Signs of Spring

So my azaleas are in full bloom, its averaging about 72 degrees each day, I have a flock of goldfinches making daily visits to my bird feeder, my nose is running like a open fire hydrant left unattended, and about 10 family members, friends and acquaintances of mine are set to give birth any minute now.....ahhhhhh....it must be Spring! The only things missing this year are the two feral cats that used to hump each other daily on the back porch of the foreclosed house next door. The female, cross-eyed from dining on too many poisonous toads I suspect, had a litter of kittens at one point. They nursed from her under our oak tree in our backyard for about a week. Then most likely became dinner for our resident owl, since I never saw them again after that point. I don't like to think about that, so I just imagine that they were lovingly adopted by a wonderful family a block over. I actually attempted to rescue them, but they were so frightened of people that I was eventually left with a big bowl of rotting canned wild Alaskan salmon and anchovies in the garden beneath our bedroom window (my husband was real pleased with this), and about 20 cans of the stuff leftover in our pantry. I didn't know what to do with all the leftovers, since I figured even the starving would turn their nose up at it. But, luckily, I handed them off to my father, lover of canned-fish sandwiches, and none the wiser as to their original purpose.

I had even borrowed an armadillo trap from our neighbors (complete with old bait leftover from its last capture). But this year, we have new neighbors in this once designated feline whorehouse, and unbeknownst to them, the deed was done right there in the spot where they now enjoy their morning cup of hot joe in their lovely white wicker club chairs. Yes, I will miss those days when I curiously watched those two flea-infested shorthairs go at it from our family room window, as my husband would sneak up behind me singing "bow-chick-a-wow-wow," or warbling in his best, deep-voiced Marvin Gaye impersonation "Come on, let's get it oooooon." Hoping this was only to be funny and not an attempt at foreplay, I would just turn around, giggle, grasp my head as if comforting a headache, and quickly look for something else in which to be engrossed with.

You see, like poor ol' crosseyes, I too tend to find myself knocked-up each spring. It's so bad, that my husband and I would be in an argument over something, and not intimate for a few weeks, and somehow the following month....boom....I've got a bun in the oven! Fertile Myrtle, that's me. But this Spring, I am determined, I will NOT get pregnant. I will make it to my 30th birthday, this July, a party of one, a size two, and with a chilled margarita in hand, make that three! I will not succumb to Spring's feminine wiles, her procreating urges, her bad joke on her twin sister, Summer. "HA HA," she cackles, "take THAT! See how good she'll look in her new Michael Kors swimsuit now!"

Oh, no! Not this time, Spring! Fall? Maybe. Winter? Even better.

Yes, winter is a lovely time to be pregnant. The bulky clothes, the cold weather to aid in battling the night-sweats, the excuse for eating all that holiday party food.

But I'm getting way ahead of myself. I just have to make it to July. You hear that, Spring?? July.