The Veggie Garden and the Grim Reaper

Nubby Carrots

I finally got around to planting my vegetable garden this weekend.  Or, as I refer to it, the raccoon buffet.  For the past couple of years I have gotten increasingly organized with the garden.  I plan out what I'm going to plant and where it's going to go.  I jot down lessons and tips I learned from the previous year and make changes the next year.  For example, last year taught me that I should not plant the onions next to the beans because the beans block the sun and cause the little onion plants to mold.  I also learned to place the carrot seeds instead of sprinkling them even though it's really tempting to just sprinkle them because the seeds are like tiny specks of dust.  When you sprinkle the carrot seeds they grow way too close together and you end up with tiny little carrot nubs.

Little Lucy Scarecrow
protected our garden bravely.

Last year I had a big tray of seedlings that I started weeks before it was time to plant outdoors.  Everything was labeled.  I even made little signs for the garden and put up a scarecrow.  It was a perfectly lovely little garden, even though the raccoons dug up my corn to eat the peat pots they started in.  We had fresh, home-grown potatoes and yummy peas and beans.  Even the kids ate their veggies when they got to pick them fresh from the garden.  It was great.

Dr. Two Brains and his ray gun.

This year... not so much.  I started some seeds in the little "green house" on my porch, but soon forgot all about them.  They didn't get watered and shriveled up into little brown twigs.  A couple of the more hearty plants survived my lack of attention, so I stuck them in the ground.  We planted some corn, beans, peas, onions, carrots and parsnips. Yeah, parsnips.  The kids picked that one out because of an episode of Word Girl where Dr. Two Brains uses parsnips to power his ray gun to turn gold into potato salad and potato salad into cheese.  It's complicated.

I also finally planted the grape vine that my Mom and Dad gave me for Mother's Day and some pumpkin seeds that were labeled "Jack-Be-Little Pumpkins."  How could I pass that one up?

I'm not enthusiastic about this year's garden.  Not only because I got a late start, but because the morning after planting, I found many little nose and paw prints in neat little rows right where all the seeds used to be buried.  Now, I can't really tell how much those stinking critters actually ate until things start sprouting... on not.  Either way, I'm feeling kind of bummed out.

Also, I saw a street sweeper slowly pass my house this morning and ever since I've had this little ditty stuck in my head.



I fear my veggie garden is dancing with the Reaper.

The Lawn, The Weed Hound, and Crocodile Dundee

Mike mowed the lawn this afternoon, a chore we both have been actively ignoring for quite some time. Mike really hates doing it because, when he was a kid, he ran a summer business where he would mow the lawns of practically every neighbor on his street.  He got paid well, but it pretty well burnt him out.  Also, our yard is huge and our lawnmower is old and temperamental.  I've tried several times to do it myself, especially in the summer when Mike is gone 14-hours a day, but it is not a self-propelled mower and I just don't have the strength to push it through the jungle we call home.  We realized that we absolutely had to get to it this past weekend when the kids successfully played hide-and-seek by crouching down in the long grass.  Yeah, we're those neighbors.

Now that the grass is short, the weeds are very evident.  They look all scraggly where there should be smooth blades of grass.  Fortunately, I have this handy lawn tool called the Weed Hound.  It's essentially a claw at the end of a long metal pole, but it works great!  You stick the claw in the center of the weed, step on the little handle to push it into the ground, give a little twist, and it pulls the whole weed out by the roots.  Viola!  You can check the Weed Hound out in action here.  It's a really great tool. 

Now this is a knife!

I'm not paid to tell you how great the Weed Hound is, although maybe I should be.  I just remember back to the days when I was a kid.  My parents would weed the garden using a knife so big that it would make Crocodile Dundee run in the other direction.  We would spend countless hours cutting out weeds from the ground and many more trying to soothe our blistered hands.  During breaks, Dad would teach us how to throw the knife so that it lands sticking straight out of the ground like it does in movies.  This is something that is harder to accomplish than you would think.  But I became quite good at it and I am certain that if things get desperate enough, I can join the circus with a knife throwing act.  In retrospect, teaching a ten-year-old how to throw a knife seems like a pretty dangerous practice, but in our family, we like to promote ethnic stereotypes, so as a good Italian, I know my way around a knife.  Anyhow, the Weed Hound makes quick work of the weeds, and I'm thankful I don't have to cut them out of the ground with a knife anymore.

Beware the
steaming divot!

The downside to the Weed Hound is that it leaves a little hole.  Now, this isn't really a big deal if you have a few weeds here or there.  But I've quickly discovered that we have more weeds than actual grass.  As I remove the weeds, it's starting to look like we have gophers.  There are so many divots that I'm considering having a party where my guests will wear fancy hats and replace the holes with sod like they do at Polo Tournaments.  I don't actually know if they really do that.  Everything I know about Polo I learned from that one scene in Pretty Woman.

So, the lawn is mowed, the weeds are in the process of being removed, and we now look more like responsible home owners.  Just don't look to closely at the paint job on our garage door.  We haven't gotten to that yet...

Back Pain

My back hurts.

It's been hurting for quite some time.  I had x-rays taken the other day and the doctor reported that there was degenerative damage in several places on my spine.  I can hear grinding every time I turn my head from side to side. 

I've been dealing with the arthritis in my body since I was fifteen years old.  The pain and the immobility is nothing new to me.  I've been on so many different medications over the years that I can't even name them all. 

I don't tell you this to obtain pity or sympathy, only for you to fully appreciate my situation.  Despite the fact that the doctors have always told me that I can't do any sort of aerobic activity, I've been successfully, although somewhat clumsily, been participating in a Zumba class for over a year.  My joints sometimes ache and swell, but I keep pressing on in spite of the pain.

Lily Tomlin is "The Incredible Shrinking Woman"

I have dealt with the swelling, the pain, and the weight gain for more than half of my life.  But here's what has made me mad.  At a recent appointment the nurse measured my height.  I have shrunk a quarter of an inch!!  I am outraged.  I made the nurse remeasure me three times.  I was in total disbelief that I had shrunk.  Shrinking is what old people and Lily Tomlin do and, while I'm no spring chicken anymore, I don't think I'm exactly at the point where I should be shrinking!  (I have also not been exposed to any unusual combinations of household cleaners that might explain my situation.)  I'm already vertically challenged and consider every inch I have as a precious commodity. 

The realization of my vertical descent has moved me to action.  I am considering going to a chiropractor.  I can already hear my mother yelling, "Nooo!"  at the computer screen.  We were raised to have an sure and undisputed distrust of any person who has a "Dr." before their name but no "M.D." after it.  In short, I was raised to believe that art of chiropractic care is largely hokum.  I look at chiropractors with the same mistrust as dentists, with their fluoride treatments and tooth whitening systems. 

However, a friend of mind from high school is now a chiropractor.  I respect him and his practice, so I am ignoring all of my instincts and considering calling his office.  Up until this point, the closest I've come to a spinal adjustment is having a tall person stand behind me and, while I cross my arms in front of me giving myself a bear hug, they pick me up off my feet by my elbows.  I'm sure that's frowned upon in the chiropractic community, but it does lead to a satisfying cracking sound.

This is my nightmare.

Before I go to the chiropractor I need to find out if there is any nakedness involved.  I am a very shy and conservative person.  I am uncomfortable being undressed to any degree in front of anybody.  I tolerate medical professionals seeing my skin, but really try to avoid it as much as possible.  I get through it by reminding myself that it is very clinical.  But if I go to see my chiropractor friend, it won't seem as clinical because I know him.  Quite honestly, I did not perfect the art of changing from my clothes into my uniform in the back of the Lancer Band bus in high school without exposing any part of myself to the peering eyes of Ed Robinson just so that I can disrobe in front of Joe Manza twenty years and three C-sections later in a well-lit exam room. 

But this is how desperate I have become.  I am willing to go to a chiropractor, not so much to alleviate my pain, but with the hope that somehow, if my vertebrae are stacked correctly, I will regain my lost quarter inch. 

It has come to my attention that April is not only National Poetry Month, but also International Guitar Month, National Frog Month, and Stress Awareness Month.  This is fantastic news since I frequently have trouble thinking of things to write about.  Now I have at least four topics to choose from.  Yeah!

So to kick things off, I thought I would submit for your reading pleasure a selection of poetry written by yours truly for my high school English class.  I always loved English class because I could write all sorts of crazy stuff and the teachers would just eat it up!  Except for Miss Wells.  Miss Wells did not find my quirky writing style at all amusing.  But my English teacher from 3rd period in 1992 loved it!

So, here it is.  The assignment was to write a parody of a famous poem.  I chose Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven."

The Raving (Mad)

Once upon a morning pretty, as I'm feeling kinda' witty,

Cracking jokes about some book of really weird forgotten lore --

As I sat there, being funny, suddenly there came my buddy,

Saying that he's going to study, study for a high test score.

"It's and easy test," I muttered, "of which you want a high test score --

Study this and nothing more."

Startled at my bitter tone, and the way I gave a groan,

"Doubtless," said he, "you don't know just what you're for,

Caught in some bad situation along with the whole nation

As you stand by the bus station to buy chicken from the store!

Buying chicken from the frozen counter in the grocery store.

Buying that, and nothing more."

My teacher's comment was "Terminally weird!  I love this!"  I got an A+.  This was, by far, my favorite class in high school.  Where else could you turn in something like that and get an A?  Poor Poe is spinning in his grave.  I would have written more, but mocking a great poet is exhausting.

I remember writing this one while sitting on the bleachers watching my boyfriend at track practice.  I honestly don't know why I was there.  Watching people run in circles in the cold is not my idea of a good time.  Plus, as I recall, it was pretty windy that day.  He must have been my ride home from school.  I don't remember ever going to the track ever again.  Anyhow, here's the poem I wrote.

Feet pound hard on the

    cold

    black gravel

While the sharp wind

                                    whips

      through the bodies of men

                running

                             running

                                          faster

      to beat the competition in blue.

That's just how I wrote it on the paper.  All scattered like that.  Mr. WhatsHisName loved it; thought I was a real deep thinker.  Oh, those were the days!

For my final poem, if you could stand to read this far down, the assignment was to write a really terrible poem.  No problem!  I clearly excel at this!

The Puppy

I had a little puppy.

His fur was soft and brown.

He got a little jumpy,

And he ran into the street and got hit by a humongous Mack truck.

Frog playing a guitar.
Okay, so technically it's a banjo, but it fulfills the rest of the criteria
for International Guitar Month, National Frog Month, and Stress Awareness Month.
After all, Kermit the Frog playing a guitar... what's more stress relieving than that?

Easter Candy

A friend of mine mentioned the other day that he believes the Easter M&Ms taste better than regular M&Ms.  I have very strong feelings about this and my husband, unfortunately, falls on the opposite side of the argument.  This is a big cause for contention in our marriage. 

Any chocolate connoisseur will tell you that, first of all, the red M&Ms taste the best.  Secondly, holiday versions of any kind of candy always taste better.  My husband disagrees and insists that I am simply falling prey to a marketing scheme.  I disregard his argument because he also makes statements like, "I'm not in the mood for chocolate."  I know those words, but that sentence makes no sense.  If I'm breathing, I'm in the mood for chocolate.  I honestly don't even need to be awake.  Seriously, I have eaten cookies while sleep walking.  It's a real problem.

Holiday themed candy always tastes better than ordinary, run-of-the-mill candy.  This also applies to Oreos with the special colored filling.  An Oreo always tastes better with robin-egg blue or sunny yellow filling in the Spring, red or green in December, and orange in October.  My husband can claim any kind of marketing blabidy-blah that he wants, but I know better.  I know that it really does taste better.

I have a gift for candy.  I was once at work talking to my mom on the phone.  Suddenly, I heard a distinct sound in the background.  "Did someone just pour some M&Ms into a glass bowl?" I asked.  Indeed, my sister had just gone into the kitchen and poured a satisfying pile of candy into a bowl.  I also was able to detect, over the phone, mind you, that they were peanut M&Ms.  It's a gift... and a curse.

Chocolate that is won as a prize is also more delicious.  When I was a kid I entered a contest in the Irondequoit Press and won a 3-foot chocolate rabbit from Stever's Candy Shop.  It was one of the three things that I ever won in my entire life.  Truly, anything from Stever's is a win.  My husband recently bought me (well, us) a box of dark chocolate orange bark from the charming little chocolate shop.  (By the way, for someone who has to be "in the mood" for chocolate, he sure did pound it down!  Guess he was in the mood!)  While the orange bark was scrumptious, there was something especially satisfying about eating the chocolate that I had won, the chocolate that I obtained by defeating other children.  It was the spoils of competition.  I could taste the victory, and I liked it!

Possibly the only thing that tastes better than candy that is won, is candy that is stolen from your children when they aren't looking.  I know how that sounds, but I don't care.  Candy is not good for kids.  I like to think of it as providing a service for them that keeps them from over eating and making themselves sick.  Any parent knows that a mini Twix bar discreetly pulled from a Halloween bag tastes better than one you just pick up in the grocery store check-out lane.  I guess it's the thrill of the hunt.

Even after my very solid arguments, my husband is not convinced there is a difference.  He can think anything he wants, as long as he doesn't mind being wrong.  Besides, that leaves more pastel M&Ms for me.  :-)

Sticky Situations

When I was in Kindergarten we would stick pieces of paper together using what was referred to as paste.  It wasn't quite glue, the thick, white liquid known to kids today.  It came in a jar with a screw top lid that usually had a plastic stick attached to the inside.  It smelled like mint and, according to many of my classmates but not confirmed by me personally, it tasted good.  I never ate the paste.  I've always been proud of my ability to not fold under pressure.  It kept me out of trouble until... well... whenever. 

Anyhow... My kids came into the living room to inform me that they needed glue.  Apparently, there was a very important impromptu craft project taking place on the kitchen table.  I don't let my kids use glue.  I always squeezed too much of the sticky liquid out at once and would end up saturating the construction paper.  I imagine my kids will probably inherit that technique and don't wish to experience it in my own home.  I'll save that adventure for the school art teacher, along with the realization that if they coat their hands with glue and let it dry it will look like they're peeling off their skin.  It's a really cool sensation, but a mess I would rather not clean up after.

So instead of glue I handed over the modern version of paste, the glue stick.  This is the only adhesive product I trust my children with after the Tape Fiasco of '09.  I won't go into it right now, but lets suffice it to say that I lost an entire role of masking tape and Emily's eyebrows are still pretty thin.  Even glue stick has evolved.  It used to just be a cylindrical version of the paste I grew up with.  But now it goes on purple, dries clear and is washable.  I'm not sure of the purpose of this "fading purple" technology, but I'm sure there is a reason for it.  It doesn't seem to prevent my kids from smearing it onto the kitchen table.  But at least everyone keeps their eyebrows on.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

I don't understand the words to While My Guitar Gently Weeps.

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping.
Still my guitar gently weeps.

Weepy guitar.  So sad.  :-(

I don't understand how those lines mean something together.  Is it because he knows he's wasting time fiddling with his guitar when there's obviously chores to be done?  Is it a euphemism for something?

I posed the question to a friend of mine who tends to be a very deep thinker.  His response was, "It could be a metaphor for how the mundane responsibilities of life intrude on the speaker/singer's love for music."

Geesh!  All I know for sure is that my floor needs sweeping, but I don't sit around crying about it.  I don't like sweeping because I usually have to pick a lot of stuff up off the floor first.  But the other day I adopted the concept of "if it's on the floor, it must be garbage."  This technique worked out well for me.  I swept up everything and threw it away.  It didn't matter if it was crumbs, twist ties, the kid's valentines, toys, a sock, or a big chunk of banana, all of which, I am ashamed to say, I found under the kitchen table.  I didn't even bother asking how one looses a sock at the table without noticing.  It all went into the trash.  I also don't like sorting socks, so it was a double win for me.

Like I said, I'm not really a deep thinker.  I'm a surface dweller of the mind.  If it's not on the surface I don't really care to dig around.  I took a lot of Anthropology classes in college.  I even went on an Archaeological dig.  This is what I learned:  digging for stuff is dirty and boring.  You don't usually find anything at all, and on the rare occasion that you do, it really isn't worth all the effort.  The big finds are rare.  In contrast, I have found money on the ground countless times.  Just lying there on top of the ground waiting to be picked up!  No digging necessary!  Awesome!

Whatever you are, deep thinker, surface thinker, diligent cleaner, or neglectful slob, you can't deny that a song written by a Beatle, sung by India Arie, and featuring the stylings of Yo-Yo Ma and Santana is a beautiful thing.