Monday, March 15, 2010
Keep your damn pants on
I must digress for a moment. If GQ is taking pictures of you and you take your pants off, don't be surprised when those pictures are published. I know you expect the Madonna and child pictures to be highlighted, but it's GQ for god's sake!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The lasagna bed
I am slowly building a large perennial bed in my front yard. My house sits on over half an acre on a quiet corner in an older subdivision that has no through traffic. When I moved in, the house had been empty for at least two years, and I gather from the neighbors that the last occupant was a nice guy with some hoarding tendencies and no inclination to maintain the house or yard. The first time I saw the house, the floor to ceiling living room windows were obstructed by vegetation, including mats of English ivy, poison ivy, poison oak, little maple trees and other assorted volunteer trees and shrubs. Last season, the goal was to clear away all the brush surrounding the house. I accomplished a lot of slashing and removing, but I found I also needed/wanted to be planting something.
Although I have removed trees, bushes and weeds, the beds around the house are not in shape for planting. They still need removal of poison ivy (done on my hands and knees with two pairs of gloves and tyvek sleeves I special ordered from a industrial safety company), additional topsoil and soil amendments, and I need to come up with at least a general plan of what I eventually want the landscape to look like before I start putting stuff in the ground willy nilly.
So, I decided to create a bed from scratch. Using orange spray paint, I outlined a pendulous, blob shape in a sunny part of the front yard. Then sprayed the grass and weeds inside the border with Roundup and waited for atomic winter to commence. When I had a huge, brown, scabby patch, I began covering it in sections, using cardboard and thick layers of newspapers. I soak them with water and then dump whatever I have on hand that day on top of the wet barrier. The day's section size depends on the amount of cardboard I have and the amount of organic stuff I have scrounged. I have used shredded leaves, grass clippings, coffee grounds from Starbucks, shredded bushes and branches (from my shredder) dog poop, left over Halloween pumpkins, and vegetables trimmings.
This method is called a lasagna bed, because of the layers of stuff. Someone has written a book and claimed this idea of composting in place as her own. It is one of those book ideas that I kick myself and think why didn’t I think of that? The bed is at least 25 ft across and I didn’t finish it last season. I have been working my way across the blob, so the right hand side, where I started is much farther along than the far left hand side, which still has dead weeds and grass and no cardboard or compostable material. A gardening neighbor started bringing down his bagged grass clippings. I leave them in plastic and let them fester in the sun for a couple of days before I spread them on the bed. Rotting grass is really pungent, but great for compost. When it is hot and dry, I water the bed with the hose, just to keep everything decaying.
Midway through the summer I started to plant stuff--I couldn't help myself. I had splurged and ordered irises from a fancy-pants farm in Oregon and I wanted them to to be in a central, showcase location, able to bake in the sun, and have good drainage. That was the top of my bed. The grass clipping neighbor, who has an established garden, was giving me stuff as he thinned his beds and I had to put the plants somewhere. At the end of the summer, I had more plants than places to put them, so I was putting them directly into compostable material, not soil. Money and time were short, and I didn't want to waste the plants. I had a vague notion of ordering bulk topsoil and mulch, but it never happened and then it was winter.
Yesterday, another neighbor, who I haven't talked to since last fall, came over while I was pulling out two invasive bushes and said that she was anxiously waiting for the bed to bloom. She is the second person to mention waiting to see what comes up. I don't know if the neighbors are excited about the prospect of blooming perennials or if they are sick of looking at the large, multi textured patch of the slimey grass clipping, deflated rotten pumpkins and the broken, dry stems of things I planted late in the season last fall. I am also very curious to see what comes up this spring. I have no doubt the tough-as-nails day lilies will come up. I am not so sure about the spindly peonies I found growing in shade, moved at the end of the summer and planted in grass clippings and alfalfa pellets.
Although I have removed trees, bushes and weeds, the beds around the house are not in shape for planting. They still need removal of poison ivy (done on my hands and knees with two pairs of gloves and tyvek sleeves I special ordered from a industrial safety company), additional topsoil and soil amendments, and I need to come up with at least a general plan of what I eventually want the landscape to look like before I start putting stuff in the ground willy nilly.
So, I decided to create a bed from scratch. Using orange spray paint, I outlined a pendulous, blob shape in a sunny part of the front yard. Then sprayed the grass and weeds inside the border with Roundup and waited for atomic winter to commence. When I had a huge, brown, scabby patch, I began covering it in sections, using cardboard and thick layers of newspapers. I soak them with water and then dump whatever I have on hand that day on top of the wet barrier. The day's section size depends on the amount of cardboard I have and the amount of organic stuff I have scrounged. I have used shredded leaves, grass clippings, coffee grounds from Starbucks, shredded bushes and branches (from my shredder) dog poop, left over Halloween pumpkins, and vegetables trimmings.
This method is called a lasagna bed, because of the layers of stuff. Someone has written a book and claimed this idea of composting in place as her own. It is one of those book ideas that I kick myself and think why didn’t I think of that? The bed is at least 25 ft across and I didn’t finish it last season. I have been working my way across the blob, so the right hand side, where I started is much farther along than the far left hand side, which still has dead weeds and grass and no cardboard or compostable material. A gardening neighbor started bringing down his bagged grass clippings. I leave them in plastic and let them fester in the sun for a couple of days before I spread them on the bed. Rotting grass is really pungent, but great for compost. When it is hot and dry, I water the bed with the hose, just to keep everything decaying.
Midway through the summer I started to plant stuff--I couldn't help myself. I had splurged and ordered irises from a fancy-pants farm in Oregon and I wanted them to to be in a central, showcase location, able to bake in the sun, and have good drainage. That was the top of my bed. The grass clipping neighbor, who has an established garden, was giving me stuff as he thinned his beds and I had to put the plants somewhere. At the end of the summer, I had more plants than places to put them, so I was putting them directly into compostable material, not soil. Money and time were short, and I didn't want to waste the plants. I had a vague notion of ordering bulk topsoil and mulch, but it never happened and then it was winter.
Yesterday, another neighbor, who I haven't talked to since last fall, came over while I was pulling out two invasive bushes and said that she was anxiously waiting for the bed to bloom. She is the second person to mention waiting to see what comes up. I don't know if the neighbors are excited about the prospect of blooming perennials or if they are sick of looking at the large, multi textured patch of the slimey grass clipping, deflated rotten pumpkins and the broken, dry stems of things I planted late in the season last fall. I am also very curious to see what comes up this spring. I have no doubt the tough-as-nails day lilies will come up. I am not so sure about the spindly peonies I found growing in shade, moved at the end of the summer and planted in grass clippings and alfalfa pellets.
To Start a Fire
Yesterday I built a fire in my front yard. Although my experience was not as tragic as that of the protagonist in the Jack London story, it was frustrating. Making a bonfire anywhere on the property is something that I couldn’t do anywhere else I have lived. In most communities, it is against the law, and neighbors would have come running,complaining loudly about the smoke and potential fire danger. Since I am in Indiana, where there is no official, of unofficial for that matter, interest in taking care of the environment, I just got my sticks, newspaper, pine cones and matches and commenced to build a fire in the perennial bed. Before I lit it I pulled the hose over and made sure that it worked after a winter of sitting dormant. I had visions of a rip roaring bonfire that would require vigilant attention. What I got was a difficult-to-keep-going, smoky little fire. The logs and limbs are from tree trimming that my brother did three months ago while he was here at Christmas. The branches and small logs have not had a chance to dry out in the last three months. Initially, the leaves, crumpled newspaper and pine cones started burning, and I thought, this is a piece of cake, I will have all my unwieldy yard waste gone in no time. Then the dry twigs and paper burned up and smoldering started. None of the bigger pieces of wood burned easily, instead they smoked, hissed and popped—some pieces even had bubbles and steam coming out the end. At times there was so much smoke, I felt bad for neighbors even though we were in Indiana and many of them have their own brush fires.
It took an hour to get a good base of coals and although it wasn't rip roaring, most of the damp, green wood was burning. By then it was lightly raining and I was bored and getting wet and sick of constantly moving my lawn chair out of the smoke and every ten minutes frantically fanning the coals. After all of my efforts, I picked up the hose and doused the little fire.
It took an hour to get a good base of coals and although it wasn't rip roaring, most of the damp, green wood was burning. By then it was lightly raining and I was bored and getting wet and sick of constantly moving my lawn chair out of the smoke and every ten minutes frantically fanning the coals. After all of my efforts, I picked up the hose and doused the little fire.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The horror that is Merthiolate
I have vivid memories of the almost unbearable burning sensation of the antiseptic merthiolate on my scraped knees, stubbed toes and cut fingers. The orange, acid-like liquid stung so much, my brothers and I would avoid showing our mother small injuries. When she decided we needed the treatment, she went to the medicine cabinet, retrieved the tiny brown glass bottle with the red and white label that read Tincture of Merthiolate. At that point, we knew what was coming and we were trying to hide behind furniture or disappear into walls. She would chase us down and then she would have to hold the afflicted limb in place and daub the evil potion on the wound with the glass wand attached to the bottle cap. During the chase we would be wailing in anticipation of impending pain and after the application we were screaming because of the actual pain we were experiencing. When it was all over the wound and surrounding skin were the color of an electric orange.
When friends of my mother's would witness these dramatic spectacles, they would suggest less stressful alternatives. The first was mecurachrome, which was a cousin of merthiolate, but it did not cause excrutiating pain when applied to an open wound and it left a more reddish stain on the skin. The second was Bactine. My brothers and I thought that the paradigm shifter was Bactine; no red or orange stain and absolutely no pain; only a cold wet sensation. Bactine came out of a large white plastic bottle, not a brown glass vial. It was an antiseptic spray, not a ominous sounding tincture. Bactine was modern, space age, civilized, not old fashioned, victorian and cruel. But my mother was having none of it, she dismissed both. She was firm believer in no pain, no gain, way before the phrase had been culturally articulated. This was the same woman who raised us on Dial bar soap, bcause it was antibacterial. I was 17 before I realized that bar soap could provide a skin soothing, instead of parchment drying, experience.
Tonight I did a google search for merthiolate and found out that the FDA banned it and mercuachrome in the late 90s becaase of the mercury used to make both mixtures. Besides the fact that mercury is bad for humans in general, it also retards healing. I want to call my mother, get her out of bed and ask her, "Gee, did you know that you were slowly poisoning us?"
I was surprised at the number of people who had blog entries and comments on the pain and suffering they experienced due to parental application of merthiolate. All of the posters were in their 40s, 50s and older. You might think that after so many years have passed, we would have recovered or at least forgotten these episodes.
When friends of my mother's would witness these dramatic spectacles, they would suggest less stressful alternatives. The first was mecurachrome, which was a cousin of merthiolate, but it did not cause excrutiating pain when applied to an open wound and it left a more reddish stain on the skin. The second was Bactine. My brothers and I thought that the paradigm shifter was Bactine; no red or orange stain and absolutely no pain; only a cold wet sensation. Bactine came out of a large white plastic bottle, not a brown glass vial. It was an antiseptic spray, not a ominous sounding tincture. Bactine was modern, space age, civilized, not old fashioned, victorian and cruel. But my mother was having none of it, she dismissed both. She was firm believer in no pain, no gain, way before the phrase had been culturally articulated. This was the same woman who raised us on Dial bar soap, bcause it was antibacterial. I was 17 before I realized that bar soap could provide a skin soothing, instead of parchment drying, experience.
Tonight I did a google search for merthiolate and found out that the FDA banned it and mercuachrome in the late 90s becaase of the mercury used to make both mixtures. Besides the fact that mercury is bad for humans in general, it also retards healing. I want to call my mother, get her out of bed and ask her, "Gee, did you know that you were slowly poisoning us?"
I was surprised at the number of people who had blog entries and comments on the pain and suffering they experienced due to parental application of merthiolate. All of the posters were in their 40s, 50s and older. You might think that after so many years have passed, we would have recovered or at least forgotten these episodes.
Five dollar foot long
This post is a rant. I watch a lot of TV, so see a lot of commercials. There are always a couple of ads that annoy me. Right now, the Subway five dollar foot long campaign makes me crazy. The insipid jingle is annoying, but what really corks me is the faux assumption that people love the song, sing it often and apply the jingle, "five dollar footlong," to their real life. No one cares. Even if people eat at Subway, they don't belt out "five dollar footlong"
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Book as talisman
Yesterday, I went to Half Price Books and sold some books,including a few grad school leftovers that I had never read and most likely never will and a couple from past projects that I will not be resurrecting. I made almost $50, which really surprised me. I was expecting maybe $20. The book buyer said that I had brought in titles they don't see often on the north side of the third tier city I currently reside in.
While I waiting for my "offer" to be formulated, I found a used copy of "Words Fail Me" by Patricia O'Conner. She provides a conversational romp through common writing pitfalls and using semi-ridiculous, illustrative examples, she demonstrates what not to do. It reminds me of a book I bought while writing my dissertation. Years later, I don't remember the name, but it had something about finishing a dissertation in the title. I remember the power I derived from that little beige book. It was filled with brief motivational nuggets and strategies about just getting the damn thing done. I found that in addition to the actual advice, just having bought the book was beneficial. I was having trouble writing up and the book validated my membership in the group "dissertators." One of my many obstacles while writing up was the imposter syndrome. I knew that I shouldn't be there and it was just a matter of time until my department realized that and booted me from the program. My book was a shield against imposter syndrome. I knew that I was not the only one that felt this way and struggled with the same nagging issues.
I did finish. At some point I gave the book to a friend when she was struggling. As I gave it to her, I said this is full of hoary bromides that you see on a poster of kittens at the dentists office, but it works. My friend, one of the most cynical people I know, nodded and said "I'll try anything." She read the book and held on to it for awhile. She also finished and I am sure passed the book along to some else.
"Words fail me," is serving the same dual purpose--it has practical writing advice, and possessing it indicates to me that I am serious about improving my writing. I am hoping/assuming that a by purchasing and reading the book, I will validate my seriousness as someone who will write fascinating pieces and get paid for it. Believe me, if I hadn't used this type of crutch before, I would not be expecting it to work now.
This morning I found a carefully clipped Hints from Heloise column, dated Feb. 2000, in the pages of the book. The column is about hard boiled eggs--a reader wants to know how to peel hard boiled eggs without having the shell stick to the egg. Heloise provides a peeling method involving cold water and cracking the shells. At the end of her advice, she supplies a tidbit about the origin of the name "deviled eggs," and how it actually came from the addition of canned deviled ham. What a way to ruin one of my favorite foods.
While I waiting for my "offer" to be formulated, I found a used copy of "Words Fail Me" by Patricia O'Conner. She provides a conversational romp through common writing pitfalls and using semi-ridiculous, illustrative examples, she demonstrates what not to do. It reminds me of a book I bought while writing my dissertation. Years later, I don't remember the name, but it had something about finishing a dissertation in the title. I remember the power I derived from that little beige book. It was filled with brief motivational nuggets and strategies about just getting the damn thing done. I found that in addition to the actual advice, just having bought the book was beneficial. I was having trouble writing up and the book validated my membership in the group "dissertators." One of my many obstacles while writing up was the imposter syndrome. I knew that I shouldn't be there and it was just a matter of time until my department realized that and booted me from the program. My book was a shield against imposter syndrome. I knew that I was not the only one that felt this way and struggled with the same nagging issues.
I did finish. At some point I gave the book to a friend when she was struggling. As I gave it to her, I said this is full of hoary bromides that you see on a poster of kittens at the dentists office, but it works. My friend, one of the most cynical people I know, nodded and said "I'll try anything." She read the book and held on to it for awhile. She also finished and I am sure passed the book along to some else.
"Words fail me," is serving the same dual purpose--it has practical writing advice, and possessing it indicates to me that I am serious about improving my writing. I am hoping/assuming that a by purchasing and reading the book, I will validate my seriousness as someone who will write fascinating pieces and get paid for it. Believe me, if I hadn't used this type of crutch before, I would not be expecting it to work now.
This morning I found a carefully clipped Hints from Heloise column, dated Feb. 2000, in the pages of the book. The column is about hard boiled eggs--a reader wants to know how to peel hard boiled eggs without having the shell stick to the egg. Heloise provides a peeling method involving cold water and cracking the shells. At the end of her advice, she supplies a tidbit about the origin of the name "deviled eggs," and how it actually came from the addition of canned deviled ham. What a way to ruin one of my favorite foods.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Earth shoes pt. 1
After a gloriously sunny day of hanging out at the student union, window shopping and pretending we were university students, SW and I headed to the parking garage to get into her family’s, bulbous late model station wagon and drive home. We began to climb the concrete stairs in the parking garage to the third level where the car was parked. SW, who favored baggy, brightly colored overalls, had her pant legs rolled into cuffs at least five inches above her ankles, in order to show off her striped socks and tan earth shoes.
Earth shoes were boxy leather shoes designed by a Scandinavian person and the soles of the shoes mimicked sand on the beach—so your heel would always be lower than the rest of your foot resulting in better posture and extra calorie burning with every step. They resembled shoe boxes on the foot. Since I had large feet, I went through an abbrieviated earth shoe phase, but I was sensitive enough about the size of my large feet and accentuating their hugeness was not worth the hip factor of the shoes. SW had tiny feet and tiny earth shoes were so ugly they looked cute. She carried a huge shoulder bag that was made out of grey wool fabric with a large stripe of rainbow colors
As we headed up the stairs, SW suddenly exclaimed, "I can't move!" At that moment, I bumped into her since I was walking behind her. She kept saying, "I can't move! I can't move!" I saw that her foot was on top of her shoulder bag, which was slung over her shoulder. When she tried to stand up, she couldn't—the shoulder strap of her bag held her down. Her foot was on the bag keeping it on the step, so every time she started to stand up she increased the pressure holding the bag to the floor. When I realized this, I started laughing so hard I couldn't talk much less explain or help her stand up. I was paralyzed with laughter--all I could do was point at her foot and gulp air. When I looked at her tiny earth shoe foot on the multi colored wool bag on the dirty, chewing gum encrusted step, I could do nothing but double over again with laughter. The family coming up the stairs behind us was exasperated since we were blocking the stairs. Later, we realized they probably thought we were helplessly high. We managed to flatten ourselves against the stair railing, still laughing hysterically and they were able to get by us. After what seemed like 20 minutes, but I am sure it was less than a minute, SW picked up her foot and took it off her purse and was able to stand up and walk again. We stumbled to the car, still laughing that out of control, sustained gut laugh that makes you choke.
For months after that every time we tried to tell the story to our friends, I would see a mental picture of her little earth shoe foot on her purse and I began helpless, spasms of laughter. We could barely get the story out and when we managed to explain what happened, our usually supportive girl friends would look at us like we were freaks—it didn’t seem funny to anyone but us.
Earth shoes were boxy leather shoes designed by a Scandinavian person and the soles of the shoes mimicked sand on the beach—so your heel would always be lower than the rest of your foot resulting in better posture and extra calorie burning with every step. They resembled shoe boxes on the foot. Since I had large feet, I went through an abbrieviated earth shoe phase, but I was sensitive enough about the size of my large feet and accentuating their hugeness was not worth the hip factor of the shoes. SW had tiny feet and tiny earth shoes were so ugly they looked cute. She carried a huge shoulder bag that was made out of grey wool fabric with a large stripe of rainbow colors
As we headed up the stairs, SW suddenly exclaimed, "I can't move!" At that moment, I bumped into her since I was walking behind her. She kept saying, "I can't move! I can't move!" I saw that her foot was on top of her shoulder bag, which was slung over her shoulder. When she tried to stand up, she couldn't—the shoulder strap of her bag held her down. Her foot was on the bag keeping it on the step, so every time she started to stand up she increased the pressure holding the bag to the floor. When I realized this, I started laughing so hard I couldn't talk much less explain or help her stand up. I was paralyzed with laughter--all I could do was point at her foot and gulp air. When I looked at her tiny earth shoe foot on the multi colored wool bag on the dirty, chewing gum encrusted step, I could do nothing but double over again with laughter. The family coming up the stairs behind us was exasperated since we were blocking the stairs. Later, we realized they probably thought we were helplessly high. We managed to flatten ourselves against the stair railing, still laughing hysterically and they were able to get by us. After what seemed like 20 minutes, but I am sure it was less than a minute, SW picked up her foot and took it off her purse and was able to stand up and walk again. We stumbled to the car, still laughing that out of control, sustained gut laugh that makes you choke.
For months after that every time we tried to tell the story to our friends, I would see a mental picture of her little earth shoe foot on her purse and I began helpless, spasms of laughter. We could barely get the story out and when we managed to explain what happened, our usually supportive girl friends would look at us like we were freaks—it didn’t seem funny to anyone but us.
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