Do I Dare Admit...

...what I've spent a major portion of my last few days doing???

Okay, I'll tell you, though I'm laughing myself.

But first let me tell you why before I tell you what.

This Friday, our family is going to a dance party. Yes, you read that right, a dance party. You see, we have some friends who are a lot of fun (aka totally crazy) and they are hosting a graduation party for their lovely daughter, Mandy. Well, not being as boring as the rest of us, they came up with the idea that each family attending should come prepared to present a dance routine.

As you can imagine, Jeff and Tobias were thrilled with that idea. Delaney would be willing, but she's quite busy with the musical that she is presently involved in, so it's up to me to represent the family. (We're doomed.)

Knowing that any modern dance I came up with would look like an unfunny comedy routine, I looked to my roots and with a little help from the internet, I have now learned how to...

...Irish folk dance. Sort of.

Ya know, the-Lord-of-the-Dance type stuff (or in my case, the-Imbecile-of-the-is-that-a-Dance? type stuff) where the dancers' torsos and arms look frozen stiff while their legs commit methodical spasms much to the mystification of their audience.

Yeah.

So I found a video tutorial on the Net and have diligently been practicing these moves that look so beautiful and easy when the teacher does them. Ha! My consolation is that everyone is expecting this whole dance thing to be amusing. Otherwise, I'd stay home and clean my fridge.

Door to Door People Drive Me Nuts

Today, as I was blaring O'Sullivan's March and dancing my Scotch-Irish butt off, the doorbell rang. I went through my normal Oh-Someone's-at-the-Door routine and crept toward the front door, praying the floorboards wouldn't creak and peeked through the peephole.

It was some stranger who promptly waved at my peering self. (I hate how people can tell when you're looking!) I held my breath even though I knew he was on to me (as if the car in the driveway and the irish fiddle wailing in the background weren't enough clues that someone was indeed home). He waited a few seconds and then knocked on the door.

He calls me out by waving at my eyeball and then persists to claim entrance? Whatever, Pal!

Once during a similar scenario, a guy hollered out, "Hello! I know you're in there," in a somewhat hostile manner. Yeah, I'm really going to open my door to you now that I know you're angry with me.

What is it with these guys? Like I owe them something just because I don't have three Doberman Pinschers between the street and my front door.

Anyway, I need to get a few more minutes of practice in before Tobias comes home from school.

(My Celtic ancestors must either be rolling over in their graves or laughing the lids off their caskets.)

Mother's Day

Guess what I got for Mother's Day...


I was hoping for one of those. I guess the shattered crystal on my other one had shamed our family long enough. I actually like this one a lot more than the old one (even before it broke). Thanks, guys!

Here are the precious babies who have enabled me to be a part of this celebration called "Mother's Day"--



(You know your kid is getting tall when you need a stepping stool in order to chart his growth properly.)

Elderly Social Circles

Yesterday, I took my Grandma Hazel to the doctor's office so that she could have some lab work done. While we were there, she introduced me to a man who happened to be there. Jim lives at the same assisted living home as Grandma. He was a friendly guy who was toting a hand held oxygen tank along with him.

"That there," said Jim, pointing at Grandma, "is 'Pretty Hazel'. There's another Hazel at the home and we call her 'Happy Hazel'."

Grandma just smiled a shy, pleased smile.

After Jim left, she leaned over toward me and whispered, "His eyesight is going."

(I have to wonder if 'Happy Hazel' knows that Grammy is 'Pretty Hazel'. If she finds out, 'Happy Hazel' might morph into 'Embittered Hazel'.)

The Sacrifices of Spring

When we bought this house (six years ago this month), I was thrilled with the huge flower box out front. It runs nearly the whole length of the walkway to the front door. I dreamily envisioned it burgeoning with ruffly Rununculus...



...Icelandic Poppies...



...little purple Pansies...



...and regal looking Digitalis...



...welcoming all visitors to our home.

I couldn't understand why the former owners had planted Heavenly Bamboo and Society Garlic in such prime floral real estate.



Not only were they an odd pair aesthetically, but the former was so tall that it partially blocked the windows and the latter has an unpleasant odor which shouldn't be the first aromatic impression upon entering a home.

Hmm, oh well, I thought, transplanting the "ousted" to more appropriate places. I was just happy to be the planter's new mommy.

Well, it wasn't long before I realized why the planter hadn't been better tended to. Apparently, Heavenly Bamboo and Society Garlic were the only things the former owners had found would grow there.

Nearly everything I planted there died...and quickly. Lovely plant after lovely plant was purchased and caringly tended to in its new home only to wither and die. I dumped bags and bags of mulch into the planter, taking care to mix it thoroughly. I made sure to thoroughly water any of the new "recruits". It didn't help.

Watching the sunlight situation, I saw that during the summer, the flower box was completely in the shade of a tree until about 11:00 am at which point all of the sun's radiant glory fell upon it like the wrath of God (I think being up against the house intensified it even more) until about 1:30 pm at which point the sun was blocked by the house, plunging the box into total shade again.

I'm not sure if the plants were fried or confused, but very few could handle living in the atmosphere into which I was thrusting them. My floral fantasies became sadly subdued. No longer did I long for a flower box worthy of a Better Homes and Garden cover. I just wanted something green instead of dry, brown and disintegrating.

Year after year, I have continued to experiment, suppressing the feelings of guilt I have over throwing perfectly healthy sacrifices into this apparent volcano. It's not my intention that they die...

This year is no different. Jeff and I went to Home Depot last weekend, looking for this year's agricultural guinea pigs.

He pointed out some flowers that he liked and I showed him that their tags said "partial sun".

"We need 'total sun' ," I stated, explaining the situation.

"What about 'hellfire'?" he asked.

I assured him that that would be perfect, but alas, we found none. Apparently, satan's gardeners don't frequent the Depot.

(We also looked at weed'n'feed products to help our grass. One promised to kill all weeds. We didn't buy that one, fearing it would take out our entire lawn.)

Finally, we settled on these:




Yes, they are very beautiful, but for how long? And will I be able to sleep knowing that I have the blood (uh...sap?) of these innocents on my hands?