Another day, another root canal.

I was thinking about this: My mom had 20-20 vision most of her life -- she's only recently needed reading glasses -- but lousy teeth. My dad, as far as I know, has good teeth, but crappy vision. Me? Half blind and three root canals in a year. I'm a bit bitter about the luck of the genetic draw in this situation. I can only hope that I inherited my mom's hair -- hardly any gray, even still -- rather than my dad's, which is, shall we say, retreating.

The tulips have bloomed and are rapidly passing their prime. I was going to go out and trim them this weekend, only to discover someone had already done it. I was going to thank Wendy, but it wasn't her. Nor was it The Mormons in the Basement (and we keep getting new ones, so I've stopped feeling bad about calling them that), nor my neighbor, Jola. Jola's theory is that its the dealers and gang-bangers who have re-emerged on the block. If so, they did a great job taking out the ones I wanted gone. Maybe gardening is one of the vocational programs in the Cook County lock-up? Alas, I have yet to spot Clive Owens loitering around my rather pathetic excuse for a garden.

The weather has gotten gorgeous again, which is a mixed blessing. I can hang out outside, but then, so can the friendly, possibly horticulturally minded dealers. It's getting pretty noisy out here at night.

That reminds me of one of my favorite Dorothy Parker quips: "You can lead a horticulture but you can't make her think."

Heh. Words are fun.