Why Nothing Gets Done

So, I went out to get my mail one day last week.  Now, I can say in all honesty that I am not very good at picking up the mail.  In fact, I usually stink at it.  As in, I don't pick it up.  The reason for that is there are two things that come in the mail:  trouble and junk.  The former I have enough of in the person of caterpillars, weeds, hard water residue, and muscle stiffness.  The latter makes me fearful for the future of the planet and therefore, crazy.

BUT.  I have been trying to be better about the mail.  Because T. has enough to do without sorting out the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.  So, I went and got the mail every day last week.  And last Tuesday, this was what I got.  This is ONE DAY'S mail.

The stack on the left:  junk mail.  The stack in the middle:  the worst kind of junk mail, the ones with the plastic envelopes that don't recycle. The stack on the right:  mail, as in one magazine, one bill, one coupon, and one check.  Four items out of what had to be 25 were actual, real mail.  When I think of the time I spend going through it all, I feel sick.  When I think of the trees, I feel murderous.

So, this week, I am taking a stand.  You should to.  Here's a great website to get you (me) started.
http://www.41pounds.org

Declutter this.

Reality Check

G has been hit with the reality that is junior year.  She was really freaked out over the summer about the  number of AP and preAP classes (5).  She was really freaked out about AP Spanish IV because she's "luckily" scored the two easiest Spanish teachers for Spanish II and III, which is great when you're in it.  It's not so great when you hit Spanish IV with the rest of the kids who are actually ready for Spanish IV.  Surprisingly, though, this year has been pretty easy for her.  She's had homework, sure.  Some late-ish nights.  But all-in-all, she's had time to watch a little TV, hang with friends, compulsively clean her room.  All the usual things.

You know how life doesn't always space things out for you?  T had the worst June I've ever seen when he had two several hundred-page documents due for work.  Any week that grades were due were inevitably paired with multiple roadblocks, development days, and computer snafus.  It just happens.  And you have to take those weeks as they come, do your best, and move on.

This year, I've been very intentional about how I parent my older child.  I am trying very hard to pull back and let her make her own decisions.  For those of you who know me, you can stop laughing now.  I really am succeeding fairly well with this.  Because I have to.  Because in two years, she'll be gone.  She'll be at a wonderful school, having wonderful experiences, but she'll still be gone.  So she's got to learn to self-direct, self-manage, and self-soothe.  And she's done quite well with that so far.  She has really supportive teachers, and the things that she really feared have not come to pass.

Until now.   And her luck ran out in Spanish IV.  They had a quiz this week.  She stayed up until 12:30 studying for the quiz.  She made a 0.  As in ZERO.  Nada.  Nadie.  Zilch.  I don't even know how to process that.  She said that most of the non-native speakers made 0s, 5s, and 15s.  The native speakers made 25s.  Putting aside the argument that if scores are that low, it might be a teacher issue rather than a student issue, but still.  It's demoralizing.  And scary.  And I hurt for her.  And no matter how much I tell her that I know that she is working hard, she frets.  It makes the next assignment that much more important.  And it's due tomorrow.  And that doesn't include the pre-Cal test.  Or the AP History test.  Both of which are also tomorrow.

And as much as I want to run in and call the teacher and schedule the tutoring for her, that's not what will help her in the long run.  She will get there.  She will be okay.  She will leave me to make her own way in the world.  And sometimes it will be hard.  Failure and struggle are often much more educational than success.  And that's a lesson that I have no control over.

But it still sucks.

Dear Ina,

Okay.  I'm back.  And I'm sorry.  It seems like having no actual job would make it easier to sit your ass down and write, but apparently  I'm wrong. I've made a shitload of notes.  I've started some stories, but other things got in the way.  I'll start filling in the gaps as I can, but tonight, it's time for a love letter to Ina.  Because, let's face it, only Ina can bring you back from the depths of writer's block (or laziness.  Whatever. You say potato).

Dear Ina, 

I love you.  There, I said it.  You probably already knew that since I cook from your books and link to your recipes way more than anyone else.  But I love you more than that.  I love that all your recipes come out looking just like they do in the book.  I love it that you DEMAND that people enjoy themselves while cooking, that you insist that I buy some parts of my dinner party and focus on some really good food.  I love that you've been married to your high school sweetheart for 44 years.  

And mostly, I love it that you're a little chubby.  I love it a lot.  Because no one that likes food and wine as much as we do (see how I called us "we"?) is going to look like Giada.  All due respect to her, but sister ain't really eating all that pasta, if you know what I mean.  I love it that you're real, and that you make fun of yourself.  And I really, really, really love your Basil Chicken Hash, which BOTH of my children ate the shit out of tonight.

Love,
Me

Myth Busters

Okay.  So, I cheated.  I bought unsanctioned food from a restaurant yesterday.  My head hangs in shame.  Here is my story.

Hi.  My name is Mama O.  

Hi, Mama O.

I'm a roll-a-holic.

It's okay.

No, it's really not.  You see, I used to work right across the street from this magical place called Golden Chick.  And Golden Chick was the place where you went when your students were mean to you.  Or when you had a bad day.  Or when you had a good day.  Or when it was Fuzzy Friday.  Or really, any day.  

What did they have there?

Golden Chick had yummy, fried tenders.  They had creamy, peppered white gravy.  And they had yeast rolls.  Yeast rolls that were better than any white-flour carb you ever put in your mouth.  And they were brushed in butter.  No, not butter, but some kind of even better fake oil/butter hybrid that got all over your fingers and never went away no matter how often you washed your hands.  They were like crack.  I would stop by on the way home from work and get a large diet coke and two rolls.  Sad.  Sad.  Sad.  All I can say is that on the eighth day, God created Golden Chick. And it was good.

So, what happened?

I wish I could say that I just gave it up because it was not good for me.  But I didn't.  First, I quit working across the street.  This was sad, but I still had friends there, so I would drop by for a tender snack from time to time (2 tenders, sub the fries for an extra roll, and a large diet coke).  Then, they switched to Pepsi.  This was the first sign of Satan in the garden.  

So, you stopped going?

I did.  Our family was on the project.  I wasn't working.  There was just no reason to go.

Then, why are you here?

This afternoon, I was so tired.  I've started running again, and I go at 5:15 in the morning, which makes you tired.  And when I'm really tired, I want yeast rolls.  No, I didn't actually run today, but who's counting?  I was headed to the girls' tennis meet in Wimberley, a town nearby, the turnoff for which is dangerously close to Golden Chick.  I tried to resist, but I needed a notebook.

They have notebooks at Golden Chick?

No, they have notebooks at the Dollar General, which shares a parking lot with Golden Chick.  So, you see, it wasn't my fault.

It wasn't your fault that you drove through the parking lot to Golden Chick, ordered a roll and a large iced tea, paid for the roll, what?  Two rolls?  Took them from the cashier and pulled out of the parking lot with your yeasty, greasy booty?

Huh, when you say it that way, it sounds much worse.  But here's the good news.  They weren't very good.  Yes, they were still hot and really greasy, but somehow they didn't live up to the memory of them.  I had built them up so high because they really did make me feel better when things were tough (emotional eating could take up three more years of therapy, but I'll leave that for another time). This time, they tasted fake and overly salty.  Could the quality have dipped?  Sure.  Could I have attributed powers to those rolls that they didn't actually have?  Maybe.  But I realized that maybe this project is slowly retraining my tastebuds not to need fast food.  And maybe it's okay for a yeast roll not to have to be my savior anymore.

So, did you eat them all anyway?

Fuck off.

Starting Over

Right before I left in July, I pulled almost everything out of the garden.  Everything.  It was horrifying.  Some of the tomato plants had new fruit budding.  It was awful.  I had worked so hard for that garden, and it physically hurt to pull everything out (that might also be because there are steel edges to the fencing I used for my tomato cages and I cut myself about 235 times).  I left one bed for the housesitter to manage, but she wasn't all that interested in the jalapeños, so when I got back, I had a bumper crop.  Which I canned.  Which is all I did all of June, too.

After I pulled everything out, I tilled up the beds, pulled off the square-foot grid strings and covered everything in a blanket of hay and hoped for the best.  It felt really good in cathartic, sweaty kind of way, but it was really sad, too.  As my brother-in-law reminds me, Stephen King says this about writing:  You have to "kill your darlings." In writing and in gardening, I guess.

So, this week, I started over.  It seems almost unimaginable that everything I did last spring now has to be repeated for fall.  I drove to the Natural Gardener in the 105 degree heat and bagged my own compost.  Needless to say, there was no Tomato Larry that day - it was EMPTY in the bag-your-own-lot.  Because I am insane.

I pulled off all the hay, tilled in all the new compost and started some beans and tomatoes.  Which is exactly where I was at the end of March last year.  And I'm okay with that.  Like laundry and dishes and most other things in life, there's always something more to be done.  My challenge is to do it with a lighter heart.  And without cussing.  Still working on that one.

I had to hit the ground running this week to get the fall garden in, but I was ready.  Tomatoes and beans went in this week.  And this time, I actually did some planning for successive crops like onions, garlic, leeks, cauliflower and broccoli.  So, I know where I'm going as it begins to get cooler.

And where I'm going right now is bush beans and tomatoes.  I'm feeling pretty good about that.

Keep it green, y'all!

Fly! Be Free!

We are very proud to say that she passed her driver's test on the first go round, which is more than she can say for her mother (did you know that you don't have to pass parallel parking anymore?).  She has picked me up a diet Coke and bought gas.  She has a key chain that is bigger than my whole head.  And most importantly, she has already erased every bad moment of her childhood by taking her sister to a sleepover and the dog to the vet.

I know there are moms out there who fret every time their teenager is on the road alone in the car.  Who worry every time they leave the house.  Who faithfully track their child on GPS.  I'm not one of those.


Can I get a hallelujah?

That's Right, You're Not From Texas

I love Lyle Lovett.  He says all the kinds of things that I'm thinking in my head but don't want to say out loud.  Back when G did not believe that night was for sleeping, we'd twirl and twirl to "One-Eyed Fiona."  Now, that's a song you want to expose your baby to early.  And often.

Anyway, one of Lyle's best songs is called "That's Right You're Not From Texas" a line which concludes with "but Texas wants you anyway."  Good stuff.  And I feel the same way. I am proud to be from Texas.  I'm a native Texan, born and raised, and it's one of the things that makes me feel like I'm special.  More special than people from other states.  Sorry.  Okay, not really.

My Kentucky friends think it's hilarious that there's a Texas Pledge of Allegiance.  And one of the funniest people in the world could absolutely not fathom that there is an entire year of Texas history in 7th grade (he didn't know about 4th grade then).  He said that Michigan history consisted of six short weeks somewhere in the middle of everything else.

And while it may seem a little outsized to most folks, it feels just right to us.

Until July, when the only place I want to be is in Colorado.  Where it's 56 degrees.  And raining.

What what?