Tending one's garden.

After the frenzy of Friday night, I was feeling oddly sated and at the same time driven when we woke in a tangle of limbs Yesterday morning. At a much more languid pace we made love. I don't usually use that particular phrase as it seems a little more demur than the actual act. Usually.

I wondered a bit at my ability to be a bit duplicitous. Reminding myself yet again that what he doesn't know can;t affect him. I thought back to some of the dry spells when he was less than courtly and I ignored some lame attempts by him for intimacy. I get that guys don't like rejection and putting themselves out there for it, but I like a little persistence. I don;t directly rebuff him, nor do I play "hard to get" but as a woman I know I am a bit unpredictable, cyclic and well a woman. If you are one, you know. If you live with one, you know.

The title came not as a euphemism for triming or otherwise denuding one's lady bits. I meant first litteraly one's garden then of course metaphrically.

Once we got de-tangled and showered, the sheets in the wash, and devoured a couple of omlettes with home-made tomatillo salsa, we decided to go together and see to our overgrown garden. I usually do most of the planting as that season coincides with his busy tax season. He usually turns the soil over around february when work is starting to pick-up but he has time for a little physical excersise after he gets home. Often crunch-plop of the spade in the dark. If Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart's apartment overlooked our backyard, we'd probably be suspected of something or another.

After tax season dies abruptly, the weeds spring up, and having done my part, by unspoken agreement he usually does that in the cool of the morning if I wake him on the way out the door before he has to go in. So its in shifts sort of. We don't really garden together. It used to be one or the other of us supervising the kids for character building which seemd to involve a lot of groans and sleepy mutttered curses. Now we have years of good soil and it seems a waste not to have something fresh for the table at times.

By this time of year, everything is overgrown and in shambles, we have let the weeds win, and rationalize that the harvest was taken and its all gone to seed. There are always a few things left if you take the time to look. Spindly tomato plants that sprung up from fallen tomatoes with a few mishapen fruit. Ginormous zucchinni. Carrots that were too small the first time that grew slowly in the rocky places or sprung from gone to seed tops maybe. Cilantro that was never ready when we neede it was in abundamce. An Artichoke experiment from two years ago that was dead dead having sprung mysteriously to life. Like that.

We pulled weeds and unproductive plants and found what was left formed fairly orderly rows. Could have been much more if it was tended.

Our sex life is like that. All it seemed to take was an apparent eagerness on my part and we are hopping like bunnies throu the romaine. It didn't cost me a dime or any ego to just be available and he blossomed from the attention.

The genie of infidelity is out of the bottle so I realistically don't think I will avoid seeking a little excitement here and there, but I really have no cause. There is plenty in my garden at home, and the bright uniform tomatoes at the produce department are no match for the worst misshapen home grown one.

I figure if I tend the garden at home, I'll have even better rationalization for it hurts no one. Might even find some exotic gardening technique to avoid blossom rot. So to speak.