The previous owners had put in a gravel walkway that led from our driveway to the side door. We saw evidence of this walkway for a brief moment when the four-foot snow drifts that covered our front yard all winter long finally melted, but as soon as something resembling spring arrived, it disappeared again under a thick jungle of weeds. So all summer long, we have used what appeared to be the path, but its weeds were so tall in some areas that walking through the yard would have actually been more convenient.
So I decided today to make our home look infinitely less abandoned by finally reclaiming our walkway. Essentially, I was weeding, but I feel like the term “weeding” does not accurately depict the agonizing work and bravery that was required to remove the vines and small trees that had taken root. I mean, deep sea diving with sharks is essentially “swimming” but you probably wouldn’t use the terms interchangeably. This was extreme weeding. I wielded a machete and had to fight off wild animals and, when I got lost, I had to use the position of the sun to find my way out. Luckily, I had my trusty goat of a dog with me, who did just as much to clear the weeds as I did. Though you had to steer her in the right direction or she’d eat your violets. I also had to explain to her multiple times that taking weeds from the trash bag that I was collecting them in was actually the opposite of helpful. Other than that, though, she was a good partner to have. So two hours and many pounds of uprooted plants later, we had a walkway! And I’m gonna try to enjoy it while I can. I know from past experience that our walkway grows weeds like a chia pet, so it is likely to be mere days before we’re right back where we started.
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Puppies are like toddlers. One minute they’ll be all snuggly and adorable and the next they’ll be writing on the walls in permanent marker and flushing your great grandmother’s jewelry down the toilet. The pup and I had a great morning. My little girl lost her first tooth and I went into Proud Mama mode, texting pictures to Daddy and googling if puppies had a tooth fairy. But this afternoon, she turned into her alter ego Sassy McGee, and gave Mama a small stroke when she had not one, but two serious “running” incidents. These are alarmingly common incidents in which I call to her and tell her to come and she runs full-throttle in the opposite direction, giddy from her blatant disregard for authority. So today I did a little research and called an emergency training session.
The first thing I learned through my research was that this whole mess was my own bloody fault and that an idiot like me shouldn’t even be allowed to own a dog or better yet even look at one and surely God was not paying attention on the day he put me together because man am I a piece of work. Interesting how the world of dog training is the only place where it’s okay to completely call someone out on their role in an incident. It’s okay to say, “If your dog is misbehaving, take a look at what you’re doing. In the end, it’s always the owners who need the training!” And I get that this is true. But this would never fly anywhere else- “Well, I’m sorry to hear that work has been a struggle for you, but I hope you see that it’s your lack of sense and education that’s making it so hard.” Regardless, the article I read felt it necessary to begin with a good hearty paragraph spelling out my personal failings. When they’d let it all out and felt a bit better, they moved on to the actual training. They suggested calling the dog to come, praising her, then telling her to “Go play”. And then doing this over and over until she understands that telling her to come does not necessarily mean that the fun police have arrived and the party is over. So when I would have much rather been inside eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I took her out at prime mosquito hour and called and praised and played and called and praised and played. Until the neighbor’s puppy came over and I pulled the fun plug, completely cancelling out all of the training that we’d done with her up to that moment. And I know everything is the owner’s fault, but I’m giving myself a break this time and putting the blame for this one on my neighbor’s puppy. I love food. And I love saving money. So when I plan my week’s meals, I generally have a contest with myself to see how far I can make the week’s groceries last. This sounds like a twisted game, and if I didn’t love food so much then maybe it would be. But I can assure you that it has not affected my long-standing tradition of finishing off the entire box of macaroni and cheese on my own, or the tradition of getting unnecessarily grumpy when it’s suggested that I might have to share. I assure you, I do eat. To me, it’s just fun trying to fit all the pieces together so that we waste as little food as possible. It feels like those cooking shows where they give each chef three potatoes, a box of cheez-its, and a lemon and ask them to create a gourmet meal. Except for the part where I can’t cook.
Naturally, then, I’ve always been jealous of the “couponers” who have honed their craft to the point where they buy out half the store but only owe the cashier three pennies and a dinner mint on the way out. And seriously, it is a craft, because I feel like the only thing that I can accomplish with coupons is spending $15 on prunes for the sake of saving the 50 cents. But, regardless, I made the effort this week. I went through this week’s local papers, cut a whopping five coupons and used two of them, saving a total of… drum roll, please!... $1.50. Of course, this does not take into account the additional $7.99 that I spent on these items just so that I could get this discount. So it may not have saved me much money, but what my bout with couponing did do is it encouraged me to splurge in areas where I otherwise wouldn’t. And, as a result, I discovered the unexpected wonder that is sea salt caramel raisins. (Another great example of a product that you would never buy unless you had a coupon insisting that you do.) And I know, I know. I don’t like raisins either. I hear you. But, I’m telling you, that raisin is swimming happily in that sea of caramel and won't bother you at all. You’ll be too distracted by the creamy, delicious goodness to even notice that it’s there anyway. So I may not be a “couponer” yet, but I’ll tell you what. Until that bag is empty, I’m one satisfied customer. I love the idea of composting. I mean, I’m reducing waste, reusing the food scraps as a natural fertilizer, and using this fertilizer to create my own local & organic vegetable garden to sustain my little family. The Environmental Science major in me is weeping with pride. However, this advanced level of eco-friendly awesomeness is not easily attained. The reality of composting is far different than this ideal. Here’s what I’m learning.
Composting is not a lazy man’s game. America’s love affair with landfills and material waste has everything to do with how easy it is to chuck something in the trash can, and once a week, pay someone to haul it out of your sight. It feels so good. Composting, on the other hand, requires far more time and attention. I learned this the hard way when I conducted an informal experiment, that was born entirely from laziness, in which I set out to determine just how long I could leave that bowl of watermelon rinds and leftover queso on the counter before the local authorities showed up to condemn the place. Yes, I said queso. And, yes, I learned that lesson too. Well, unfortunately for me, the Health Department never showed up, which meant that I would be the person responsible for donning a hazmat suit and dumping the contents of the bowl into our compost pile. I could describe what I saw when I removed the cover of that bowl, but I’ll spare you in the event that some of you are eating as you’re reading this. Besides, I was too busy dodging flies as I pulled the cover off to get a good look at what was inside. So, lesson learned: Compost regularly or don’t compost at all. And, dude? Never compost queso. I’ve always believed I’m more cat than human, which perhaps is why I take personal offense when people prefer dogs. I socialize minimally and on my own terms. I’ve been known to nap on a sunspot on the floor. If you scratch my head, I’ll purr, lean into you, and ultimately fall asleep. And, of course, I have a moderate fear of vacuums. I mean, they’re heavy and brutish. They’re incredibly loud. When they’re running, they light up and grow hot like they’re seriously mad that you woke them. And they have a tangle of thick wires that threaten to trip you so the vacuum can suck you up and have its revenge. Plus, if you don’t know how to operate one correctly, there’s a good chance that you could burn the carpet in the stairway of your 3-week rental. Needless to say, I have avoided vacuums as long as I could, despite my multitude of fully-carpeted apartments. And, overall, I’ve done a pretty good job. I even had the smarts to buy a house that has hardwood floors throughout so I’d be more or less set for life. However, there is the little matter of area rugs and runners and welcome mats. Well, I have come across the most wonderful little invention of the decidedly non-threatening hand-held vacuum. It may be the equivalent of shoveling the driveway with a soup spoon, but man, oh man! Cleaning the carpet has never been such an enjoyable experience! I didn't have to beat the carpets like I lived in an Italian villa. I didn't have to sweep the carpets. (Yes, I've done that.) I just got down on all fours like only a complete fool- or a cat= would do, and vacuumed the carpets without fear. _
We have finally reached that moment in gardening when are seeing- quite literally- the fruits (or vegetables) of our labor. Every day when I check the garden there is something to be picked! I am very open about my passion for free food, so this gardening thing is, frankly, rocking my world. Unfortunately, at this moment we are getting more novelty than utility from our little harvest. For the useful and delicious little fruits and veggies, like peas and blueberries, we have grown just barely enough to feed a small family of elves. On the other hand, the pumpkin plant, which has little use to me, is larger than a blue whale. It has been working extra hard these last few months to turn the vegetable garden into a pumpkin patch, but things changed when I foiled its plot to strangle the cucumbers. I caught it climbing recklessly over the cucumbers with no concern for their well-being, so I moved the vine. And ever since then the pumpkin has shown its discontent by running away very, very slowly, and is now making its way across the yard.
This is completely crushing my vision of knocking on my neighbors’ doors carrying overflowing cornucopias of fruits and vegetables, or being the talk of the party with my picture-perfect pastries and pies baked with my world-famous homegrown ingredients. It seems like the only way I’ll be getting use out of this year’s harvest is if I find a way to run a car on pumpkin puree. So I know you’re thinking that joining a book club has little to do with homemaking but, according to my historical fiction novels, my efforts as a homemaker would not be complete without joining some kind of Bridge Club or Ladies’ Society that I could attend every Tuesday in little white gloves and heels. Being the 21st Century and all, I decided to go the slightly more modern route of joining a casual book club. SO I can probably leave my gloves at home.
I’m super excited about the prospect, because I’m a book nerd, so when a box from Barnes & Noble arrived in the mail today it was like Christmas morning. I ran inside to open it and, behold, I discovered that both books had arrived! One was a copy of Harper Lee’s new release Go Set a Watchman, the highly anticipated sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird. Because, really, shame on us if we don’t read that. Awesome. So psyched. And the second was… the Royalton Memorial Library’s copy of Cold is the Grave, “a suspense novel” whose cover shows an eerily foggy cemetery covered in a less-than-peaceful blanket of snow. This was not part of the plan. This was supposed to be a copy of the new fiction novel The Nightingale, with its strong, female heroines and title that doesn’t give you nightmares. On top of that, I couldn’t find the receipt in the box that describes your order. I’m assuming the guy who lost it was the same guy who just threw in his borrowed copy of Cold is the Grave when he realized he had no clue what the second book on the receipt had been. The great news is that I contacted Barnes & Noble about the mix-up and they gave an incredibly prompt reply in which they assured me that they’re “here to help and will respond to my inquiry shortly.” That solves that. I probably should have just gone to the Royalton Memorial Library. Since there has been certain periods of my life in which cleaning the floors more than a few times a year seemed like overkill, I was pretty confident that one little day after giving them a good sweep they would still be clean enough to eat off of. Or at least mop. But I own a dog now, so it turns out that was incredibly naïve. But I held out hope that the genius technology that is the Swiffer Sweeper Wet Jet would take up all that dirt and more. After all, I’d seen the commercials and I knew that families and adorable old couples are consistently blown away by the efficiency of this amazing device.
So I started out by embarrassing myself. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me how to attach the little pads to the Swiffer. On a previous occasion, I had removed these little strips of paper that appeared to be covering two stripes of adhesive, only to discover that the surface beneath these strips wasn’t actually adhesive. Frankly, I was stumped. I searched for directions, thinking that if they have directions on the Pop Tart box, certainly they have directions for this highly technical device. False. So I can proudly say that it was my own smarts and ingenuity that led me to discover that in order to attach the pad you… just…stick it on. Do nothing. Remove no strips. Just touch the pad ever so gently to the bottom of the Swiffer and the pad will automatically adhere. And if you still can’t get it, just hand it to a monkey or a newborn child and they’d be happy to do it for you. Finally, then, I was ready to clean! I worked around the pup, who couldn’t contain her anger for this tall, skinny creature that kept getting in her face and spitting on her floors. And, when I was done, I looked at the bottom of the Swiffer and arranged my features into an expression of awe and amazement at its efficiency, like the commercials taught me to do… then grabbed my old-fashioned, low-tech broom and picked up all the dirt and that it had left behind. I am quickly learning that dogs are the enemy of cleanliness and order. For example, I’m no interior decorator, but I’m pretty sure we’re getting this whole “bring the outside in” thing all wrong. So, today I set out to reverse this trend by taking a broom to it once and for all in an activity I like to call “Dog v. Broom”.
She was alternately fascinated and scared by this device, which showed in the way she lunged bravely and excitedly for the bristles then quickly backed away when she saw that it was still moving and therefore unfazed by her efforts. My job was to try to focus on sweeping while also keeping a continual flow of correctional dialogue, switching between commands as appropriate. Generally this meant an alternating pattern of “leave it”s and “no”s which was occasionally interrupted by a whiny “stoooopppp” just to keep it fresh. But the really exciting part started when the pile of dirt began to form on the kitchen floor. My canine assistant took on the role of taking items from the pile that ought not to be swept- such as perfectly edible leaf bits or hairballs- and returning them to their proper place in the home. This meant I was left with the rather unpleasing task of retrieving these items from her slobbery death grip. And you would think that pulling a ball of hair from a dog’s mouth is the grossest task that you’d undertake over the course of a day, except that only 20 minutes earlier I had wrestled her for the tail end of a dead garter snake. This, my friends, is just the fate of a dedicated dog mother. “Wait. Change your address? You’ve lived in the place for seven months!” I know. Thanks for reminding me. But when over the course of two years you’ve lived in four different addresses, and kept the majority of your mail going to two additional addresses- you know, in order to simplify things- a few places might slip through the cracks. Oh, and I’m lazy.
But today I set out to put an end to this nonsense once and for all and make everyone’s lives vastly easier. I loaded my lap up with junk mail and phone numbers and called the powers-that-be at a variety of organizations. I was so impressed with myself for finally taking on this small but important task that I had put off for so long. But in looking more closely at the envelopes, I saw that not only did most of these places have an outdated address, but they had my maiden name as well. Now things were getting complicated. Each place that I called gave me a similar spiel. They’d start out with “Oh, that’s a simple question!” to give me the false hope that the answer would be simple as well. And then they’d lay it on me: “First thing you’ll do is we’ll email you a form. You’ll print out that form and fill it out and then fax it to us along with your marriage certificate and a separate form.” Really? ‘Cause you’re looking at my contact information on a computer right now. Another one told me to go to a non-existent section of their website to fill out a non-existent change of address form, and then separate from that, go into one of their branches to show them my marriage certificate and a form of ID in person. Seriously? For you responsible adults out there, this sort of protocol may be no surprise because it’s the kind of craziness that you navigate every day. But to me, a minimally responsible teacher of 5-year-olds, this is the most convoluted system I could imagine. By the end of it all, I was so frustrated that when my dog asked me if she could eat some of my paperwork, I happily conceded. I was glad at least someone would be getting satisfaction out of the process. |