Well, Reader, I’ve decided to trump my creative block by drinking wine. Yes, wine is always the answer, no matter the question. It makes me happy and carefree and unblocked. At least the first glass does. After that, it could make me tipsy and cry-ie and sad, but right now? Carefree and blog-gy.
Wine is a perfectly delicious dinner, and hey, I think Weight Watchers counts it as a fruit, because grapes. And Dr. Oz says it’s good for your heart, and my heart could use some good right about now, so I’m doing this for my health. I’m not really sure Dr. Oz actually says that, but he convinced me once to spend $150 on green coffee pills that were supposed to help you lose weight and my pants still fit the same, so screw you Dr. Oz. I’ll lay my lushie ways at your doorstep.
The wine is good.
You know what isn’t as good? Plants.
They lure in you with their pretty pretty colors and you establish a relationship with them, inviting them right into your home and making a nice place for them on your porch, and then they are just never happy. They are always – always – “but what have you done for me lately?” Meaning, if they don’t get a drink of water each and every day, they greet you with their sad and droopy dispositions. I mean, really. We’re not in the tropics. It’s Cleveland weather. Cowboy up, Plants.
Look at them pouting right there, all because they didn’t get watered on Sunday when I was Too Sad to Bathe.
I have two plants out by the front of the house, too, and couldn’t keep the one alive. There are some red flowers that are thriving by my inconsistent watering in the pot, but the purple flowers withered right on up. Survival of the toughest, yo. Those fuckers need to learn to conserve what little water I give ’em if they want to make it in this world. I’m doing it for them, so they are tough.
But they weren’t so tough, and I had to pull out all the dead stuff, and a giant centipede must have been roosting in there and it came running out on it’s million legs and I almost – almost – screamed and fell right off the porch, but I didn’t because I am also tough. Toughening up to nature. I think my lazy river rafter trip in West-By-God-Virginia has made me all Rambo and shit. Which, by the way, I still owe you the hour by hour recap – don’t think I’ve forgotten, Reader – I wouldn’t do ya that way – maybe on the second glass of wine.
So anyway. Back to my pouty and demanding flowers. I gave them a healthy drink tonight. Let’s see if they appreciate me in the morning.
I’m not sure I can commit to this sort of a relationship in the future.
It’s just so needy.