I don't actually care all that much about the birthdays of various presidents--I have been known to forget my OWN birthday, let alone those of long dead statesmen. (Seriously, I had one time where I could not figure out why I kept writing 5-28-77 instead of 5-28-99, and spent a morning baffled until around noon when it occurred to me that it was my birthday, and years of filling out paperwork had conditioned me to end 5-28-?? a certain way.) But James has the day off, and the swamp is manageably sized, so I figured what the hell.
Mind you, I slacked all weekend in fine slacker style already. And I feel a twinge of guilt for Not Working, but I'm trying to learn to squelch that. I am actually rather grateful to be so hooked on World of Warcraft--it means I don't work weekends, and since I have had a few brushes with burnout in recent months, this is probably a good thing ultimately. I need to remember that I am asking some sort of bizarre alchemy of my brain, and I really do need things like "time" and "inspiration" as obnoxious and froofy as it sounds. (Some day, I will come to terms with this and stop whining about it here. I hope.)
I was also pleasantly surprised today, reading "Suburban Safari" about the wildlife of suburbs, to find that the author had a local squirrel missing a hind foot, which she promptly named "Stumpy." HA! I wish limblessness on no squirrel, but at least now I know I'm not crazy, or if I am, other equally crazy people are writing books about it. (No word yet on botflies. It takes place in Maine, so they may be too far north for a serious infestation.)