I’m ever so slightly regretting taking my hummingbird obsession from three to five feeders on the front porch. It’s a job, y’all. Truly. I’m cooking up a batch of the good stuff every other day, and my granulated sugar output now requires two oversized bags in the pantry—front line, ready for deployment.
I’ve thought about scaling back, but with this heat, there’s a real need. And not just for the hummingbirds. A mini swarm of honeybees showed up, parking themselves in front of the feeder holes, little faces buried in the plastic flowers. And I just… can’t not.
I looked up honeybee feeders (they’re similar to hummingbird ones, just roomier), and even saw people putting sugar water on spoons. Tried that. Gone within hours.
You should’ve seen how fast I dropped the wasp spray when I realized these weren’t wasps at all, but likely Tim’s honeybees from next door. So now, in the name of community and survival, I’ve become a proud mother hen to a bunch of cute bumbles.
Okay—maybe after saying all that, I can keep going. It won’t be forever at this rate, right? The weather will break eventually, and I’ll go back to feet-up-by-the-poolside-with-a-daiquiri mode.
What else, what else?
The overhead fan has me hypnotized. In this humidity, its breeze washes over me like an alpine lake at the end of an all-day hike. Uh-oh. I’ve been thinking about it too long. What does it want in return? All that spinning… maybe it dreams of detaching and flying into outer space to be reunited with its kind.
I’d be so sad to see it go. Even at 10 p.m., it’s 84 degrees and as humid as pressing your face into a hot, damp rag. That fan—Drake is his name now—can’t leave me. He’s my lifeline.
Dang nabbit, why do I anthropomorphize everything? Now every time I come out here, I’ll picture his sweet fan-face staring longingly up at the sky. Sorry, Drake. You belong here with me.
Oh my goodness, why is that bread taking so long? Then I could leave you in peace and take my weird little mind and put it down. Not down, down, like a kidney-failing dog, just… asleep.
Jokes about death are pretty common in my line of work, but I promise: I’m fine. Just tired and strange in the summer.
Maybe I’ll watch a little something until the bread’s done. Dave’s playing a game with Patrick, and the rest of the house is already tucked in. I think I’ll steal the couch and the remote for a bit.
Hope your Monday was splendiferous.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 