Why I keep nail polish remover in my cabinet

I am not a high-maintenance girl. Sure, I like to dress up every hundred years or so, but my normal style is... well, not much style at all. Jeans, boots, tee shirts - that sort of thing.

Every once in a while, as I peruse the underworld that exists beneath the bathroom sink, I wonder vaguely why I keep a bottle of nail polish remover there. This morning, I was reminded why.

Every time I am going to be spending time with a high-maintenance woman (namely my sister, this weekend) I get the idea that I should really paint my toenails. You know, in case I am wearing toeless shoes in Their Presence.

I rummage around in my dusty box of stuff left over from the 1980's and come up with a bottle of nail polish I deem possibly not too offensive. I paint my toenails.

And every time, I look down at my feet and realize (for the millionth time) that a coat of nail polish on un-manicured toenails does not immediately transform one's feet into the smooth, well-kept feet of someone who goes to a salon regularly.

Then I feel foolish for trying to put on airs, and what the hell is wrong with my regular feet - the feet that I garden in, the feet that I walk around the house in, the feet that my cats like to tickle and my husband rubs for me at the end of a hard day? They're clean, if a bit rough around the edges.

Nothing, that's what. Then I pull out the bottle of nail polish remover, still sitting 80% full under the bathroom sink, and I take off the ugly stuff, and move on.

Sum of my joys

Catnip - AKA "Kitty Crack": Season 1

Marcheline's Odd Lunchtime Tale

I decided to be perfectly evil the other day and not eat the peanut butter sandwich I'd brought with me for lunch. It was a beautiful afternoon, so I cruised on down to the local family deli and indulged in one of my favorites - an everything bagel with a little bit of cream cheese and some sliced turkey. Paired with a cold milk, there's nothing better!

I climbed back into my pickup truck and turned the CD player back on to hear more of the Stephen King book I'm currently listening to, titled "Lisey's Story". Not wanting to sit directly in front of the deli to eat, I pulled my truck around to the side parking lot, where there was a little shade, and a view of the main road.

There was a small sidewalk between the road and the parking lot, and as I ate and listened to the story, I saw several people go by on foot. One was a power-walker, her bright pink sweats and matching headphones clashing marvelously with her dyed red hair. Another looked like a student, with her sweatshirt tied around her waist. Her gait was less like exuberant and more like a trudge.

Then a large blond man with an overgrown crew cut came down the pike. He was wearing a bright red tee shirt and baggy blue exercise pants - the kind with two white stripes going down the sides. He was smiling a little, and his step was bouncy. It looked almost strangely light for someone his size. It was a gorgeous spring day, and he looked like someone really taking enjoyment out of being outside for a walk in the sun.

There was a bus stop shelter at the edge of the road, on the grass between the sidewalk and the street. One of those metal-and-plexiglass affairs, with its black sheet-metal backing facing the sidewalk. I wasn't really "watching" the big blond man, my eyes followed him merely because he was the only thing moving in my current field of vision. I was deep into the world of Stephen King in my mind, and my mouth was gettin' busy with the turkey bagel.

The blond man stopped suddenly next to the bus stop and threw himself sideways as hard as he could into the metal back wall. This guy had to be at least 6'3", and looked like he weighed around 350. Not particularly muscular, just all-around huge. I'm surprised the minimalistic structure stood the onslaught.

My eyes flew open at this violence out of nowhere, and I immediately focused on the man's face. He was still looking straight ahead, and now he was laughing, and nodding and yelling ahead of him. I was momentarily relieved - I figured he'd seen a friend of his coming down the sidewalk in the other direction, and was joking around with him.

When I turned my head to look, I saw that the sidewalk in front of him was clear of people, all the way down the road and out of sight. The man kept talking, and smiling, and walking that bouncy little walk.

I put down my sandwich and started my truck, not liking the feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was unnerving how quickly this happy guy enjoying a spring day had turned into a violent machine.

Perhaps the world is a bit more like the one in Stephen King's head than any of us would like to think.

Yesterday

Yesterday would have been the 100th birthday of my all-time favorite actor, Jimmy Stewart. It's hard for me to describe exactly how I feel about him, because he was a little bit of everything, in my book.

He was a little bit funny...



A little bit serious, and solid...



A little bit gorgeous...
(okay, maybe more than a little bit!)



A dear friend...



Willing to really get into every role
he played - all or nothing...



He was a generous actor who never minded
sharing the spotlight or playing the supporting role...


Did I mention he was a little bit gorgeous?
Right, right, I s'pose I did...


He was a soldier...


And he was like the grandfather I never had...


HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIMMY!

I miss you!

Burning Times

Worked outside a lot today, as the weather was beautiful. Moved a rhododendron that was getting too much sun into a shadier spot. Weeded around the base of a rose bush that I thought had died, but which surprised me by valiantly putting up new leaves. Trimmed up Prospect, the boxwood shrub. Things like that.

I also had a ceremonial fire. A cleansing fire. A "Getting Rid of the Old" fire. When I lived in an apartment, I couldn't have fires like this. Now that I have my own back yard, my own brick patio, and my own outdoor fire pit, I can.

This past week, I realized that I have been hoarding documents for years that I have never again looked at once they were put away. As living in a cottage puts space at a premium, I wanted to clear out all these unnecessary hoggers of precious space - however, I didn't really care for the idea of putting all those documents with my name, address, and personal information on them out in the trash where anyone could find them.

And so, the fire. As with all ceremonies, there is a ritual. The fire pit is pulled a safe distance away from any growing things at the edge of the patio, as the heat would kill them stone dead. A patio chair is positioned close enough to the pit to tend the fire but (hopefully) far enough away not to toast myself. A large fire-prodding stick is leaned up against the patio table near the chair, a drink (as it was early in the day, coffee) is set on the table within arm's reach, and the "click" grill lighter is close at hand.

Then comes the delicate act of lighting the first sheet of paper, and adding additional sheets gently on each side, until a merry fire dances in the center of the pit. This is the ritual's beginning phase, when all is patience and quietude.

Next comes the middle portion of the ceremony, when many of the papers have burned, but some are not burning all the way, so the fire-prodding stick must be used in order to make sure all the papers burn completely. Some smoke is starting to billow now, as the ashes are growing thick in the bottom of the fire pit. The wind shifts directions every few seconds, and there's nothing like a good face-full of smoke to make you move your chair. Over and over again.

This is the point where I realize that I really have a lot of papers to burn, and this delicate laying-on of one sheet of paper at a time is for the birds. I start laying on wads of paper, and as a result the smoke is thicker and I have to do a whole lot more fire-prodding, chair-moving, with some coughing thrown in for good measure.

Still, the satisfaction is there. Watching bills that were (somehow, miraculously) paid, old paystubs from jobs I quit with a song of joy on my lips, and receipts for things I paid way too much money for being devoured by flames is always a liberating experience. Really putting the past to rest. Letting go of the last vestiges of whatever claim those things ever had on me. Whoof! Up in smoke.

The final phase of the ritual is somewhat less romantic. The heat from the fire is now giving my forearms a sunburn - or maybe it's the sun, since I can't have the fire under the shade of the patio umbrella. The half-burnt sheaves of paper are smoking, and the white flakes of ash are floating around and screwing up my patio. My coffee is cold, which doesn't matter because it now has a fine layer of ash floating on the surface.

I say to hell with it, and dump the last half bag of papers on the fire and cram the wire mesh fire pit cover on top of the whole thing after stirring the ashes back into flame one last time. My fire-prodding stick has caught fire, and four inches fall off the end of it when I stick it into the fire pit to move the ashes.

The grand finale is a trip to the spigot with the big green watering can. All the papers have burned, and I pour water over the fire pit, leaning away as steam rises from the hot metal. I douse the tip of the fire-prodding stick liberally, making sure that no live fire remains untended once I leave the area. Later, when I know it's all cooled down, I will dump out the ashes behind a stump by the giant euonymus.

I sweep the patio clean of snowflake ashes, clean the glass-top table with spray and paper towels, and head back inside feeling lighter than I did this morning.

Do the math!

I was just reading an article about OJ Simpson's current girlfriend, and the article says that she sustained "two broken legs". Only two? I mean, really - we're assuming the girl is a human being (although the fact that she is dating OJ Simpson leaves a lot of room for doubt... that particular position is more suited to something with a much smaller brain). So why is it necessary to say "two broken legs"?

Couldn't we just leave it at "her legs were broken", or "she had both legs broken", or "bitch just doesn't listen"? ... Wait, no, sorry - that's OJ's line.

If we were talking about a giant spider that got hit by a train, saying it had "two broken legs" would make sense, since there would be six other huge, hairy, completely healthy legs left! See what I mean?

not sure I like this.....

This is my Brezny horoscope...

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): In his folk song "Farewell to the Gold," Nic Jones tells the story of a failed gold prospector. After two years of finding no more than a few flecks of the precious metal, the unlucky man is giving up his search. "Farewell to the gold / that never I found," he sings. "Goodbye to the nuggets / that somewhere abound. / For it's only when dreaming / that I see them gleaming / down in the dark deep underground." If I'm reading the omens correctly, Sagittarius, it's time for you, too, to say goodbye to a quest that hasn't panned out. Yes, it'll be sad. But here's the happy ending: Within a month of the time you surrender, you'll be led to a better quest with more chance of success.

Ever have one of those weeks?

Last week was so awful at work that I didn't even mention it here. I was feeling so useless and dogged-out that I was certain I was going to be fired... it seemed like the bosses were out to get my blood, even setting me up for failure and waiting to pounce when I took the bait!

I am normally an extremely energetic worker, always looking for ways to be helpful, trying to get my regular work done as quickly and efficiently as possible, but last week had me so discombobulated that I literally couldn't take a breath the right way. I kept having to go back and recheck my work, and every time I did, I'd find stupid mistakes. I had to double-time in order to fix everything before the bosses had a chance to jump down my throat about it.

My self-image and my confidence are usually pretty high, as well, and I can take a hit to the ego without crumbling... usually. Last week, though, I felt as if I was a complete failure in the office. I began to actually suspect that the bosses were planning to get rid of me, since the incoming work has slowed down so much in the past few weeks. I know they've hired a few new people at a lower pay rate than me, and with the seasonal slow-down I figured they were gunning to get rid of me so they could save some money.

Of course, the fact that I am awaiting a call-back on this really great job that I just interviewed for has my nerves on edge as well... all I need is for them to call my current employers and hear a horror story of incompetence and lack of focus!

Part of my trouble, I know, is dealing with the grieving process after my dad's death. No matter how strong I think I am, my brain shuts down sometimes and I can't seem to follow the simplest instructions. According to my loving husband (who constantly supports me emotionally and encourages me at every turn), this is part of the grief... not being able to focus or perform simple jobs with my normal efficiency.

Whatever it is, I really hate it. It's as if someone has my brain hog-tied and it isn't able to respond to my will with its normal quickness and strength. Scary, really. My short-term memory is swiss cheese, and my ability to believe the worst has increased greatly.

However, this week things seem to be improving a bit - I was actually useful today, helping to burn a crapload of CDs, print another crapload of brochures, and train a new employee in an important office function that was previously only provided by myself and one of the managers. I was able to find phone numbers that people needed, and locate some misplaced items for the boss. In short, I felt I redeemed my sinking status somewhat.

I hope that this trend continues, and that I am able to stay in the good graces at least long enough to get hired by the NEW place!

Fingers crossed...

An actual conversation, in my house, this morning

Him (from the bathroom): I'm the official deodorant goat!!!

Her (from the computer room): What?

Him: I'm the official deodorant goat!!!

Her: What do you mean?

Him: I used up the last of the old deodorant and have to throw it away, and open up the new deodorant! You know how we always try to not be the one to use up the last bit?

Her: I've been using the new deodorant for a week already. I didn't like the old one, so I just started using the new one.

Him: (silence)

Her: (hysterical laughter)

***

As promised... more pictures!

I thought I would start with some pictures of our miniature
snapdragons, because how could a gardening post
go wrong with these cheerful little faces opening the ceremonies?

Aren't they just too cute to believe?
Of course since these are closeup photos and you have
nothing to use as a point of reference, they might as well be
giant snapdragons that could eat your head.
But they're not.
You'll just have to trust me on this one.

*****

Here's a view of the circle garden, in which you can
clearly see the new creeping phlox at the
front of the picture, and at the far right corner, the
new kwanzaan cherry tree. If you really squint, you can tell
that there is a bird bath in the center of the circle,
directly in front of the white bench.
Which needs painting very badly, indeed, although
since I know your eyes are not that good, I really shouldn't
have mentioned it at all. You never would have
known the difference.

*****

Since you have never actually seen my kitchen,
you may wonder what the point of the above photo
really is, aside from showing the world how crazy
eclectic I really am.

The actual point is this wonderful old print that my
mother just gave me, titled "A Cook's Garden of Herbs".
Those of you from England are hearing
"HERBS"
in your head right now, and the rest of you are hearing
"ERBS".
Just a point of interest, to show how worldly and
well-traveled I am.
Ahem.

*****

These are some miniature double-daffodils alongside some
lovely silver dollar plant, which is growing rampant
all over my property. If only those silver dollars could be
put in the bank, I'd have no worries, mate!

For those of you unfamiliar with the silver dollar plant, the
purple flowers go away and flat green discs with seeds inside
develop. When the plant matures, the whole thing turns a
dry, silvery color. The dried silver discs look like
silver dollars, thus the name.
Lots of folks use these in dried flower arrangements.
They might as well, because you damn sure can't spend them!

A closeup of those lovely, buttery mini daffs.

*****

Here's a view from the patio, through the ivy archway, into
the circle garden. Featured in the center of the archway is
our new baby Kwanzaan cherry tree, which we named
Roshi, after the head honcho of Bear's Zen lineage,
who just turned 100 years old last year!

That roundish black thing in the foreground is our
outdoor fire pit. We and several of our friends have
trodden upon the wire mesh cover, which is why it
looks more like a broken wagon wheel than a fire pit cover.
You're already showing signs of getting over the horror.

Roshi, the Kwanzaan cherry tree

*****

Some more miniature daffodils,
this time with lovely dark orange centers!

*****

Five wee boxwood shrubs rooted from my grandfather's
big boxwood shrub in the mountains of North Carolina.
I know you're not so completely daft that you've already
forgotten their names, and therefore
I will not burden you with the repetition.

*****

Couldn't resist posting a picture of this beautiful little calico
cat that my mother gave Bear for his cat collection.
It's actually covered with little pieces of cloth,
all different blue and white floral prints, and then
covered in shellac. The background of this picture features
a photograph of an abandoned stone house that I took
on my journey through Scotland, a photograph of my
great-grandmother (who was a Shakespearean actress
from Australia), and pictures of Bear and I, and some of our
cats. Directly behind the calico cat is a Tibetan prayer wheel
encircled with a jade band - a gift to Bear from me.

Hope you enjoyed this little tour through
some of my world.
If you didn't, keep it to yourself, will you?

St. Francis lives in our garden!
I know you think this is just a statue of St. Francis,
but it's not.
It's really St. Francis.
He only acts like terra cotta when
people are looking at him. The birds? Not real.
They are just terra cotta.

Pictures, as promised... (more to follow)

Redbud and dogwood, together

Dogwood - close and closer

*****

Redbud - close and closer

*****

Osage orange - close and closer

*****

Sand Cherry - just closer

Last Weekend, Part Deux

One of these things is not like the other... or is it?

So - the other best part of my mother's visit was all the gardening we got to enjoy! The first part of the weekend was sunny and beautiful, and I was all excited about showing my mom the new additions to our gardens, and getting her help and expert advice on what to plant next, and where, and how to care for the new trees and things that I'd just put in. We took a ride to our local nursery, grabbed one of the old, rusty red Radio Flyers, and toodled around the place, picking out herbs and flowers for the afternoon planting party.

Someone else's picture, but you get the idea...

Just as we were getting ready to leave, my mom asked one of the nursery ladies about the price of one pot of daffodils. The lady stood up and pointed back where we had just come from, and said, "Well, you know, those two tables of plants over there are free."

My mom and I looked at the two indicated tables, chock full of daffodil and hyacinth plants whose flowers had faded away, thus making them impossible to sell - mostly because people have no imagination and refuse to buy a plant without flowers on it, even though it's a bulb that will come back year after year. Then we looked at each other. Lastly, we looked at the nursery lady, trying to assess whether she was joking or perhaps had lost a few of her marbles.

Just to make sure, we asked her to repeat what she'd just said, and about three seconds after that we had grabbed two more Radio Flyers and were stuffing them as full of free plants as we could get them. FREE! Daffodils of all sizes and types, and pink and purple and white sweet-smelling hyacinths! The nursery lady had assured us they were all destined for the compost heap if we didn't take them, so we felt no compunction at being piggies about the whole affair.

When we pulled back in the driveway, the back of my pickup truck full of our happy treasure, anyone looking would have thought we broke the bank! We started right in, hauling all the pots around back to the gardens, and laying them around in the spaces where we thought they'd look the best.

That's one of my favorite parts, deciding where things will go. It's fun to place the pots around, walk across the yard and give things the artist's eyeball, and then run back and move them a few inches to the right or left, or change your mind completely and decide they would look better peeking out from under the pine tree across the yard.

Bear, meanwhile, was inside with his chef's jacket on (no, really!), cooking up a wonderful melange of pork chops, bratwurst, knockwurst, apples, onions, and sauerkraut - with crispy potato latkes and sour cream on the side. The delicious smells wafting from the open windows were enough to make us drool on our trowels!

We planted and planted and planted, my mom and I. It was so enjoyable to be able to do gardening together for once. Usually we only get to share our gardening triumphs over a long distance telephone call, or with emailed pictures. To have the chance to spend a sunny afternoon up to our elbows in dirt, companionably chatting about the best way to prune a cherry tree and how deep this plant or the other needs to be put in was such a gift. Not to mention the fact that we got twice as much done, in half the time! Or something like that - I never was good at math.

By the time we'd dusted off the knees of our jeans and stood upright to go in and wash for supper, the gardens had been transformed. Now, where I used to have one or two clumps of daffodils scattered around, there will be a plethora of nodding yellow heads next spring. Where there used to be just the odd smattering of moneywort, it will now be winding its way between the brightly colored, waxy blooms of the hyacinths.

Another great gift from my mother was five small boxwood shrubs which she rooted from a big boxwood up in the mountains of North Carolina. That big boxwood belonged to my late grandfather. On one of her trips up there to care for my grandmother, she took some of the lowest branches of the huge boxwood and weighted them down to the ground with large stones. Eventually, the branches put roots down where they touched the soil, and my mother clipped them off between the rock and the main shrub, and planted the new shoots in their own pots. They are now about a foot high and six or seven inches wide, and we planted them in a small semi-circle just outside the circle garden.

As Bear and I always do, we named the new additions. Since there are five, and they all came from the same plant, we decided to choose all the names from the same place, too. One of our favorite TV series movies of all time is "Le Comte de Monte Cristo", starring Gerard Depardieu.



And so, in honor of that, we are naming the five boxwoods as follows:

1. Edmond Dantes (The Count himself)

2. Mercedes (His true love)

3. Bertuccio (His true friend)

4. Abbe Faria (Who left him the treasure)

5. Morrel (Another friend of the Count)


I know it's frustrating to hear about all this planting and not see any pictures, but the weather here has been so dreary for the past few days, and is slated to be rainy and damp for the next several, and I don't want to do the garden an injustice by putting up photos that look sad and swampy. So - as soon as the sun sees fit to visit us again, I will get photos! Also - the freebie daffodils and hyacinths do not have flowers on them, as I said, and photos of limp greenery don't do much for the story.

And now, in closing, a random photograph of Johnny Depp. Why? Because I love to make people happy.

"Damn! I must be losing my touch - they're lusting after the latkes!"

This past weekend, Part I

We went to the weekend/summer home of a friend of my mother's. It's a mill house, built right over the water! The place was unbelievable - homey, wooden raftered, comfortable beyond belief. The sound of the rushing water can be heard inside the house no matter where you stand. Fishermen come and wade in the river, sometimes right up to the house! They're not allowed on the land, but the river is part of a state park and so they come, and play with the dogs, who mostly jump in the water and scare the fish. It was a magical day, spent with loving people. Couldn't have been better.