Raining Cats and Dogs

It's been raining cats and dogs here in Cincinnati this weekend. I kid you not. It rained on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Loud claps of thunder, the whistle of the wind through the trees. I was a little frustrated by the rain because it kept coming and stopping, coming and stopping, instead of just giving us a nice deluge and being done with it. I needed my middle son to cut the grass. He promised he'd do it as soon as the grass dried off.

It never dried off because it just kept starting and stopping, leaving puddles everywhere.

Look at this pooled in the recesses of the basketball hoop.

And I found remnants of the storm dripping under the hosta

and in the lilies.

Here's a big puddle in the back yard

Yep, raining cats and dogs in Cincinnati.

And I've got the puddles to prove it.

Here's my latest, prettiest lily picture, for those who need a flower picture to make their day complete.

One Day at a Time...

Remember this?

Now, it's this, in the course of 19 days. This is how it happened.









One day at a time. I have to remind myself to keep at it because all it takes is....one day at a time, no matter what you are trying to accomplish.

Patience.

It really is a virtue.

Just not one of mine.

Projection Completion Disorder

Remember this?

Now, it's this.

This is where it went.

115 wheelbarrow loads full of woodchips later, 70 of which were done yesterday afternoon. I have a chronic case of project completion disorder, especially when it comes to my garden. Today's project will be to spread it evenly and reinforce the edges with more old wood from my split rail fence.

Holding Pattern

I am enjoying my garden so much these days. She occupies so much space in my thoughts and energy, not to mention time. I forget sometimes that I’m lonely, in a holding pattern, one that seems now to have gone on for a decade. Can one change while in a holding pattern, because I think I have. I have changed something deep inside of me, and I can’t really say what that something is, only that it is visceral and that sometimes, it hurts.

Not so much right now, though, occupied as I am with work, and kids, and landscaping issues. See this?

This is my project for the weekend, a race against the forces of nature threatening thunder clouds. I need to get this woodchip pile moved so that it doesn’t do any more damage to my grass (or should I say, weeds) than its weight already has. So far, I’ve moved 45 wheelbarrow loads full of woodchips from the pile, to here.

I expect to move another 55 loads over the next three days. At 15 shovelfuls per wheelbarrow, that equates to 1500 times that these arms, these shoulders, these legs, these wrists will have to move woodchips, accompanied by the weight of the shovel itself. I’m already sore. My left shoulder is complaining loudly and the carpel tunnel of my right wrist screams for attention at 4:30 in the morning after my bedtime Advil wears off.

Where are my three strapping sons in this process you might ask, and it is a worthy question. I’ve been using the woodchip pile in lieu of Larry the Elliptical for the past three days, and will probably do the same over the weekend if my shoulder holds out. I have only one wheelbarrow, so I’ve been keeping the task to myself; silly, hardheaded woman that I am. The rock project on the back patio and the weeds growing through the cement blocks on the upper patio are open to the participation of my boys, but so far, no one seems to up for the challenge. Those tasks will wait, as will the ten bags of mulch on my driveway and the flowers requesting transplants to sunnier spots in the garden. I’m hoping to have it all done by the end of Sunday, though, so that the rest of my summer can be focused on photography and writing…oh, and work. I always seem to forget that I have a business to run so that I can make my mortgage payments. The garden and the man du jour always seem to be so much more important than work. If I had a boss, I’m sure she would be pissed.

I feel as though I am in a holding pattern, a labyrinth of responsibilities that keep me going in circles without really taking me anywhere in particular. I have a bunch of single women friends that I hang out with, most of them about my age, a few who are five to fifteen years older and have passed out of the child rearing stage. Many…most, actually, have grown to accept the possibility that being single in their older age is their lot in life, and have figured out a way to be exceedingly happy regardless of their solitary habitation. The biggest change I’ve made in my progress on this path has been to see them, really SEE them, and figure out that I want to be like them, instead of gaping in fear at the possibility of spending a significant amount of my years ahead alone.

I am and have always been a difficult person to love, to be around for any great length of time. My energy level exhausts even me. My PCD (project completion disorder) is unnerving and makes me chronically off time. I seek to accomplish so much, in such a short amount of time, and resist almost all help, not to mention suggestions on how to accomplish a task. I bristle at the thought that someone might have a better way to do my task. The darker side though, is my loathing of laziness, and sometimes, I catch myself thinking that those who do not share my energy level are lazy.

I can be demanding and even hot tempered, although that doesn’t happen very often. I have tunnel vision where projects are concerned and sometimes neglect very important people in my quest to complete. I dream big, have lofty ideals and expectations of integrity that very few people can live up to. I am extremely impatient with people who accept limitations, who acknowledge and succumb to weakness of almost any kind.

It really is no wonder that I am alone.

So….how lucky for me, at this pivotal time in my life, to be able to learn to love the aloneness.

Or at least, to finally want to.

Fading white lilly

Elephant ears, growing bigger and stronger, just like me...except I'm not growing bigger. :-)

Beautiful purple plumes from the butterfly bush.

Hope

For Sale

The house next door from me is for sale.

So is the house next door to the house next door from me.

And the house across the street. My neighborhood is about to undergo a fairly drastic change. Three houses within throwing distance will most likely have new inhabitants within the next few months. New people can change everything in a neighborhood, because…well, a neighborhood IS the people living in it.

My house isn’t for sale. The trees are like my family. I wonder if I will ever be able to leave. My children will grow up and leave me.


But I will give birth to my gardens every year. I could never leave my flowers.

Or my fish pond.

Or my dog.

I can take or leave the black cat. His favorite food is songbird.

But even the cats, I wouldn’t put up for sale.

Blue, Navy Blue

Blue, Navy Blue, I’m as blue as I can be.

Cuz my steady boy’s said “Ships Ahoy”

And joined the Na-a-vy.
(Words and Music by Bob Crewe, Eddie Rambeau, and Bud Rehak)

I’m not really blue.

And I don't have a steady boy who joined the navy.

Perhaps it was a stupid song to use for these pictures.

Ok, I’m a little blue, but it’s only hormonally blue, and I know it will pass.

I do have some pretty blue flowers.

And some new grass coming up.

Many, many dahlia buds. I’m looking forward to showing you these as they arrive.

I’ve been having trouble with carpel tunnel syndrome in my wrists. For a long time it was just my right wrist, but after my marathon gardening day at a friend’s house yesterday, both wrists are aching. I got up during the night three times last night..as soon as the Advil wore off…with excruciating pain in my wrists. I’ll need to get a brace for the left hand to match the one I wear during the night on my right hand. I took a day off from gardening today.

Except to pull a few weeds and take these pictures.

Summer Solstice tonight…the longest day of the year. After tonight, the nights will become longer. Time passes so quickly.

Unless you are waiting for a flower to bloom.

Or for the fireflies to appear. Then time takes forever.

After they are gone, it seems like only a milisecond.

Funny how that works with so many things in life.

Green Eyed Monster

Green is my color.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I like green. Most of my clothes are green. My kitchen is green, a different shade of green than it was the last time I painted it, but still green. My bedroom is green. My office is green. My shoes are green, my socks are green, I have a matching bra and panty set that is, you guessed it, green. I have green sandals, a green feather boa, green nighties and green nail polish, although I’ve only worn it once.

Green is the color of plants, my obsession du jour, and green is the color of money, the hallmark of my CPA profession.

My eyes are green.

I have finally found something green that I don’t like, that looks awful on me.

Envy.

I am envious of the attention being paid to a newly separated friend of mine, my tall, blonde and willowy friend. I have stewed about this for five days now. I don’t want to be my friend. She has issues I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And as pretty as I think she is, I’ve never envied her beauty before. I’ve always thought we were pretty well matched in that regard. I’ve always thought I was hot stuff myself, and while I acknowledged certain attributes of hers that were outstanding, I’ve always thought that my outstanding attributes were equal to hers.

This green headed monster is now stalking me, forcing my face into the mirror, clamoring for attention with every encounter I have with her or a mirror. What does she have that I don’t, other than a flat stomach, thin face, tiny waistline and graceful hips?

And that’s just it.

She doesn’t have anything I don’t have, other than….and that other than is hugely important in our society, especially where men are concerned.

I sighed at that realization. Last summer, I starved myself for four months; starved myself to the point of my hair falling out and my teeth feeling loose in my head, to try to get closer to my friend’s body type. I pumped iron and rode furiously on Larry the Elliptical, burning 700-800 calories every day. The weight came off slowly but surely, but I still have about 45 pounds to go to get close to the willowy frame of my friend, and let’s face it. That’s probably never going to happen. I don’t have the heart to put my body through that again. It’s a huge, huge struggle as it is, just to keep off the pounds I lost last summer.

So far, I’m being very successful at that. I might even wind up losing a few more pounds, but never to the extent that I lost last summer.

I seriously have no desire to be as thin as my friend. I like my curves, the softness of my belly and thighs, the roundness of my hips. When I look in the mirror, I see a kind hearted woman, with full lips, a full laugh and arms that were made to wrap around the chest of a man.

Why is it that so many of the men my age can’t see past the pudge? And why is it that those who can can’t capture my heart?

I don’t have any answers. This is just a middle aged, peri-menopausal rant. I’m feeling that post period loneliness, that I know will pass in just a few days, and I’ll be able to go back to caressing the plants in my garden, hugging the trees and wallowing in the attentions of my flowers.

But until then, my dreams are still invaded by laughing eyes, a bit of chew tucked under his lower lip, his truck creeping slowly down Maple Avenue as he sneaks a look at the green of the Waite Estate.


Delphiniums

Coneflower, just beginning to bloom

Belle of the Ball

The garden still brings me gifts every day, like this.

And this.

And this new seedling. Finally, the impatiens seeds I planted two months ago are coming up.

And isn’t this pretty?

Other things adorn my gardens, though. Round things. Like this:

And this:


And these:





And even this one with holes:

And this rather oddly shaped rounded thing:

Of course I know what they are. They are balls. I’ve given up trying to contain them, they seem to breed no matter how many times I pop them into old trash cans designed to confine them. Of course, there are ball accoutrements strewn about as well, like this:

And this:

And of course this behemoth, standing guard over my driveway.

I’ve tried to figure out why boys are so fascinated with balls. I’ve determined that it is simply practice for the time when their hands will enfold the roundness of a woman. Round breasts, round buttocks, rounded curves of hips and ribs. It is training for one of their essential functions. This would also explain why generally, (not specifically all) gay men do not seem as enamored with balls…they have no need to develop an appreciation for the rounded curves of a woman.
This explanation was all well and good until I found this:

Then I was just confused.

Kissing Jessica Stein

Despite the fact that I am not actively seeking a lover, being a social creature, I did not hesitate to go to the Friday the Thirteenth party hosted by a client/friend every Friday the Thirteenth. Her parties are always a huge success, rain or shine. They include people in my movie group, mutual clients, people in the affordable housing community, people in the nonprofit sector of business, and liberal minded people. I have never dated anyone I’ve ever met at one of her parties, but the chance to be social, to flirt a little, to make a few business contacts, has always been time well spent.

Several years ago…like…five…for maybe six…I met a guy at one of her parties. His passion was photography and he had kind, gentle eyes and a warm demeanor. We talked for well over an hour the way people talk who meet for the first time but feel like they’ve known each other forever. When the next Friday the Thirteenth rolled around, I looked forward to seeing him. He didn’t show. Six or seven months later, I was dating a guy, and I took him with me. Photographer Guy was there, and took me aside, at one point, and told me how happy he was to see me so happy. I felt a tug of regret, because I obviously wouldn’t have the chance to get to know him better, connected as I was, at the time, to Cuban Guy.

For the next five years, I looked for him, for maybe 30 seconds, at each Friday the Thirteenth party, and I never missed a single one. Last night, there he was. He remembered my name, the names of my children, my profession, and the reason for my divorce. All I remembered about him was his passion for photography…and his kind, gentle eyes. We talked for a long time and he asked for my business card.

A newly separated friend went with me to the party. She is tall, blonde and willowy…a former beauty queen. I love her dearly. I found it interesting, though, being, for the first time, in a state of mind where I couldn’t care less about the fullness of my dating calendar, and having as my party companion, a drop dead beautiful blonde.

I have always gotten my fair share of attention from men. No wallflower here, as most of you can well imagine. I’ve never gotten the kind of attention that my friend generates. The men were literally panting after her. It was almost comical. Where ever she was, men were headed in that direction. They made up excuses to hug her. A couple of them asked for her phone number. And most of them would have been thrilled to drive her the short distance back to her apartment.

When she approached the two of us talking, he acted like any other red blooded male. He stopped talking to me and started talking to her. They are both musicians. He writes music, she sings it, plays it on the piano. A guy friend of his joined our little circle, and when Photographer Guy ducked around his friend and moved over next to her so that they could talk more intimately, my feelings were a little hurt.

At least they thought about being a little hurt.

Then they changed their mind, because you know what? I couldn’t care less about who I date next. And that included the attentions from this man.

I moved on to a group of friends over by the barbeque. Having consumed two glasses of wine and having switched to water so that my head would not begin traversing a circular course, I was laughing at something one of my friends said, and the subject arose of kissing on the lips. A discussion ensued about who one would deign to kiss on the lips and who got only a tiny peck on the cheek. Amongst the friends I know well at this party are a group of men, gay and straight, who give tiny pecks to each other on the lips. Some of the women also give tiny pecks on the lips to each other, greeting hello or goodbye. I have never been a lip kisser of anyone other than my current romantic interest. If I am not interested in anyone romantically, my lips live alone (although of course, they have each other…(g)…(snort).

One of the women, who I love and admire, decided that I needed to get over that lip kissing thing, and asked a guy friend standing close by if he would hold me while she planted one on me. I was shy, but a teensy bit tipsy, so when he gathered me into his arms, all I could do was laugh in delight, not realizing that the woman was actually going to kiss me. I had closed my eyes when the guy’s arms enclosed me because, although he was the significant other of another dear friend, he was very handsome. I was laughing, so she ended up kissing my teeth, never actually touching my lips!

My beautiful party companion rejoined me, and quietly asked me if I might be ready to head home. I was. Photographer Guy approached a few minutes later to say goodbye, politely shaking my companion’s hand, but pulling me close for a hug and calling me sweetheart. I started to analyze that as we walked to our cars, but thought to myself, what the hell, and decided against it. I’m not looking for anything right now, not a fuck buddy, not a relationship, not a one night stand, not anything.

If something jumps up in my lap and asks to be petted, I’ll consider it, but otherwise, it feels good to have things just as they are right now.


And as things are right now, beauty prevails. Check out the newest squash flower. Many, many blossoms are waiting to open. I’m concerned that there are too many and perhaps I should pinch some of them off, but oh, they are so pretty!

Again, I wonder how anyone could refer to these flowers as weeds…

Snapdragons are up there on my list of prettiest and most personable of flowers.

The clematis blooms…

Over the past week, I’ve hauled a dozen wheelbarrow loads full of dirt from the back yard to my front yard, to fill in the digging I did and gave up on two years ago. Yesterday morning, I accidentally spent three hours smoothing dirt, removing rocks, and planting grass seed. Now I have more seeds to look forward to!

The day lilies are getting close!

A Star is Born

In my garden this morning, I found the most beautiful spider web. Fine, intricate patterned weavings of gossamer threads connected several outlying branches of my magnolia. Try as I might, all I could capture through the lens of my camera were these. The glowing center is the star of the show, an itsy, bitsy spider.


Also starring in my garden is the bright yellow blossom of my squash plant. I’m not sure if it is a yellow squash or a zucchini squash. I’m a little concerned that the plant may spend all its energy on blossoms because it is planted in soil that was fertilized with flower fuel, not fruit fuel. Time will tell.

Appearing in forbearance of what is to come are the border dahlias, just now beginning to seriously bloom. I seem to have three primary colors in my garden; a preponderance of this one, a few white ones and a yellow one. The star of the show, still in her dressing room, is the dinner plate dahlia, shown here, stretching before her upcoming performance.


The daylilies are readying for the rising curtain as well. I saw some dancing on my way home from work today.

The stage is set for a hydrangea show as well, but these babies are still in rehearsal.

As are the hosta.

I have been trying, these past several days since I discovered the joy of my camera, to capture the color of my back walkway. This is pretty close.

I thought perhaps all of you would like to see what greets me every time I sit to contemplate on the bench by the fishpond.

Tall trees….so tall, I can’t capture all of them in one shot.

A mulberry bush, laden with sweet berries.

A birdhouse, the home to someone. A soft next lies behind the wooden hole.


The golden glittery gown of the fish, darting about in the murky depths of the fish pond.

My pond ornaments. Sigh. All of them gifts from friends and family.

Drumroll, please….

The real star of the show….

Another African Elephant Ear, unfurling herself. Waiting for her cue to stretch over six feet into the air, and to grow leaves as large as manila folders.

Second Place

Yesterday, I went to an early morning meeting at a prospective client’s place of business to meet with one of their board members. I had bid on the job a year and a half ago, only to come in second. The organization chose to stay with their current auditor. This year, they were looking at options again, and wanted a face to face meeting.

I have found that my chances of securing a sale improve dramatically if I can find a way to meet with the decision maker in person. I didn’t get a face to face meeting with a board member last time, didn’t get a chance to smile and charm and show them my humble, gentle soul. This time was different. I answered their questions deftly, looked in their eyes and displayed my passion, both for their organization and for my own, and there was a different outcome.

It’s not always bad to come in second. I’ve found that to be true in my business life, and even sometimes in my love life. When you come in second, you are the first person the decision maker thinks of when things don’t go well with the first place winner. When you come in second, you still have the energy to keep trying, nothing becomes complacent. When you come in second, you can still hope to someday come in first.

Now that I mention it, only rarely when I have come in second in a love relationship, has there been an opportunity to contest again for first. But often, there is the opportunity to forge a different kind of relationship; a friendship, colored in the hues of past romantic encounters, framed in shared interests and matted in genuine goodwill. Even in those relationships, though, the what if notion percolates beneath the surface.

I think that’s a good thing. Some things, we were all never meant to know, at least not in this life. Perhaps questions about a certain person are raised in this life, to be resolved in the next. I’m no longer interested in trying to figure out the why’s…or the why not’s…in my love life anymore. I just want to keep enjoying my mornings, being invigorated by hard work, being romanced by music and art and the everyday beauty that surrounds me. I’m ready for some time alone.

Is this second place?

I don’t think so.

And if it is, then hand me my red ribbon, because I’m happy.

Yes, of course I have pictures of my garden today. I was simply waiting for you to say please…

First, some give aways. Does anybody want some starts of the plants in these pictures? Include an email address and I’ll figure out a way to get them to you.

Coneflowers


Butterfly bush


Thyme


Don’t know what it’s called, but it has pretty pink flowers that last for over a month.


Another don’t know what it’s called. It may be called Wandering Jew, but that sounds anti-Semitic . It may be weed, but I like the little blue flowers.


Brown eyed susans and various plants I planted from seed.


Ground cover that is lovely, has a white flower, but is very aggressive and difficult to contain in one spot.


Coreopsis


Smaller hosta


Bigger hosta

Those are the flowers I'm needing to thin. But...aren't these interesting, too!


Look what happens to weeds after you spray white vinegar on them!


Aren't these pretty?

Funny story about these flowers. I planted climbing rose bushes around the split rail fence that Rexford had built in our side yard, the year after we moved into our house in 1986. The roses needed more sun than they got and were soon engulfed in black spot. I dug up the rose bushes and replanted in my friend's yard a county away, alongside her house which got full sun. The rose bush I dug up was a peace rose....white, with pink inside.

The next spring, low and behold, the rose bush grew back....at my house! I must not have gotten all the roots, but the roses that bloomed were this color....

In this case, second place was prettier...and stronger...than the first, because the bush I planted at my friend's house died five years later, and mine is still going strong 20 years later.

Welcome to My Garden

So says the ornament greeting those who admire my garden. I have written much about my love affair with flowers, and this year, my OCD has never been stronger. My fingers twitch at the keyboard, longing to be at home grasping weeds and caressing new growth. I have also written about my reticence to cut flowers in my garden, knowing full well that the more flowers I cut, the more that will grow. At my cookout on Sunday, two of my early guests helped me clip a few hopeful bouquets.


This year, I’m going to bring as much of my garden inside as I can. I have been aggressive in deheading spent flowers to encourage new growth. I want to be especially diligent with the dahlias because this morning, I found this:

That, my friends, is the first dinner plate dahlia bud. I have fifteen of these big babies lounging in my tender care. I am going to repeat to myself each morning…the more you cut, the more that will grow…and I plan on filling my house and my office with dahlia beauty.

I doubt if I’ll cut any of the clematis. I just don’t have the heart to deprive my neighbors of this beauty.



Not Faint Hearted noted that this is a butterfly weed. Who could possibly call this a weed? It is way too beautiful to be a weed, it doesn’t spread, it’s not greedy nor land hungry, but the butterflies to flock to it, which is why I planted it close to my butterfly bush, which as you can see, is also budding.



The fishpond percolates merrily each morning.

The African Elephant ears continue their conquest of the southwest corner of my garden.


The zinnias I planted from seed on April 24th are beginning to bud.

SAHD’s girlfriend heard somewhere that white vinegar will work in place of Round-Up to kill weeds. I do my best to avoid any kind of chemicals on my tiny little piece of the earth. I have been known to use Round-Up as a last resort on very determined dandelions and thistles. Being an avid conservationist, environmentalist, ecologist and lover of nature, I gave it a try. It sure seemed to be a more ecological approach to weed management than Round-Up.

Guess what? It worked! Overnight, it worked, weeds shriveling up after only one day. Now I have to peruse the internet to ensure that white cider vinegar does not pollute our water supply.

You all know, of course, that I am quickly morphing into one of those eccentric old ladies that your mother warned you about when you were five, and stretching your wings learning how to ride a two wheeler. I was walking down Clifton Avenue with a friend last Friday. A car pulled up, filled with college boys, music blaring, windows rolled down, sunroof rolled back. One of the boys flicked a gum wrapper out of the car, which landed at the feet of my friend, as we had stopped for traffic. I looked at the boys, and then looked at the gum wrapper while waiting for the light to change. I walked around my friend, picked up the gum wrapper and in a burst of indignant environmentalist rage, flicked the gum wrapper right back into the car.

Luckily for me, the boys laughed.

I couldn’t believe I had done something so outrageous, and seriously, that was outrageous behavior for me. I intentionally risked the wrath of ridicule from four, cute, college boys.

For me, that was huge.

Budding in Betty’s Garden

The summer flowers are singing their way to center stage. I am 99% finished with mulching and have started work on the backyard project. I am removing the top soil from the flower bed that Lexi has commandeered as a digging hot spot. I plan on using the dirt to fill in holes in my front yard, and replacing the dirt I’ve dug with rocks. I don’t think Lexi can dig in the rocks.

I had to think long and hard on that course of action. By digging out all of the top soil, and putting down the rocks, I am admitting that my back yard will never bloom as it once did, will never match the beauty of my front yard. I have only to look into the eyes of my very sweet, still very young dog to know that the sacrifice is worth it. If she can’t dig, there will be not as much mud for her to track into the house, making her that much more adorable.



Over by the fish pond, the astilbe is blooming in feathered plumes of pink.


I walked around the garden this morning, snapping pictures of everything budding in my garden, and new blossoms emerging since yesterday. I am not adept with my camera. Many of the close ups came out blurry. Those that were not as close, still lacked definition. Perhaps I need to take a photography class. Perhaps I need to invest in a newer digital camera. The one I use I purchased in 2000, and I’m sad to say, I haven’t used nearly as much as I should have.

Some of the pictures seemed to come out fine, though. I have no idea what I did differently.



Here’s a budding coneflower.



And budding liatril.



And a pretty orange flower of which I have no idea what it’s called.



And delphiniums….I planted seeds that didn’t come up, so I bought a plant.

A breeze feathers a few strands of hair across my face as the bat cracks a beat against the baseball. Cicadas murmur their applause along with the crowd of Mom’s and Dad’s chorusing a cheer. I’ve never felt so out of place. These are not my friends, these polished yuppies with perfect makeup, perfect skin, tanned and supple in their short shorts, these perfect teethed smiles and matching foldable chairs. I sit amongst them without a speck of make up on, my unbraced teeth feeling awkward in my face. All the dad’s, attached to their perfect wives, cheer my son as he struggles at home plate.

I am always in attendance, for some if not all of the game. However, I often have my nose in a book or a literary magazine and I wonder if their heartfelt encouragement of my son is somehow in sympathy for the boy who’s mother doesn’t pay attention and who’s father doesn’t show at all.

My middle son graduated from high school on Saturday and I felt out of place there as well. Cincinnati has never been my city. I’m an oddball here, a bleeding heart free spirit bound up in the confines of conservatism, with my profession lending incredulity even moreso amongst my peers. Whoever heard of a liberal auditor?

Kevin just struck out although overall, he’s had a pretty good game. The Warthogs are winning by 10 runs with only one inning to go.

Just like my love life, lately.

Do I have an inning left? Maybe two? Perhaps I am just in the seventh inning stretch. I’ve been feeling a twinge in my right arm lately…and my pitching has been visibly off. My heart is just not in it. I feel much more concern about the possibility of wilting flowers than of wilting erections. Not that I’ve been even remotely close to any erections lately, wilting or otherwise.

The scary thing is that I really don’t miss it. Two of my friends are in the throes of new passion and I sigh empathetically, but feel no sense of regret.

Am I teetering perilously close to surrender? Am I accepting my status as a permanently single woman with nary a waving of a white flag? Am I simply shrugging my shoulders as I refill my watercan?

I hope so.

I could use the rest.

The sweet bean is growing more and more everyday. Apparently afternoons are the time to snap pictures by the fishpond.



I so enjoy watching the leaves unfurl on my African Elephant Ear.

Gifts from the Garden

This morning, I walked with my lover along my garden path. The elephant ear posted in the blurry picture yesterday unfurled and shyly showed herself. Another spike emerged as well, in just the past 24 hours. I took a picture, but something about the lighting in the garden sanctuary veils the photos, like an Afghani burka. Until I figure out how to fix that, I’ll leave the image to your imagination.

The heavy rains from Wednesday had flattened the coreopsis. I had hopes that with the summer sun drying things out, they would spring back to life, but no.



Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!

I will cut these flowers and take them to my mother on Sunday. They are too tall for front and center stage anyway, and should be growing in the back of the garden. These are all volunteers from the three starts I received from a neighbor eight years ago. They reseed themselves, and bloom two years in a row. They are the type of flower that will try to take over, if given a chance, and must be kept on a tight leash. Just like some men I’ve met and dated in my past.

Past being the operative word.

I have lived in my house for 22 years. It is the only house I’ve ever owned. Ever since I moved in, I’ve wanted a clematis. For many years…the first 14, I couldn’t even think of having one because they require sunshine and my front yard was shaded by a humongous sycamore tree. You know that song in Pocahontas…How high can the sycamore grow? Well I know, because one lived in my yard that was over 150 years old.

It died shortly after Rexford moved out.

I think it committed suicide in sympathy with my pain.

Sad as that story sounds, its passing meant that I now had a sunny front yard and could attempt to grow all the flowers that in the past were off limits to me. I don’t know why I didn’t get a clematis then. I always coveted the ones growing in my neighbors’ yards, would drive slowly and deliberately by their houses, ogling the huge purple and pink flowers, plotting midnight forays into their yards to snatch a start…except…that would be stealing….and, well, stealing is simply not an available option for me.

This year, I put Clematis on my Lowes shopping list, along with 28 bags of mulch, nuts and bolts for the truck’s license plate, a gas grill, a start of pink garden phlox, and new filters for the fish pond. Before I made it to Lowes, however, SAHD-Guy gave me a clematis for my birthday. I planted it the next day, knowing that clematis take a few years to acclimate and usually don’t bloom until they do.

Imagine my surprise to see this during my garden walk:



In case you are wondering, those little white pointy balls are flower buds.

I almost had an orgasm when I saw them.

Does my lover know how to please me, or what….

She sent me these today as well.



And this…to go so very nicely with the yellow one she sent yesterday.



This morning, I spent a couple hours edging the south garden, sifting out the dirt, transplanting the grass and the dirt from the edge trenches to fill a low spot in the lawn.

It occurred to me that my gardening reflects my basic lifestyle of frugality. I waste nothing…except perhaps time and that’s a story for another day. I save the weeds I pull and throw them onto my compost heap. I save the dirt I pull from molding the edges of the garden and use it in other places. I save the grass I pull and replant it in bare spots. I use a mulching lawn mower so the grass cuttings continue fertilizing….is that grass cannibalism? Hmmmm.

Anyway. No such thing as “yard waste” at the Waite Estate.

But beautiful flowers we have in abundance.



I’m content to not have a man in my life at the moment. The gifts my garden brings me each morning are a more than adequate substitute, at least that’s true today. I have no idea what tomorrow holds, for me or for my garden.

I hope you enjoy the photos. I plan on doing more of these type of posts.

Obsession

I have a new lover. I go to sleep, I think of her. I wake up; my first thoughts are of her. I scurry through the process of making my bed, brewing coffee, throwing on loose fitting clothes so as not to embarrass my neighbors with my nakedness and hurry out to say good morning. I was gone for two day on a business trip and the time away was painful, I missed her so much.

She missed me, too, because when I came home, this is what greeted me.



A carpet of white flowers to welcome me home.

Everyday, she brings me a gift.



Today it was a seedling, planted last weekend from a pod I found at the bottom of the bucket from Magic Man’s garden.

Before I left for my trip, she gave me these.



The African Elephant Ears I had needlessly worried about so much.



I’m not sure when she sent this one, it was opened when I returned home. But the ground is peppered with babies, biding their time to don their colorful clothes.

And then, the mystery gift, pooped out, no doubt, by a bird feasting on the mulberries growing by the fishpond. I think they are zucchini. See, she even feeds me.



I have a new lover. A new obsession.




I obsessed about hosta last weekend, transplanting for hours and hours, accomplishing this:



And this:



I don’t know how long it will last. The weather has become warm and makes our rendezvous more uncomfortable. Most of our time together will have to be in the early morning, but that’s ok. I like morning meetings.

She sings to me, sometimes. You remember this song, surely. Simon and Garfunkel made it famous.



Parsley



Sage



Rosemary



And Thyme.

I have lots of thyme. Too much thyme.

Some might say, too much time, as well, to be spending so much of it with my lover.

Some would say that I should be working, moving those mountains of files that have accumulated on my desk, but all I want to do is caress my lover, to rake my magic fingers through her soil. I defend her against the onslaught of weeds that threaten to rape and pillage and strangle the fragile life we’ve cultivated together.

And some of them turn out to not be weeds, but are flowers, lovely flowers, after all.



Just like me.