I’m sitting in my office over the garage writing this post. It’s just me, bunny, and a bicycle tire from my vintage 5-speed Raleigh.
5 speeds. Shoulders are shaking with laughter.
Bunny is visiting. She’s a lamb of a bunny. Right now she is in chillax pose, aka the bunny sprawl. She’s flopped on her side, legs and paws extended, head thrown back, eyes closed, thinking about REM Z’s.
I do that, too.
I call it plotting.
Bunny and I were made for each other. Besides sharing the same chillax pose, we like to listen to the same music. We’re eclectic music lovers, but right now we’re getting down with country. We like the short storytelling angst that is country music. And the beat. Neither one of us cares much for opera. I get the hiccups when I listen to the operatic soprano, and bunny gets a severe ear twitch.
We’re both seeing impaired. I wear trifocals, and she has only one eye. Thank you, Big Dell. If it weren’t for you, I could be a bifocal user and abuser.
We both enjoy a good body massage.
We both eat hamster buds for breakfast. She feasts on bunny crunchies. I alternate between All-Bran Buds with psyllium and Kashi GOLEAN. See. Hamster buds. I draw the line at hay, but we both consume fresh basil in large quantities. We both drink water from a bottle.
Neither one of us likes to be startled, and we’re self-grooming.
Bunny is a good writing mate.
We understand each other.
I’d keep her — Shh. Don’t tell the bunny parental units. — but she’s an early riser. And I’m so not. I rest my case.
Longest post-opening ever.
Yesterday was one of those perfect autumn days. Blue skies. Crisp air. Sun shining with the threat of rain out there somewhere. I was traveling the back roads, making that last trip to my fave farm market before it closes until next June when the strawberries are on. Sigh. I wanted to load up on root and vine vegetables. And I did. I wanted to get some more apple-carrot cider. And I didn’t. There wasn’t any left. Hear me sob.
I saw the cows being total slackers, the horses chomping grass, a farmer or two loading up trucks with bales of hay, and a sign that said, The Sky is For The Birds. Don’t tell the clouds or the luck dragons.
I’m still thinking about that one.
But the best moment of yesterday was pulling into a gas station to trade a kidney for gasoline, when I spied a Volkswagen Beetle that I immediately knew was of the classic or vintage variety. Is a Beetle actually considered a classic car?
My shy side left the building, and I sprinted over to the owner who was just minding his own business, pumping gas, and
blurted-out said, “What year is that Beetle?” I tried not to sound all breathy, but I was.
He grinned and said, “1972.”
I did a mental fist pump.
It was Enzian Blue.
I had to look that up. I just don’t go around with Enzian Blue rolling off my tongue, though I may now.
Pretty much like this, except nix the hubcaps ~
But, you know, blue. Enzian Blue.
It was a total squee moment for me.
I had an older neighbor-friend who owned a Volkswagen Beetle and drove like she had been a test car driver in a former life.
I developed nerves of steel.