Crepe Murder

This morning, while I did not actually commit crepe murder (or, the less-tasteful but equally hilarious, crepe rape), I still broke my Southern heart (and I'm sure my Momma's southern heart) by pruning my crepe myrtle. It was getting enormous. It was going to eat my roof and walkway alive come June. But I swear, right here, in the witness of all my blog readers, that I am only going to commit this heinous act once every two years.

If nothing else, it was hysterical. I'm not very tall. I have horrible balance. We only have a set of small garden shears. Our crepe myrtle was enormous. Needless to say, I look like I cut my arm to shreds (singular "arm" due to the odd fact that only my right arm is covered in little, bloody, swollen scratches--please note all the horrific adjectives). I was climbing all in that tree. We're talking George-of-the-Jungle-Tarzan-and-Jane-Is-that-a-woman-up-in-that-tree-or-a-monkey? all in that tree. I had the shells of last year's crepe myrtle buds embedded in my hair and, on a couple of occasions, in my mouth.

I refused to make it any shorter. (Can I lie and say that, since the truth is that I was simply too terrified to go up that high on the ladder?) It will be slender and tall this summer, like Gisele Bundchen, but as a crepe myrtle.