Weeds

 

I am leaning over our big book, reading aloud. 

 

Frankie is making strange hissing sounds.

 

For months now I have been trying to convince Frankie she needs to help out a bit with flower garden maintenance.  I've spent countless hours pointing out to her which plants need to be removed and which are to remain.  Not only has she shown no interest, her blatant attitude about helping out with weed pulling is shocking.  She will kneel close to me while I point out dandelions, buttercups, crabgrass, cat's-ear, wild lettuce, and various other pests that have been invading my lovely gardens for years, only to have her roll her eyes, remove the Dum-dum lollipop from her mouth long enough to mutter "Can I go now?"  And, stroll away.

 

Me, still on my knees, shake my head, and wonder 'Where have I gone wrong?'

 

Lord knows, I've never made her spend hours on her knees actually weeding, but simply asked that while going for the mail, or sauntering about the yard, if she happens to see a weed or two, just, please, bend over and pull them out.  How hard can that be?

 

Of course her foremost excuse has always been "I don't know what's a weed and what isn't.  If I pull out something you want to keep you will be mad at me."

 

(Actually this is a valid point).

 

So, in desperation this morning I decided to look up what a weed is in our big book, thinking (I thought logically) this would settle the matter.  Boy was I wrong.

 

Weed:

a (1): a plant that is not valued where it is growing and is usually of vigorous growth; especially: one that tends to overgrow or choke out more desirable plants.

 

As you can see, what I learned only bolstered Frankie's concern about what exactly is a weed and what is not.   Apparently, a weed is in the eye of the beholder, one person's weed is another person's wild flower.

 

Truth be told, I've have always had my own concerns about what is a weed...and, what is a wild flower.  For instance, I happen to like Queen Anne's Lace and have grown it in my gardens for years.  I happen to like Chicory, with it's dainty blue August flowers and have had it growing in the yard as well.  Then, there's yarrow, scarlet pimpernel, so tiny and delicate it is often overlooked.  There's milkweed, daisies, brown-eyed Susan's, sweet smelling evening primroses, and tall, showy goldenrod all of which  according to my book of weeds, are indeed weeds.  However, all the above have graced my gardens from time to time, because I consider them wild flowers and I would be a bit miffed should Frankie yank them out.

 

On the other side of the weed coin, are plants that I've purchased over the years thinking they would be a good addition to the gardens.  A particular bluebell comes to mind.  It has overtaken the front yard garden and threatening to wander out of bounds and into the yard itself.  I bought the original at a nursery, paid good money for it...how could it be a weed.  Yet, according to the dictionary it is, because, it is no longer valued where it is growing, has the vigorous growth of a man steroids; and has overgrown and is choking out more desirable plants. 

 

I suppose I could add the bluebell to the list of things Frankie can pull, or I could 'letitgo" and cut Frankie some slack when it comes to weed pulling.  I guess I can continue to do that myself.  However, today's lesson on weeds has taught me something.  It has made me aware of why I hated pulling weeds for my mother.  Ooooh, she'd have been so mad had I pulled out her snap-dragons, zinnias or marigolds.

 

Do you have weeds, or wild flowers?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dining

Saturday evening my (neighbor/friend) and I went out to dinner.  We are both fond of Mexican Cuisine, so of course that's where we went, a Mexican Restaurant.  We got there during happy hour, and got our drinks on the cheap.  She ordered a Strawberry Margarita, mine was Peach.  Our waitress/bartender wanted to know if we wanted the grande' size or regular.  I seriously contemplated the larger size, but in a moment of clarity went for the regular size.  I am sooo glad I did, that was the most huge Margarita I have ever seen.  Holy Mackerel!

We were going to order food from the happy hour menu, but I was starved, so ordered a huge tostada salad from the regular side of the menu.  It was nummy.

As we were leaving the restaurant, there was a charming young woman standing by the entrance handing out roses.  On the table next to her was a lovely basket filled with all sorts of girlie items being given away as a prize.  Did we want to enter the drawing?

My neighbor and I started laughing, because while we were eating we were discussing how we never won anything, because we never enter any contests.  We filled out the blank entries, and left.  On our way to the car my neighbor said "Now, we've going to get calls to host a home party for this particular 'girlie items' company."

I agreed, but added this particular young lady was going to be out of luck, because, I'm done throwing plastic kitchenware, jewelry, girlie lingerie, girlie pretty smelly stuff parties. 

Since it is still early my friend suggests we go for a walk to get rid of some of the mountain of calories we had just ingested.  We go to the Rose Gardens.  We had a hard time finding a parking place.  The more we had to wait for traffic to move, the more silly the whole thing became.  I started to laugh...the people leaving took their old sweet time.  There were strollers to store, old people to jostle into back seats and children to seat belt.

We were the third car stuck in line.  First car had its blinker on badly wanting the spot being vacated.  I'm sure my friend could not for the life of her figure out why I thought the whole thing was funny.

Remember my blog from yesterday.  I people watch...so this was a great experience to do that. 

There was the lady that kept getting in and out of a car's back seat, door open wide...was she coming or going?   There was the group of young black men, standing in a group.  They were wearing tuxedos, white shirts, bow ties, black pants, each with a pair of white suspenders.  I don't know where the jackets were.  However, standing with them was a nicely dressed woman holding a clip-board...she was obviously the wedding planner.  Soon, two more guys showed up and joined the group.

Back to the parking.  Eventually, the lady got into her back seat and closed the door.  Cars one and two in front of us got the two spaces available.  My neighbor and I inched along.  There were no more open spaces.  Except...across the street...where three spaces were available.  We were thrilled, and zipped into that parking lot.  UH-OH.  There was a sign saying this lot was for the Japanese Gardens patrons only.   Shoot.  We parked anyway.

The rose gardens were beautiful, shaded and cool, and very, very crowded.  Everyone walked at a leisurely pace, these gardens are a place where speed is never expected.  There are too many blooms to smell, and colors for the eye to digest. 

These gardens are a favorite for visitors to the city, especially folks from out of the country.  My neighbor said they should all wear signs around their necks so we would know what language they were speaking.  What a great idea. 

Folks were taking pictures, folks were walking their dogs, folks were pushing strollers.   There was a wedding taking place in the Shakespeare section of the gardens.  We tried to lean over a hedge to get a peek at the bride, but were afraid we might go head over tea-cup onto her and thought better of that. 

I spied a woman about my age strolling along by herself.  She was dressed in beige pedal pushers, and wore a bright orange, light-weight jacket and a jaunty matching bright orange hat, with a beige bow across the back.  She was a spectacular rose among the rest of us thorns.

It suddenly occurred to me I had not seen one single teenager.  There were plenty of older people, lots of couples...aaaah, young love, families with young children in strollers and wagons, but not one single teenager.  Strangely, that did not seem odd.

As we were leaving, we had to walk up a couple flights of stairs...I was not thrilled...I was full, I was old, I was not prepared for climbing.  Oh well, what the heck...heart attack here I come. 

At the top of the stairs sits some tennis courts, we took the walkway between them and come across two girls in dark green satin gowns, they were lovely.  As we walked by, they were taking pictures of each other smelling the beautiful flowers that grew along the path.  We both commented on how pretty they were.

Approaching our parking lot, my friend comments on whether our vehicle would still be there, perhaps it had been towed since we were illegally parked.  It was still there. I quickly snuck across  the aisle and gently touched a license plate on a car from Pennsylvania.  My neighbor, ever diligent, informed me I was lucky the car alarm didn't go off.  I had already thought of that...after the fact.  I was glad I had barely touched the plate.

We head for home...our conversation has turned to bathrooms, and how those margaritas had "gone right through us".  My neighbor says, "I thought about using the Women's Room at the gardens."  "Yeah, says I, but this time of day"...I visibly shudder.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Thank you

I had been journalizing for years, and have dozens of them tucked in boxes here and there around the house.  I discovered one journal not long ago and found out it was very, very boring.  What kind of weather we had on a particular day.  If it was laundry day, clean house day, who called me on the phone day.  It was awful.  I gave up journalizing.  Nobody was ever going to give a 'crap' about such mundane things.  What was the point.

Then, I don't remember how I learned or who told me, but by a miracle, I heard about blogging. I was intrigued and when I found I could start a blog through facebook I thought 'how hard can that be'; and Ramblings of an Old Woman was spawned from my published booklet of the same name, that features a collection childhood memories and favorite things.   Starting in March 2012, with a handful of readers (seriously, I could count them on one hand) I have been blogging ever since. 

It didn't really matter that I didn't have many readers, what did was the fact I was no longer a 'closeted writer'.  The Internet was limitless, and I had no idea if someone by accident would discover my simple writings or not.  Just the possibility someone could filled me with such glee, it was a joy to sit before my blank blog page, and let the letters and words tumble onto it.

Over time my readership grew, there were a dozen or more folks who seemed to be checking up on me on a daily basis.  By December 1012 I discovered I had occasional readers from around the world.  Germany, Ukraine, Japan, China, Canada, Australia, South Africa, England, Russia and more.  I was ecstatic.  Thrilled.  Delighted beyond words.

Seriously, for a writer to be beyond words is so far 'over the top'....I...I...I...
just want to thank you.

Thank you everybody for hanging out with me, for coming to know me and my little family, for appreciating my efforts and allowing me to share my thoughts, memories, idiosyncrasies, silliness and sometimes even craziness.

Thank you for being loyal and faithful.

But most of all thank you for your kind words, you will never, ever know how much they are appreciates, and how much they encourage me to continue the Ramblings of this Old Woman.

My love goes out to all of you, wherever in the world you might be.

People watching is like

a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get.

I like to watch people.  I've been a people watcher I guess all my life.  When I am out in public I like being quiet, I try to become a chameleon and blend in with my surroundings.  I especially liked to do this when I rode on public transportation or if I was on an airliner, because we are all crowded together like sardines, and it is easy to do.

Being a people watcher does not mean you have to be constantly looking at people, you can catch whole glimpses of them by eavesdropping on their conversations as well.  Put both together and you learn a lot.

I was on a bus once, sitting behind a man and woman.  It was obvious they were acquaintances, but at the same time, by eavesdropping, I also knew they knew very little about each other.  As their conversation continued it became quite clear she was a...well...I'm just going to have to say it (and I don't want this to sound awful)...a prostitute. 

I was facinated, he tried to make her comfortable, and told her where they were going was his apartment, it was actually a room at a motel, but he was a resident (lived) there.  Apparently he had not lived there long, he hoped she would like it.

They were both clean, though poorly dressed, not especially attractive, and nervous, very nervous.  She fidgeted quite a bit and I couldn't help but wonder if she had taken some kind of drugs.

She also appeared to be out of her element and told him she was unfamiliar with 'this part of town', which lead me to believe this added to her uncomfortable demeanor.  I imagined the thoughts running through her head.  "How do I get out of here if I need to?"  "What bus do I take to get back down town?"  "Which direction will I need to go?"  I know those thoughts would have been going through my head.

Anyway, I watched and listened until they arrived at their stop, in front of a grocery store.  Since I was familiar with the area, I had a pretty good idea exactly which 'apartment' they were headed for.  I watched their unstable steps as they moved to the front of the moving bus.  I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. I felt sad for them.  They seemed like very nice people who had for reasons of their own, and the choices they had made, appeared to become, lonely, lost, weary souls. 

Then, just like that, in seconds, they were gone from my life.

Over the years I have often thought of them, and have wondered what they did with the rest of their lives.  I hope the years have been kind. 

Yes, people watching is like a box of chocolates; my box has creams, nougats, jells and nuts each a tasty snippet into strangers lives.  I never know the beginning of their story, and I never learn the end.  But for a brief time I'm a part of them, they are part of me.  Now, these two people are part of you, too.

I'm coming Oscar, I'm coming

So, a local car dealership is having a contest, they are touting that the prize is the best prize ever...given out by a car dealership.

It's a simple contest.  All you have to do is find a golden statue that looks a lot like the Oscar given out at the awards ceremony.  Actually the statue looks exactly like the Oscar.  (But a much cheaper version, I'm sure.)

Anyway, how hard can this be.  I decide I'm going to win this contest.

I begin my search at the dealership.  I've invited friends to help me look, but everybody I know has declined.  (I feel like the Little Red Hen who wanted help to bake some bread).  Hey, it's all okay, I won't have to share the prize.

While I'm looking, I'm joined by other people who similarly think the statue has to be at the dealership, and a crowd forms.  Before long some guy says he has found the statue, but the owner of the dealership, announces, there are actually three statues, and this one is a decoy.

Well, crap!

I continue my search.  Over the course of the afternoon, a lot of folks lose interest, buy vehicles and leave.  Not me...I want that prize. 

It is getting along toward dinnertime, and some woman announces she has found the statue, sadly it is again a decoy.  She is very distraught.  I don't blame her, she has been here almost as long as I have.  They offer her a consolation prize, but who the heck wants to come in second.

At least I now know the only statue left is the real one so when I do find it the prize will be mine, all mine, mine, mine.

It is getting late, it's dark out, there are a few employees left, and a few of us 'die-hards' who are bound and determined to fetch the prize. 

Off in the distance...I see it...it's shiny...sparkly...all I have to do is 'run across the beach in 'slow-mo' like the girl in the commercial and I win...I win.  Oh, I'm such a happy, happy camper.

Wait......NO.......no........no.....no.....o.....o.....o.....

Slobber,  kisses.....

I open my eyes, it's morning, Zorro is standing on my chest...

I close my eyes.

To late.

The prize is gone.

There's a smell in the air.

Day before yesterday I was working in my front yard when the little guy, Patrick discovered me.  He and his dad were working in their back yard.

I could tell from the smattering of conversation I could hear, dad didn't really want Patrick to interrupt me.  However, within a few minutes Patrick (I think he snuck away) and I were chatting at my fence in the front yard.

As we conversed he told me his grandparents were coming to visit, that they had a dog, a Dachshund.  I already knew that, but we talked about the dog as though I didn't.

It was not long before I could hear Patrick's mother talking, and Patrick 'split' for home.

Later in the afternoon, I was in my office working and I heard voices in the yard next door.  I didn't even get up to look up, but I could tell something was 'afoot'.  I heard scuffles, as though a large box was being pushed about.  I heard tools dropping on the deck.  The bits of conversation I could hear, told me something was going to be constructed.

I knew grandma and grandpa had arrived because while I was still working out front I saw a truck I didn't recognize park in front of their house.  So, I figured what ever was being put together must have been a gift from them.  I was curious, but didn't want them to think I was 'spying', so I simply continued to work. 

Once the noise next door stopped, I immediately stood up (I am nosey, not dead) to see what 'new thing' had been added to the toys on their deck.

Oh my, mmmm, mmmm, mmmmm.

It was mag-nif-i-cent.  It was gor-geous.  It was a bar-be-cue.

Now, I'm not really sure what I expected to see, but it was certainly not a barbecue.  In all the time they have lived next to me, I think maybe once, possibly twice, I have seen a barbecue going on.  And, if memory serves, the barbecue itself was simply one of those tiny, black, pot-bellied ones, the kind everybody has, mine has been sitting on an overhead shelf in the garage for over eleven years now.

But, I digress.

Oh, I imagined big things were going to happen yesterday in that yard next door.  Laughter.  Games.  While that big, bright, barbecue wafted the smell of specially seasoned steak through the summer air. 

I wanted to see that bad boy BBQ at work.  I mean, that baby has shiny, chrome knobs, work shelves on either side of the grill area to hold mysterious sauces, aluminum covered veges, and an open can of beer.  Oh, and it has a propane tank bigger than a basketball.  The only thing that's missing is a bell to call everybody together to eat.  It is a thing of beauty, a sight to behold.

So, it was with great anticipation I waited for the 4th of July activities to begin...

and I waited....

and I waited....

I got 'nuttin'.

Imagine my disappointment?  Imagine that barbeque's disappointment? 
There it sat.  All alone!  Forlorn!  Untouched, colder than an ice cube in a glass of lemonade.  Oh, woe, woe, woe.

Okay, here's the thing.  Men...how often do you really barbecue?  Once, maybe twice a year?  Why do you barbecue?  Because you like it?  Because it makes you 'manly'?  Because you get to drink beer in the back yard?   Because your wife makes you?

Oh, trust me, it's not because your wife makes you.  Cause, when you use it, it is extra work for her.  She has to make salads, shuck corn, set up the picnic table, haul stuff from the kitchen out of doors, and then haul all the stuff back in doors after the barbecue event is over. 

Sure, twice a year the men get to do their 'manly-men' thing, ARRR, ARRR, ARRR,
as Tim the Tool Man used to say.  But, except for Tim, do ordinary men, really,
really, REALLY, REALLY like barbecuing that much they need a barbecue the size of a football field just to slap a few hunks of meat on it and shout ARRR, ARRR, ARRR?

I don't think so.  All right...so I've rained on your parade.  Honest, if BBQing is your thing...go for it, what ever size your BBQ is...and, do it as often as you desire.  It's all good. 

But, before you go spending a lot of money, A LOT OF MONEY on a new barbecue, check in with your wife.  I'm betting a hundred bucks, she'd much rather have a weekend at the Ritz for the same amount of money. 

Think about it. 

Birdlady

                 

I don't know what the heck is the matter with me. I've absolutely no ambition. None! Zilch! Nada!

Oh, I've been keeping busy, although most of the things I've done the last couple of days have not been setting my tail on fire by any means.

I tried to paint...it was too hot.

I tried working on the garden fencing around the front yard that keeps sweet, busy-body Zorro under control, but the first day I started working too late in the morning and I about cooked my brains out. So, yesterday morning around seven I went out and finished up that little chore.

I also managed to set up my two yard umbrellas, and placed them next to my park benches, they are supplying pleasant shade for my afternoon coffee breaks. I don't think my gardener is going to be pleased with them though, because they are just two more things for him to have to trim around. Well...bummer. Sucks for him.

However, yesterday morning something interesting did happen while I was working on the fencing. Birdlady, husband and some guy I didn't recognize came walking down the street. Of course, they didn't even look my direction. Oooh, I saw her, but I just kept working. I was hoping I would be done with my chore by the time they came walking back. I feel very uncomfortable around her.

Bummer, that didn't work...sucked for me.

I was just finishing my chore as they return, from the corner of my eye I see Birdlady is looking directly at me...(should I avoid her gaze, should I glare at her, should I hope the world opens up and swallows me?). It was one of those life changing seconds, what I do next is going to alter me forever.

I have to confess for the last while; I have wanted to say something to her. I've wanted to tell her how much she had hurt me, and how bad I felt that she had 'sicked the health department on me', but I knew that would fall on deaf ears. 

I don't know, maybe the heat had cooked my brain, or maybe I simply decided it was time to bury the hatchet.  Maybe it was fate, I just knew I had to do something.  So as that altering second approached, I didn't avoid her, I didn't glare at her, I simply said "hello". To my surprise and delight the world did not open up and swallow me, so I knew I had done the right thing. Whew!  Yep, all I said was "hello", but I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt I had done something that made me a better person. 

After all, Birdlady is who she is, and she does what she does. I can never change her, but I can change me and carrying a grudge is hard work for me, it's a heavy wight and hurts my soul.  So yesterday I did something I think every person should do, and that's walk into the stream of self-forgiveness and baptize ourselves.  I know as I washed away my grudge, its heavy weight, and the hurt to my soul began to recede, I started to feel clean and light as a breeze.

Now it's true, I don't ever want to be best buddies withBirdlady, or even have a chatty conversation; but we are after all neighbors, so an occasional "Hello.", or "Nice Day, isn't it?" certainly won't kill me, will it?

Have a nice day, Birdlady, have a nice day.