I left the nine hundred seventy billion thousand and forty-six dead leaves that I am attempting to rake up in the back yard and came in here to blog at you very fast.
Here I am. The one that you love. Asking for another day.
I'm wearing a t-shirt from Ned's workplace, and the jeans I had on last night, on which I spilled some kind of bruschetta sauce. What's that black-ish sauce they put on bruschetta? I would get engaged to that sauce. Which would make for an excellent photo in the newspaper.
In my attempts to rake up the dead leaves in the dirty ground, I noticed some wild pansies growing in spite of themselves.
I brushed away the dead leaves and pulled the weeds around them, and I hope they'll grow and spread, or at least continue to stay alive, and make me happy when I look back there. You have to admire those little flowers for making the best out of their situation. For literally blooming where they are planted.
I never had to clean up the back yard when I was married. I'd make it pretty in the front, but Marvin did the serious work. The cutting of grass and chopping down weed trees and so on. Now I have to do it the best I can, which usually means one hour of raking or ivy pulling before I drop dead. But little by little, the yard is getting better.
I have to go shower for Ned's arrival. We're going to grill something tonight, and I will show him my little wild pansies. What I like about Ned is that he'll actually appreciate them. You can always say to Ned, "Go to your window and look at the moon" or "Wow, that tree has hot pink blossoms!" and he'll always stop and admire whatever you show him.
I never thought I'd end up in North Carolina, divorced and fairly hideous and 48. But here it is.
And I'm doing my best to bloom anyway.
