I update this page approximately once a year because life is change and I am no longer the idealistic ingénue who began this blog to display my thoughts and pictures about gardening in my backyard. The blog subtitle was originally an explanation of my blog name: I am sore because I garden and I weep because I am paying attention. Over the years, my attention span has dwindled like my back yard garden has suffered extended drought crisis, and I am not unaware of the karmic coincidence there. When my heart is in it, I still garden and I will always enjoy the feeling of sun on my face, dirt beneath my fingernails and sharp pains in my lower back when I have to pick up a pair of dropped pruning shears. I hate bugs.
Meanwhile, my blogging mission has broadened to include whatever the hell I feel like whinging about at the moment. This year, the important thing to know about me is that I love baloney with cross-sections of pimento-stuffed olives so much that I want to paint my bedroom wall that color, but on a scale where the baloney slices are about six inches in diameter. Maybe I can find fabric on Etsy to make matching curtains! I suspect I have given this way too much thought lately.
I have worn out all my tempting nightdresses and I strongly suspect someone is stealing my tea towels. As you might notice from my updated picture, I recently had a makeover and I’m having misgivings about the result. I’m sure Agnes Moorehead had at least as many regrets about her professional makeup artist as she did about her wardrobe person.
I have conquered my anger management problem by leaving my anger beaten and bloody on the curb outside my neighbor’s house. It may have a concussion. I have employed glitter against big financial institutions to great effect. I’d do it again without a second thought because – and trust me here - it’s less likely to attract the attention of DHS than baking soda.
I really did win the Nobel Prize in Gardening in 2003. I’m so into gardening that I carry around a potted plant to replace the air I use bragging about my garden. Before I retired, my job was to use tiny scissors to cut out those little plastic strips of grass-shaped plastic that come on plates of sushi at sushi places operated by people who probably aren’t Japanese. I was good: each one was different, like snowflakes. As a woman, this job paid better than any job I could have had using my J.D. and my 90 wpm typing speed (which is as fast as normal conversation bitches).
My real Wikipedia page lists the award-winning novels written under my real name; my famous ex-spouses and the circumstances of their eerily similar, violent, premature and mysterious deaths; the redeeming story of how I conquered drug and alcohol problems through use of self-help books and other drugs and a partial list of the celebrities with whom I am reputed to have had affairs. I would totally be famous if the Internets weren’t so crowded by people who can’t write as well, or as profanely, or as snarkily as I, and who can’t employ contumely like it was going out of style as well as I.