thesmophoria

grow, baby, grow

final countdown.

I can hardly bear to be parted from this one.

I can hardly bear to be parted from this one.

Are we down to the wire, then? Is it really time to call it a day, chalk it all up to experience, put it out of its misery, remember the best and forget the rest?

I have what I am beginning to recognize as pre-nostalgia as I wander through my yard at sunset, trying to calculate how many jobs there are left before our property is worthy to be listed. The house has suffered the usual indignities from having been lived in by actual people, but the yard is a different creature than it was when we acquired it seven-plus years ago. I’m not saying it’s anything grand. It’s on the same life-support system that keeps the rest of our subdivision humming along. But nearly every inch of it has been replanted. By me. The same person who used to be too nervous to hack off withered branches because what if they were just playing dead and I actually murdered them with my clippers?

would it be rude to dig these bulbs up and take them with me? and what will become of my heucheras when I'm gone?

would it be rude to dig these bulbs up and take them with me? and what will become of my heucheras when I’m gone?

I’ve become someone who, unable to justify buying a new pair of shoes for three solid years, was nevertheless compelled to acquire a number of rather costly peonies to see if they would perform their magic in my yard (they did, spectacularly). More obsessively than I document my children do I take pictures of the same plant day after day, just to watch it change over the season. Yes, I am “that” woman who has a personal relationship with every tree in her yard, even the giant cottonwoods which will someday topple over and crush her house to the ground.

Please let it be after we move.

my little gardeners in training.

my little gardeners in training.

my supergay garage sale

two aliens in love

they're not bald on the inside

sig page

My people, in preparation for our imminent departure for greener (and far more expensive, if memory serves) pastures, I’m holding a virtual garage sale. This will happen by and large on craigslist, where I have flogged many an item and will flog many more. In honor of the oral argument regarding same-sex marriage that is being heard by the Supremes even as I type, I’m putting a wonderful painting of two lovers of indeterminate sex on the auction block. There might be a third lover in there–I’m not sure. Actually, I’m not even sure what species these lovers are. Let’s agree to call the painting “Two Aliens In Love.” I had the canvas custom-framed by an adorable boy who set up shop right in my driveway, and let me tell you, that guy was NOT straight. No, not by any stretch of the imagination. And he did a beautiful job with the frame, which cost me almost as much as the painting. What am I bid?

fly away, 2012. preferably into a black hole.

fly away

I do remember saying at the end of last year, in all seriousness, that I was sure 2012 was going to be a “break-out year” for me. Break out of what? Left brain prison? Who was I even talking to? Probably myself. I must never put ideas like that out into the Universe, which likes to have a laff as much as the next guy.

And here we are again, winding up another year. I have the same cold-slash-flu that everyone else in Idaho has, which means that I am the same as everyone else. Oh my gosh, the same! I put on my flu-pants one leg at a time, just like you do. Except that when my flu-pants are on, I realize that I’m more of a skirt person.

Anyway, absolutely hideous year. However, 2013 is going to be a break-out year for me. I really believe that.

to Emily Jr., who is brilliant, and who hand-crafted me some soap.

soap is the thing

soap is the thing

Soap is the thing that lathers
And froths upon your skin,
And rinses clear–without the which,
You’d be a dirtykin.

And bubbling in the bath is heard,
And filthy be the scene
That could abash the little shard
That kept so many clean.

I’ve seen it labor recklessly
To vanquish reeking pong;
Yet, always, effervescently
It toils until it’s gone.

to my darling girl, who is sick, but who will unfortunately make a complete recovery.

“You are sick, Isabelle,” the cold mother said,
“And you’ve thrown up every hour, on the hour;
And yet you continue to beg for some bread—
Could your breath be any more sour?”

“In my youth,” Little Bella replied to her mum,
“Way back when I was still embryonic,
You feared I would never stop sucking my thumb,
Which proved you were quite histrionic.”

“You are old,” she continued, “and between me and you
It’s plain you can’t bother to hide
The sad fact that you love it when I get the flu—
It’s shameful, and demented, and snide.”

“In my youth,” said the woman, and she smiled rather faintly,
“I imagined I’d be more maternal;
But then I had children who were bad and unsaintly—
Euphemistically speaking, you’re infernal.”

“And so,” she concluded, “it is natural that
“I’d seek such solace as availed me;
Perhaps this is cruel, but I hold tit for tat
A philosophy which has least derailed me.”

a ghost is for life, not just for halloween.

I caved. I finally let them get pets. Yeah, already regretting it.

caesar?! I didn’t even touch her.

I don’t know. I’m just so tired. So very, very tired. There are so many things for which the Sprogs deserve to be punished every day, I can’t keep up. I need a fulltime personal assistant just to monitor their various infractions so that each one may be properly addressed. It’s like, they’ll go for a week without sneaking cups of sugar out of the pantry at 4:30 a.m., and I’ll think we’re making progress, but then William will draw a picture of an elephant butt taking a dump in the upper right-hand corner of his spelling test where, actually, his name and the date should be. I suspect that his teacher has adopted a strategy of ignoring this kind of jackassery, based on the fact that this came home without a note of concern from the school counselor. And what a refreshing contrast this bears to the half-dozen phone calls I got from a certain unnamed person with a BA in psychology when William, in first grade, spent a month signing all his schoolwork with the nom de guerre “Sausage.”

On the other hand, parent-teacher conferences are next week, and I have a vision of walking into the classroom only to be assailed by a very thick, three-ring binder detailing my son’s many offenses. Compiled by his teacher’s fulltime personal assistant.

the way of all flesh.

O twin sacs of withered flesh
Blasted by autumnal frost
Wrinkled wineskins, nothing fresh
Reminders of a youth that’s lost.

Smooth-skinned bags of ripe desire
That once you were, when love was cheap,
Have sagged; and now you must retire
To some putrescent compost heap.

doctor, I’ve been hearing these voices . . .

 

Dave has interesting things to say. I blather on. As per usual, as they say.

undescended figsticles.

Let me not at the surgence of small blobs
Admit euphoria, love is not love
Which postpones fructuous issue and thus robs
Me of the fruitage I am worthy of.
O no, the season has a fixèd mark,
August would have been the time to ballyhoo,
But you are not even in the ball park,
With your greenish pods, puny and too few.
Love suffers long—too long. Do not ignore
A rankled hausfrau’s loss of faith, young friend.
Pinchfist puttings-out got you the chop, before.
Indifferency will bring a bloody end.
If this be smallness where I should be big,
I never cared, nor ever gave a fig.