It was not a weekend where I was served waffles with strawberries and whipcream along with a venti cup of mocha with a splash of raspberry nor did we venture out once refreshed from a 10 hour snooze to a brunch replete with mimosas. Nor did I wake to find that my son had skipped out to the lilac bushes and plucked fragrant blooms to arrange in childish innocence and flair in one of my colorful copper glasses for the table.
Oh, no. Mother’s Day was heralded in when, while sitting at the counter snarfing up my egg and bacon sandwich and noting that my son had already christianed the spot as I stuck my hand in a cold dollop of yellow egg right after I stepped on an errant cheerio, Mr. DD handed over one of these as if he was presenting the crown jewels on a plush velvet pillow:
Nothing says “thanks for bearing bearing the fruit of my loins” like a sawzall.
He obviously did not recall the email exchange that turned into this post on how to make a body disappear.
I can also assure you, it wasn’t because we are into experimental sexual adventures (SFW but it will make you wish it wasn’t).
Nope. It’s because I am the resident groundskeeper (I prefer Garden Goddess, thank you), and we live on an acreage where the only “native” trees are either Cedar Weeds Trees or Russian Olives.
Lord, are they ever ugly.
Yep, they pretty much look like this:
So in an attempt to take some eyesores and turn them into landscaping points of interest (rather than yank them out one by one for the rest of our natural lives), I will be attempting to creatively prune them. A chainsaw would be a bit much, both for the branches which are no more than 7″ around and for me, with my puny, yet flappable, wussy-girl arms.
If I happen to accidentally take off any limbs NOT belonging to a tree, you’ll be one of the first to know.
Also, I can’t say my son totally blew me off on Mother’s Day. In fact his class worked on a little book that the teacher provided the first half of a sentence as an impetus to the least imaginative-challenged beings on the face of the earth with such openers as, “My Mom is the prettiest when…” or “I like it when my Mom…”, except my adoring son left all of the pages blank. Not one had a completed sentence, so I was justifiably bummed. However, what I did get a chuckle from was on the cover page, he had written Happy Mother’s Day.
Why did that bring a smile to my face? Well, since XBoy is occasionally reversing his letters, I got this instead:
Haggy Mother’s Day? A Freudian slip from a seven year old? It very well could be.