Sunday, January 10, 2010

that's too much cologne

If there were no other reason to order from Baker Creek, you should do it just to get some of their beautiful seed packets. Their catalog is a work of art, and each seed packet is like a jewel. But their turnaround time is so lightning fast, and each order they get is like a tiny dart in the cyclopean eye of Monsanto . . . it's a way to fight the good fight and eat well doing it.

Traci and Edna will be kidding out sometime in April, right during the time in which if you want your garden to be anything worth sneezing at you spend all your waking hours grubbing in the dirt like a displaced Southern heiress. I hope I haven't lost my goat midwifery skills. Because Cyclone shoots blanks now we missed out on babies last spring, and although I missed them, it certainly made my garden maintenance easier. I'm not sure what to do about potatoes--they're tremendous fun, but I don't know if I have a place for them, since I ordered one of every color of tomato that Baker Creek offers. Pink, red, purple, orange, yellow, green, striped and white. Multiply that by two or three plants of each variety and it's going to be a color wheel explosion up in there. It may take up most of the garden just to do tomatoes, because I learned last year that they really don't like being crowded. Can you stand the anticipation? It's a good thing I'm so busy with my bedroom or I'd have all the plants started already, and then what would we have? Leggy, gangly teenagers of plants that would get culture shock when I threw them into their rumspringa garden. They'd start doing drugs and having unprotected premarital sex and I'd find them dead in a ditch somewhere.

I'm going to make Skiver a vet appointment. He has been very sluggish and lethargic lately, and his backbone is much more prominent than it used to be. I'm sure that's due in part to his weight loss, because he lets those freeloading car-ruining carny squatters eat all his food, but then today he pooped in the house--in the bathtub, even--something he never, ever does. I feel partly responsible, because he was meowing at me, and even jumped up on my bed--which he knows is a throw-outable offense--but I wasn't in tune with his body enough to put him out, and I really think he chose the tub because he knows it's easy to clean. Poor little bugger. He's getting on a bit--I think he's probably about eight or nine years old now. But surely he's not ready to die of old age? I've never had a cat make it this long without being run over or shot, so I have no gauge. He's the best cat of all the cats I've ever had!


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