I was threatened today. That's as hard to admit as it is shocking that it happened at all. People don't threaten me. That's not arrogance, it's just basic truth. What is also basic truth is that as much as I am an intelligent woman, a confident woman, a woman with obvious power and an at least unreliable *seeming* temperment to people who don't know me, I am still a woman.
This is a fact that usually doesn't have a lot of bearing in my world. Today, I was reminded that I am sometimes isolated from my gendered reality by virtue of a naturally prickly set of non-verbal cues that signal me as someone not to be trifled with.
There's been a pit bull running the neighborhood. I don't like pit bulls. Aesthetically, I find them quite handsome. They appeal to my taste for powerful and reletively dangerous predators. However, people who own pit bulls are consistantly of a temperment that take a handsome and rather gentle breed and turn it into something ugly and unsafe to be running loose. I tried for a while to bite down my learned bias for the animals when he would sometimes get loose. Recently, it's been more frequent and I found out he'd growled several times at my Goddaughter. Unacceptable. I asked around, and apparently the dog had bared his teeth, chased and otherwise showed unreliable temperment towards other people as well. The dog has to go.
For the last week, it seems the dog has been loose all the time. Early this week, I'd had it. The dog was growling at my loved ones, chasing the neighbor kid on the bike, and who knows what it could/would do to my children. I called Animal Control. I didn't get a person, so I left a message. I'm not sure if anything happened because of my message, but the dog was still around today. I was at the neighbors house when I saw him again. I urged her to call Animal Control again and she did. I believe the neighbor across the street also called them, because the dog had taken to sleeping on her back porch. The neighbor across the street from me had shot him in the ass with a pellet gun sometime last week to get it out of his yard. The whole street has had it.
When I got back from the gym today, the owner was out looking for the dog on his 4 wheeler. I figured it was him, although I'd never met/seen the guy before, since he was riding around calling out a name. I presume that's the dog. I wandered over to the neighbors house to see if the dog had been picked up, or if Animal Control had come by or what the gossip was. He rolled by, an ugly man of around 50, and looked at me hard. I was mildly surprised he recognized me at all, and a tiny bit disconcerted that he seemed to be aware that I was involved in the calling in of Authority about his dog. Then, he lowers his head, squints his eyes at me and growls, "You call on my dog again, and there's going to be big trouble."
I stopped in my tracks. Naturally possessing more guts than brains, I was a hair's breath away from telling him just what part of my ass he could kiss. Suddenly tho, my situation came crashing down on me. I was alone. I live alone and worse, I sometimes live alone with two young children. I don't even have a fucking dog to give me advance warning if someone breaks into my house, much less a man around to act as a deterrent for crazy ass pit bull owners who like to teach mouthy women a lesson about their place. In that moment between his comment and my preferred response of sarcasm and disdain, I recognized us both for what we were. He's a brute, a man who is just crazy enough to push someone around if he thought he could get away with it. And, he figures, you can get away with it when it's just a woman you're pushing around. And I am a single mom living alone.
Just a woman. All three of those words are significant in their own right. Just = less than, a = alone, and woman = weaker/vulnerable. I remember feeling vulnerable and weak once. Twice, actually, tho the second time was different in many ways. It was during pregnancy. I remember feeling slow and cumbersome and completely and utterly helpless to whatever the world may throw at me. At the time, it was a panic that was controlled by my husband. In response to my increasing frailty, he became increasingly protective and watchful for danger. I thought it was romantic and not a little bit comforting. It was always nice to have his physical presence at my back.
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire. . .
Not today. My husband is now an ex-husband. There is no physical presence at my back. In fact, the only physical presence in my house is mine, and it's my presence that's at the back of people smaller and weaker by nature than I am, my children. I'm all we have, and that reality choked me. In the end, I faced that reality and called on the resources I had, I talked to the neighbor about it, and enlisted the protection of that man, knowing that masculine protection is the only language except for brute force on my part that guy would understand. Other women I've told have suggested I call the prosecuters office pre-emptively. That way, when/if something happens and the guy does decide he wants to fuck with me, I have a report already in. Why? Because we all know a woman is only believed reluctantly and has a better chance of getting a quick response if there's already been a report made. Other than that, it's just histrionics.
Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby
Edgy and dull and cut a 6-inch valley
Through the middle of my soul
I guess I need to get a dog, or a boyfriend, or a penis.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Dear 15B
To the girl who took the locker I usually utilize while at the gym,
My day was a bit off kilter. No apparently good reason, although in the shower I realized I'd started my period so that could likely explain my complete inability to swim straight. Speaking of straight. . .
I would like to apologize for that brief burst of annoyance that someone had taken my usual locker, the locker I'd chosen for no particularly good reason other than it was the first that caught my eye and it was a multiple of three. I don't apologize for my irrational petulence, since it's a part of my nature. However, I do regret having any ill feelings towards you in particular.
After my swim, there you were, getting dressed. I would like you to know, officially and publically, that what you have under your clothes just ain't right. The world at large appreciates your efforts to keep yourself in shape, and the lucky person who regularly gets the view I got to see today is a source of my long lasting envy. I'm sure you're a colassal pain in the ass. I'm sure you think your ass is fat and fret compulsively over whether you have been good enough to deserve a half a brownie. I don't really care about all that, since I only got a brief glimpse of your glory and thus only have to pay a small price in assuaging your neurosis.
To that end, let it be known... if you ever thought gays and bisexuals shouldn't be allowed in locker rooms because they're looking at you, you were right. If you thought other women would be glancing at your form out of the corner of their eye with envy and covetous desire, you were indeed correct. If you were the one who spoke up and said "yes, I *do* think that in the brief time we are naked together in a locker room a person can have filthy and lewd fantasies about what they would do with my body, some rope and a deserted alley." Well, you were right about that as well.
I hope you abuse that body regularly, 15B. I hope you run hellbent for leather over any man (or woman) who dares to think they can contain you. You should be public property, you should be rode hard and put up wet, and you should be fucked, a lot.
I wish only the best for you. I hope your bush remains always so black and curly, your ass somehow makes the word "flanks" sexy, and your breasts never lose their supernatural levitation abilities without a bra. Good luck, and happy hunting.
Sincerely,
The temporary occupant of 13B
My day was a bit off kilter. No apparently good reason, although in the shower I realized I'd started my period so that could likely explain my complete inability to swim straight. Speaking of straight. . .
I would like to apologize for that brief burst of annoyance that someone had taken my usual locker, the locker I'd chosen for no particularly good reason other than it was the first that caught my eye and it was a multiple of three. I don't apologize for my irrational petulence, since it's a part of my nature. However, I do regret having any ill feelings towards you in particular.
After my swim, there you were, getting dressed. I would like you to know, officially and publically, that what you have under your clothes just ain't right. The world at large appreciates your efforts to keep yourself in shape, and the lucky person who regularly gets the view I got to see today is a source of my long lasting envy. I'm sure you're a colassal pain in the ass. I'm sure you think your ass is fat and fret compulsively over whether you have been good enough to deserve a half a brownie. I don't really care about all that, since I only got a brief glimpse of your glory and thus only have to pay a small price in assuaging your neurosis.
To that end, let it be known... if you ever thought gays and bisexuals shouldn't be allowed in locker rooms because they're looking at you, you were right. If you thought other women would be glancing at your form out of the corner of their eye with envy and covetous desire, you were indeed correct. If you were the one who spoke up and said "yes, I *do* think that in the brief time we are naked together in a locker room a person can have filthy and lewd fantasies about what they would do with my body, some rope and a deserted alley." Well, you were right about that as well.
I hope you abuse that body regularly, 15B. I hope you run hellbent for leather over any man (or woman) who dares to think they can contain you. You should be public property, you should be rode hard and put up wet, and you should be fucked, a lot.
I wish only the best for you. I hope your bush remains always so black and curly, your ass somehow makes the word "flanks" sexy, and your breasts never lose their supernatural levitation abilities without a bra. Good luck, and happy hunting.
Sincerely,
The temporary occupant of 13B
Money
Money, get away
I hate money. I hate talking about it, dealing with it, being responsible to it. I don't like to have to think about money in my life. I don't like what things feel like when I owe someone money, or they owe me money. I don't like the ugliness that enters a relationship when money becomes an issue.
Marriages end over money more than anything else. My father has a marriage ending right now, and while he didn't say it particularly, I can tell it's over money. He talks about being in debt up to their ears, over extended... this was in a conversation where he sent me a check for $300 from his tax refund, "because I thought you needed it more." And I did, I really really did need it more and I hate that.
My own marriage may have ended in no small part over money. Who works, why, how much? What amount is needed to live on, and who is responsible for making sure that amount gets met? What happens if it doesn't? What happens if the person who should, just can't?
There aren't any other options, someone just has to.
Money, get back
I need to get a job this summer. I don't want a job, I just want to be with my kids, hang out, do art, and generally decompress. I want to be in denial about my financial situation, and simply can't anymore. The wolves are at the door, the howling masses of debt banging from the outside, demanding to be acknowledged. When I was in school, I could pretend they didn't exist. Now, they must be heard.
Money, it's a crime
Without money, nothing works right. I won't have a place to live, won't have a car to drive, won't have the freedom to do what I want to do, when I have the time left to do it after I spend the rest of my time making money.
Money sucks.
I hate money. I hate talking about it, dealing with it, being responsible to it. I don't like to have to think about money in my life. I don't like what things feel like when I owe someone money, or they owe me money. I don't like the ugliness that enters a relationship when money becomes an issue.
Marriages end over money more than anything else. My father has a marriage ending right now, and while he didn't say it particularly, I can tell it's over money. He talks about being in debt up to their ears, over extended... this was in a conversation where he sent me a check for $300 from his tax refund, "because I thought you needed it more." And I did, I really really did need it more and I hate that.
My own marriage may have ended in no small part over money. Who works, why, how much? What amount is needed to live on, and who is responsible for making sure that amount gets met? What happens if it doesn't? What happens if the person who should, just can't?
There aren't any other options, someone just has to.
Money, get back
I need to get a job this summer. I don't want a job, I just want to be with my kids, hang out, do art, and generally decompress. I want to be in denial about my financial situation, and simply can't anymore. The wolves are at the door, the howling masses of debt banging from the outside, demanding to be acknowledged. When I was in school, I could pretend they didn't exist. Now, they must be heard.
Money, it's a crime
Without money, nothing works right. I won't have a place to live, won't have a car to drive, won't have the freedom to do what I want to do, when I have the time left to do it after I spend the rest of my time making money.
Money sucks.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Take me Out
I went with Thing 2 on a field trip with his pre-school today. We were going to the Indianapolis Indians ballgame. I adore baseball. I played softball most of my teen years, and even managed to get on a team that was second place in the little league my final year. That was a complete fluke, they just needed an extra player and got stuck with me. I was a terrible softball player, just awful. I was fat, I was slow, and I threw like a girl. My structural delicacy had me longing to learn to slide but absolutely certain it would mean my doom. I did slide, once, that final year. I actually faced my dread of the solid earth meeting my delicate back and threw myself on the ground willingly. I was out anyway, I think. I didn't care, I SLID into base. You couldn't have beaten the smile off my face.
Thing 1 has expressed an interest in baseball, but not really much fortitude in learning the game. We missed the season last year, but this year I hope to actually get him involved in little league. The parks and rec team is dumb. If you're going to play ball, PLAY BALL. Thing 2 was just thrilled to be going on a field trip. When they asked me if I would be willing to come with them to help chaperone, I agreed since I knew I didn't have anything better to do with my time. See, I'd forgotten somehow that I love baseball.
It's funny how you forget things that you like. Maybe it was because I've been distracted by things like breeding, physical injury and heartbreak, but somewhere along the lines, I had forgotten the feeling of the beating sun over the field, the dust kicked up by players sprinting for base or ball, and the thrilling sound of the crack of the bat and the smack of the ball hitting glove. I'd misplaced my memory of passionately wanting to be a good catcher. Of wishing, above anything else to be a part of that intimate dance of pitch and catch, of taunting batters and being the most distinctive person on the team. The catcher is a breed of player into themselves. A catcher is a character judge, they are the most intimate point of contact with the opposing team. With the right analysis and communication with the pitcher, a batter can be completely unnerved. I loved that kind of bratty power trip.
A catcher has legs like tree trunks, powerful legs for leaping in the air and catching foul balls, for carrying extra pounds of equipment to keep their bodies reletively safe from flying foul balls, swinging bats and other hazards of being in the line of fire between the pitcher and the hitter. The cockiness of a catcher is lovely. They are the ones who are going to keep you from scoring, the only one who stands in your way between third and home. The one who will catch your foul ball and make you out before you even leave the bat on the ground. I loved that cockiness and that competance, that strength and grit. I wanted to be like that.
They warmed up a pitcher right near where we were sitting in the third row. The catcher was directly in front of us. His last name was completely unintelligible, but I wanted him. I watched him catching with a singular passion. I wonder if he noticed the girl with the straw hat in the third row watching him so intently, wanting to be him and if not to be him, then to at least be near him. Probably not.
The pitcher he was warming up, number 39, was terrible, just awful. He was certainly too bad to be put on the mound, I thought. But I was wrong. We were leaving at the bottom of the 7th (3-0, their favor) when he started pitching. I actually saw the catcher have to leap into the air to catch the PITCH. Unreal. I watched him walk two hitters.
Standing near the gate, my pretty yellow skirt with little blue flowers blowing in the breeze, my charming brown wide brimmed straw hat shading my face, looking feminine and every bit the part of a massengil commercial, I turned to the group of preschoolers and their parents and said, "That guy pitches like my ASS."
Which just goes to show that you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you just can't take the trailer park out of the girl.
Thing 1 has expressed an interest in baseball, but not really much fortitude in learning the game. We missed the season last year, but this year I hope to actually get him involved in little league. The parks and rec team is dumb. If you're going to play ball, PLAY BALL. Thing 2 was just thrilled to be going on a field trip. When they asked me if I would be willing to come with them to help chaperone, I agreed since I knew I didn't have anything better to do with my time. See, I'd forgotten somehow that I love baseball.
It's funny how you forget things that you like. Maybe it was because I've been distracted by things like breeding, physical injury and heartbreak, but somewhere along the lines, I had forgotten the feeling of the beating sun over the field, the dust kicked up by players sprinting for base or ball, and the thrilling sound of the crack of the bat and the smack of the ball hitting glove. I'd misplaced my memory of passionately wanting to be a good catcher. Of wishing, above anything else to be a part of that intimate dance of pitch and catch, of taunting batters and being the most distinctive person on the team. The catcher is a breed of player into themselves. A catcher is a character judge, they are the most intimate point of contact with the opposing team. With the right analysis and communication with the pitcher, a batter can be completely unnerved. I loved that kind of bratty power trip.
A catcher has legs like tree trunks, powerful legs for leaping in the air and catching foul balls, for carrying extra pounds of equipment to keep their bodies reletively safe from flying foul balls, swinging bats and other hazards of being in the line of fire between the pitcher and the hitter. The cockiness of a catcher is lovely. They are the ones who are going to keep you from scoring, the only one who stands in your way between third and home. The one who will catch your foul ball and make you out before you even leave the bat on the ground. I loved that cockiness and that competance, that strength and grit. I wanted to be like that.
They warmed up a pitcher right near where we were sitting in the third row. The catcher was directly in front of us. His last name was completely unintelligible, but I wanted him. I watched him catching with a singular passion. I wonder if he noticed the girl with the straw hat in the third row watching him so intently, wanting to be him and if not to be him, then to at least be near him. Probably not.
The pitcher he was warming up, number 39, was terrible, just awful. He was certainly too bad to be put on the mound, I thought. But I was wrong. We were leaving at the bottom of the 7th (3-0, their favor) when he started pitching. I actually saw the catcher have to leap into the air to catch the PITCH. Unreal. I watched him walk two hitters.
Standing near the gate, my pretty yellow skirt with little blue flowers blowing in the breeze, my charming brown wide brimmed straw hat shading my face, looking feminine and every bit the part of a massengil commercial, I turned to the group of preschoolers and their parents and said, "That guy pitches like my ASS."
Which just goes to show that you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you just can't take the trailer park out of the girl.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
I am Mom, Hear me Roar!
Yesterday I took my boys to the doctor. The youngest had a mysterious lump in parts unmentionable, and I wanted to have it checked out. Now, the penises of my children (oops, I just went mentioning it, didn't I?) are the subject of intense discourse between the doctor and I. Their father and I decided against circumcision when they were born. I didn't have a great deal to say on the matter except for a vague discomfort with the notion of cutting off a part of the body that it comes with naturally for no apparent good reason. In truth, I mostly deferred to the judgement of the penis bearing parent, feeling he would be the one who had the most compelling argument one way or another. Fortunately, we were both in agreement that circumcision was unnecessary at best and potentially harmful in not infrequent cases.
I'm a scrapper. I will go to bat for what I believe in, and backing down in the face of hypocricy, administrata, irrationality, fear, or habit isn't in my nature. I do, however, sometimes succumb to the niggling frisson of doubt and exhaustion from the fight. At 5, the foreskin of my eldest hadn't retracted. No Circ has been a source of great comfort, strength and information for me over the years. My knowledge of this particular health issue is sketchy at best, and, it seems, that is true for the medical community at large as well. It's been an uphill battle the whole time, to greater or lesser degrees, with every health professional that's taken a look at these non-standard genital choices. The doctor was convinced that something was terribly wrong. She referred us to a urologist.
The urologist suggested circumcision as the first and most obvious solution. The solution to what? Well see, that's the question. What is the actual health concern? They start throwing around stuff like adhesion. I rebut with "well yes, it's all sort of adhered together in there until it's time for the foreskin to retract, that's how it's kept clean, isn't it?" Then they talk about painful erections as adolescents, and the skin slipping back and basically cutting off the circulation to the glans. So which is it? Is the foreskin too tight, or is there atypical adhesion?
Sometimes, retreat is the better form of valor, and that's the direction I opted for. My feeling, backed by the research done by their dad, (or was it my mom? I admit, I came home exasperated and exhausted by the experience and dumped the research request on someone else who had the strength at the time) was that this would resolve on its own with time. And that there was plenty more time before a lack of resolution actually became a problem. Rather than fight and risk defeat in the face of exhaustion and doubt, I just tried to avoid talking with the doc about the issue at all.
Yesterday, the lump brought unwanted attention onto the youngest boys similar issue. I know my doc sees a bunch of people, and we don't go in there much. I don't expect her to remember everything that happens to my kids in minutia. So, I picked up Thing 1 to go along with us to Thing 2's appointment. Sometimes, I kill myself at how clever I am. Thing 1 has a foreskin that's now retracting, even tho the skin is still tight. (I'm fairly certain that teen boys doing what teen boys do will get that skin stretched out and working properly in little time) The adhesion is starting to come away from the glans. In effect, everything that's supposed to be happening, is.
She started in with the going to the urologist for Thing 2. I rebutted with how he was ignorant of the issues surrounding uncircumcized penises and that going to see him is an exercise in futility because he doesn't know what is normal and what isn't, and I'd rather not go unless she directs me to someone who is actually experienced in such matters unless she would like the lump looked at, in which case I would be happy to go. She went and checked Thing 1's chart and discovered the doc she wanted us to see was the one we already saw. She was stymied.
At that point, I had her look at Thing 1's new and improved foreskin function. The conversation/discussion/tension ground to a halt. She said something to the effect of: oh, well, that looks fine, I don't see any reason to be concerned.
Duh.
So, I drove my point home by pointing out that both boys have similar foreskins, and it's highly likely that Thing 2 will develop along similar timelines to Thing 1. She agreed, and it looks like I'm off the medical grill for at least a couple of years.
w00t!
I'm now free of the dread I felt whenever the topic came up. I hate having to fight so strenuously, but dammit, they are not going to hack and slash at my kids just because they don't fit into the uninformed timeline they have in their heads. Grrr.
I'm a scrapper. I will go to bat for what I believe in, and backing down in the face of hypocricy, administrata, irrationality, fear, or habit isn't in my nature. I do, however, sometimes succumb to the niggling frisson of doubt and exhaustion from the fight. At 5, the foreskin of my eldest hadn't retracted. No Circ has been a source of great comfort, strength and information for me over the years. My knowledge of this particular health issue is sketchy at best, and, it seems, that is true for the medical community at large as well. It's been an uphill battle the whole time, to greater or lesser degrees, with every health professional that's taken a look at these non-standard genital choices. The doctor was convinced that something was terribly wrong. She referred us to a urologist.
The urologist suggested circumcision as the first and most obvious solution. The solution to what? Well see, that's the question. What is the actual health concern? They start throwing around stuff like adhesion. I rebut with "well yes, it's all sort of adhered together in there until it's time for the foreskin to retract, that's how it's kept clean, isn't it?" Then they talk about painful erections as adolescents, and the skin slipping back and basically cutting off the circulation to the glans. So which is it? Is the foreskin too tight, or is there atypical adhesion?
Sometimes, retreat is the better form of valor, and that's the direction I opted for. My feeling, backed by the research done by their dad, (or was it my mom? I admit, I came home exasperated and exhausted by the experience and dumped the research request on someone else who had the strength at the time) was that this would resolve on its own with time. And that there was plenty more time before a lack of resolution actually became a problem. Rather than fight and risk defeat in the face of exhaustion and doubt, I just tried to avoid talking with the doc about the issue at all.
Yesterday, the lump brought unwanted attention onto the youngest boys similar issue. I know my doc sees a bunch of people, and we don't go in there much. I don't expect her to remember everything that happens to my kids in minutia. So, I picked up Thing 1 to go along with us to Thing 2's appointment. Sometimes, I kill myself at how clever I am. Thing 1 has a foreskin that's now retracting, even tho the skin is still tight. (I'm fairly certain that teen boys doing what teen boys do will get that skin stretched out and working properly in little time) The adhesion is starting to come away from the glans. In effect, everything that's supposed to be happening, is.
She started in with the going to the urologist for Thing 2. I rebutted with how he was ignorant of the issues surrounding uncircumcized penises and that going to see him is an exercise in futility because he doesn't know what is normal and what isn't, and I'd rather not go unless she directs me to someone who is actually experienced in such matters unless she would like the lump looked at, in which case I would be happy to go. She went and checked Thing 1's chart and discovered the doc she wanted us to see was the one we already saw. She was stymied.
At that point, I had her look at Thing 1's new and improved foreskin function. The conversation/discussion/tension ground to a halt. She said something to the effect of: oh, well, that looks fine, I don't see any reason to be concerned.
Duh.
So, I drove my point home by pointing out that both boys have similar foreskins, and it's highly likely that Thing 2 will develop along similar timelines to Thing 1. She agreed, and it looks like I'm off the medical grill for at least a couple of years.
w00t!
I'm now free of the dread I felt whenever the topic came up. I hate having to fight so strenuously, but dammit, they are not going to hack and slash at my kids just because they don't fit into the uninformed timeline they have in their heads. Grrr.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Green Goddess
I only barely started feeling human again today. The elf beating seemed to be wearing off, and I managed to get some stuff accomplished. After the doctors appointment we walked outside. I stopped still, stiff as a pointer, sniffing the air. It smelled like planting!
My gardens have been neglected in the face of conflicting scholastic and parental obligations. It was on my list to work on both the gardens and the seriously neglected stated of domestic affairs in my house this week... sometime. (otherwise known as ya, don't hold your breath) But the dropping barametric pressure was a spur to the flank I couldn't ignore.
$40 in bedding plants later, I was on my way to the garden. The kids helped fetch and carry, then disappeared to play for a while, reappearing to help put plants in the ground and water them. 3 hours later, I'd gotten in 13 tomato plants, 3 sweet potato plants, 8 red cabbage, 8 green cabbage, 7 hot banana peppers, 4 Jalepeno, 3 yellow bell pepper, and 2 yellow squash. The plots went from looking like the neglected step-children of the community gardens to looking downright respectable. There's still a bunch that needs to be done, but that's a chunk! The potato plants already put in (around Good Friday, of course) are looking really great, although the yukon golds are looking a little whipped on from the transition to coddeled pail existance to being out in the direct sun. They should recover tho. The russets are looking downright cheery.
And, because I apparently don't know when to quit when I'm behind, I put two pepper plants in the ground in the home garden. As long as nothing dreadful happens like The Great Garden Massacre of 2004, I anticipate having a really great harvest this year, and to do some freezing, drying, canning and saucing mormon style like the Ridge Mamma I am. I am all aflutter.
My gardens have been neglected in the face of conflicting scholastic and parental obligations. It was on my list to work on both the gardens and the seriously neglected stated of domestic affairs in my house this week... sometime. (otherwise known as ya, don't hold your breath) But the dropping barametric pressure was a spur to the flank I couldn't ignore.
$40 in bedding plants later, I was on my way to the garden. The kids helped fetch and carry, then disappeared to play for a while, reappearing to help put plants in the ground and water them. 3 hours later, I'd gotten in 13 tomato plants, 3 sweet potato plants, 8 red cabbage, 8 green cabbage, 7 hot banana peppers, 4 Jalepeno, 3 yellow bell pepper, and 2 yellow squash. The plots went from looking like the neglected step-children of the community gardens to looking downright respectable. There's still a bunch that needs to be done, but that's a chunk! The potato plants already put in (around Good Friday, of course) are looking really great, although the yukon golds are looking a little whipped on from the transition to coddeled pail existance to being out in the direct sun. They should recover tho. The russets are looking downright cheery.
And, because I apparently don't know when to quit when I'm behind, I put two pepper plants in the ground in the home garden. As long as nothing dreadful happens like The Great Garden Massacre of 2004, I anticipate having a really great harvest this year, and to do some freezing, drying, canning and saucing mormon style like the Ridge Mamma I am. I am all aflutter.
Self Abuse
Last weekend, I went down to Lothlorien to help with the structure of the new Thunder Dome. I came home after 6 hours of priming metal, (with this very cool primer stuff that bonds with the rust of the metal and turns into this permanent coating of hard black something, very cool)sanding metal poles (the hand job jokes never stopped being funny... well until about 4:30 when I was getting grumpy) spray painting to color code the different size poles, and generally just hauling big heavy hunks of metal around to be painted. I wanted to collapse into bed and lie there forever. I felt like I'd been beaten and left for dead by an elf, and my sense of humor was at non-existant levels.
Did I stay home? No, that would be completely rational. I got a call from a friend and went over to her house to hang out with her and her new man, The Man. Hehe. Anyway, Sunday, I was liquid goo in motion. My kid to shove me out of his bed when they were going to sleep, go sleep in your own bed! Actually, bless his heart, I told him I couldn't get up and I would have to sleep in his bed and asked him what he would do. He said.. I would sleep with you then. *laughs*
I think I was suffering from heat exhaustion. I felt guilty about that. I hate the sun, I loathe tan lines and I fear skin cancer. My complexion is fair and simply asking for trouble. Just Friday, I was at the dermatologist for a completely unrelated reason, and when we were finished, he took off my glasses and peered at my face. "you need to wear sunscreen." I bowed my head in submission. I know, I stammered in guilt, but it breaks out my face. "then wear a hat" Ok.
I tried to wear a hat on Saturday, I had good intentions. I stole this hat from my ex. It's blue denim and I loved it from the minute I suggested to him he buy it for himself. Somewhere in there, I guess I had the idea that I could wear it if it was in the household, and I could justify buying it if it were for someone else, someone with a gleaming bald head and fair complexion that had an actual *need* for sun protection, where I just had a covetous desire born of millinery sluttery. When he became my ex, he didn't take it with him. In fact, I'm not sure he ever wore it at all. That suited me just fine, because I wanted it for *me*. Heh, maybe he never even bought my thin assertion that it was for him in the first place. Who knows now. All I know is that he left and the hat didn't, so it's mine by virtue of the fact that I've lived in two seperate places since he left and had to pack it in a box and take it with me. If that's not justifiable ownership, I don't know what is.
I had this brilliant idea to get a cat. Not just any cat, but a ragdoll. The breed is beautiful, they don't shed much even tho they have long hair. Brilliant blue eyes (a weakness of mine, to be sure) and cheery disposition. Completely unsuited to outdoor living in any way, since they'd been breed for docility. I'd like to know what I was thinking since the last thing in the world I respect in *anything* is docility, and especially in a predator. What I wanted was for something to give a shit when I came home at night, *if* I came home at night. With the kids so frequently at their dad's, my house was lonely, boring and eerily quiet. A longing for physical affection coming from a completely unobjective living being drove me to get a pet. Lack of time to train, low willingness to commit to being home *every* day and a burning desire on the part of my eldest child led me towards a cat in particular.
This cat peed everywhere. It was amazing. I didn't know so much pee could be in a cat, and I didn't know a cat would *want* to pee in so many places. When the weather got warm, my house reeked. I waited for the inevitable comment from the father of my kids, hater of cats, and pointer outer of my faults. Fortunately, by the time the comment did come, I was well on the path to getting rid of the foul beast, and my general opinion of having a cat in the house was right up there with his by then. I like cats, but I don't like litter boxes. I like purring, but I don't like shedding. I can actually tolerate a cat that goes outside most of the time and comes inside to purr and frolic, then goes about its business of being a barely tamed predator running amok in the world. That is not the kind of cat a ragdoll is.
I put on the hat (you wondered why this was relevant, right?) and it looked great. I think this was the first time I'd actually worn the hat, the first time I'd claimed it as mine and decided that he was no longer the official owner of said hat, and that it could officially be declared as abandoned since he never asked for it in all the times he was in my house and it was in my closet behind a closed door. I bop on out to the car, the hat jauntily on my head. The car is warm. Suddenly, there is a smell I recognized from the nightmares of my choices gone bad... cat pee.
DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!!! The fucking cat pissed on my hat. MY HAT. I stole that hat good and proper, and the damn cat dares to pee on it??? While Karma may have slapped me around like a bitch, it's well known I like that kind of treatment, and this is why we have oxyclean, so NYAH! It's in the washing machine as we speak, being de-catpeetized with the wonderful use of modern pharmaceuticals. I love denim.
Did I stay home? No, that would be completely rational. I got a call from a friend and went over to her house to hang out with her and her new man, The Man. Hehe. Anyway, Sunday, I was liquid goo in motion. My kid to shove me out of his bed when they were going to sleep, go sleep in your own bed! Actually, bless his heart, I told him I couldn't get up and I would have to sleep in his bed and asked him what he would do. He said.. I would sleep with you then. *laughs*
I think I was suffering from heat exhaustion. I felt guilty about that. I hate the sun, I loathe tan lines and I fear skin cancer. My complexion is fair and simply asking for trouble. Just Friday, I was at the dermatologist for a completely unrelated reason, and when we were finished, he took off my glasses and peered at my face. "you need to wear sunscreen." I bowed my head in submission. I know, I stammered in guilt, but it breaks out my face. "then wear a hat" Ok.
I tried to wear a hat on Saturday, I had good intentions. I stole this hat from my ex. It's blue denim and I loved it from the minute I suggested to him he buy it for himself. Somewhere in there, I guess I had the idea that I could wear it if it was in the household, and I could justify buying it if it were for someone else, someone with a gleaming bald head and fair complexion that had an actual *need* for sun protection, where I just had a covetous desire born of millinery sluttery. When he became my ex, he didn't take it with him. In fact, I'm not sure he ever wore it at all. That suited me just fine, because I wanted it for *me*. Heh, maybe he never even bought my thin assertion that it was for him in the first place. Who knows now. All I know is that he left and the hat didn't, so it's mine by virtue of the fact that I've lived in two seperate places since he left and had to pack it in a box and take it with me. If that's not justifiable ownership, I don't know what is.
I had this brilliant idea to get a cat. Not just any cat, but a ragdoll. The breed is beautiful, they don't shed much even tho they have long hair. Brilliant blue eyes (a weakness of mine, to be sure) and cheery disposition. Completely unsuited to outdoor living in any way, since they'd been breed for docility. I'd like to know what I was thinking since the last thing in the world I respect in *anything* is docility, and especially in a predator. What I wanted was for something to give a shit when I came home at night, *if* I came home at night. With the kids so frequently at their dad's, my house was lonely, boring and eerily quiet. A longing for physical affection coming from a completely unobjective living being drove me to get a pet. Lack of time to train, low willingness to commit to being home *every* day and a burning desire on the part of my eldest child led me towards a cat in particular.
This cat peed everywhere. It was amazing. I didn't know so much pee could be in a cat, and I didn't know a cat would *want* to pee in so many places. When the weather got warm, my house reeked. I waited for the inevitable comment from the father of my kids, hater of cats, and pointer outer of my faults. Fortunately, by the time the comment did come, I was well on the path to getting rid of the foul beast, and my general opinion of having a cat in the house was right up there with his by then. I like cats, but I don't like litter boxes. I like purring, but I don't like shedding. I can actually tolerate a cat that goes outside most of the time and comes inside to purr and frolic, then goes about its business of being a barely tamed predator running amok in the world. That is not the kind of cat a ragdoll is.
I put on the hat (you wondered why this was relevant, right?) and it looked great. I think this was the first time I'd actually worn the hat, the first time I'd claimed it as mine and decided that he was no longer the official owner of said hat, and that it could officially be declared as abandoned since he never asked for it in all the times he was in my house and it was in my closet behind a closed door. I bop on out to the car, the hat jauntily on my head. The car is warm. Suddenly, there is a smell I recognized from the nightmares of my choices gone bad... cat pee.
DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!!! The fucking cat pissed on my hat. MY HAT. I stole that hat good and proper, and the damn cat dares to pee on it??? While Karma may have slapped me around like a bitch, it's well known I like that kind of treatment, and this is why we have oxyclean, so NYAH! It's in the washing machine as we speak, being de-catpeetized with the wonderful use of modern pharmaceuticals. I love denim.
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