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.

The snow was too impatient to wait long enough to arrive on Christmas morning so we’d wake up to a White Christmas, Irving Berlin and Bing Crosby notwithstanding.

Actually, we’re way ahead of the game in Michigan. We usually have a White Halloween.

The heavy snowfalls we experience make Michiganders grateful for four-wheel drive vehicles, snow blowers, whole house generators, lots of insulation, and fireplaces. I know I am. Another item for which I am grateful is the Internet. I did all my Christmas shopping online this year so I wouldn’t have to drive on the snow-covered roads. I even went online and sent e-cards for Christmas so I wouldn’t have to go out in the cold and walk down to the mailbox at the bottom of our snow-covered driveway.

Years ago, when my family and I moved north to Michigan, we arrived in February in the midst of a snowstorm. As a non-native Michigander, it took me a while to acclimate to the winter cold and snow and to learn that thirty-two degrees in winter was considered balmy.

Shortly after arriving, I went shopping for warmer clothing and for snow boots. When I rolled up my jeans to try on a pair of boots, I exposed the thermal underwear covering my calves. The female natives in the store mocked me and thermal shamed me. They informed me that no real Michigander wore thermals if the temperature was above zero. I wondered if that was the Michigan equivalent of not wearing white after Labor Day.

I’m looking forward to MG and I spending Christmas weekend with our younger son and his family. I’m sure the time spent with our wild and wonderful grandchildren will dispel the winter blahs and cabin fever we’ve been experiencing.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

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.

Great Britain was the next big destination for a romantic anniversary getaway. This time, we decided July weather would be too uncomfortable for travel. MG prefers cooler temperatures, so we postponed the trip to October—when airfare and hotel rates were lower too. As we were leaving for the airport, MG chided me for choosing a London Fog jacket lined with Thinsulate. It isn’t winter yet so take something lighter, he said. You won’t need anything that heavy, he said. You’ll wish you’d taken something lighter when you have to lug that jacket all over the airport and all over England, he said. He made me doubt myself and I caved. I took a lightweight unlined jacket instead. Big, big, colossally big mistake. That year, England had its wettest and coldest October on record. In my attempt to stay warm and dry, I dressed in several layers—which is to say that each day in England I wore every item of clothing I packed for the trip, with the exception of two dressy evening outfits. Memo to Self: trust your own instincts.

We travelled with another couple on the Hawaiian anniversary getaway. They were also celebrating a big anniversary. The thing about travelling with other people is that sometimes you have to do the things they want to do that you would rather not do because you would sooner crawl naked through shards of broken glass, or have your wisdom teeth pulled without anesthesia, or exercise daily, than do those things that they want to do. Those two were avid golfers like MG. The three of them wanted to play golf on Maui. They played. I hacked—you really couldn’t call what I did golfing. One of the things I wanted to do was the helicopter tour of Maui with the flyby of the Haleakala volcano. I got to sit next to the pilot and literally had a bird’s eye view of the landscape below and of the volcano. The copter dove and wove as it flew over the island, none of which bothered me a bit. The others, well, they all got sick to some degree—headaches, dizziness, vomiting when we landed—even sicker than I got playing golf. Revenge can be so sweet.

The weather put a damper on the anniversary cruise to Alaska. It would have been a fairly romantic getaway if it weren’t so darn wet nearly all the time. It rained every day but two, the only days we got to use the veranda on the cabin we booked. We couldn’t see the coastal mountains for all the rain clouds. The waves were choppy from the wind and rain, and it wasn’t long before MG got seasick. That also put a damper on romance. Drat. While he languished in the cabin, I visited the spa and worked out. It almost felt like being single again.

We dared to plan another romantic cruise getaway for another big milestone anniversary. This time, we settled on the Mediterranean. In our excitement, we told MG’s family about our plans. It turned out that three of them had always wanted to do a Mediterranean cruise. Their eyes lit up. They thought it would be a great idea if we all went on the cruise together. O joy. The more the merrier. Doesn’t that sound romantic? MG could have told them that the cruise was to be a romantic anniversary celebration for just the two of us. No such luck. He couldn’t disappoint his older sister, who was recently widowed. So, when we all gathered around the computer to book the cruise, MG and I were in the minority. We didn’t get to book the cruise line and itinerary of our choice because we were outvoted. The others voted for Carnival, which caters to the party crowd and has less expensive fares than the cruise line of our choice. There was no opportunity for a romantic moonlight stroll on the promenade deck because there was an hours-long party on deck every night. The deck was lit up like Times Square and the band was louder than an H-Bomb blast. So much for romance. The cuisine wasn’t all that great either. ::sigh::

To mark our next big anniversary, we never left Michigan. We stayed at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island—just the two of us—on a three-day romantic getaway package. It was so lovely and elegant. They filmed Somewhere in Time there for good reason. It is definitely a very romantic setting. We had a large room with a king-size bed, a dining nook, and a sitting area. Our welcome package in the room included champagne, cheeses, crackers, fruit, Mackinac Island fudge [Yum!], and fresh cut flowers. We also received a romantic carriage ride up to the island’s bluffs, and high tea one afternoon while being entertained by a trio of musicians. The meals were exquisite, the service impeccable, and the views absolutely gorgeous. Love the rockers on the porch too. I would go back again in a heartbeat.

So, we finally decided that this year we would do Detroit—go to a Tigers game and then stay at one of the luxury hotels, maybe visit a casino and/or the Henry Ford Museum, do something to please each of us. Well, those Tigers foiled our plans by having away games scheduled this week and almost for the rest of July. If we stick with the plan, we’ll have to celebrate in August some time. I think we’ll work it out. MG is so pumped to finally go to a Tigers game that it should put him in a very good mood—if they win, of course. In the meantime, on the evening of our anniversary, we satisfied MG’s craving for a Bloomin’ Onion and had a casual dinner at The Outback. It wasn’t spectacular, but then I didn’t have to cook, so yay!

You would think that travelling to faraway places would be more romantic than your own backyard. Oddly enough, we had better luck in the romance department closer to home by staying at the Grand Hotel. It appears that Dorothy was right after all. There’s no place like home, because home is where the heart is—and the romance too it seems. #romanticgetaways #anniversaries #cruises #GrandHotel

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.”

For a houseplant, being taken home by me is a death sentence. I’ve killed ferns, lilies, and banzai trees, and I am the only person of my acquaintance who managed to kill a spider plant and a cactus. Even artificial plants aren’t safe in my care. While cleaning house several years ago, I vacuumed a plastic palm tree to death.

I mentioned my “black thumb” and the demise of the plastic palm tree in an online post at the time. One woman in the writers’ discussion group had a sinister take on my relationship with houseplants, hinting that I might be a serial plant killer. Her question: “Did you accidentally kill that artificial plant, found that you liked it, escalated to killing live plants, and now you can’t stop yourself?”

My infamy was widespread in my old neighborhood. A few neighbors, MG, and I were at a charity auction that raised money for scholarships. I bid on two live decorative houseplants to replace the ones that had recently gone to the Great Garden in the Sky. My neighbors banded together to outbid me and kept me from winning. I asked why. Their answer: because you’ll kill them.

On Mother’s Day this year, Little Brother and his family gave me two beautiful hanging baskets of flowers to hang on either side of the front door. Firstborn and his family sent me a charming basket containing four small colorful houseplants and a Mom’s Garden sign. MG’s comment: “I wonder if they’re betting on how long it will take you to kill all of them.”

Et tu, Macho Guy?