The snow did not wait for the first day of winter to arrive. Not surprising. This is Michigan, after all.
You’ve probably guessed that the snow didn’t bother to hold off at least until after Thanksgiving Day. It was already here. It has been here for a while now, and it doesn’t show any signs of leaving. Continue reading »
Macho Guy and I celebrated another wedding anniversary this week. Well, maybe celebrated is too grandiose a word to describe how we marked it. We didn’t do a romantic getaway, as is our wont. It isn’t as if we’ve done it all. We haven’t.
We had fits trying to think of a new and unusual getaway this year that was also romantic. That is so embarrassing for a writer of romance to admit. Oh, the shame of it all.
Our first big anniversary getaway was a tour of Italy. Our anniversary falls in July, which is undisputedly the most wretchedly hot and humid month of summer. We traveled through Italy on a tour bus with inoperative air-conditioning, drowning in perspiration. Have you ever tried to bite into a semi-liquid chocolate bar from Perugia? Most of the hotel rooms were “naturally air-conditioned” too. It was so hot that summer in Italy I gave up wearing a bra. I gave up wearing makeup too because it melted and slid off my face.
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.”
