Saturday, March 27, 2004

My cherry tree was cut down before it ever got home.

Don't stand in the sun for over an hour shopping for just the right tree. If a yard is only as big as a 1969 Lincoln Towncar, it probably shouldn't bother with a tree at all. But if you let the builder choose a tree to plant for you, odds are good you'll end up with a tree like the one I have now -- a tree that makes you think about what other kind of tree you wish you had instead.

This tree looks like a handy toothpick for Godzuki. This toothpick tree makes me think about other trees. I don't want to think about trees, I just want to blithely enjoy them and take them for granted, and I don't want to stand in the sun for over an hour shopping for just the right tree again either. That's why I picked a compromise tree. One that won't get too tall or too big because in a yard as small as this one, that's just embarrassing.

Since I have been forced to think about it, what kind of tree would I really like? I'd like a three hundred year-old live oak that Napoleon slept under. Before this afternoon, I would've liked to've had a dwarf Japanese Maple. But not anymore. In fact, the next one I see may accidentally catch on fire. I won't get into it here, but let me just tell you: if you are a mother, and your daughter calls you and beams about the Snow Goose Cherry tree she picked out on the first hot sunny day after a long drab winter, do everyone a favor and tell her you like it.

For a split second, I thought I'd turn the stinking van around and trudge the freak back out to the nursery and cancel that bloodstained stupid-stupid-stupid decision. But you know, I'm going to stick by this tree. I am going to name this tree and worry about it if it's a late-bloomer or if the weather is too hard on it during the school year. If this tree never gets any taller or wider or never ever blooms again, I know only one thing for sure that it will do. It'll be our little tree. Growing roots. And even if those roots grow into the pipes and ruin everything, just everything, it's already better than the Godzuki toothpick stabbed into the ground that makes me think bad things about trees to begin with.

When I get a picture, I'll show you the damned tree.

Prunus X 'Snowgoose'
Snowgoose Cherry
Zone 5

This rounded, upright grower features showy white, early spring blooms.

Don't get me wrong, I do love my mother. Sadly, I will never be able to gaze wistfully upon a dwarf Japanese Maple again, but life is really good since that's just really minor.

And if I ever had to choose a stripper's name, it'd be "Sugar Cookie". I have to say, these are things I'd rather be considering than trees.

Hey, my birthday was Friday.

And look who dropped by to see me: why it's Mr. Bill Cosby himself. I loves me some Bill Cosby and some Jell-O puddin'.

No, you're not seeing things. He's tossing me the bird. But he was cranky. He'd been standing in the sun for over an hour shopping for just the right tree.

So I did my quick impression of him, for him.

I think he liked my shirt.

Ron took me to the Grizzlies/Houston game for my birthday, and the seats were so good, I could almost hear Hubie Brown say "f*ck".

He says it without the asterick, of course, but I don't need Clear Channel shutting me down. Ee-hay iad-say uck-fay. Thanks, Janet. Oh, I mean "Miss Jackson" because yes, I do consider myself quite nasty. I scoff at your wardrobe malfunction.

Anyway, this is a picture of Yao Ming:

Trust me, it is. What did I focus in on? Hands.* His hands are huge. They were like twins. He should name each one. Together, they could crush a poodle. One of those big poodles, not the tiny teacup ones. He could pop a cantaloupe with one mighty clench. Still, big melon-poppers and all, the Memphis Grizzlies managed to crush his manicured french Fifis.

Note to all my beloved GirlieGirlfriends: Look away for a moment, I'm gonna get gushy over the Grizzlies, and I'll see if I can keep it to a paragraph:

I have never loved a basketball team before. That's what the Grizzlies will do to you. They are good. And they have style, every one of them. My favorite was Pau Gasol, because when he stuffs one, he doesn't smile. And I like Mike Miller, because when he stuffs one, he does smile. Not as much as he did as a rookie though. Jason Williams I call "The Midget" because well, he's not 7 feet tall. I like to watch him run; his toes turn in slightly and I swear that's why he's such a cocky player. Just like Earl Watson. He made me worry at first when he came in for Jason early in the season, but he kicked some considerable ass and gained a confidance yet unshaken. Bonzi Wells made me worry more than anyone when he was traded-in, but no blackouts so far and he looks like he feels at home in Memphis. Shane Battier is the most outward versatile chess-testing member of them all. And don't get me started on Bo Outlaw. Ron knows I love him, we have that understanding like that. Posey, Stromile, Wright, all fun to watch. And Sacko'doorknobs Tsakalidis is getting more than just visually intimidating. I saw Troy Bell score, and Theron Smith plays. Dahntay Jones went to Duke, that's all I need to know.

Ok, girls, I'm back. And I'd like to say a BIGFATTHANKYOU to Austin Jackie for my righteous Swarovski hairstiks! I love you!

*Interesting to note: Chris Farley. Loved him, miss him, so no disrespect here, just a weird observance. For a portly man of his size, he had the most delicate, slender hands and fingers, very expressive... What? I heard that. I am not a freak. You go look, go rent a movie, and tell me I'm wrong. Also, check it out: Dennis Miller has the tiniest hands... Ok. So I notice too much, and talk about it too freely. Embrace me despite my freakish qualities, and despite my snow goose cherry tree.

No comments: