It’s Time For a Thanking

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.

I’m Holding Out

[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.

Melting

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

Leaving on a Jet Plane

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?

Next Step, World Domination

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…

Why NASA no Longer Studies Sex in Space – Part 4

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…

Peonies and Ants

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.

I’m on the Verge

There are plenty of things a human being can be on the verge of. You can be on the verge of a great discovery. You can be on the verge of insanity. You can be on the verge of tears. I recently discovered I’m on the verge of something.

It all started late one night just before it was time to put the girls to bed. I decided to closely examine my scalp in the mirror. I look at myself in the mirror on a regular basis. However, I have learned not to look too closely. That can get scary. Not creepy possessed doll scary. Just an I am no longer a twenty year old scary. For some reason I decided to examine my hair follicles. It was cause for an alarmed cry to resonate down the hallway.

My husband dutifully showed up at the bathroom door to see what was wrong.

“Just look!” I said pointed to my hair. He examined my scalp closely.

“Do you see them?” I whined.

“What am I looking for?” He asked innocently.

“Don’t act like you can’t them. They’re everywhere!”

I eventually pointed out that there were a large number of gray hairs. An extremely large number to be more exact. Even the new hair growth was gray.

“I am on the verge of becoming predominantly gray!” I shrieked.

He started to back slowly towards the door.

“You’re definitely on the verge of something” he grinned and ran. The hairbrush I “casually tossed” in his direction missed him.

I heard him yell down the hall, “Hurry up girls. Get in bed. Mommy’s on the verge!”

My husband is really good at pissing me off entertaining me that way.

A couple of days later I decided to check out the hair coloring solutions. There are way too many choices. It’s a bit intimidating. I went to the Clairol website

And after watching a tutorial I decided to use the Natural Instincts coloring. Choosing the shade was a bit harder. My hair is somewhere between medium auburn brown (Cinnaberry) and ash brown (Clove). I’m not sure which one to go with. According to the site, they don’t work together. One neutralizes red tones and the other enhances them. Basically the natural color of my hair is in conflict with itself. Might explain all the gray? Well, that and being married to such a wonderful man.

I’m tempted to mix the two colors together and let them fight it out. Will the red highlights prevail or will the neutral tones win the match? Seems like a reasonable solution to me.

I know. I see that look in your eye. There is no need for worry. If my hair turns a weird color I promise to post it for your amusement. It’s the least I can do. I care about your good humor that much.

Why NASA no Longer Studies Sex in Space – Part 3

I’m back again.  Apparently they discovered a new deadly strain of e-coli bacteria on the meat I gave Cheney and I had to answer a whole lot of questions.  I didn’t know bacterio-terrorist was even a real word.  Thank Allah I managed to escape from Gitmo without too many problems.  You may not know that I am well liked by small children, old men, and dogs.  Each of those, a roll of duct tape, and 12 inches of twine played an important role in my escape.  I’m fortunate that I had a father that cared enough to get out of his chair, scratch his butt, and turn the TV antenna 45 degrees so we could watch McGyver.  I don’t have time to tell you about my escape now.  But I might.  I’d apologize in advance.  Now, as I was saying before.

We walked slowly yet purposefully to the large metal door at the back of food prep area.  Thoughts raced through my head and my heart beat with excitement when we stepped over the threshold.  I jumped when the door slammed loudly behind us.  It was such a cold harsh sound. A bundle of anxiety and raw nerves I scanned the area.  The sight in front of me caused my head to turn from side to side and my nose to wiggle like a rabbit that has just heard the barking of the hounds.  I’m not sure why a poster of Chuck-E-Cheese makes me react in such a visceral way.  I’ll have to look into that.  For the first time in my life I considered backing out of the mission.  If I had been smart I would have taken my lapel pin and run.  I was not smart.  I was lulled into a false of security by what happened next.

Much to my enjoyment, the combat booted businessman poked his finger in Chuckie’s eye.  The entire back wall started to lift up.  It was our first look at the Zero Gravity Research chamber.  It was the destination that had been the one and only focus of our lives for what seemed like an eternity, or maybe four hours.  I was too excited to know for sure.  It looked quite comfy.

If you’ve seen pictures of the interior of a space station you’ve seen the basics of the research chamber.  Dull colors, lots of dials, video screens and LED’s.  The main difference was the red velvet heart shaped vibrating bed.  That and a condom dispenser.  Remember, we were in New Jersey.

“One of those hotels in the Poconos went out of business.  We got those used for about half the cost.”  An older gentleman with a mullet and I love my mom tattoo told us. “I tried the bed out myself.  It works real well.”

I made a mental note to keep my clothes on.  He pulled a table out from a slot in the wall.  It was set with a nice pre-coital snack.  There were sacks of wine.  Similar to a juice box.  Little silver foil wrapped packets of freeze-dried ice cream.  The dried strawberries with chocolate-like topping didn’t look quite so appetizing but they were a nice touch.

“How romantic” I cooed like a schoolgirl to my husband.

“Where are the freakin’ fries?” He asked. “I ordered extra large fries!”

He’s a man that appreciates a french fry.  I’m a woman that loves him for it.  With love and affection in my heart I snuggled up against him.

“How about some ice cream” I offered. “You don’t even have to worry about spilling it on your shirt.”

He’s a man that spills chocolate ice cream on his white shirts.  I’m the woman that has to get the stain out.  With love and affection in my heart I thanked the inventor of freeze-dried ice cream.

He was placated and we sat down and waited for the door to close.  The seconds seemed like hours as the chamber started to de-gravitify.  Every breath seemed to be just a little sweeter.  We trembled with the knowledge that we were pioneers in the race for sex in space.  We would go down in the history books.  Just like Christopher Columbus, Eli Witney, or maybe the Alamo.  Either way I was ready to go down.  I’d do it for my country.

You could feel the release as the force of gravity was slowly removed from the room.  I started to feel lighter and my hair increased in volume.  I started to look like the picture of me from the eighties.  My hair was huge and my boobs were high.  It was amazing.  I felt young again.  I thought I was invincible.  I did the broad jump and didn’t injure myself.  I was invincible!

The degravitification, or whatever it was called, was almost completed.  We floated and pretended to swim.  Backflips and ninja moves were performed.  It was a jolly ole time.  Eventually we made our way back to the snacks.

Slowly and in the sexiest way possible we squirted long blobs of wine into the air.  We drank them Lady and the Tramp style meeting in the middle for a tender kiss.  We fed each other dried ice cream chunks.  It was Neapolitan ice cream.  NASA went all out for us.  We knew they cared.  Eventually we got around to flicking dried strawberries at each other and tried to catch them in our teeth.  My eyes began to grow big and soft with love and desire.  I was told that other things had started to grow as well.

We reached for each other with the intention of snuggling into a tender yet passionate embrace.  That’s when things started to go wrong.

To be continued.  Most Likely.

Why NASA no Longer Studies Sex in Space – Part 2

I’m back to finish up the story.  I’ve just finished kicking the secret service out of my house.  I had a terrible fight with an unnamed high ranking government agent over my rights to disclose this information.  Don’t worry.  I read him the riot act.  Or was it was the patriot act.  Maybe the ACT study guide.  I’m not sure.  Either way, my free speech posturing and the generous application of the ‘Your #1 Hand Sign’ I learned from George W. Bush seemed to have worked.  Bribing Cheney with a huge hunk of meat I bought out of the back of a pickup truck didn’t hurt either.  If your Internet suddenly goes dark it’s not my fault.  I’m authorized to write this.  You should call Al Gore.  Either he’s using up all the electricity again or there is a design flaw dating back to when he invented the durn thing.  Now back to the story.

We were sent on our way with all the support and love a couple could ever ask for.  We walked arm and arm to the tarmac and boarded our unmarked helicopter bound for NASA’s zero gravity research facility.  I thought we were headed for Cape Canaveral.  The palmetto trees, the warm air, the challenge of a half price all you can eat buffet if you can get there before 5:00, I was dreaming of all this and more.  We landed in the litter strewn parking lot of a McDonalds just off one the exits in New Jersey.

The pilot pressed a few dollars into my husband’s hand and slapped him on the back.

“Don’t forget, ask for the Big Mac special” he mumbled in his ear as he turned to leave.

“And don’t forget you want fries with that.”  He shouted as he hopped back on the helicopter.  The helicopter crew nodded and snorted and punched each other in the arm like men do when, well they just do it all the time.  I’m not sure why.

We waved goodbye and watched him fade slowly into the distance.  We stared at the ground for a few seconds not sure how to proceed.  We were unsure of ourselves for the first time in many years.  Eventually our eyes met and a sense of adventure sparked between us.

We walked into that McDonalds unafraid.  A song by Lee Greenwood was playing in our head.  Proudly we burst through the grease smeared double glass door.  Heads held high.  Like a true American we stepped to the counter.

“I’d like the Big Mac Special”, my husband proclaimed with all the dignity a man asked to serve his country should have.

The kid in the paper hat took a step back from the counter.  He took a deep breath and swallowed loudly.  Eyes big and hands shaking he asked the all-important question.

“Do you want fries with that?”

“Yes, yes I do.  I most certainly want fries with that.”  My husband said with conviction.  ”I want extra large fries!” The entire restaurant became silent.

The sound of the microphone keying up echoed off every wall and probably a few of the heat lamps as well.

“Big Mac special, extra large fries” the cashier squeaked into the microphone.  His voice cracking with the onset of puberty and excitement.

I listened as the request was passed from one gasping person to the next.  The request made it’s way like an audible but invisible wave to the back of the establishment.  I heard a large metal door swing open and close with a loud metallic crash. The sound of heavy boots thumped slowly down the aisle.  Then I saw him.

He was a nicely dressed man in an expensive suit.  Nice tie and a decent hair cut.  Just like any well-groomed professional you might meet at, say, your local brothel.  The only thing out of place was his boots.  He was wearing combat boots.

“Does your mommy know you wear combat boots” I asked giggling nervously.

He didn’t get the joke. I’m not sure I got it either.

“Please follow me.” He said with authority.

We followed without hesitation. Hesitation was something for later. Much later.

To be continued. Probably.