Joyce Carol Oates is 70 today. Happy birthday, JCO! I don't know what Blooms Day is, cuz I never read Ulysses, but--those flowers are for her, anyway.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I'm reorganizing my closets. Yes, that's plural. Mike and I did not go forth and multiply, and this resulted in a situation whereby I have more closet space than was perhaps good for me. I'll recover.
Serena does not drink beer or guard it. I caught her peeing on a bit of carpet today. She has no idea how much I do, or attempt to do, for her. I cleaned her ears this weekend, and I can tell she feels a lot better now, but do you think she ever thanks me? Hell no! In fact, it was a friggin' wrestling match. I had to bind her up in a towel to do it. On my day off, I thought she's rather watch the birds and squirrels on the porch than stare outside at me, so I let her out. All she did was slink around and cry to be let back in. She's so much fun.
I can hear someone snoring. Funny, when I can't tell which sentient being in the household is doing it. Must be time to flop pretty soon.