I had a 10 a.m. appointment this morning with the woman who’s been doing my taxes for about five years now. I only see her at this time of year. Earlier, I had explained that I didn’t work as much at my various paying chores last year due to the worsening condition of my mom.

When she learned that Mom had died, she said she lost her mother two years ago. And then it was as if a door opened out of the tax office and into another world. A world where grown children lose their mothers at holiday time (hers right after Thanksgiving, mine soon after Christmas).

Her desk has been moved to the back, so the manager wasn’t a constant presence as in past years. For almost half an hour, she talked about how she still hasn’t gotten over her loss. I told her I wasn’t sure I was up to visiting my mom’s grave at Easter. It is too soon.

I’ve never wept while having my taxes worked on, but it was a close one today. What a sight that would have been for a taxpaying citizen to walk in on - the tax preparer and a client both awash in tears.

My taxes? Ah, they’re fine. I’m getting a refund.

The good news is that the birds are leaving my plastic-bagged rear view mirrors alone. But the sound of something hitting the wall near where I work has returned. When it happened yesterday, I ran out to look, but nothing was there. I’m off the shingles medication, so nothing is tampering with my perception.

There are two wheeled pot platforms leaning against the wall, but they don’t appear animated. When I ran out just now, I surprised the sleek black cat spotted earlier by a family member. I would guess that it’s going after the little bluebelly lizards that hide in the downspouts. I like these lizards, and don’t want their tails removed, as cats will do for endless amusement.

For some weeks now, the small black-headed birds have been making a mess of my car, specifically, the rear view mirrors. The birds nest in the ivy groundcover and other places nearby. This year, they have taken a keen interest in the mirrors wherein they find rivals of a particularly tenacious and persistent sort. Neighbors have stopped to tell me how determined the birds are when they hammer at the mirrors. I’ve seen them on other cars too.

Today when I approached the car, I couldn’t help but see that the mirrors were once again encrusted. Not just the tops where they perch, but the front door windows were heavily embellished as well. The mirrors themselves now had blurred patches from constant attention. Earlier I overheard a conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Bird:

Mrs. B: When are you going to help with this nest?
Mr. B: I’ve just about beaten him.
Mrs. B: Did you see my ‘to do’ list? We need more material.
Mr. B: He can’t take much more of this punishment.
Mrs. B: How do you know if you win?
Mr. B: I win when he goes away.
Mrs. B: It’s like a video game, isn’t it? The man sits there all day, killing and maiming unbeatable things while the woman does all the work.
Mr. B: Take that, you jerk. I’m the man! I’m the man!

Which is why there are plastic bags neatly rubberbanded to my mirrors. After spending more time than I wanted scraping down the encrustations. Time I could have spent admiring the goldfish I bought last night to go in my deer scare minipond.

A sampling can be seen here.

So say researchers in a new study, which finds that Fido’s tail will wag to the right if it likes what it sees. If he spots something scary, the tail wags in the opposite direction.

If it fluffs up something fierce and doesn’t wag at all, maybe you’d best make yourself scarce.

I had every intention of making Valentine’s Day cupcakes when I bought these. But Fate is still making wide sweeps with its scythe (wait a minute, that’s Death - nevermind, it’s been here too), and all I can do is line these up and take their photo.

But only under duress. (Isn’t that just like a cat.)

Agui has been filmed saying his name while his owner pretends it’s bathtime. Not sure if it’s up at Youtube yet.

Clearly this wouldn’t work if your cat is named General Custer or even Fluffy.

Am I done yet? Well, no.

In the third week, you’d think it would be a smooth coasting to the finish, when the bumps are mere scabs, and the whole thing is just a bad memory. Last week, the opthalmologist was very reassuring about the stuff only affecting the right quadrant of my face. That’s all good, but no one said anything about the itching or the crawling sensation on the scalp.

The pharmacy is temporarily out of the cream the dermatologist prescribed.

To keep from going mad, I’ve been working longer hours than usual. The beauty of a trackpad is that I need both hands to work in PhotoShop. If I had a third hand, it would be scratching. Scratching is how my cornea might get infected. But if I had a fourth hand, I could really get the P/S work flying out of here.

What’s that? No, I haven’t done my taxes yet.

With the sunset casting a glow off nearby buildings, we sat down to dinner out with a family member who is moving to Seattle this week. While there was a chill to eating outside, the heaters soon warmed the experience. Almost enough.

There are many things wrong with this photo. A couple of things are right. The light is both right and wrong at once. I’m not accustomed to using my camera outside yet.

But that’s not the point. When I look at this, I will recall the young man sitting across the way who looked as if he was losing something he might not ever find again.

That’s a tough one. I’d say they were equal, except with shingles, there’s no reward at the end of the ordeal.

Watching a movie with eyes still semi-dilated can be taxing. The opthalmologist assured me my corneas are fine despite the shingles, but that could change. She launched into a description of a retinal tear (which thankfully I don’t have) that made me wonder if she thought I needed more fearsome images of calamitous conditions.

I needed the movie to erase the pretty pictures from the handout given by the dermatologist yesterday. Some unfortunate souls have much worse cases of shingles, and there are many photos to prove it.

The movie was diverting, Brandon was handsome, the cape should have gotten an award, and the leftover beef stew was perfect. What I really want is a large piece of chocolate cream pie with a big dollop of whipped cream on top.

Over my right eye. Life has been strange lately.

It started with a throbbing headache about 10 days ago, which didn’t go away. For days. The pain made me jump with each throb when I was tired. Thanks to the age of information, I learned it could have been a migraine or several things much worse. My hair hurt. Aspirin didn’t help. A household member asked if I had a stiff neck. I decided I had an aneurysm. But without the symptoms other than the killer headache.

I kept working. It took my mind off things, but I did only the essential stuff. Didn’t blog. Started thinking it was something I ate. I began detoxing by eating right. It didn’t help. I slept badly because the headache kept waking me up.

I decided I had a brain tumor, but without the nausea and vomiting. Well, thank goodness for small blessings.

The night we watched Godfather I for the fourth time, I reached up and scratched my head. There were welts on my scalp. Big ones. As Al Pacino gazed off into space holding his godchild, I began to panic. Did I have botflies?

Family members became alarmed, and urged me to see a doctor. How on earth would I explain botflies to a suburban doctor? (These flies are not the result of poor housekeeping.) I decided to tough it out for a few more harrowing days.

The welts took on more sinister characteristics. My right eyelid became poofy. A large welt appeared toward the bridge of my nose. The area under the eye became a large ballooning sac of something. About then, I read a fascinating entry in Wikipedia about shingles, which is caused by the chickenpox virus lying dormant in the body.

When I walked into the dermatologist’s office today, I had a pretty good idea of what ailed me. It took her a couple of minutes to confirm. She suggested the peas to soothe the itch. The afflicted areas around my eye will most likely turn purple or dark brown in the next few days. I need to see an ophthamologist asap to make sure my cornea isn’t involved. Blindness is a possibilty. I’m to stay away from pregnant women and anyone else who shouldn’t catch chicken pox because I am contagious until the welts crust over.

The meds prescribed include acyclovir, an antiviral that the good doctor said might lessen my pain by a day or so. The main side effect? Both the doctor and the pharmacist assured me there was only one: headache.

The movie? I excused myself from the rope beating scene. But I kinda want to see the rest again. Minus the bag of peas.

The former is said to have influenced the latter, whose current exhibition of art and photographs contains disturbing images.

Which probably comes as no suprise to anyone familiar with Lynch’s films.

These black chopsticks were found in a drawer in my mom’s kitchen, which is still being sorted out. When confronted with dozens of unique objects, it helps to just play for a bit.

In a group, they’re hard to pose, at least for me. They jostle one another, fade in and out of focus, show their underpinnings - kind of like a bunch of first graders. So, I took one aside, and found it behaved much better.