Oh boo, it's Monday!

[rhodielady_47]

I'm feeling bored. I think I'll head out to the garage and see if I can find some trouble to get into out there.
If nothing else, I could finish mowing the front yard....
{{{Sigh.}}}
My life is so exciting they should turn it into a movie.

Comments

[beautiful_dreamer_02]

Bet it would be a box-office smash, in France.

[rhodielady_47]

The French would laugh themselves ILL on seeing my favorite gardening pants--the ones with TWO holes in the seat and the ragged edges on the pant bottoms. The French art critics would spend hours upon hours figuring out the meaning of me mowing in circles around my lawn trees. (They'd never accept that I do it to avoid having to rake the grass clippings and then pile them around the base of the trees!)LOL!:^)

[beautiful_dreamer_02]

Hee!

Don't be so sure.
I bet they'd LOVE you!
Jerry Lewis, adored in France as "le roi de la comédie" (the king of comedy) used to have them practically convulsed with laughter, rolling in the aisles, as he stood on stage and pretended his cigarette lighter wouldn't light.

In some play or other (modern), a comedy, a female character, very distressed over (if I recall) her love life confesses, "I may [have to] begin eating chocolate in secret," and that got a roar of laughter because (according to Mireille Guiliano, author of "French Women Don't Get Fat) for the French the idea of eating in secret is the height of absurdity, something inconceivable in France. Here in America we're perfectly capable not only of understanding but of being in perfect sympathy with the speaker who's going to "eat chocolate in secret," also implying, "...to excess."

I didn't say it would have been taken as serious, i.e., somber, art, only that it would be a box office smash. I imagine that to the French, it would be a lighthearted slice-of-life little film. The art critics might not look for meaning, they might just appreciate the hilarity --- as they see it. At the same time, NOBODY keeps clothes with two holes in the seat of the pants and ragged edges on the pant bottoms (is this the pair you chopped the broken, ragged hems off of, btw?) as the French do things, so they'd be sure this was...for comedic effect.)

It's why I selected France as a place where this would be a box office smash, which isn't to say it wouldn't be a huge success in Spain or Italy.

So you and I are on the same page, let me say I can't figure out how French women garden if they don't have "gardening clothes" they don't mind getting grubby and perhaps remaining grubby despite being laundered and scrubbed and whatever'd to remove grass stains and soil stains, or mended where a honkin' big rose thorn has produced a three-cornered rent.
My gardening, and yours, too, is so much more "hands on" than drifting serenely along turf pathways or beautiful lawns and now and then pausing to cut a rose or a peony stem or six or twelve for the hallway table vase, and placing it into not a hod, but one of those sweet and romantic shallow baskets with its sisters.

[rhodielady_47]

I may take up eating chocolate in secret too: Jollyson who used to come over and help me do some of the rougher stuff isn't available for such work any more. (Woe is me!)He finally at long last wised up and has gone back to college--after 12 years of trying to live on minimum wage jobs.I'm relieved of his sake and that of his parents but it leaves me without any real gardening help.Other than a grumpy Hubby who hates being "directed" as to what to do!:^\

[beautiful_dreamer_02]

Oh...husbands. Men!

I wish I had a solution. Mine is to do what I need to do without help from himself. It may take longer, but at least I'm confident of the results if I work alone.
They have such a dislike of being directed, and such a crying need for credit and praise, that they'll reverse the who's and what's and how's and why's and tell YOU how THEY came up with the brilliant solution (for which you had needed only their muscle power.)
One guy, back in college, was trying to convince me I'd been distraught, crying, weeping, declaring how fearful I was that I'd flunk out, when ALL I'D SAID TO HIM WAS, "That final exam was even tougher than I anticipated it would be."
It had been, too, but I wasn't weeping and wailing over it. It wasn't the toughest exam I'd ever taken in college, either.

All I know to suggest is for you to get you a good supply of acceptable quality chocolate, whatever you consider acceptable (some people want nothing less than Godiva, others want See's or Fanny Farmer, and others are happy with drugstore chocolate [I'm one of those philistines], and a special private space where you won't be interrupted while you enjoy it.