrived and grown stronger, fuzzier, featherier and louder. We turned it over to the semi-pros of wildlife rehabilitation and have closed this chapter. The End.

*It was brought to my attention that there was no small irony in my being compelled to save a wild creature from the "mockingbird" category. I believe the insinuation was that I have a higher than average enjoyment of mockery. This after I witnessed the male accuser in tacky 50's drag and exhibited such restraint of my considerable lampooning gifts. Just wait til I create an online "dress the paper doll" flash game with my good friend Dave in his skivvies trying on his many colored poodle skirts.

prehistoric muppet

Baby birds are rather homely. Bulging eye sockets, featherless bald spots, scaley skeletal limbs and hungry behavior that makes them look like diamond-shaped gullets (Muppet-like unhinged jaws) atop scrawny necks.

Still, it does my heart good to see little Skeksi (sounds kind of like Trixie but not so cute) eating well and sleeping comfortably. And there's even something reassuring about her/his seemingly disproportionate excrement. It's hard to believe all that exits so small a creature.

This experiment in wildlife rehabilitation will hopefully end this Friday. I think Dr. Doolittle is getting attached to her small charge but understands that a mockingbird needs to bond with other mockingbirds...and I refuse to order or make any costumes to this end. As over-the-top funny that sight would be.*

*I regret to report that the "bird brand" is, in fact, mockingbird. Of the "To Kill a Mockingbird" fame. Thanks to Lori & Mary and their wildlife rehabilitation skills. [It's so hard for me to say "rehabing" wildlife without thinking of stumbling armadillos reeking of tequila and frenetic chipmunks on crystal meth.]