Dolls

I was a well-balanced child when it came to playing. I liked reading, knitting, and cooking, and I also liked climbing trees, riding my bike, and playing cars with the boy across the street.

What I never liked was dolls. When I was young all little girls were supposed to play with dolls. I had loads of them. Little dolls with fancy dresses and tricycles, big baby dolls that cried when you laid them down, and a doll that would crawl when you wound it up.

Reports are that the wind-up doll made me cry when I was a baby; I don’t remember, but I’m not surprised, because dolls creep me out.

I mean it. Even though I had loads of dolls as a child (my mom and grandma loved them), I didn’t play with them. My baby dolls went without food, diaper changes, or love until one of my doll-playing friends came over, then I went through the motions for her benefit.

The dolls that creep me out the most are the little monkeys that play the cymbals. Or at least the monkey doll used to creep me out the most.

Now I think the freakiest doll is the one that is bending over and hiding its eyes. I know it doesn’t have a face, but I cannot bring myself to check to be sure.

Of course, there is one thing that creeps me out more than dolls.

Clowns really, really, creep me out.

My husband just called me to ask if I would like him to bring me a coffee on his way home.

God yes.

Yes, I like to photograph my vegetables. Well, of course in this case tomatoes are fruits. Well, tomatoes are fruits everywhere but the United States, where they are vegetables, and have been since 1893.

Don’t get me started.

I am a Neat Nick

I make my bed everyday. It’s all I can do not to make everyone’s bed everyday. Being compulsively neat is a disease. I get it from my mom, the Queen of Clean.

Being a neat nick makes life for both you and the ones who share your space difficult at times, and this is why.

The people you live with are not neat nicks--they never are--trust me. So, they cannot stand the fact that you are always tidying, even if you have completely given up on them ever cleaning anything. You begin to tidy their things, which they oddly consider to be an invasion of their space and privacy.

Life is difficult for you, because no matter how much the people with whom you share your space tidy, clean, and otherwise enable you, it is not enough.

Because it is never enough. I have never once said to myself, “The house is now clean.”

I live with two people who are not neat nicks. I have learned to just let things be messy. There are piles of paper work all over the house, and FEMA should be notified about my study. Both showers need scrubbing. I don’t like it, but I don’t want to pass on my illness to my son. Nor do I want to be divorced. So my house stays messy.

Clearly I have succeeded in my quest to raise a well-adjusted, non-neat nick child. In fact, you should see my son’s room; that is, if you can find it under the clutter.

Clutter, trust me, of which I am acutely, painfully aware.

Last night a friend I went on a store run during a get together at my house. It was reminiscent of all the times in the past I have done this. Except that we didn’t go out for beer or wine or tequila, we went out for chocolate.

Does that mean that we’re dull? Old? Sexually repressed?

Maybe I don't want to know.

I was thinking. The sun is shining. The entire nation is having record temperatures. What do we do when the sun is shining and it's hot? We run our air conditioners. What happens when we run our air conditioners? We strain the power grid. What happens when we strain the power grid? The power goes off. What happens when the power goes off? We can't use the air conditioner, so we're hot. Back to square one.

Now, my thought is, what if we didn't use the grid to power our air conditioners? Since the sun shines any way in the summer, 364 days a year here (okay, that's an exaggeration, 363 days a year), what if we used solar power to run our air conditioners? Every house could have solar panels on the roof to use the sun that normally makes us too hot, to make us cool. That way, running the air conditioner would happen at the same time too much sun was happening, and they would kind of cancel each other out. See what I mean?

Crazy isn't it?

It's 109 degrees. In the shade.

I lie about my height.

It’s true. Most people get shorter as they age. I have gotten taller. That’s because I lie. I got tired of saying that I am 5 feet and 6 and 3/4 inches tall. Besides 5 foot 7 just sounds taller.

When I was younger, I was considered tall. Now that I’m 42, I’m considered short. What happened? I figure I can use that extra 1/4 inch to appear taller.

So, I lie about my height.

Exercise

If you do the exercise of three days in one day, does that mean you can skip exercising for the next two days?

No, I suppose not.

Water

We are on water use restriction alert, and it’s all my fault. I hosed off the patio last Sunday. I know, I know, but it had been years since I last did it, and I just can’t get the spider webs off without water.

Now we’re not supposed to water the lawn until after dark. I hardly water my lawn at all, but just this week I have been watering more because of the heat and just to green it up a bit. So, see this is my fault.

I feel so guilty every time I turn on the tap. I am such a Californian.

Okay, I’m off to sneak out and turn on the sprinklers.

The Cucumber Wars

I grow cucumbers every year. I plant them primarily to watch them grow. I mean this literally. They come up in about three days, and you can truly watch them as they unfold and stand up straight. It’s a profound experience.

But, alas, this is the highlight of my yearly cuke gardening experience. The vines grow for awhile, they bear a couple of fruits, then succumb to one of the many fungi that inhabit my garden soil.

But this year was different. I had exhausted my supply of fast growing, quick dying seeds, and so broke my own rule, and bought a cucumber plant—ready made--from the nursery. It grew just fine. I ignored it. It got hot; I watered; it grew. It kept growing; it made two cucumbers. I thought, “Okay, this is it.” It made two more cucumbers. I was busy for a week, and didn’t do anything but turn on the drip. I went out to weed. There were six cucumbers.

I panicked. I gave two to Yvonne, my eighty-something neighbor. My whole family is laying in wait for our prodigal neighbor Scott (single guy, never at home) to pop by for a change of clothes. We wait for Kaye to go by on her evening walk. All so we can get rid of the cucumbers.

We went to a friend’s house, and I forgot to bring a cucumber. Our friend came in from the garden, bearing produce for a salad, and I said, “Oh, I meant to bring you a cucumber.”

His wife said, “Don’t you dare, we were hoping you’d take a few home.”

I said, “Not a chance.”

This is the danger of long hair and amateur photography. It's a little like "Mr. Thumb goes to Niagra Falls, Paris, or Disneyland," except in my case it's "Wild hair assaults people, grabs forks off of tables, gets stuck on doorknobs, and blows in front of camera lenses."

But it's a nice photo of my water lilies--behind the obligatory hair.

Men and Women Do Speak Different Languages

Recently while having breakfast at a local restaurant, I was able to overhear the following conversation by a thirty-something couple, who are either living together or married.

Woman: “I just love how the bedroom is turning out. The color is really beautiful.”

Man: Continues to read the paper.

Woman: “The new bedding really compliments the new wall color. I think the new duvet cover is great.”

Man: Continues to read the paper.

Woman: “What do you think of the duvet cover?”

Man: The slightest flicker of emotion flashes across the man’s face. He has a sip of coffee.

Woman: She waits expectantly.

Man: He has to say something.

Woman: She waits expectantly.

Man: He hasn’t the slightest idea of what a duvet* is.

Woman: Puts down her newspaper.

Man: “I like it.”

Woman: Smiles, and goes back to her paper.


*For those of you who don't speak "Woman Language," a duvet is like a blanket that goes on top of the bed, hence the color of the duvet cover would affect the overall look of the room, particularly affecting the color scheme.

Tonight I lay in the hammock,
swaying in the cool breeze,
and watched bats catch mosquitoes
against the darkening dusk.

Tonight there was a spider in the bathroom. A really big spider. I couldn't kill it. First of all it's bad for my karma, and second of all it's cruel--I am much bigger than a defenseless little spider.

I had my husband put it outside. I had to do this because if I don't, my cat will eat the spider, get an abscess, need to go to the vet, and I will have to pay three hundred dollars. This will not happen.

It's not because I am afraid of spiders, because I'm not.

Really.

I'm not.

I Was Feeling So Virtuous

Yesterday I cleaned out my closet and only found seven handbags. I kept four, and put three in the giveaway box. I felt so virtuous.

Today while looking for my hand weights, so I could have tank top arms for the summer, I found an entire bag of handbags hiding in the back of the cupboard. I didn’t have the heart to go through them.

I never did find my weights. I used rocks. God knows we have enough of them around here.

Dirt

I am not an archaeologist, nor do I play one on t.v. I did however go out into the field with my husband, who is an archaeologist. This is not nearly as romantic as it sounds, because archaeology is all about dirt.

I spent two days breaking dirt clods with a trowel and dodging clouds of dust, all in the 90 degree plus sun.

We found about twenty artifacts. What are artifacts?

Rocks. Yep, rocks.

You know you’re out of step with mainstream society when…

a Hare Krishna calls you a hippie.

Men and Women Do Speak Different Languages: On the Subject of Soap

What is it with men and soap? I have the following conversation almost daily with my son.

I will send my son into the bathroom to wash his face and hands (note the verb). Seconds later he will reappear, all damp and shiny faced.
I will ask, “Did you wash?”
He will say, “Yes.”
I will say, “Did you use soap?”
He will say, “No.”
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, washing implies some sort of cleansing was involved, therefore: soap?

I am sorry to say this in not just a little boy issue. Now, before I get into some serious trouble, my husband uses soap to wash in the shower, but this fastidiousness doesn’t extend to housecleaning. Here is an example of a housecleaning conversation.

“Sweetie, can you wash the guest bathroom for me?”
“Sure,” says my husband, the sweetest man in the world.
A few minutes later, as he emerges from the guest bathroom, I ask, “All done?”
He answers, “Yep.”
I’ll say, “Did you use soap?”
He’ll answer, “No, I just cleaned with water.”

Is the male of the species allergic to soap? What is the word for “soap” in man-language? What is the word for “clean” in man-language?

I am at a loss.

Yoga Clothes

I have been doing yoga for nine years--when I don’t do yoga, I know exactly what I’m missing.

But some days, the motivation is lacking. Like today. I am sitting here, fully dressed in my yoga attire—I could even go to a studio I’m so appropriately dressed. (I often do yoga at home in my jammies, especially in the summer when it’s hot.)

But alas, wearing yoga clothes does not give the same benefits as actually doing yoga.

A Spittin’ Contest

Today in our new and improved world we have such things as seedless watermelons. Now, no one can argue that they aren’t easier to eat. But I would say that some of the fun has gone out of them. As an adult, I can appreciate the contrast shiny black seeds make to the red flesh and the green and white rind-- removing them definitely takes away from the aesthetic value of the watermelon.

But the real problem involves spitting. You just can’t spit the sad little seeds that are left, mere shadows of the great shiny black ones.

Old fashion watermelons, complete with seeds, takes me back to a long ago very hot Fourth of July evening. After the usual fireworks (sparklers, fountains and Whistling Petes) and ice cream, we got down to business and watermelons. We spit those little seeds as far as we could, my brother, my cousins and I. We got some pretty good distance too. Those were the days.

The next summer, my grandfather’s rose garden got a nice crop of watermelons.

It's too hot to blog.
It's too hot to breathe.
It's too hot to eat.
I had pie a la mode for dinner.
I allowed my child to eat pie a la mode for dinner.
I have a friend who plans on eating only popsicles for the rest of the summer.
It's hot.