For all intents and purposes, the pots on my deck are planted. As usual, there are a few iffy specimens. One’s little more than a stick with wee buds at the top; one’s looking especially droopy around the edges. It does not bode well, my friends. And yet, I can’t help but give them a chance. I take them out of their plastic containers, give their roots a gentle squeeze, and tuck them into the potting soil, right alongside healthier fellows . . . hoping, perhaps, they’ll encourage one another–that they’ll help each other through.
I’m not sure why I love the underdog so, but I do.
Perhaps it’s because I can relate–there’s a lot I hope to accomplish in my life, and I’m the least bit qualified.
Perhaps it’s because I know God never gives up on us–no matter how weak and straggly, no matter how many others have long ago abandoned ship.
Perhaps it’s because, despite all odds, miracles do blossom every now and again . . . and I like to leave room for them to bloom, right in my backyard.
A bit of yard work here, a lot of errands there, and the days done flew. The weekend, my friends, is but a blur. Here are a couple things I do remember . . .
A joyous celebration. I’m happy to report, the baby shower was nothing but goodness. There were games, yes, but nary a one tick inducing. I won the ‘Guess the baby item in the bag’ game, thank you-very-much. Which, as my friend Kristi says, ‘games are no fun until you win the prize.’ Also, I’m in pretty much every picture of the mama, since I was sitting right next to her. It’s super.
Sex talk. So. My mom and I went to “the home” on Saturday to have lunch with my grandma. We were running late (10 minutes, mind you), so we didn’t get to sit with the usual group of ladies. Instead we sat with a woman whom you could not tell if she was smiling, or she’d just eaten a lemon; she bellyached and bemoaned–then my grandma joined in, leaving my mom and I to talk amongst ourselves. Lucky for us, a gentleman at a neighboring table offered a bit of respite. Being hard of hearing, the fellow talked loud enough for us to hear every word, as if we were sitting right there with him. It went something like this . . .
When you’re hungry, you eat.
When you’re tired, you sleep.
When you want to have sex, you have sex.
[We're not entirely certain what transpired here; we heard 'sex' bantered around a few more times--but we were too busy snickering at the poor fellow's table mates who were sitting there, straight faced, staring into the abyss, willing him to stop talking already]
So, she hooks up with this guy and has sex with him.
Yeah, that’s about the time we lost all composure whatsoever. How old are we? I know, but can you blame us? I mean really, you can’t make this stuff up!
And with that, I’ve really no way to conclude this post with any sort of decorum, so I’ll simply say, a good week to us . . .
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