Pecked to death by ducks

I once heard author Tim Cahill explain the title of one of his books, Pecked to Death by Ducks. He said his friends were all harassing him about what the book was to be called, until finally he said, "Gah! [well, you know...more or less] Enough! I feel like I'm being pecked to death by ducks!"

I totally grokked the meaning of the phrase yesterday afternoon. We had a long meeting for most of the day at work, and then I had three hours and about thirty small items on a very long to-do list that needed to be dealt with. "I feel," I thought suddenly, "like I'm being pecked to death by ducks."

At home, I felt about the same way. Vacation was great, and I still hope to write something about it soon, but when I got home I figured I'd take a day to relax. That day turned into two, and then the ducks and the pecking.

Meanwhile, my garden looks like this:



I'm catching up with this guy, who still wants to pound the dog's face:



I love this guy ridiculously, even though last night he emitted a poot that smelled exactly like a skunk:



And BoMB loaned me his semi-fancy camera, which means I'm running around doing this instead of blogging:



Oh, and the Olympics were on. Not helpful!

I'll try to do better soon. Meanwhile, here are some cute shirts I got last night:




Reading:  Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, The Used World by Haven Kimmel

Playing:  various mix CDs