If you think about it, the word jipped might be the root word of gypsy.

Except in this case, it’s backwards.

Time to have a grown up talk about grown up things.

First of all, I got my bangs trimmed, and they look 10 times better than the first time I got them cut, so naturally I’m running around feeling fabulous and flipping my hair as often as possible. Female peacocking, except in color.

As you probably know, my favorite place on earth is for sale. Under contract. Out of the question from Aug. 5 forth. (Unless he is a fraud, in which case we renew our lease for at least 2 years. Crossing my fingers and sending weird mojo his way.)

I’m a little bit a lot sad. I’m not prepared since it happened in a matter of a few days.  And I’m way in denial.

Except when I watch the finches eat.

I feed finches. I have for 2 years. Brad is the genius who started it.

It started when the kids and I  went to visit in OK for a while and he got lonely and decided he needed company. So he bought a bird feeder and finch food.

It’s not complicated.

I of course took it on when he started traveling and now, we have at least 14,000 of them bickering and fluttering and barely noticing me when I’m sitting on the balcony with them. The babies are almost tame.

That’s my problem.

When I look out at them, I worry.

Which is stupid.

Because they will find food somewhere. Duh.

I just don’t want to leave them.

So I have a problem.

I’m truly settled for the second time in my life. I don’t want to budge. I normally live for this adventure.

Stupid finches.

(In case you are a literal thinker, the finches are a metaphor. Don’t make me hit you.)

Also, they aren’t. I really like them.

Sigh.

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