Aging. Part I (?)

I guess the time has finally come.

I need to seriously think about getting bifuckals. The really old fogies probably call them bifocals, but they are far too polite.

Jeez, I'm already taking blood pressure medication.

And thyroid medication.

I guess the slow march toward death continues. And that seems to aggravate my knees.

Show Us Your Tool!

Today is the first official gardening day here at our house. We've been out of town for the first few days of acceptable gardening weather. So far this spring, we've just spent our weekends looking out our windows at the falling rain. But we've managed to squeeze in an hour or two of gardening here and there. Of course, now it is raining. Again.

I had a particularly stubborn plant that I wanted eradicated. I shoveled, I pulled, I cried. I admitted defeat. My ever so helpful husband put on his boots and proceeded to the garage to get his favorite gardening tool -- the tamp bar. No, this is not a tool for orchid growing or transplanting seedlings, but it is the ideal tool for the kind of gardening my husband does. His specialty is eradication. I prefer little use of chemicals (he, more), but we both have a thing for brutal and permanent removal of the unwanted.

The tamp bar is thought to be at its most useful in digging post holes or for leverage in lifting rocks. We think its list of uses is never ending. I recall one day, a neighbor got her car stuck by driving over a railroad tie. A young man came to her assistance, but could do nothing. I came out to look and mentioned that I had a heck of a tool in my garage. The young man came to look and said he had never seen such a thing. Minutes later, the car was lifted free and the young man proclaimed his devotion to the tamp bar.

Here's our version of American Gothic. Sorry that I couldn't join in with my muddy knees and dirt smeared face.

Second laters, it rained. Again.


What's (or who) is your favorite gardening tool?

Dear Telephone Solicitor

I'm sorry I got a little snitty with you today. I do believe in your organization and would like to give some of my money and show my support.

I do not like it when I am called during the day. See, the mornings and afternoons are working times, right? You are at work calling others to hand over their money. Would you like a call at work asking you for money? I doubt it.

No, I don't go to an office to make my living (can you call making $600/year a living?). I work out of my house. In a studio. I make things. I make huge gummy, sticky messes. And when my phone rings and my hands are covered in paint and glue, it had better be relevant to my work or my family.

One of these days, I will put caller ID on the upstairs phone. But then I would need a new phone. And I kind of like the old gummy/sticky phone.

So, hard-working fundraiser for Planned Parenthood, I do apologize. I apologize for hanging up on you after I stated that I cannot possibly afford to fork over $200 at this point. I know that you were going to continue asking for lesser amounts until we agreed on something. It just wasn't a good time for me.

I will see what I can do, because I support what this organization does. And from the looks of things, your organization will become a necessity for more and more Americans.

I'll see what I can do. After 5:00 pm.

Dear Donald Trump,

I understand that you are thinking of running for president on the Republican ticket in 2012.

You are wealthy and have interesting hair, so that does give you a leg up. And that reality televison show stuff -- that does get your name and face out there in front of a great deal of voters. You could probably afford to buy the presidency. But being able to buy one's way in doesn't mean you have the qualifications to run the country.

Indeed, your name is at the top of the list of Republicans vying for the presidency. However, when the roster reads much like the list of clowns for the Ringling Bros. Circus, being at the top is not necessarily a good thing.

I received my first piece of mail (solicitation) from the Obama campaign yesterday. I do receive a great deal of this type of mail: cancer prevention, Multiple Sclerosis Foundation, Doctors without Borders, the local food bank, etc. I don't always give (good heavens, no, not when I receive something every other week). I'm sure to get more solicitations from Obama and his people. And by golly, I'm gonna donate. I think that each time I see your face on the television or online, I'm gonna fill out a check. Each time the words "birth certificate" fall out of your crusty lips, another 10 dollars goes to the Obama campaign.

For the love of Pete, stick with what you know. Numbingly awful reality television. Your merry-go-round of model wives. Counting money. Do not present me with the nightmare of Bozo the clown, with a female sidekick of lunacy for vice president (selected for popularity in the case that your money can't actually purchase the presidency), striding into the oval office hell-bent on taking away the rights of women, the lower and middle classes, those who want to work without huge physical and mental risk, children who want a decent education, etc. Well, essentially anyone who is not male, white, and wealthy.

King Trump. Think about it. I just did. That's ten more dollars for President Obama.

Return of Packing Mule

It may have been noticed that the housewife has not posted much lately.

Yoga is going well (so far). I no longer burst into powerful but silent giggles over the thought of a golden light emanating from my innards. Last week's stretching did provoke a somewhat audible WTF? from somewhere deep down inside.

Everything else remains the same.

Another vision of moving on to greener pastures (where there are galleries and coffee shops and such) has been taken out into the back yard and buried. When the possibility of another place pops up, I do some research -- google maps, real estate, schools, child activities, searches for galleries and coffee houses and places of culture. I read the local blogs and check out the crime stats and read the headlines of the local papers online. Then, just a few words and out comes the shovel again.

So, if I'm gonna complain, I'd at least better be funny about it. Here's a rerun from last summer. This past weekend, we went to visit my dad down in Virginia. As usual, I forgot to pack something for somebody. Didn't seem to ruin the weekend. Packing mule (me) kind of worn out though.

Packing Mule

Me, September 10, 2010

Friday morning, the family climbed into the politically-incorrect SUV and drove on down to Richmond, VA, to visit close friends. I should say, the hubby, child and dog climbed in. Here's what I did to prepare for this trip.

Laundry in preparation of travel.
Located 3 bathing suits (pool on premises, wheeeee)
Set up cat's things for cat sitter - all food (dry and wet) with accompanying bowls and plates, medicine, notes for each item.
Packed my suitcase.
Packed daughter's suitcase.
Packed daughter's sleeping bag and pillow.
Made sure hubby had packed allergy meds, wallet, gps.
Packed all meds and creams and shampoos for special needs (except for hubby's - his job, he just gets questioned about it).
Packed road snacks.
Packed dog items for kennel (food, blanket, toys, meds -- we're a bunch of sickos apparently).
Packed CDs for road listening pleasure.
Packed daughter's toys and books and stuffed animals in her backpack.
Pack sunscreen and sunglasses.
Watered plants.
Made sure that birds and squirrels would be fed in our absence.

Then, an hour down the road, someone had the gall to ask ME if I had packed their swim goggles. I said, "No. I did not." Someone said, "Mama forgot my swim goggles." I said, "No, I did not forget your swim goggles. You did. Your daddy did. But I DID NOT." Hubby says, "We all forgot your swim goggles." I recited the list above, and once again stated, "I did NOT forget your goggles.

Shit. Is it because I have tits and ovaries that I'm supposed to remember to pack all the above, including the damn swim goggles? I think not.

Next time, I'm putting my stuff in (and dog's I guess), and I'm climbing in and putting on my CD and screw the rest of 'em. They can wear soiled undies and sneeze from allergies and itch because they have the wrong shampoo and have nothing to read or write with and no stuffed animals and no wallet and nothing to eat but McDonalds (wait, the hubby did prepare sandwiches) no pillows no sunglasses burn from lack of sunscreen. And no freakin' swim goggles.

Packing mule is on strike.


(Apparently, the strike didn't last long.)