Orange ya glad?

So do you ever have one of those days where you are not really planning to do anything and are looking forward to the rest, and then somehow it goes horribly wrong. That was the case this past weekend. Saturday was going to be a relaxing day where we just ran a couple of errands. We left the house at 11:00 a.m. and returned at…get this…5:00 p.m. We had tickets to a play that night and I still needed to do some prep work and make birthday cupcakes for a dinner party we were having on Sunday.

I am still not sure where the six hours went. Although, we did add a canary to our menagerie. His name is Bob Dylan. He is a “crested” canary so it looks like he has this funky brown hairdo. That is where he got his name. So far, the other birds are scared of him. Yes, he is a little bigger than they are, but at our specialty bird store, they said it would be fine to mix him in with the finches. After all, a canary is a type of finch. So far, if he flies to an area of the cage where the other birds are, they flee.

I feel bad. I am the one who wanted him. Shlomo did not. He thought he was too big. I have a feeling this will result in my having two antique birdcages to clean. But, he’s orange and I love him. Did you hear that? He’s orange…except for a few brown feathers on his wing and the mop-top hairdo. And, he supposedly will have a beautiful, melodious song.

Okay, enough of the bird drama. I brought it on myself. But, he’s orange and I love him. I know I said that already. But, he’s orange. He matches both the leather sofa in my sitting room (which he is in no way near) and the mixer in my kitchen (again, no way near). Did I mention that he’s orange?

We had my 10-year-old cousin for the day on Sunday. She is such a nerd, but pretty funny. In fact, she very much reminds me of a ten-year-old me. We both have an ability to become obsessed with things. If you were a little bird (like say, the orange Bob Dylan), you might have heard the following interchange:

Anshel: “Oh, I forgot I have a dermatologist appointment on Wednesday.”

Margaux (pronounced with a long, drawn-out “O”): “I hate ologists.”

Anyway, we went to the gardens of Bayou Bend with which she is obsessed (it was our third trip!) and to the Pompeii exhibit at Museum of Fine Arts. Then, her parents and brother came down and I prepared dinner for the six of us. Any excuse I can find to use those new dishes.

Oh, and Margaux’s mother called this morning. Margaux had been to the orthodontist. Maggie has now added “odontists” to the list of things she hates. Braces in July. I can’t say that I blame her. I wonder if she can get orange braces.