(expletive) Happens

Three fairly pointless items, which are related to the parts where you are welcome to imagine us running amok in our house in classic slapstick fashion.

Thing #1: Maytag blue cheese atop a slab of home-made corn bread is really, really good - this may not be news to any of you, but the contrast between the lightly sweet corn flavor and the pleasantly pungent blue is deee-licious!

Thing #2: I've just now started to watch Desperate Housewives...so far, I can only see it as 'what might have happened if the girls from Sex in the City move to the 'burbs.' Am somewhat confused about the little gardener boy (Jon? John?) calling the chick whos' lawn he's trimming, (go ahead and take it like that, yes, do) "Mrs. Solis". I'm pretty sure the whole Mr./Mrs. bit goes out the window once you've seen each others' O face.

Thing #3: I'm hopelessly in love with those disposable toilet scrubby things - I know they're terrible for the environment and in penance, vow to cloth diaper Jimmy (really, you need to read that link, because... Jonniker! awesome! funny! all posts titled after songs!) for a good couple of months in penance for my sins. So, onto the reason why I'm Throwing in the Towel(s):

Our house is almost eighty years old; thankfully the plumbing has been redone - I'm not sure exactly when. Since we moved in to 'our' portion of the house six years ago, I've noticed a few little quirks, but the house works. So what if that one cabinet never, ever stays shut? Who cares if half the windows won't stay up? This is character - and folks pay dearly for it, all the time. And our habit of running into the bathroom* after everyone who visits it to jiggle the handle? It's got nothing to do with the fact that unless we (Scott) do(es) the jiggling, the toilet will run. Forever and ever, until the toilet overfloweth, causing havoc and yuckiness. Naturally, this cranky commode has its' own special rules list, as follows: 1. No large bits of paper, foreign bodies, or overly heavy thoughts. 2. No multiple flushing, and thou shalt jiggle ye olde handle twice; not three, not one, but two times. Or it shall run like this woman.

In case you were wondering, it is completely impervious to plumbers (see Thing #2) We've had two or three come out, wave their tools over it and pronounce it fixed, and leave. Much like a car, it behaves well in front of professionals and rebels a week or two later. Earlier today, I was taking advantage of the fact I work from home, spiffed up our ever-cranky commode (see Thing #3) carefully jiggled the handle, and hopped in the shower. A few minutes later, I was rinsing the margarita scented lather out of my hair. After being up till four last night, I was probably thinking about some silly plotline of Thing #2 when I heard the sound of...water. Water, gently lapping up against the shores of...? I poked my head out, jiggled the handle and FREAKED. OUT. As it turns out, that gentle sound of water splat! slash!ing around...was the (expletive) toilet running over. Way, way, way over. Onto the...tile. Soaking the bathmat, sleekly undulating out onto the hall carpet, curving around a doorway and into our office. They say water seeks a its own level, but I say, water seeks the electronics.

I lept from the shower, yanked my towel and the others onto the floor. I yelled for Scott, who rushed in and started shouting questions about the condition of the water and what the hell was I doing, how this happened and who knows what. Somehow, we managed to a) use every single available, freshly-washed towel in the house and b) still not soak up the Lake Titicaca that was seeping into my carpet pad. After a lot of hullaballo, mayhem, trauma and laundry (still not all done, thanks) we finally managed to make sense of things. My newfound love for Thing#3 and general bad sense of timing likely combined and clogged the drain. As is usual for me on Days Like These, I had a bunch of other things to do, most of which was managed. All of which led to the necessary invention of Thing #1. Mmmmmm blue cheeeeeeeeese on cornbread.

*Actual size of my bathroom:

Just another brick in the wall

Remember way back when when I was all excited about the cache of bricks I found around the corner from our house? With all my la-la-la happiness and fairy-bugs and recycled materials? Yeah....that didn't last long - to wit: Apparently despite my repeated conversations with the 'patron' of the job about "estes para free? .... yo quiero el brickos" and asking if I could take them "Si, si, si!", the answer should have been, "No, senora." When my helper-guy finally came to actually load them up, they were mostly gone (I think he may have been rendered temporarily blind/deaf/paralyzed by Britney's crotchal-region-flashing). He did manage to get a couple of small loads and drop them off at my house - only about a quarter of the amount I'll eventually need, but I can hardly complain, right? Since they were free and all, I figured I'd better start making use of them straightaway.

I tugged on my gloves, grabbed my few tools and started laying a curving set of lovely, old crumbly bricks loosely on the ground from our front walk to the side of the house. The look I'm going for is curving, whimsical garden walk, punctuated with big peices of sandstone and grasses weaving their way in and out to create a sort of 'dry riverbed' look. Like I told Scott, you'll have to trust me on this one, it's GOING TO LOOK COOL WHEN I'M DONE. PROMISE!

In other good salvaged/recycled materials news: I'm getting a bunch of huge wood beams from a friends' jobsite (and yes, I am SURE these are available). They'll be the perfect thing for my teahouse. Wait till you hear about that.... right now I've got to go - we're off to pick up some pavers.

Bamboozled

If you've been reading here for, oh, any length of time, you know that I have Certain Issues with our house. (See: home sweet home? area of my links) Yes, our lovely, charming, cutely detailed house with the orginal floors and built-in cabinets and window that go up and down on actual ropes....or, in some cases, go up and than SLAM! down at random, putting one at a rather high risk for hand breakage. We leave these ones closed. Since my dear old dad has been in the fine home-building business since before I was born, I have a rather unfortunate habit of cocking my head to the side and saying things like, "You know, if we were to rip up the ______ and replace it with _____ , it would look EXcellent....and while we're at it, we might as well re-____ , and replace the _____ . And you know, it would save us a lot of trouble if we just went ahead and got a/n _____."

Sadly, the above could easily be a ten, fifteen or twenty thousand dollar sentence, which means I am going to have to do a lot more weddings. Additionally, I can fill in those blanks three different times with words that go with the bathroom, kitchen and living room areas. Siiigh. Darn you, father, you and your creative homebuilding magazines and piles of scrap wood and tools just waiting to be put to good use, out there in Colorado! Although to be perfectly honest, we had a broken screen door for about ten years when I was growing up, and I think my mom fixed it, or more likely, just ripped it off the track and set it aside once and for all.

Yesterday I was walking down to the post office (before the chilly Starbucks' reception) and came across a sight that was beee-youuu-ti-ful to behold: A stack of bricks about four feet high, perfectly weathered, aged, and .....drumroll....FREE. Free for the taking. Cost: Whatever it takes to haul them away. I swear I heard the "ahhh-AAAaaahh aaAAAAaaa" chorus and saw the heavens part with a single ray of sunshine. You see, I've been looking for these. exact. bricks for my garden walkway, for months. I regularly troll craigslist, bother construction workers, and beg to go to home supply places - and guess what? My neuroses have finally paid off in a postive way! Now I just need that to happen a few more times, and my walkway can take shape!



So along these lines (the whole 'home improvement' bit) I thought...well, what the heck, 'tis the season to make wishlists, why not go for it? I think I'll start a new tag, maybe call it "wishing"? Here are a few of my wishes for the future:

Floors:

This would be for the floors throughout the house: Bamboo - however, I'd like mine laid on the diagonal to de-emphasize the boxy-ness of our rooms. It comes in a bunch of different colors and options, including this neat dark tone - I'm sure that would be great to clean cat hair off, right?

Bathroom: Recycled glass tiles (much larger than these, but this is a nice sampling of color), or even the recycled terrazzo-style tiles. More to follow, your suggestions welcome - especially eco-friendly ones.

Shameful Saturday

I am not a creature of extreme restraint. That being said, I try and bite my tongue around most people - for one, it is the Mature thing to do and also, it's better for business. Today, however I did two things that while I'm not proud of, per se, I feel a little bit OK about. Item Number One: Made a rather rapid exit from a large gathering of people, because I didn't want to be harassed, questioned, bothered, accosted or quizzed or queried about....anything. I just walked out, dropped my cute new shades over my eyes, and made a beeline for our car and checked my voice mail.

Item Number Two: Made a comment that sounded exactly like an innocent question, but was really a poison-laced barb of disgust to an old acquaintance. Laughed about it, felt no remorse about being a (tiny) bit mean. It was a perfect example of why it is a Bad Idea to mistreat my friends. Ever.

Item Number Three: You may not have been reading here way back in the day, but allow me to re-cap: I have a seventy-six year old home. It was built before television, computers, the Slinky, seamless stockings, or the atomic bomb even existed. While it has charming features (darling original built-in bar, cute kick moldings, funky windows), it does NOT boast a spacious bathroom. Or even a small bathroom.

No, no...my bathroom is precisely six feet by six feet (aka The Size of a Postage Stamp), and retains the original, hideous, peach (shudder) tile. Unfortunately, when the previous owners decided to add on to our house (or convert the garage that the owners prior to them had added on, I'm not sure) they caused one hideous problem: There are no outside windows to my bathroom. To 'solve' the problem, they installed a weeeeeak fan and a skylight. The fan turns on with the light switch, but has the approximate power and suction of an asthmatic dog doing Lamaze. As you can imagine, these are the ideal breeding grounds for all kinds of ickies - which means bleach is a frequent visitor at our house.

Sooooo...all of this leads up to Item Number Four (hideous shame): Up until yesterday, I had only put one coat of Redi-Strip on the walls, and done only minimal sanding. Since there are seventy six years' worth of paint on the walls, the first coat only served to make the top five coats of paint kind of sit up and say, "I'm sorry, did you nudge me? Hmmmm?". As of Friday afternoon, I slathered a couple of (partial) walls and the ceiling in a nice, thick slurry of pale green Redi-Strip, felt a little hiiiigh, and went over to Christie and Jeremy's' house to have a shower, a chicken plate from La Super Rica and a glass of wine. So by avoiding showering (again with the shame) this morning, we were able to let the stripping solution do the job they are meant to.

I arrived home this evening, full of frustration (see: Item Number One) and mean elation (see: Item Number Two) and found a perfect outlet for both feelings: Chipping seventy-six years' worth of paint off one panel of the back of my bathroom door.

Item Number Three: Whoever owned my house had really, truly, awful taste. The original owners must have been color-blind...the sixth or seventh layer of paint down from our current outer layer put down dark pea-green paint. Horrible, ugly, pea-green, that the next painter(s) sought to conceal with a 'flesh' coral-pink. Whoever bought it from them painted over in a crappy "neutral" color, added an aggravating mirrored-tile closet* to my 'bedroom;, and demolished my fireplace. The people who got it from them did the add-on (effectively) causing the mildew issue I currently have and added a skylight that ensures that the advance of satelite technology will allow me to Google Earth myself in the shower...I hold them all in contempt.
*I refer to this closet as the "bad 70's porn" closet. Trust me when I say there is nothing, nothing, more frightening than seeing your own reflection in the mirror on waking.

Heaven help whoever buys this place from us.....because I have PLANS for this place.

A curse on all their houses

Sleep deprivation. Words cannot express the depth of my ire at the insane amount of construction that has been going on outside my house for the last....forever. The bloody construction workers are supposed to start work at seven a.m. That, my friends, is too. damn. early. for anything except sleep, sleep, and oh yeah, cats running across my face. But they don't start at seven a.m.... no-no-no-no-NO...they start at A QUARTER PAST SIX. So many times I've laid in bed, cursing them, and realizing that by the time I get up, get dressed, put on my contacts and go out there, it will be five to seven. Which will make me (officially) the Mean and Crazy Neighbor Lady who pisses and moans about things that she cannot change.

Doesn't this house look like it's...winking? The pile of pipes in front of it are all about 18 inches in diameter, and really do stretch from end to end of that house. That house, by the way...is what I see if I open my curtains. (Which I no longer do, because I don't like being ogled by nasty, rude, careless construction workers.) I use the adjectives 'nasty, rude and careless' with regard to these people, not to denigrate them, but to describe them in contrast to the majority of construction workers. My father has been up on roofs, on the side of houses, etc. for almost thirty years. I'm sure that in that time he's looked appreciatively at a woman or two...but I'm equally sure that he never made any of them feel uncomfortable, violated or uneasy about entering or leaving their house.

Aside from the creepy construction workers, there is the issue of the noise. The noise (not to mention the dust that is flying through the air twenty-four dollars a day) gives me regular headaches and has done an amazing job at destroying my concentration.

There have been massive cranes and trucks and I don't know what, all going, "Beeeeeep! Beeeeeep! Beeeeep!" and dragging this crap up and down, up and down, the street. These are sewer liner tubes made of sections of concrete about ten by ten feet. The boys in this picture are just a bit shorter than me, and are about half as tall as these things. Guess what time of day they drag these things around?

Here are SOME of the times they've been carting this crap around, with the most insane racket-y noises I've ever heard.

-1 am. Yes, one in the morning. I was up.
-6 am
-8 am
-2 pm
-6 pm
-10 pm - This time I stomped outside and chewed the truck driver out. He turned off his engine with the parting salvo of, "Geez, lady, I don't know why you're so mad!" Ummmm.... can you imagine why I shouldn't be mad?

Huge scoop thingy that is parked across the street from my house, gently touched by the rays of the sun.

I took these pictures so that when I sue for facial plastic surgery to repair the bags under my eyes, I have proof of not sleeping for years on end. Mental damage, to be sure. How much do you think I could get?

Even Better Than the Real Thing

This post kicks off my official participation in NaBloPoMo. That being said, I have a shameful confession to make: Despite my proclamations of contempt for reality tv, I love, love, love Dr. 90210. That is all. If you haven't seen it, or have been living under a rock/in a garbage pail/sans cable tv and aren't familiar, here's the rundown:

The show tells the stories of the personal and professional lives of a number of Beverly Hills/L.A. plastic surgeons and their patients. The main doctors, Robert Rey, Linda Li (who works with her husband - he's an anesthisiologist) Jason Diamond and Robert Alter, all have slightly different 'takes' on how they approach their patients, and obviously really love their jobs. They do tons of boob jobs, nose jobs, liposuction on almost every part of the body, reconstructive surgeries, and all manner of other things. I invariably end up feeling sorry for Dr. Rey's wife, Haley - she's a tiny little thing with big blue eyes and a sweet smile. She seems weighed down with running after her two kids, a huge house and her ginormous implants, trying desperatly to get a scrap or two of her flamboyant husbands' attention. Between his obsessive workaholism to his pink ties, perfect highlights and daily martial arts, he doesn't seem to have the time or the inclination to be the husband she wishes he could be.

Oddly enough, I notice that the surgeons themselves actually seem to have very "plastic" personalities and interactions with their families, friends and clients. Every smile, every hug, every post-surgery "review" seems so carefully calculated to the last uncomfortable nuance. First the house is too small, than it's too big, first the implants were too big, now they need a lift. Perfection, it seems, is an endless race with the horizon as the finish line - never any closer, no matter how fast you run.

In real life, we've noticed that some of the people we know who've had "work" done seem to actually become noticeably fake and different in the way they talk, walk and act. It's really strange, and honestly more off-putting than if they'd settled for less-plush lips or smaller boobs or a few wrinkles. As with everything, moderation seems to be the key - and the ever more elusive Common Sense.

Personally, I'm not opposed to giving a little, tasteful help where heredity (thanks for the rectangle butt and hips the width of the Brooklyn Bridge, Ma!) age, early sun damage (don't worry Mom, you didn't know any better than to let me lay out with you for hours at a time) or gravity let you down. Provided, of course, you pay for it yourself, don't suddenly start shamelessly flaunting your new boobs around, and are getting the work done solely for your own reasons, not to make someone else happy.

Botoxing your forehead into a Kabuki mask, bleaching your...rear area, or buying your 92 pound daughter/girlfriend implants that are bigger than your combined brains do not fall into my personal criteria of "Good Ideas". Frankly, neither does planning an early C-section so that you a) don't get stretch marks in those last three weeks and b) can get right back to work on people's insecurities straightaway. However, that is just my opinion, and worth exactly what you paid for it.

Chiada and I always used to joke how I'd need a facelift for her wedding - this many years later, I think I'd prefer one for her anniversary. Her silver anniversary, provided that Dr. Rey is still running a practice in one of those gorgeous pink ties.

In other news: Remember the tree that ate my driveway? We were awoken at seven this morning by the dulcet tones of chainsaws, chippers and "Rapido! rapido!". I could just about kiss every Pedro, Jose and Ernesto over there - by this afternoon, we are going to have a mountain view. When I step outside, the air is redolant of pine sap and sawdust, a fresh aromatic scent. It smells like the real thing, and will be just to the right of this:

Not-so-merry maid

There are those of us who are neat and tidy (See: Chiada, my mom and sister Roni). And there are those of us who....have eight million projects exploding out of our brains at once, all the time. I fall firmly into category B. Here, watch my plea for help on TV. Hey...that rhymes...I could write a poem about being a Walking Disaster! Wow!

However, I've got two new secret weapons: Graciela and Maria.

I Love the Smell of Napalm in the Morning

Or, more correctly, the cloying bouquet of the "naturally clove-scented" wasp killing spray that now lingers in the air every time I step out my back door. We've all got our battles to fight, I suppose - Desiree's got a war on cheese sticks, Dubya's got his "war on terror" and the brave Heather and Jessica keep up their war on bad taste, thank goodness. Every summer we go through the same song and dance - I see a few big wasps hovering around our outer eaves, go into rabid freak-out mode, and we knock down a few small nests.

This year, it got personal - the little beasties decided to move in and invite all their friends. In the last three days, we've* had to spray the hell out of no fewer than ten nests. The smallest one was as big as the palm of my hand (read: home to probably thirty-plus wasps), none of which bodes well for our future. I'm comtemplating putting a big sign up somewhere outside warning anyone allergic to stings to "Run Away Now! Wasps are Attempting to Commandeer This House!", but haven't been able to locate one yet.

*The expression "we've" here means: Scott, because I am far too afraid of both getting stung and accidentally spraying myself in the face with bug spray, thereby causing my eyeballs and face to do this: Which would be a bad look for me, don't you agree?

Fortunately, we came up with a really effective solution to this plaugue; I call it the "Tag Team Tennis Racket" method (Trademark pending). First, we attire ourselves correctly (put on shoes) and creep slowly out the kitchen door, armed with bug spray. Next, we hover in the entryway, behind the door, nervously timing when I'll throw the door open and push him out the steps. Third, he reminds me to be "ready to open that door," as though I'm going to leave him outside at the mercy of a horde of angry, dying insects and watch him be stung, all the while rubbing my hands in evil delight. Fourth, I fling the door open, he leaps out the door like he's going for a tackle, shoots a stream of poison at them and is back behind the outer door looking through the window before I know what happened. Fifth, we cower and watch the bodies of our enemy drop from their nests and die, die, die! for their rash and imprudent choice of home location.

As a final preventative measure, he prowls our grounds with a tennis racket, swatting down the survivors with all the rage of Venus Williams with PMS. 'Tis a wonder to behold, let me tell you. Originally, we thought we'd vanquished them with a few squirts at the first two nests we found - but they kept buzzzing around our doorway, taunting us, making me scared to go and get the laundry. I found three new nests yesterday and he found about five more round the back of the house today. I came outside and found him lightly coated in sweat and atomized agent Orange for bugs, swinging his tennis racket and leaping around our driveway like a sprite. I'm fairly confident that for now, we're winning the war...but please remember to bring your Epi-Pens to the house if you stop by.
_______________________________________________________
And now a list, wholly and totally unrelated to the above topic, to satisfy the fierce list-making mania that preys on me day by day. Background on this list: While we were in a meeting the other night, I asked him what he wanted for dinner - he responded with the ever-popular, "What do you want to make?" I thought about that for a minute and wrote down the following.

Things I Would Rather Make Than Dinner (Please Note that Number 7 is a Joke)

1. Fun*
2. A mess
3. A rule that no one can call before 9 am, ever.
4. The cats pick up their own poo.
5. Noise.
6. A cake.
7. A baby, so people will finally stop asking me when, whennn, wheeeennnnn I'm going to have one, already.

*Use your imagination.

Dreams

In which I have nothing of note to say, and thus will shamelessly steal a page from Karen and also Menosblog:

For/From Karen: Things I'd love in my dream house:

An enclosed outdoor shower in the yard, (which would be beautiful, of course) so that everyone could rinse the sand/dirt off their feet after being outside or at the beach.

Oh, IN the house, you say?
-His and hers bathrooms. Pedestal sink or one of those cool recycled/tempered-glass all-in-one sink/counter units. Of course, my dream house will come with a cleaner, so I don't have to fuss over every drop of water, right?
-Walk in closet. We have one in our rental unit where we lived when we were first married, I miss it SO much!
-12 foot ceilings with bull-nosed (rounded) corners and a high crown molding with recessed uplighting all around ...on dimmers, of course.
-Bamboo floors (a beautiful, low maintenence, renewable resource) laid on the diagonal.
-"Man room" for all of his ... crap. Since I know he'll always be a packrat, why not go with it, at least in one room?
-Master bedroom with enough space for more than just my bed, sans frame. See? modest requests, really.
-A guest bedroom/office for me, making a grand total of three bedrooms.
-Screened in porch, or better yet, a verandah. Like a loggia, one of the most romantic words, methinks.
-Kitchen with built-in breakfast nook, island and dishwasher. I dream of having a dishwasher, preferably two of those nifty drawer style ones that use way less water, operate independantly of each other, and are faced to match the rest of the kitchen.

Said kitchen should open up via a cool hatch/bar (or something) to living/dining room, thus allowing cook to talk to guests, since we know that the cook gets lonely. This would be able to close, so that we don't have to look at the dinner dishes mess while enjoying dessert.

Ok, now you put yours in comments, ok?

Part Deux.... When I Rule the World, Part the First:

1. There will be no unwanted pets or children. Persons who demonstrate inability to parent the children they have will be monitored via video 24 hours a day. Said video shall play out on their roof via a digital display.
2. Cellular phones and their owners, like a fool and his money, shall be soon parted if they are used in conjuction with a steering wheel.
3. Plane tickets to and from Colorado/Santa Barbara will be not more than $100.00, ever.
4. Bread, pasta, rice and tortillas and all cheeses, chocolates and nuts are now Health and Beauty Tonics.
5. Nothing will happen before nine am except sunrise and the night before.
6. There will be a readily available beauty salon that is open till midnight where one can get a pedicure, a manicure and a martini at the same time. Said salon shall be reasonably priced, but will not offer hair cuts or colors so as to avoid any follicular disastors.
7. Persons unable to comprehend the meaning of the words "budget" and "no" shall be unable to become married.
8. The next person to ask me when I'm gonna haave a baaayyyyybeeee! will find that thier tounge spontaneously combusts.
9. I will enjoy excercise other than volleyball and swimming and going to the gym.
10. The words 'Humour, colour' and other such words shall be given their proper, British spelling.
11. I'd be a much better writer.

Pitchy Inferno - Now with Pictures!

Oh, you wanted an update? Well, the fire department came out - and did (drumroll please) absolutely nothing whatsoever. Except to call Edison (power company), who more or less replied: "Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhppppppppbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb!!!"

Ok - now look at this: Look at how SMALL her car looks under what is only a portion of the branch. What you don't see, of course, is how the upper part of it is a) deader (more dead?) than free speech in Iran b) resting on a power line.

And also, "We....fart in your general direction..No, we will not come out, even though the tree in question is a half-dead pine tree that is just waiting to explode into a pine-sap fueled inferno, one that will set both your neighbors' house, your house, and your tenants' cars on fire."

Trama, life at Casa de Meepers:

The fire department wrapped our driveway and our neighbors' driveway in bright red "Hazard! Peligro!" tape, thereby making it look like we're harboring a corpse somewhere on the properties, and called it a night. Unfortunately, Hippy Healer Woman who lives next door was either not home, or wouldn't come to the door - and her sub-let tenant wasn't anywhere to be found either. This meant we had no way of contacting the owners of the home, who will be paying for all the damage to our tenants' car and the tree-trimming; hopefully they will also be purchasing a Clue and getting the rest of the tree done sometime soon.

We were back in bed by four in the morning, which gave me a total of six hours of sleep - yesssssssss! I walked to work at my old office this morning, a pleasant enough stroll on a slightly tropical morning. En route, I called some tree-trimming friends of ours, and I'm told that the tree (sized branch) is now being removed. Whew! Now all that's left to do is get in touch with the folks who will be paying for this.

We may be headed up to Monterey tomorrow, I'm not sure yet - but who knows what adventures await? Moonsoon? Traffic jam? Typhoon? Food poisoning? Landslide? All I know is this: The doctor I've been seeing called me and wants "to see me again about that bloodwork," because my throid is probably going to helena handbasket. Again. I wish I could SEE the black cloud that hangs over my head, it'd be really helpfull.

Yes, its 3:30 am and I'm up and blogging...why?

Because a huge frackin' pine tree limb (we're talkin' waaaaay bigger than a Christmas tree, unless its the one at the Rockerfeller Center) just fell on my driveway, and is resting on a power line. Also our poor tenants' car. There was a sickening craaaaaashhhhhhh!ing crack and than silence. I jumped up, put on contacts, went outside and stood around saying, "Oh, dagnabbit, that really is a pity...", and things like that.

I've gotta go, the FIRE DEPARMENT IS HERE, likely with large, loud power tools. Yes, there are pictures, yes, I will post them in the fullness of time. Yes, I have bedhead and morning breath and have been interacting with people. Save the humans. Gaaaah! By the way: At this point, we cannot exit our own driveway. We could be verrrry unpopular folk in this neighborhood if that tree kills all the power/cable. More later.

Of Mice and Women

Truly, I should know better than to try and make enthusiastic plans for my days - they are invariably foiled and I end up doing something that is the polar opposite of what I'd intended. Take the past couple of days, for example (and you can, I am sooo sick right now) We had a wedding on Saturday, followed by me meeting with some prospective new clients till almost seven. In my never-ending quest to do what I can to our 'yard', I headed over to some friends' new house to collect any plants they might have been getting rid of. Yeah! I was met with a veritable bonanza of different succulents, agapanthis, and other free goodies - so I managed to talk Scott into driving round the corner so I could load them up. Note: This negotiation was only slightly less difficult and hostile than a N.A.F.T.A. meeting - I take full responsibility for this, since I broke the Eighth Commandment of Wifedom,

"Thou shalt not disturb the watching of a sporting television program, on penalty of much painful whinging, yea verily, that it may go well with ye and ye shall not have to hear complaining all night about how you do not taketh care of thine husband. Even tho' you haveth the DVR and he doth not misseth a second, you have broken this, the Eighth Commandment of Wifedom, and are therefore doomed to watch ESPN or SportCenter forever and ever, amen."

I unloaded and washed out the liner of the Xterra in semi-darkness, but I wasn't concerned - I was going to get up early on Sunday and Work In the Yard! Yeah right! I spent the better part of Sunday frantically searching for Fynn - the little bugger had escaped out one of our windows (he broke through the screen). While he had a leisurely four-hour nap atop our shed, I was busy running around, envisioning all sorts of grisly scenes. Such is the downside of having a very active imagination, I fear. The weather was at approximately, oh, eight...thousand degrees, so searching all over my neighborhood was a sweaty, dusty, panic-laced business - I'm sure I confirmed my "Crazy Cat Lady" status a few times, what with the running around calling, "Fynn? Fynn-jamin? Fynnjamin Bug Bart Little Pea Hampton*...where are you?" *His full name.

When I'd recovered and cleaned him (and myself) up, it was Time to Go to the French Festival, and then our Sunday services. Poof! Four hours later, I found myself weeding, shoveling, transplanting and watering...in the dark. Keep in mind that it was still at least 70+ degrees - and remember that I'd been wanting to plant these things for days already.

Scott popped his head out, watched me struggle with the position of the metal archway for a minute or two and made the following remarks:

"Babe, have you ever heard that R.E.M. song 'Gardening at Night' "?**

(Dig, dig, pant, pant, sweat, sweat) "Mmmmmm....Nope." (Door closes)

Ten minutes later:

(Door opens) "Babe, do you wanna come in and watch this thing about global warming"?

(Dig, dig, pant, pant, sweat, sweat) "Do I appear to be chilly? The last thing I want to hear about at this point is global warming. Gaahhhhhh!" and thus went my weekend. Due to Lovely New Smoking Neighbors, I'm now nursing a raging sore throat, fever (makes for some tripPy dreams) and chills. The best-laid plans....

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Gardening At Night - R.E.M.
I see your money on the floor, I felt the pocket change
Though all the feelings that broke through that door
Just didn't seem to be too real
The yard is nothing but a fence, the sun just hurts my eyes
Somewhere it must be time for penitence. Gardening at night is never where
Gardening at night, gardening at night, gardening at night
The neighbors go to bed at ten
Call the prayer line for a change
The charge is changing every month
They said it couldn't be arranged

We ankled up the garbage sound, but they were busy in the rows
We fell up, not to see the sun, gardening at night just didn't grow
I see your money on the floor, I felt the pocket change
Though all the feelings that broke through that door
Just didn't seem to be too real
Gardening at night, gardening at night, gardening at night

(etc...)

Doing it by Halves

This morning we awoke, not the the chirping of birds and the chattering of cats, but the high nasal whirrRRRRRrr!ing of an electric saw. Punctuating the din were a distinctly Scottish accent asking, "Do we cut the stuff on that side of the fence?" and a womans' voice replying, "mrirmpph...". There was a brief moment of jubillance in which I murmured,

"Babe! babe! heeey...are they trimming that bloody tree finally?," and Scott said, "Mmmrmmphh....maybe. Tickle my back." Regarding said tree; I hate it - my loathing for this individual tree and oak trees as suburban landscaping can be seen here (towards the bottom) and also here- (thankfully I've completely torn out the gazebo since the first photo. I was all set to rejoice in the bonus holiday that today was going to bring, (First Day Ever that Tree Doesn't Shed on My House Day) - until Scott went out and discovered that oh, no, Mean Finnish Landlady will not be troubling herself to have her cursed tree cut back on our side of the fence. M.F.L. brusquely barked at him, "Is that your truck?" the minute he poked his head out the door (Answer: No...we have a parking area on our property where we park our vehicles, should ye be troubled to open your eyes, M.F.L.) and sharply dismissed his polite inquiry as to wether she'd be trimming our side of it with the following nicety: "No - anything over *your property line* is your issue. I have to get this tree off my roof."

*Entire tree arcs gracefully over our property line.

Right at that moment, Scott went from Nice Mellow Neighbor guy to General Patton of the Oak Tree. He excused himself, went inside, walked to the bathroom and commented to me through the shower curtain, "$!&#%!...... Well, all that's going to be left after the tree-trimmer comes are two Mongoloid stumps. Hopefully she'll hate them so much that she'll just take the whole dammed thing out." After I finished wiping the tears of laughter out of my eyes, I said,

"Make sure you have the tree guy bill her for it."

So....nice morning, right? It only gets better - I'm writing this from my "other office" at the Daily Grind. Just before we walked out the door to go check our email, one of my favorite neighbors (Nice Cat Lady Neighbor, as opposed to the Crazy Cat Lady Neighbor) knocked on our door with The Look on her face. The Dead Cat Look that pet owners all dread. "Hiiiiiii....Do you still have two cats?"

Me: "Hi- yeah, they're in here all the time now...why?"

Nice Cat Lady Neighbor: "Ummmm...can you double-check and make sure one of them didn't get out?" My heart stopped. Surely, surely we shut all the windows last night, and I'd just seen him.

Me: "Suuure...Fynn? Fynnjamin?" (he poked his head out from behind the couch) "Edie? Edie-bug? Little Miss Tiny?"

"BrrrrrrRRRRoww?" blink, blink. My heart started beating again, in both relief and dread. "Who is it?" I asked, "what happened?"

"I think it was a coyote...I'm not sure who's it is, and it looks a lot like your old cat...and I didn't remember if you had two that were almost the same or not, I just remembered you had two orange cats. It's in my yard."

"It" was, in fact, the remains of Sophie, who did indeed look exactly like a smaller version of our dearly departed Moss. To be precise, it was just poor Sophie's head, front legs, and shoulders - everything below that line was gone, no blood, no guts, just gone. Sophie belonged my nice neighbors, "The Jose-Marias" (they are all named Jose and Maria. The entire family). Since we live a scant half-block from a riverbed, hungry coyotes often prowl the streets in the just-dusk to pre-dawn hours - cats are easy prey for them. Since I know the Jose-Marias, I had the awkward task of explaining that "Sofie? Sofie es....muerto....Si, coyote...Lo siento mucho...muy malo...lo siento" because only the Senior Jose, who does not speak a single word of English, was home.

Oh? and the bit about me having to check my email and blog from here? The inestimable Southern California Edison left us a post-it sized note saying, "You're ..... outta luck. We're cutting your power until five pm. Today. You needed to clean out your fridge anyway. Love ya! Byeeeeee!" We are the only house on the street with this distinction.

Waiting for the (good) half of the day, I remain your faithful reporter of the irritating, the macabre, and the just plain strange.

Would-be Gardening Round-Up

Hi! I'm Meepers, and I have NO IDEA what most of these plants even ARE, much less what to do with them. Like this one? No idea, my neighbor gave it to me. Looks a bit yellow to me, and is currently living under a shady oak tree. Anyone?


This is the succulent/agave (real name? dunno) that I rescued/rustled from certain death, down the street. Pretty, no? I planted it in full sun, with lots of sandy/loamy dirt, regular (more clay-ey) stuff and some tree-bark mulch on top. I'm hoping to find another one of similar size to go on the other side of my walkway - and its not out of the question with the thousands of them around Santa Barbara.




Another neighbor (they were moving) score. What is it? No clue. Its over in the shady corner, near the jasmine and the other weirdo plant.







I think this is a baby Saguro palm, it looks much better than it used to in the pot it lived in. I may move it when I get to really gardening, but its fine for now.







Yeah! The first Paperwhite of the season! I LOVE these - they smell so amazing. Since its on the corner, someone will probably pick it, but... at least its growing, right?




This plant is about four and a half feet tall, and I couldn't kill it if I wanted to. It makes these weird little orange flowers... Anyone know the name?
The flowers look like this:




More Paperwhites on the way! Yeah! Spring is here!





Some of the many (over 100) iris and other bulbs that I planted at the base of our palm trees. Hopefully some of them will come up, it should be a total surprise, since I can't recall what the heck I actually put in there!




This is a hanging ?? something or other from my friend/neighbor/gardener/chef/hairdresser (read: enviably, effortlessly talented) Sara. I swear all she's got to do is touch something, and it blooms, grows, tastes marvelous, or looks great. She does my hair on occasion, and was responsible for my current 'do. Yeah!






The jasmine plant I was SURE was dead - hmm!






These little chaps (funny how some plants appear to have a gender, huh??) I nicked off a "mother" plant in a no-man's land off a park near our house.






I call this one a "baby Dr. Suess" plant. Thanks again, Sara!






As an experiment, I potted one of the orange flowered things - we'll see what happens.





One of a few tiny volunteer calla lilies that sprung up last year. They haven't gotten any bigger/taller, but there are more of them around. I'd love to have a big, thick hedge of them, but would be happy with anything I get. Again, cost me exactly $0.00, so no complaints here.

Succulent

It's official: I'm a plant rescuer/rustler. In the last three days, I've done the following:

-Cut off and re-potted a few baby succelents - these were trimmed from a wild, dying "parent" plant. I told S. I was 'saving the baby plants" and to "shut up and give me your knife".

-Dug plants from one part of my yard and re-potted them in another. Hopefully it will work - I've already transplanted a couple of the same kind, and they are starting to flower - yeah! Now if only I knew the name of them ... Chiada? The tall blade-leafed ones with the orange flowers?

-Accepted with great joy two plants from my neighbor Sara - one of them is this funky, Dr. Suess looking thing that is currently sitting outside in the rain, seated in a plastic bag. I've not had a second to dig it a hole and plant it, so I guess this will be a bit of a baptism into life in The Great Outdoors. (Sara had it in this huge, cobalt-blue pot that I covet every time I go to her house.)

-Discovered a beeeeyouuutiful, gigantic agave plant that had been uprooted and laid on its side to die about a block from my house. I picked it up, but carrying it any distance was Not Going to Happen (the thing is probably at least sixty pounds, and about three feet or more in diameter, plus: Spikes! Unweildy!) especially while carrying an umbrella in the pouring rain. Oddly enough, I'd taken a picture of one of its cousins only yesterday, in a fit of plant-lust. When I got in the door, I immediately turned on all feminine wiles (asking, explaining, shameless begging) to get him to drive the truck a BLOCK AND A HALF while I walked down, hauled it into the back, getting wet and muddy in the process, and walked back home.

Now if only it would stop raining so I could plant it somewhere - that would tend to help, wouldn't it? Speaking of things that would be helpful - a little heat would be nice at this juncture. You see, a few days ago, we tried our heater and found that it has apparently decided to Stop Working Just Because it Fellllt Like it. We didn't think much of it, since its been pretty warm around here of late. Until yesterday, when Santa Barbara turned into ... downtown Seattle? Rainy, gusty wind, freeeezing (ok, its probably about 50 degrees, but that is COLD) It is especially cold sans working heater.*

*Oh wait! S aka "Papa-San" just saved our day - he re-lit the gas heater, this time NOT singeing the hair off his other hand. Yeaaah! I can take off my parka!

Tim Allen is my TV dad

Proving that the Black Cloud DOES follow me:

Did you know that (apparently) in the olden days (by which I mean.. from 1933 till...about five years ago) people did not know that you MUST sand and PRIME paint before applying a new color? And that they just glopped on multiple layers, one over the other like so much bad nail polish? Until their WINDOW-LESS, weak-fanned bathrooms had all the interesting contours and texture of a lightly stucco'd prison cell?

I didn't either, until this morning when I started sanding my bathroom down in preparation to paint. So far I have discovered the following colors under my current (white) paint:

-At least three coats of white/cream/whatever
-Deep ocher-y yellow - now keep in mind I have PEACH (ugly) tile. Blech.
-Lighter yellow - as above
-Pepto-Bismol pink
-a rather ugly shade of blue
-a very 50's green

The interesting thing is that as I sand down, the walls are beginning to take on a bit of a rainbow look. Who knows how much further it goes down? It could be that my bathroom really isn't only six by six - and maybe there was even, once a window, but they painted over it so much, it simply dissapeared. Well, a girl can dream, right?

Foolishly, I thought that a couple of layers of sandpaper (50 grit, followed by 100 grit) followed by a primer/paint/mildewcide/mold inhibitor all-in-one coat would do it. Now that I've started, equipped with the latest in sanding attire (tanktop, jeans, bare feet, a nasty cold/allergy?? thing) and perched myself precariously on the sink and toilet... I know better. After getting through the first few layers, look like I've been standing under a powdered sugar shower, or in a very fine snowstorm. I think my, ahem, gross-out alert: mucus, may be rainbow-colored in the near future.

This whole "re-do your bathroom yourself" thing is starting to have frightening undertones of Karens' bathroom story. Yeah, this one (read it, if you haven't)

In Which Karen Says the Most Embarassing Thing Ever:

I mean, I've been to the hardware store about eight times in the last few weeks, and I've just send S. over there, and have now sent him to our local As Seen on TV store for a natural-esque solution to breathing in Eau de Poisonous Fumes for the next couple of weeks. Every time I go, I get the "aw shucks, ma'm" song and dance from the guys who work there, or else the "Now what you want, liddle lady, is to tell your husband to take the Shov-vel and dig a hole about yeeeaaa deep.."

Me: "Umm, I'll be doing all the digging, actually."

Hardware Store Guy: "Well, now! You've got yourself a real go-getter, haven't you?" (comment directed towards S., who just nods, smiles, and rolls his eyes)

Me: "Right, so I know I have to dig the footing eight inches deep, fill it with four inches of gravel, and than a 50-50 mix of sand and concrete, graded on a two-inch fall over six feet, away from the house, right?"

H.S.G: stunned silence, gulp, "Ummm...yup."

I have better luck in the paint department, where the guys understand shades of color and how different combonations must Go Together. Plus they were totally able to diagnose my bathroom as having accute Moisture Problems, and Water-Based Paint over Oil-Based Paint.

So about Tim Allen: On Home Improvement (c'mon, you KNOW you watched it) he was always getting himself into trouble, one way or the other, with projects. Fortunately, he had Al to fix everything and make witty remarks (or fat mom jokes) to.

Anyone? Beard and flannel shirt not required. I've got to go, I've got to go and

Ready-Strip my bathroom.

________________________________________________________________

(That means: "An hour and a half later" here)

Again with the antics - turns out that good old S. bought a mere quart, not a gallon, of the stuff that I need. So I was able to do the ceiling and the 18 inches that reach to the wood (painted, natch) trim - but not the walls. Guess I'll be needing that sand paper after all. I'd take pictures of the green, gelatinous, snot-like stuff that is currently coating my ceiling, if only I could find it in myself to totally lose ALL my dignity by doing so. I spread it on, not with a "putty knife or paint brush" like the directions said, but with my (gloved) hands. So picture this: Air-filter thingy over mouth? Check. Hair up/askew? Check. Clear latex gloves secured at the wrists with blue tape? Check. Bare feet? Check. STRIP OF PACKING TAPE OVER EYES BECAUSE OF NO SAFETY GOGGLES? Check.

Green goo and fumes all over the place? Check. Husband who comes home and complains because his bloody door, just adjoining the room, is open (so I could get the packing tape)? Check.

And in "4 to 24 hours" (please heaven, NOT 24) it should turn white - which means I get to start scraping it off with a triangular-shaped razor and all above mentioned gear. Pray for me. I am short.

New Year's Day

Although it has only just begun, it seems that the rain and (slightly) cooler weather that constitutes "Winter" here in Santa Barbara has already been going on for-ev-ver. This is because I am a bit off in my concept of Four Seasons - we pretty much have two here: Warmish with cool nights, or Coolish and Possibly Rainy with Breaks for Warmth. This confounds tourists and the newly-relocated and totally screws with trees and plants' notion of what they're meant to do - To wit- I've seen a tree in flower, with new green leaves, bare branches AND golding/autumn colored leaves - all at once.

Growing up here, it seemed completely normal to me to go round in $0.65 thongs (I mean sandals) shorts and a sweatshirt most of the year. Mornings in my small town were gray, foggy, and long, with a tang of salt air. One minute I'd be huddling in my third-grade classroom, hiding my copy of Moby Dick under my desk and pretending to pay attention and not freeze, and the next tearing around in the warm sun with my sweatshirt tied around my waist. Somewhere, there is a picture of me wearing this outfit (strange shorts, oversized sweatshirt, kooky ponytail) with the attractive addition of a strange ribbon-as-sash OVER my sweatshirt. This is why I cringe when I see those homage to the Eighties outfits at places like Reference and Urban Outfitters. In my defense, I was only a little kid, so fortunately I escaped the worst of that time (All peach makeup, heels worn with socks, Flock of Seagulls hair, etc) - but I was far from unscathed. No, I cannot recount my many style crimes, but suffice it to say: Circa 1991 (age eleven) I wore weird purpley-blue STRETCH PANTS with a sweater in black and purple, white socks and black shoes with sheer "laces" on the first, and other sucessive days of seventh grade. Than I wised up (a little bit) and moved on to my brief "grunge" faze, which worked for a poor kid with access to her fathers' to-small jeans and flannel shirts from his high school days in the 70's. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough of this cool swag to go full-on grunge, so I tended to "supplement" with things like bodysuits and those awful half-boots THAT I SAW IN A STORE .... THIS WEEK!

Ummm....ya - so the weather? Sucked big today (more bloody rain) so instead of just getting home all tired and salty and sandy from walking all day, we're just .... at home, and have been with the exception of escaping for some wonderful Thai food at one of our tried n' true favorite places, Your Place. Inside it's gloriously tacky, but the Cashew Chicken, Garlic Chicken (they do this in Beef, Shrimp and Tofu as well) are savory and as spicy or mild as you like. Today we had a special treat - fresh coconut ice cream for dessert. So. So. Good. They make themselves, with fresh coconut chunks still retained in the frozen coconut milk/cream slurry - the simple decadence of this small but dense dessert makes it worth the extra workout you need after eating it.

But don't take my word for it - Check it out for yourself if you're here

About half a block from our house, there is a creek, one of the few still "natural" (or at least partially so) creeks around. Racoons, possums, skunks and (I'm told) coyotes as well as some of our local transient population use it as a sort of Underground Railway to get from Point A to Point B with the minimum amount of harassment. Poison oak, millions of weeds, oak trees, climbing vines, the occasional backpack or shopping cart and other flora creep around it as sort of a living lesson of how quickly the earth takes back its own if unchecked by man's efforts. The bottom is lined with sandstone rocks, always eroding and adding to our beaches. When it rains...um.... AT ALL, everything down there gets swept down and out to sea.
This is all great and good - Until I try to step out my door, and hit Lake Meepers.

And thus begins our "Winter" season. Please feel free to bring your jetski the next time you're outside my house.

Whatever you do, DON'T INHALE

Duuuuuude.... We are so having odor Issues in our house this week. We may need to start calling it Casa de Stank if things don't improve shortly. No, there have not been any (unusual) erm...emissions of the human sort, thanks for asking - although Someone who is Not Me did just consume a bowl o' chile for dinner, so I may need to revise that statement later on. However, I don't think I need to stoop to fart jokes just yet... I'm saving my really third-grade material for later on. (Pooot!)

It started at about three in the morning, Monday. We were all sleeping away in a warm heap of limbs, flannel sheets, fur and dreams. Bliss in a bundle of blankets, really. I think I was dreaming about something mixed up with a wedding and my mom, and all the sudden everyone was saying, "Ooooohh.. what is that HORRIBLE smell? Ack! Gaaag!". At which point I woke up with a start. I turned over and realized that the scent that was burning my nostrils so as to render my olefactory nerves temporarily insane... was skunk. Not just a skunk, but obviously THE skunk. That's right, people, Pepe LePew came to my house, and he was seriously pissed off after his dinner. Obviously Lindburger coated garlic naan, Indian chile beans with extra onions and

durian

for dessert upset his tummy. Time to let it all out at the Hamptons!


Since we sleep with our windows shut because it is COLD, but keep our bed right underneath said windows in the event that I become to hot (see entry regarding Strange Dreams). Considering this fact, and the fact that there were no open windows ANYWHERE IN OUR HOUSE... I don't have any explanation for how intensely rank it smelled. Other than the fact that the skunk must have scaled the fence, walked over to where our window is, and pointed his Stinkmaker right. at. our. heads. He let loose the foulest of foul stenches ever in the history of Stench. Skunks passing within five miles of our bedroom looked at each other and said, "He's HEEEERE! Our leader!" In this illustration, we are the Football team.



Two days later, was still coming across weird "patches" of nasty, just hanging in the air, as though the very walls were permeated with disgusting-ness. We'd just walk into the (insert room here) and scream, "OHhhhh BMY GAHHHHD... Itd sdtill smbells like thadt skunk is id here! Eeewwww! Quick! Combe id here and fart, so it smbells BETTER!"

Since we'd recovered today, I got the brilliant idea of sealing and laquering the little table and stool I painted a few weeks back. Because...icky dry feeling when I touch them, and the continual jumping on/off them will shortly make it appear they were mauled by a siberian tiger. Being the nice guy he is, my wonderful husband bought me a can of spray-on sealer. Which I used completely - and no sealy, shiny, laquery look resulted. Sad, but I figured, eh, I'll get some brush-on stuff later, and left them outside to dry in the sun and gentle breezes. A few hours later, I was back at it, and used ANOTHER can of aerosol-propelled shellac/lacquer... no go. I left them out for another hour, and than had to bring them inside.

Which means...more stink wafting gently throughout the Casa de Stench, plus we are all hiiiiiiiiiiiigh now.

Pass the brownies, please.

No More Seed Pods!

Apparently someone in the "Tree Maintence" area of SB has read my rants about the nasty trees that grow in our yard. And great Scott! They have listened to the pleas I was sure fell on deaf ears.

For look, they saw, and THE STUPID PITTOSPORUM TREE in front of the house was CUT DOWN yesterday. Yea verily did they laugh and skip about.

Yessss!

Now if we could get them to do the same to those d***ned Jackarandas - well, beggars can't be choosers, right?

Yardstuck

Excuse me,

(phrase stolen from Karen's 11/27 brilliance)

but I've got a brilliant idea. I'm going to either donate my yard to science (local college botany class) or sell parcels of it for people with cash and a desire to make an urban garden out of. I don't really care, because frankly at this point if I could afford to pave it over, I would. At least that way we could have fun parties and it would be low-maintence. Now please note that I am very thankful to HAVE A YARD and a house in the crazed SB real estate market. I'm just sayin' that if someone had tried to create a more impossible situation, they really couldn't have done a better job.

Allow me to first explain about my "yard" - by which I mean "weed-infested patch of 'cursed' earth that surrounds my house and is perpetually in a rainstorm of oak leaves" from the forest of ginormous (five of the nasty buggers dropping and shedding and collecting spiders on a THIRD of an acre is just cruel) trees on or thiscloseto our house. In addition, there are three jackaranda trees (really, they should call them jack@ssrandom trees for the nice way they really want to be huge bushes that weep pretty lavender buds and sticky, concrete and car-staining sap onto ... everything. Oh, and wait - a pittosporum tree (read: Pityandscorn'em - anyone who has one of these) that is now in the season of raining its sticky little seed pods over everything in a 30 foot radius. These lovely little things stick to your shoe, than split and deposit tiny, even stickier seeds all over the place. So right at the season that folks are wearing cute, hard to remove boots, S and I are hissing at each other to "take off your SHOES! For the love of all that is holy, I JUST VACUUMED and now there are flippin' seed pods all OVER the place!"

A) Remove and throw away all dirt for about a foot down, without damaging the precious strip of "city property" that I'm supposed to take care of, but do not own. It is there for weeds to grow in, animals to defecate in and the idiots who work down the street to throw their Coke cans on. That will cost extra (labor)
B) Install black plastic for weed inhibition and an elaborate watering system, preferably that doesn't make the oak tree roots rot, thus causing them to fall on our house and kill us. That of course, will cost extra.
C) Purchase (BUY! SPEND MONEY FOR!) new soil. Which will cost extra, because it will have to come from somewhere like, I don't know, Uzbekistan, where there are no weeds. Import tax, you know.


Only at that point can I hope to begin planting...anything. At which point the Evil Garden Elves (gnomes, perhaps?) will sneak into my yard in the dead of night and blow dandelion seed puffs all over the place, yank out my poor baby lavender, rosemary and grass plants, and install cacti and poison oak.

So with that knowledge in the back of my head, I was recently thumbing through our local college spring schedule. S had suggested that we take a fun class together, and they are usually pretty cheap. Imagine my delight when I saw the "Local Landscaping" class, which promises to help aspiring designers/landscapers to work with our local flora to create a beautiful landscape. "We could take that and than go home and work on our yard.. that would be cool," I mused. "No! wait a minute! We could donate our yard as the project and make EVERYONE ELSE work on it - and that would be MUCH COOLER!". Bursting to share my brill new plan to S., I managed to get out, "andwewouldjustdonateouryarandpeoplewouldhelpusforFREE.." before he grunted in his funny, not-now-woman-the-history-channel-is-on way,

"No, no, no - I don't want people coming and intruding here. It destroys our privacy." May I point out that we have a corner lot with absolutely ZERO a) fence b) privacy c) back yard area of any kind? I cannot set foot out my door without coming nose-to-nose with a neighbor, someone walking around the corner, or the posse of idiots that are "working" on the house two doors over. Yeah, its a real Tibetan retreat around here, let me tell ya. But all I could come up with was,

"What the hell are you talking about? The only time we have any privacy is in the bathroom, as long as we don't count Fynn.'

Its either that or I start selling 10 foot square patches to aspiring artists on eBay.

Anyone, anyone?