Here are some stuphnthings that are happening back at the ranch:
When Ma was here, she noticed that I had my FIRST TOMATO! And now, I have several of them, poking their little green domes out of the yellow flowers on my plant. They look like tiny green Dr. Phil heads. However, my first and biggest tomato has a condition I read about prior to embarking upon the task of attemping tomatoes. It's called blossom end rot. Read it and weep. GAH!
Knowing that a dark spot on my tomato was wrong but not knowing why, I hastily threw some more chicken shit on the thing, watered it and ran away like a scared little pee baby with a brown thumb. Fussy bastard. Wah! I want water! Wah! I need calcium! Wah! Wah! Gimme more sunlight! Wah! No wonder you get 'ett, Poo Bottom.
Next, it was on to the first floor balcony where I had worked up the courage to remove the 3rd egg in the pigeon nest. I decided that I absolutely COULD NOT allow another baby out there. It'd take another 2 weeks for it to hatch and join the other 2 who'd want to kick it's ass anyway because it'd be smaller and wussier than them. And the whole thing would mean more poo for this kid to clean up. I e-mailed several pest-control places who all assured me that the mom wouldn't abandon the nest if I touched it. Some birds would -but pigeons, frankly, couldn't care less if you touched their nest. Or if you replaced all the twigs with toe jam and pubes.
Anyhoo - I went outside with a baggie to steal the unborn (No toejam. No pubes. Well, none I could immediately part with)..when what to my wondering eyes should appear - but 2 little chicks and a BROKEN egg with nothing inside.
Yup, looks like mom and dad enacted their own mode of birth control. "We cain't raise no 3 kids in this dump!" I guess they realized they weren't fit to handle all them squabs so they done 'ett the 3rd one. A tiny omelet with tiny bacon on a tiny plate. At least, that's what I'm guessing. So they saved me some trouble. And I turned my attention to cleaning the amassed pile of bird ca on the opposite side of the balcony. I am now their housekeeper.
I still however have no names for the little guys. Should I really name them? You know, once you name something you create an emotional attachment to it. Then when it flies into a window and dies, a piece of you dies with it.
But then at least you have something to eat.