Some Sadness Just Shows Up Uninvited

Today is a blue day.
I don't care much for blue days.
No rhyme or reason to it, some mornings I just wake up feeling a little like Eeyore.

Maybe Aunt’s dying brought up some of the past.
We did not have a great childhood.
Perhaps her dying brought back memories of Mom’s dying.

This morning I looked in the mirror. 
I noticed the lines around my eyes, the grey in my hair, and the extra weight around my middle. 
Mom’s generation is gone, and now it’s our turn.
 Somehow, I never realized it was happening.

It doesn’t help that we have an orange who should be in a nursing home in power right now.
You can try to avoid the news, but it’s hard.

I’ve got a brown son and husband who could cross paths with ICE.
An autistic daughter and two autistic grandsons who could land on some registry.
It feels like history threatening to repeat itself.

Thanks to the oh‑mighty orange, everybody hates us.
He ticked off Greenland and Canada. 
Who even does that?

Thanks to his inane tariffs, we’re going to have to go back to hunting and gathering.
My grandmother was perfectly capable of standing in a field of weeds and coming home with edible greens that wouldn’t land you ten feet under.
My mamma could step into the backyard, nab a bird, and have him on the table by supper.
I sure can’t.

OK, maybe I’m edging toward the absurd. 
I’m starting to feel more like Garfield than Eeyore, which is an improvement. 
But really, I’m still more of a Wednesday. 
She’s not the one you want standing in weeds and bringing supper home to you.

We got to babysit Turtle 🐶 for a bit today.
I’m not sure if we should’ve been around Peacock.
If we get Covid, we’ll know we shouldn’t have.

He said they needed to do contact tracing.
I assume he told the health department he works for the University of Tennessee and that he’s also a student at UT.
He’s probably crossed paths with 500 people, easy.
They told him to just tell his professors.
Maybe the professors will spread the word. 
I’m not sure.
I doubt he mentioned the Dogwood Art Fest, and who knows how many people were there.

Sasha 🐈‍⬛ slipped out this morning.
It’s been ages since she tried that trick.
She darted straight under the house, the rotten beast.
We finally coaxed her out with wet cat food after twenty minutes.
She’s our old girl, turning 10 next month; knock on wood.

Cowboy shuffled a little junk from the side yard, but nothing much changed.
If you’re at the auction, you’ve already seen the neighborhood.
So if you buy the house, don’t act shocked.
We’re trashy, and you saw it before you signed.

I shifted the stray feeding station a little farther down the driveway, tucked behind a tree.
The strays kept going to the old spot, and I thought I’d have to lure them with catnip.
Imp finally found the shelf and the food.
It’s still open to the rain, but that can’t be helped.
Heron brought a chicken house, and I thought it might work as shelter.
Maybe the food could stay dry, maybe the cats would climb inside.
But no.
They’re terrified of it.
Maybe it smells too much like chicken.

I kept hoping Lamont would come home.
Even knowing how sick he was, I couldn’t stop hoping.
When a grey tabby showed up, my heart leapt.
But it wasn’t him.
But since he’s busy marking the kayaks, I’m calling him Skipper.
Susie Q is still out there.
I didn’t think she’d make it.
I’ve got a stray colony, and I hope the new neighbors aren’t cat haters.

Judging by the auction listing and the state of Side Deck Neighbor’s house, it’s going to need serious work.
Hard to imagine anyone living in it, though Side Deck Neighbor managed.

Anyway, I’m off to yell at the dumb buyers of “luxury” lake houses.