There's no fixing stale marshmallows.

Favorite new ‘not a curse’ is Monkey Fingers!

Go on, say it out loud

Satisfying, no?

MONKEY FINGERS!

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I ate something the other day (a vitamin, perhaps?) that turned the product of my alimentary canal a frightening shade of BLACK. Honestly, buh-lack. It was creepy!

You’ll be glad to know that everything’s back to normal now, but for a while there I was psyching myself up for a colonoscopy, a thought that gives me the heebly jeeblies.

Which makes me wonder something - Anyone else inspect their poop on a regular basis, or am I the only one curious enough to take a gander nearly each and every time a sewer sub is launched? I’ve never gotten over that pride I used to take as a small child in what was a regularly occurring success story. Yay poop!

(Oh, and for those of you who do NOT know, I had a portion of my colon removed when I was young because it was non-functioning. Mmm, congenital megacolon! After the sugery, me and poop had a very intimate relationship. That’s not something you leave behind very easily. (heh – behind.))

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Changing the subject:

We haven’t seen our baby robins in nearly a week. I’m hoping this is because they’re galivanting around the neightborhood pitchin’ woo with some other young birdies, and not because they’ve been the appetizer in a local cats’ luncheon.

It’s clear that the pie-in-the-sky notion that they’d somehow be grateful for all we did for them and maybe come back to visit every once in a while was horribly misguided.

It’s also clear that I’m in for a whopping amount of disappointment once the Things are old enough to be on their own. The difference between 4 weeks of robin-rearing and 18-20 years of HUMAN rearing had best not be proportionate in the heartbreak one feels when you realize they’re really gone, because that would kill me dead.

Oh wait. The boys have cell phones. At least they can call.

Phewf. Crisis averted.

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A favorite game to play in the Tiny House is “pervert that acronym,” and you can play too! For example, when presented with something like “PRI” (which really stands for Public Radio International), the first thing you should do is invent alternate explanations, like ‘pube-riding insects’ or ‘pissy rabid idiots’ or ‘pink runny ick.’

The possibilities are almost endless, and the inventiveness of a playing partner is sometimes a very revealing peek into their psyche. You should not be surprised that most of MY alternates involved gore/death/disease. It's just my thang, yo.

So why not have a go at it tonight with someone you love? If that’s not on your list of to-dos (and whyever not, you afraid to find out what lurks in the mind of a dear one, ya chicken?), then feel free to riff on, oh, FDA in the comments.

And have a lovely day.