One Tord Boontje garland wrapped around a CFL, plus

one Jiffy Professional Greenhouse Tomato Starter, equals:

Some sad and sorry looking tomato, kale and leek seedlings. I’m an embarrassment. A professional grow operation I am not.  I’ll take some photos this weekend of my sexy little seedlings and post so that you can have an opportunity to snicker at them.

Simple times. Cat t-shirt. Check. Bubble gum. Check. One eyebrow. Check. Brotherly love. Check.

I’m taking a break from this space.  Thanks for visiting.  xoxo

Dottie. Oh, how I love thee.

Ginger beer. A surprising summer elixir.

The boyfriend. Only tells me he’s not a fan of heights after he put the 15 ft. extension ladder ON TOP of my dining room table.

Where’s the buffalo plaid?

A large part of why I picked the plot of land I picked to plunk down ‘roots’ was because of the fine, fine, river bottom soil.  I have some not-so-secret dreams of growing lots and lots of vegetables and even more flowers.  Currently I only have three peonies producing no blooms (not even buds, my friends!) and two tomato plants that I now have to just yank up from the ground and give them a proper burial in the compost heap.  Last evening I discovered that the excessive amounts of rainfall finally did my little guys in. There is a slight slope to my site and they have been swimming in puddles of rain water.  On the drive back to my boyfriend’s farmhouse I got real quiet and sulky. The reason: my sad tomato plants. I’ve gardened for many years, now. Mainly guerilla gardening in small little swathes here and there where I would squish in as much as the space could possibly handle. Why now, with this dreamy soil and oodles of (for me) space, can I not get even a simple heirloom tomato to stay put and throw out some roots? I tried to snuff out my tears as my boyfriend and I walked up to his door. Right beside the screened-in porch sits a striking tomato plant as fat and vibrant as a two year old toddler. Even though I planted him and have been giving him lots of love I was resentful that this healthy specimen was at the ‘country’ house and not the ‘city’ house. And that there was only one plant and not rows and rows of them. As I climbed the 100 + year stairway to the bathroom with my ‘overnight’ bag I got sulkier. My boyfriend and I say ‘country’ house and ‘city’ house in an effort to make living between our two respective houses seem exciting and fun. Not stressful and rushed.  I sulked because the idea of two houses seems romantic and decadent.  Very Gwenyth Paltrow and Madonna (who can afford two sets of hair products and makeup so as to make the overnight bag obsolete). The truth is, though, that there are two houses that need laundry folded, dishes washed, and floors swept. And a dog and a cat who are equal members of our family, but reside one each in the ‘country’ house and the ‘city’ house. And they both need and want lots of snuggles and playtime. So what did I do? I went to bed reading an article on raised garden beds and then dreamt about butlers in tuxedos.

Today the sun peeked out for a moment. Just a moment. It’s been raining and storming a lot in true Kansas fashion. All big and beautiful and a little wild. I was driving home from work on Monday during one of the storms when my boyfriend called me to make sure I was okay. I had trouble talking because the persistent and vengeful lightning seemed to be aiming directly at my gold tooth (cap, really, but a gold tooth sounds more dramatic) and my head felt full and swimmy.  Does your body freak out during electrical storms?

Lately, I’ve been  kind of sweating about my age. Feeling time ticking loudly. Then I remembered seeing this lady and thought that there’s plenty of time and ways to be a badass. Let’s make a pledge, friends. Everyone do one thing this weekend that makes them feel good and tell me what it is. I’ll do the same. Cheers!

Sorry I’ve been absent. Goofing around, I suppose. But I’ll tell you who hasn’t been goofing around. That man right up there. Raising money for a great cause.

I’m a proud lady.

O, my muse, the world wide interweb. Take a looksy at Paul McCartney’s ‘Waterfalls’.  His sweater vest is rad.