Saying yes...

Crazy Time

The next 7 or so days promise to be insane as I try to take care of and enjoy everything that will be going on during them so I am not even going to add to the chaos by feeling the need to blog.

I'm sure commas were needed in that sentence up there, but I don't have time for commas. Commas will have to wait until next week.

Back when the dust settles.

If you need a good laugh...

Go over and read the latest post from Bill Stankus of Just a Moment. I wandered over there last week, he left an intriguing comment at Kathleen's place so I figured I'd see who he was. Well, he's many things, but in his latest post he is very, very funny.

Go take a look. You won't be sorry you did. You may not make it through the entire post in one smooth pass. I had to take time out for the tears to clear.

Guerrilla Tulips!!

Our yard is under attack this year, but by something stealthier than the usual thistle or Buckthorn. This year, we're experiencing random attacks by Tulips. Yes, you heard me, Tulips!
The one in the photo to the left seemed like a not-too-unusual surprise. It came up by a large Lilac bush that Grizzled had thinned this last summer.  There was a good chance it had been there all along and merely needed some sun and air to push forth. Or, maybe when digging up some of the roots, Grizzled loosened up the pre-existing bulb.
We have plenty of red tulips in the yard, some that came with the place, some that we planted. We admired this Tulips contributed and moved on...

Until... attack of Tulip #2... Tulip #2 wasn't even any of the colors of Tulips we had in our yard. This Tulip, as you can see, is more of a Chiclet purple... a color that looks intriguing and is fun and filled with promise and yet really doesn't look good on much other than a flower, Fruit Loops or the afore mentioned Chiclet. This baby showed up under a front bush where no other Tulips are planted. It's next to some Daffodils and the Bleeding Heart which looked fabulous this year. Maybe the Tulip just sensed a good time and wanted to join in.

The last guerrilla Tulip was sighted right in the middle of our swing set (please ignore all volunteer Buckthorns, Maples and Creeping Charlie... it's been busy and I haven't been able to go into full weed attack-mode yet). You can sit on the swings without stepping on it, but will swing right over it. There is no way, no how, that we would plant a Tulip in this spot. It would not be practical, but then maybe Tulips don't want to be practical, maybe we're the ones who are being too practical and the Tulips are showing us otherwise.

One thing I noticed is that the renegade Tulips showed up only in areas that had wood chips. The wood chips came from the village from the communal pile. Do you think there's a chance that some Tulip bulbs got mixed in and then were still covered enough to survive a wicked winter?

I'm guessing it might be a pesky squirrel. I'm guessing a pesky  squirrel probably broke into various neighbors' gardens and then buried the bulbs back in our "easy to dig in" wood chips which are located right next to our "easy to eat out of" bird feeders.

I've experienced plenty of volunteer flowers before and am hip to how they are spread, but I think this is the first year I've had volunteer Tulips. I'm guessing it was the squirrels and then the conditions were just right for the Tulips to survive. I'd like to think though that while we're asleep, Tulips are just running willy nilly through the neighborhood and when the sun shines and the people come out, they dive for cover wherever they might be.

Hey BG??

Is this song better?? Can you get Mannion's song out of your head now? And... will you be able to forget this one? :)

This is not how I envisioned my morning going

It's pouring today. It's not raining, it's pouring. It's hard to see, but I did see the bus barreling up our street 12 minutes early. I yell for the youngest lamblet and scrabble for the door. Her stop is a block away and if we're lucky, the bus driver will see us and pick her up in front on his way there. The bus driver stopped alright because my lunkhead of a dog decided this was his chance to express his reined in wild side. He bolted out the door, running willy nilly in the rain.

At this point, another neighbor has his kids out and is trying to get them to the bus, stop our dog and not get soaked. I yell to my lamblet to get on the bus which now has its door open and I run for the dog thinking the neighbor looks awfully clean and a muddy dog might not help his morning.

I get the dog, am heading back when I see the bus stop at its usual stop. I exhale, keep heading back home where Grizzled has the nerve to be laughing. I'm wondering where he was this entire time. As we get inside, we see the youngest lamblet's bus coming up the street. The rain has slowed enough that we can actually see the driver and realize that one was indeed her bus. She's on the wrong bus. Grizzled, while looking out the window, said, "Gee, I wonder what school she's going to??" He's laughing, I start to cry thinking of the insane mother making her child get on the wrong bus.

She did make it to her school. Apparently the bus we were all running for in the deluge was just taking a shortcut and that's why it was going up our street. The driver, whoever he or she was, I never saw him or her, had the presence of mind to let my lamblet in out of the pouring rain and then escort her to her appropriate stop where she caught her actual bus. We found this out when we called the school to make sure she was there and not at some other district school. She was there. She was fine, but apparently she had been talking because the last thing the secretary asked Grizzled before hanging up was, "Did you get your dog?"

The dog is now on lock-down. As I have said before... this is the first dog that either Grizzled or I have had that has never been trustworthy enough to stay unless we're up at the lake so he's rarely off his leash or chain. You'll think he's finally come around, is finally getting it and then there will be a morning like this and blammo, he's off like a shot. All of my years of good dog ownership down the toilet with one goofy pooch.

As if the morning hasn't been insane enough, I now get to head to painting class. Only 2 more to go.

I am a product of Indiana...

Yes... I am...  a state I remember fondly, a state I also wanted to leave and not because it was terrible, but because I heard life's call elsewhere. Every time I hear someone bash on Indiana I think of all of the opportunities I was given there. Every time I think of Indiana, I think of a state where my eyes were opened and I was allowed to see the world outside while given the safety and comfort to explore.

By all accounts I should have been raised in a narrow fashion. My parents, both from Indiana, raised their family there, but, my parents, both of inquiring minds, realized there was a world beyond. My parents, of humble beginnings, eventually became a surgical nurse and an art dealer with both traveling the world and expecting the most from their children whether raised in Indiana or not. Indiana was not an excuse to set our sights low. Indiana was a beautiful place to rest in between mental and physical travels.

My parents worked hard and we had many comforts and luxuries. We could have been happy where we were, but we were also taught about the world at large... . The world came to us in the form of many exchange students and business colleagues, but also in the form of trips over the border.

I also attended a state school! Yes, I was ambivalent about colleges when the time for my enrollment came so I went to Indiana University. It was a beautiful campus, but it was also there that I found my world view enlarged even more! Yes, a college in Indiana was capable of teaching diversity and complexity... more so than I had even touched in my diverse and complex home... Indiana raised and educated an open-minded and diverse person.

I am grateful to Indiana... always will be. It was where I got my start... a safe place where I was able to slowly checkout the world at large. Indiana has some large, ugly spots as well, don't we all... but I won't deny her. She is a part of what made me what I am and I am forever grateful.

My husband says my experience was the exception and not the rule. He's probably accurate... but you know what? We exceptions exist and if there are exceptions, the place can't be all that bad.

There should be mandatory swinging... (non-filthbot edition)

My oldest lamblet is home today. She was sick when she came home from a weekend campout and although she was doing much better this morning, I'm a stickler for the fever and vomit-free for 24 hr rule.

She's been helping me sort through boxes of old stuff... school papers, keepsakes, photos. This has needed to be done for awhile, but I finally got over the resistance hump and have been going gangbusters. I'm spouting out new-ageisms as I go! "Let's make room for the now! Let's make room for the future!" My lamblets giggle, Grizzled ignores it just because he's happy I'm going through a bunch of stuff. He'll have to go through his own later.

It's a gorgeous day today, sunny, mid-70's, a cool breeze. The lamblet and I decided to take a break and go outside. She plopped down on a swing. I played for a bit with the dog, but soon joined her. We swung, we chatted. She cursed her gym class and the upcoming mile run. I cursed the weeds, but pretty soon, we were both swinging nice and high, chatting, laughing and everything seemed a little less serious. I think they should install swings in the Whitehouse (no Clinton jokes, please). I think they should install swings at the UN (no Bolton/Plato's Retreat jokes, please). I think every employee should have to swing for at least 5 minutes before the commute home. I'm thinking there will be much less road rage and fewer scuffles on public transportation.

End of sermon... back to the sorting.

I am a teenage male, hear my music roar...

Why do teenage boys need to have their music turned up so loud? Is it some kind of primal test? Do they win the nubile young girls because they can tolerate the ear-piercing noise while their older male counterparts cannot? Wait? Older male counterparts can’t hear that well, shouldn’t they be the ones to crank up the volume?

Today, during a gorgeous, long awaited spring day, the little shithead across the street decided to clean his wheels. Yes, he’s driving now, having gotten his license about half a year ago. His parents, thinking he hung the moon, got him his own vehicle for Christmas. So far, he seems to be caring for it. That raises another question, what makes a young, otherwise irresponsible male, suddenly decide to show responsibility if only for that?? But we’ll get to that later.

In the meantime, I’m listening to the pounding bass beat that is aimed at my house… the bass beat coming from the HUGE speaker that is in the back of this little punk’s car. Now before you get all, “How do you know he’s a punk???” I do. I’ve been living by this punk for nearly 8 years. I’ve watched his punkedness thrive… his parents obviously unaware of it… defending his right to stand down cars in the middle of the street because it was his God-given right to block traffic and play hockey. If a screeching car arrived during a game, which they often did, this car was either ignored or told to **##I#@!@$#**!!!! The hockey games finally came to a halt the one day another neighbor didn’t see them due the setting sun and the driver vaulted from his car, tired of this game of chicken. The parents of the boy of course said the driver was out of line… their son was just a child and only wanted to play. Uh-huh…

This is the same son who has turned me into the woman who does not give the ball back. We had one in our own neighborhood growing up. I never, ever, ever would have thought one person could and would turn me into her, but one did… it was this young man… the young man who when home alone with friends, would throw balls as hard as he could at his steps or garage door and when they careened off of our house or our car or our garage door, would occasionally trample through the flowers to get it, but more likely than not, he’d let them stay and would just have his father buy him some new ones. One time, when returning a bagful of them, he refused to take them… the father, briefly appalled at his actions, then said, “Don’t you know how expensive these are???” So… I don’t know if it was the lack of manners that got to the father or the bottom line. I’m thinking it was both, but I’m guessing the bottom line carried more weight. This is the father who has done every civic duty that has come his way except for raise decent, polite children (there’s also a girl, just as brutal as her brother). His children were the ones who tied up other neighborhood kids to their swing set and would then leave. These are the kids who when they felt slighted would leave trash on doorsteps. These are the kids who would ask unsuspecting kids over to play only to pummel them with water balloons. These are the kids who would damage other people’s property just because someone else got something only they should have had. They were supposed to be the only ones who had something good. So… I know what I’m talking about when I say he’s a punk. He is… and now he’s got a car and while he respects his car, he still doesn’t seem to respect his fellow man. I only hope children are not out on the street when he’s driving. Yes, he’s got a car… a car with HUGE SPEAKERS… and now I’m the cranky lady who wants to yell at him to turn it down. I don’t even really mind it. I love music and there’s never been enough bass for my liking and yet, this young man… this apple of his parents’ eye, is turning me into the woman who is about to yell at him to turn it down.

Just what is it that makes young men in particular turn their music up so loud? Is it so they can hear the song over their throbbing, humming loins? Is it to drain out the thrumming rush of blood that is leaving their craniums and going directly for their nether regions or is it something even more primal? Is it just another way of marking their territory? My speaker is bigger and louder than yours… stay away.

I'd stay away if I could, but that would entail moving...

 

Sculpting with Knitting Needles

My oldest sister knits for relaxation and it's one of the many ways she expresses her creativity. She's left many mediums where she excelled by the wayside and now, this is her form of choice. She just sent me this picture this evening. It was a sea lion hat she made for her daughter... no pattern, she just kind of winged it. I can knit, I can follow some patterns, but there's no winging it for me. Winging it and ending up with this is a mystery.

I've broken my blogroll...

I realized yesterday that I had not added a blog to my blogroll and since this gentleman has been kind enough to link to me in a handful of posts, I thought it would be polite and fitting to add him in my mix. When I did, he automatically went directly to the top even though my blogroll was arranged alphabetically and not by date added. This blogger has admitted he's entitled. Maybe he felt entitled to be at the top of my blogroll no matter what. I really wouldn't have cared and should have left it, but noooooo. I had to meddle. I had to go back in and see if I could rearrange. TypePad has reworded their arranging options and none clearly say, "ALPHABETICAL". I've tried them all and just get a variety of mishmashes.

OH NO! My blogroll is all kattywampus! AHHHHHH!

Seriously, suggestions are welcome... all except, "TypePad sucks! Move to Blogger!"