Pull up a chair and let’s talk

No, this is not my neighbor's actual chair, but one lifted from Flickr. How ballsy and intrusive with a camera do you think I am?

Flickr photo via jeffsmallwood

Okay.  Who started the matching Adirondack chairs in the front yard business?  Come here so I can shove my wet finger in your ear.  Decorating your front lawn with Adirondack chairs that you NEVER sit in…I don’t get it.

My neighbors began displaying two white Adirondack chairs on their front lawn this past summer.  Not once have I ever eyed anyone actually sitting in the chairs.  Actually, they’re arranged at such a tight angle to one another, I imagine knees would be knocking if they were ever occupied simultaneously.  I’ve seen the chairs for lawn ghosts phenomenon around in the ritzier neighborhoods for a while now.  I’m not in such a swanky locale, but that doesn’t stop the neighbors from jumping on the Martha Stewart Lawn bandwagon.

I should add here that I’m not much into home decor.  You knew that already.  I’m a minimalist when it comes to home furnishings.  I like having room to move (well, when you subtract the sea of toys).  I was this way even pre-kids.  I decorate like a college freshman boy but with less beer and tits posters.  (although my bedroom walls in high school were covered with framed Lamborghini posters)  One of the more ridiculous arguments I’ve had in the past few years involved my lack of decorating desire.  The riff started over my nonchalance regarding the choice of new curtains.  “Don’t you have an opinion about the curtains?”  “No, not really.  They’re just curtains.”  “But, you’re a GIRL.  GIRLS are supposed to be into rearranging the furniture and picking out curtains.  You’re more of a guy than I am.”  Yes, I am.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not completely anti-home decor.  When I do put a nail in the wall or reserve a spot on the mantle, I prefer the object have a story behind it.  On the wall above the computer is a wooden cuckoo clock given to me by my mother who, when she handed it over, said, “I’ve always wanted a cuckoo clock.”  On the living room wall is a colorful oil pastel drawing Gav created in a 3rd grade art class.  It’s a blend of shapes and colors in which Gav continues to perceive different things…now that’s he almost 14, he’s sure he sees a breast in the drawing.  On the mantel is a photo of my brothers P and J when they were little boys in the baseball uniforms…the frame is four pieces of scrap wood I picked up off the floor from my high school boyfriend’s workshop…he hurriedly glued them together as a joke, telling me to toss the impromptu pseudo-frame in the trash…I saved it and taped my brothers’ photo to the back…it still smells like sawdust.  On the wall by the back door is a piece of wood with a face carved in it…my mother bought this for me at a little coffee shop on the Blue Ridge Parkway where she would work summers baking biscuits…the carved face is supposed to guard the door and prevent evil from entering my house.

See, I have stuff.  Special stuff.  And, I guess curtains usually don’t have a story behind them besides, “Oh, those?  I got a 20% discount on those at Pier 1 Imports.” ::wiping a sentimental tear from my eye:: Yet, I still refuse to lose sleep over any fabric, pattern, length, color of a set of curtains.  Call me apathetic, but I really don’t care.  Just anything to pull to a close so I can walk around the house in my underwear.

Back to the neighbors’ Adirondack chairs.  Maybe they have history behind them.  I hope so.  Maybe they’ve been passed down generation after generation and are so archaic the seat will bust if anyone dares sit in them.  (hmm, i’m highly tempted to sneak across the yard in the middle of the night and have a seat)  I made a comment when the chair pair appeared on the lawn, “Oh, watch.  When they start having children, they’ll add baby Adirondacks to the phantom lawn chair collection.”  Guess what they added a few days ago?  Yep, yep.  A mini-Adirondack.  I suppose congratulations are in order.

Can’t carry it with you if you want to survive

I’m going to do you all a woolly mammoth favor and not write the low-down blues today.  Instead, I’ll pass along this anthem for throwing your hands up in the air and living life.  The most awesome KellyGO shared this blood-pumping song back in the summer to get me through some doldrums.  Because she’s most awesome like that.  The true shining stars in my life are those who share tunes with me.  And, cupcakes.

So, for those of you who need a little picking up, here you go.  Sorry, I don’t have any cupcakes to go with it.  Next time.

Florence + the Machine – Dog Days Are Over

Changing of the seasons

I was snapping shots of Ethan plucking berries from the holly bush earlier this evening in anticipation of writing a post about the holly bushes I grew up plucking bare at my mom’s house.  I planned on writing about berry fights we’d get into while waiting for the bus each morning before school.  I was going to tell you about dabbling in junior doctor antics using the prickly leaves as “shots” for any unsuspecting cat or dog in my vicinity.  I intended to recount the time or two I fell into the prickly holly bush and, holy prickles, that prickled like shit.  But, then my 82-year-old neighbor, Ms. Ruth, came over to chat and now I’m feeling all somber.  (and if i didn’t have this nablopomo/daily blogging thing hanging over my head, i’d sit quiet for a few days/weeks until i had more spring in my wordy step…yippee for you, it’s downer debbie/sentimental sue/melancholy monica)

Whenever life finds us outside at the same time, Ms. Ruth will come over to see what milestones the kids have reached.  We’ll chat briefly over the new teeth the twins have sprouted, the sentences Gab is piecing together, which kid eats and sleeps and which kid does not,…  Today we met at the holly bush and conversed a bit longer after I gave her the skinny on my wee three.

Ms. Ruth asked if I had heard about Ms. Ruby’s husband dying.  Ms. Ruby is the original owner of the house and I’ll sometimes see her blue Jaguar slowly cruise down the street.  No, I hadn’t heard.  She told me how he fell a couple of months ago and went downhill after that.

Ms. Ruth told me about having her storm windows removed to have the in-between area cleaned.  They had gotten so dusty in-between she could no longer see out the window.  They hadn’t been touched since her husband had them installed 12 years ago just before his passing.

I asked if her family would be having Thanksgiving at her house next week.  Yes, they would, the very few of her family who remain.  There’s only her, a sister, her daughter, and two adult grandchildren.  “We’re the only ones left.”

Ms. Ruth told me about growing up in Jackson, Tennessee where her granddaughter is finishing up nursing school.  I mentioned a few people I know in Jackson, but she left there in 1950 to come to Alabama with her husband.  Our mail gets swapped whenever there’s a new mail carrier and I’ve seen letters from another woman in Jackson with beautiful, long, graceful handwriting.  I imagine they’re childhood friends still keeping in touch.  I wonder if her friend is also 82 and living alone.

The conversation steered to plants in the yard.  She pointed out my pink roses and how much fuller they get than hers.  She and Ms. Ruby planted their pink roses at the same time many years ago.  I’ve always wondered about those pink roses, curious if they were once a mother’s day gift.  I should ask Ms. Ruth the next time I see her in the yard.

We ended our conversation with the holly bush.  Ms. Ruth commented, “That is the most berries I have ever seen on that holly bush.  The fullest it’s ever been.”  I had been thinking the same thing.  But, she’s seen the bush growing for 49 years.

And, that dang holly bush has got me down now.

Shake it, sugar. Do it to it.

I have been so tired lately.  Dog-tired.  The kind of tired where you never fully open your eyelids throughout the day…my peeper shades are always half-drawn.  I attribute the lethargy to a plethora of the usual culprits – lack of sleep, kids coming out of my ears, breastfeeding for 3 years straight (or is it 4 years now?  geez, i don’t even know anymore) (i dropped gab from the b00b just before the twins were born and the twins are still going at it) (4 years!), and the humdinger – lack of exercise.  So, I vow to incorporate actual exercise into my daily routine.  (i say actual because i have been doing squats while brushing my teeth and calf raises while washing dishes…i am the laziest exerciser you’ll ever meet)

The catch is to find the energy to exercise.  You need energy to make energy.  (much like needing money to make money)  (we’re all screwed)  I’ll begin with this breathing technique.

I should excel at the tongue extensions and rolling my eyes back in my head.

Then, umm-chicka-umm-chicka-umm-chicka-umm-chicka, it’s straight to the dance floor to move that boogie body.  Find it, feel it, do it.

Hot dog!

Chasing Cars and Kids

Vroom!  Vroom!  The familiars and I took in a car show today.  Another perk to having a family membership to the science center – free admission to the weekend car show.  I’m really hoping the same applies to the cat fancier exhibition that rolls around in January.  Science, cars, and cats…all clearly related.

The younger three enjoyed smudging all the polished cars with their fingerprints and running circles around the cars on elevated display units.  Gav helped kid wrangle for a while until I waved my fairy wand in the air and granted his wish of escaping to the video game area where he wowed the pants off everyone with his wicked cool Guitar Hero/Rock Band skillz.  The only time all four kids stood still for the “car show” was during the remote control car race you see in the photo above.  The only time in my life I’ve ever seen them all together and attentive at the same time.

As far as viewing any of the actual vehicles, ::buzz:: wrong answer, thanks for playing, please try again.  I did briefly googly eye the vehicles with running boards…Tahoes, Denalis, Escalades.  The only vehicle Gav and I climbed in together was the Cadillac Escalade Hybrid where upon Gav piped up, “Now I’d like to get picked up in THIS!”  Yes, and I’d like $74,000 disposable income suddenly appearing in my underwear drawer.

Suck a who?

The kids have a plastic Po toy, the lead panda character from the movie Kung Fu Panda.  You move his arm and he’ll make several different kung fu fighting noises.  However, I never knew “Suck a douche” was common kung fu speak.

So, tell me, handwriting analysts…am I a threat to society?

Hmm, I have spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to properly scan a post.  If you can’t see anything below or if it’s chopped off on the right or if it’s ridiculously small, a couple of clicks on the linky area should get you to a legible page for viewing sans aid of a microscope.  My handwriting is not that ridiculously tiny btw.  Ridiculous is the word du jour.  I need a drink.  A big fat ridiculous drink.

Lonely People in my pants

I’ve whipped out my trusty ‘I’m sorry. Are you speaking? Can’t you see these buds shoved deep in my ear canals signifying my total lack of interest in anything you might have to say unless you can do so in song and with cowbell o’plenty’ iPod.  Since my pants could use some excitement, I am whoring them out to a random smattering of tunes.  alejna, paramour of pants, posted a catchy little meme a while back wherein you shuffle your tunes and slap down the first however many song titles with “in my pants” tagged on the end.  It’s the fortune cookie of memes.

To add to the realism of this meme, I’m actually wearing pants.  I never wear pants this hour of the day.  All for you, sweets.  Now, let’s see what’s a happenin’ in my pants.

1. Waiting in Vain in my pants – Bob Marley and the Wailers
2. Cry in my pants – Johnnie Ray and the Four Lads
3. Everybody Loves a Carnival in my pants – Fatboy Slim
4. I’m Only Sleeping in my pants – The Beatles
5. Can’t Go Back to Jersey in my pants – G. Love
6. Ebony Eyes in my pants – Stevie Wonder
7. Freedom Flight in my pants – Shuggie Otis
8. Less Than You Think in my pants – Wilco
9. Don’t Let the Man Get You Down in my pants – Fatboy Slim
10. Body Language in my pants – Queen
11. So Say I in my pants – The Shins
12. Love For Sale in my pants – Fine Young Cannibals
13. Verb: That’s What’s Happening in my pants – Moby
14. Fool’s Hall of Fame in my pants – Johnny Cash
15. Smile in my pants – Lyle Lovett
16. Some Unholy War in my pants – Amy Winehouse
17. Never Coming Home in my pants – Sting
18. The Losing in my pants – The Pretenders
19. Lay My Burden Down in my pants – Larry Sparks
20. Little Girl in my pants – Vic Damone
21. Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine in my pants – James Brown

I could play this game all night and day.  However, I think that’s a perfect place to end my pants shenanigans.  Normally, I’d wax on about each of those results, but I’ll leave the analysis up to you.  I will say my iPod is quite insightful.  In fact, I’m debating on turning this blog writing hobby over to the iPod, crafty devil that he is.

(don’t let the man get you down in my pants ::snicker:: )

(ooh, and consider yourself lucky Prince never came up in the shuffle…the very next song after getting America’s post title…Prince’s Soft and Wet…uhhh yeh)

Smokey and the Bandit

Since my DIY skills have sailed off into the wild blue yonder, I opted for the Let us install the dubious front-loading washing machine for you! option. I figured keeping the kids off the guys’ pants legs would be work enough.  I recently had a handyman type man (hmm, that was redundant of me…handy was his type and his male gender makes him a male) over to repair a few holes in the wall, fix the garbage disposal, and reattach the dishwasher to the underside of the counter (wow, my house is falling apart when i list out its ailments like that…i haven’t even mentioned the shallow pond that forms in the end room after a hearty rain) (i miss my old apartment).  The kids followed him around like he was Santa Claus with power tools.  Gab actually straddled the man’s leg and sat on his foot when he was doing the dishwasher bit.  So yes, please install the washing machine while I lure my feral animals elsewhere.

My children harrying strangers in the house was not the point of this post.  What was it?  Oh, the installers.  Yes.  Getting right on that, ma’am.

Two men arrived during our Tropical Storm Ida weather Tuesday to install the washing machine.  Very professional, polite, and expeditious.  But, holy literal smokes, the younger of the two smelled like a walking, talking cigarette.  I’ve been watching that new television series, V, about reptilian aliens disguised as human humans (redundancy rears its superfluous head again) who come to Earth in search of some necessary natural resource they need back on their home planet.  (sci-fi, yum)  Yeah, this washing machine installer guy was in fact a cigarette disguised as a human who invaded Earth in search of tobacco plants to take back to his home planet of Nicotinuria.

Everything about installer guy reeked of dirty ashtray.  The smell was sooooo strong.  Scratch and sniff here–>_______  You smelled it, yeh?  Okay, maybe it was a mix of cigarettes with computer screen.  But, the cigarettes definitely predominated.

I’ve had friends who were smokers, yet I never smelled cigarettes on them.  My brother J is a smoker.  But, I never smell cigarettes on him or in his house.  I suppose if I asked to smell his smoking fingers, then I might get a whiff of smoldering tobacco residue along with a “What the fuck?  You want to smell my finger?  You’re sick, dee.  Very sick.” look. (and, knowing my brother, he’d secretly jab his finger in a pile of cat shit beforehand, “sure, yeah.  smell my finger.  go for it.”  we have an equal fondness of the perverse.)

So, tell me.  How was this guy bathed in cigarette smoke?  Does he crumble up the stubs and make a body spritzer out of them?  I could still smell his cigarette stench the next day.  The places where he touched the washing machine?  Smell like cigarettes.  Sure, I have an abnormally strong sense of smell.  And, yeh, what kind of weirdo am I heaving my body on the washing machine to sniff the hoses on the backside (smelled like cigarettes, yes, siree, bob, they sure did).  (i have animal-like tendencies) (i promise not to smell your backside when we meet) (buuuut, i might ask to smell your fingers)

Stinky installer smoker guy.

I, by the way, do not smoke.

In fact, I have never smoked a single cigarette in my entire life.  Nope.  Never.

I fully expect to receive an irate email from my friend, Holly, there on the right when she sees I've posted this awesome photo of her on the internet. I dare you to start a blog, Holly.

What?  Why are looking at me that way?  Oh, those?  Yeh, umm, like I said, I don’t smoke and have never smoked.  Also, I did not inhale nor did I have sexual relations with that woman.

Here, let me explain.  That gorgeous blonde on the right?  That’s my friend, Holly, who I mentioned a while back.  She doesn’t walk around with that particular pirate face you see in the second photo.  Argh, I be smokin’ me cigarette, that I be.  She’s been a nicotine puffer since college.  Nothing hardcore like a case a day or anything.  I doubt she even burns through an entire pack a day.

Horsing around one day, I grab her pack of cigarettes and flopped one out just to play with it.  Trying to hold it properly between my smoker fingers, light it, let it burn for a while, try to flick the ash,…  It was all a hysterical, farcical act and had both of us rolling in laughter.  I wasn’t actually smoking i.e. I honestly never inhaled.  Crotchety fuddy dud again, I can’t imagine inhaling smoke into my lungs like that.  Not to knock the smokers out there, but I mentally picture those sweet, pink, happy bronchioles with their bubbly little alveoli all flapping around, having a grand ole time in Healthy Lungville when Doom in its thick, sticky, black tar form moves in and coats every living man, woman, child, and lung component.  (hmm, a sci-fi show about aliens invading our lungs)  (it’s late; i should post this already)  I have issues with inhaling smoke.  There.  I also mentally follow any pill or vitamin I swallow and imagine the path it takes around the inside of my body as it breaks down.  I’m weird.  But, you knew that already.

Yes, the smoking I be smoking there.  It became quite the joke to see me fumble a cigarette around.  And, it always made my friend laugh.  Especially the flicking of the ash which I never mastered.  I could not, for the life of me, flick away the ash.  I had to resort to physically banging the cigarette on a tree or step or whatever.  Bang, bang, bang, off falls the ash.  And, my cigarette’s now broken.

This particular evening we were on our way to New Orleans to meet up with another friend, Brutha Ministah.  The trip during which I kissed a frog Gipsy King on the forehead.  Holly had had (redundancy again? or necessary had hads?) a craptastic day and was down in the dumps.  So, in an effort to cheer her, “Hey, you wanna see me smoke a cigarette?  Will that cheer you up?  Aww yeah.  Light me up.”  And, we laughed and laughed as I was a poser smoker trying to hold my cigarette properly, snapping photos as we sped down the interstate, and banging my cigarette on the car door.

(i just found this youtube video which perfectly illustrates my smoke-in-the-lungs phobia)

It’s a post about laundry. Zzzzzzzz.

It’s official.  I have become a crotchety fuddy dud.  I just spent the past 20 minutes bent over with my head at the window of my new front loading washing machine berating it,

“That sock in the middle is not getting wet.”

“Surely this is not all you’ve got.”

“You’re gonna pick up the pace any second now, yes?  And, actually wash my clothes?  With vigor?  No?”

“That sock’s still not wet.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Gab walked up and inquired to whom I was talking.  The washing machine, dear.  I don’t trust it.

I have a new washing machine.  And, if you haven’t picked up the hints I’m dropping, I don’t trust it.

We all know I have OCD tendencies toward laundry.  I wash certain clothes by hand, I hang dry many, I add extra this and that to certain those and those over there.  But, when I throw a regular load of crap laundry like towels and socks in the washing machine, I want to see it churning the ever loving shit out of those odoriferous rascals.  And, this fancy pants front loading contraption most of you have already been using for years and I’m just now happening upon?  A gentle toss to the right followed by a gentle toss to the left and I’m supposed to believe cleaning is being accomplished?  Hmm.  I’m skeptical.

Plus, I’m not sure that sock ever got wet.

Here.  Let’s steer our attention to this very white, clean shoe.