My Mother's Day flowers are dead. Stinky, wilting and heads hanging in exhaustion. I don't know what to tell them. Thank you, maybe? Thank you for giving me the best days of your life, standing upright and flourishing for a full 72 hours, in order that I might dress you in my best white porcelain pitcher and display you on the front entry table, for all the world (neighborhood kids) to admire and covet?
Well done, thou good and faithful flowers. Well done.
Funny how quickly the fragrance of "rose" turns to "fart," though. Last night, I was on the couch and kept smelling a rotten batch of linger longer~some people think that's the term for a social gathering. It's not. It's a pile of warm pooh air that won't dismantle quickly. Often, they're orphans. Nobody claims responsibility. People find them and don't know what to do with them, so they abandon them in grocery store aisles...kind of like a stray cat. I myself might have been known to drop off one or two of my own there. Not proud of it, people. But it is what it is. And more often than not, they find a home with an unsuspecting shopper that happens to walk past, dragging it like a screaming child through the rest of the store with them. So grateful for people willing to take them in.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, yeah. I thought it belonged to my son, but alas, he was waaaaay in the kitchen and surely it would have lost some pungency traveling the distance. Then I considered it could have been Princess Lisa. Her memory isn't what it used to be, and she's been known to point the finger of shame, only to find her majesty the only one in the house. Far as I could recall, it wasn't me either...this time.
It wasn't until this morning that I wafted past the dying flora and caught a quick whiff of flatulence. Just proves that looks can be deceiving.
Just ask little Ethan Stacy. He thought his Mom was his Mom~committed to love, protect and give up her own life if needs be, in order that she might save his. Turns out she wasn't...and she didn't. Like I said, looks can be deceiving.
And maybe that smell this morning wasn't from the fermenting bouquet, but rather because I was walking past the newspaper with the front page picture of the rotten, decayed soul that called himself step father to the child. A step father wielding a hammer and black garbage bag.
Mm hmm. Yes. I do believe THAT is what I inhaled.
And that is all I'll say about this subject. Wouldn't want to sound like I'm judging "IT."
Bless it's steaming pile of excrement heart.
(FYI~there seems to be a dim-bulb "anonymous" that has no sense of humor and he/she keeps leaving incredibly mediocre comments, thus, I'm forced to moderate the comment section. Thanks a lot, anonymous, for spoiling it for the rest of us.)