Space here on earth is a finite thing, you know, and I say if your reproductive system forces you to use one of those stupid double wide baby strollers, you are taking up too much of it. Sell at least one of those squalling snot machines you’ve popped out and make room in the grocery store aisle for the rest of us.
My garden, the result of two decades of grubbing and ruined manicures, looks swell this year, despite a statewide drought. Purple seems to be the overriding theme with irises that I transplanted loving their new home
and a tough ass piece called limonium, the dried purple flowers of which, statice, are the filler of choice for florists around the world. It does fine every year, but occasionally decides that this is going to be a “Say-Something” season and this year is just that. The lily looking plants next to it are crocosmia, which bloom with bright orange flowers that look splendid with the purple statice on those years when they both bloom simultaneously, but this is not one of those years. That’s how gardens roll.
I breezed down to New Orleans to check on the renovation of my house there and to check in on our old chum Magda. The house is doing fine; Magda less so. He will shortly have been incarcerated in the hospital system for a month and the doctors still have no clear idea about what’s causing his blood pressure and blood chemistry to roller coaster up and down and seem to regard this ignorance with a jaunty insouciance.
I was not much help while there; I was sort of unprepared for how much the whole experience of visiting the hospital would drag up visions of R Man’s last uncomfortable days. I know that’s selfish, but it was a very visceral reaction and one I could not get on top of. I am ashamed.
Less traumatic than an old friend’s fragile health, but still pretty upsetting, is the news from my tax guy and my financial guy that my merry eviscerating of the IRAs I was living off of in order to finance the New Orleans’ renovation has actually moved me into a higher tax bracket, the rapacious taxes of which mean I will have to sell the house in order to pay the bill. Irony. I hate it.