Snow Lies

 It started to snow and forgot to stop...so much snow, in the worst of all possible locations: my driveway. 

Day One: It all started, as it often does, with just a little bit of light, easily shoveled snow, a “poof” of snow; snow that is all pristine and picturesque—and for Christmas! How perfect! My grand kiddos are delighted. I am delighted!

Day Two: I may get a little bit weird about people driving on my driveway BEFORE I have a chance to shovel it--actually, don’t even walk on it until I shovel the path first. I shovel far, and wide, opening up lots of room so that when the bigger accumulations come I won’t be hemmed in by snowbanks that are either too narrow, or too high to throw the new snow over. Because this is not my first Snowrodeo, I also have multiple snow shovels. Even though my kids no longer live at home, I keep extra shovels handy in case they return during a snowpocolypse. I am even able to Tom Sawyer Mark into thinking that shoveling snow is “fun.” Things are working out...

Day Three: When I shovel snow, I know how to stop. The snow doesn’t seem to be able to.  We re-shovel in front of the garage and the driveway. We shovel the opening at the end of the drive that the snowplow always closes. I shovel out the mailboxes. And the opening to a neighbors’ driveway, because while the snow is deep, it is still “poof.” Sure, there are 15” of the stuff, but it’s just fluff. No problem. ...

Day Four Hundred and Eight-Seven: the snow is not as light. It is significantly heavier than Day One. And sloppier. No poof, no fluff, just glop. It continues to snow as I shovel. Or maybe that’s not snow, but really wet, sloppy, heavy cement disguised as snow...

I go inside and google “snow-blowers for sale near you.” Of course, there are none in my zip code. I seem to remember I promised myself once before that I would just buy the dang snowblower already. Lies, all lies. Why do I even believe me anymore? I google “signs of cabin fever” and glare at the cats, who glare back, mad that I won’t let them outside to eat birds. I google “Saint Bernard puppies for sale.”

A Lifetime Supply of Christmas

 Q: What has 17 actors, five settings, three writers and one plot?

A: 642 Hallmark Christmas movies.

I have a dirty little secret—one that, even as I admit to, I will vehemently over-excuse/deny. “Hi, I’m Sue, and I watch Hallmark Christmas Movies.” 

Not that I really watch them, of course, I just have them on in the background. Truly. Because some of them are so stupid that I find myself yelling at the TV: “Your son is a FULL GROWN MAN—back off, dude! He’ll figure it out!”

Like all good addicts in denial, I have a good friend (Hi Eileen!) who shares my tolerance—enabling is such a judgey word-- for such drivel.  One afternoon she unexpectedly found herself at home and we exchanged the following texts:

“I am watching Christmas shows! Novel idea!

Huh! What are they about?

“This one is about Christmas! And a gorgeous house! And potential love! And good hair!”

Do they drink a lot of hot chocolate? Do they have any festive treats? Community Holiday Events? Does anyone own a Christmas tree farm? Have amnesia? Time travel into Christmas Past? Discover a lost treasure/card/package/photo?

“Yes, yes, yes, no, no, no but there is an old friend from high school. He's very friendly, cute, helpful, musical --helps with the community school program.”

Of course he does! Old high school boyfriends are kryptonite. Or cat nip--can't remember the difference.

“Me thinks a little of both.”

Lol--such a heady cocktail!

"I'm hooked."

It's the addiction that dare not speak its name.

“Except us…This little girl is soo cute! This is a new (to me) movie. It's okay.

Which one? The kitten one?

"No the fireman one."

Oohh—they need to make a fireman AND kitten one! And the kittens should be Magic Kittens!

And so it goes. But if you want to watch something that is light and light hearted, celebratory and almost nobody ever dies… and if they have died in the past-- every one remembers them but only ever cries happy tears. Hallmark movies are silly and sappy and SAFE.

As addictions go, they are pretty benign. Embarrassing, but benign.

Tale of Two Trees

 Remember that time a couple of years ago I needed to plant a tree to shade my deck? Remember how pleased I was with the Very Large Tree I acquired for a Very Small Price? Remember how the nursery had to load it into the pickup with a forklift—a forklift!-- and I still didn’t consider the size of the hole I’d have to dig to accommodate it, nor the distance I’d have to drag the Very Large Tree to the Very Deep Hole? Remember?

Well, I’ve never forgotten it. Which is why I now buy trees in little gallon pots; very cute, very manageable, very little digging, no dragging.

Gallon pots are kind of small, though, so I planted my trees—short term—in larger, cylindrical pots until I can properly plant them—or--more accurately—first figure out where it is I want to plant them. Because sometimes, the sale is just too good to pass up. Besides, these very lovely Cypress trees—“Goldcrest”-- only grow to 10ft high. I can just leave them in these tall pots! No digging required! I’m a genius!

Fast forward a couple of years and I happen to pull the tag from the tall pot and read it. Yes, it’s a Cypress, yes, it’s a “Goldcrest”—but it turns out that it’s the type of Cypress Goldcrest that grows 10m high. M as in meters, not feet.

When I was in elementary school, the word on the street was that-- sooner or later-- the US of A would be adopting the metric system like the rest of the world, and we Third Graders had better learn it now so we’d be prepared. Turns out, the adoption of the metric system has turned out to be a much “later” thing than I was led to believe. Which is good—because I can’t say I’m that clear on just what’s what with metric. That being said—even I know that 10m > 10ft. 10m is much closer to 33ft than 10ft.  Note to future self: Take reading glasses to nursery, don’t just squint at the tag.

Time to dig a hole...

1001 Zucchini

 What do you do with 1,001 zucchinis? The following is a partial list of the strategies I, personally, have employed.

1) Zucchini bread

2) Zucchini cookies.

3) You can slice it.

4) You can dice it.

5) You can fry it in a pan

6) You can hide it in your flan.

7) You can use it for filler in almost any recipe.

8) You can bring zucchinis to work and guilt your co-workers into taking them.

9) Play ding-dong-ditch with your neighbors.

10) Hit up your Facebook friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and anybody that hasn’t already had the good sense to block you and offer them zucchini.

11) Deliver said zucchini to anyone who didn’t outright say they hate zucchini—even if they aren’t home. (See number nine above.) 

12) Poke them thru any car window carelessly left 4-6” open. Honestly, people have only themselves to blame. It’s zucchini season after all! An open car window is the same a leaving a sign on your car, saying “Please deposit zucchini here.”

13) Post pictures of amazing food that your sweetie has made for you that include zucchini.

 

Yummmmm...See # 19 for ingredients list

14) Rave on and on about how GOOD, and NUTRITIOUS, and LOW CARB, GLUTEN FREE, FREE RANGE and CRUELTY FREE zucchinis are.

15) Daydream about an early frost.

16) Think about the random woman in a hair salon in Portland who claimed she pulled her zucchini plants up already. Imagine being that bold.

17) Decide she was probably a liar.

18) Buy a noodler on Amazon.

Zucchini "Noodles"

19) Did I already mention that we turned our giant zucchini into noodles and served them with butter sautéed garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, green onion, smoked salmon, shrimp, salt & pepper? Add a dollop of sour cream before serving, stir it in and top with halved cherry tomatoes---we might have an over-abundance of tomatoes as well—I promise you won’t even notice the lack of noodley carbs.

20) Write about zucchini and hope somebody reads this and mounts a midnight raid on your zucchini patch... `

Your Other Left

I am--- somewhat--directionally challenged. When I am traveling somewhere I’ve never been before, I prefer that driving directions not be given with North/South/East/West.  “Turn east on 286th Street SW” gives me a headache. Could you please just say turn left? How hard is that?

To be clear, I’m very comfortable when the directions advise “Head East on US Highway 12” or “Take I-5 North,” but for block by block instructions I’m going to need to hear left/right. 

Sometimes, I’ll need my co-pilot/navigator to say “Turn Right. No, your OTHER Right,” because I was raised by a left-handed mother and even though I am not left-handed—I do a lot of things as left hand dominate. (My story. Sticking to it.)

I come by this handicap/superpower honestly. Both of my parents were unable to agree on how directions work. My mom was raised on the wheat plains of Kansas, where directions where always straight forward. Like literally straight forward. In Kansas, you could see where you were headed, even if it was two counties over.

My dad, on the other hand, was born and raised in the Big Bottom Valley. His people were from “the hills and hollers” of West Virginia and must have felt very at home when they reached this end of Lewis County, with all it’s secretive nooks and crannies. Some of my dad’s people still refer to places like “Notellum Crick,” or “That Mountain Where Junior Got Chased by That Cougar,” and expect that you will know where they are referring to without their having to use the geographically given name.

So, from my mother I have inherited my left hand as my “right/correct hand.” And from my father I have inherited my inability to give directions with out some sort of story attached. As you can imagine, this makes car trips with me “highly entertaining.” 

No worries though. I subscribe to the Columbus Theory of Navigation, which is to say that the world is round-- and even if you miss your turn, you just keep going. Sooner or later, you’ll get there. 

Probably.

Either way, you’ll have an adventure.

It's always a good day when you can quote
The Princess Bride

 

In-laws, Outlaws, Bus, Part Two

 

Once upon a time, I used to describe a painful time in my life as “getting hit by a bus.” Disaster Bus had hit me. My life was busted open, its contents strewn about. All was painful and messy, and it seemed unlikely that all would ever be well again. Eventually, of course, life went on but ever since then “hit by a bus” has been my go-to phrase for emotional disaster.

I was reminded last week of how much things have changed, and how some things are never what you think they might be. Turns out, being hit by a bus isn’t all that bad.

One of my fellow Nanas and I were tag team spoiling our shared grandson last week and we stood in the driveway for a moment, catching up on the latest events in our lives—AFTER we spent 20 minutes agreeing how amazing/perfect/smart/beautiful our Aiden is. Eventually, the conversation turned talk of his sister’s eventual arrival and the preparations for a “baby sprinkle” in her honor. (Side note: if, like me, you thought a Baby Sprinkle was another name for baptism, prepare to be enlightened. In this context “Baby Sprinkle” is what you call a Baby Shower for a second baby. Sort of like “Baby Shower Lite.”)

Nana Judy invited me—Nana Sugar—to ride with her to Nana Lisa’s house for the Baby Sprinkle. Of course, I said yes. Then Judy reminded me that the last time we carpooled to a family event, we got hit by a bus.

Yes. A literal bus. And it wasn’t even our fault. Nor was it at all like I had imagined—it was more of a gentle bump, really. Let me explain.

The Bus

Remember the ice/snowstorm of ’17? When Portland got hit really hard with multiple inches of ice and snow on the same weekend we were headed into the city to go wedding dress shopping? You all had that on your calendars, right? Anyway—icy roads, city bus, bridge, stopped traffic, not our fault—use your imagination. Except—bump.

Since the Baby Sprinkle is in June—a month not known for its snowfall, and the Sprinkle will be held to the north, not in Portland, and the fact that Nana Judy is excellent company—I said yes. What could possibly go wrong? Besides—her SUV has enough room to fit the pony I bought...AND the receipt.

Welcome to Packwood, Memorial Day Elk Rules Edition

 Welcome to Packwood! Memorial Day kicks off Visitors’ Season* in our tiny mountain town, high in the Washington Cascades. Please enjoy your visit. For your elucidation, I have put together a list of guidelines that will make your stay more pleasant. 

For me.

The Rules Governing Elk

1) Elk don’t follow rules. 

The Rules Governing Visitors and Elk

1) Elk don’t follow rules.

2) Don’t be like Elk.

3) Please enjoy the spontaneous elk parades that will take place at random intervals. Elk will wander out into the highway so that you can stop and enjoy their majesty. Please do.

4) Please watch for elk that will dash out in front of oncoming vehicles. There is almost always more than one. It is not considered a parade. Consider it a threat.

5) No, the Elk are not trucked in by the Disney Company. They do not talk.

6) No, you should not try to pet them.

7) Or feed them. If you really want to feed elk, I suggest you buy an alfalfa truck and park it, fully loaded, in town. This is the traditional way of feeding elk. Google it.

Googled it for you

8) Do not let them have your IPA. Elk are terrible drunks.  

9) Yes, you can take one home with you. In fact, every visitor is allowed to take home six elk, each. Per visit. Did I say allowed? I meant REQUIRED.

10) Please do not allow the elk to drive. Actually, don’t allow them in your vehicle as elk are terrible back seat drivers as well, and have been known to chew on the upholstery.

11) U-Haul trucks are available in town to transport your elk. Yes. That’s why they’re there.

12) Once you take the elk, they are yours. DO NOT TRY TO RETURN YOUR USED ELK.

The Rules Governing Locals, Elk and Visitors 

1) Elk don’t follow rules.

2) Visitors are leaning the rules. Please back me up on these rules. Especially the six elk/each, thing. I really think it might work.

3) Deer Season starts September 1. Permit required. Limit one.

4) Elk Season starts November 6. Permit required. Limit one.

5) Visitors’ Season* starts May 26. Please remember that no permits for hunting visitors will be issued.

Mish, Even More Mashed—Support Groups and SBG

 I’m thinking of starting a support group. NOT, as you might be supposing—based on this title—for Straw Bale Gardeners, but a support group instead, for people who love to complain about the weather.

I love to complain about the weather, and—all bragging aside—I’m very good at it. Unfortunately for me, my talents will have to lie dormant this week as we are scheduled to have day, after day, after day of good weather. That’s bound to put my skills into cold turkey/withdrawal mode. Hence the need for a support group. I’m thinking we could all get together and complain about having nothing to complain about—thereby keeping our skills sharp and our muscles warm, ready for the next round of complaint-worthy weather. Now I just need to brainstorm meeting locations—grange? Umbrella factory? — figure out the best cookie baker in my bunch, and we’ll be set to go... Thursdays at 10 a.m. work for you?

Abby is helping.

Speaking of SBG—and I was, earlier, sort of—I got my straw bales over the weekend and am ready to start prepping them. Since it’s scheduled to be sunny all week I’ll have to unfurl my garden hose to water them. Last year it rained so much during my twelve-day straw-prep period that I only had to water them myself once or twice. (Please note that I have very skillfully managed a near-complaint about being saddled with a stretch of good weather. Skillz, I haz ‘em!)

If you’re thinking a SBG sounds like fun, get yourself to your nearest feed store or friendly farmer—I go to Overby’s in Randle. Good prices, and he loads it right in the vehicle for me. It would be even better service it he UNLOADED it for me—but in all fairness, I didn’t actually ask him the availability of that service. He offered to bag the bale for me, to keep the chafe out of my upholstery. Which turned out to be a service I should have taken him up on. In other related news: air compressors and lint-rollers combined, will—eventually--remove the chafe. “Eventually” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.

Ryan Gosling--get it?

If you live in Onalaska, I recommend Premium Quality Hay and Feed for straw. They are located right off of Highway 12, which is handy. Unfortunately, they also carry adorable baby goslings, and I spend way too much time trying to convince myself that that I don’t really need a baby Russian Goose named Ryan...

Once you have your straw—I’ll leave it to your own discretion when it comes to your goose needs-- just place the bales in a sunny location, sprinkle ½ cup of cheap, nitrogen rich fertilizer on them every other day for a week. Give them a good soaking each day you fertilize. Days 7-9: ¼ cup fertilize; use warm water to saturation. Day 10 is one cup per bale of a balanced, slow release fertilizer. On day 12 you can plant!

Probably best you didn’t get the goose after all, since Ryan is bound to pull up all your little seedlings...but it WOULD give you something to complain about...

Who's Zooming Who

 I’ve already spilled the beans on myself that I am an inconsistent, mediocre secret keeper. I can keep other people’s secrets in lock box---UNLESS those secrets involve me--- then I’m all Little Miss Sink Ships with her loose lips.

I have a couple of very delicious secrets that I’m keeping firmly under my hat. And since I can’t talk about them yet—not directly, anyway---I thought I talked about things that are contiguous to them. 

Take, for example, Zoom meetings.

A couple of my secrets involve the necessity of attending Zoom meetings. In case there is anybody out there who has managed to stay blissfully unaware of what a Zoom meeting is—it’s like a cross between and in-person meeting and a conference call—audio AND video.

Years ago—before technology tracked us down in and rudely followed us into the shelter of our homes, a person could be at home and be reached only by an in-person visit or by telephone. You remember telephones—those clunky things that hung on our walls or set on desktops? They would ring and you would answer them and talk to people and NO ONE COULD SEE YOU? Good times, good times...

On a business phone call made from home, you could stay comfortably in your pajamas with no one the wiser. Oh, sure—there were those people who adhered to the Lipstick and Shoe Rule while on the phone---shoes on, lipstick on--so that one would sound professional, i.e. shoe-wearing-- but I fall squarely in the Bare Lip/Bare Foot camp. I’m pretty sure I can fake professionalism. My voice sounds like I’m wearing shoes.

Zoom video calls have ruined that. Now I have to take off my robe, put on Real Clothes, comb my hair and fake professionalism.

How's my hair?

Faking professionalism is a lot harder to do when I’m constantly confronted by my own, live, image. Instead of keeping track of what we are supposed to be talking about all I can think is “is that my hair? Does it really look like that? Dear God!” Zoom calls make me a nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. It takes all my will power to not to keep fidgeting with my hair.

Fortunately for me, I don’t have to fake crappy internet--and as such-- have a beautiful built in excuse to opt out of sharing video while zooming.

New Year’s Resolutions 2020

 

To resolve or not to resolve, that is the question. One of many questions, anyway. Can you even make new year’s resolutions after a year like 2020? Is there in wisdom in that? Is that just wishful thinking?

Resolution Number One: Go to the gym more. 

SNORT

Resolution Number Two: Travel more. 

SNORT

Resolution Number Three: Go back to not making New Year’s Resolutions. 

DING! DING! DING!

My “normal” M.O. is to not rush in to making any rash resolutions and wait until about February before actually committing to any plan of action. I like to have time to consider all the draw backs, downsides, and unintended consequences. Before I leap into the abyss I like to give it a long, hard, look.

I should probably treat my Amazon shopping cart more like a resolution. Maybe if I spent more time considering the ins and outs of buying a cat water fountain, or 36 rolls of washi tape-- based on the complete works of Vincent van Gogh and available with FREE SHIPPING—FREE! SHIPPING!--  before I tossed it into my shopping cart...

Not my cat. My cat HATES the fountain. 
But the shipping was free...

But no—Amazon shopping is amazing. I’m always so surprised to see what I bought. Every day is like my birthday—Look! Tempera paints for the grandkids! With matching brushes! Kraft Lime Cilantro salad dressing by the gallon—what? I really LIKE it! I’m already on my third gallon.

So delicious! So low calorie!
And free shipping!

 And some of the stuff I buy I really NEED—like printer ink, and a white noise machine that mimics all the sounds of the rainforest—because being fully rested is IMPORTANT. 

Then there are the books... “Where the Wild Things Are,” and “Harold and the Purple Crayon” share space in my cart with” Harriet Wolf’s Seventh Book of Wonders,” and “Killers of the Flower Moon.” I highly recommend ALL of them. Five out of five stars.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to go google “101 things to do with washi tape” and see if I can live up to my resolution to “Use the Stuff I Buy on Amazon.”

Look how pretty!

Oh, Christmas Tree 2020 Edition: Never Mind, I’ll Do It Myself

It’s 3 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in early December. My Christmas tree has been up and fully illuminated for over 24 hours. I’m still in my pajamas, completely covered in glitter, and my Christmas tree is mostly naked. 

I can explain.

Actually, it would probably be better if I just summed it up. My Famous Designer Friend from NYC was here and ruined Christmas with his tasteful editions to my usual decor. He gifted me with a beautiful table arrangement of woodland greens, dried corn leaves “locally sourced” from my garden, cones, beautiful fairy lights encased in muted gold mesh globes, and just a hint of glitzy, glamourous-glittery gold spirals to kick it up a notch.

Homespun meets glitz

Unfortunately, kicking it up a notch resulted in knocking it out of the park; making everything else around it seem drab and overwrought by comparison. Try as I might to convince him to make my tree match my table décor, he wouldn’t fall for it. Even my subtle hints about “spilling the beans” on his Great Gramma Goode fell on deaf ears.

Not what I had in mind...

After he left on Sunday morning, I decided that I was perfectly capable of glamming up my own dang Christmas, thank you very much. I’d just do it my own, little-red-hen, self.

Step one: change out the 36 bows I usually use on my tree to 36 new ones. The new ones would add just the right touch of glitz—white ribbon with a micro glitter red and silver candy cane stripe—complete with a sprinkle of oversized glitter to really kick it up a notch. Lovely!

Q: How long can it take to cut and tie 36 bows? A: No matter how long you guessed, double it. Then factor in my—having yanked the bows good and tight in my efforts to even them up—forgetting to insert the wire needed to attach them to the tree. And I don’t have any Christmas ornament hangers. And the hardware stores are now closed.

Using a toothpick to loosen up the knots enough to slide in some tomato wire--we McGyvers use what we have--took much longer than expected.

Suffice it to say, that as of this writing, my tree has 1,660 white lights; 36 handcrafted bows, eight tiny reindeer, one large reindeer and not much else.

Can we call this done? I believe so.

Glamour is hard. “Homespun” really is more my speed, after all. Or maybe it’s not too late to go “Minimalist” after all... 

Oh, Christmas Tree, 2020 Edition

 In Christmas Past, I have long been an advocate of The Perfect Christmas Tree; get a tree, string a MINIMUM of 200 lights per foot—visible from space is the goal. Then garnish in the style of your choosing. With enough lumens illuminating your tree, any lapses in judgement/taste or imperfections of execution will be impossible to see without sunglasses.

Some people do themed trees, and I like to think I do as well. My preferred style has been called “homespun”—I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment—and my theme every year is “Christmas thru the Years.”  Which basically means that every year I just load on all the “stuff” from every year pervious, plus all the new “stuff” I bought the current year. It’s a work in progress. Some years my tree falls over.

This year, my Famous Designer Friend from NYC, who shall remain nameless (Hi Philip!) was “Out Town” doing a Christmas Design for a customer in Gig Harbor. Of course I invited him to visit me-- he’s my FRIEND—we go way back. It was purely a coincidence that my Christmas tree was delivered just a head of his visit.

When Phil—when my Famous Designer Friend from NYC--you might remember him from the three Sume weddings, where he had a starring role as The Only Floral Designer our family would ever even think about using UTILIZING-- he immediately set to work crafting beautiful wreaths, swags and garlands for friends and clients, using woodland materials that were “locally sourced.” And by “locally sourced,” I of course mean I turned him loose in my back yard with a pair of clippers and a bag for moss. I even unplugged the electric fence for him.

Being generous to a fault, my FDFFNYC made me the most beautiful centerpiece for my holiday table while he was working on his planned creations. Then he also whipped up two lovely woodland toppers, complete with beautiful bows, for my two lanterns! My house was beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Nature--with a touch of glitz,

I suggested to FDFFNYC that he might as well glam up my Christmas tree with his special brand of magic while I took a break in the hot tub—watching the creative process was exhausting. Imagine my dismay when I came back to find my Christmas tree looking like this:

Philip Ruins Christmas

 

I guess there’s just no accounting for taste....

 

Next week: Sue does it herself.

My Problem is I Think I'm Funny

I’m the funniest person I know. Seriously.

I always laugh at my own jokes, no matter how poorly I tell them. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I always laugh at my own punchlines—because I’ve often forgotten the joke’s set-up and only recall the payoff. Still funny though, even if you had to be there. In my head.

Someone once said, “Blessed are those that can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused.” Of course, I don’t remember who said it because remembering the author is more “set-up” than “pay-off”, so there you have it--proof of my earlier assertion. Feel free to know trust me about the Funniest Person thing, too.

Being a Funny Person isn’t without its drawbacks. Occasionally, other people don’t find me as knee-slapping hilarious as I actually am. While I prefer not to have to explain my jokes—or my thinking-- I’m willing to do so if the need arises.

Take, for example, this anecdote: I’m driving home after a successful shopping venture to buy my oldest grandson a Big Boy Bed. We have achieved the bed—now his parents get to convince him that this truly is an upgrade and not part of a clever ploy on the part of his Soon to Make an Appearance Baby Brother to usurp his rightful place in the crib. Since this battle will not affect my sleep quality, I am in a Very Good Mood.

I decide that stopping by a coffee stand and treating myself to a Venti* hot chocolate would be a very celebratory thing to do. (*Venti—from the Latin, meaning “next to biggest size beverage you can buy, it’s a LOT, but since it’s not the BIGGEST, you can still feel as though you are exercising some self-control.”)

I tell the barista that I would like a “Cheery Hot Chocolate,” because, hey, I’m feeling super “cheery” today.

“Cheery?” she asks.

“Cheery!” I say. 

At this point in our exchange, I probably should have added more information, that by “cheery” I meant festive, seasonal, and possibly including sprinkles in my vision of a “cheery,” celebratory hot chocolate. I say none of these things, instead I make another joke, something about “does anybody ever really say no to whip cream?”

To make a long story only slightly shorter, suffice it to say I drove way, sipping a venti hot chocolate that had the weirdest flavor I couldn’t quite place. 

It was, I believe, cherry. Without whipped cream.

I laughed.

So very cherry...I mean CHEERY

I guess you had to be there.

Ding Dong Ditch 2

 My straw bale garden has been growing and growing, and I am in full on harvest mode—desperate to off-load produce onto unsuspecting friends and neighbors.

Unfortunately, most of the people I know are in a similar situation and the search for produce-receptive people has become rather competitive.

I had lamented my lack of victims—er, my lack of “recipients” on Facebook, and a couple of friends messaged me with various “someones” they believed would welcome piles ‘o produce—specifically zucchini. 

I know, I know-- I too, found it hard to believe that such people existed, but desperate gardeners are not about to look at a miracle too skeptically, so when I was informed that a such willing person existed RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD from me, I immediately loaded up a brown paper bag with zukes, put on my mask, and headed over.

Now, the more suspicious among you might assume the mask was to hide my identity but I assure you, this was not the case. I was just trying to do my part to mitigate any possible virus transmission; the fact that I’d be harder to ID in a police line-up was only a secondary consideration.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t worked through the entire produce delivery scenario in my head. And when my neighbor opened the door to my rather quiet knock I wasn’t quite prepared, and panicked. Do I just thrust the bag into her arms and run? Was I supposed to have put the produce on the porch, then ring the bell? Wait—was I supposed to set fire to the bag first?

While these and other thoughts zipped thru my brain, I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Luckily for me, my neighbor is a very kind person and she not only accepted the zucchini, she invited me to sit on the porch and have a visit—at the approved socially-distant distance, of course.

Embolden by this success, I will admit that it has been over 48 hours since I last shined a spotting scope on my garden...What could possibly happen that my newly acquired delivery skills wouldn’t be equal to the task?

Hubris. 

I haz it.

Ding Dong Ditch

 Summer is at its peak and you know what that means: everybody you know is offering you zucchini. And by offering, I of course mean dumping it on your lawn in the middle of the night and speeding off.

Experienced gardeners try to avoid this situation by harvesting their zucchini early and often. It’s a lot easier to “share” your zucchini with others if it’s smaller than a large canoe. But harvesting squash before it becomes unwieldy can be more challenging than you might expect. Zucchini is a master of the art of camouflage. Hiding in plain sight is also a common tactic. Sometimes, these two tactics are used together.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just a l’il ol’ harmless zucchini, just hanging out here at the edge of the garden, right where you can keep an eye on me. Please go on about your business. I’ll just be here, minding my own. Probably check back with me in, say, oh two days and I’ll be the perfect size for harvest.”

DO NOT FALL FOR THIS SUBTRAFUGE. Zucchini apparently have a bad steroid/growth hormone habit and will expand exponentially once your back is turned. And even if the zucchini in question doesn’t grow to gargantuan proportions in that amount of time, I can say—based on my own real-life experience—that the minute you congratulate yourself and bend over to harvest your Just The Right Size Zucchini, before you can straighten back up, your eye will fall and at least three other squash that have been stealthily assuming prize-winning proportions behind the cover of the harmless, l’il ol’ zucchini out front.

What to do with the four squash you’ve now staggered into the house with? Sure, you have plans for the ONE harmless (deceitful) zuke but now you’ve acquired three more, larger fruit. Fortunately for me, I happen to be Facebook friends with a woman whose mother is my neighbor. My FB friend claims her mother would love to have some zucchini and I should just take it over to her.

So, I did.

Next week: Part two of Ding-Dong Ditch. Spoiler alert, no bail money was required, hooray!

Adventures in SugarLand Part 2

 

Welcome back to Adventures in Sugar Land, where I share the hijinks my grands and I get up to. I also overshare the mayhem and mishaps, so buckle up—this ride might get a little bumpy.

When we last saw our heroes, they had just successfully completed a diaper change, stuck the landing, and were now relaxing in front of The Big Cat Cage at the Zoo. Editor’s note: It’s not really the Zo—never mind. Whatever. It’s “a” Zoo.

Where was I? Oh yes, THE Zoo—watching the big cats when suddenly my snuggly little grandson seemed a bit more squishy than usual...and sort of—dampish. AND OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT SMELL I DON’T THINK IT’S THE LIONS. Editor’s note: It’s not the “lions...”

Aiden, being the overachiever that he was born to be, has outdone himself. And outdone the confines of his diaper. Everything that one would expect to find in the diaper of a baby beginning to eat solid food is there—just not IN the diaper.

It’s up his back. It’s out the sides, it’s quite possible even in his ears, but by that point I was beyond the ability to retain my powers of observation and was in full-blown crisis management mode.

I know I’ve said before that changing a diaper is a lot like riding a bike—your skills may have gotten rusty but it all comes back to you. What I should have said is “changing a baby is a lot like LEARNING to ride a bike—there will be wobbles and spills, some tears-- and somebody is bound to wind up with a band aid on their knee.” SPOILER ALERT: No babies where harmed in the recounting of this Diaper Event, nor the re-telling of. Only my pride got a little bruised.

At one point in the diaper change I had a super squishy baby, with the shoulders of his Onesie down around his mid-section, hovering somewhere between the changing table and the floor; wishing I had six more hands and/or the ability to cause small humans to levitate. I was also lamenting the nation-wide shortage of PPE, because at that moment I sure could have used an Ebola-proof haz-mat suit. And some salad tongs, possibly a garden hose.

Baby Toes!

Mercifully, most of the rest of that event remains a blur. It’s quite possible I put the Onesie in the garbage and the disposable diaper in the laundry, but you know what? It doesn’t really matter--Aiden still squeals and smiles when he sees me, my knee has healed nicely, his parents are still speaking to me and I’m sure it’s just coincidental timing that his mother quit her job to stay home and run a wedding consulting business with a baby on her hip. 

Probably.

Weather Rules: 2020 Edition

I don’t make the rules. 

Apparently.

My understanding of the weather was that it followed certain basic patterns—rules, if you will.

Rule #1: It starts raining in earnest in November and does not stop until April.

Rule #2: The prior rule maybe superseded by periods of snow.

Rule #3: The rains, from April to July, turn to showers and may be periodically interrupted by the sun. Or snow.

Rule #4: Summer—warm to hot, day after day of sunshine, no rain—you know, SUMMER? Summer begins on July 5^th—unless July 5^th falls on a weekend, then summer begins on the following Monday and runs—WITHOUT RAIN—until the second weekend in August, (Logger’s Jubilee, for the uninitiated) which **may** have a shower or two. THOSE ARE THE RULES.

Imagine my dismay to find Mother Nature flagrantly flouting this time-honored tradition! What use are rules, if she’s not going to follow them? Why was I so stoic all thru June, if not to be rewarded with WALL TO WALL SUNSHINE in July? How will I grow enough zucchini to menace my friends and family?

Last week, I started wondering if maybe we shouldn’t unplug Mother Nature, count to ten, and then plug her back in. Something was clearly WRONG. Since I didn’t know where her power cord plugged in, I had to settle for percussive maintenance, and stomped around, muttering under my breath.

That seems to have worked—based on all the happy little sunshine icons my phone weather app is now showing me for the foreseeable future. You’re welcome. But it got me to thinking—perhaps I should run as an alternative candidate to Mother Nature? I’m mildly qualified—I’m a mom, I love nature, except for the part where the mama lion eats the baby gazelle. Or the part where she **doesn’t** and then goes back to her starving babies. Clearly, that part needs improving. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.

Oh, sure, if I get the job I know I’ll have to put up with people complaining all the time; “Snow, I love snow, more snow.” Or “I like it cooler, could we take the temperature down a few degrees?” Or “Last week was perfect, can we just have last week all the time?”

Fine. If you like your weather, you can keep your weather, I promise. But for the rest of us—I’ll just lay out some Weather Rules, and since we all know what to expect—NO COMPLAINING.

Jack and the Cinderella Pumpkin Stalk

I have a tale to tell, but it’s kind of hard to believe. You remember the story of Jack and the Beanstalk and how he traded his mother’s cow for some magic beans? He threw them away after his mom got a little bit miffed about the poor bargain; in the morning there was a towering beanstalk that reached into the clouds, and there was a giant, some thievery, bone-grinding and bread making, a talking musical instrument –I think it said “Help, help, I’m being oppressed!” But I could be misremembering that part. Anyway, the story ends with Jack chopping down the beanstalk—possibly killing the giant, but probably in some sort of pseudo self-defense—and living happily ever after with his ill-gotten gains. One hopes he at least bought his mother a low-mileage cow, if not a new one.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if this story was more an allegory about Wall Street than a fairy tale, but I digress.

My story is kind of like that. Except my name isn’t Jack, my mom hasn’t owned a cow in 50 years and the seeds in question are pumpkin seeds—Cinderella pumpkin seeds, to be precise.

Perhaps it is the Cinderella part that infused these seeds with magic, because I planted those things and holy cow! (Hah! There is a cow in this story after all!) Those seeds are growing at a phenomenal rate. They have already taken over my entire straw bale garden—it’s all pumpkin vine, stem to stern—the vines have forced me to remove my inner-pheasant fence by threatening to climb right over it, and now seem intent on neighborhood domination.

So far, there have been no talking musical instruments, ill-gotten gains, or bone-grinding. There was a bit of bread making-- but everybody is making bread these days so I’m discounting that.
But if a really, really tall guy starts hanging around mumbling “Fi, fi, foe, a deer, a female deer,” or mice begin to talk and offer to make me a ball gown-- I am out of here.

Field Notes

Yesterday I got a call from a co-worker (Hi Haze!) asking me where I filed this week’s Garden Gate because she couldn’t find it.

Uh, well....

It’s because I forgot, uh I’m lazy, er-- I’m too busy playing with my grandkids over the weekend, I’m babysitting, I’m shopping for plants, BUY ALL THE PLANTS, “It’s because I’m doing field research,” I told her. “I’ve been out doing extensive field research on local nurseries. And as soon as I get home and review my ‘field notes’,  I’ll write up my Garden Gate and send it right along.”

Because Haze is a nice person, she laughed and pretended to believe me. Or, maybe she pretended to laugh, and actually believed me; either way-- as I’ve said-- nice.

It’s true I did have a busy weekend, and a short stint Monday morning of Essential Work/Babysitting Aiden. It is also true that I may have stopped at every nursery on the way home. It is also true that I may have purchased new plants. It’s really not my fault.

When even the neighbors dog is judging you...

I mean—I know I don’t technically need any plants—but I didn’t have a petunia in that particular shade. Then of course I had to buy some companion plants for it because I can’t just put it in a pot all by its lonesome, now can I. Note to self: buy more pots.

Then there was the beautiful patio rose called “Mango Veranda” in the most glorious shades of, well, mango, and HOW COULD I NOT?!

It’s not my fault that DeGoedes is on my route home. It is also not my fault that they have excellent prices, and healthy plants, and oh my gosh would you look at how cool---

Anyway, I maxed out my car’s capacity, and I have a bunch of plants to plant, and if you think I’m going to review my “field notes”—AKA credit card receipts—you have another think coming. NEVER LEAVE A PAPER TRAIL is my mantra. So if you’ll excuse me, the dirt is calling my name...

A Reckoning to Be Reckoned

A couple a weeks ago I made some rather bold statements about my hair. I said “When you shelter at home—who is going to see the whole hair mess anyway? Not to mention the later addition of masks—GENIUS! No haircut, no mascara—no problem! Put on a mask when you go out in public and voila! No one can recognize you!  It’s like putting glasses on Superman—no one knew who he was! Secret Identity! Also, she stopped wearing contacts and only wore glasses—so exactly like Superman! Maybe she IS Superman!”

I completely forgot to consider that acquiring food requires going out in public—and that can entail social distancing--standing in line six feet behind another person, for an extended period of time. Or in this case, six feet IN Front of someone.

Last week I was standing in my socially approved line at the grocery store when a male voice behind me said “I really like your hair.”

 Thank you, I replied, with a quick glance of acknowledgment over my shoulder, a smile under my mask.

“Did you know?” the voice continued, “Many of the Ladies’ Hair Salons are now back open for business.”

Uh. Thank you, I guess?

Clark, possibly Clark Kent--
more likely Clark Grisswald.

He then proceeded to tell me exactly which salons in five block radius were open. Bless his little darling heart. I suppose I should be thankful he didn’t offer to call and make an appointment for me, then and there—as though I were on some sort of hidden camera Hair Intervention show. The kind where they accost people, just minding their own, and hijack them into a beauty salon that specializes in lost causes and hopeless cases. Six hours later they reveal the New and Improved You to your disbelieving circle of family and friends.

Superman never had to put up with that crap—but Clark Kent did. In my rush to embrace my secret identity, I had completely forgotten all the comments Mr. Clark had to endure. Hashtag Super Hero Problems.

As my friend Philip would say, “It ain’t easy.”