WRITING SHORT: 34/50

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[Come summer heat, much of my blogging momentum melts away. Hence an experiment until Labor Day: fifty minimalist posts about whatever.]

I want to eat everything. The whole carton of chocolate ice-cream. The whole cheesecake. The whole box of blueberry muffins.  The whole family-size bag of potato chips. All the candy the kids collected in their hollowed-out pumpkin on Halloween and couldn’t finish.  It doesn’t matter that it will make me sick, and  later fat.

I want to buy everything I like in Vogue or at Pret-a-Porter — coats, dresses, sweaters, pants, boots, shoes, sandals, bags, scarves, hats. It doesn’t matter that I don’t need, can’t afford, wouldn’t know where or when to wear any of it.

I want to live in France, Italy, Spain, Greece — without moving away from home.  I also want to see Scandinavia, Germany, Japan, South America — without moving away from France, Italy, Spain, Greece. It doesn’t matter that unless someone figures out how to access multiple parallel universes before I die, this is impossible.

I want to be young, adventurous, and sexually attractive to all men I find attractive, while retaining everything I now know about youth, adventure and sexual shenanigans and without relinquishing Bill, social security, or the privileges of age. It doesn’t matter that this would make me a dirty old lady who can work miracles.

I want to take piano lessons, relearn French, enroll in a Shakespeare course, lead a meditation workshop, tutor English as a Second Language, do Pilates, participate in two reading groups favoring long books because I like the women in them, play Scrabble once a month, pet the cats, and go to New York once in a while without giving up my blog and long luxurious afternoon naps on our new bed. It doesn’t matter that there aren’t enough hours in the day for all this or enough energy in me, doesn’t matter that I’d collapse, despite the naps.

I suppose you could say I want to be God. (God can have everything.) But I’m still asking “Is there a God?” and coming up with “No.”  So it looks like I can’t have it all.  Bummer.

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NOBODY GOES HUNGRY AT OUR HOUSE

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We have three bird feeders hanging off the railing of our kitchen back deck.  I try to keep them filled with black oil sunflower seed. They’ve been emptying with astonishing rapidity, considering the small size of the several species of bird who come to feed, usually a seed at a time.

The culprit, of course, is one extremely clever grey squirrel. (Or perhaps fungible grey squirrels take turns.)  He climbs from the ground and attaches himself upside down to a feeder, where he can considerably lower the level in one feeding.

Poor little guy.  Why shouldn’t he have his own grub so as not to rob the birds?  Yummy unsalted peanuts from the supermarket.  As soon as he discovered them, he went to work:

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HE ATE AND ATE.

My taking pictures from behind the sliding glass door didn’t scare him a bit.  He looked me right in the eye and went on munching.

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MUCH MORE DELICIOUS THAN BIRDSEED!

At last he’d had enough.

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TIME TO LEAVE. (AND TELL THE OTHERS?)

That night it rained.  What do squirrels do when it rains?

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(NOTE NEAR-EMPTY FEEDERS THAT WERE FULL THE DAY BEFORE.)

Guess we’re going back to the store today.