I love to garden. No . . . that’s a lie. My mother raised me to believe lying is wrong and that was a whopper, so let me amend it. I enjoy looking at and possessing the results of hours of backbreaking toil, sweaty upkeep, and paying exorbitant water bills that go hand-in-hand with gardening in Callifornia during the summer.
Let’s be honest, I’ll bet this would be the truth for most of us. We all want the yard that says, “An industrious lover of beauty with a flair for achieving goals lives here. Behold the perfection in breathless awe, all those who venture by.” Okay, maybe a little over the top, but this is wishing and wishing should be a boundary-free zone.
I love this valley, but after one hour of futile jabbing at the dirt in my yard trying to hack out a hole deep enough to plant just one of the small petunias plants from a six pack at the hardware store, I am ready to use explosives as a digging tool. There was a reason the early settlers used adobe bricks as building blocks for the edifices they wanted to endure. The same reason that those buildings, like the Mission, can still be seen and used. The ground around here rivals Superman for indestructibility.
The dirt can be softened up—a good soaking for a day before planned planting and it becomes vulnerable to the efforts of the average human. Unfortunately, the average human does not have the resources to pay for the extra water that course would call for from SMID. Our town made the national news for having some of the highest water rates in the nation. I guess it’s nice to be known for something, although, personally, I thought the gas prices were enough.
My neighbor and I are gardening buddies, meaning we both have the same enthusiasm, or lack thereof, for this hobby. At least, we have the same opinion about what does and does not belong in our patches. We don’t grow anything useful, or edible. Don’t get us wrong, eating is one of our favorite things, and we haven’t got anything against plants that serve medicinal uses, but if one of these productive plants dies it causes some regret. We aren’t big on feeling bad, consequently we seek out and cultivate only hardy plants whose loss is purely decorative. Hence the list of plants we would recommend for cultivation fit our own criteria; they grow well in dirt that rivals cement for porosity, they can live through a quite unintentional skip of a day or three in the watering cycle, they reappear as if by magic each year with no effort on our parts, pests do not find them particularly delectable, and they produce lots of color.
All this has left us with a short list of cellulose-based photosynthetic favs, all of which exist in abundance in my yard, Geraniums, Petunias (preferably ruffled), Dahlias, and Iris. Because of the traits of these plants I have a sneaking suspicion that if we could access them these plants would have serious personality problems, rendering them outcast and unpopular among their own kind. I have a theory that the other plants think these guys are sell-outs, blooming for the human overseers without demanding the sweat equity they deserve as members of the vegetable kingdom. But, that’s just a theory.
All I know for sure is that I love the colors and scents that a little Miracle Grow and H2O, lots of sweat and time, and luck—a big dose of luck—can produce. Even in this dirt.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
More or Less
Everybody lies. Or in a more palatable euphemism, everybody gets creative with the truth. If you think you are the exception to the rule ask yourself this question- Do you have a good relationship with at least one other human being on this planet? If you do, guess what? You are not totally honest all the time.
It is pretty hard to justify a different answer than Washington D.C. to the question “What is the capitol of the United States?” But if your special friend shows up in her favorite unflattering outfit and asks your opinion of it, to spare her feelings you are going to win an award in ingenuity in language.
I stretch my credibility quotient when I am faced with one of those questions that require divulging information I would just as soon never reaches the public domain. You know the type of question I’m talking about: How much do you weigh? (Pure gold is heavy) Have you had any work done? (I wish) You don’t work full time, do you need housecleaners? (You wouldn’t think so, would you), and the one I have the hardest time dealing with—How old are you?
It would be flattering if people thought I looked younger than I am, but the reason they doubt my age is really because people can’t believe I could have lived so long and remain so gullible. These are the ways I have chosen to handle the age question.
If the person who asks me seems to be under 8 years old, or super tolerant, I say I will forever be 27 on the inside. A very Zen way to beg the subject and sometimes the questioner will lose interest rather than press for reality.
Almost every woman I know has at one time, for reasons of her own, shaved a few years off her accumulated experience. I haven’t yet, but I found myself contemplating whether or not I could pass as younger the other day. That’s when it suddenly struck me—I was contemplating lying in the wrong direction. I might not pass for younger, but then again I might not pass for older either. When it comes right down to it, which would be more complimentary?
Say I am 55....if you know me just shut up until I’m finished . . . and I tell you I’m 50. On a good day, when I’ve had ten hours of sleep, the sun is behind a thick cloud cover, and none of my rat-fink friends are around, I may get away with that flight of fancy. At least for a few minutes. On a typical day you could look at me and think “Boy, that poor lady has had a rough life of hard work and deprivation.” I would imagine manners would keep your comments down to, “Really.”, but I’ve already read the disbelief on your face.
Now suppose I tell you I tell you I’m 60. On the aforementioned cloudy day I would be pleased to see a look of total incredulity on your face as I skip off in my red shoes with my dog Toto. More likely you’re thinking, “She looks very well preserved. I must find out which moisturizer she’s using.” Either way your face is telling me a nice story.
See what I mean about manipulating the truth in the wrong direction? I figure this might work with all the ultra-personal questions. Weight, salary, height for the guys (we know you all think you are ten foot tall and bullet proof), these are just some of the taboo subjects. It’s either exaggerate shamelessly or give into the temptation and soundly thump your questioner.
Now what was your question? Go ahead. Ask me. I dare you.
It is pretty hard to justify a different answer than Washington D.C. to the question “What is the capitol of the United States?” But if your special friend shows up in her favorite unflattering outfit and asks your opinion of it, to spare her feelings you are going to win an award in ingenuity in language.
I stretch my credibility quotient when I am faced with one of those questions that require divulging information I would just as soon never reaches the public domain. You know the type of question I’m talking about: How much do you weigh? (Pure gold is heavy) Have you had any work done? (I wish) You don’t work full time, do you need housecleaners? (You wouldn’t think so, would you), and the one I have the hardest time dealing with—How old are you?
It would be flattering if people thought I looked younger than I am, but the reason they doubt my age is really because people can’t believe I could have lived so long and remain so gullible. These are the ways I have chosen to handle the age question.
If the person who asks me seems to be under 8 years old, or super tolerant, I say I will forever be 27 on the inside. A very Zen way to beg the subject and sometimes the questioner will lose interest rather than press for reality.
Almost every woman I know has at one time, for reasons of her own, shaved a few years off her accumulated experience. I haven’t yet, but I found myself contemplating whether or not I could pass as younger the other day. That’s when it suddenly struck me—I was contemplating lying in the wrong direction. I might not pass for younger, but then again I might not pass for older either. When it comes right down to it, which would be more complimentary?
Say I am 55....if you know me just shut up until I’m finished . . . and I tell you I’m 50. On a good day, when I’ve had ten hours of sleep, the sun is behind a thick cloud cover, and none of my rat-fink friends are around, I may get away with that flight of fancy. At least for a few minutes. On a typical day you could look at me and think “Boy, that poor lady has had a rough life of hard work and deprivation.” I would imagine manners would keep your comments down to, “Really.”, but I’ve already read the disbelief on your face.
Now suppose I tell you I tell you I’m 60. On the aforementioned cloudy day I would be pleased to see a look of total incredulity on your face as I skip off in my red shoes with my dog Toto. More likely you’re thinking, “She looks very well preserved. I must find out which moisturizer she’s using.” Either way your face is telling me a nice story.
See what I mean about manipulating the truth in the wrong direction? I figure this might work with all the ultra-personal questions. Weight, salary, height for the guys (we know you all think you are ten foot tall and bullet proof), these are just some of the taboo subjects. It’s either exaggerate shamelessly or give into the temptation and soundly thump your questioner.
Now what was your question? Go ahead. Ask me. I dare you.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Life VS Literature (Part Two)
Life vs Literature (Part 2)
Heaving breasts and flowing tresses—okay, what do these two things bring to mind? IN YOUR DREAMS!!! I’m talking about the heroine in a romance novel.
Who came up with the word “heaving” to describe breasts in action anyway? In my mind heaving always brings up the picture of tossing something over the side of a boat. Heave ho and all that pirate talk. The second thing I think of is vomiting, which is also frequently done over the side of a boat. Coincidence? Probably not. I imagine most words have much more colorful origins than we give them credit for. But, I digress. Reviewing one’s most recent meal over the side of a boat is not an image particularly conducive to romance, so why this obsession with heaving?
No matter how attractive it is supposed to be, I have a hard time visualizing myself with heaving breasts. Panting after running upstairs--maybe. Gasping in my faded college sweatshirt after wrestling with the dog to see who will really have the bath--it happens. But those are air shortages.
I don’t think bosoms heave fetchingly when left to their own resources. Maybe old-time whalebone stays and tightly laced corsets help. Being big on comfort myself I don’t see any heaving in my near future.
The other complication is that activities that cause your bosom to heave also lead you to sweat. I know-horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies dew and glow. But no matter what you call it, it is still odoriferous in real life. In books it only gives the characters an attractive sheen. Another major misrepresentation.
Since I knew heaving breasts were out for me, I went for the flowing tresses bit. Easy to do, right? Just let your hair grow. Let me tell you about a few drawbacks not mentioned in the books.
You never read about one of those heroine’s tresses getting caught in the hero’s armpit and the resulting bad language erupting from her ruby red lips as the silken lock is ripped out of her head. They don’t mention her turning over in bed and her hair wrapping around her neck like so many pythons as the night wears on until she wakes up in a panic clawing at the garrote around her throat. How about a simple thing like eating outdoors when there is any breeze at all and a part of one of those tresses that has been repeatedly blowing across her face as she tries to get a bite is accidentally swallowed and she goes into a major gagging fit.
Do any of these scenarios bring the word “pretty” to mind? I think not.
Another point I want to ventilate on is morning breath. Lovers in romance novels greet each other face-to-face after spending a passionate night together and proclaim their undying love. Nice sentiment. You aren’t going to catch me speaking into someone’s face when I first wake up. I have suspicions from the taste in my mouth that kitty used my oral cavity as a sand box while I slept.
I have been able to ignore this in romances that are set in a historical context. Bathing and brushing their teeth weren’t high on the list of their priorities. People had morning breath all day long and were conditioned to it, but what is the excuse in stories set in the U S of A in this day and age? I don’t care how luxuriant a head of hair the woman has, or how big her chest is—morning breath is nasty.
Living in the country, we are surrounded by a natural Romance Novel setting daily. Scenic beauty is a must as a backdrop for all those muscular, glistening hero types and sultry, hair-and-bosom-laden femme fatales. Trouble is, I’ve been keeping an eye out for any Fabio look-alikes and I can’t find any. Closest I have come is a dead-ringer for The Rock that I met in the post office one day. Not too shabby, but never repeated.
I guess the hair alone is just not enough to attract a hero. Maybe I should look into some of those heaving breasts you can buy.
Heaving breasts and flowing tresses—okay, what do these two things bring to mind? IN YOUR DREAMS!!! I’m talking about the heroine in a romance novel.
Who came up with the word “heaving” to describe breasts in action anyway? In my mind heaving always brings up the picture of tossing something over the side of a boat. Heave ho and all that pirate talk. The second thing I think of is vomiting, which is also frequently done over the side of a boat. Coincidence? Probably not. I imagine most words have much more colorful origins than we give them credit for. But, I digress. Reviewing one’s most recent meal over the side of a boat is not an image particularly conducive to romance, so why this obsession with heaving?
No matter how attractive it is supposed to be, I have a hard time visualizing myself with heaving breasts. Panting after running upstairs--maybe. Gasping in my faded college sweatshirt after wrestling with the dog to see who will really have the bath--it happens. But those are air shortages.
I don’t think bosoms heave fetchingly when left to their own resources. Maybe old-time whalebone stays and tightly laced corsets help. Being big on comfort myself I don’t see any heaving in my near future.
The other complication is that activities that cause your bosom to heave also lead you to sweat. I know-horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies dew and glow. But no matter what you call it, it is still odoriferous in real life. In books it only gives the characters an attractive sheen. Another major misrepresentation.
Since I knew heaving breasts were out for me, I went for the flowing tresses bit. Easy to do, right? Just let your hair grow. Let me tell you about a few drawbacks not mentioned in the books.
You never read about one of those heroine’s tresses getting caught in the hero’s armpit and the resulting bad language erupting from her ruby red lips as the silken lock is ripped out of her head. They don’t mention her turning over in bed and her hair wrapping around her neck like so many pythons as the night wears on until she wakes up in a panic clawing at the garrote around her throat. How about a simple thing like eating outdoors when there is any breeze at all and a part of one of those tresses that has been repeatedly blowing across her face as she tries to get a bite is accidentally swallowed and she goes into a major gagging fit.
Do any of these scenarios bring the word “pretty” to mind? I think not.
Another point I want to ventilate on is morning breath. Lovers in romance novels greet each other face-to-face after spending a passionate night together and proclaim their undying love. Nice sentiment. You aren’t going to catch me speaking into someone’s face when I first wake up. I have suspicions from the taste in my mouth that kitty used my oral cavity as a sand box while I slept.
I have been able to ignore this in romances that are set in a historical context. Bathing and brushing their teeth weren’t high on the list of their priorities. People had morning breath all day long and were conditioned to it, but what is the excuse in stories set in the U S of A in this day and age? I don’t care how luxuriant a head of hair the woman has, or how big her chest is—morning breath is nasty.
Living in the country, we are surrounded by a natural Romance Novel setting daily. Scenic beauty is a must as a backdrop for all those muscular, glistening hero types and sultry, hair-and-bosom-laden femme fatales. Trouble is, I’ve been keeping an eye out for any Fabio look-alikes and I can’t find any. Closest I have come is a dead-ringer for The Rock that I met in the post office one day. Not too shabby, but never repeated.
I guess the hair alone is just not enough to attract a hero. Maybe I should look into some of those heaving breasts you can buy.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Life VS Literatue (Part One)
There was a time in my life when I thought only men had loins. According to what I read in school they were always “girding” them for battle.
I have always been a voracious reader. In my mid-teens I went through a phase where I read countless “bodice rippers”, otherwise known as romance novels. Living here in the valley it was easy to give an overactive imagination free reign and see a tall, dark hero type with flashing white teeth ride out from under every oak. Or visualize an attractive, surprisingly well groomed pirate band dropping in from Santa Barbara for a casual pillage.
Naturally, all these testosterone types were overwhelmed by my bespectacled, underdeveloped beauty. Through these novels I was amazed to learn women also had loins. Women’s loins would catch on fire, burn, or otherwise cause discomfort when a man’s glistening chest or muscular thighs were present. Thus, for years I had a very politically incorrect view of the function of loins in the sexes. Men dressed them and women suffered through them.
Now I am a mature, emancipated woman and I realize I can gird my loins as needed when facing a stressful event. What a relief.
I labored under many misconceptions because of those novels. They made finding out about the reality of romance a confusing, and usually disappointing, undertaking. The following is meant to be more romance novel bashing rather than male bashing, so please don’t take offense, guys.
In the novels when the heroine faced a dangerous situation the hero always showed up just in the nick of time to save her. In real life how many times do men appear when you want them to? Say it with me ladies—“Never”. If they should blunder into your life at a correct moment do they respond to the problem as you want them to? Doubtful.
Picture this: Our heroine is in obvious distress. Her back pressed against the sink, she is shrinking away from the foe that threatens her. Every tensed muscle cries for relief. A scream gathers in her throat. Who will help her overcome the danger that lurks in her own home?
Suddenly the light dims as the silhouette of her champion fills the doorway. “You’ve come,” she breathes.
“Commercial break,” he says.
Her gaze is pulled back to the overflowing garbage can. It seems as if the trash is crawling out under its own power to attack her. She gestures towards it. “Didn’t you say you would empty that?”
“I’ll get to it. The game is starting again,” he says as he grabs another brew out of the fridge.
“Fine,” she is talking to his back as he disappears into the family room. “Whatever.”
Real romance in action.
The hero in the novels always knows the right thing to say or do. He pours champagne in a sophisticated manner to set the stage for romance or reconciliation. The gifts he brings are thoughtful, when not outrageously expensive. His clothes show off his sculpted body to best effect. The hair on his head is full and shiny and begs the hands of the heroine to stroke it. The hair on his chest is curly and perfect for running her fingers through. And his loins! Well, I won’t even go there for fear of losing my train of thought.
My point is this, these men are written by women. Do they exist in real life? Maybe, but I’ve yet to meet one. Actually, I am not sure I want to. No woman in her right mind wants a man she has to kill herself living up to.
You can see how I developed unrealistic expectations in the romance department. It was only due to some sensible advice that my mother gave me that I have been able to function in this arena. She told me if I was going to wait for the knight in shining armor to appear on a white charger to sweep me off my feet, I was going to be sorely disappointed. There would be nowhere to go in that relationship, but down. The horse was going to roll in the mud someday and the armor was going to get rust spots.
The trouble is it is real hard to see the potential of the court jester in the tri-colored suit trying to put the moves on you while he steps on your toes. Mud and rust seem like far off threats at a time like that.
Romance is hard.
I have always been a voracious reader. In my mid-teens I went through a phase where I read countless “bodice rippers”, otherwise known as romance novels. Living here in the valley it was easy to give an overactive imagination free reign and see a tall, dark hero type with flashing white teeth ride out from under every oak. Or visualize an attractive, surprisingly well groomed pirate band dropping in from Santa Barbara for a casual pillage.
Naturally, all these testosterone types were overwhelmed by my bespectacled, underdeveloped beauty. Through these novels I was amazed to learn women also had loins. Women’s loins would catch on fire, burn, or otherwise cause discomfort when a man’s glistening chest or muscular thighs were present. Thus, for years I had a very politically incorrect view of the function of loins in the sexes. Men dressed them and women suffered through them.
Now I am a mature, emancipated woman and I realize I can gird my loins as needed when facing a stressful event. What a relief.
I labored under many misconceptions because of those novels. They made finding out about the reality of romance a confusing, and usually disappointing, undertaking. The following is meant to be more romance novel bashing rather than male bashing, so please don’t take offense, guys.
In the novels when the heroine faced a dangerous situation the hero always showed up just in the nick of time to save her. In real life how many times do men appear when you want them to? Say it with me ladies—“Never”. If they should blunder into your life at a correct moment do they respond to the problem as you want them to? Doubtful.
Picture this: Our heroine is in obvious distress. Her back pressed against the sink, she is shrinking away from the foe that threatens her. Every tensed muscle cries for relief. A scream gathers in her throat. Who will help her overcome the danger that lurks in her own home?
Suddenly the light dims as the silhouette of her champion fills the doorway. “You’ve come,” she breathes.
“Commercial break,” he says.
Her gaze is pulled back to the overflowing garbage can. It seems as if the trash is crawling out under its own power to attack her. She gestures towards it. “Didn’t you say you would empty that?”
“I’ll get to it. The game is starting again,” he says as he grabs another brew out of the fridge.
“Fine,” she is talking to his back as he disappears into the family room. “Whatever.”
Real romance in action.
The hero in the novels always knows the right thing to say or do. He pours champagne in a sophisticated manner to set the stage for romance or reconciliation. The gifts he brings are thoughtful, when not outrageously expensive. His clothes show off his sculpted body to best effect. The hair on his head is full and shiny and begs the hands of the heroine to stroke it. The hair on his chest is curly and perfect for running her fingers through. And his loins! Well, I won’t even go there for fear of losing my train of thought.
My point is this, these men are written by women. Do they exist in real life? Maybe, but I’ve yet to meet one. Actually, I am not sure I want to. No woman in her right mind wants a man she has to kill herself living up to.
You can see how I developed unrealistic expectations in the romance department. It was only due to some sensible advice that my mother gave me that I have been able to function in this arena. She told me if I was going to wait for the knight in shining armor to appear on a white charger to sweep me off my feet, I was going to be sorely disappointed. There would be nowhere to go in that relationship, but down. The horse was going to roll in the mud someday and the armor was going to get rust spots.
The trouble is it is real hard to see the potential of the court jester in the tri-colored suit trying to put the moves on you while he steps on your toes. Mud and rust seem like far off threats at a time like that.
Romance is hard.
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