This blog just knocks me out. It’s like spun sugar and brown bread and a big bear hug from your favorite relative. I want to skiddoo into it like they do on Blue’s Clues. I want to be a fly on the wall of the house and see if all is really as it appears (read: perfect). Actually, I don’t give a flaming crap if it is perfect, because if it’s even half that sweet it’s good enough for me.
When I first started out on this mothering-homemaking-homeschooling-homebirthing-QF gig, I thought my life would grow into something resembling that blog. No really, I did! Stop laughing. I like teacups. I enjoy baking. I like to think I’m a creative sort. My heart swoons over a garden of swaying flowers. I used to read Victoria magazine!
But something somewhere went seriously awry. I think it all started when I couldn’t grow roses. They always shrivelled, got black spot, lost all their leaves, and died. I also hate ironing and I can’t sew. I tried, I really really did. I tried so hard. But everything I sewed wound up looking like A Really Bad Idea. I think these were the main obstacles in my quest for a life of unspeakable beauty and grace. That and I say things like “flaming crap”. Oops.
I haven’t completely given up, however. My Beloved and I still scan the newspaper every Sunday in a vain hope that our Dream Property will crop up and it will not cost eleventy-million dollars and be at the bottom of a lake. I still peruse my Beekeeping For Dummies book and tend my pathetic little patch of non-roses out front. I would hang my wash on the clothesline in our backyard, but unfortunately it stands directly adjacent to our neighbor’s dog run, and I don’t think that’s quite the scent that people rhaphsodize about when it comes to their line-dried laundry. And so I pine, stuck in suburbia, pathetic and goatless.
In the interest of wistfulness, however, I decided to throw a teaparty today. These used to be weekly events at my house for an entire school year once upon a time, under the guise of cultivating things like table manners and chivalry (I wonder if Jewels from the abovementioned blog ever has to tell her son to check his battle axe at the door before supping with the family?), but they have become much less frequent now. Anne Kroeker, over at her blog by the same name, put the notion in my head today with this post.
And so we lay the cloth (covered in smiling daisies and ladybugs, a leftover from a past birthday). And I thank God from the deepest crannies in my heart for my crazy, conflicted, bipolar, perfectly imperfect life
(pictures, you say? oh well, okay, if you insist)
mini zucchini muffins fit nicely into egg cups
a bouquet that I made from roses (purchased, ahem!), bleeding heart, hosta, and hydrangea (my garden)
look at them, taunting me with their smug resplendance. why must they torment me so?
anyway…back to the tea…here are some dignified sorts…
(sorry about the blur…the lighting in my dining room is abyssmal and my camera is dorking up)
Connie is holding her pinky high and proud
Jordan and her, uh…cheese man.
Gabriel’s tea leaves fortell doom, apparently…
highly satisfactory, I must say…
tea bags are undignified, honestly! how tacky.
And so the end. If you had been a fly on my wall, you would have heard many exhortations to please handle the china carefully, requests to pass the sugar, endless questions about whether said china was priceless or pricefull?and is that really real gold on the edges and will anyone be breaking into our house this very night to pilfer it? assorted bodily noises, another request to pass the sugar, exceedingly loud laughter, grimaces over the bitterness of a particular orange tea, one last request to PLEASE PASS THE SUGAR BEFORE I CRUMBLE INTO DUSTY ASHES IN MY CHAIR FROM WAITING SO LONG BECAUSE NO ONE CAN HEAR ME OVER THE DIN.