There is a tomato nearly ripe on the vine. I could have picked it yesterday, and it would have tasted as good as a supermarket tomato. I waited. Tomorrow, I think. Maybe even this evening. We didn't plant them just for what we could get at the store. There are lots of green ones on all the plants, and I can tell that in another week or two, my mouth will be sore from all the acidic tomatoes. It will be worth it. One of the peppers is a fiery orange now, and the short little plant can barely stand with all the green ones on it. They're balanced perfectly on the stem. Last year we were disappointed in this pepper for not being the straw-colored Hungarian bell kind. This year we knew what they were, and markgritter wanted them for themselves, which is always better. The cilantro is pretty dead, so we'll know not to put it there next year.
Our yard is of indifferent quality, and our garden would not impress pros or even serious amateurs, but we have kept Miss Ista from biting markgritter's marigolds more than in passing, and there are tomatoes. I am content.
She does this thing when she's waking up and yawning, where she ritually puts her mouth around someone's arm. She doesn't actually bite, but it's like, "Oh, my mouth is open already, I might as well make as if to gnaw something." Yesterday I saw her do this to me, timprov, and herself. That last amused me.
I am still tired, weary clear down to my bones. Beat-down, dog-tahrd, and half-daid, as Jen The World's Best Lab Partner would say. I have not heard from the doctor about the MRI or non-zinc blood tests yet. I'm pretty sure this is in the "good news" category of "no news," but I would still like to be done with this bit. I would still like to move on to the bit where we figure out why I'm so tired and make it go away. Or where it disappears on its own. Either way.
But in lieu of that: onwards.