Word Raccoon is fussy bunny today. Around here that means nothing pleases me, I don’t want to do anything, and there is absolutely nothing I want.

It’ll pass. It always does.

First of all, I said I didn’t want to write a post today, WR! How dare you!

And then you made me too much peanut butter toast and a banana? No thanks. More Coke Zero, please.

I couldn’t even find my favorite pillow for my porch chair. As I swung Pity the Fool (my robe, keep up) over my shoulders, my neighbor roared off on a before-school motorbike ride with his daughter. Sir, that is too much too early. Can I open my eyes first?

Meanwhile, a squirrel hopped into the brush pile. I hope she’s not planning to bury a nut in there, because when the town finally gets its act together and carts it away, poof, it’s gonna be gone. Words of wisdom from Drema Drudge, squirrel consultant.

Another neighbor from down the block just picked a stick off the sidewalk on her walk, put it behind my tree, came back, picked it up again, and deposited it in the brush pile. WR rolled her eyes and muttered “of course.” I tried to shush her and tell her we do not call people prissy pants, even in our minds. 

WR insisted on getting a hairbrush and working the tangles out of my hair. Too bad it doesn’t work for my brain, LOL. 

So here I am, writing from home because why not? My only out-of-the-house appointment for the day is with the local gym owner. Odds are, I’m going to cancel. 

I’ve been half-listening to Middling, the podcast. I was going to tell you about another one on Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White on the Secret Life of Books podcast, but again, fussy bunny rules the day and she’s not even gonna finish listening today. Maybe I’ll get to that another day. Maybe. (Oh, bite me, you know you will listen, WR!)

And if I don’t time this porch sit just right, the neighborhood walking crew will march by soon. Lovely people, truly, but God help me, I don’t want to wave today. Would it be cowardly to rush inside when I see them coming? WR says no, cowards we are not.

The sun is shrugging, hiding under the clouds. If it doesn’t have to do its job, maybe I don’t either.

Back to the squirrel: I meant to submit my poem “Squirreling” to a journal. Which one? WR doesn’t remember. Typical.

She does remember that in it someone saves half a sandwich for someone else and tosses her chips to the squirrels. Which, do squirrels even eat chips? 

And we’re not saving sandwiches for no damn body. 

She also reminded me that cortisone shots apparently can make you weepy. That tracks. Because now I want to cry, and also, I want to be alone. 

(Don’t go down the rabbit hole that I just did to see if Garbo said I want to be alone or I want to be left alone. Apparently it’s the latter, and the interwebs make a big deal about the distinction, but hey, they both get you what you want so say whichever the hell you prefer.) 

Even the neighbor’s dog with its regal white ruff, my usual window pal, has disappeared. I suspect WR warned him off. 

I’m staring at my task list. Vitamin D day. Riveting. 

Probably going to totally ignore my to-do list beyond that. 

I downloaded a book a few days ago that I really want to read, but I’ve managed about two pages.

Someone strolled by in the most beautiful buttercup-colored sweater. I can’t wear that color, but oh, it looked so rich and satisfying, and I kept looking from it to my arms to see if I could convince that color to work for me. Maybe? I mean, wait, I don’t usually like looking at colors I can’t wear, so that probably means I could. I think so. (Ha, didn’t know I was giving out fashion tips over here, but that seems to be a rule that works for me.)

A neighbor’s normally verdant garden is, naturally, dying. It’s officially fall.The tomato vines are all brown underneath, though there are still green and red tomatoes the size of marbles and ping pong balls on some of the vines. 

The sunflowers are drooping and browning, too, though of course they remain upright better. A pity plants don’t die as beautifully as tree leaves.

The basil still looks lush. I want to say I can smell it from here, but at least I can imagine it. 

Their banana pepper plants wear peppers in every stage of ripeness: green, yellow, red. 

Also: there are still blossoms on the squash plant, though the rest of the plant has gone fatal yellow. One of the blooms looks like a hue a shade or two warmer than the buttercup sweater. (I can practically taste that color. So pretty!)

They’re creating so much visible, practical life. They’re growing soil miracles.

Maybe I’m selfish, just writing. I mean, does art feed anyone? 

I know, I know. Of course it does, in its way. In very important ways. 

When my father was ill, he still loved vegetable gardening. I want to tell you something so tender about it, but I can’t even get it out. 

My mother adored growing flowers. 

I do neither.

Aw, one of the squirrels is back, but he’s nosing around the neighbor’s driveway. What, do I have to put out more birdseed? You are welcome, but I refuse to lure you. 

I know this post is ungenerous, ridiculous, unnecessary. Funny and mean in equal measures, maybe, just like me, some days. 

My poetry has been called “a slap in a velvet glove.” Sorry/not sorry. Some days it is. Some days it’s a big ol’ hug. 

My page. My rules.

Someone cued the sun. Thank you. My mood immediately brightens with it. 

Nope, it’s gone again. 

Okay, now I think I might be able to write, regardless. 

Eh, we’ll see.