Upon rising this morning I feel the day has been wasted before I do a thing. Before resetting a single clock. Before applying lipstick. Before coffee. I wander the garden in my bathrobe and wide brimmed hat. OMG, what is the world coming to? *My hour has been stolen!
In the garden I pet the plants. The chickens aren’t available for chitchat; they’re hiding in shady areas because the mercury is already rising. I try to remember what I did with my extra hour in the fall when we set the clocks back. Certainly is was something constructive, virtuous, and inspired.
I return to the house and paint my nails. (constructive, virtuous, inspired) ✓✓✓
When I moved to Los Angeles I anticipated a glitzy life of style, media and art. I never thought I’d find myself digging in the dirt. And yet here I am with dirt under my curtain call red mani on a quest to grow the perfect tomato.
To this day I cannot eat salsa, garden salad or marinara without pondering the storied existence of the hopeful tomato. My father was quite the storyteller when my sister and I were kids. This is one tale that I cannot shake. Just the mention of it makes my sister six years old again.