I am annoyed that I purchased two fuchsia plants this spring and until a week ago they looked like complete shit. But there they hung, right outside my office windows on the front of my house, so regardless of whether I was inside looking out or outside looking in, there were those ugly fucking fuchsias.
I had two fuchsias last year. Both light pink. And they were great! Well, they were great until we went on vacation for a week in the heat of summer and my mom forgot to water them while she was house/cat sitting and I came back to skeletons. One was especially bad, so I named it Skeletor.
I thought this year’s fuchsias were just plain dark pink, but they turned out to be magenta with deep purple centers. They look like weirdo alien flowers, but they attract hummingbirds and that was the goal. Well, also the goal was for them to not be hideous and make me look like a crap caretaker, but apparently I inadvertently picked up a pair of underachievers. (What did I expect from Home Depot?) I’ve had two Skeletors all summer.
Well. My Skeletors are gorgeous now. Right about the time my hummingbirds are probably due to migrate to… I don’t know where, now suddenly the fuchsias are all full of lush, dark green leaves. The weather is cooling off – lots of “sleeping weather” nights – and they’re blooming like crazy.
And all I can think about every time I look at them is how I watered them and fertilized them and deadheaded their spent blooms for months and I’ll only get to not have ugly Skeletors hanging on the porch for a month before we get our first frost and then they’ll really be toast. And this seems like some kind of really sad metaphor for life.
My Pilates instructor had something to prove.
Usually I like her. I mean, as a person, I always like her, but usually I don’t feel so tortured in her classes. Maybe it was the humidity. And maybe she was punishing us for having to come back to Minnesota after spending a week in Switzerland.
I guess I don’t blame her.
So I’m sweaty and gross – but hey, my planks ARE getting better – and I have to drive myself home after class, despite the fact that my ass and thighs want nothing to do with this movement thing. Luckily today was light on the footwork, so my calves can probably pick up the slack.
It’s twilight. Just the right amount of dark for me to notice that my headlights are on, but I’m more concerned about my soundtrack. The music on my phone – piped into the car’s speakers via the wonder of Bluetooth – is running in alphabetical order and the Bs are brutal.
I didn’t sleep well last night. My experiment with that new pumpkin spice tea blend was tasty, but I hadn’t accounted for the caffeine. Even that non-fiction about the Salem Witch Trials didn’t knock me out.
So I’m tired. Physically spent. And I’m stuck in the Bs.
Bon Iver’s “Blindsided.” Got a little misty there. One of the top three best concerts I’ve attended. The bass. I could taste it.
Jeremy Messersmith’s “Breaking Down.” Well. Could the title be more appropriate for my emotional state? Thank goodness my vehicle is in good mechanical shape because I don’t think I could handle a two-fer.
King Charles’ “The Brightest Lights.” A sing along! Except, oh. We considered using that song to wake people up at the wedding. (Brunch wedding? Great for the budget. Not so much for having fully conscious guests.) It’s a very fine line between singing and wailing, isn’t it?
I finally escaped the Bs!
Only to enter the soul-crushing Cs.
Ingrid Michaelson’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” It’s over. I’m done. Probably going to hit a deer because I’m sobbing behind the wheel. Wouldn’t even see it coming.
And this is why I would have preferred if my Pilates instructor had been a little nicer.
The cherry tomatoes are always split after it rains.
This year our view is of a cornfield. Last year it was soybeans. And from our patio, while my eyes consume, so does my mouth. Those little cherry tomatoes.
They’re so sweet! Is there a special way to log these into MyFitnessPal? I should probably get charged a few extra carbs.
Pick and pop. Sometimes they let go easily, other times I’m reminded of those articles that show up on my Facebook feed occasionally about how plants know when they’re about to be eaten. Sorry, dude.
Be careful when you’re picking the low hangers – they sometimes have slugs.
And when it rains, they split. (The tomatoes, not the slugs.) And then I don’t eat them. (The tomatoes OR the slugs.) I throw them into a now exhausted patch of dirt.
But I like the rain. The grey weariness of the sky turns the corn ancient gold and the greens seem lit from within.