Perfection...More or Less: Celebration of a March Birthday with Yvonne's Mischievous Menagerie of Naughty Cats

Friday, February 27, 2026

Celebration of a March Birthday with Yvonne's Mischievous Menagerie of Naughty Cats

Happy Birthday To You...

Happy Birthdaaaaay, Dear Human...

Blah, Blah,

Blaaah,

Blah,

Blaaah Blah.

May You Live Long And Prosper,

Human Yvonne.

I've grown Quite accustomed to Being

Your Spoiled Little Tabby.

Oh my, how uncouth.

I've got your number, little snot!

How sad... what a cheap present.

Man... I thought I was bad!

Now I'm # 2.

This went to Stinkville pretty fast.

SEND IN THE UNDERSTUDY!!!

Cats!

They're so overrated...

just a snack before dinner.

Yvonne

Between 12 and 18 months old,

with Dad and Mom's old Desoto car.

All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, ‘Oh, why can’t you remain like this for ever!’ This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

The Shoe Shuffling Blues

The wisp of a breeze this cold morning

Stirs the scent of a forest of moss

Barefoot I’d walk if my feet weren’t flat

Down I'd sit and run fingers over

Stuck I'd be until a miracle

No one has time for a friend once true

When your life is the honky tonk blues.

My hips lean precariously right

My boobs shift dramatically left

As I sway to that two-feet shuffle

'cause my beat-up shoes are a D width

While my dainty feet are a C width

And my proportions are double width

Do you care, even a little bit?

It’s that hallelujah time this year

When one sprouts another day older

So push that walker on with a heave

To the right drag as you’re pantry bound

To the left drag for a jar of jam

Round-a-bout to start over again

for a dagnabbit clean dinner knife.

They call me the doddering old folk

Nursing home bound, if I'm out of line

I’m a bonified two fish jobber

A Pisces here, and a Pisces there

Coming, going, and going, coming

I’m so confused, who am I again

Oh, that's right; another day older.

A C in a D width shoe oldster

Shuffling along begging for white cake

Engulfed in gobs of rich white frosting,

And vanilla bean ice cream there too

Though the yummiest is chocolate

Or so you keep saying, keep saying…

But it's my way, or no way, capeech!

I’m in a blue mood, I guess. It will be short term, since I love myself and hate headaches. I react to words that push my buttons. I learned to walk away, well… I thought I had learned to walk away when I was in therapy, but I always find myself apologizing for becoming upset to the person, who in a perfect world, owes me that apology.

Life is so hard and messy. It seems like one big mistake, and I’m right in the thick of it. Since there is no way for me to go except up or down, I’m re-inventing myself. I’m still at zero percent change.

I’ll get back with you on the plan when I come up with one.

My gratitude Journal was dumped, with a soggy tea bag plopped onto it to prevent retrieval from the trash can. Not my style, I finally gave up on it. After another search, I settled on one of just blank lines for writing whatever. A prompt is written inside the front cover to remind me that which is precious to write, but it is up to me to create the contents.

Pencils are decided instead of pens, as I am a perfectionist who would rather erase, than cross out. Let’s not get too hung up on that word perfectionist. For a time, my embroidery patterns and finished pieces were published in a variety of magazines, and that didn’t happen by being imperfect.

Let’s just say, I do my best to be viewed as a professional. I never apologize for that.

Who would have ever thought, looking at me now, that I was once young, wearing miniskirts and drawing those spiky eye lashes around my eyes with sculptured curls around my face. Oh, how I’ve changed. Like water running freely from a facet for a lifetime, then suddenly turned off. My downhill slide to Oldsterville seemed overnight in my noggin.

I try not to think about my age and stay free spirited in my mind. I’ve perfected this well when not called upon to do anything other than vegetate; otherwise, it’s pain, baby, pain in everything I do. I redirect my brain to think pain is not pain. Basically fooling myself to believe in a fantasy.

It is somewhat effective with the help of ice packs, heat pads and a very creative mind.

One large Blackhaw viburnum limb broken, several medium Winterthur viburnum limbs broken, several northern oak branches broken and hanging precariously in the tree, and a littering of small limbs everywhere on the ground due to the last ice storm, have created more work than usual this February in the garden. Weather seesaws from icy cold to barely warm then icy cold again as it always does this time of year, indecisive of which season it wishes to be in.

I’m ending this after I’ve taken a full walk around my garden with the rollator and also left and come back from a ride in the car to give myself a real reason to get dressed. Maybe a stop for a small sized frosty at Wendy’s and a stop at Chick-fil-a for a small batch of waffle fries.

Sounds like a plan.

It was so miserably cold on my walk around the garden, I had to take two days to finish it, as icy cold reigns and barely warm will show up again at week's end. Vic planted Camassia scilloides, Wild Hyacinth bulbs very late last summer, and waiting for the green shoots to appear this late winter is excruciating. I hope they do appear, otherwise he’ll be so disappointed.

The gardens still lay brown with the outline of the dried Monarda fistulosa, Wild Bergamot standing tall in the winterscape. The Christmas ferns are still green, but lying flat with the ground and the northern red oak has lost most leaves, while the Pachysandra procumbens weathered the ice storm, now looking a bit ragged.

Hope warms this gardener’s heart with the anticipation of life that spring will bring. At this moment, I can only dream, but that’s enough.