Adventures in Renovation – The Baccalà Edition

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I just spent 4 hours scraping and sanding an 8 by 9 foot bathroom. And when i tell you that a part of me wishes i had just moved to a newer house, I’m not talking about a small part of me. But i did it, and now i’m so sore and tired and angry, i’ll have to live in this house til i die so i can feel it was worth it.

You might remember that my house is over 100 years old. I can’t help it, i love the character of an old house. Even knowing that it comes with its own issues.

First there was the bit with the the pantry. Then The dead raccoon.  And The kitchen cabinets.  Then there was the beginning of this same room (the last adventure). Not to mention the bugs i battled, first with geckos and then with chemicals. The yard work. Or the squirrels who had sex in the soffits over my bed for an entire spring – annoying as hell and made me feel lonely besides.

Mind you, i’ve never lived in a brand new house. I’m sure they come with their own issues. Probably no mushrooms or dead trash pandas, but still… issues.

After $2500 and 2 weeks worth of days without a shower, we are finally in the home stretch. Old, ugly wall thingies are down. Holes spackled. Nasty, peeling paint chipped and sanded as much as is possible (This house is old enough that the bathroom used to be a mudroom, so it has lap siding for walls with 100 years of paint on them.) It is probably still going to look a bit rough, even with fresh paint, but i keep telling myself, that will go with the nautical theme. I have bought towel hooks that are whales (And tails of whales), toilet paper and towel holders that are anchors, and i even bought a new switch plate with a sexy mermaid on it (Don’t judge me.) It will look better when it’s finished, tho still nothing like a brand new house.

And that’s ok with me. I love that this cottage has character. I mean, i’m a character, so it suits. And as much as a day of painting prep has sucked, it was good for some exercise and for my creative psyche. Plus, my son and i got to spend some time together. (I would like to say we spent it discussing important things, but mostly we spent it singing pirate songs from Muppet Treasure Island and at least a dozen verses of Mah Nà Mah Nà, )   So it wasn’t a total loss.

But now that i have been sitting for an hour or so, i’m pretty sure my son is going to have to unfold me off the couch like a rusty lawn chair. Or at least bring me a muscle relaxer. I mean, i can barely raise my arms from sanding the ceiling. And my back and legs feel…  well, they feel like i’ve been climbing up and down a ladder all day. No big surprise there. Suffice it to say that i am sore all over and stiff as a baccalà. Damn, my exercise regime of tap dancing and planks didn’t prepare me for this. Go figure.

Maybe i should consider just giving up and buying a newer house, but, realistically, even if i did, i’d still be sore tomorrow. So i guess i’m screwed either way. Better to save my money and travel more.

Well, here comes my son now. I told him of my situation, and once he stops laughing, he’s going to help me up off the couch and get me some aspirin. So, if you’ll excuse me, i’ll be signing off and, like an elderly sloth, making my way to bed. Once my son stops laughing.

Which should be soon.

Any minute now.

Still waiting.

Crap.

 

For Santi

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I know, little boy.

I know how you feel.

It’s hard to share the spotlight.

And i tell you now, he will hog it.

He is new

And small

And smells like powder.

And there will be days when you feel like your achievements are overlooked

Because he is all those things.

But i promise you,

They still love you.

They still think you are wonderful.

He is no threat to your awesomeness.

You don’t need the spotlight for you to shine.

And when he is always younger than you

And gets scared

Or worried

Or sad

You can be his nightlight~

Casting a bit of brightness into the dark.

Til then, know that you are seen.

You are loved by your parents.

You are special.

And every first born who knows how you feel

Is there for you.

We’ve got your back.

Welcome to the firstborn club.

 

If My Weedlings Only Knew

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Over the weekend, my weedlings had some big stuff going on. Watching them adventure make me a wee bit jealous and anxious to have an adventure of my own, but it also makes me so proud of them and how full-on and large that they live life. Their hearts and minds are so open and beautiful that it makes my own heart bubble over. (Ok, that is sappy as hell, but i swear it is true none-the-less.)

It started Thursday. My son, who was headed out for some jROTC adventure and competition in another state, was desperate for some old-school comfort food before he left. I would have made my meatloaf, his favorite, but i don’t keep meat in the house anymore. Besides, he wanted Cheerwine – Like, wth? Who drinks that on purpose? Anyway, we decided to go to this awesome diner downtown that has food we can both eat, and great desserts besides. We ended up parking in front of the soda shop, 8 blocks away, so he could stock up on Cheerwine. As we were walking from the shop to the diner, we get approached by a – i assume – homeless man who asks for spare change. My son says, “Sure,” with a sweet grin and hands the man a dollar. Mind you, my son probably only had $5 in his wallet. But he gave it, the man said thank you, and we walked on.

At the diner, we talked and laughed. He got his meat, and i got a Greek vegetarian platter. And of course, we both got the half-pound slabs of cake that they call dessert to take home. (For the record, he got Coke-a-Cola cake, and i got tiramisu cake.) Then another 8 block walk back to the car.

We pass another down-and-outer on the way back to the car who asked for spare change. Again, my son smiled and gave him a dollar. No hint of being annoyed. No pre-programmed message of blessings or reproach. No diatribe pro or con – A feat for the kid who lives to soapbox and debate. He just gave and smiled and walked on.

As we walked, i told him that i was proud of him. Proud that he would give a bit without second thought. That he had such a kind heart. His response was calm and nonchalant. “It was just a dollar. No big deal, but maybe it helped.” I told him that made me happy.  What i didn’t tell him was that i was a little surprised at his generosity.

Boys his age can be real schmucks. Selfish and self-righteous. And mine has a dream of a future in the realm of politics… With the ego, sometimes, to suit it. Don’t get me wrong, he is incredibly bright and has great ideas, but he hasn’t learned humility yet. Or, at least, i didn’t think he had. Obviously, i was wrong. He is at least on his way there. He idolizes Justin Trudeau, and it made me proud to see him grow towards that kind of politician.

********

On another note, my daughters are off on an adventure this week. nearly 10 years apart in age, they haven’t always been terribly close, but have been growing closer as of late. My middle weedling is still in college and on spring break, so she and my oldest decided to take a trip together. After a couple months of planning, they headed towards Spain.

On spring break, other weedlings are consumed with heading to a booze filled resort – Heading to a place where they will spend most of their time at a pool talking only with those who came with them. They might as well have found a good hotel in their own city. My daughters, however, opted for someplace off the usual track. They are exploring a smaller city at an air B&B and enjoying the local flavor.

I am pleased that they have my love for travel. The thrill of trying new foods, seeing new places, meeting new people – These are what i want my daughters to spend money on, as opposed to chasing the fancier house and glittery lifestyle. Getting to know fellow humans broadens the mind and heart and soul. And the deeper the understanding and appreciation,  the less likely we are to marginalize and hurt each other. On the grand scale, if all of us traveled more, there would be fewer wars. It’s hard to kill people you have visited, even if you disagree with their leaders.

But on its most basic level, this is two sisters, drastically different in vision, beliefs, and aesthetics, learning to appreciate each other and who they are. The love they have for each other as family being deepened as they build a strong friendship. As a mother, it makes me so happy. It means that long after i’m gone, they will have each other to lean on.

On a superficial level, it gets me jazzed for a trip with both my girls together. The three of us taking on a new place. Seeing it through each others’ eyes. And maybe sometimes after that, including my son as well. The whole caravan on adventure together. Learning about others and about each other.  The hippie, the leader, the politician, and the gypsy (Me). All together on an adventure!

And on a grand level, they will go on to touch people and spread what they have learned. That we are all one people. That in spite of our differences, we all enjoy sitting down to a good meal in a beautiful place. And when we do it together, we grow to appreciate the differences in each other, or at the very least, we take a step towards understanding them. Maybe even hand them a dollar when they need it, a smile on our face, and no judgement.

They may have gotten their love of adventure from me, but i have gotten so much from them. Their understanding. Their compassion. Their ability to forgive. Their willingness to fight for what’s right. If i never do another thing of value, i made these weedlings possible. I hope, tho i have told them the words, that they someday understand the depth of the pride and love i have behind those words.

No Ma could be more thrilled with her own weedlings than i am of them.

Extreme Makeover: Bird House Edition

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After spending the week in Wisconsin for work, i came home to beautiful weather here in Chattanooga. Yesterday was so perfect, in fact, that i went and picked up some wooden birdhouses and painted them for the springtime nests. This is something i’ve done before, and it always catches me off guard when people find it such an amazing feat.

I always get a lot of, “I’d never think of that”s. Especially from people my own age. I don’t understand it. I mean, we all did things like this in art class, or scouts, or Sunday School, or 4-H. It was a common craft for the Garanimals set back in the day. Maybe too many of us associate it with kid stuff? (And further, think of kid stuff as things we aren’t allowed to do as adults.)  Or maybe our heads are so full of the extremes – Hard work and sleep – that we forget there are things in between. Maybe we forget that creating, on any level, is good for both our brains and our souls. Maybe we forget that it is important to show the younger generations that we can have fun without electricity or screens. Maybe we forget how fun it is.

The other remark i get a lot is “I can’t paint.” Ummm – There are pigs and elephants selling paintings for hundreds of dollars, and they don’t even have opposable thumbs. I’m pretty sure you can paint a bird house for your own yard. Just sayin’.

And this is where i get on Momma Hol’s Soap Box #3.

Nowhere, in anyone’s religious text (Or motivational text, if you are not religious) does it say you must be “good” at something to try it. God/Goddess/Universe only asks that you make a joyful noise… It never said you had to be Streisand or Sinatra. Creativity is one of the few areas of life where you score points for effort. And i am thankful, as my efforts often come out looking like a Pinterest fail. But sometimes not. Sometimes i really nail it.

And before you shake your head and say, “Well, mine would turn out ugly,” i remind you that the birds don’t care. They don’t read Martha Stewart, and i’m pretty sure they don’t judge each other on the paint job of the shelter. They just want a protected place to lay and set their eggs. And they will be grateful you did it, even if all you did was paint it all one color. They aren’t living in some decorating reality show. They are living in your yard. Just your average bird looking for a safe family haven. It will still be their home.  Besides,  i’ll bet you do a better job than you think you do…

At least when you aren’t criticizing yourself and worrying about it.

I have a bestie who teaches art. She tells her students, “The difference between (her and them), other than schooling and practice,  is that at some point, most people start believing the kid or person next to them. They stop believing they are an artist and give it up.” They get negative feedback from others, or start comparing themselves to others, and they devalue their own work as a result. Granted, Rembrandt is Rembrandt, and we are not. but we all have our moments. That one picture that came out just right. The meal that was perfect. That one well-turned phrase where you feel, “Ya, those were perfect words.” But that doesn’t mean that our other efforts don’t have value. Even if that value is just an enjoyable afternoon with some cheap paints and a bird house.

And if you feel silly doing it all by your lonesome, invite some kids over. Or do it as part of a wine and cheese thingy. Or don’t tell anyone. But i really hope you take a bash at some of these simple arts again. Get in touch with your inner artist. Your inner child. Build yourself a bird house. Or do like i did and buy one to paint at the craft store. Whether you make it look like a flower covered cottage or keep it simple, it’s still a place for the birds to place their eggs. And i like to believe that the love you put into making it will be felt when they move into it.

Or maybe that’s the artist in me talking.

 

Home Renovations – The It Episode

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Due to some excessive rain (I started to say “Unusually excessive rain…”, but excessive rain IS the usual here), the power was going on and off for a bit this morning. My son’s room was unusually cluttered because we are doing some renovations on his bathroom (More about that later), so the towel racks, towels, and assorted accessories, along with my ladder, are stuffed into his fairly small bedroom. And to note: The kid keeps it as dark as a cave.

So as various household appliances are switching on an off with the indecisive power surges, they are all making different noises. The humidifiers beep. The temperature gauge clicks. And something in the house made an upward sloping attempt at middle A.

It was the last that creeped my son out.

He recounts to me after dawn that laying there in the pitch black, unfamiliar shadows from the extra stuff stashed in his room, he was seriously rattled. All the added flotsam, plus the emptiness of a bathroom devoid of part of its floors and walls changed the acoustics such that the poor kid couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from. He tried to convince himself it was the heat, but given that it was unseasonably warm, he couldn’t get that  thought to solidify.  He ended up staying awake til morning.

He comes in my room when he hears me waking and playing with Siridog. he tells me about the storm and the dark and the noises. He especially points out that the strange, eerily musical hum really rattled him. It sounded like song notes. Like a half scale. It didn’t sound random. It freaked him out. I can tell by his expression that he wasn’t exaggerating – The kid had been really scared.

“You just need to take a deep breath and remind yourself, ” I say to him, “That this is a safe neighborhood and that it was unlikely to be a bear or criminal.”

“Criminal?!? Ma, I was afraid it was a clown!”

I couldn’t help it. I busted out laughing.

“I’m serious, Ma! If a clown had shown up, I’d have beat him with my lamp and then wet my pants.”

Truth be told, if I’d been in that situation, and a clown had jumped out of the closet, I’d have wet my pants before beating him with the lamp.

 

*****

 

So about the bathroom renovation…

My house is ancient, and the people who lived there before did most of their own repairs. Which is to say, a lot of stuff is totally jerry-rigged. Makeshift. Mechanically creative. When I decided I was ready to replace the shower stall in the back bathroom, I knew better than to expect it would be pristine underneath.

First, the contractor, a friend of mine, tells me he is there to start the demo. Then he sends pics of some wood rot around the drain. To be expected in an old house, I remind myself.

Then pics of some wood rot on the bottom of the wall behind the shower. No surprise there – The back wall had a bit of a crack in it.

Then some pics of wood rot around the perimeter of the shower pan. No surprise there either. There is no air vent, heating vent, or fan in that room. It gets damp easily.

Then a pic of the joist and crawl space below the shower section of the floor. In the center of the photo, there is a mushroom… A cream colored, beautifully topographically sculpted fungus, big enough to feed a small country, or at least a large city, for a day.

THAT was a surprise.

It wasn’t a clown, but it was damned unnerving.

It has since been pushed down into the dirt and been broken, sprayed and sterilized (Pretty much everything short of set on fire). The room will get fixed, my son’s room will go back to normal, and hopefully neither of us will be tortured any more by thoughts of clowns, or mushrooms, or clowns with mushrooms, or mushrooms shaped like clowns.

Effing clowns.

Stupid mushrooms.

Please, let us not find anything else.

 

 

Less Talk, More Action

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What is wrong with you?

You don’t listen to the whole opinion before you declare it wrong:

A stomp on your rights.

A disgrace to our forefathers.

Closed to compromise and blind

To your own rhinoceros hide.

If you are so committed to your view,

What are you doing to help it come true?

 

What is wrong with them?

They are supposed to be representing us to the ersatz leader

In the Big White Building.

Huge conference rooms set aside for compromise and action

Plates of donuts and stale coffee

Aides and press and soundbites

But no change.

If they are really there to serve the public,

Why don’t they translate our anger into action?

 

What is wrong with us?

We are outraged on social media

Screaming at our inflexible friends who won’t hear compromise.

We post news articles and memes and

Send up thoughts and prayers for victims and families.

Crying as we hunch over our laptops.

Wishing things were different.

If we are so horrified at the atrocity

At the deaths,

Why aren’t we more involved in life?

 

What is wrong with me?

All these years of wanting to see change.

But work and weedlings and life took so much time

That i felt i had none to offer.

Now in my silver years, that is no longer an excuse.

I am intent on making change

In myself, to start

And have put in some effort to get involved.

I can’t do everything

But i can do something.

If i knew it was this important to give even a little,

Why has it taken me so long?

 

 

Making the Rounds

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I took today off from work because i had planned a barrage of routine medical appointments. I figured i might as well get them all over with at once.

Well, except for the oh-shit-do-i-really-have-to colonoscopy that was recommended. I’ll hold off on that until i need to lose 5 pounds fast.

My day started with my first routine physical in a couple of years. First stop: Height and weight.

The nurse asked me to hop on the scale. Because, you know, if she had just asked me my weight, i would have lied and made myself five pounds lighter. And apparently she knew this. Then she took my height. I have to say, i haven’t been this excited about growing 1/4 inch since before the Age of Disco.

I was forced to switch doctors for this exam, so this office and its staff had never met me. Had no knowledge of me whatsoever. It was good, in a way, because their opinions were gloriously unbiased. But on the other hand, because they had no knowledge of me, they didn’t know my norm.

“Ummm… That can’t be right. Let’s try the other arm.”

“Ummm… I still don’t believe it. Let’s try the first arm again.”

“I think something is wrong with the cuff. Let me try a different one.”

“I’m just gonna get someone else to try…”

I finally decided to speak up…. “You probably heard right. My heart rate runs low and my blood pressure runs high. But i feel wonky when it gets outside my usual range, and i feel fine now.”

She still got another one to take it. She shrugged when it only came up marginally lower and typed it into the record.

Next it was an ekg, which, as usual, takes five times as long to set up as it does to run.

“You sure you feel ok? Any fatigue or light-headedness? Your heart rate is rather low.”

“Yup. I’m good. I promise.”

“You must be in great shape. What do you do for exercise?”

“Ummm… A few sit-ups on my inversion table. And i just started learning to tap dance.”

This brought out a look of incredulity. Then, once she realized i was serious, she giggled. “You have blue hair, tattoos, and you are learning to tap dance. You are an interesting woman.”

Oh, if you only knew…

The doc comes in and starts putting her hands in places  that haven’t been felt up in far too long. It would be awkward and invasive except for the fact that  she is sweet and listening intently to my answers to her questions. This turned out to be pointless, since i realized at every point after that, that i had forgotten to give the staff half of the relevant information. Way to go, Ms Electronic Medical Record.

The rest of the day was a cavalcade of lab work, nurse questions, doctor pokes, and for the last thing, the recommended boob portraits. Because, you know, no woman’s physical is complete without squashing the shit out of her tits and taking a picture. (I wish they would send us snapshots on our phone. That way, when someone obnoxious asked for a nude pic, you could send him your mammogram as a passive-aggressive coup de grâce. It would be way more fun than just telling him to piss off.)

I survived it all.

And then i came home and tap danced.

At the end of the day, it is most likely my results will be as they usually are: Mostly healthy. And for that i am grateful. I can’t help getting older. And tho i don’t like it, it could be worse. What is worse than getting old? Getting old and decrepit. In spite of the aches and pains, the wrinkles and sags, and a blood pressure you’d expect from Ralph Kramden, i’ve got a ways to go before i get to the decrepit stage. My heart rate may be low, but my enthusiasm is high. It’s a good life. Even if i forget to tell them half of it.

 

Do These Words Make My Ass Look Small?

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I won’t be bullied into going that road.

It’s a slippery slope that i’ve slid down before:

You get what you want and i

Get broken.

Each pitch off the edge taking a bite from

My ego, My pride. My self.

Your look that says,

“Your ass is mine.”

With a sexual bent devoid of feeling,

As if those vile words are a gift

That i don’t deserve.

I know you think i like it.

You think my silence is some kind of benign acquiescence.

A deliberate surrender.

An affirmative capitulation to your exemplary manhood.

But it is anesthesia, pure and simple.

The somnolence of cultural propaganda

The  paralyzing fear of loneliness and discord.

And your failure to see that tells me you are

To be trusted with neither my flesh

Nor my soul.

Your blind insistence that my ass is yours

Belies the truth that you are my ass:

The stubborn and id-driven

Schmuck

Who cares only for his own wants.

I’ve no need for a pack animal who refuses to carry

Any burden.

Any responsibility.

Any truth.

I am choosing not to be broken.

I am choosing not to be silent any longer.

I will be strong.

And true to me.

And your narcissistic self can

Kiss my ass in your mirror –

Which is the only place you’ll ever see it again.

 

From The Hair On Your Head To The Hair On Your Toes

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So i’ve been reading a lot of articles on natural beauty. Part and parcel with the whole “Give up meat, use less plastic, be less fake” philosophy that has been growing on me. And it has me thinking… We women put a whole lot of money and effort into being “beautiful”, and even more so when we are trying to be “natural”, if for no other reason than “natural” products and services take more money and effort and to find.

I mean, i know there is a growing movement of women out there who don’t shave, wax, or pluck. I know plenty of women who don’t wear makeup. I know women who don’t care about their pores or their split ends or their scratchy heels. We are born with that hair on our legs, and our eyelids weren’t meant to be gold gilded. But most of us, when we talk about “natural beauty” are talking about doing the same beauty rituals we have always done, only with more earth-friendly products. Definitely better than mass-market beauty, and certainly better than the days of lead-based face powder and carcinogen-laden hair products. But still not really “natural”.

That being said, i can’t see myself going wholly “natural” regardless.

I DO care about the wrinkles over my lip and the lack of color in my cheeks as i get older. I DON’T like when my leg hair grows out and wiry spikes sprout halfway between my eyebrow and temple, like spearmint springing from the ground 3 feet from the rest of the herb garden. I DO like some opalescent sparkle on my face. And for the life of me, i can’t truthfully tell you why.

There is the age-old argument that we do it for men. But i will be honest here, even furless, accentuating my best body features, and spending time on makeup every morning, i still have no need for a social calendar. Dates come as rarely for me as oases spring up in the desert. So either the man theory isn’t true, or it just ain’t working.

Then there is the argument that we are brainwashed by the media. I grew up loving fashion magazines. I still do, tho i get a bit depressed at the lack of older women in them. And i take the photos with a grain of salt. We all know that these images are unrealistic; the models genetically gifted, and photo-shopped within an inch of their lives. I know that i can’t wear a dress to work that contains an actual, living fish. And no one wants to see my ass hanging out of my 3-inch rise dress slacks. But even still, i love the photography, the artistry, and the illusion of grandeur… Even if i will never master the Manolo-esque stiletto.

So maybe i do it because it is ingrained in me. Growing up, all the women in my life de-fuzzed, dyed their hair, and worked hard to look comely. Very few went without makeup, and even fewer let their grey hair or pit hair run wild. So it isn’t like i had a bunch of earthy-crunchy women setting the standard. I have to say, tho, that no one in my family ever barked at me for whatever macquillage i was sporting at any stage. When i took to wearing men’s clothes, or all black, or my combat boots with everything, my family accepted it. When my hair was short, blue, and combed into a perfect DA, my family made no more notice of it than they did when it was long and the black of my youth. Truth be told, my family has been supportive of nearly all of my appearance conventions – The lone exception being my decision, after 40, to let my white hair grow out. That caused all kinds of controversy.

Nothing having to do with me, i think; and everything to do with it making others feel old.

So why, then? Why do i do what i do to alter my appearance? Is it any of those things i mentioned? Is it all of those things i mentioned? I think it is at least partially the latter; and not just for me, but for all women. After all, it’s not like we see the bulk of men worrying about the sparseness of their eyelashes. Or giving themselves bunions and broken sesamoid bones so they can rock a slut shoe. Or paying money to have someone rub acid on their face, in hopes it will make them look 10 years younger. Hell, men score extra points just for wearing the right amount of cologne. So, obviously, there is a gender bias.

But even knowing that, i can’t imagine myself not going to at least some length of primping.  I can’t imagine being comfortable in public with a completely unadorned face unless forced. I can’t imagine going to the beach unshaved and not worrying i looked like i was smuggling rabbis under my arms. I can’t imagine going out on a (painfully) rare date and not putting in some effort…

Wait…

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s the act of putting in effort. Not necessarily what i do to make myself look “my best”, but the fact that i am willing to go to lengths. For my (phantom) date. For my coworkers. For myself. Proof that i care enough to do something. I do less now than i did when i was young: I no longer spend an hour on my makeup, and if a shoe isn’t comfortable, i won’t wear it. (Unless it’s for Liam Neeson. I’d wear them for Liam Neeson.) So i guess you can say that the amount of effort is relative. If you are male or female, young or old, city born or country raised, meeting a mere mortal or meeting Liam Neeson; the bar for acceptable effort moves.

I know that we as women should be content with the lot God/Goddess/Universe gave us. He didn’t make me to look like a model for a reason. Maybe because GGU knew that, as depressing as it is thinking no one is looking at you, it is far worse to think everyone is looking at you. Even if i get caught at the market with jacked up hair, the number of people who will find out is only marginally larger than the single digit number of people who will give a damn. If i had the level of objective beauty i pine after, my bad hair day would become the conversation piece for more blogs and websites than my ego could handle.

Thank you, Universe, for not making me a starlet.

So back to my original thoughts… Tho buying cosmetics that are made of beet juice and and free-range, wild-harvested sea grass is better for the environment than the chemical compounds marketed by the taste makers, i’m not sure it’s any better for our psyche. The implied message is still that we need this stuff to be “pretty enough”. And while it may be true that there are very few “natural beauties” in this world, each of us possesses our own “natural beauty”. Yes, we are all beautiful in our own way. Even unshaven and un-powdered and unadulterated. The Universe and the ones who love us see that beauty, and any adornment is unnecessary. Heaven only knows if we will all learn to see ourselves that same way, to love ourselves as we are and do the primping just for fun. (Tho i can’t imagine anyone waxing just for fun. That shit hurts!) And would it still be fun if it wasn’t considered more beautiful? I don’t know.

As for me, i know better than to think i’ll ever get to that point. I get more comfortable with myself with each passing year, but i doubt i will ever be satisfied. I will likely always strive to be more. Because, you know, there’s always that slim chance i could score a date.

I’m still holding out hope for Liam Neeson.

 

Have You Met My Son, Black+Decker?

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I am dirty. Like, literally. I am covered in dirt and leaves and twigs and sweat. My deodorant gave out about 30 minutes ago, and i just pulled a little spider out of my hair. All that, not including a couple minor injuries… And i feel wonderful.

The first warm day in ages. Granted, in a couple of months, this will be considered cold; but after weeks of hard freeze and some snow, my son and i are both in short sleeves and bare feet as we revel in the sunny outdoors. (Well, truthfully, i’ve been reveling for a few hours. My son only came out when i finished my part and gave him no choice but to do his.) Because it is almost time for the palmettos to come out of their winter hiding, i took the opportunity to get all their food – the aforementioned leaves and twigs – raked and blown to the curb. Of course, this is at least the 6th time i’ve done that this season. Hopefully it will be the last. I have far too many deciduous trees in my yard, including one hickory whose nuts are the bane of my existence, but i am loath to cut them down. Trees are so majestic and mistreated that i can’t bring myself to take them out just because i am too lazy to deal with the leaves (and nuts.)

The nuts… Good Lord… If there isn’t a chipmunk city in my yard, i can’t imagine why. That tree produces enough in a year to make nut condos for every small, furry mammal in the neighborhood. In the summer, i find them half buried in my planters where they are being squirreled away for winter. And stepping on them is almost as bad as a Lego. But this time of year…. Oy…. Strewn about the side yard, it’s a bit like a roller skating rink, except the wheels are on the ground instead of your footwear. Twice today i did the cartoon can-can when they caused me to lose my footing. Legs and arms in all different directions, once being “saved” by body-slamming the shed, and once by falling forward into what was meant to be a push-up, but became more of a belly flop.

Then there is the little matter of bushes and corners. These are, of course, the explanation for the dirt in my eyes, the twigs in my hair, and the leaf mold setting up like cement in my nostrils. I know my life would be easier if i’d just rake or pull the leaves out from the corners and that little strip between the bushes and the house… but that seems a step backward from the leaf blower. I keep telling myself that i am smart enough at math to find just the trajectory to aim the air stream where the leaves will shoot out from the corner in a perfect arc and land in a neat pile away from the house.

I am, apparently, not that smart.

Instead, about a quarter of the leaves blow away from the house, a quarter blow at me, and the other half ends up, inexplicably, back up against the wall behind me. It was one of these frustrating moments that gave me my first ego-blow of the day. Backed up against the drain, battling a whirlwind of yard flotsam,  i look up and see my neighbor laughing at me thru his window. I wanted to yell something snarky, but i couldn’t open my mouth without choking on flying ivy. Instead, i shot him a “Come on! Cut me some slack!” face, and he mouthed a chuckling apology before ducking out of sight.

At the last leg of my chore, i see the mail man drive up to the post box next door. This caught my attention because, as Vernon Dursley says, “There is no post on Sundays.” Now, in my head, i know being distracted while using yard tools is a no-no, but the sight of the mail truck didn’t distract me quite enough to make me stop and turn off the leaf blower. Instead, i kept on blowing and slowly moving backwards while my eyes stayed glued to the truck and my mind wandered.

Right about the time i figured it must be an overnight delivery, my heel caught on a wayward weedbush. As i went ass-over-teakettle, something in my wonky brain made me hang onto the leaf blower like it was a newborn baby. And when i landed with a thud in the damp earth, the damned thing was still cradled to my chest, with its hard plastic snuffle extension perfectly positioned between my face and the ground, motor whirring in my ear as if it were Peewee Herman screeching sweet nothings. I sat up just in time to see the mailman, having turned around in the cul-de-sac, staring at me from the road, a look of horror on his face.

At first i thought the look was because he was worried i was hurt. Then i realized my t-shirt was clear up to my armpit on one side, as if i were nursing my leaf blowing baby.

I turned the machine off, threw the postman a little salute, pulled my shirt down, and told my son it was his turn.

So now he is finishing the last quarter of the chore. I am on the porch, still barefoot, enjoying a cold drink and hoping against hope that i can move my arms tomorrow and wondering how long it will take to get all the dirt out of my nose. The polish i put on my fingernails yesterday is a little worse for wear. I can feel the layer of grime on my skin. My eyes and head are already aching because i didn’t take an allergy pill first. And i can feel that i have leaves in places i shouldn’t.

But the sun is still up. It is still warm. The yard is looking better. I just found out that i burned about 700 calories. All my other chores are done.  And, since i started my day making a wonderful vegan ragu, i have a great meal coming up in about an hour.  I feel accomplished and content.

So yes, i am dirty and sore and a little bit battered. I lost a bit of my dignity to the neighbor and the postman. And i will be looking for more spiders in my hair all night. But those things pale in comparison to all the good i get from working outdoors. There is no anti-depressant like a warm, sunny day in the middle of winter. There is no chore as fulfilling as ones that get dirt under your fingernails. And there is no sleep as deep as the kind you get after a day of yard work.

Tomorrow may be a bitch of a Monday, but today was glorious.