Working in the green for St. Patrick's Day.

Now that's what I'm talking about! Highs in the mid-70's,  sunny and clear, a light breeze. This is the spring weather I've been waiting for. The joy of stepping out my front door and being greeted with the sweet scent of hyacinths.

Of course, spring also means yard work, but I love that, too. I have been clearing dead leaves from the flower beds and dumping them by the tub-full into the woods or on the side of the road to be picked up by the city. This morning, the little boys next door helped haul tubs of leaves up the driveway after I lopped the dead stalks of the Japanese false bamboo that has to be cut to the ground each year so that it can re-grow. It's an insanely invasive plant put in by the equally insane former home-owners, but I deal with it as best as I can to keep it from consuming the yards of both myself and my neighbors.

As I worked, the kids peppered me with questions: "What is that flower?" ("Those are crocuses.") "What about these little ones?" ("Those are called grape hyacinth.") "What about this little flower that I just picked?" ("That's the bud of a Bradford pear flower. And now it's dead. Please don't pick them. And while we're on the subject, please don't ever again pull the red berries off my nandina bushes. Got it?") "Okay. And what about those Easter flowers?" ("Those are daffodils.") And so on.

I spent all of Saturday evening clearing out the bed by the far driveway. Soon the azaleas will bud out and the lilies of the valley and the hostas will emerge. I worked in short-sleeves until seven that evening. It was glorious.

Today was mostly spent in the tiered bed by the first driveway. I dug up wild onions, removed a million dead leaves, and even uprooted some dandelions.

In the front bed, the bell-like flowers of the pierris are out, and the candytuft surved the snow and continues to bloom.

Yes, my back is a little sore from all the work. But so worth it!

Apparently I'm some sort of mutant.

So I'm four weeks into a six week intro yoga class. I let my instructor know on the first day that I have carpal tunnel issues and needed modifications for anything that normally calls for pressure on the wrists. No downward dog for me, I do a dolphin pose. Planks on my forearms rather than my hands. And so on. I'm working on it, learning to balance, strengthening my pitiful core muscles. And anything that involves my super tight hamstrings, I have problems with. But I hope to improve that, too. However, other things seem to be easier for me. I became aware of that when we did the child's pose, which basically involves kneeling and then lying over your thighs with your arms stretched out ahead of you on the floor. As our instructor talked about breathing and deepening into the pose, I got confused. I looked around to see some people had space between their rears and their legs.  Me, I was like a rag doll, fully collapsed onto my legs, face on the floor. I could sleep like that. 

But I realized I was constructed differently than most people when we learned this (image found on the web) - the malasana or garland pose.  It is basically a squat with your heels flat on the floor and hip-width apart, toes pointing out on a diagonal. You bring your torso forward to press your arms against the inside of your knees, with your hands in a prayer position.  The idea is to have your chest open and back straight. Go ahead, try it. I did, and then looked around the room. After trying a couple of adjustments, I said, "Um... is my butt supposed to be touching the floor? I don't think I'm doing this right." The instructor suggested I open my chest more to make sure my back wasn't rounded. Done. Butt still touching the floor. Now everyone was looking at me from their own squat. One woman says, "You know, I think you're longer here (gesturing from hip to knee) compared to here (knee to ankle) than everyone else." The instructor leaned forward to study me saying, "Oh, interesting. That's really interesting." While the rest of the class nodded. I said, "Okay, good to know I'm a freak of nature.  Moving on."  

Your comments can lead me down strange alleyways in my mind.

Someone commented on a previous post about how I seem to meet a lot of men. And it's true I've had a what-the-hell attitude and I often go out just to have something to do.  But I started thinking about it - how many had I met? I started to write out a list of everyone I'd gone out with since I'd been divorced. I'm including even single dates - be it dinner or a cup of coffee, that never amounted to anything. But while some names of people I'd only met once came back easily, others I couldn't do any better than "the conceited-for-no-discernable-reason pilot," or "the quiet-talking architect," "the pathologist who bristled when I mentioned that I was a pacifist," or even just "that dreadfully boring guy." (Which lead me into a tangential train of thought about coding all my actual relationships by profession - the engineer, the astrophysicist, the bank president, the cop, and so on.) Anyway - even the ones whose names I couldn't immediately bring to mind, I could still remember even if we only met briefly.

Like the guy I met for coffee, who started telling me the plot of some movie in excruciating detail, including this bit:
Him: "It had Jack Niklaus..."
Me: "Umm..."
Him: "and that guy who was the vagabond in Titanic?"
Me: "Leonardo DiCaprio?"
Him: "Yeah, yeah, Leonardo da Vinci."
And then went on to continue mis-saying the names. Unless there really was a movie that starred a PGA champion and a Renaissance artist.

Or the dinner date who I met on a snowy night who helpfully scraped ice off my car windshield for me with his credit card.

Or the lunch date whose gay vibe was so strong I had a hard time not saying, "Are you absolutely certain you're not gay?"

Or the dinner date who spent part of the time drawing cartoons of fellow diners for me and who I knew the instant I laid eyes on him that there was no chance I'd see him a second time.  

Or the morning coffee date who was remarkably unable to hear my many assurances that not only did I not want to go out with him again, that I did not want to maintain any sort of contact at all.

Or the dinner date who admitted that although he'd claimed his divorce was just a formality at that point, he was actually still waiting for his ex to serve papers on him.

I am not counting the guys I talked to but ultimately decided not to meet at all.  Like the guy who in the midst of a benign email conversation about hiking wrote, "I bet you would enjoy being tied to the bed and having control taken from you." Thanks for the heads up, ya freak. Honestly. Why would you not wait until you'd at least met before you broached the topic of sex?

So, adding up just the men I actually met, there were only 35.  Not so many over the course of six years. But boy, some of those were NOT worth leaving the house for, except possibly for the story.

A little easy Friday quiz.

According to this little chart,  I am especially concerned about crumbs in bed. Which is funny, because my response to one of Laura's Choose and Defend Wednesday questions about a month ago, I said I was voting for a picnic over breakfast in bed because I don't like crumbs in the bed!

But there are exceptions. When I had my last surgery and was on some pretty serious activity restrictions imposed by my surgeon, my boyfriend at the time spent the night with me and we agreed it would be best if we actually wore clothes. That night, he dressed chastely in flannel pj pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. When he walked into the room, I was wearing undies and a camisole.  He slapped his hand over his eyes and said, "Oh my God, don't let me see you like that!" And in one of those D'oh-in-hindsight moments, I said, "What? All the important parts are covered." So, probably also being stalked by a homicidal maniac.

What's your style say about you?

Dogs on Parade.

In addition to the radio show last Saturday, there was also a big Mardi Gras-themed dog event going on downtown. I just caught the tail end of it. (snort)

This pair actually came in for the show, and one howled a little right as the singers were wrapping up. Caught up in the spirit, I guess.

There is something long-suffering about this poodle.  I'm pretty sure it's thinking, "Dear God in Heaven, not the silly pink fairy outfit again. Who am I, Tinkerbell?"

Now that's traveling in style. When I'm old, I want someone to decorate a wheelchair in purple and green, give me some flashy jewelry to wear and take me on a stroll.  I'm going to be working on my expression of regal disdain so I'll be ready when the time comes.

How to make a Southern girl crabby in March:

Some days I'm glad to just be inside.

We got the weirdest snow yesterday. Small styrofoam-like pellets that were blowing in nearly sideways. And it was cold. I wanted spring, not this. Now I'm huddled in waiting for the promised warm-up next weekend.

But a friend had told me his band was playing the noon show on Saturday, so I gritted my teeth against the snow and went downtown. This show is free to the public, every noon except Sundays. Mostly folk, Americana, bluegrass. Sometimes local bands, sometimes people who are touring. Usually two acts, half an hour each. It's such a small venue that it has the feel almost of a house party.