August's End...



Here we are, the last week of August. Can you believe...?

It has been a hot, hot month here in east Tennessee, with 90+ degree temps almost the entire time, with heat indexes in the triple digits.  Not exactly the sort of weather my garden and pots thrive on, but I have managed to keep everything alive, except a couple of stray, smallish pots of red petunias.  (And by the way...red just didn't do it for me this year.  I thought it would, but it didn't.  That's what I get for departing from my signature white and yellow!  Red is good for accent, but not for the main display...)

Hummingbirds are everywhere, now, hovering all around the cottage, sipping from the feeders, the Zinnia Garden, from the crepe myrtles, those bleh red petunias that haven't expired yet - see previous paragraph - and the butterfly bush.  Oh, how I love me some hummers.

Funny thing, life is.  I usually am in a hurry to see August go.  September is my favorite month of the whole year, and August has, in the past, been my least favorite.  But this year...I'm a bit peevish about saying goodbye to sweet August, heat index notwithstanding.  I've grown partial to those languid Southern summer afternoons, I think.

Note to self:  plant massive drifts of Rudbeckia next year.  Go whole hog.  It weathers the heat beautifully, looks outstanding and so "cottage-y", and is a can't-miss.  Five drifts of it this year were not enough.  I think it needs to be my "repeater" - the element of the garden that repeats itself, unifying the whole scheme.

So much to tell you about, gentle reader!  I want you to hear about how easy it is to make artisan bread at home.  I want to tell you all about the best fashion blog - one that unashamedly is pro-modesty.  I for one am so tired of seeing women, old and young, dressed skimpily.  No woman ever, evvvvver gets dressed by "accident".  It is always on purpose.  So.  What are we saying, girls, when our shorts are cut "up to there" and our shirts "down to there" and everything is tight and revealing?

Does pretty equal revealing?  Or is revealing just...well, revealing?  A girl with a great personality doesn't need nudity to get by.

Just sayin'.

If I could sit down with the teenage girl or the woman who is dressed inappropriately, and really speak my mind, I'd say something like this: "Methinks thou hast unresolved sexual issues, darlin'.  How about getting before the Lord and resolving them?  Hmmm?  For the sake of love for the Father, and respect for the body of Christ?"

Or, how about this:  "GROW UP, SWEETHEART!  WE CAN'T ALL BE FOURTEEN FOREVER!"

What else was it I want to tell you about?  Whew - that rant sidetracked me, butt good.  (Am I the only one who loves a great pun?)

Oh - more about living a hand-made sort of life.  I tire easily these days of anything deliberately impressive or deliberately charming.  I hunger for authentically inviting...real warmth of soul and surroundings.

Seems like everything I am trying to say wants to turn into a rant of sorts - I think "that time of August" is upon me.  Estrogen devils running amok in my brain.  Or its the homeschooling.  Yeah.  Might be that.

And it is only week one.  God help me, and give me dark chocolate.

What is your imaginary idea of the perfect girlfriend?  I have about a zillion best friends (actually only four or five) who are my "best", each one for a different reason.

Oh, and shoot me on the spot if I ever utter or type the word "bestie".  Gah.

Nevermind, there I go again.  I need my appointment with female hormone reset to hurry up and get here, before I kill someone for having bad breath.

Anyhoo, like a beautiful collage, when I take what I love best about each best friend, and paste it all together, I have the perfect girlfriend.  Which means, I already have "her"...she just exists in several bodies.

But she would give me dark chocolate right now.  And say exquisitely ponderful things (yes, ponderful with a "p"), and funny things, and she'd dose me with a beautiful Merlot.  She'd inspire me to love myself more, and take all the crap with a grain of salt.

Ew.  That last metaphor, I'm not sure about.  I spit it off the top of my head, which is another metaphor I find disturbing.

Dear reader, I need to go to bed.  Thank you, from my heart's bottom, for stopping by.


Post a Comment