For Neglected Petunias Everywhere

This is proof that Blogging is not like riding a bicycle. I'm positive that if I didn't write
anything for another week, I actually would forget how.

It has been a while, I know, but I've been experiencing difficulty remaining inside the
house, tied to the computer for any length of time. The compulsion to get outside is too
strong to resist.

But, it's like I was trying to explain to The Man the other day. I'm NOT a domestic goddess.
I'm a dirt-lovin', bug-ridden, sweat-drippin', whis'lin-while-I-grunt, outdoorsy kind of a gal.
I do NOT want to dust and vacuum and clean the toilets. I want to be outside where all the
action is, among the twisting worms, the begging squirrels and the fightin' robins.

I always say "the fightin' robins" with a Scottish accent, with a heavy trill on the "R."
I forget why I do this, probably something The Man came up with. But, it suits them.

Anyway, I announced the other day (to The Man, mainly) that the inside of our house is
"going to go to hell" and I will apologize to no one! I have surrendered to the fact that
flittering around with a feather duster is not my cup of tea. Oh, sure, I'll still see that the
dishes are done...eventually...that the laundry is done, and that the meals are prepared,
but, BUT my daily labour shall be the perfection of my garden.

I'm not sure what drives me, but I am as a woman possessed. I go out first thing in the
morning and start puttering around, digging this, moving that, weeding, mulching, watering,
and before you know it, it's getting dark and The Man is starting to look peaked. I walk up
to him all filthy and sweaty, picture Ma Kettle after a tough day of butchering hogs, and I
holler "What's the matter with you, Pa? You look a little parched!

Poor guy. He's like one of the shrubs in the backyard. They just kinda sit there day after
day, and I pretty much ignore them until I realize they need to be pruned, fed and mulched.
I perform the task in a perfunctory manner and march on.

My little honeysuckle, my sweet elderberry, my eternal smoke bush, my darling dogwood
is attention deprived!

I'd better change my attitude, if I know what's good for me. Either that or my wild mountain
rose is going to sprout legs and skedaddle on outta here looking for more fertile ground.

"There he goes," I'll say, waving farewell with my sweaty bandana, watching him trudge off
into the sunset. "Au revoir, mon petit petunia!"

I wonder if I have heatstroke.