Cripes. The wedding is over, my book is still in limbo–what is there to write about so as to maintain my readership? (Thanks, you seven people.) How can I entertain you?
Well, let’s talk about weather. Hey, pretty boring, yes? But here it is June, and the rain refuses to stop. Two days ago we had such wind with the rain that our neighbors’ apple tree collapsed. All those pretty pictures of the roses from my garden on my Facebook page? You should see those roses now. Not so much blown to pieces (and many were), but more that the limbs holding those bunches of flowers are sagging miserably. Even the bright new leaves on the grapevine were literally sheared off.
“Sagging miserably”–hey, that sounds like me. The worst thing is being stuck in the house day after day. Sure, I could put on a slicker, don my gardening gloves and whistle a happy tune as I deadhead the roses in the slanting rain, but no. I just can’t do it. So I find myself roaming the house, itchy with nothing to do. But wait: pruning? House? There’s the answer. Time to get rid of stuff.
Out go the old wedding arrangements, the ones where the ferns are so dried up that the little spores on the undersides are now yellow and ready to burst. No pretending they are still beautiful, bringing back gentle thoughts of that lovely nuptial day. Now they be ugly. Hey, how about that woven grass tote I brought back from Bali ten years ago? It’s now faded and brittle and the handles are busted off. Forget sentiment; out it goes. And even that crappy travel underwear I loved because it dried so quickly? I wore them in Morocco when? Sixteen years ago? Bundle those babies up and toss them. Oh, I am so bad, keeping all that crap. I even went through my clothes yesterday, a task long neglected, and filled a giant shopping bag with baggy, shoulder-padded stuff. I don’t want to see it again. Out with the old, in with the new, because that’s always the way it goes. Why, only two days ago I bought a new top at Marshall’s. Here we go again.
And speaking of new, we’ve now found a solution (we hope) to our cat’s neurotic self, something to tear her away from concentrating her frightening psyche on us (we have to lock her in the closet when we go for walks so she can’t follow us). A week ago we sucked it up, went to the pound and got two new cats. Why two? Because after we fell for one, the pound lady informed us if we took her, we had to take the cat’s inseparable litter mate as well. What a scam. But we did so, and now we have Grace and Diana, goddess of the hunt, as it’s already obvious that’s her gig.
Now Maia has something else to be interested in, and it’s right beyond that crack in the guest room door. Further more, there are two to be frantic about. Now, that should keep her psycho self occupied for a while and out of the closet. Would love to take a walk now, but it’s raining . . .