ImPerceptibility

Archive for May, 2007

There hasn’t been a good thanking around here for quite some time. It’s looking like today is the day.

Without wasting any more time I’d like to introduce you to the participants in round three of the thanking trilogy. [Part 1][Part2]

First I’d like to send a thank you to LadyBanana. She has somehow managed to find the perfect color yellow for her blog. Not overly bright but cheerful enough to get your day off to a good start. It also has a picture of a half-peeled banana at the top and that always makes me laugh. Thank you for reminding me that I have an odd sense of humor.

Then there is CamiKaos. She’s been working on remodeling her bathroom. I’ve been trying to get my bathroom finished for months now. She’s almost done. I’m not. Thanks for being a showoff inspiring force.

Josh Lane. He’s been traveling around the country taking wonderful picture along the way. Thank you for making me spend a great deal of time trying to figure out how to get a couch and an attic into a Honda Element.

I’d like to thank Anthony. Gals, he’s a cutie. I might thank him twice for reminding me I’m not a 20-year-old anymore. It led to the over-consumption of alcohol and a post about tomatoes. I do appreciate you making me feel old. It’s good to keep it real.

Finally I’d like to thank Bill of My Mid-Life Crisis. He doesn’t know I read his feed and I don’t think he reads mine either. We have a strange relationship like that. He has a partial feed so I only get little snippets of his post. Here’s one:

I got up at 0100, and stopped in here to check my email. I didn’t get any, but the next thing I knew, it was 0145 and I was lifting my head up from the desk where I had nodded off. I wasn’t even dressed…

Then I make up the rest of the story. If your life is a cool as I make it you may want to thank me, Shania Twain, and the chick on the news that looks like a Japanese anime character.

That’s it for now. I will try and thank the rest of you soon. If you’re in need of a thanking stop by and let me know. I’ll be more than happy to help you out.

Chris pointed out what appears to be a misconception about homeschoolers. Apparently we homeschool because men want to hold us back and keep us in the home where we belong. I can’t speak for all homeschoolers but as for myself I will say that I homeschool because I’m selfish and lazy. Plus, it’s what I want to do.

I homeschool because:

I like to sleep in on a rainy day instead of grabbing an umbrella and rushing my children to the bus stop.

I much prefer mucking around in the mud studying the life cycle of aquatic animals to spending up to 12 hours in front of computer screen trying to figure out what the hell that idiot did to my code.

Homeschooling gives me a good reason to have a messy house – I was busy teaching the kids.

I have time to plan, shop, and prepare what I want for dinner not choose from the crap on the menu at a local restaurant. If I want mac and cheese like mom use to make I can have it. Alternately I can fix a healthy meal with fresh ingredients. It’s good for my health.

I can go on vacation wherever I want whenever I want. The public school does not have the power to decide when I vacation. I like having the freedom to travel.

It pleases me that my children get to interact with groups of people with different backgrounds than my own. Not something they could do in their predominantly white, middle-class classroom.

I like fooling people. They think I devote my life to the needs of my children. I get a lot of undue respect. They haven’t figured out I homeschool because I don’t want to work at a paying job. I like scheduling my own days, picking my own work hours, and taking a break (or a bath) when I want one.

I like buying school supplies. Homeschoolers buy school supplies all year long. It’s a good excuse to indulge myself. The kids need glue sticks. I’m going to office depot. I’m a gatherer at heart.

I like having the chance to study things I’m interested in instead of learning a new programming language because my boss wants me to. I get the freedom to learn about the things that mean the most to me. I like learning and homeschooling is all about learning.

I have time to do what makes me happy. I don’t think a boss would approve of me knitting a hat in a meeting with an important client. Unless the client was Martha Stewart. Then it might be OK.

I could go on and on but I won’t. What I’m saying is

• I homeschool because I value my freedom more than a paycheck.
• I’ve never seen homeschooling as a means of restricting my life or holding me back as a woman.
• My life is a lot more fulfilling now than when I had a paying job.
• I value some things more than being able to afford a $400 pair of shoes.
• I don’t see my children as chores. The laundry is a chore. That’s why my husband does the majority of that.

I don’t suppose everyone understands.

The creationist museum fantasyland opened its doors today. I was lucky enough to have a real science program to attend. We went to a local reservoir and dip netted for dragonfly larva. The kids found all kinds of bugs and creatures. A tiny little turtle, dragonfly larva, a frog, water scorpions, butterflies, and crawdads were part of the catch. The instructor talked about food chains and adaptations. I was tempted to ask her if t-rex once ate crawdads but I decided not to. You have to watch out for things like that around here.

I once had a creationist in my home. I didn’t realize it until it was too late. The little boy pointed to the Era chart I had on the wall and told me that cavemen never existed. I didn’t know what to say. I decided to say nothing because I respected the parents right to educate their child. I’ve often wondered if my child pointed at their creationist chart and asked about an absent caveman if they would show the same respect. A large part of me doubts it.

I doubt it because once a little girl came up to my 4yo daughter.

“Do you love Jesus?” she asked.

“I love my daddy” she answered.

The girl then said she wasn’t going to play with her anymore. Her mom just stood their looking uncomfortable yet righteous.

“A four year old shouldn’t have to deal with crazy christians and all their intolerance, ignorance, and hate” I thought as I took my daughter to the other side of the playground. That’s was the day the battle lines were drawn. I decided I would only respect their beliefs to the extent they respected mine. It was also the day I no longer felt guilty about never taking my children to church.

After our nature program we went to eat at Olive Garden. It was a good lunch. Soup, salad, and breadsticks for $5.95. We talked about the critters we caught and how nature changes in response to the environment. I was sure to throw in a bit about evolution just for good measure. They were little angels during lunch and we ordered a chocolate gelato to share for dessert. It was a good day. Until my daughter decided to pretend her stuffed dog was peeing on the waiter. I put an extra dollar in his tip. I think being peed on by a stuffed dog is worth at least one extra dollar. Perhaps I should have given him two.

[Note: You can read a whole list of various blog responses to the Creationist Fantasyland here.  I particulary enjoyed the cartoon contest link. ]

[Update: I have added a breathalizer to my laptop.  It will not boot if my blood alcohol level is above the legal limit for blogging.   My husband and I laughed so hard when I read him this post our sides hurt.  I had no idea I had so much to say about tomatoes!  I think some things should go unsaid. ]

I refuse to eat tomatoes in the month of May.  I’m holding out for a fresh ripe tomato. The ones that will be turning red in my garden in a few weeks. I hate store bought tomatoes. They taste like dishwater. I’ve never tasted dishwater. But they taste like I think dishwater would taste – after you’ve washed the spaghetti saucepot. I’ve never liked them.

There is something special about the first ripe tomato of the season. Tomato plants always start with just one tomato. I think they put all their effort into the first one. It always tastes the sweetest. I bet the tomato growers save that one for themselves.

Every year since the beginning of my home I have planted tomatoes. The first year I planted them in the back yard and they didn’t do well. The sunlight that was there in the early spring disappeared when the trees got all their leaves. Tomatoes need light. That’s a fact. I was wiser the following year. Those plants were planted in my front garden just right of the front door between the Azaleas and the Japanese Maple.

“Do you think the neighbors will laugh at the tomato cages in the flower garden” I asked my husband.

They didn’t even notice.

The next year I stepped it up a bit. In addition to tomatoes I planted bell peppers, a watermelon plant, garlic, and onions. I placed them strategically throughout the flower garden. One neighbor asked me about the pretty flower to the left of my front door. They were surprised when I told them it was garlic.

Next was a small patch of strawberries and two blueberry bushes. The only thing better than a fresh ripe tomato is a fresh ripe strawberry followed later by a batch of homemade blueberry ice cream. If the birds hadn’t eaten them, I would have enjoyed them. My sadness at the lack of berries was eased by the cardinal that decided to make it’s home in my dogwood tree. The blueberries were planted just a few feet away. Cardinals like blueberries. Every time I see the cardinal in my dogwood I think of a song, ‘Sweet Virginia Breeze’. I like that song. It’s by Robbin Thompson. I’d embed a youtube video but there isn’t one. I checked.

Now, back to the tomatoes. I know most people have a dignified way of eating tomatoes. That’s fine for just any tomato. But when you have the first tomato of the season it requires a slightly different approach.

I watch the tomato as it grows from just a little white bloom to a tiny green sphere. I water it. I weed around it. I wait. It grows larger and larger. Then it starts to change. It changes shape then it changes color. I watch as it turns orange, then red. I wait. If you pick it too soon it will be sour. If you pick I too late, it too late. You have to become one with the tomato. That’s the only way to know for sure. At just the right moment, at the peak of its ripeness, I will reach down and push the tomato with one hand. It will rock gently on its stem and fall into the other hand. The time has come.

I will walk with the prized tomato over to the hose and wash it. You never know if a dog has peed on it. Heck, Whit may have peed on it. He has a habit of doing things like that. Once it is clean I will dry it on my shirt and hold it towards the sun. The sunlight glistening on the first tomato is a sight for sore eyes. Gently, I will bring it to my mouth and sink my teeth into its soft yet somehow firm skin. My teeth will sink deep into the fruit. The sweet juices will dribble out. Into my mouth. Down my chin. The tasty goodness will overwhelm my senses. It’s the moment of reckoning. I reckon it is good. Actually, I know it is good. There is nothing quite like a perfectly ripe tomato straight from your garden.

So there you have it. The reason I refuse to eat a tomato in the month of May. They say abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, or something like that. I say the waiting for the best is time well waited. What do you say?

I hope you don’t say you can tell how much Merlot I’ve had to drink tonight. I like to keep my empty bottles well hidden. In the recycle bin of course.

I want to melt you

Like the ocean melts the sand

I will be unrelenting

Flowing over the surface

Caressing your skin

Smoothing the edges

I want to be like the waves

Shaping the shore

Making everything new

Just for the night

Sharing is what the internet is all about. Here are a few things I’ve decided to share with you concerning air travel.

If a plane window shade goes up and down at a rate of 30 times a minute it will not burst into flames.

I am glad I didn’t have to sit next to the big smelly guy.

If you are crossing time zones, The Painted Veil is family entertainment.

I’m not sure if I was more uncomfortable or amused watching my oldest daughter pretending not to watch the love scenes in The Painted Veil.

Ginger ale is extra fizzy when you are drinking it above the clouds.

At least one security guard is looking forward to full body x-ray machines.

You do not put the kids backpack in a bin. Security gets a little uptight about that. “They are self contained bags! Just send them through!” You should however open your laptop and put it in a bin. They will clean it for you with an alcohol pad while joking with your husband about full body x-ray machines.

We are cancelling take-off is not music to a persons ears.

My husband yelling “Who forgot to shut the trunk!” and listening to my daughters giggling is.

You should warn young children that on a plane, the toilet water is blue. There is nothing wrong with their pee.

When they put eject on the button to release the in flight phone, they really mean eject.

I’m bringing my own bag of pretzels next time.

The flight home is shorter. Right?

A cool breeze and cloudy skies
Little toes covered in sand
Pink sunshined cheeks and pony tails
Wet pant legs
Sand castles

No Sweetheart, we can’t take the kelp home to show your friends.

Yeah, we can pack up a few rocks.

Hurry, the water is coming in.

Build the wall higher
Dig the moat deeper.
Get some rocks. We’ll build a wall.

We can stop the ocean.
I really think we can.

There goes the front wall
The moat is all full
Next time we start back farther.

And maybe build the wall as a V
And dig a river to take the water around
Why don’t we get some lumber and…

MOM! Does California have a Home Depot like we do in America?

…and a shovel. No! a bulldozer…

There is apparently been a lot of confusion about the bodily functions of squirrels. As of now, I am ranked #1 in the search engines for the phrase ‘squirrels don’t poop’. As a concerned citizen I feel that I should stop the dissemination of false information before things get out of control.

Squirrels do poop. The poop, also called scat or droppings, is small and not as noticeable as that of an elephant but slightly larger than that of a mouse. You may look at a picture of squirrel scat here.

If you would like more information the A Squirrel Place FAQ page has a list of squirrel related questions and answers. Who knew I lived so close to the “Squirrel Capitol” of the world?

I’m back with my final installment of this story. I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was a witness in a civil case where a bikini wax went terribly wrong. It was a long and painful trial. Thankfully Robin Williams received justice and a nice settlement as well. So here’s the rest of the story. Just as I promised things get messy.

Our passion was urgent so we quickly undressed. That’s when we heard the chanting. Resistance fighters had stormed the outer perimeter of the zero gravity chamber. They were dumping trays in the already full trash receptacles and screaming about bacon. Worse yet, they were putting ketchup packages under the tires of unsuspecting motorists!

“The Canadians are angry. They want to be the first to copulate in space.” I heard the frightened cashier shout.

I knew the mission had gotten dangerous and I knew the future of sex depended on it’s completion. I ripped a strip of red cloth off the bed and tied it around my head. I then let out a primate scream. It was similar to a primal scream but it sounded more like a chimpanzee. My husband stood with his hands reaching for the sky and shouted “Adrieeenne!”

“What the hell?” I asked incredulously. “That’s Rocky, I was doing Rambo!”

“It’s the same thing. You knew what I meant”

We bickered for a few brief minutes. The sound of the Canadian resistance fighters grew louder.  For the good of the country we put aside our differences.

We had drifted apart physically and emotionally in the disrobing/bickering process and decided to run into each other’s arms. It was a symbolic rejoining of our relationship. It was like a scene from movie. Minus the gravity. We expected to fall into the vibrating bed and make wild passionate zero gravity love. Just as we reached each other the chamber reached full degravitification. According to the official documentation, we bounced off each other and started to ‘crash around like a forcefully thrown crazy ball in a cement room’.

Through all the noise and confusion I could hear the loud shouting of the Canadians. They had been captured and were complaining about their inhumane treatment. They were demanding round bacon on their McMuffins and maple syrup for their beavers. A few were demanding that everyone speak French. I tried to listen but I had my own problems.

At some point my bra strap caught on a hook. My body was yanked to an abrupt stop and I was jerked back towards the wall of the space station. I then bounced off the wall and the whole process started over again. I was being thrown back and forth like a yo-yo. I wasn’t feeling very patriotic at this point.

“Ouch! Ahh! My head is hitting the circuit board.” I cried in distress. “I’m getting a cramp in my leg.” Memories of my old car, strawberry wine, and young love saturated my mind.

In a panic my husband tried to reach me by steering his body with the body part that looked the most like a rudder and using his built in air propulsion mechanism.

“Jesus Christ, man. That’s a penis not a rudder. Let go of it and help me” I shouted.

Alarms started to sound. “Abort the mission. Abort the mission.” The monotone voice shouted over the loud speaker.

“NO!” I shouted, “I will not have an abortion. I want this mission!” My dreams of going down in the history books were shattering before my eyes.

In his haste and confusion my husband bumped into the emergency eject button. The escape hatched opened and we were effectively flushed from the chamber. We flew through the air and landed headfirst in a barrel of chicken nugget coating. There we were naked, bruised, and yes, lightly seasoned and battered.

“What a mess” My husband said shaking his head.

I crawled out of the batter and collapsed into a pile of goo onto the floor. I then slid across the floor and bumped into the United Nations mandated barrel of maple syrup. The barrel cracked and all the sticky sweet syrup poured out onto the floor.

Dave, the NASA lawyer, looked around in disgust. “I tried telling you this could get messy.” He said. He then started to call the EPA.

“I’ve failed” I sobbed. “I have failed my country.”

“This is terrible.” The man in the nice suit and combat boots shouted. “This has set the space program back at least 150 years. We may never recover.”

“Can I get some fries now?” My husband asked. I heard the deep fryer kick into action.

At this point, I had no choice. I was overcome with despair, embarrassment, and the knowledge that I had failed my country. I did what any reasonable self-respecting person would do. I covered myself in cheeseburger wrappers and fled the scene. The nugget coating and syrup held them in place nicely.

So there you have it. I am a space sex failure. Not only that, I have set the space program back 150 years. Yes, you heard me right. The space shuttle is now a cotton gin. I am so ashamed.

I had vowed to live the rest of life in a small suburban subdivision in central Virginia. Surrounded by min-vans and dogs dressed in human clothing. A place where I could hide my shame behind the cover of pot luck dinners and PTA meetings. You know, exile. But you have given me the courage to share my story and let go of the guilt. I will have to live with the fact that I ruined sex in space for the entire planet. At least now I no longer have to live with it in silence. I means a lot to have someone that understands. It was important that the truth be told.

I have a few more painful stories to tell you but I have to go now. I think I just saw a ninja in my front yard. I hope they’re not still mad after the unsuccessful emergency circumcision I attempted on…

I was always told that peonies would not open properly without ants. If you watch the ants busy munching on the waxy coating of a peony you can see why this would make sense. They work their way around the seams and you can almost see the bloom loosen as they work. I have read that peonies will open without ants. I suppose they would. Maybe the ants just make the job a little easier.

I have a very old variety of peonies. I don’t know how old. Peonies live for about 100 years is what I read. My peonies are probably close to that old and show no signs of giving up yet. My mom discovered them one year planted along side the driveway to our house. We had lived there for a few years and didn’t know they were hiding there waiting to surprise us. Dad would dutifully cut the grass each year. He didn’t know the flowers were trying to grow out of the ground and bloom. They got cut along with the grass. One year he must have gotten lazy and put off cutting the grass until it got very tall. That was the year we discovered the peonies.

Mom weeded around them and put up a wire fence to keep dad from running over them with the tractor. Every year after that we had a big bunch of beautiful white peonies. They were the first showy flowers of the year. Blooming right after the humble yet just as charming daffodils. Unlike the daffodils they smelled delightful.

I would bury my face into the huge blooms and want to breathe in that smell for hours or until an ant crawled up my nose. Those ants were ruthless. Eventually we grew up and my parents moved from the house. Mom dug up the peonies and they ended up in my garden for safekeeping. I’ve been taking care of them ever since.

Every year I watch as the purple red sprouts come out of the ground. They grow tall and turn green. The leaves get big and the small buds turn into little green balls. Then the ants come. I love to watch the ants crawling around methodically removing the sweet coating from the buds. Loosening the tight covering that keeps the blossoms inside. In a few days they will open and I will sit and smell the blossoms while trying to keep the ants out of my nose. It’s just what I do. Every year in May, just after my daughter’s birthday. Some of the first pictures I have of her were taken beside the peonies. In the pictures my tired eyes were full of excitement and just a touch of fear. That was ten years ago and I think I still have that look.

[Warning: This is where I get all sentimental and mushy]

Do you suppose those ants are natures way of telling me that I am the ant? All my work and hours of care are being put to good use. I am somehow sustained by the sweetness of the love I have for my children.  Even when my job seems so much larger than myself. Are they letting me know, one day, all my work will make it a little easier for my babies to become the beautiful people they were meant to be? I don’t know. I think it works for me. Until the point I have to crawl into someone’s nose. I think I’ll pass on that.