Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wonderful how my very very old rose bushes survive my tender neglect year after year, and, come spring, do this. I put some on the table, too, redder than red in the little pear shaped vase my son gave me. Followed up with a couple of bouquets of TJ's $3.99 blooms, and the house looks, if not tidy, at least celebratory. Not sure what we are celebrating. It will come to me, I'm sure. Meanwhile, it's puppy naptime, so I am free to wander around without fear of trodding on the little tyke. We are very close to learning to negotiate the dog door. Oh, that will be the day! Then he can follow Pickle out into the backyard, and poor big sister will only have a couple of bastions of peace in the little yellow house: the bed and the couch, which Punk can jump off of but not climb up onto yet. Tiny milestones for my tiny guy. Funny how life can whittle itself down to one simple question - where's the puppy?