The night sky around our house is thickly pointillated with lightning bugs. Trees seem to shimmer. One or two make it into our room each night and Heather finds she must converse with and then warn them: "Oh, hey, little lightning bug! Hi there, lightning bug! Don't get hit by the ceiling fan, little lightning bug. [with increasing intensity] Don't get hit by the fan, lightning bug! STAY AWAY FROM THE FAN, LIGHTNING BUG!!!"
This morning, Heather put every chess piece in the kitchen sink and washed them by hand [see previous post], even cleaning out the gaps in the heads of the, what are they, Bishops? with her thumbnail and then gingerly placed them all out in the sun to dry.
There's a filthy, tick-ridden dog (I actually killed one of its ticks yesterday) at the entrance of the ashram where we do yoga. Heather, pretty damn allergic to dogs, has completely befriended it, scratching his dirty head for minutes each day. "Right hand, I scratched him with my right hand, gotta remember," she says to herself for future handwashing reference.
Heather: [somewhat pained] Now I have to send gifts to EVERYONE!
John: Why?
Heather: Because they'll like it!
John: There's something on your back. Turn around.
Heather: [panicked] Shit. Is it a tick?!! Aaaauuuuggggrrrrhhh! Is it a TICK??!!! Oooooohhhh!!
John: No, it's a piece of wheat germ. It's funny, I'm not that scared of ticks.
Heather: Me neither.
Heather: There are lots of people with more interesting lives than ours.
John: For example?
Heather: Well, say, a janitor...
