Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Where are those tulips today?
They decided to preside over the living room.
Susie of Peaked in Junior High said in her comment yesterday that she knows who sent the tulips*. I hope she reveals the answer today.
My writing this week leads us to this song, which I hate:
That's Martha Reeves and Dusty Springfield explaining to us that if we want to get a man, then we have to do whatever he wants: "You've gotta wear your hair just for him." Bite me. If I want pink and purple hair, I'll have pink and purple hair.
Why is "love" so often associated with ownership? If my ex-husband owned me, then how could he give me away? I guess it's a lot like those people who say, That damn dawg digs holes all over the yard so we gotta git rid of him.
I love Willy Dunne Wooters, but I certainly don't own him, nor does he own me. I own my Self, including my vagina. However, Franklin owns me, and I own Franklin, because neither one of us can manage without the other.
Now here's the clue for you about the tulips. They arrived with a card that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLOG MOM! REMEMBER, SADNESS AND TEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED! LOVE YOU! BLOG DAUGHTER
Who sent the tulips?
Infinities of love,
*For information about the Who Sent the Tulips? contest, please click HERE.
P.S. Although I adore Franklin, I can hear him rolling around in the backyard (that's because it's eighty degrees and the windows are open). I'm sure that the rolling around involves rolling in poop. I will not complain tonight because he doesn't sleep in the bed with me.