The Past Rears its Ugly Head and Ruins a Lovely Walk

It is a beautiful autumn day.  I finish my coffee, and tell the Boy that it is time to take the dog for a walk.  I pull on my sneakers, he slips on his "slip-ons" as he calls them.  I wind a scarf around my neck, and he wiggles into his hoodie.  Leash, dog, and off we go.

The Boy holds the leash today, and he is kicking leaves.  Today is Picture Day at school, and he tried to put on his suit this morning.  I convinced him that just the white shirt and vest will work if he adds pants without holes in the knee.  He's a handsome boy, and I suggest to him that zipping his hoodie will keep him warmer than clutching it shut.  We walk along.

He holds my hand, and never stops talking.  He points out spider webs, fallen nuts, and pretty clouds.  The dog follows as best she can, all the while sniffing and stopping to deposit her own calling card.  I admonish the Boy that watching her poop is kinda gross, and he turns aside.  He comments on the houses in the neighborhood, and asks me if I remember the huge slug we saw last week, and wonders if it might still be there.  I laugh, delighted, and suggest that, since several days have passed, rain has fallen, and birds would have noticed him by now, I bet the slug is long gone.

I am right, and we continue on.  He loves looking down into a ravine to which a homeowner has added a little landscaping bridge.  He calls my attention to flowers, and I think about what an interesting boy he is, and how much I enjoy his company now.  I really cannot believe he is already six.  And, as I often do, I think about what I remember at his age.

Disaster strikes.  At Christmas, when I was six, my mother sent my brother and I off for our visitation with my dad.  He dropped us off at school at the end of the break, and no one came to pick us up that evening.  My mother had run away.  January 4, 1982.  At my son's age, I only had three months more with my mother.

I look at my son, who is still holding my hand and attempting to get the dog to stop digging in a mulch pile, and I cannot imagine life without him.  And I wonder how she could have left me just when I was getting to be interesting.

Confession.  I hate babies.  They are boring.  They are annoying.  All they do is cry and eat and shit, sometimes all at once.  I loved my son when he was a baby, but in a grim way perhaps.  It was my duty, my responsibility, and I approached the task of motherhood vowing to do it well.  I didn't relax into being a mother for months, and it  was years before I felt confidence in that role.

Years have passed, and I have this fun little guy, who thinks zombies are hilarious, loves books and Legos, and correctly uses three syllable words.  He makes interesting leaps of logic in his reasoning, which while sometimes less-than-accurate, are entertaining.  He is sweet, loves holding my hand, and expects an intelligent answer when he asks about clouds or leaves or mechanical engineering.

I wrap my arm around him as we walk.  He is still trying to control the dog, who is hot on the trail of some remarkable scent.  I have a feeling that the next few months will be a countdown of sorts for me, that I will be cramming in all sorts of experiences into the Boy's life, as I continue to over-compensate for the mother who didn't want me.  I will fight off tears as I mourn what I didn't get to do with her, but will damn well make sure he gets to do with me.  And when that magic deadline passes, I will know that I can maybe let myself just love the Boy for being mine, and stop projecting on to him the little girl who waited and waited for her mother to show up and take her home.

For Want of a Snail...

I want to tell you a funny story.

(I know, beware when someone begins a story by declaring it a 'funny story.'  But this one is more funny as in "wow, that is kinda whacky", although it certainly has some "wow, that is hilarious!" parts.)

Two Christmases ago, the Husband's sister sent us a thoughtful gift of a hummingbird water fountain.  It was a graceful bit of copper sculpture that requires only a body of water and electricity.  The hummingbird gracefully hovers over the open petals of a tulip, from which flows a charming cascade of water, hitting one of three leaves....Can you tell I thought it was a bizarre gift?

It sat in a box for a few months, until the Husband decided that we ought to get something to put the fountain in, so we could enjoy it.  Running water makes me have to pee (as does laughing, yelling, coughing, having sex, and peeing), but I thought, why not? Running water is also supposed to be soothing, right?

He came back from the hardware supercenter with... a red flowerpot.

I liked the flowerpot.  It was red.  I like red.  But it was not exactly appropriate for the 18 inch tall Hummingbird Water Fountain... Notice that the sculpture now has capital letters. That is when it began to assume a life of its own.

It distressed me, but we returned the beautiful flowerpot.  I would rather have kept the flowerpot and returned the Hummingbird Water Fountain, but alas, it was a gift, and we didn't know where to go to return it, whereas we knew where we bought the flowerpot.  Byebye, little flowerpot.

Hello 35 gallon pond.

We put the Hummingbird Water Fountain in the pond.  We had to experiment with bricks and cement blocks to get the height right, but soon, we had a lovely pond on our back deck, with a copper fountain splashing prettily.

It looked empty.  The Husband noticed, and soon, the pond had plants.  Three water plants:  a lily, floating water hyacinth, and a water lily.  And then, we added pretty gravel and pebbles to the bottom of the pond, and then some big rocks for variety.  And, the coup de grace... the rock with the Chinese symbol of balance.  Here is what we had, by the beginning of June.  Pretty, no?  We had a lovely place to display the Hummingbird Water Fountain, and make the birds happy.

One day, that summer, I was having my zen moment, kneeling before the Hummingbird Water Fountain, enjoying the tinkle of water before the run for the bathroom... when I saw something...something in the water... something moving.  A bug?  The Hummingbird Water Fountain kept the surface too busy for mosquitoes... or did it?

Tadpoles!  We had done a good job, and created a viable ecosystem for wildlife!  Amazing!  Frogs had come into our backyard, and hopped up onto our desk, and laid eggs!  Except...they weren't tadpoles.  Unbeknownst to us... one of our three water plants had carried a bonus.  A cluster of fish eggs.

Koi!  We soon had tiny fish all over the place!  Cool!  This led to frantic research, visits to the pet superstore, the purchase of additional water plants for the fish to eat, koi food, and endless speculation on what variety of koi we had.

Look carefully at the picture.  You see that the pond is on a deck.  A deck.  As September turned cooler, we began to recognize the implications of a 35 gallon pond with fish and water plants on a deck.

We set up the fish tank that the Husband had used back in his youth, which had until this point in our marriage held only a tennis racquet and collected dust.  This necessitated the purchase of a new filtration system, of course.  And modern chemicals, new water plants, and indoor gravel.

We successfully transitioned the 16 fish inside and figured out how to store the plants for the winter (5 gallon buckets of water in the garage).  At this point, we discovered that we didn't have true koi, but shubunkins, a different variety of goldfish, but lovely and thankfully not as large as koi.

Fast forward a little.  Spring arrived, we scrubbed the gravel from last year, and set up the pond again.  It was lovely, and the fish were so happy to be back, and they grew.  How they grew.  They also had fishy sex, apparently, because part-way through the summer, I noticed there were some tiny little fish as well.

Shit.  We bought more food, and new plants, and continue scrubbing away, and taking care of the damn pond... the damn pond that we only had because of the Hummingbird Water Fountain, which was no longer as happy as it once was, what with all the fish shit and algae filtering through the water.   Plus, the Hummingbird Water Fountain lost one of the three leaves, and was not shiny and pretty anymore.  Oh, and it made noise.

Summer ended, and we captured the fish again, and set up the plants, and all was well.  Except we now had well over twenty shebunkins, and the biggest guy was attacking the other fish, and we had to fucking clean the tank every three weeks to avoid the stinky aquarium smell.  The algae was awe-inspiring, and we briefly debated adding an algae eating fish.  Error check, and I instead sent out a plea over the Borg to see if anyone wanted some fish.

One of my girlfriends has a proper outdoor pond, and was happy to take some lovely shubunkins.  I let her pick out the prettiest ones, and encouraged her to get the big ones.  We were left with a more manageable 15 (or so, have you EVER tried to fucking COUNT fish?  Really?) and the fish society seemed happier.

Two weeks ago, I was drinking with Wine Friend and the Husband.  I was tipsy, admittedly, so the guys can be excused for laughing at me when I suddenly exclaimed, "Is that a fucking snail?"

Funny jokes ensued.  But, the truth of the matter cannot be denied.  We have a snail somehow.

I threw away the Hummingbird Water Fountain.

Destruction and a Hard Cider

I sit here before the computer, on a rainy Tuesday evening. I have half a hard cider remaining, and I just read the fucking funniest blog in the world. Probably the most offensive too, to about 33.3% of Americans. Mostly the Morman and Muslim ones. Oh, and maybe the Southern Baptist ones. Oh, and maybe the Catholic ones. Okay, so maybe it would be offensive to more like 66.67% of Americans.

I am pretty darn close to being ready for my touring class, which begins on Monday. The Boy is sleeping sweetly in his bed (I know 'cuz I just checked), and the Dog is done with her Chicken Dog routine, since the thunder is passed. The Husband is probably sitting in front of his laptop in the Windy City, or maybe enjoying a rare evening actually watching TV on the television. (He can only watch DVDs on on the TV at home. We didn't ever get around to purchasing the whatever you have to have to get television for free now.)

My one-act plays are cast, and I have read several pages of our final issue of Newsweek. Not that it is especially newsy, now. I am considering a switch back to Time.

Again, the mellow woman speaketh. However, don't worry. Was I mellow before? Just ask the Dog Cabinet. I threw away about seventeen pounds of shit. I found an expired can of dog food, rock hard dog biscuits, several old sippy cup lids.... (Just the lids, mind you. Why?) I recycled even more. Why did I keep just one plate of a stupid set of paper plates? Why did I find three bags FULL of plastic knives? Does anyone use plastic knives? Really? Do they cut?

Calming down. More cider.

So, after I cleaned out that cabinet (WHY DO I FUCKING HAVE THREE DOG PRESCRIPTIONS THAT EXPIRED IN 2006???), I next tackled the Boy's closet. I don't know why the top of his dresser was completely covered in over a foot's worth of stacked and semi-folded clothes, but it was. I don't understand. When I fold the laundry, I put everything in the drawers. So what was this stuff? I found a pair of girl's pants, a hanger without the hanging bit, and two opened containers of baby wipes. And that was all before I tackled the mess on the floor. I found a red sweater with clowns on it... the Boy won't fit it for maybe another two years, and would probably slit his wrists before being seen in public wearing it. Clowns, I ask you... Anyway, I filled a ginormous bag with items that the Boy cannot wear anymore, and are now in the basement awaiting the looming yard sale (or moving truck to Salvation Army).

And for the coup de grace, while the Boy watched his evening videos, I tackled the master bathroom. I am not sure why I found four empty bottles in the shower, other than the maid sucks and needs to be fired.

[That is a running joke in the house. I tell the Husband that the kitchen looks like ass, and that our maid sucks, and he needs to fire her, the joke being that I am the maid. He just gives me one of his patented "That's my Gracie Lou" looks, and ignores me.]

It was kind of funny. I honestly had NO idea that the glass doors to the shower were NOT frosted glass. (giggle) And I had forgotten what how shiny the floor tiles look when not covered in a soft cushioned carpet of black dog hair.

So, yeah, I went a little nuts today. I know that many people consider cleaning to be a Useful Task and Necessary. I think of cleaning as destructive. Honestly. There is nothing better than throwing shit out. I LOVE aggressively scrubbing something. When the Husband's boss was acting like Stalin, I tackled the heavy saute pan with a scrubber, and imagined that the stained and scummy surface was her face. My pan is awful purty now.

So, I have a clean Dog Cabinet, a clean closet in the Boy's room, and a clean Master bathroom, and I am now out of cider...

Does emptying the bottle of cider count as a destructive or a constructive act?