Stems :: My rose room.
In the rose room, i.e. the den, there hangs a painting by Ben Matthews that reads, “Cristine Flanica. Using rose stems to end the lives of countless male victims, Cristine Flanica became the most notorious woman of her time.” In the room, I scattered about an assortment of roses―a couple of long-stems lying across the cocktail table, a silk arrangement in the vase sitting with my pictures on the bookshelf, a bunch of dried baby roses tossed haphazardly on an end table, and I’m considering hanging a few stems upside down on a floor lamp, tied in an elegant black bow. I guess I have a weird sense of humor. I am not a murderer, a hatemonger, or a male basher, but I found the concept of this painting, and now the entire room, to be irresistibly silly, in a perverse kind of way; plus I love Christine, dressed in black and painted with pink roses, stoically clutching her red rose stem. Needless to say, this is not the first room I show to viable dating prospects. I figure the mastiffs are scary enough.
Groovy :: Workin’ on a Groovy Thing.
Song from the 70’s by The Fifth Dimension, no. 7 in the listening samples provided here. It continues to be one of my all-time favorites, making me long for the days when I believed in love at first sight, happy endings, and everything working out alright if you just tried hard enough.
Jealousy :: My least attractive emotion.
They call it the green-eyed monster with good reason. Having been raised in the shadow of a big sister who wore an invisible crown or maybe a halo, and did no wrong, and who was shaped like a Barbie doll in her teens, while I was the cute, sturdy one with pigtails, glasses, and braces, I am programmed to feel jealousy as an automatic knee-jerk reaction to just about everything. It is the first feeling I go for, as if rushing by the hall closet on my way out the door, late, flustered, and preoccupied, where I automatically grab my usual scarf before remembering that the moths found it and ate it full of holes, which embarrasses me to rediscover, and reminds me that there's something wrong, or at least unclean, about my closet. Since I’m aware of this tendency, it doesn’t rule me, although it certainly wants to, and it certainly tries. I prevail because I know how to try hard enough, I am determined to be bigger than it, and, once I've made up my mind, I am one tough cookie to crack.
With that said, I hope this weekend you can have your cookie (cracked or uncracked) and eat it too.