humor

Contractor Blues

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 1 Comment

I’m going back to bed. If you need me, I’ll be in my blanket burrito. 

The very, very, very worst part about adulting? Hiring contractors. I’ve had discussions with a gazillion (a flexible mathematical term that currently means six). Four of them said some version of “Yeah, I can’t help you. I only do this one thing and it’s not the thing you need. Why don’t you try X contractor? They definitely do that thing you definitely need.” 

The job itself is hardly unique. Our front steps are pulling away from the house. Mudjacking — I find it hilarious that I know what that term means — won’t work because the concrete is deteriorating. But no one, it seems, wants to demolish and rebuild our front stoop. 

One contractor said he’d come out but then didn’t. He did, however, email me a quote, possibly based on a picture from Google maps, that clearly showed he didn’t listen to anything I said to him on the phone. He actually quoted wrought iron railings to replace my brick handrails. 

First, I don’t hate myself enough to sign up for years of nearly annual railing painting. Second, if I change the railings, as I told him, I’ll have to file with the historic society for permission. I’ve never hated anyone enough for the double-whammy of wrought iron railings AND filing for approval from the mysterious and super secret historical society. I mean, what if I have to make some sort of animal sacrifice in exchange for iron railings? 

That contractor’s bid is also the physical proof of the “get three bids” advice. It’s so far above the other bids that it’s clear he thought “I don’t really want this job unless she’s stupid enough to accept this quote.” A second contractor came out last Friday and was great — helpful, enthusiastic about the existing design, and interested in improving things. He even pointed out an error in the original design that I never noticed and now will never be able to unsee (so thanks for that). Unfortunately, even the lowest bid was higher than I expected by a solid $3,000. Should I be surprised that things cost more than I want them to?!

I like to do a lot of the work myself, as you may know from past posts, but I’m not pouring concrete or trimming trees, which is the next project on the list. All but one of the trees are upwards of three stories tall and I dislike agonizing pain too much to dangle from a large tree while I saw off a limb — that we don’t know right now whether that limb would be human or tree just underscores what a bad idea it is. 

The tree trimming is essential. I personally saw squirrels carrying their suitcases across the tree limb bridge to the attic and I am not living with any more squirrels. They are the worst tenants I’ve ever had: playing some weird middle of the night hopscotch, chewing the loudest kettle crunch SOMETHING at 5AM, inviting more squirrels to move in even though their rental agreement limits residency to two squirrels, forever trying to pay their rent in acorns. They’re just the worst. 

On top of that, my next door neighbor, who, as I’ve mentioned before, is in his 90s, climbed out onto his roof to clean off the leaves left behind by MY tree. I spent a solid 15 minutes trying not to panic-watch him, as though somehow watching him will prevent a tumble from the porch roof. He did not fall, but I managed to make myself an anxious mess.

Someone will read this and ask why I don’t volunteer to clean the leaves off his roof. You could only ask me that if you’ve never had an independent 90-something neighbor. I made the mistake once of shoveling his sidewalk because I was outside already. He came out and scolded me like it was this past February in Texas and he was melting the snow to flush his toilets. So, instead of offering to clean his roof, I’m going to the source of the problem. HA 

Moving on …. There was a man painting a house — not painting a house (“miners, not minors”) — on our street during one of the nice weather spells recently and he wants to paint ours. He doesn’t need permission, of course, but I suspect that it’s less weird to talk with owners before setting up your easel in front of their houses. I imagine that can get kind of awkward. 

Anyway, the artist was painting the castle house the day he and I talked. It’s three doors up the street from us and has a round room with a turret. Yes, a turret. It’s a big stone house with a wrap-around stone porch and a three-story turret. The owners are really nice, genuine people who occasionally throw very loud parties to which the neighborhood is NEVER invited. (Isn’t that a violation of the neighborhood rules?) 

Apparently, they don’t know how much I want to see the inside of that turret! (I suspect that if I asked, they’d take me on a tour but I will not, in this lifetime, be that nosy. My sister’s lovely, long-suffering husband would disagree but I actually do have boundaries.) I did ask to see the finished oil painting and it’s just lovely. 

In other news, a lot is happening with my YA story. I usually write linearly but this time I wrote scenes in no order at all. Now, I’m sewing these individual events together, kind of like a quilt. It’s a lot of work without the very satisfying endorphin boost from a significant increase in word count but I can really see the story forming, which is fun and, honestly, a big relief. What if, after all this writing, I couldn’t figure out how to pull the story together?! Yikes. 

Thankfully, that’s not the case. Of course, there’s a lot more work to do before draft one is finished and after that, I’ll need to do a full read-through to see how well the story holds together, where I need to fix, enhance, delete, etc. I already have a bunch of notes about correcting things I changed. For example, I added a dog to the story a solid 10 chapters in which means those first 10 chapters have to change.

Did you recognize the “miners, not minors” reference? If you did, you probably read it in the incomparable Alan Rickman’s voice. The movie is Galaxy Quest, a wonderful homage to Star Trek and the entirety of the cosplay world. It’s funny, sweet, tender, and hilarious. 

Are you vaccinated yet? If not, please talk to your healthcare provider. For someone in your life, the world is a better place with you in it and the vaccine will increase the likelihood of you staying around a bit longer. Get vaccinated for them, if not for you.. 

Please remember that some people will keep wearing a mask. And you know what? That’s okay. Be safe. Be kind. 

Back to my blanket burrito ….

Contractor Blues

Want to Play a Game?

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When I was a little girl, my mom used to call herself “attractive.” One day, when I was in school,  I got into a fight with another 7 or 8 year old. She said something mean to me. To get back at her, I said, in my little-girl voice full of little-girl spite, “yeah, well, you’re ATTRACTIVE” because I knew that word meant ugly.  The teacher corrected my definition but I didn’t understand for a long time that what I was actually parroting was my mom’s own self-hatred. Hurting yourself hurts more than yourself, though she really never understood that. 

Mom wasn’t a conventionally pretty woman at a time when a woman’s value was equated even more closely than today to her appearance and she could never see herself as having worth. She’s been gone for 24 years now but I remember how artistic she was and how loving and that her eyes were the color of the early morning sky.

On Saturday, I will quietly mark the fourth anniversary of my husband’s death. Four years of birthdays and holidays and Wednesdays, of photographs and adventures and catastrophes, of dinners and breakfasts, of midnight popcorn and freezer pops and pop tarts (brown sugar), of cookouts and drive-ins …. Are we okay? Are we grieving? To answer, I’ll just tell you this little story: Earlier this month, someone asked my youngest son where his dad is and Ian answered, “if there’s a heaven, he’s in it.”  

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Although I don’t talk about it much, I am a gamer, though I’m not a fan of first-person shooter games. I have a Wii, a WiiU, a Switch, an Oculus VR headset, a Steam account … and yes, I’ve played games like Portal and Terraria, Animal Crossing and Age of Calamity, and, of course, hundreds of hours of Minecraft. My unchallenged favorite, however, is BOTW (Breath of the Wild for you non-gaming folk). I’m even listening to a BOTW playlist right now, as I work. 

For people like me, BOTW is kind of a perfect game. I can meander anywhere my mood takes me, fight monsters or look for treasure or ride my motorcycle (or my horse) or catch bugs or do quests or just explore. I’ve beaten the game on the WiiU and the Switch 3 or 4 times. Playing is a little like rewatching a favorite movie or reading a book so loved that it is beginning to fall apart in your hands. 

We had leftover dough from skillet pizza night last week so we made chicken bake sandwiches a couple days later. They were so delicious that I am thinking about making them again this week, if we have a rainy day. It’s warm enough that we’re grilling out on nice evenings, though I think we’re going to have to invest in a new grill. Ours is over 10 years old and just crumbling to pieces. We like grilling far too much to put up with failing tools — how can you make a good grilled flank steak if only two of your grill burners consistently work?! 

We also made some great cookies last week. I’ll include the recipe below in case you are interested in trying a cookie made with cake mix and cream cheese. Weird, right? But trust me; they’re so tasty.

The results of last year’s pandemic poetry contest will be announced next month. There were more than 750 entries which seems to have surprised the wonderful folks at publicpoetry.net who hosted the contest. Honestly, what else did we have to do all of last summer but compose poetry about our human condition?! Anyway, I have two entries (the maximum allowed per person) so keep your fingers crossed for me. Wouldn’t it be an honor to be included in their anthology marking one of the most significant events of our lives?

I have a couple things out to agents right now and am working, as I noted recently, on finalizing a STEAM project. I’ve got my agent query list ready and am tweaking the poems and text with the goal of querying the first week in April. It can take weeks to get responses back so I’ll be getting to work on a project I’ve been planning in my creative down time. It’s a YA romance!

So much work goes into writing a novel before the actual writing begins. I’m a little bit of a pantser (meaning I craft by the “seat of my pants” rather than plan out my whole story) but that’s only because I’m not actually world-building like SF/F authors do. Imagine trying to create a magical world like Hogwarts without planning in advance. It would require so much rework/rewriting to fix all the problems created along the way and — believe me — there’s already LOTS of revision involved in writing a book. 

Okay, so if you are interested, here’s the chicken bake recipe I used. Instead of the dressing called for in the recipe, we used homemade ranch because we like it better. 

And here’s the cookie recipe. I have no idea if these freeze well because we ate them all. 

Thanks for spending some of your day with me. 

Stay safe. Wear your mask. Get a vaccine. If you think the vaccine isn’t safe, consult your doctor, not your neighbor, not that youtube video, not fox news entertainment.

Much love.

Want to Play a Game?

DIY Faucets, Switches and Pizza

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

One of my kids had an IN-PERSON appointment today. I’m sitting in the waiting room looking at their artwork and wondering who thought it was a good idea to hang a very large picture of an angry man looking straight out of the canvas. I’m feeling very judged in my jeans with the hole in the knee! But too bad. I love these jeans and also, I’m very happy that we arrived early and freshly showered. One has to celebrate the little things.

As is the nature of home-ownership, as soon as I got the dishwasher humming along, the faucet in the kitchen decided that 10 years was long enough. I disagreed and disassembled it to see if there was something clogged. It’s one of those spray faucets, which look cool but aren’t super easy to disassemble. The internet suggested several options. I have now tried all of them, including soaking the spray head in vinegar overnight. None of my efforts have improved the situation. In fact, the faucet continues its campaign to retire and I am slowly coming to the realization that perseverance may not get me anything but very, very slow running water.

I’ve replaced faucets before so I suspect that it won’t be more than the normal amount of annoying. The worst part of faucet work is how tired my arms get as I lay under the sink, applying putty and tightening bolts … and occasionally feeling the water drip in my hair or on my forehead, running down into my ear. 

Last weekend, a light switch mysteriously stopped working. The light is now permanently on. Since it is not a bedroom light, it’s slightly less important than a non-working faucet but it’s definitely on the honey-do list. I’ve replaced light switches before (yay, two things I know how to do!) but since electricity scares the heck out of me, I have to turn off all the electricity to the house in order to do the work. That’s annoying and requires coordination with family members who don’t like it when I spontaneously (to them) shut off the electricity. Yes, I know there’s a better way but since I haven’t killed myself yet, this clearly works for me.

My daughter is in spring-cleaning mode and yesterday she pulled up the carpet in her closet. We have mostly hardwood floors in our house except for those darn carpeted stairs (see previous rants about vacuuming stairs!) and the floor of some closets. (I’m not really sure why people carpet closets and apparently neither is my daughter.) The good news is that she found a beautiful hardwood floor underneath a hideous green pile carpet of indeterminate age. 

It’s not that much of a surprise. The previous owner told us that he had covered the hardwood on the second floor with laminate (why would anyone do that?!) but we’ve never checked because, honestly, we’ve had other things to do. 

The bad news is that, now that I have confirmation that the original floor is intact, I have to fight my inner beast. She-who-roars (inside my head) wants to rip up all the laminate right now to expose the original flooring. We don’t need to do that now. We don’t need to do that now. We don’t need to do that now…. Any bets on whether the inner, impetuous problem-creator or the outer, sensible problem-solver will win this battle? 

I just finished reading a young adult new release (and NYT best seller!) called Wings of Ebony, by J. Elle. It’s about a powerful Black girl who discovers she has root magic. She is caught between her origins in Houston and her ORIGINS. There’s some graphic violence, a lot of grief, complex and sometimes hard to follow magic, and a good bit of anger over colonization. If you enjoy reading YA fiction with strong female leads, it’s worth your time, even with its problems (which I hope she is able to solve with book 2). 

Wings of Ebony is only one of a bunch of children’s books worth picking up. If you still think Dr Seuss is the epitome of children’s lit, you haven’t looked in the kids’ section of a book store in a long time. 

About Dr Seuss I will only say this: many of the people we admire are not wholly good. Geisel created racist imagery. That’s a fact. That fact doesn’t make The Cat in The Hat, for example, any less of a treasure but it does acknowledge that some of his books were and are hurtful. If you are having a panic attack about Geisel’s foundation stopping sales of material that is actively hurtful to huge portions of the population, it might be time for you to do some self-discovery. See also, Disney’s Song of the South ….

And that’s all I have to say about that.

As I was preparing the dough (recipe link below!) for tonight’s cast iron skillet pizza, I did a little mental math. We’ve used more than 80 pounds of flour since the start of the pandemic. That’s a lot of bread, pizza dough, (chicken pot) pie crusts, cookies! 

Skillet pizza is genius for us because we’re particular about our toppings. My daughter is from the school of you-can’t-have-enough-veggies. Ian prefers pepperoni and black olives. I like a meat-lover’s pizza, light on the crust, heavy on the cheese. I doubt that I’ll ever order pizza again, honestly, not when I can make it at home, exactly the way I like it.  We made three 10-inch pizzas and ate all but one slice. We even have enough dough left to make garlic knots to go with tomorrow’s “something and sauce” as a dear friend’s mom used to say. 

For those of you interested in a homeschooling update, Ian is about halfway through Earth Abides, a great post-pandemic story that, unfortunately, includes some painful stereotypes. We’ve had some great discussions about racism as Ian has questioned some of the language and descriptions in the book. 

We’ve started combining our current events discussions with some historical context. During the freeze in Texas, we spent quite a bit of time following the catastrophe, exploring their role in the Civil War, recent secession threats and how those align with their request for federal aid, as well as the history behind the devastating heating bills some of their citizens are now facing. (It takes a lot of after-hours research to make these conversations work!)  

Our first crocus bloomed — purple! — over the weekend. The sun was bright and warm against chilly March winds. It was cold again today but that’s just Winter’s final temper tantrum before it heads off to its room to sulk. Spring has arrived.

Here’s the recipe for our pizza dough. If you want the easy-peasy details for making skillet pizza, hit me up in the comments below.

Stay safe. Wear your mask. 

Much love.

DIY Faucets, Switches and Pizza

If You Give a Cat a Twist Tie

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

My elderly cat — she is 18 or 19 — has always had a penchant for bringing a little something to the food bowl. As a last resort, she’ll carry a stuffie or sock to gnaw on in between bites of cat food but her favorite item — far and away — is a twist tie. My next question, really my only question: where does she find the abundance of twist ties? Socks? Pretty easy to find. We leave socks stuffed inside shoes or drop them by the washer. Stuffies? The dogs leave them absolutely everywhere. 

But twist ties? I may not be the tidiest housekeeper you’ll meet but I can assure you that there are no twist ties just lying around for a cat to collect. Does she have a secret stash? Can she open the junk drawer to get one out? Does she have a twist tie radar that pings out the coordinates to the lone twist tie that somehow ended up under the frig? I expect that I’ll never know the answer, that I’ll go to my grave (or the crematorium) with this question lingering like the last hint of honeysuckle in the air.  

I have been thinking a lot recently about “what I’m good at” and “what I like to do.” For some, these are usually complementary concepts. With the exception of writing and making foods that I shouldn’t eat, I’m sorry to report that I can’t claim that level of compatibility. That’s okay, though. Instead of being good at things, I am learning how to do things. 

Last week, I installed a new dishwasher. Removing the old, broken one was the hard part, surprisingly. While it wasn’t heavy, it was … um, connected, tightly, with the screws inserted backwards. There was a lot of puzzling and out-of-the-box thinking involved in figuring out how to remove screws that couldn’t be reached and how to remove epoxy (don’t ask) and on and on.

Connecting all the bits and pieces and having the new dishwasher work was an extraordinary feeling … until I heard Haley say, “Uh, Mom. You need to come down here.” Water was dripping, paint was bubbling. The dishwasher was leaking into the finished basement, in exactly the same place I repaired after the old dishwasher leaked in 2015. Sigh. 

I’d like to thank the inventors of pipe dope and the internet for assisting me in figuring out that teflon tape was not the leak-proof solution I had expected. And yes, for those who will inevitably ask, I did test for leaks prior to running the dishwasher. To the dishwasher industry, I would like to suggest a product enhancement:  the addition of a leak frog to the underside of the dishwasher! 

Really, the greatest gift to myself since I lost Ken nearly 4 years ago has been allowing myself to learn, to make mistakes, to try with uncertainty. Yes, I will be checking the basement drywall for damage and yes, I’ll be repainting a wall where the paint bubbled but that’s okay. I learned that I can replace my own dishwasher and that I can fix mistakes in the process. The dishwasher has been working like a champ for a week now and I’ve chiseled away at another insecurity. 

A member of my writing critique group gave me the nicest compliment, saying that they could see their teacher-spouse reading my latest book to their classroom. I hope I find an agent who agrees with that assessment.

The weather is improving here. We’ve had multiple dry, warm-ish days and even held school outside today for the first time. It was lovely to sit on our patio while the birds chirped and tweeted and the neighborhood kids giggled and shrieked and the sun shone on the backs of our pets as they sprawled in the warmth.

Stay safe. Wear a mask. Get your Fauci ouchie.

Much love.

If You Give a Cat a Twist Tie

BOO!

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

I woke up at 5:30 in the morning recently with two phrases swirling around in my brain. One of them, “mourning for one’s self,” is from the poem “Melancholia” by C. Dale Young. The other, “slip this skin,” is from the Bruce Springsteen song, “Streets of Philadelphia.” Did you make the same connection I made — growth, change, fear? I wrote most of the poem right then, in my phone’s notes app. It still needs some polishing but I like the idea it represents. 

The last month has been busy. I’ve been submitting poems to a variety of poetry festivals and literary journals. In addition, I’m STILL editing the novel I finished. Plus, I just finished the first draft of a picture book. I’m absolutely in love with the main character so I’m going to put the story away for a couple weeks. I can’t edit my little guy until he’s no longer in my head. 

Like poetry, picture books rely on a small number of words to convey their message. Having grown up as a writer in the minimalist writing movement, I really appreciate the goal of requiring every word to matter, every word to carry a significant amount of the weight of the idea. Have you ever listened to an audiobook and been suddenly yanked out of the story by a word that is just wrong? When you’re writing 100,000 words, an untidy word here or there is pretty easy to miss and less impactful than in a story or poem that’s 100 words long. 

I’ve been working on sestinas lately. The form is really challenging: six stanzas of six lines each and a final tercet, which is a three-line stanza. 

That isn’t what makes it challenging. The six final words of the first stanza are the final words (in a changing order) of each stanza of the poem. For example: 

Apples red (A)
Sunshine yellow (B)
Leaves green (C)
Sky blue (D)
Clouds grey (E)
Puppy brown (F)

Earth brown (F)
Blood red (A)
Eyes grey (E)
Sunshine yellow (B)
Ocean blue (D)
Grass green (C)

Motion-sick green (C)
Chocolate brown (F)
Depression blue (D)
Flame red (A)
Butter yellow (B)
Stone grey (E)

Do you see the pattern for the next three stanzas? The ending tercet is usually AB, CD, EF, though it’s a little more flexible than the overall form. The challenge of a sestina is conveying the idea without becoming repetitious or overly rhythmic. My first try at this form was almost a chant and very frustrating. 

All poetry forms take a lot of practice honestly. I’ve said before that Jericho Brown’s Duplex form, which involves a word re-use somewhat similar to the sestina, is wrenching to work in. The Duplex form is two-line stanzas which, according to my son, is so fast-paced and immersive the reader can’t catch their breath. Jericho Brown deserved the Hell out of that Pulitzer.

One of the forms I find immensely frustrating is haiku, which I may have mentioned before. My  husband was particularly good at it and, worse, he made it look easy. Some people describe the form as “single breath poetry.” For example, here is a haiku I wrote recently:

Autumn leaves falling
To a migrating wing beat
Wintersong calling

I’m annoyed by the rhyme of the first and third stanzas but I like the staccato sound, which matches the rhythmic imagery of leaves falling and wings beating as birds fly south. 

Speaking of migration, we have a problem in our house: migrating critters. I’ve found four mice and a chipmunk on the first floor in the past month. I’m sorry to report that I was not alone in the finding. There were two pups (the third disdains hunting rodents) and three cats involved. No critters survived the event, unfortunately. 

Finding five leads me to a passionate interest in knowing how many small creatures have successfully moved in. We’ve not previously had unauthorized tenants. I have thus informed the pets that they are failing to cover the cost of their residency and that I expect better work from them. They have all responded with wags but I am not optimistic since they immediately went to sleep after our discussion. 

It’s time to get back to work. I’m writing a middle grade horror short. It’s a commissioned project that doesn’t pay particularly well but I am enjoying the exercise of writing horror. 

Have a delightfully spooky day and, please, wear your mask….

And, you know, VOTE.

BOO!

Hell Has Karaoke

Deb Zuroski, , , 5 Comments

It is, apparently, karaoke day at the university across the street. To be fair, I’m not a karaoke fan and thus a poor judge of the relative merits of watching other people sing poorly in front of a microphone. For the past three hours I have been listening, as if they were screaming from my front yard, to a variety of skill levels belting everything from Justin Timberlake to Green Day. A criminal effort at Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” was by far the worst karaoke experience so far today, with the exception of an excruciating effort at “No Diggity.” 

I’d like to attribute my karaoke criticism to a “Get Off My Lawn” middle-age curmudgeonliness; but in fact, I truly believe that whoever felt authorized to belt out Eminem before noon, and completely sober, on a Wednesday, deserves retribution in the form of multiple compulsory hours listening to Steve and Eydie (a favorite of my maternal grandmother). 

We (not the royal we, the entire neighborhood) are now listening to Black-eyed Peas, “Let’s Get It Started In Here,” and I won’t accept your reassurance that it could be worse. I doubt that “My Humps” is included on the karaoke playlist. 

The music is so loud that it’s hard to concentrate. What are people on conference calls doing — “Uh, excuse me. Could whoever is playing that Camila Cabello ‘Havana’ song please go on mute?” The weird thing about this is that I feel strongly that there are live musicians playing along because someone is drumming the heck out of the Havana song right now and someone else just jumped in with a very off-key saxophone.   

I blame Glee and Pitch Perfect for this. We’re now singing “Price Tag,” which is the third Pitch Perfect song. Do these folks not realize that Pitch Perfect didn’t actually spontaneously bring a couple dozen really good (Broadway level) singers to the SAME college for extracurricular acapella singing? 

Aaaaand now we’re on to “Cake By The Ocean.” It wasn’t a good song on the radio. Let me assure you — the karaoke version is much, much worse.

Please, send help. Or earplugs.

On a side note, I am still writing like mad. I have poems submitted to several contests and am still editing a book ….Hold on; they’re singing Taylor Swift right now and I hear sirens. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks there is a crime in progress across the street ….

Anyway, I just finished a poem that I’d love to share (I’m really happy with it) but it’s designated for a publication that doesn’t accept anything posted to social media. If it gets rejected, I’ll post it for your enjoyment.

Despite the smoke haze from the fires, it is a glorious fall day. I hope you have a moment to enjoy it.

Stay safe. Wear a mask when you go out for the same reasons you wear shoes, to keep other people safe (alternatively to keep from being thrown out of the store).

And sing in the car, in the shower, in the kitchen, just not in front of a microphone … unless, of course, that’s Gretchen Wilson currently singing Gretchen Wilson’s “I Want You To Want Me.” (It’s not.)

Also, please VOTE early.

Much love….

Hell Has Karaoke

Ivy and Avocados

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

Our house is very old, a double-walled brick monstrosity built in the 19th century. It’s wonderful, with its wavy windows and hardwood floors with visible nail heads. 

The house is painted and there’s only one place to see the color of the bricks, a single exposed kitchen wall. The bricks there are deeply red and pink and reddish brown. They are different sizes too and you can see where the bricklayers used mortar to even things out. Sometimes, when I walk through the rooms, I think about how many feet have trod those floors, how many voices have been absorbed into the walls, how many people have lived and died here, how many teenagers have forgotten that the third step from the bottom squeaks at about 120 dB.

There are many, many inconveniences that come with an older house. It was originally heated only with fireplaces, which means that it’s cold year-around, except in my attic bedroom which is freezing all winter and hotter than a glass kiln from May until November. The electricity was added in the early 1900s and outlets must have been quite a luxury because there are only like 10 in the whole house. As the house shifts and groans through the seasons, the doors stop fitting properly into their door frames. Several of the door knobs only work occasionally which might keep you in or out of a room without warning. On top of all that, the basement walls are limestone and they weep like a grandmother who has buried all her children.

Our house also comes with an extraordinary abundance of bricks. When we first moved in, I was going to plant a vegetable garden in the back. It was terribly overgrown but I like to dig in the dirt so I was ready for the challenge. Two weeks after we moved in, I pushed my way through the weeds, armed with gloves and tools, and discovered, after significant clearing, a brick patio under all that overgrowth. I felt as though I had unearthed ancient treasure. 

It’s still there, years later, but it hasn’t been the treasure I was expecting. It quickly becomes overgrown every year by the encroaching ivy that some evil, evil gardener planted. The ivy grows under the bricks and then pushes up between them, destabilizing the patio and destroying my confidence. Each spring, I roll up my sleeves and give myself a pep talk:  “This is the year, dearest; this is YOUR year. You are going to conquer that ivy. You are smarter than that ivy; you are better than that ivy. You have opposable thumbs. GO. GO. GO.”  

Unfortunately, this isn’t going to be my year for conquering the ivy but we have decided, at least, to embrace that extraordinary brick abundance, currently tucked in every conceivable hiding place. They line some of the garden beds; the Hostas push their way through every year (so do all the weeds, I assure you). They are stacked against the fence and the outside walls of the house. They’re piled in the weedy back and under the deck. They’re everywhere you want to be, just like Visa but without the purchase options. So you think you want to add tulip bulbs to that garden bed? How much do you want to move the 30 bricks stacked there?

What are we planning to do with all those bricks, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you! We’re building a dry-laid container garden. And, oh, what a task it has turned out to be. The weeds! The tree roots! Leveling the ground! The weight of the bricks! We have blisters on our blisters but we’re finally, as of yesterday evening, at the point where we can see the future image of our completed container, which is something of a reward in itself. 

I’ve been working on some new poetry. The poems are kind of a spoof of pop culture poems. When I get stuck, as all writers do, I’ll take a break from one project and move to another. Recently, I’ve been focused on food-based poetry, an unexplored poetic theme, in my opinion. Here is a poem I wrote on Saturday: 

It’s That Simple

Life is an avocado
Don’t bake it
Slice it and
Smear it on some toast

I have no idea what that means but I laugh every single time I read it (so embarrassing to laugh at one’s own writing).

Find a moment of joy today and savor it. 

Much love. Stay safe.

Ivy and Avocados