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braggart proclaims “no need to smack your mothers,” puts foot in mouth

Remember last fall when I promised the 500 bulbs I planted on either side of my walk would make you want to smack you mama? Well, in honor of our mothers on this very special day, I am happy to report that there will be no call for smacking, no call whatsoever.

For what was to be my bright shining glory, my “suck it, monkeys” moment of gloating, has passed with a nary a taunt. Because in my infinite foolhardiness, I failed to take into account the fact that the sun would move so damned north for the winter, so that the peak of the roof would shade varying northfacing sections of the bed as the sun passed from east to west. So in addition to the black parrots blooming a beat later than the rococo, the rococo opened progressively from one corner to its opposite over the course of a week. The net effect was that the first to open dropped petals many days before the last opened theirs.

A whimper moreso than a bang.

Even so, it would take a cold hard profligate motherscratcher to complain about how 500 tulips happen to decide to open. That’s me. Sheesh. Scratch scratch mom. Happy mother’s day.

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