I received an unexpected Mother’s Day gift from my sweet, adorable, youngest grandson, who may well be a walking petri dish containing infinitesimal amounts of bacteria and viruses. He gave me a cold—a nasty and tenacious pre-summer summer cold that gives every indication of hanging on until summer officially begins and far beyond.
I’ve never admitted this before. I thought it best not to, because people don’t always understand and so they send for the men in white coats who dress you in that tight-fitting and incredibly unfashionable jacket.
I name my cars.
Spring has arrived at last in Michigan. The grass is greening. The trees are leafing. Tulips and daffodils are blooming. Temperatures are staying above freezing.
It’s time for planting, and that means a trip to the greenhouse for Macho Guy and me to stock up on annual plants, both flowers and vegetables. I can already taste those garden fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers.
Outdoor plants thrive in our garden, no doubt in spite of me and because they aren’t trapped with me indoors. Mother Nature waters them and MG weeds the garden when it’s my turn to do it but I don’t because I’m writing and have lost all sense of time.
Houseplants are another story. Houseplants do not thrive in my care. Whenever I walk through a greenhouse in the spring, the fear emanating from the rows of houseplants is palpable. If they could speak, they would no doubt say, “I want to live. Please don’t let her take me home.”
I suppose it would be presumptuous of me to suggest to the clergy of Christian denominations everywhere that marriage vows are wanting in that the man’s vows lack an extremely important promise. Love, honor and cherish in sickness and in health till death us do part are important to be sure. Yet I firmly believe there should be a permanent addition to the man’s marriage vows.
The man should vow to be the spouse responsible for killing all manner of bugs, large or small, with or without wings, with or without venom, with or without stingers, bloodsuckers or not, wherever and whenever they may be found, day or night.
There is a very good reason behind that suggestion. Bugs creep the living daylights out of the average woman. Bugs even creep the living daylights out of the above-average woman.
Case in point: A few years ago, while having dinner in the kitchen with Macho Guy, I felt a stabbing pain at the back of my neck. [No, MG was not the pain in the neck I felt.] I cried out and swiped my hand hard across my nape. Continue reading »
If you haven’t yet heard about Mid-Michigan RWA’s Retreat From Harsh Reality, you’re obviously not a member of Mid-Michigan RWA, or you’ve been stranded on an uncharted desert island for thirty years, or—perish the thought—you haven’t read the April 2014 Serious Whimsy blog post It’s Time to Retreat From Harsh Reality. If it’s the latter, tsk-tsk, for shame. It’s on the Recent Posts List. Redeem yourself by reading it now and then come right back here.
If you had to depart to read the 2014 Retreat post, welcome back and join this blog post in progress. Just kidding. I waited for you.
