Reason Number 420: Floral Arrangements turn you into your Mother, acceptance follows

There's a time in every lady's life when she says goodbye to her ravaged red cowboy boots. They are no longer wearable, not only physically, but stylewise they no longer pack a punch, or even seem useful. Not throw them away, but stuff them in a shoebox, save them for a niece. This sounds like a metaphor, and not a very good one.

The time it takes to walk from my house to Fairway (hearthearthearted) is exactly the time it takes to listen to George Michael's "Freedom 90." Like, we're talking down to the last second. Trial and error led me to this exhilarating conclusion.

Today, as I skipped at the prospect of blueberries on sale and then subsequently felt self-conscious about my exuberance, I spied some hipericum, and although I've never purchased personal-sized, pre-cut flora in my entire life was inexplicably inclined to put them in my basket alongside my chard. I'm now searching for a receptacle to put them in, but since this is a new experience for me, I have no vases, only an empty tin of Irish oatmeal, or maybe a tall plastic cup. I will let you know how this goes.

I know I've mentioned this before, but there really is a Janet Jackson song for every emotion I could possibly feel in life. It's both terrifying and strangely comforting to turn on my ipod and listen to her wise advice and spot-on observations. Sometimes it's a good idea to wait awhile, nice packages are alright, lots of things don't really matter, and who doesn't love an escapade, or want to encourage another person to participate in an escapade?

My dweebiness knows no bounds. In other news, anything related to celebrating St. Patrick's Day is the biggest holiday dealbreaker. My word problems continue. But I temper my inclinations with vigilance, and small, average words.