Mixed Blessings

 I'm officially into the last year of my 40s. Gosh. I remember when I turned 21 and my friend, Mark, wailed, "We're halfway to 42!" and the two of us sat and thought about how old 42 was. Well, that boat has long since sailed.

I didn't tell my co-workers my birthday was coming up. I didn't want a fuss. If I worked with a bunch of women, I would have said something a few days beforehand, because if you don't, the women (if they like you) will feel guilty about somehow not knowing it beforehand and maybe a little angry that you didn't say something earlier because now they feel obligated to get you something (a cake? a card? a bouquet of flowers?) and they have to do it in a rush, which might also bring up feelings of resentment (if they don't like you). Being a woman is an emotionally complex thing.

I work with men, however. I said to Husband, "You're a guy, so tell me: if I just show up with some cheesecake and announce it's my birthday, they'll be fine with that, right?" He said, "Heck yeah!" So that's what I did: cheesecake with cherry topping, and they all thanked me for being born as I served out festive slices of dessert on paper plates. We had an enjoyable lunch break, and no one felt guilty about not buying me presents I don't need.

In other news, a very sad thing happened the other day to my fledgling garden. 

A young man knocked on my door and asked if he could do any chores for some cash. I had $6 in my wallet, so I told him he could weed the planting bed under the tree, which is where my carefully tended herbs have thrived. I stepped outside, barefoot, to show him what I wanted done, and I forgot that the little pathway by the planting bed is absolutely littered with goatheads, which are the plants God was talking  about when he told Adam and Eve, when they were getting kicked out of the Garden of Eden, that noxious weeds would now grow in the earth to make his life harder.

Evil incarnate, plant version

What I meant to say was, "This is rosemary, this is sage, and this is mint. Do not pull those. Everything else [and it wasn't very much] needs to go." 

What I actually said was, "This is rosemary, this is--YARGH! Oh my gosh! I'm in so much pain right now. Stupid goatheads! I've got a million of them in my feet. Ouch!" After which combination of screeching and muttering while I pulled all the little beggers out of my skin, I hobbled like an old woman back into the house to get the kid the weeding gloves. 

I gave the kid the gloves without further pointing out that the plants I had emphasized were not to be pulled. Instead, he thought I had pointed them out as the first plants to be yanked, which he did after I left him alone. 

A moment of silence for my poor herbs, please. Thank you. 

He did get paid. He did a good job weeding. Too good, of course.

Sigh.