I visited my folks this weekend. Yes, they are still above ground, and still married to each other lo these 67 or so years (they don't talk about it, but I know I didn't come along right away, and I'm 65, so it must be at least that long). When I catch them both home together, I am spared Mother's litany of complaints about Dad, though I do get an aside or two when she thinks he isn't listening. What I notice about their house is how clean it always is. Never any dust, no errant spide webs, not even a gratuitous fingerprint on the big chrome-plated refrigerator. Where are all the little splatters from frying stuff? Don't they have pubic hair that winds up in the tub, like I do? Even the dog toys look spanking new. And they are all put away in the basket under the table. My dogs have gnawed and eviscerated and slobbered all over their toys, and, while I do have a basket to collect them, too, they are seldom residing there. Most likely, they are all over the place, numerous ULOs (unidentified lying objects). And, oh. my. God. You should see Mother's hydrangea. It is blue and pink and violet, and 90 feet tall! Mine is one bland shade of pink, and still thinking about blooming. I asked what she did, and she said "I feed it". Oh. On the other hand, I noticed my one token tomato plant has two tiny tomatoes on it already. So I am doing something right. Probably it is not the right thing, but hell, I'm working on it. And my obligatory visits to that bastion of perfection have ended for this year until Thanksgiving. Any further visits will be strictly voluntary. And I will be able to steel myself and be thoroughly satisfied with my imperfections so I can walk away, happy with my sweet, loving, messy little life.
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