I had totally forgotten that I wrote “To Be Continued” at the end of my first post about moving. Then Brooke was like, “So when are you writing part two?” And I had no idea what she was talking about. But I made pretend I did. I don’t know why, but I do that often. I presume it has something to do with my awful memory. Sometimes I can’t seem to process even simple questions arising from conversations that occurred only moments ago. It’s not that I’ve forgotten it completely, it just takes me longer than it should to recall. So I make like I know what the person is talking about in order to buy time and get clues to figure it out. In a way, I turn common, everyday exchanges into puzzling adventures.
But I think when I wrote “To Be Continued” I meant it more esoterically. Like, “Moving, like life, will continue . . .” More retardedly some might say. But the way I see it, it’s just another opportunity to talk about my back yard garden. (Which was another point of contention with Brooke, who happens to be an editor. She was all, “Backyard is one word, not two.” Which is true. But I made up some story about how I wanted each separate word to emphasize its counterpart. So it’s not “a garden in the back yard,” it’s “a garden, which is within a yard, which is in the back.” I have to imagine it’s tiring to try to communicate with me.)
Understandably, hearing about my garden must get tiring. You just have to understand my excitement. On my list of things I hate about
The thing is, I grew up in a different era. I played outside almost every day after school. In fact, my mom made me play outside. She loved me so much that she made me play outside for at least an hour every day so that when it came time for me to leave for college she would know what it feels like to miss me. At least that’s what she told me. And it must be true because one day I came in early and mom was drinking a martini and dancing around the kitchen. What a brave woman she is.
But today’s kids? Hanging out inside all the time with their video games and their Trans fats? They have no appreciation for nature. They wouldn’t know what a Dogwood tree looked like if it added them on Facebook.*
Me? I can’t wait to get back in touch with nature. For too long the only contact I’ve had with nature is the wood paneling in my elevator and my large, hairy neighbor who I sometimes witness saunter out onto his balcony shirtless while I am out enjoying a cocktail. While I sit there trying not to stare at him stretch, I like to imagine that this is the urban equivalent of a bear sighting. Except instead of being in a log cabin in the middle of the wilderness I am seven stories up on a small concrete patio, and the “wildest” thing about it is that this guy lives on the
So you can see why I am excited. And I promise I will tone down the garden mania a bit. The last thing any of us needs is for this to turn into a gardening blog. Any asshole can take pictures of flowers. And you know what? They’re not all that funny either. In fact, I just did a Google search for “flower jokes” and this is what I got:
Two friends, a blonde and a redhead, are walking down the street and pass a flower shop where the redhead happens to sees her boyfriend buying flowers. She sighs and says, "Oh, no, my boyfriend is buying me flowers again".
The blonde looks quizzically at her and says, "You don't like getting flowers?"
The redhead says, "I love getting flowers, but he always has expectations after giving me flowers, and I just don't feel like spending the next three days on my back with my legs in the air."
The blonde says, "Don't you have a vase?"