Good Morning, Julia Rose.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
My baby is getting strong in there, and she's kicked me into reluctant wakefulness around 4:30 a.m. these last two mornings. Can't a girl get any rest around here? It's raining and windy today, and Matt opened his eyes briefly and smiled his biggest smile at me before cuddling back down -- tough to tear yourself away from a friendly bed like that one, but Julia Rose assures me it's morning and no time to still be in bed.

Outside, the house finches are already singing and farting around in the feeder. I'm embarrassed to admit that up until yesterday I believed them to be the purple finch, and it bugged me for years: Why in hell is it called the purple finch when the coloration is clearly orange to red? Well, now I know. I could have identified the little fuckers by their calls, which are said to be distinct from those of the purple finch (wheat versus churlee). But I have certain boundaries when it comes to bird geekery, namely that I do not go trying to distinguish among various sandpipers and I do not kill myself trying to hear and sort out calls. There is such a thing as taking things too far.

(The Louisiana Ornithological Society has a detailed article in one of their winter newsletters on sorting out the differences among the three common U.S. rosefinches, namely the house finch, the purple finch and Cassin's finch. Apparently making this ID is an issue even for really extreme Southern birding geeks, so I don't feel quite so bad. Thanks, guys.)

Well, there's one mystery less, Julia Rosefinch, and now it's off to face another day. Maybe it's not so bad being kicked awake before dawn; together we've sexed the tarantula and hit the rosefinch problem clean out of the park. What a team. But if you wake me up early again tomorrow, we're going to have to cure cancer or something. These things can only be taken so far.