So, I love to grow stuff. I hesitate to call myself a gardener, because if you saw my yard you would laugh. It's not so much a garden as, well, a tomato patch. But more on that later.
The fun thing this year has been the various pests that have decided to move in with me. I can deal with just about anything creepy crawly as long as it's reasonably small and stays outside, but a couple of little creatures have not followed my rules this year, and it has resulted in some screeching on my part.
I'll start with the most mortifying (and, let's face it, humiliating) part. I had a little compost pile out in the far corner of my yard. I feel good about composting. It's good for the garden, and creates an opportunity for all that yard waste and kitchen scraps to do some good in the world. Philosophically, I'm inclined to compost. But in the real world, I'm not inclined to effectively compost. You have to have the right mix of stuff, and it has to be the right temperature, and be wet, but not too wet. And I'm kind of a lazy bum with all that kind of stuff. So I just piled up my sod and tossed all the vegetable peels and apple cores and eggshells on, and only occasionally took the pitchfork out to stir it all up. That was where I ran into problems. Around the 2nd week of June, I decided I better get out there and give it a good stir since I hadn't really attended to the compost all spring. I started turning it over, and then, as I got into the deeper recesses of the pile, suddenly about five or six mice came scrambling out. EEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKK! I screamed and ran into the house and locked the door, because apparently, I am lame like that.
Then I called Gina because a. she's the only person I know who would not judge me by the mice in my compost, and b. surely she would know what to do. Her first response was, "Hey, at least if you have mice you can be reasonably sure you don't have rats." Gee, that's comforting. Then she did a little internet search, found out that mice in the compost pile was not exactly an uncommon problem, and gave me several options for what to do next while I stayed locked inside my house, looking at the window for signs of movement in the compost pile. *shudder*
I decided to take my usual approach to problem solving--Ignore it and hope it goes away. Ha ha. Not really. I decided pretty quickly to get rid of the compost pile, but the thought of stirring it up again as I shoveled it into lawn bags, which may require closer contact with the rodents than I am comfortable with, made me want to vomit. So it took a couple of weeks to get my courage up. Meanwhile, I just avoided the compost pile. But the problem with talking to Gina about my many issues is the ten little ears that inevitably overhear everything from the latest ridiculous development in my personal life to the mice in the compost pile, and cute Leslie was fascinated by the mice. (They're fascinated by my personal life, too. Recently, they've started asking me if I love someone, and when I tell them "of course, I do, I love you!" they respond with exasperation, "no, Aunt Mar, are you in love with a boy? Do you want to kiss him?" And they don't believe me when I tell them the truth. I tell them no, I'm not in love with a boy I want to kiss, and they ask "does he have curly hair?" Seriously?)
When the girls came over for the long awaited "Sleepover at Auntie Mar's" last week, the first thing Les wanted to do was see the mice. She begged and begged until I relented and grabbed the pitchfork to see if I could awaken the nesting little beasties. Ew. So I plunged the pitchfork into the center of the pile, and was sure I heard I high-pitched squeal. Susie swore she heard it, too.
Yep, I think I gored a mouse with a pitchfork.
That was just far more than I could take, and I refused to further disturb the compost pile. But in the week that followed, I had an epiphany. Part of the reason nothing else has done well in my garden is that the tomatoes are in the only really consistently sunny bed. The trees shade everywhere else, except the compost pile! So, why not turn the compost pile into a new bed for planting next spring? Brilliant! With sufficient motivation, I found the courage to face the compost. I swallowed my fear and started shoveling.
But strangely, even as I got into the lower layers of the pile, no rodents emerged. The mice had vacated! Woo-hoo! Maybe they were afraid of the pitchfork of mortal doom, I thought. I was so deep into my "where have the mice gone?" reverie that I failed to notice the wasps until one stung me.
I don't think it was the pitchfork of death that drove away the critters. It was the wasps. As I spread out the rest of the compost yesterday to make the new bed, more and more wasps began buzzing around. (For the record-I didn't cuss. Okay, maybe one "damn wasps", but damn doesn't count) That's when I discovered their nest. Aaaargh. They got the poison spray can of death, and I got stung. But I also got a new vegetable bed, so I'll put that in the win column for me.
Anyway, you're probably wondering what this has to do with grasshoppers. Honestly, it's a stretch, but grasshoppers are another of those little things that creep me out, but only when they find their way in. They don't belong inside. And they're creepy. So this grasshopper was sitting on my bathroom sink, staring at me as I was putting on my makeup the other day. There was a little cup next to the sink, so I trapped the grasshopper with it. I didn't want to have to catch it and release it in case it escaped and jumped at me, so I just left it. But the next day I started feeling guilty about the slow, torturously painful death I must be putting it through, so my choices were down to smoosh it to kill it or catch and release. I decided to go with the humane answer. But the feisty little creep somehow escaped. When I got the cup outside and opened the lid, the dang thing was gone! Aaaaargh again. The next morning I found it on my shower curtain, and the little beast hopped off and onto my chest. EEEEEEEEEEKKKK again. And you know how sometimes they land on something and sort of won't let go? Yes, this was one pesky sucker. I hate grasshoppers.
Anyway, I also think I have a cricket living in my closet. I commend you for actually reading to the end of this post. Maybe someday I'll have something inherently interesting to write about, like universal health care or the nature of the soul, but not today obviously. Coming soon-photographic evidence of my sad, sad garden, but super fly tomatoes. I'm proud of them maters.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Dream about flying
But every now and then
when I am sleeping,
I still have a dream about flying.
And I wake up crying.
-Alexi Murdoch, "Dream About Flying"
So, I've heard these are good. Dreams about flying, I mean. People talk about how they soar. I wish I could have this kind of flying dream.
But no. My flying dreams are more like this--Instead of soaring, I do this kind of modified breaststroke/doggie paddle thing, and there is no horizontal movement. It's all vertical. I paddle and I go higher; I stop and I go crashing to the ground. And usually, the dream starts where I'm already high enough that it would be really, really painful to crash, so I have no choice but to keep paddling until, I don't know, I guess until I hit the stratosphere.
Maybe I need therapy.
Anyway, the real reason I brought this up is simply this. Patty Griffin is awesome, and if you've never listened to her, you really should. Try 1000 Kisses. And you should listen to Alexi Murdoch as well. He wrote a song called "Dream about flying" that I love, and his cd Time without Consequence is a fave of mine. Give him a listen.
One of these days, when I get it all together in my waking hours, I'm going to soar in my dreams, and I bet you Patty Griffin will be singing the soundtrack when I do.
The way I laugh way up high,
the way I look when I fly.
The way I live.
The way I fly.
-Patty Griffin, "Chief"
when I am sleeping,
I still have a dream about flying.
And I wake up crying.
-Alexi Murdoch, "Dream About Flying"
So, I've heard these are good. Dreams about flying, I mean. People talk about how they soar. I wish I could have this kind of flying dream.
But no. My flying dreams are more like this--Instead of soaring, I do this kind of modified breaststroke/doggie paddle thing, and there is no horizontal movement. It's all vertical. I paddle and I go higher; I stop and I go crashing to the ground. And usually, the dream starts where I'm already high enough that it would be really, really painful to crash, so I have no choice but to keep paddling until, I don't know, I guess until I hit the stratosphere.
Maybe I need therapy.
Anyway, the real reason I brought this up is simply this. Patty Griffin is awesome, and if you've never listened to her, you really should. Try 1000 Kisses. And you should listen to Alexi Murdoch as well. He wrote a song called "Dream about flying" that I love, and his cd Time without Consequence is a fave of mine. Give him a listen.
One of these days, when I get it all together in my waking hours, I'm going to soar in my dreams, and I bet you Patty Griffin will be singing the soundtrack when I do.
I wish you could see me when I'm flyin' in my dreams.
The way I laugh way up high,
the way I look when I fly.
The way I live.
The way I fly.
-Patty Griffin, "Chief"
Saturday, July 4, 2009
This is why I could never really be a vegetarian.
Have you seen that soyjoy commercial where they sort of trace the history of soy? Buddhist monks eat it, and farmers rejuvenated the soil of the dustbowl with soy and blah blah. At the end it says something like "we take that historic bean, mix it with fruit and bake it into soyjoy" but every time I've seen that commercial, I hear "we take that historic bean, mix it with fruit and bacon into soyjoy." Which, really, the thought of bacon in a soyjoy bar should probably make me a little barfy, but I hear bacon, and my mouth waters. Bacon. Pork fat and salt, kids. What's not to like?
I'm going to go eat some edamame and ride a bike or something. See if I can excise these evil nutritional thoughts. Have a lovely fourth, y'all. Blow stuff up, eat some salty grill-marked flesh of beasts (mmmmm, flesh of beasts), and enjoy the people you love!
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Random Observations-June edition
Here we go again with the weird things that jangle about in my head most times...
-Multi-tasking is a bad idea. Sure, the whole concept is meant to make us more productive and efficient, to maximize every moment of our short lives where our value is determined only by what we accomplish or amass (and if you don't hear the dripping sarcasm there, you obviously don't know me very well), but it so, so rarely works out that way. Most tasks worth doing, folks, are worth focusing our attention on as solely and single-mindedly as we can. That's not always possible, of course, as you mothers of young children especially know, but that's no reason not to try when you can. So, from my experience, let me share with you a couple of things that should not be attempted together.
A. Do not attempt to gurgle mouthwash and dry your hair at the same time. I did this the other day, thinking I would save a minute or two in the morning. Took a swig of Listerine, grabbed the blow dryer, flipped my head upside down (a familiar hair drying technique to all my fellow curly girls out there) and AAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!!!! Suddenly, Listerine was filling my nasal cavity and burning the gentle respiratory tissue there. So not wise. Do not try this at home, folks. Or anywhere else for that matter. I think I'm still recovering.
B. Truly, most bathroom activities probably call for single-minded focus, either because they are intricate (i.e. mascara application--it's tough enough get it right, especially if you are sleep-deprived) or because it's just kind of nasty (i.e. brushing your teeth while you pee...ew). But here is my number one multi-tasking offense. You should never, never talk on the phone while taking care of business in the lavoratory (please use Brit pronunciation, okay?). Tell the truth, now, you know you have done this, and it's just wrong. Unless you are a small child or are physically unable to take care of your own toileting, there should be no communication during this task. Even in a public restroom, there's nothing wrong with postponing the convo until everyone's out of the stalls. And there is something devious about talking on the phone while you're on the toilet, because the person on the other end of the line is an unknowing, and probably unwilling victim. If we're talking on the phone, and you really need to pee that bad, excuse yourself and call me back. If I call when you are midstream, hon--let it go to voicemail! If we were sitting at your dinner table having a lovely conversation, and you needed to visit the watercloset, you certainly wouldn't invite me to continue the conversation in the bathroom, so don't think it's any better just because I'm not physically present. Focus on the pee, then focus on the socializing. Don't mix it up, kiddo.
There are more multi-tasking mistakes, I'm certain, and I'd like to hear your best ones, so if you are reading this, please leave your favorite multi-tasking mistake in the comments. Like trimming your bangs while driving on the freeway, or anything involving a hot glue gun....
-Speaking of delicate nasal tissue, there are some bad, bad babysitters in the world, and my parents hired several of them before they gave up on teenagers and just left my 9 year old sister to watch us when they went out. I know, I know, nowadays DCFS would be on their tails for leaving a child that young in charge, but honestly, Gina was so much better than any of the teenage girls they hired that I remember. For example, there was the neighbor girl who slapped me repeatedly because I wouldn't eat my dinner. Neither of my parents ever laid a finger on me or any of my siblings as a punishment, but this chick had the gall to hit me because I wasn't hungry? Her sister was nicer, but a little flighty. She took us outside late one winter night for some reason, and promptly shut the locked door. Smart. So we had to walk through the snow in our pajamas to her mom and dad's house. Kind of an adventure, but kind of a duh moment, too. A cold duh moment. The worst however, was the budding sociopath who made my sister and I play dead to scare the devil out of our little brothers. She was mad at them because they wouldn't go to sleep. She had sent them to bed early because they, as they alway did, boisterously joined in the "Yee-Haw" at the end of the opening credits to "Dukes of Hazzard". (Sidenote: I had a mad crush on Bo Duke. He can still come sit next to me.) Of course, it was too early for them to sleep, and they were dismayed by the unfairness of it all, so they spent the next two hours hootin' and hollerin' and playing nerf basketball and jumping on the bed. Finally this babysitter got Gina and I out of bed, told us to lay down in the corner of the living room, put a blanket over us and warned us not to move a muscle. Then she got my dad's letter opener out of the desk (it looked like a dagger) and yelled at my brothers to come out. When the boys appeared, she wielded the letter opener and told them that she had killed us because they wouldn't shut up, and if they didn't go to sleep now, they were next. Jon and Joel were probably no older than three and six at the time. Wow. She was the last straw, babysitter-wise.
What does that have to do with delicate nasal passages, you ask? Well, nothing, except that believe it or not, that wasn't the worst babysitter experience I ever had. The worst was the babysitter who got Gina and I out of bed late one night when I was probably only four or five. She put a line of black pepper on the table and told me it would be really fun and funny if I snorted the pepper up my nose. It would make me sneeze just like in the cartoons! For the record, black pepper up your nose does not make you sneeze, and it's not fun or funny. It's simply painful. It burns. Bad. I think I'm still recovering.
-So, Mom and Dad finally gave up on babysitters and just left us home with Gina loosely in charge (which the rest of us took to mean she would take the fall if anything went wrong, but we didn't really have to mind her...ha ha). She was eight or nine, so I was seven, J.P. was six, and Joel would have been about three or four. My parents trained us all on what to do in an emergency, who to call if we needed something, what to say if someone called and asked for Mom or Dad. One night, my dad decided to call home and see if Gina remembered the lessons about phone calls. We had been instructed not to say our parents weren't home, but instead to insist that they were there but unable to come to the phone. So my dad calls, Gina picks up, and Dad asks to speak to her mom. Gina, the champ, says the right thing. She can't come to the phone right now...she's in the shower. My dad, unable to resist the urge to push the test a little farther, then asks to speak to her father. Gina gamely replies that he can't come to the phone either because he's in the shower, too. So now, instead of being neglectful parents who leave their four little birdies home under the supervision of their extremely capable eldest daughter so they can have a much needed dinner and a movie together, now she is giving the impression that they are neglectful parents who leave their children unsupervised for a little water-soaked nooky, instead. I believe at this point my poppy burst out laughing and let Gina know it was him. Pretty funny. Kids are a riot.
-The other night at a family dinner, Gina said she would totally go to the public baths in Japan again if she could, which I find so odd. Gina served her mission in Nagoya, Japan, and although I understand that it's a culturally accepted practice there, I just can't imagine myself being comfortable naked in public, even though it's same-gender. I don't know what it is, but I just think there are only about two people who should see all of me in the buff- me and my man. And if I could avoid seeing me in all my unclothed glory, that would be totally okay. Sadly, whoever designed my bathroom thought it was a good idea to put a very large mirror directly opposite the shower, so that's somewhat unavoidable. Even with my doctor and my midwife, I'd rather they only see individual parts unclothed, not the whole shebang. Here's how I see it: with my man, there's a payoff to the uncomfortableness of nudity. At least there's supposed to be when you're doing it right. And the nudity is part of a multi-faceted intimate relationship. (Not that I'd really know-my man is still a stranger to me, dangit, and to borrow a really bad metaphor that was widely used in YW classes and seminary in my day, no one's licked the icing off my cupcake. A really, really awful analogy, that is not only sort of icky, but also misrepresents the power of the Atonement of Christ. But I won't go into that right now. I'll just laugh, and return the original train of thought...). But in a public bath, it's a bunch of strangers with whom you have no relationship at all. Maybe it's my Puritan North American upbringing showing, but that's just weird. Then again, maybe it's the no relationship at all thing that makes it palatable. If I may never see these fellow public bathers again, who cares if they see my cavernous belly button or my dimply bum cheeks? Would you hop into the public baths if you had the chance? Why, or why not in the comments please. But it's a serious question, so don't post in the comments if you've got something nasty to say about it. I don't want to know about your deviance if you have any, so keep it clean, all right?
-Julie Heckert might be the coolest person I know. I never see her without coming away with a good laugh as well as something to think about. She's the only person I know who can use the word "fecundity" in a birthday greeting without being icky, and she introduced me to my new favorite "how the haitch did that get past the marketing department" romance novel title: The Very Virile Viking. I'm not kidding. It really exists, and we have two copies at the library. Find me the next time you drop by the OPL, and I'll show you. I was a doubter at first, too, but I've seen it with my own eyes.
Okay, I think that's enough for one day. Probably way, way beyond enough. Let's see, we've covered bathroom communications, sociopath babysitters, nudity and trashy romance novel titles. I bet you are so glad you don't have to live in my head. Wish I could say the same, but I'm starting to get used to my craziness.
Next post: My friends rock, or how I beat the bad birthday karma for good.
-Multi-tasking is a bad idea. Sure, the whole concept is meant to make us more productive and efficient, to maximize every moment of our short lives where our value is determined only by what we accomplish or amass (and if you don't hear the dripping sarcasm there, you obviously don't know me very well), but it so, so rarely works out that way. Most tasks worth doing, folks, are worth focusing our attention on as solely and single-mindedly as we can. That's not always possible, of course, as you mothers of young children especially know, but that's no reason not to try when you can. So, from my experience, let me share with you a couple of things that should not be attempted together.
A. Do not attempt to gurgle mouthwash and dry your hair at the same time. I did this the other day, thinking I would save a minute or two in the morning. Took a swig of Listerine, grabbed the blow dryer, flipped my head upside down (a familiar hair drying technique to all my fellow curly girls out there) and AAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!!!! Suddenly, Listerine was filling my nasal cavity and burning the gentle respiratory tissue there. So not wise. Do not try this at home, folks. Or anywhere else for that matter. I think I'm still recovering.
B. Truly, most bathroom activities probably call for single-minded focus, either because they are intricate (i.e. mascara application--it's tough enough get it right, especially if you are sleep-deprived) or because it's just kind of nasty (i.e. brushing your teeth while you pee...ew). But here is my number one multi-tasking offense. You should never, never talk on the phone while taking care of business in the lavoratory (please use Brit pronunciation, okay?). Tell the truth, now, you know you have done this, and it's just wrong. Unless you are a small child or are physically unable to take care of your own toileting, there should be no communication during this task. Even in a public restroom, there's nothing wrong with postponing the convo until everyone's out of the stalls. And there is something devious about talking on the phone while you're on the toilet, because the person on the other end of the line is an unknowing, and probably unwilling victim. If we're talking on the phone, and you really need to pee that bad, excuse yourself and call me back. If I call when you are midstream, hon--let it go to voicemail! If we were sitting at your dinner table having a lovely conversation, and you needed to visit the watercloset, you certainly wouldn't invite me to continue the conversation in the bathroom, so don't think it's any better just because I'm not physically present. Focus on the pee, then focus on the socializing. Don't mix it up, kiddo.
There are more multi-tasking mistakes, I'm certain, and I'd like to hear your best ones, so if you are reading this, please leave your favorite multi-tasking mistake in the comments. Like trimming your bangs while driving on the freeway, or anything involving a hot glue gun....
-Speaking of delicate nasal tissue, there are some bad, bad babysitters in the world, and my parents hired several of them before they gave up on teenagers and just left my 9 year old sister to watch us when they went out. I know, I know, nowadays DCFS would be on their tails for leaving a child that young in charge, but honestly, Gina was so much better than any of the teenage girls they hired that I remember. For example, there was the neighbor girl who slapped me repeatedly because I wouldn't eat my dinner. Neither of my parents ever laid a finger on me or any of my siblings as a punishment, but this chick had the gall to hit me because I wasn't hungry? Her sister was nicer, but a little flighty. She took us outside late one winter night for some reason, and promptly shut the locked door. Smart. So we had to walk through the snow in our pajamas to her mom and dad's house. Kind of an adventure, but kind of a duh moment, too. A cold duh moment. The worst however, was the budding sociopath who made my sister and I play dead to scare the devil out of our little brothers. She was mad at them because they wouldn't go to sleep. She had sent them to bed early because they, as they alway did, boisterously joined in the "Yee-Haw" at the end of the opening credits to "Dukes of Hazzard". (Sidenote: I had a mad crush on Bo Duke. He can still come sit next to me.) Of course, it was too early for them to sleep, and they were dismayed by the unfairness of it all, so they spent the next two hours hootin' and hollerin' and playing nerf basketball and jumping on the bed. Finally this babysitter got Gina and I out of bed, told us to lay down in the corner of the living room, put a blanket over us and warned us not to move a muscle. Then she got my dad's letter opener out of the desk (it looked like a dagger) and yelled at my brothers to come out. When the boys appeared, she wielded the letter opener and told them that she had killed us because they wouldn't shut up, and if they didn't go to sleep now, they were next. Jon and Joel were probably no older than three and six at the time. Wow. She was the last straw, babysitter-wise.
What does that have to do with delicate nasal passages, you ask? Well, nothing, except that believe it or not, that wasn't the worst babysitter experience I ever had. The worst was the babysitter who got Gina and I out of bed late one night when I was probably only four or five. She put a line of black pepper on the table and told me it would be really fun and funny if I snorted the pepper up my nose. It would make me sneeze just like in the cartoons! For the record, black pepper up your nose does not make you sneeze, and it's not fun or funny. It's simply painful. It burns. Bad. I think I'm still recovering.
-So, Mom and Dad finally gave up on babysitters and just left us home with Gina loosely in charge (which the rest of us took to mean she would take the fall if anything went wrong, but we didn't really have to mind her...ha ha). She was eight or nine, so I was seven, J.P. was six, and Joel would have been about three or four. My parents trained us all on what to do in an emergency, who to call if we needed something, what to say if someone called and asked for Mom or Dad. One night, my dad decided to call home and see if Gina remembered the lessons about phone calls. We had been instructed not to say our parents weren't home, but instead to insist that they were there but unable to come to the phone. So my dad calls, Gina picks up, and Dad asks to speak to her mom. Gina, the champ, says the right thing. She can't come to the phone right now...she's in the shower. My dad, unable to resist the urge to push the test a little farther, then asks to speak to her father. Gina gamely replies that he can't come to the phone either because he's in the shower, too. So now, instead of being neglectful parents who leave their four little birdies home under the supervision of their extremely capable eldest daughter so they can have a much needed dinner and a movie together, now she is giving the impression that they are neglectful parents who leave their children unsupervised for a little water-soaked nooky, instead. I believe at this point my poppy burst out laughing and let Gina know it was him. Pretty funny. Kids are a riot.
-The other night at a family dinner, Gina said she would totally go to the public baths in Japan again if she could, which I find so odd. Gina served her mission in Nagoya, Japan, and although I understand that it's a culturally accepted practice there, I just can't imagine myself being comfortable naked in public, even though it's same-gender. I don't know what it is, but I just think there are only about two people who should see all of me in the buff- me and my man. And if I could avoid seeing me in all my unclothed glory, that would be totally okay. Sadly, whoever designed my bathroom thought it was a good idea to put a very large mirror directly opposite the shower, so that's somewhat unavoidable. Even with my doctor and my midwife, I'd rather they only see individual parts unclothed, not the whole shebang. Here's how I see it: with my man, there's a payoff to the uncomfortableness of nudity. At least there's supposed to be when you're doing it right. And the nudity is part of a multi-faceted intimate relationship. (Not that I'd really know-my man is still a stranger to me, dangit, and to borrow a really bad metaphor that was widely used in YW classes and seminary in my day, no one's licked the icing off my cupcake. A really, really awful analogy, that is not only sort of icky, but also misrepresents the power of the Atonement of Christ. But I won't go into that right now. I'll just laugh, and return the original train of thought...). But in a public bath, it's a bunch of strangers with whom you have no relationship at all. Maybe it's my Puritan North American upbringing showing, but that's just weird. Then again, maybe it's the no relationship at all thing that makes it palatable. If I may never see these fellow public bathers again, who cares if they see my cavernous belly button or my dimply bum cheeks? Would you hop into the public baths if you had the chance? Why, or why not in the comments please. But it's a serious question, so don't post in the comments if you've got something nasty to say about it. I don't want to know about your deviance if you have any, so keep it clean, all right?
-Julie Heckert might be the coolest person I know. I never see her without coming away with a good laugh as well as something to think about. She's the only person I know who can use the word "fecundity" in a birthday greeting without being icky, and she introduced me to my new favorite "how the haitch did that get past the marketing department" romance novel title: The Very Virile Viking. I'm not kidding. It really exists, and we have two copies at the library. Find me the next time you drop by the OPL, and I'll show you. I was a doubter at first, too, but I've seen it with my own eyes.
Okay, I think that's enough for one day. Probably way, way beyond enough. Let's see, we've covered bathroom communications, sociopath babysitters, nudity and trashy romance novel titles. I bet you are so glad you don't have to live in my head. Wish I could say the same, but I'm starting to get used to my craziness.
Next post: My friends rock, or how I beat the bad birthday karma for good.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Dogs and Children Complicate Things
It's been an eventful weekend. What I have learned is simple, yet important. I have learned that for their own comfort and well-being, you probably should not trust me with your dogs or your children.
So it started yesterday afternoon. Leslie and I had our "day together" with breakfast at Magleby's, a trip to the Farmer's Market, and a viewing of the delightful film Up (if you haven't seen it, go see it immediately. Drop whatever you're doing right now and go to the movies. It is so, so good). To appease the little birdies whose turn doesn't come for a month or two, I usually stop at Iceberg and take twist cones home, but since I also had my brother's dog Mose for the weekend, and the poor pooch hadn't been out of my backyard in two days, I figured we'd pick up the dog and take all the girls for a walk to Iceberg instead.
Thus far, it was simply a lovely Saturday with my nieces. We loaded Mary and Dot into the big stroller, and Leslie and Susie argued about who got to hold the leash, and all seven of us set off to get an ice cream. We got to Iceberg without incident, hitched Mose's leash to a table out front, and went inside to get their cones. My friend Marianne was there with a friend of hers, Joan, so we said hi and chatted while waiting for the ice cream. When they called our number, I got the girls situated with their cones and headed back outside to load them up and head back home. Of course, my timing being impeccable as always, this was the moment the skies decided to dump an entire spring's worth of rainfall in five minutes. It began to pour, one of those crazy, rare-in-Utah storms where it's like standing in the shower fully dressed. And there I am with 5 girls under nine and a poor, soaked pug. Within 30 seconds, the baby, the three year old, and the seven year old were all crying, and I was trying to figure out what the haitch to do. I had Leslie shepherd the girls back into Iceberg to eat their cones, while I tried to figure out what to do with the soaking wet dog. Of course, by now I am quite literally soaked to the skin as well. I unleashed Mose from the table and tucked him in the stroller, trying to put the rain cover down so he'd stay in and stay dry. I'm literally dripping (inconvenient outfit, too--dripping jeans would have been preferred to a dripping denim skirt that was being dangerously wind blown I think. My apologies to anyone who got an eyeful of my gams), and my engineering skills are rapidly failing, as I can't for my life figure out how to get the cover snapped down. Finally, I picked up the dog, wrapped him in a blanket, and stood in the foyer of Iceberg, which was now a puddle from the wind and rain, and stood there wondering how in the name of all that is holy I was going to get these five girls (and the pug) home.
As I was praying for the storm to cease, and little Dot splashed in the resevoir/entrance, Marianne and Joan mercifully came and offered to drive us home. After some pleading with the oldest, who didn't want to go without me (the stroller would not have fit in the back, sadly), and a few urgent wails from the baby, they piled in and made their way home to get dry. I put the dog in the stroller, figured out the rain cover, and ran home in the storm with 30 lbs. of wet pug. I think now that he's experienced the delight of being pushed around in a stroller, he'll never want to walk on his own four paws again. He's lazy like that. But strangely, I thoroughly enjoyed that trip home in the rain. There's something about that moment when you know that things really couldn't get much worse that is so liberating. I'm sure I was a sight, but I was an unexpectedly happy sight. Back at Gina's, I found out that Caroline had asked her mom that morning if they could have an adventure. Well, my dear Care, be careful what you wish for.
Anyway--don't trust me with your dogs or children, part deux, focuses on the dog part. I decided to take Mose on a walk in Rock Canyon this afternoon, and since I was at Mom and Dad's, and Jon and Cathy were heading to the Durfey's without Zoey, I figured I'd take her along on our walk. Jon and Cathy were cool with that, so I found two leashes, stuffed my pockets with doodie bags (I'm a responsible dog walker, you see) and headed to Provo. We had a lovely walk until we came across two very large dogs, collared but unleashed on the trail. Mose is a pug, Zoey a Cairn terrier, both little dogs. I can't blame either of them for freaking out when 300 lbs of canine come barrelling down the trail with no owners in sight. Zoey was so scared that her head actually shrunk, she slipped her collar and went tearing back down the trail. So there I am, screaming at the two big brutes to stay the hell away from my dogs (I did cuss, it's true, and particularly disappointing considering that I was listening to general conference on my iPod. See ya, Holy Spirit), trying to catch up to Zoey.
Complicating this ridiculous scene is Mose, the laziest pug in the universe, who moves at the approximate pace of the continental plates, even in an emergency. Zoey wouldn't stop, and wouldn't let me get within 3 feet of her until we got to the car, and about halfway down the trail, Mose decided to just stop and laid down on the trail. Picture it--Me with Mose, who is not exactly a featherweight, tucked under one arm, a bag of dog crap in my other hand, jogging down the trail trying to keep up with Zoey who refuses to chill out and behave. For the record, I don't blame her. For the first 20 years of my life those two dogs would have reduced me to tears. Okay, for the first 20 years my life pretty much any dog would have reduced me to tears. Good times, good times.
So, let's recap what we've learned:
-Pixar makes a helluva good movie.
-I don't want a dog of my own. Other people's dogs are lovely and delightful. Having responsibility for one every day would so not work in my schedule right now. I can't take the chaos. Even the sudden storm at Iceberg with the girls would have been no problem if I didn't have the shivering wet pug to think about.
-Other people are not lovely and delightful when they don't take responsibility for their pet and keep them leashed in public places. Your choices do effect other people, so keep 'em leashed, folks.
-Along the same line, I'm even more convinced that my short man/dog owner man rule is a good one. I could happily deal with either of those not-exactly-ideal situations, but not both. Sorry to all dog lovers or the vertically challenged, but both are issues for me. Short attractive man-green light. Tall attractive dog owner-green light. Short attractive dog owner-not so much. Is that entirely shallow?
-Caroline is unflappable. Which is great, because her Auntie Mar is flappin' all over the universe like the unbuttoned butt flap on a pair of long johns in a wind storm. Terrible metaphor, I know.
-Sometimes God won't stop the storm when you ask, but he's likely to send a couple of angels like Marianne and Joan to help you weather it.
-And finally, if you love your children and your dogs, don't let me take them off your hands. It's like begging the universe to throw a wrench in the gears!
So it started yesterday afternoon. Leslie and I had our "day together" with breakfast at Magleby's, a trip to the Farmer's Market, and a viewing of the delightful film Up (if you haven't seen it, go see it immediately. Drop whatever you're doing right now and go to the movies. It is so, so good). To appease the little birdies whose turn doesn't come for a month or two, I usually stop at Iceberg and take twist cones home, but since I also had my brother's dog Mose for the weekend, and the poor pooch hadn't been out of my backyard in two days, I figured we'd pick up the dog and take all the girls for a walk to Iceberg instead.
Thus far, it was simply a lovely Saturday with my nieces. We loaded Mary and Dot into the big stroller, and Leslie and Susie argued about who got to hold the leash, and all seven of us set off to get an ice cream. We got to Iceberg without incident, hitched Mose's leash to a table out front, and went inside to get their cones. My friend Marianne was there with a friend of hers, Joan, so we said hi and chatted while waiting for the ice cream. When they called our number, I got the girls situated with their cones and headed back outside to load them up and head back home. Of course, my timing being impeccable as always, this was the moment the skies decided to dump an entire spring's worth of rainfall in five minutes. It began to pour, one of those crazy, rare-in-Utah storms where it's like standing in the shower fully dressed. And there I am with 5 girls under nine and a poor, soaked pug. Within 30 seconds, the baby, the three year old, and the seven year old were all crying, and I was trying to figure out what the haitch to do. I had Leslie shepherd the girls back into Iceberg to eat their cones, while I tried to figure out what to do with the soaking wet dog. Of course, by now I am quite literally soaked to the skin as well. I unleashed Mose from the table and tucked him in the stroller, trying to put the rain cover down so he'd stay in and stay dry. I'm literally dripping (inconvenient outfit, too--dripping jeans would have been preferred to a dripping denim skirt that was being dangerously wind blown I think. My apologies to anyone who got an eyeful of my gams), and my engineering skills are rapidly failing, as I can't for my life figure out how to get the cover snapped down. Finally, I picked up the dog, wrapped him in a blanket, and stood in the foyer of Iceberg, which was now a puddle from the wind and rain, and stood there wondering how in the name of all that is holy I was going to get these five girls (and the pug) home.
As I was praying for the storm to cease, and little Dot splashed in the resevoir/entrance, Marianne and Joan mercifully came and offered to drive us home. After some pleading with the oldest, who didn't want to go without me (the stroller would not have fit in the back, sadly), and a few urgent wails from the baby, they piled in and made their way home to get dry. I put the dog in the stroller, figured out the rain cover, and ran home in the storm with 30 lbs. of wet pug. I think now that he's experienced the delight of being pushed around in a stroller, he'll never want to walk on his own four paws again. He's lazy like that. But strangely, I thoroughly enjoyed that trip home in the rain. There's something about that moment when you know that things really couldn't get much worse that is so liberating. I'm sure I was a sight, but I was an unexpectedly happy sight. Back at Gina's, I found out that Caroline had asked her mom that morning if they could have an adventure. Well, my dear Care, be careful what you wish for.
Anyway--don't trust me with your dogs or children, part deux, focuses on the dog part. I decided to take Mose on a walk in Rock Canyon this afternoon, and since I was at Mom and Dad's, and Jon and Cathy were heading to the Durfey's without Zoey, I figured I'd take her along on our walk. Jon and Cathy were cool with that, so I found two leashes, stuffed my pockets with doodie bags (I'm a responsible dog walker, you see) and headed to Provo. We had a lovely walk until we came across two very large dogs, collared but unleashed on the trail. Mose is a pug, Zoey a Cairn terrier, both little dogs. I can't blame either of them for freaking out when 300 lbs of canine come barrelling down the trail with no owners in sight. Zoey was so scared that her head actually shrunk, she slipped her collar and went tearing back down the trail. So there I am, screaming at the two big brutes to stay the hell away from my dogs (I did cuss, it's true, and particularly disappointing considering that I was listening to general conference on my iPod. See ya, Holy Spirit), trying to catch up to Zoey.
Complicating this ridiculous scene is Mose, the laziest pug in the universe, who moves at the approximate pace of the continental plates, even in an emergency. Zoey wouldn't stop, and wouldn't let me get within 3 feet of her until we got to the car, and about halfway down the trail, Mose decided to just stop and laid down on the trail. Picture it--Me with Mose, who is not exactly a featherweight, tucked under one arm, a bag of dog crap in my other hand, jogging down the trail trying to keep up with Zoey who refuses to chill out and behave. For the record, I don't blame her. For the first 20 years of my life those two dogs would have reduced me to tears. Okay, for the first 20 years my life pretty much any dog would have reduced me to tears. Good times, good times.
So, let's recap what we've learned:
-Pixar makes a helluva good movie.
-I don't want a dog of my own. Other people's dogs are lovely and delightful. Having responsibility for one every day would so not work in my schedule right now. I can't take the chaos. Even the sudden storm at Iceberg with the girls would have been no problem if I didn't have the shivering wet pug to think about.
-Other people are not lovely and delightful when they don't take responsibility for their pet and keep them leashed in public places. Your choices do effect other people, so keep 'em leashed, folks.
-Along the same line, I'm even more convinced that my short man/dog owner man rule is a good one. I could happily deal with either of those not-exactly-ideal situations, but not both. Sorry to all dog lovers or the vertically challenged, but both are issues for me. Short attractive man-green light. Tall attractive dog owner-green light. Short attractive dog owner-not so much. Is that entirely shallow?
-Caroline is unflappable. Which is great, because her Auntie Mar is flappin' all over the universe like the unbuttoned butt flap on a pair of long johns in a wind storm. Terrible metaphor, I know.
-Sometimes God won't stop the storm when you ask, but he's likely to send a couple of angels like Marianne and Joan to help you weather it.
-And finally, if you love your children and your dogs, don't let me take them off your hands. It's like begging the universe to throw a wrench in the gears!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Beautiful
I have such issues with that concept...but I don't want to talk about it. So just look. These are little drops of my beautiful.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Random observations
In no particular order...
-My ideal pet would be an outside bird.
-It would be nice if false hope was as entertaining in real life as it is in the clearance racks at Target.
-I've always really, really enjoyed rain. I imagine it has something to do with living in the desert, but I've generally found it refreshing and invigorating. However, this year, as I have been anxious to prep my new garden beds, something strange has happened. Every day I've had off for the last six weeks, it has rained. Digging a wet bed ruins the soil. I can't plant until the compost is dug in. Aaargh. (postscript: since I began this post, it stopped raining and the garden is planted. Pray for my poor tomatoes in my hard, clay-ey, rocky soil. They're troopers, so far. They've been in the bed for a week, and they're growing. But there's only so much you can do to improve the soil in one season with a truckload of compost and a bag full of vermiculite. The soil I want will take years to build. They have like 30 feet of topsoil in Michigan. Somebody tell me again--why do I live here? Okay, start making the list again--the mountains, my family, that little detail of a mortgage, a good job...feel free to add to the list in the comments. Should I stay or should I go? Realizing, of course, that it's all pointless, cause I ain't goin' anywhere right now. But it's fun. Here I'll go first, Marilee should move to another state because a good Mormon girl in her 30s will never meet a good single Mormon man in Utah. Come on, join in the fun!)
-On the other hand, did you noticed the lilacs this year? Exquisite!
-Does anyone really care who wins American Idol? Okay, clearly, people care. But does anyone else get the feeling that an episode of American Idol is sort of like a high school homecoming assembly on a steroidal budget? To be fair, I only watched about 45 minutes of the finale, but still. There's the tacky lighting, funny costumes, alumni who, honestly-- don't they have anything better to do? I believe that this year Coke paid for a new scoreboard back on the AI football field in exchange for placing pop machines back stage. Two words for the music world: Ray Lamontagne.
-Speaking of American Idol, I'm a little disturbed. Musically I'm not a big fan of any of them. But watching the finale, I found myself thinking that it was kind of too bad that Adam guy is not into girls. Cause he could be hot. I think it's his chin, his jaw or something. Or his mouth. Dang, the boy has a beautiful mouth. I have to remind myself that he probably has girly hands to keep me from getting carried away.
-Which brings me to this. I can't stop thinking about this one scene in Gone with the Wind (a terrible, mysoginistic film). Rhett says:"You need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how." Amen, brother. Just so you know, I'm currently taking applicants for the position. But only from single men who don't make me nauseous. Which is why, even in this job market, I fear the position may go unfilled. Which is unfortunate. I mean, I'm no Vivian Leigh, but come on! There's got to be at least one good hearted, reasonably attractive, employed, non-vomit-inducing man out there who's up to the task. If you find him, give him my phone number.
-Another comment about the whole outside bird thing: if I wasn't absolutely certain my HOA would string me up by my toes and teach it to peck my eyeballs out, I would totally get a chicken. Fresh eggs, compostable droppings. I'd like to see Mose do as much to contribute to his upkeep. (Just so you know, Joel, I really do love your dog. Especially because every time he hangs out with me, I'm reminded why I don't want a dog of my own. Thanks for that, man.)
-There was a girl at the library the other day who may have been taller than me. It's hard for me to tell, it happens so rarely. It kind of startles me when there are women as tall as me around. It's funny though, I never say anything when I run into equally tall women, because people say things to me all the time and I don't always like it. I love being tall, and I wouldn't trade an inch of my height for anything (diminished dating pool notwithstading), but I don't understand why people have to say things about it. I had no say in this, beyond my choice to wear or not wear heels (and the answer is always wear--do you know anyone who couldn't use a couple of extra inches of visual leg length? Me neither), height is predetermined. It especially bugs me when I'm in heels, which I love and can't imagine not wearing, even if they became painful and damaging to my feet. You know, if a really short guy walks in the room, I have enough sense not to ask him how tall he is (a question I've been asked by numerous strangers). And if a really tall guy walks in the room, well, I have enough sense to tell him to come sit next to me...;)
That's it for now. I'll try to get back to blogging before another six months is up. Not that it matters, because who the haitch reads anything I write on here anyway. It's just kind of fun to write again. I'm out--
-My ideal pet would be an outside bird.
-It would be nice if false hope was as entertaining in real life as it is in the clearance racks at Target.
-I've always really, really enjoyed rain. I imagine it has something to do with living in the desert, but I've generally found it refreshing and invigorating. However, this year, as I have been anxious to prep my new garden beds, something strange has happened. Every day I've had off for the last six weeks, it has rained. Digging a wet bed ruins the soil. I can't plant until the compost is dug in. Aaargh. (postscript: since I began this post, it stopped raining and the garden is planted. Pray for my poor tomatoes in my hard, clay-ey, rocky soil. They're troopers, so far. They've been in the bed for a week, and they're growing. But there's only so much you can do to improve the soil in one season with a truckload of compost and a bag full of vermiculite. The soil I want will take years to build. They have like 30 feet of topsoil in Michigan. Somebody tell me again--why do I live here? Okay, start making the list again--the mountains, my family, that little detail of a mortgage, a good job...feel free to add to the list in the comments. Should I stay or should I go? Realizing, of course, that it's all pointless, cause I ain't goin' anywhere right now. But it's fun. Here I'll go first, Marilee should move to another state because a good Mormon girl in her 30s will never meet a good single Mormon man in Utah. Come on, join in the fun!)
-On the other hand, did you noticed the lilacs this year? Exquisite!
-Does anyone really care who wins American Idol? Okay, clearly, people care. But does anyone else get the feeling that an episode of American Idol is sort of like a high school homecoming assembly on a steroidal budget? To be fair, I only watched about 45 minutes of the finale, but still. There's the tacky lighting, funny costumes, alumni who, honestly-- don't they have anything better to do? I believe that this year Coke paid for a new scoreboard back on the AI football field in exchange for placing pop machines back stage. Two words for the music world: Ray Lamontagne.
-Speaking of American Idol, I'm a little disturbed. Musically I'm not a big fan of any of them. But watching the finale, I found myself thinking that it was kind of too bad that Adam guy is not into girls. Cause he could be hot. I think it's his chin, his jaw or something. Or his mouth. Dang, the boy has a beautiful mouth. I have to remind myself that he probably has girly hands to keep me from getting carried away.
-Which brings me to this. I can't stop thinking about this one scene in Gone with the Wind (a terrible, mysoginistic film). Rhett says:"You need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how." Amen, brother. Just so you know, I'm currently taking applicants for the position. But only from single men who don't make me nauseous. Which is why, even in this job market, I fear the position may go unfilled. Which is unfortunate. I mean, I'm no Vivian Leigh, but come on! There's got to be at least one good hearted, reasonably attractive, employed, non-vomit-inducing man out there who's up to the task. If you find him, give him my phone number.
-Another comment about the whole outside bird thing: if I wasn't absolutely certain my HOA would string me up by my toes and teach it to peck my eyeballs out, I would totally get a chicken. Fresh eggs, compostable droppings. I'd like to see Mose do as much to contribute to his upkeep. (Just so you know, Joel, I really do love your dog. Especially because every time he hangs out with me, I'm reminded why I don't want a dog of my own. Thanks for that, man.)
-There was a girl at the library the other day who may have been taller than me. It's hard for me to tell, it happens so rarely. It kind of startles me when there are women as tall as me around. It's funny though, I never say anything when I run into equally tall women, because people say things to me all the time and I don't always like it. I love being tall, and I wouldn't trade an inch of my height for anything (diminished dating pool notwithstading), but I don't understand why people have to say things about it. I had no say in this, beyond my choice to wear or not wear heels (and the answer is always wear--do you know anyone who couldn't use a couple of extra inches of visual leg length? Me neither), height is predetermined. It especially bugs me when I'm in heels, which I love and can't imagine not wearing, even if they became painful and damaging to my feet. You know, if a really short guy walks in the room, I have enough sense not to ask him how tall he is (a question I've been asked by numerous strangers). And if a really tall guy walks in the room, well, I have enough sense to tell him to come sit next to me...;)
That's it for now. I'll try to get back to blogging before another six months is up. Not that it matters, because who the haitch reads anything I write on here anyway. It's just kind of fun to write again. I'm out--
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