adventures of a recovering iowan
wherever you go, there you are
adventures of a recovering iowan
the war on slugs... my new secret weapon
Meet Shedra... my latest weapon in my war on slugs that have been feasting on my newly-planted plants. Yes, this has been yet another exercise in OCD behavior... first I got the wild hair to "pretty up" my back yard, so zoomed off to Loews and bought a carload of - well, plants, as well as dirt and poop-in-a-bag and mulch, etc. Yes, I'm just renting the house, but barring any unforeseen disasters, I will probably be living here for a good while.... so why not make my surroundings more enjoyable to look at, right?
But then, near-disaster struck... after only a couple days, I noticed that all my hostas and several other planties were sporting big holes in their leaves... AAARGH! After all that trouble of digging and conditioning and planting, something was out to destroy my little backyard garden. Yes, the evil slug. So I tried putting beer out to lure the little slimy lushes and drown them in their own drunkenness...
it worked to some degree, as there were several drunk & dead slugs in the pans the next morning, but still more holes. Then my friend and gardener extraordinaire, Jenn, suggested "Slug Magic" pellets. I dashed out to Israel's to procure some of this magic stuff and promptly sprinkled the innocuous-looking little white pellets all around my besieged flora. Of course, it takes 2-3 days to really kill the little buggers, so I went into impatient mental overdrive... and thus, the concept of Shedra was born. Actually, I had been thinking of painting that ugly old shed anyway (see "before" pic below), but until now had no idea what I wanted to paint.
Back to Shedra... I figure she'll act as a "Scare Slug", right? If you were a slug, wouldn't you turn and slink the other way if you saw this most imposing creature that looks ready to gobble you up with a vengeance? I would. But then again, I'm not a slug (well,most days, anyway - ha!)
the shed before Shedrafication...
Fillies Redux - the reunion tour
the "Fillies" and an old boyfriend - Houston, 1983
Bless me, blogosphere, for I have sinned... it has been more than 2 weeks since I last posted. I know, I'm probably going to Blogger Hell... or at least "Blogatory". Oh, well. I've been busy. Really. Really busy.
A couple weeks ago, Mini-Mo and I piled in the Civic and made yet another road trip to South Florida. The week started off with a rather "big" meeting with a client there. Once that was finished, the rest of the week was a party-thon of sorts - fitting, I guess, as it was the reunion of the "Fillies". Let me 'splain...
My sister-in-law, Diane and I shared a townhouse (nicknamed "The Filly Palace") in Houston in 1983 with our friend, Nan, who since moved to Seattle several years ago. We were all young, single twenty-somethings from Iowa doing the "Urban Cowboy" thing and soaking in the "big city" life (yes, we went kicker dancing on occasion AND rode the bull at Gillie's...). It was really a fun time - probably too much fun by most standards, but hey - we were young. Our resilient young bodies seemed to know no limits when it came to partying. We could stay out most of the night, drink the boys under the table, eat jalapeños and still show up at our jobs the next morning relatively unscathed. Oh, youth... wide-eyed, energetic, elastic, foolish youth... I do miss it sometimes.
So, shortly after I arrived in FL, Nan flew in on a red-eye (so appropriate in this case - ha!) Nan is now married with three kids, as is Diane with two kids. Of course, my kid is grown up (?) now and both husbands have long since been eliminated (no - not murdered, just divorced), so I'm the only one who's relatively unattached to immediate family responsibilities. Regardless, that week was Spring Break for Diane and just plain vacation for Nan. Since I had finished my business duties, I made it just plain vacation for me, too. While Diane still had a household to maintain despite the break, Nan and I seized the opportunity to be complete derelicts. OK, not complete - it could have been way worse. But we did some beach days where the beers emerged at high noon and didn't go away till the wee hours. Compared to our "normal" lives, that's fairly derelict and therefore SO delicious. Yes, it was the Fillies Redux to some degree - the party just seemed to continue, tho still much tamer than those earlier days, when people who were 50 or thereabouts were considered "really old". By the last day, we were all showing signs of wear... but along came Cousin Sharona, who in her unique way breathed new life into the party. Sharona is over 50, but she shamed us all that night and was the last one standing, albeit a bit of a wobbly stand.
Yes, good times. By the end of the vacation, Nan and I were both looking a bit ragged, and both mumbled of the need to return home to recover from all the fun. Diane was right in there with us during "prime time" party hours, but since she is obviously much more able to exercise good judgement and self control than some of us, she emerged from the week with way fewer battle scars.
So even if we are a bit less resilient now and - well, just older, we still found the Filly spirit and drank it in with gusto for a few days. It was a rare treat, indeed, and I look forward to the next reunion (tho I really need at least a year to recover from this one, I think... yep, old.)
A good wife always knows her place?
I've never been a hard-core feminist, but propaganda from recent history like the following piece make my laugh my ass off... just before my head explodes. Have a look at the following actual article from the May 1955 edition of Housekeeping Monthly (apparently a British publication). All I can say is... wow. Damn good thing I wasn't a wife at that time in history. I now truly understand how "mother's little helpers" became so popular in that era... and wonder why there wasn't more domestic violence against men. Talk about promoting a Stepford Wives society! You know this had to have been written by a man. Read on! (I've inserted some of my own comments in italicized parentheses)
The good wife's guide
- Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favourite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed. (ok, maybe if I feel like it & have time...)
- Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
- Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. (LOL!!! Should I be a diesel dyke or a lipstick lesbian?) His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it. (duty? yeah, right...)
- Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. (like a good domestic servant...)
- Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dustcloth over the tables.
- Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. (or to cremate him in...) Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. (oh, ok - gosh, that sounds dandy)
- Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimise all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. (how? by drugging the little treasures or inserting a ball gag in their little mouths?)
- Be happy to see him. (yes, I'll just push that "instant happy" button - who cares if I'm not really happy...)
- Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him. (oh, gag me...)
- Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours. (AAAAAGGGHHHH! My head is exploding!!!)
- Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. (yeah, be glad he's out boffing the local sluts at the titty bar) Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax. (oh, poor baby...)
- Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit. (ommmmmmmm......)
- Don't greet him with complaints and problems. (what if I have some?)
- Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. (oh, really? I'm thinking that his staying out all night is grounds for murder or at least a good bludgeoning)
- Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. (laced with arsenic for an extra "kick")
- Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. (yes, I wouldn't want Mr. Precious to be uncomfortable...)
- Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him. (What??!! No right, my ass!!)
- A good wife always knows her place. (yeah - far far away from any asshole that would actually believe this shit!)
my midlife crisis - version 2.0
OK, so midlife crisis #1 was the whole "moving to Australia to be with a man I barely knew" thing... thankfully, I got that one out of my system without losing life or limb or home or career, tho. So, since I'm still in the prime of "midlife", I figured I have time for another little dose of "middle-age crazy" before I'm too old to qualify.
Midlife Crisis Version 2.0 is almost as dangerous as Version 1.0, but at least it should be way more fun... yes, I am getting a motorcycle! The cool thing is that it's a one-owner 5-year old Suzuki Savage 650 - perfectly sized for me, and I know the owner well - my brother. The even cooler thing is that my bro just gave me the bike. What a cool guy!! How lucky am I??! Sheesh!
Then, another cool thing happened yesterday - I happened across a bike-hauling guy on the internet who happened to be in South Florida and was heading up this way... woo hoo! So we negotiated a mutually happy deal and my new Savage is on it's way here as I write this. It will be here either tomorrow night or Thursday morning, according to Ernest, the bike-haulin' guy.... I'm like a kid waiting for Christmas and it's taking forever!
Wow - this motorcycle thing was an interesting twist in an already interesting past week. A couple months ago, I had started thinking about getting a bike sometime this summer, so the seed was already planted in my little brain garden. Then a week ago, I discovered quite by accident that my former boyfriend, James had died, which of course led me to toddle down memory lane. Several of those memories included our previous biker days, which James had ushered in for me, as he was an avid motorcyclist. At that time, I had a Honda Shadow 700 that James had given me, which was a similar style to my new bike but much larger in size. (see photo below) So, while in Key Biscayne with my bro and his family last week, I mentioned that I was thinking about getting a motorcycle, bla bla... and that's when my bro offered me his. The rest is history. Amazingly cool how things work out sometimes.
It seems extra-fitting somehow - me getting a bike at this time, that is - as my mental revisiting of all things James last week had reminded me of just how much I used to love biking. It also reminded me that life is short - sometimes really short.
So, I'm back in the saddle again and ready to revisit my biker bi-atch life! Vrooom Vrooom!! Tomorrow I must going shopping for biatchin' boots and chaps and assorted bad-ass biker accoutrements.
Li'l TD with my old Honda Shadow
James with his Honda CBR 1100 in 1996
"waiter, there's a bat in my tea" - a quaint little Iowa news story
So I'm googling "Recovering Iowan" tonight just for kicks (since I realized googling old boyfriends is no longer a good idea) and stumbled upon this news story from MSNBC entitled "Iowa woman finds drowned bat in tea mug", with a quippy tagline, "Unfortunate mammal found at bottom of cup after all-day sipping"
OK... that's pretty freaky. I'm thinking I might have died from that one... OMG. Seriously. A frickin' dead bat in my tea?? Yeah, no - I think I would have just evaporated or spontaneously combusted at the point of discovery - probably would have just lifted out of my shoes and clothes like those quaint and delusional rapture people talk about, only this wouldn't have been rapture... more like lethal horror.
To quote the article, "The brown bat, about the size of two tea bags, was found a few weeks ago by a 60-year-old Woodbury County woman..." Gosh, I didn't know bats were measured by the "tea bag standard"... who knew? I think I shall never look at a tea bag in the same way ever again... I will be sure to inspect for wings and creepy little rodential faces before sipping my Earl Grey...
I also loved the following tidbit: "The woman, who declined to identify herself, told Cipperley she found the bat when she was cleaning out the mug at night. She said she put the bat in a plastic bag before alerting the Siouxland health office the next morning."
OK, only in Western Iowa would a 60 yr. old woman find a dead frickin' bat in her teacup at the end of a long day of sipping on said dead rat... then have the presence of mind (and Girl-Scout-on-steroids practicality) to place the disgusting little tea-logged critter in a frickin' plastic bag, and then go to sleep, and then get up in the morning and alert the authorities! Geezus - I would be so busy vomiting and hyperventilating and spraying bleach in my mouth and having a coronary or something that preserving this freakish dead thing for "the authorities" would be about 8,754th on the list of priorities at such a moment.
The article ends with a wonderful Iowa-esque quote from the program manager at the lab where the "unfortunate mammal" was sent for rabies testing - "We test many, many bats," he said, "but none that have drowned in a cup of tea before."
Ya think?
Now I'm waiting for a bat to drown in someone's beer... and not be discovered until after "all-day sipping". OK, I'm going to start inspecting my beers more closely now, too. Geeeeeze!
googling the dead - a six degrees of separation thing
(TD & James exploring an old mill in South Shields, England - 1996)
As I was recounting past trips, I was trying to retrace the cities we visited on my first trip to the UK in 1996. That was the year when my son, TD and I traveled around the British Isles with my Scottish boyfriend at the time, James. Once I completed my UK trip task on Facebook, I decided to google James - something I've done off and on for a few years, as I've always been curious as to what became of him after he got married and moved away from Ft. Lauderdale 12 years ago.
So I googled him, and for the first time in all these years, something came up for James G. Malone... his obituary. Wow. Whoa. Wow. He was only 56 when he died December 1, 2008 - only 3 months ago.
I sat there at the hotel room work desk - staring at my computer in disbelief, reading the obit over and over to make sure it was real. It was. There was no mention of the cause of death, tho, and the obituary was fairly brief - or at least it seemed so to me for some reason.
Quite honestly, I'm still processing all of this. It's been 12 years since I was with James, so it's not like he was "in my life" anymore for quite some time now. However, it's a very strange mix of emotions going on here, and I'm quite frankly not sure what to make of them. The only thing that's clear is that I feel a bit weird and sad. Tho ours was a rather tumultuous relationship of just over 2.5 years, it goes down as one of the most significant relationships of my life, and James was definitely one of the very few great loves of my life.
James was a good man who struggled with depression and bipolar disorder for most of his adult life, as far as I know. When he was up, he was incredibly charismatic, charming, witty and fun. Sadly, when he was down, it was as though the world were crushing him like an ant. As time went on, the mood swings became more frequent and abrupt. At the time, I didn't really understand that much about the whole bipolar and/or depression thing - I had had some experience with men previously that had "issues" of a psychological nature, but didn't really know that much about manic depression other than what I had read about in books or seen in movies, et. al., which wasn't that much. With James, I took it upon myself to learn more, but even a better understanding of the pathologies didn't really help when it came to his depressions. I always ended up taking it personally and would be hurt by his words and/or actions during those periods. My own M.O. was to flee, which I did about nine times in total over that two and a half years.
So - yes, tumultuous. But memorable. Very memorable.
James was a very talented man in many ways. He was very intelligent, had an excellent and extensive vocabulary, was a very good writer, was a latent self-taught computer geek, had a lovely speaking voice, was very witty and able to charm the socks off most anyone if he wanted to. He loved motorcycles and got me a Honda Shadow 700 so that we could ride together, yet independently. There were some very good times with James, and those are the memories I will cherish. The not-so-good times are part of the memory bank, as well, but as time marches on, their significance continues to fade to black.
Rest in peace, James. Thanks for the memories. Maybe we'll hook up again next time around.
Gedankenuebertragung
Wow - the past couple of weeks have been a blur, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Tho I may not remember much of the 85,000 tasks per day I've been tackling, I have noticed that a lot of little serendipitous things have been happening - for example, one evening I was tidying my office (finally!) and came across a photo of an old friend in NYC. As I was looking at the photo, I heard my Mac go "ding", meaning I had a new email. I checked the mail to find an email from the old friend's boyfriend of many years (whom I haven't heard from in awhile) with a photo attached of the old friend and me and other friends... cool, I thought! My friend who sent the email is German, and when I emailed him back with my "OMG..." observation, he responded with "Das ist Gedankenuebertragung!" I had to laugh - not because I knew what that meant, but the fact that the word is about 3,000 syllables and too many letters to count - typical German word. Ha! Another German friend who was visiting last week translated it for me as "when two minds meet" or some such, which was appropriate, of course.
So Sunday night rolled around - my favorite HBO night. After I got my Big Love fix, I was eagerly awaiting the start of Flight of the Conchords - my new favorite comedy show ever. I was comfortably curled up on my sofa, bundled in my favorite cosmic blanket and cuddling my darling little Mojo. Less than a couple weeks ago, li'l Mini-Mo had an epileptic seizure one evening that scared the living hell out of me. I thought he was going to die, and was truly freaking out. I ended up just holding him tight, sobbing and telling him "you CAN'T leave me, you little fart!" while he shook violently - eyes rolled back in his head. Finally, the seizure just stopped after a couple minutes, but I was still scared and clinging him tight to my less-than-ample bosom. Finally Mojo started squirming a bit, as he was ready to get down (and probably being squished to death by me). I gingerly placed him on the floor and he galloped off to the kitchen to get his ropey toy and bring it back to show me. Thank god! He seemed perfectly fine, as tho nothing had happened - leaping around like the little circus dog he is. Knock on wood, he's had no more incidents since, tho I will admit I'm still a bit skittish whenever he makes any kind of movement out of the ordinary. At least I know now that these short seizures can't actually hurt him, so if he does have another one, I won't be quite so freaked out.
So, finally the Conchords came on. (here's the Gedankenuebertragung part) The episode ended up being about epileptic dogs of all things - ha! It was friggin' hilarious. The video below is their performance at a Benefit for Epileptic Dogs - their "remix" ending is extra hilarious. Unfortunately the video ends before the post-performance discussion, when the organizer of the event declares their performance an utter disaster - seems the strobe lights and flashing screen used in their remix ending caused all the dogs in the audience to seize. LOL!
Luckily Mojo got through the whole episode just fine. He loves the Conchords anyway and thought this was one of their best. Of course - he could relate!
Chicken Dance on the Lawrence Welk Show
OK - after posting my own little Chicken Party video on YouTube, featuring a soundtrack of the beloved Chicken Dance, I stumbled upon this rather bizarre clip from the Lawrence Welk Show, (circa 1960's) featuring the Chicken Dance as performed by classic Welkazoids. I grew up with the LWS - we watched it pretty much every weekend in the early days. I remember I always thought the hyper-perky blonde piano lady was a scary, malfunctioning robot, or possibly just batshit insane. I still wonder...
But the best part is that now I know the dirt about old Larry... seems he spent some time in Northwest Iowa and surrounding areas in his younger days as a touring band leader. When I was old enough to hear such scandalous stuff (about 45 I think), my folks and my aunt related some stories about the Welkster - seems he was a pretty randy fella - a "ladie's man", if you will, and apparently left a bit of DNA behind in the form of illegitimate offspring, or so it's speculated. Actually I'm glad I didn't know this as a kid, or I might have worried that I was actually one of his spawn, and that would be very unsettling. Nah - my mom would never do that - she's near Mother Teresa level when it comes to ethics and morals. Whew.
So, almost better than the Welkian video, itself was the synopsis posted by the video's poster, "tashcrash" - read on:
Chicken Party!
My cool friends, K & J have chickens in their back yard. Eighteen hens, to be exact. So of course they have periodic Chicken Parties, where they let all the "girls" out of their nice little 2-bedroom/1-bath coop to run around the yard and do chickeny stuff.
Par-tay! Chicken Dance! Cluckinay!