Sunday/Monday

I'm scheduled to report for jury duty at 9:00 a.m. Monday.

This morning I woke up at 7:38, and realized I'd overslept and would barely barely be able to get downtown in time. So I raced through a shower and went into the bedroom to throw on my clothes -- and then stopped. The radio, which I keep tuned to NPR, was playing a little tune they only play for a Sunday morning program.

Sunday? I thought back to last night -- I'd fallen asleep waiting for Mad TV, which comes on Saturday night. I checked the date on my computer. Yes! And to be 100 percent sure, I opened my front door and found the big Sunday paper awaiting me. It was Sunday and I didn't have to be anywhere.

Whew!

So I did a piece of writing I hope sells. I've been playing with birds, and reading some essays. And had a nice, well-earned nap.

Charli and Sugar Franklin both are molting -- green and yellow feathers all over the place, and those little wisps of white down feathers occasionally floating through the air.

A bit too hot to be out much today, but I'm perfectly happy the way I am. Chorus rehearsal is at six, so I'll go to that. A bunch of us will probably go out to eat afterward -- a perfect ending to a perfect Sunday.

The Law

Spent over half an hour on hold yesterday trying to speak to an IRS agent, to find out why I haven't received my incentive check. I'm so not looking forward to calling again.

Got a summons today for jury duty. I don't mind jury duty that much; I really do think it's my responsibility as a citizen. Old-fashioned, I know.

And, of course, spent nearly half an hour on the phone with GoDaddy this morning. Perhaps I should just move there.

The Evil Committee began its down-hill slide yesterday; some things got done incorrectly and there was confusion so we left early. I haven't figured out a way to smuggle whiskey into the meeting room, though. Which is probably for the best.

Sugar Franklin was perkier than usual yesterday, running back and forth in her cage until I brought her out where she proceeded to run back and forth on the coffee table and on me.

I love the way parrots (and I guess other pets) just assume possession of a human's body. Charli will move from the back of the couch by hopping onto my shoulder (without asking, of course) and then scoot herself to my chest so that she's in perfect position to be scritched and then to take a nap. Like I was put on earth to meet her needs and wishes, and that I wouldn't dare move lest I inconvenience her. My parrots have claimed my shoulders, my back, my knees, my chest, and my lap, and sometimes my feet -- though my feet are loudly proclaimed by Sugar Franklin to be Evil and in dire need of hissing at.

What I wouldn't give to know what they think.