There's not a woman alive who can honestly say she's never thought about her weight. Positive thoughts, negative thoughts, disgusted thoughts, proud thoughts - we've all had them.
***
I remember how excited I was when I finally weighed 100 pounds. I was 15 or 16 years old. Daddoooo took me to Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor in Rockville Centre where we splurged on double banana splits (with extra whipped cream and nuts, please, and 3 cherries).
***
Seret introduced me to the concept of thoughtful eating. "Making wise choices" about what went into your mouth was a very nice way to explain healthy eating to a 4 year old.
***
The notion of obesity as a contagious disease was a funny story line in Boston Legal, but I think it has some merit. Listening to Max, the morbidly obese 16 year old brother and son of the equally unhealthy father/son team of Biggest Loser contestants, makes it clear. He liked being one of 3 "big guys". Neither he nor his brother were chubby young children, if their family photos are to be believed. But all kids want to emulate their parents, and this dad was huge.
***
My favorite jeans are more reliable than my scale. If they feel good, I feel good.
***
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tempting Fate
Maybe it's not "too easy for the Cavaliers this post-season". Maybe they are just that good. LeBron denies a basket, lopes down the court and stuffs it in for 2. Delonte West, faster than a speeding bullet and stuffs it.
*****
I wrote that when Dick Stockton said it, about 2 minutes into the first quarter of the 4th game of the Eastern Conference semi-finals series. It was a "reminder post" - just there so that I'd remember to use it. I'd fix it up later.
Then I went back to watch the game. And the Cavaliers were suddenly behind. And LeBron couldn't make a lay-up. And the Hawks were stealing the ball. And I knew that it was my fault. I'd jinxed it by writing it down.
Anyone who's ever "had a team" knows what I'm talking about. Maybe you have your lucky shirt. Wearing that Frank Gore jersey focuses your energy, and Frank feels it. You know he does. Perhaps it's a towel you wring and un-wring and wring again during every Rangers' possession. They know you're watching. While you're in your special chair, with total control of the remote, you are a vital piece of the puzzle. Forget the 6th man; the crowd in the old Chicago Stadium may have been loud, but Michael knew you were watching and re-watching and noticing every subtley. You knew that he needed you as much as you needed him.
You need to control the environment when you have a team. I was banished from the family room one Xmas season because the 9'ers had been winning until I came into the room. It was too important. They had to win. If I wanted something from the kitchen I could holler and they would bring it to me, but my presence was not welcomed. And I didn't complain. I understood.
I understood how the Blue Demons would win every game all season long and then lose to Notre Dame on my birthday and then lose in the second round of the tournament. Three years in a row, they were out after the first weekend. And it was my fault. I'd bragged on them to everyone, and the sports gods were listening.
I learned my lesson and have tried really really hard to restrain myself as, year after year, the Cubbies come closer and closer to almost maybe could it really be oh yes oh yes .........oh, well. The Little Cuter got caught up in the excitement when she moved to Lincoln Park, and she rebuffed my efforts to warn her. "Mom, they have pitching/young talent/karma........." whatever she said I'd said before and been crushed by before. Because of hubris.
So, I stopped writing and we had dinner and the Cav's coasted to a win and that's all I'm going to say on the subject. No gloating. No outrageous comparisons to MJ. Nothing. Just quiet contemplation. And glee. Lots and lots of glee.
"What, do you want to tempt the wrath of the...whatever, from high atop the thing?" West Wing
*****
I wrote that when Dick Stockton said it, about 2 minutes into the first quarter of the 4th game of the Eastern Conference semi-finals series. It was a "reminder post" - just there so that I'd remember to use it. I'd fix it up later.
Then I went back to watch the game. And the Cavaliers were suddenly behind. And LeBron couldn't make a lay-up. And the Hawks were stealing the ball. And I knew that it was my fault. I'd jinxed it by writing it down.
Anyone who's ever "had a team" knows what I'm talking about. Maybe you have your lucky shirt. Wearing that Frank Gore jersey focuses your energy, and Frank feels it. You know he does. Perhaps it's a towel you wring and un-wring and wring again during every Rangers' possession. They know you're watching. While you're in your special chair, with total control of the remote, you are a vital piece of the puzzle. Forget the 6th man; the crowd in the old Chicago Stadium may have been loud, but Michael knew you were watching and re-watching and noticing every subtley. You knew that he needed you as much as you needed him.
You need to control the environment when you have a team. I was banished from the family room one Xmas season because the 9'ers had been winning until I came into the room. It was too important. They had to win. If I wanted something from the kitchen I could holler and they would bring it to me, but my presence was not welcomed. And I didn't complain. I understood.
I understood how the Blue Demons would win every game all season long and then lose to Notre Dame on my birthday and then lose in the second round of the tournament. Three years in a row, they were out after the first weekend. And it was my fault. I'd bragged on them to everyone, and the sports gods were listening.
I learned my lesson and have tried really really hard to restrain myself as, year after year, the Cubbies come closer and closer to almost maybe could it really be oh yes oh yes .........oh, well. The Little Cuter got caught up in the excitement when she moved to Lincoln Park, and she rebuffed my efforts to warn her. "Mom, they have pitching/young talent/karma........." whatever she said I'd said before and been crushed by before. Because of hubris.
So, I stopped writing and we had dinner and the Cav's coasted to a win and that's all I'm going to say on the subject. No gloating. No outrageous comparisons to MJ. Nothing. Just quiet contemplation. And glee. Lots and lots of glee.
"What, do you want to tempt the wrath of the...whatever, from high atop the thing?" West Wing
Monday, May 11, 2009
A Disappointing Evening
I'm as big an NPR nerd as the next Ivy Leaguer. It's always the first button on my car radio. I cried when Susan Stamberg retired and smiled when Scott Simon married. I was as proud as his mother must have been when Jason Beaubien went from KQED to NPR's Foreign Desk.
I've inculcated the love into others, too. There's a generation of girls who played soccer in Northern California between 1992 and 2003 who will forever associate Car Talk with riding in my car to early Saturday and Sunday morning games. The Big Cuter and I still laugh about "driveway stories" - the ones that force you to stay in the car so you can hear the end, whether you're in the driveway at home or the parking lot at the Santa Cruz Beach/Boardwalk.
My email describing Middle Brother's "real lawn" lawn furniture - made on his lawn with grass seed over chicken wire - was the closing item read by Neal Conan on a Talk of the Nation program on Do-It-Yourself projects. My voice asking "Where did my dollars actually go?" on a post-dot-com-bust edition of All Things Considered caused fingers to be sliced and cars to swerve into other lanes in kitchens and on bridges all over America.
So, maybe I'm just a little bit more of an NPR-aholic than most. In any event, when I read that Ira Glass was coming to town I bought 4 tickets and invited a couple of Minnesotans to join us. This American Life has had more than its fair share of driveway stories - the flaming squirrel being, perhaps, my favorite all-time NPR experience. Ira Glass has a disarmingly boyish reticence in his voice which never intrudes into the pieces. He has an unerringly fine ear for chosing stories that deserve telling. He must be a great listener, because people talk beautifully when he and his microphone are around.
The interview in the paper that morning made me a little nervous. He was going to talk about how he puts together his program. I had been hoping for stories and reminiscences and behind the scenes insights. But, just as I would take any course that a good teacher was teaching, I was sure that just by his presence the night would be wonderful.
Not. Not even close.
On the radio (I've not watched the new tv show), Ira's voice provides the introduction, the interludes and the conclusion to the weekly topic. During the pieces themselves, the interviewer is rarely the dominant presence. I think that's the answer right there - know your limits.
He lacked the gravitas to have his pronouncements taken seriously. His delivery was stuck somewhere around the 10th grade. "Like..... um..... hmmm......(pause)........" just doesn't cut it for 90 minutes in the world's most uncomfortable seats (we were in the balcony; the seats are much nicer on the main floor). What allows you to stop and think on the radio - a pregnant pause, noticing the void - is annoying in an oration.
Every so often he'd touch on an interesting point, but it never went anywhere. The notion of telling small stories as a window into a larger issue was worthy of more than its use as a topic sentence. His theory of story-telling seemed to boil down to having each segment advance the plot. Really? I can't believe I never thought of that before.
He ended the evening by retelling the story of The 1001 Arabian Nights. Had I been the emperor and he Scheherazade, I'd have decapitated him by 10:15 the first night.
I've inculcated the love into others, too. There's a generation of girls who played soccer in Northern California between 1992 and 2003 who will forever associate Car Talk with riding in my car to early Saturday and Sunday morning games. The Big Cuter and I still laugh about "driveway stories" - the ones that force you to stay in the car so you can hear the end, whether you're in the driveway at home or the parking lot at the Santa Cruz Beach/Boardwalk.
My email describing Middle Brother's "real lawn" lawn furniture - made on his lawn with grass seed over chicken wire - was the closing item read by Neal Conan on a Talk of the Nation program on Do-It-Yourself projects. My voice asking "Where did my dollars actually go?" on a post-dot-com-bust edition of All Things Considered caused fingers to be sliced and cars to swerve into other lanes in kitchens and on bridges all over America.
So, maybe I'm just a little bit more of an NPR-aholic than most. In any event, when I read that Ira Glass was coming to town I bought 4 tickets and invited a couple of Minnesotans to join us. This American Life has had more than its fair share of driveway stories - the flaming squirrel being, perhaps, my favorite all-time NPR experience. Ira Glass has a disarmingly boyish reticence in his voice which never intrudes into the pieces. He has an unerringly fine ear for chosing stories that deserve telling. He must be a great listener, because people talk beautifully when he and his microphone are around.
The interview in the paper that morning made me a little nervous. He was going to talk about how he puts together his program. I had been hoping for stories and reminiscences and behind the scenes insights. But, just as I would take any course that a good teacher was teaching, I was sure that just by his presence the night would be wonderful.
Not. Not even close.
On the radio (I've not watched the new tv show), Ira's voice provides the introduction, the interludes and the conclusion to the weekly topic. During the pieces themselves, the interviewer is rarely the dominant presence. I think that's the answer right there - know your limits.
He lacked the gravitas to have his pronouncements taken seriously. His delivery was stuck somewhere around the 10th grade. "Like..... um..... hmmm......(pause)........" just doesn't cut it for 90 minutes in the world's most uncomfortable seats (we were in the balcony; the seats are much nicer on the main floor). What allows you to stop and think on the radio - a pregnant pause, noticing the void - is annoying in an oration.
Every so often he'd touch on an interesting point, but it never went anywhere. The notion of telling small stories as a window into a larger issue was worthy of more than its use as a topic sentence. His theory of story-telling seemed to boil down to having each segment advance the plot. Really? I can't believe I never thought of that before.
He ended the evening by retelling the story of The 1001 Arabian Nights. Had I been the emperor and he Scheherazade, I'd have decapitated him by 10:15 the first night.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Mothers' Day Memory
G'ma and Daddoooooooo never fought on Mothers' Day. At least not in the morning.
We three kids would be dressed and waiting for Daddoooooooo as soon as the sun was up. First stop was the florist for a gardenia corsage. Wrapped in a big box with an even bigger white ribbon it had the longest pin through the foliage. You had to be very very careful not to touch the flower or it would turn brown. That's why the pin was so long; Mommy wouldn't have to worry about brushing the petals with a pin that big.
Then we went to the bakery for a prune danish. We never bought anything else that morning, though we usually had fresh rye bread and rolls and cookies on Sundays. But on Mothers' Day we were all about Mommy. And only about Mommy.
Home to the kitchen, where eggs and toast and coffee (instant with just enough milk and 1 sweetener in the blue packet) went on a tray decorated with whatever craft projects our teachers had helped us to create that year. Lilacs or forsythia from the garden went in the green glass vase and then we carried it upstairs. Very very carefully. Very very slowly.
She was always asleep when we opened her door. She was always surprised by the tray and the danish and the corsage. She always wore it on her nightgown and then her robe and then her jacket and then her blouse. She didn't save it hanging upside down in the attic nor crushed in the bottom of her lingerie drawer - she was never the sentimental type. But she wore it all day on Mothers' Day.
What I liked most about Mothers' Day was that it was always the same. We knew what to do, we knew when to do it, and we knew what would happen next. No room for arguing or discussion. No one had unfulfilled expectations. Disappointment wasn't an option. Nothing could improve upon the plan. And next year would be just as good.
We three kids would be dressed and waiting for Daddoooooooo as soon as the sun was up. First stop was the florist for a gardenia corsage. Wrapped in a big box with an even bigger white ribbon it had the longest pin through the foliage. You had to be very very careful not to touch the flower or it would turn brown. That's why the pin was so long; Mommy wouldn't have to worry about brushing the petals with a pin that big.
Then we went to the bakery for a prune danish. We never bought anything else that morning, though we usually had fresh rye bread and rolls and cookies on Sundays. But on Mothers' Day we were all about Mommy. And only about Mommy.
Home to the kitchen, where eggs and toast and coffee (instant with just enough milk and 1 sweetener in the blue packet) went on a tray decorated with whatever craft projects our teachers had helped us to create that year. Lilacs or forsythia from the garden went in the green glass vase and then we carried it upstairs. Very very carefully. Very very slowly.
She was always asleep when we opened her door. She was always surprised by the tray and the danish and the corsage. She always wore it on her nightgown and then her robe and then her jacket and then her blouse. She didn't save it hanging upside down in the attic nor crushed in the bottom of her lingerie drawer - she was never the sentimental type. But she wore it all day on Mothers' Day.
What I liked most about Mothers' Day was that it was always the same. We knew what to do, we knew when to do it, and we knew what would happen next. No room for arguing or discussion. No one had unfulfilled expectations. Disappointment wasn't an option. Nothing could improve upon the plan. And next year would be just as good.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Playdates
TBG and I have acquired, without any forethought or planning, friends who are much younger than we are. Decades younger. Many many decades.
I'm not babysitting the Amster's sons when they are here playing Leggos. Just ask the 5 year old: "She's not a babysitter. It's a playdate." Having moved the Cuters' toys from Chicago to Marin to Arizona over the last quarter of a century, that is welcome news.
My role is strictly support staff. I find "the guys" and the kids create the world in which they destroy each other. We switch heads and weaponry and headgear and pennants. They fantasize moats and dragons and - as if by magic - out comes the dinosaur box and we have "real" monsters to attack our forts. When we needed "something way bigger" for protection, Construx provided just the pieces we required. (An aside: how sad is it that Construx are no longer available?)
The neighbors get into the act, too. A grandson visiting next door shared his special bag of treasures with us, and, since all the kids had attended Montessori schools, they knew the same rhymes and fell right into a rhythm that looked like they'd been friends for years. And they taught me all the songs.
Last year for Mothers' Day, I had them for the whole afternoon. With the Cuters thousands of miles away, my little friends were the perfect antidote to my hug-less-ness. In exchange for several hours of playgrounds and ice cream and hiking I had more hugs and kisses than I had room for (I had to put some in a special bag in the trunk of my car to save for next time).
TBG came to his playdates in a somewhat different manner. Brady Bunch was cycling next to him at the gym. With 4 girls under 13, she always has a story to share. The 13 year old had come with her to the gym, but was bummed. The big boys were playing basketball and she felt intimidated. TBG, ever gallant, went to the desk, grabbed a ball, and soon the 3 of them were playing horse. The kid had so much fun that Brady Bunch asked TBG for a rematch. Only this time it was 5 kids on the outdoor court at Manzanita Elementary. Elbows were thrown. Trash was talked - "You and Mom can be The Geezers". Shots were made and form was improved. But there were little ones there, and they wanted to play with him, too. So moats were dug and catch and hide and seek were played. After 4 hours, TBG returned and fell onto the couch, exhausted. This was definitely not babysitting; he'd been playing, and playing hard.
We are not wishing parenthood on The Cuters, not right now, anyway. But we are biologically ready for grandkids and Tucson has thrown them right in our faces. And we're loving every minute.
I'm not babysitting the Amster's sons when they are here playing Leggos. Just ask the 5 year old: "She's not a babysitter. It's a playdate." Having moved the Cuters' toys from Chicago to Marin to Arizona over the last quarter of a century, that is welcome news.
My role is strictly support staff. I find "the guys" and the kids create the world in which they destroy each other. We switch heads and weaponry and headgear and pennants. They fantasize moats and dragons and - as if by magic - out comes the dinosaur box and we have "real" monsters to attack our forts. When we needed "something way bigger" for protection, Construx provided just the pieces we required. (An aside: how sad is it that Construx are no longer available?)
The neighbors get into the act, too. A grandson visiting next door shared his special bag of treasures with us, and, since all the kids had attended Montessori schools, they knew the same rhymes and fell right into a rhythm that looked like they'd been friends for years. And they taught me all the songs.
Last year for Mothers' Day, I had them for the whole afternoon. With the Cuters thousands of miles away, my little friends were the perfect antidote to my hug-less-ness. In exchange for several hours of playgrounds and ice cream and hiking I had more hugs and kisses than I had room for (I had to put some in a special bag in the trunk of my car to save for next time).
TBG came to his playdates in a somewhat different manner. Brady Bunch was cycling next to him at the gym. With 4 girls under 13, she always has a story to share. The 13 year old had come with her to the gym, but was bummed. The big boys were playing basketball and she felt intimidated. TBG, ever gallant, went to the desk, grabbed a ball, and soon the 3 of them were playing horse. The kid had so much fun that Brady Bunch asked TBG for a rematch. Only this time it was 5 kids on the outdoor court at Manzanita Elementary. Elbows were thrown. Trash was talked - "You and Mom can be The Geezers". Shots were made and form was improved. But there were little ones there, and they wanted to play with him, too. So moats were dug and catch and hide and seek were played. After 4 hours, TBG returned and fell onto the couch, exhausted. This was definitely not babysitting; he'd been playing, and playing hard.
We are not wishing parenthood on The Cuters, not right now, anyway. But we are biologically ready for grandkids and Tucson has thrown them right in our faces. And we're loving every minute.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Last Sunday
There were some strange people at the gym on Sunday.
The Amster and I can usually count on welcoming smiles from the regulars as we lift and grunt and sweat and lift again. We've been at it together for almost two years, now, and it just keeps getting better. Not that we keep getting better. Like everyone else who's ever exercised on a regular basis, occasionally we have been derailed by life. But we're still having fun, with her Army mojo and me quoting Arnold between sets.
Most gyms have a demographic - 20-somethings on the prowl gyms, women who want to show their exercising selves only to other women gyms, 50+ retired Yuppies and their much younger trainers' gyms, serious 'roid gyms. Our gym defies categorization.
Tattoos are everywhere, and TBG and I were taken aback at first. Body art's not our thing (just ask my nieces) and we were about ready to dismiss the wearers. That is, until TBG watched the most heavily decorated young man gently and kindly demonstrate then teach a teetering older man how to use the cables.
There are 30-somethings who certainly looked healthy enough to be at work instead of lifting weights in the middle of the day. The Amster and I were commenting on this one December afternoon and the guy on the next bench leaned over and said, "Most of us have been laid off; I recognize half-a-dozen guys who should be working today."
Lots of fire department t-shirts are on lots of very buff bodies. High school wrestlers and basketball players and track stars wear t-shirts proclaiming their loyalty and superiority. Candidates for The Biggest Loser gamely breathe and roll and concentrate on their transverse abdominals between sorority girls from the UofA on one side and 78 year old grandmothers on the other. Ballroom dancers practice while 8 year olds shoot hoops with their moms.
No one judges. No one smirks. No one cares that the gym shorts I'm wearing were worn by the Big Cuter when he was in 5th grade or that my Sausalito Art Festival t-shirt is held together by a few tenuous strands of cotton.
We notice things, of course. There's the guy with what must be the world's largest collection of Jesus-themed t-shirts, the grey pony-tailed retired contractor who is invariably decked out in red/white/and blue to match the flag flying from his truck, the Haitian woman who can do 20 perfect pull-ups. The father-son pairs are our favorites; the boys are lucky to learn from men who are less interested in impressing one another than they are in using good form. For a while last spring and summer there was a dad and his daughter; we miss them.
So, Sunday. The first weird person was race walking around the gym, hitting himself in the chest with a 5 pound plate. Leaning on a pole in the middle of the gym floor, the second weird person was swinging a 10 pound dumbbell around and around in what looked like but couldn't possibly be ever widening circles. A trainer had a this-is-my-first-time-in-the-gym client doing one-handed push-ups with her feet on a giant ball. The juice bar was closed and the lights were off but there was someone sitting on the stool at the counter looking into the darkness.
And it wasn't a full moon.
"I loved the feeling of the gym, of working out, of having muscles all over" Aaaah-nold in Education of a Bodybuilder
The Amster and I can usually count on welcoming smiles from the regulars as we lift and grunt and sweat and lift again. We've been at it together for almost two years, now, and it just keeps getting better. Not that we keep getting better. Like everyone else who's ever exercised on a regular basis, occasionally we have been derailed by life. But we're still having fun, with her Army mojo and me quoting Arnold between sets.
Most gyms have a demographic - 20-somethings on the prowl gyms, women who want to show their exercising selves only to other women gyms, 50+ retired Yuppies and their much younger trainers' gyms, serious 'roid gyms. Our gym defies categorization.
Tattoos are everywhere, and TBG and I were taken aback at first. Body art's not our thing (just ask my nieces) and we were about ready to dismiss the wearers. That is, until TBG watched the most heavily decorated young man gently and kindly demonstrate then teach a teetering older man how to use the cables.
There are 30-somethings who certainly looked healthy enough to be at work instead of lifting weights in the middle of the day. The Amster and I were commenting on this one December afternoon and the guy on the next bench leaned over and said, "Most of us have been laid off; I recognize half-a-dozen guys who should be working today."
Lots of fire department t-shirts are on lots of very buff bodies. High school wrestlers and basketball players and track stars wear t-shirts proclaiming their loyalty and superiority. Candidates for The Biggest Loser gamely breathe and roll and concentrate on their transverse abdominals between sorority girls from the UofA on one side and 78 year old grandmothers on the other. Ballroom dancers practice while 8 year olds shoot hoops with their moms.
No one judges. No one smirks. No one cares that the gym shorts I'm wearing were worn by the Big Cuter when he was in 5th grade or that my Sausalito Art Festival t-shirt is held together by a few tenuous strands of cotton.
We notice things, of course. There's the guy with what must be the world's largest collection of Jesus-themed t-shirts, the grey pony-tailed retired contractor who is invariably decked out in red/white/and blue to match the flag flying from his truck, the Haitian woman who can do 20 perfect pull-ups. The father-son pairs are our favorites; the boys are lucky to learn from men who are less interested in impressing one another than they are in using good form. For a while last spring and summer there was a dad and his daughter; we miss them.
So, Sunday. The first weird person was race walking around the gym, hitting himself in the chest with a 5 pound plate. Leaning on a pole in the middle of the gym floor, the second weird person was swinging a 10 pound dumbbell around and around in what looked like but couldn't possibly be ever widening circles. A trainer had a this-is-my-first-time-in-the-gym client doing one-handed push-ups with her feet on a giant ball. The juice bar was closed and the lights were off but there was someone sitting on the stool at the counter looking into the darkness.
And it wasn't a full moon.
"I loved the feeling of the gym, of working out, of having muscles all over" Aaaah-nold in Education of a Bodybuilder
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Gardening in the Desert (vol. I, part 2)
The first summer we lived here I fell hard for Caesalpinia pulcherrima, the Mexican Bird of Paradise. Went to my favorite nursery and bought 3 gorgeous just about to but not quite in bloom 5 gallon plants the day before the yard guys were coming to spruce up our little piece of the desert for the first time.I always liked working along side the garden guys. In Marin, Jose and his crew loved the plants as much as I did. They'd randomly stroke the tops of the agapanthus as we talked, slight grins on their faces as the leaves tickled their palms. You can't go wrong with landscapers who caress the plants they tend.
So, when Len and Linda drove up with their worker bees, I was there to meet them. Dressed in long sleeves (I do learn, and sometimes I remember, too) and my pants with the rubber pads in the knees and my yellow waterproof clogs and my wide-brimmed hiking hat, I was ready. Trowel in hand, I offered to dig the trench for the spaghetti tubing to the first Bird of Paradise.
They looked at one another. They looked at me. They looked at one another again and began to smile. I thought they were surprised that the homeowner would want to dirty her hands, so I pointed to my trowel and reassured them that, really, I loved it and it would make me happy to help. The smiles grew broader. Undaunted, I smiled back and bent to the task at hand - a trough 6" deep and a trowel's width across. I lifted the trowel. I plunged it to the earth. And it bounced right back up at me. By this time, the workers had given up trying to smother their laughter. They paused while unloading the jack hammer to show me their desert tools - sharp, scary, pointy metal forged to crack the sunbaked dirt. Then, they used the jack hammer to create the planting holes and the trenches for the tubing, while my poor trowel and I looked on and pouted.
Clearly, I was going to have to find a way to do this on my own. Without a jack hammer.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Gardening in the Desert
Gardening in the desert is unlike anything I've ever done before. And I don't mean just unlike any gardening I've ever done before. This is the first time I've ever willingly put my body at risk because I was having fun - our yard is filled with prickers and glochids and spines on which I kneel or against which I brush with alarming regularity. I don't like getting up close and personal with wild creatures, and yet here they run rampant as I putter. I like doing what I want to do when I want to do it but here I seem perfectly content to wait for the air to cool down so the snakes will go back into their holes.
I love the feel of cool, dark soil with big, fat earthworms inching their way along. At least, that's what I remember that soil feels like. Here in the middle Sonoran Desert, 2350' above sea level, no matter what they say, this is dirt. I know what soil feels like, and this is definitely dirt. This ground laughs at trowels and demands the pickaxe and the pry bar. Digging a hole for a 5 gallon shrub (the same depth as the root ball, and twice as wide) can take an afternoon's labor. And don't get me started on drainage and caliche.
I love forgetting my gloves before digging in the ground or pinching off a spent bloom. Here, such foolishness leads to more than just a ruined manicure. Here, I find un-seen but not un-noticed bits of detritus embedded in my skin. Forever. And it's not only gloves which are necessary. Long sleeves and long pants are mandatory - the day I pruned in shorts and a tank top TBG wanted me to wear a sign absolving him of responsibility for the bleeding welts on my skin. I know that the prickers are defense against critters looking for a quick snack, but that doesn't make them hurt any less.
"This is probably the most spectacular desert in this country..." Pierre C. Fischer on Tucson's piece of the Sonoran Desert in 70 Common Cacti of the Southwest
I love the feel of cool, dark soil with big, fat earthworms inching their way along. At least, that's what I remember that soil feels like. Here in the middle Sonoran Desert, 2350' above sea level, no matter what they say, this is dirt. I know what soil feels like, and this is definitely dirt. This ground laughs at trowels and demands the pickaxe and the pry bar. Digging a hole for a 5 gallon shrub (the same depth as the root ball, and twice as wide) can take an afternoon's labor. And don't get me started on drainage and caliche.
I love forgetting my gloves before digging in the ground or pinching off a spent bloom. Here, such foolishness leads to more than just a ruined manicure. Here, I find un-seen but not un-noticed bits of detritus embedded in my skin. Forever. And it's not only gloves which are necessary. Long sleeves and long pants are mandatory - the day I pruned in shorts and a tank top TBG wanted me to wear a sign absolving him of responsibility for the bleeding welts on my skin. I know that the prickers are defense against critters looking for a quick snack, but that doesn't make them hurt any less.
At first it didn't seem possible that I could learn to work with what I had. It didn't seem like that was very much to start with. But, as you'll see, while I haven't stopped yearning for gorgeous soil and tulips in the spring, desert horticulture is quite wonderful in its own, peculiar way.
Yes, I garden in the desert.
"This is probably the most spectacular desert in this country..." Pierre C. Fischer on Tucson's piece of the Sonoran Desert in 70 Common Cacti of the Southwest
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Monday, May 4, 2009
Random Musings on a Weekend Watching Sports
SILVER LINING DEPARTMENT: Because it took Mine That Bird's trainer so long to crutch to the winners' circle, the jockey got to trip around the track, high fiving his big smile red coated escort and bumping fists with the guys in the blue Visa logo jackets while the crowd roared its approval. The announcers were silent as Calvin Borel shared his joy - a perfect tv moment.
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Why was Pizza Hut (via Yum Brands) the lead advertiser for The Derby when Louisville is Papa John's corporate backyard?
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Charles Barkley is becoming much less interesting as we both get older.
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I liked Jack Kemp - he wasn't as annoying as most Republicans are. RIP, Congressman.
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TBG used the foliage surrounding the course at Quail Hollow to deduce that it wasn't in California and so couldn't be where we'd vacationed with The Cuters (that was Quail Lodge). I learned football and basketball, he's learning plants. Cross-pollination..... one of the joys of a long marriage.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The First Saturday in May
I love the Kentucky Derby. I love the hats and the bugle and the colors and the mint juleps. Especially the mint juleps.
We used to host an Annual Kentucky Derby Party, with printed invitations and bow-tied bartenders. We had Kentucky Derby stirrers and napkins and betting tickets, which I bought directly from Churchill Downs. The race was on tv's in a couple of rooms and 60 or 70 of our closest friends and associates would yell and scream and laugh and hug. We always talked about having a live Dixie-land band, but we always decided that they'd just be one noise too many, so we stuck with some cd's on random repeat and no one seemed to care.
Today, the track was a mucky mess ("fast wet" pronounced the announcers who agreed that they each knew what the other meant, but neither of whom deigned to share with the class) and there were a lot of very well-dressed people tromping through it. So, I had to wonder aloud to TBG : Do those people HAVE TO or GET TO walk on that mucky track?
We'd never seen this particular piece of the festivities before, so I wondered and watched. There was a 75 year old trainer/owner who looks exactly like Daddooooo's father, and who has a one horse stable and whose one horse was right there behind him as he waved to the crowd and tried to be polite to the interviewer with the microphone when all he wanted to do was say "Thank You" to the cheering throng. Clearly, he was going to walk with that horse wherever they'd let him walk. The trainer in the Hermes tie? Vanity, perhaps, led him to threaten the long-term health of those silk pants and snazzy loafers. But when the New Mexico cowboy hat bolo tie 12 shattered foot bones guy loped through that goop on his crutches, the answer was clear -
they GET TO walk on that mucky track.
"And Mine That Bird" wins the 135th Kentucky Derby"
We used to host an Annual Kentucky Derby Party, with printed invitations and bow-tied bartenders. We had Kentucky Derby stirrers and napkins and betting tickets, which I bought directly from Churchill Downs. The race was on tv's in a couple of rooms and 60 or 70 of our closest friends and associates would yell and scream and laugh and hug. We always talked about having a live Dixie-land band, but we always decided that they'd just be one noise too many, so we stuck with some cd's on random repeat and no one seemed to care.
Today, the track was a mucky mess ("fast wet" pronounced the announcers who agreed that they each knew what the other meant, but neither of whom deigned to share with the class) and there were a lot of very well-dressed people tromping through it. So, I had to wonder aloud to TBG : Do those people HAVE TO or GET TO walk on that mucky track?
We'd never seen this particular piece of the festivities before, so I wondered and watched. There was a 75 year old trainer/owner who looks exactly like Daddooooo's father, and who has a one horse stable and whose one horse was right there behind him as he waved to the crowd and tried to be polite to the interviewer with the microphone when all he wanted to do was say "Thank You" to the cheering throng. Clearly, he was going to walk with that horse wherever they'd let him walk. The trainer in the Hermes tie? Vanity, perhaps, led him to threaten the long-term health of those silk pants and snazzy loafers. But when the New Mexico cowboy hat bolo tie 12 shattered foot bones guy loped through that goop on his crutches, the answer was clear -
they GET TO walk on that mucky track.
"And Mine That Bird" wins the 135th Kentucky Derby"
Shirts and Skins
I was watching a pick-up basketball game while doing my push-ups at the gym. 6 guys in their 20's, none of them particularly buff, all wearing shirts. So, I wondered, how do they know who their teammates are? Quickly recognizing the color of your side's jersey, looking for shirts or skins, these are pieces of information which I've always imagined to be critical while playing a team sport. Hmmmm.
I was doing 4 sets of 15, so there was lots of time to watch. And as I watched, I realized that they didn't need to recognize their teammates. They weren't passing. They weren't playing defense, except against the ball. It was run-and-gun, look-at-me shooting. Not basketball.
I've followed college basketball since the 1970's - it was either learn it or lose TBG to the NCAA for the semester. I came to love the flow and the pulse of the game. There were only 5 players to keep track of and I knew them not only by number but by their faces and their physiques and their styles. There weren't hordes of men in helmets hurtling their bodies at one another like in football. This was dancing, but in shorts with a ball. And when I think back to those days I don't remember specific players. I remember teams - Phi Slamma Jamma, NC State, UCLA (forever and ever and ever). I knew some players, of course. All the DePaul kids (we lived in the neighborhood, after all) had their individual personalities on display, but my memories are of them as a team, filling the holes in each other's games and getting to the Elite 8 with good players but no real superstar.
The era of celebrity in sports has been hashed to death, so I'll not say more than that watching Kobe and Shaq and LeBron and Carmelo and SportsCenter's Top 10 is the reason there could be 6 strangers playing basketball, all in shirts of different colors and nobody caring. It wasn't shirts and skins. It was a free throw contest with bodies on the court.
And for all their hooting and hollering as basket after basket plunked into the net, I'd have been more impressed if one of them had boxed out.
"He eyes it.... he tries it..... he buys it!"
I was doing 4 sets of 15, so there was lots of time to watch. And as I watched, I realized that they didn't need to recognize their teammates. They weren't passing. They weren't playing defense, except against the ball. It was run-and-gun, look-at-me shooting. Not basketball.
I've followed college basketball since the 1970's - it was either learn it or lose TBG to the NCAA for the semester. I came to love the flow and the pulse of the game. There were only 5 players to keep track of and I knew them not only by number but by their faces and their physiques and their styles. There weren't hordes of men in helmets hurtling their bodies at one another like in football. This was dancing, but in shorts with a ball. And when I think back to those days I don't remember specific players. I remember teams - Phi Slamma Jamma, NC State, UCLA (forever and ever and ever). I knew some players, of course. All the DePaul kids (we lived in the neighborhood, after all) had their individual personalities on display, but my memories are of them as a team, filling the holes in each other's games and getting to the Elite 8 with good players but no real superstar.
The era of celebrity in sports has been hashed to death, so I'll not say more than that watching Kobe and Shaq and LeBron and Carmelo and SportsCenter's Top 10 is the reason there could be 6 strangers playing basketball, all in shirts of different colors and nobody caring. It wasn't shirts and skins. It was a free throw contest with bodies on the court.
And for all their hooting and hollering as basket after basket plunked into the net, I'd have been more impressed if one of them had boxed out.
"He eyes it.... he tries it..... he buys it!"
Friday, May 1, 2009
On Language
"Are you going out in THAT???"
I feel that way, sometimes, reading grammatically incorrect newspaper articles or blogs, or listening to newscasters and sportscaster mangle the language. Doesn't anybody care anymore? Are we living our lives so publicly now (says she, blogging away) that the boundary between formal prose and conversation and the lapses we allow in private has disappeared?
TBG asked me last night if grammar had really changed so that "come to the mall with Jim and I" is now acceptable. Our local paper has a terrible time with it's and its, and so do some of my favorite correspondents and bloggers. The Little Cuter and I go around correcting people all the time, and yes, we accept their critiques right back. How else can we improve?
I always thought that speaking well was the cornerstone of broadcast news. Walter Cronkite, Jim McKay, Susan Stamberg - these people could think on their feet. Because it's not only reading the copy, it's improvising when the need arises and doing it well. I don't want bad grammar interfering with my understanding as JFK's assasination is reported. Walter was showing us his real self that afternoon, and I am forever grateful that he was able to do it in complete, perfectly parsed sentences.
It's not about race or age or gender. I'm not talking about Ebonics or slang or whatever phrase is au courant. I'm talking about the basic rules which make things intelligible, which don't distract from the point being made. Rules which make the language sing.
I understand that language is fungible over time and that change is not always a bad thing. But just like my mother wouldn't let me out the front door with a ripped shirt, I have a hard time putting bad grammar out in public. People are watching, after all.
On Language
"Are you going out in THAT???"
I feel that way, sometimes, reading grammatically incorrect newspaper articles or blogs, or listening to newscasters and sportscaster mangle the language. Doesn't anybody care anymore? Are we living our lives so publicly now (says she, blogging away) that the boundary between formal prose and conversation and the lapses we allow in private has disappeared?
TBG asked me last night if grammar had really changed so that "come to the mall with Jim and I" is now acceptable. Our local paper has a terrible time with it's and its, and so do some of my favorite correspondents and bloggers. The Little Cuter and I go around correcting people all the time, and yes, we accept their critiques right back. How else can we improve?
I always thought that speaking well was the cornerstone of broadcast news. Walter Cronkite, Jim McKay, Susan Stamberg - these people could think on their feet. Because it's not only reading the copy, it's improvising when the need arises and doing it well. I don't want bad grammar interfering with my understanding as JFK's assasination is reported. Walter was showing us his real self that afternoon, and I am forever grateful that he was able to do it in complete, perfectly parsed sentences.
It's not about race or age or gender. I'm not talking about Ebonics or slang or whatever phrase is au courant. I'm talking about the basic rules which make things intelligible, which don't distract from the point being made. Rules which make the language sing.
I understand that language is fungible over time and that change is not always a bad thing. But just like my mother wouldn't let me out the front door with a ripped shirt, I have a hard time putting bad grammar out in public. People are watching, after all.
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