I fell off the wagon there for a while, but I'm back to at least three days a week with yoga tapes. While I like yoga classes, my, ah, personal schedule doesn't really accommodate the offered times. It's embarassing to break wind in a gently flowing ladies' class with delicate and soothing music in the background.

And I find that it quiets Charles Gore down of a morning. He likes the music and finds my contortions amusing. I practice on the living room floor.

I do not have a tape of the sun salutation, which is basic practice. I have real problems bringing my feet back and forward in those movements into and out of the lunge pose, and I need to develop the rhythm for the various poses.

Lucy had a bath an hour ago:

Sunday, on an afternoon:

At the back of the lot the other Michael is running over the dirt track for the remote-controlled cars with his daughter's four-wheeler. Libby, our next-door-neighbor's Labrador has decided to follow.

Our son is practicing his electric guitar with his friend in the cabana.

Lyman and I are laying down weed-guard between rows of sturdy Roma tomato plants.

Mostly Cajun has put up a Spelling Test.

I ran across the Fashion-Incubator blog earlier today through Marginal Revolution and can't stop reading. Kathleen Fasanella is in the fashion industry.

Here's a sample.

Here's Kathleen on "monobutt" jeans.

The satsuma trees are blooming and the bees are buzzing busily.

It just crossed my mind.

My stepson has asked me about how to blog. So this is what we're doing.

I'm horrified. The freezer in the storage room went out, and behind it is a skeletonized cat corpse.

Poor baby must have found a warm place to die. It happened during the past eight years. The only mewling I've heard is from these pampered boys.

So, Lyman looked up the recipes and I baked a Devil's food cake with fudge icing, I went to the raised bed and picked six perfect coral tulips, and celebrated my mother-in-law's 92nd birthday.