i, nutso

nataliedee.com

Test. Test.

I'm trying to get a flippin' poll to post, but so far it ain't happening. Please bear with me.

I'm a little scrambled right now.

You see, I've been getting ready all week for a camping trip this weekend. And not just any camping trip.

Oh no.

It's not like the old days where I could just load up one sleeping bag and ten bags of Doritos (that's three meals per day plus morning and afternoon snacks) and head off to some backwoods camp ground where I'd meet up with a bunch of friends and live like a heathen for a weekend, what with the live Grateful Dead cover band and the living room furniture in the woods and the late night confessional/"wine tasting" circle otherwise known as "The Gutter Table".

<--- Dear Friend after late night at The Gutter Table, circa 1990- something.

No, no! This time I'm heading out to the woods with a whole bunch of third-graders, some of whom - I gather - haven't been out in the woods a whole lot. And we're heading out to the woods and we're staying in unheated shelters.

Oh! And it's going to be cold at night. (We had frost last night. Yes, that cold. )

Oh! Oh! AND the weather for the weekend looks like this:

Friday - scattered thunderstorms
Saturday - thunderstorms, not so scattered
Sunday - even more thunderstorms. Will they be scattered? Who can say?

Wait...here's the best part -

Are you ready?

On this outing into the woods with a whole bunch of children, Yours Truly will play the role of Head Authority Figure and Leader.

That's right.

Me.

There I am there in the picture to the right (I'm on the left in the funny hat.) About 20 years ago, I was running around in a jester costume with my sister and some random member of her husband's family.

This weekend, I will be responsible for a bunch of Girl Scouts in the woods, during a thunderstorm, with no heat.

Now, I will say - to my credit - that I made the very brilliant decision to enlist about six other very responsible adults to go with me. I think that I even said to one of them, "Please don't hesitate to pull me aside and slap me upside the head if you think that I about to make an idiotic decision regarding just about any decision I could make while at camp." I'm that confident in the people I surround myself with.

Which would beg the question, "How did you get to be the leader, anyway? Good grief, were there no chimps available?"

Well, let me let you in on the rigorous and highly competitive process for attaining the prestigious and lauded title of Girl Scout Leader.

It goes like this:

1. Call your local Girl Scout Council and ask to register your 5-year-old in a Daisy Girl Scout troop for Kindergarten-aged girls.

2. Fill out the registration form for your daughter and send it in to Council.

3. Wait for a phone call to learn which troop your daughter will be placed in.

4. Tell your daughter all about Girl Scouting and how much fun she will have in the woods with her troop and her leader.

5. Wait some more for the call from Council.

6. Wait some more.

7. Call Council to find out what's up, you haven't received a call to tell you which troop your daughter will be placed in.

8. Get told by Council that they couldn't actually find anyone to be a Daisy troop leader and there are several dear little girls who are all in tears at home because they so want to be little Daisies and their sweet little hearts are breaking because no one will step forward to be a leader and really, it's so easy, only one hour of volunteer time a week to prepare for the meetings and Daisies don't even sell cookies and the little girls are all so adorable at that age and you can just have fun, fun, fun at the meetings and your first training session will be this week and thank you so much for volunteering to lead the troop, without people like you, Girl Scouting couldn't happen and please send $10.00 for your Girl Scout registration fee and welcome aboard, call us and tell us when your first meeting will be held!

9. Put down phone and wonder what just happened.

10. Voila! You're a Girl Scout Leader!

It's actually very much like Amway.

Long story short, sweet little Daisy Girl Scouts who love nothing more than to spend meetings decorating coloring pages and making bunnies out of egg cartons suddenly turn into Brownies and Juniors who want to tramp through the woods and dive off cliffs and bronco-bust wild horses.

And let me tell you, taking a troop of girls into the woods for a weekend requires much more than 1 hour of prep time the week before.

First there is the 6-hour camping training that I need to take.

Then, there is the First Aid and CPR training.

Then there are the health care forms for everyone and the criminal background checks of all adults going camping and the travel request form that I need to send to Council and then there's the drivers' background checks for all the adults transporting girls to the camp plus the parents' permission slips.

Then there is the menu planning for 24 people, taking into consideration allergies and preferences and the one kid who swears up and down that she just will. not. eat. pasta. and you're about ripping your hair out because trying to feed 24 people on a budget and not having at least one pasta meal is just madness, but then you say "Do you know what 'pasta' is?" and the kid says "Nope" and you say, "You know, like, spaghetti," and she suddenly brightens up and says, "Oh yeah! I love spaghetti!" and Eureka! Now just don't refer to cut vegetables as "crudité".

And I haven't even begun to print out the schedule of outdoor adventure badges we're going to earn while at camp, or the camp chore chart, or the directions or the emergency call list, or the location of the nearest pizza parlor just in case scattered showers turn to monsoons and the camp fire cookout is a bust.

And you know what's ironic?

I bet that a good majority of the kids just want to run around in the woods and eat Doritos.

So anyway, that's what I've been doing all week.

And I have much, much, much more to do.

"One hour of preparation a week" indeed.

It's hard being the grown-up.

It's even harder being the sucker leader.

Anyway, if I can get this poll working, you can vote your opinion of just how nutso I am.

I won't be offended if the answer is "a lot".

I plan on re-earning my "Gutter Table" badge as soon as I get home on Sunday.

more at twiigs.com...

How I Celebrated Earth Day

That's not me in the photo, so you can stop laboring under the false belief that I have toned thighs and a great tan. We need to stop that rumor right here.

However, that lawn mower does resemble my lawn mower.

Pretty darn spiffy, isn't it?

Yes, that's a lawn mower.

It's what is often times referred to as a "reel mower". Perhaps you've seen one in a dark corner of your grandmother's basement, next to the 40-year-old cans of pickled chow-chow and covered in cobwebs. Perhaps you even had to try to move your granny's old-timey reel mower to get to the chow-chow and you were instantly caught off-guard by the sheer heft and general immovability of the rusted-out landscaping behemoth. I believe that my own mother's old reel mower weighed somewhere between 100 and 150 tons and took a team of oxen four hours to drag it around our 1/12th acre in-town back yard.

But this ain't your granny's reel mower.

The reel mowers of today weigh about 20 pounds or less and a good one costs in the $150 range. The first newer reel mower I bought cost about $95 at Sears and it cut grass just dandy. I can only imagine that the $200 reel mowers lovingly trim each blade of grass with the precision and elan of a Garren New York stylist.

What else?

Well, Chateau Halushki is situated on a rolling, near-1/3 acre estate in a 1970's subdivision, and the owners desperately try to maintain some grass in the back yard, with the front yard being slowly turned over to eco-friendly, low-maintenance native plants (i.e. dandelions and wild strawberry, i.e. weeds) and natural landscaping (i.e. dirt). If you're as spacially challenged as I am and have no idea how large 1/3 acre is, to give you a rough idea of how much ground we have to mow (sans house and trees), think of maybe three tennis courts worth of grass, one of which is on a 45 degree incline.

Now, with a self-propelled gas mower, it would take me roughly 30-45 minutes to mow the lawn, depending on how many Barbies and dead squirrels I had to pick out of the grass while mowing.

With a Madame Jozet-propelled reel mower, it takes roughly 45-60 minutes to mow the lawn, depending on how often I have to stop to check-out how ripped and vascular my awesome biceps
look.

With a gas mower, I had to spend money on gas, and last I checked, a gallon was ringing-in at about $3.55. (Cost in polar bear deaths = priceless.)

With a reel mower, I have to "fuel" myself with carbs and protein: locally grown whole wheat crackers + organic peanut butter = about $ .50 per serving.


Now right there in polar bear lives and great-looking arms alone, you can see that a reel mower might be something to consider. But wait! There's more!

With a reel mower

• You can mow at any time of day and not be the labeled The Obnoxious Neighbor Who Evidently Never Had 1) A Hangover, Or 2) A Napping Infant. Seriously, from break-of-dawn till dusk, it seems that someone is running some loud yard equipment in our neighborhood. It's like Neighbor 1 decides at 7:30 AM to start mowing his lawn, and this reminds Neighbor 2 "Oh yeah! I really should mow the lawn today!" and this reminds Neighbor 3 and so on and so forth, and all day long it's BBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAAANNNGGGRRRRAAAAA and that's just the lawn mowers. I didn't even start talking about the leaf blowers and hedge clippers. You know, one time, one of my friends joshingly poked fun at me while I was silently and elegantly raking my leaves (truly, I am a ballerina with a rake), and then she jumped into her car to drive to the gym where she was probably going to work out on some machine that simulated leaf raking except with beeps and blips and an electric hum.
  
  Sorry...I got off topic...
  
  
• You can mow with your kids in the yard and not be afraid that a stone will fly up and knock someone's eye out, or that someone is going to slip under the mower and end up with a hunk of hamburger for a foot. Okay, maybe I'm the only one who worries about such things, but honestly, it could happen. Right?
  
  
• Your 8-year-old can mow the lawn. Sure, reel mowers are still a bit sharp and slicey, but a kid would really have to go out of her way to take an appendage off (knock on wood.) Now, I'm not promising that your elementary-aged kid will be able to manage evenly spaced passes (at first), but her attempts will be good as a first run and will lessen your time at the mower. It's also a great hard-labor punishment if authoritarian parenting is your bent. Anyway, a reel mower can allow for an outdoor chore chart line much sooner than a gas mower. (Unless your kids are growing up on a farm in which case they're probably successfully running combine harvesters by 8-years-old, so never mind.)
  
  
• Your friends will want to mow your lawn - at least once. I kid you not. Your reel mower will make you a genuine Tom Sawyer of sorts. Friends and family will be fascinated with your primitive grass-cutting contraption and want to try it for themselves just to see how much of a nut job you really are. Or, like the sledge-hammer game at a carnival midway, folks will want to test their brawn against yours by attempting to mow the other half of your yard in half your time. Let 'em have at it. Go make some more lemonade and then gush over their superior strength and stamina. Enjoy your mowed lawn.
  
  
• You can mow your lawn and stop to talk to neighbors. I love this! It seems that a good number of folks in my neighborhood hang out on their back patios in the summer. Vive la suburbs! However, it can get a bit downright creepy at times to walk through a well-populated neighborhood and not see any of the...popules. Where is everyone? Well, there are some dog-walkers that I've met. And a few morning strollers. But perambulating around as I do, the only other time I see humans is when they are out mowing their front lawns. And because mowers are so loud and, I suppose, inconvenient to stop and then start again, the humans give a smile and cursory wave, and then it's back to mowing. With a reel mower, you can stop what you're doing, engage the passer-by in a neighborly chat about, oh, your old-timey ways and the polar beat population, etc...which, uh, may explain why people cross the street to the other side or turn around and head in the opposite direction when the see me out mowing my front lawn. Okay, strike that reason to own a reel mower.
  
  
  
• Reel mowing is healthier for your grass! It's true! Reel mowers actually do scissor the grass tips oh-so-gently and precisely, while gas mower blades hack off your fescue's tiny noggins leaving a raggedy edge and a bitter turfdom.
  
  
• Reel mowers are dead sexy. I may not look like the chick at the top right now (or ever) after a winter-long Girl Scout cookie binge, but by September, I'm going to be one pumped-up and powerful mama (with grass-stained feet.) Guys dig strong, take-charge women!
  
  Alright, really, guys (i.e. my husband) dig wives who mow the lawn. But I'll take the rockin' biceps as a consolation prize.
  

Now, of course, yes, of course, reel mowers do have a"But! But!" attached.

If you let your lawn get to knee height (not that that's ever happened here, eh-hem), it will take you at least 32 passes to get the lawn down to putting length.

Also, reel mowers don't always catch the tall wispy weeds and instead just bend them down and let them pop back up again. So, if your lawn is a bit "weedy" like ours is, you may end up with perfectly cut grass but with a spattering of stray fronds and stems poking up like the spines on a lionfish.

Here's a lionfish.

Hey, that's actually not so bad looking! I'll never look at my weedy lawn again with such disdain.

Also, if you do own a larger property with much grass (some reel mower "experts" say an acre or more), a reel mower might not be right for you unless you just love lawn mowing so much that you can't think of anything you'd rather do for twenty hours a week.

Now, of course, you could still buy a reel mower for the workout benefits and just use it for part of your lawn or part of the time. Or, if you have several children who would benefit from the moral correction profited through hard labor and enforced environmentalism, you could spread out the learning opportunity over individual chore times throughout the week.

But, otherwise, you'll probably need a power mower for lager plots of land.

Or a few goats. (Please consult my sister on this.)

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So, anyway, this April 22, I marked the day by sending my husband into our basement to revive our reel mower after its long winter's nap, and then I put muscle to metal and mowed the lawn.

Silently. Swiftly.

And with a prayer for the polar bears upon my lips.

After which, I enjoyed a luncheon of whole wheat crackers, peanut butter, and chow chow.

Happy Earth Day!


And for Mommy Warriors, a bicycle lawn mower! Although the Treehugger site says that reel mowing does use lower body already, so maybe I will get those firm thighs and buttocks by the end of summer.

For Your Friday Viewing Pleasure

Questions:

1. What do you think this is?

2. If you could buy one of these to scare the deer from eating your petunias, would you?

3. If you had one of these as a pet, what would your kids name it?

4. Who will be the first recording artist or group to use one of these in a music video?

5. Which state politician will be caught in bed with one?

6. How soon before one of these shows up in your nightmares?


Have a great weekend!

How To Have A More Civil Argument With A Democratic Nominee For President

Dear Senator Obama,

Heya!

How’s it going?

All well on the campaign trail these days? You getting enough sleep? Staying hydrated and not pigging-out on too many TastyKakes here in Pennsylvania? You don’t want to end up looking like Ed Rendell. Philadelphia food can do that to a person.

Anyway, I hear you were visiting just down the road from me tonight, speaking at Messiah College. I would have liked to have attended The Compassion Forum to hear you and Senator Clinton speak, but some of us had to work.

Oh gosh, I mean…not that what you’re doing isn’t work, don’t get me wrong! I didn’t mean it that way!

Ah drat, I’m so sorry…I’m such a goofus. I’m always doing that open mouth, insert foot thing.

Oh, I know you knew what I meant.

And I know that you knew that I knew that you knew what I meant.

And I know that you knew that I…well…you know….

But it still has to be said…you know?

Anyway, I think you know what I'm saying.

It's like with that bitter Pennsylvanian thing. Whew! What was all that hub-bub about, huh? There you were, giving a 40-minute speech on the current economic crisis and laying out your thoughts on how we can meet the challenges ahead of us and so on and so forth. And yet, just a few days later, people were quoting the speech and jumping up and down about some mention of bitter guns and religion. And then, I had to look up “xenophobe” because suddenly every blogger out there was mentioning xenophobes, and I had to make sure it wasn’t the next cool Internet word appropriation, like “widget” or “gadget”. I just wanted to make sure we were really talking about fear of strangers, you know?

Okay, before I get too far ahead of myself, let me first say this by way of introduction:

I grew up in a small town in rural Pennsylvania. Now, I’m not going to recount the entire story of my coal-mining grandparents and the mines closing down and the Wal-Marts moving in and the only entertainment being riding around on Friday nights counting dead deer on the side of the road. (Notice I did not make a cow-tipping joke.) First of all, the story is not so unique nor the details so important that we need to rehash it all right here and now. Second, I’m saving that story for my tell-all memoir that will net me millions and win me a Pulitzer. Suffice to say that if you’ve listened to even one Bruce Springsteen album, then you’ve gotten the gist of how my "growing up in a small town" played out (minus the verse about a girl wrapping her legs round my velvet rims.)

And I know that even that paragraph right there can come across as a touch bitter, but really, I’m not. I’m actually bitter about very little in my life - not being asked to my senior prom, a perm in eight grade, sure - but other than that, I’d say that life in Pennsylvania has more so evoked sustained feelings ranging from blithe amusement to heartbroken sadness with plenty of joy, elation, and drunkenness in-between (Yuengling beer being an important emotion in Pennsylvania.)

But bitter?

Bitter just sounds so pathetic and defeated. Bitter sounds like small town Pennsylvanians are sitting in their rooms with the walls painted black and chewing on their bottom lip while poking pins into effigies of Essex, Connecticut.

You didn’t really mean “bitter”, right?

It was sort of like that unfortunate Whole Foods thing. You really meant to say "A&P".

Or like with the daughter being "punished" with a baby hooplah? Yeah, in spite of the fact that the hour leading up to nap time can sometimes seem like a circle of hell, maybe “punished” wasn’t the best choice, you know, to say out loud…unless you’re speaking to a room filled exclusively with sleep-deprived mothers of colicky infants, of course.

In regard to all the economic ills and woes of Pennsylvania, I’d rather think that we’re not so much bitter, but instead “righteously angry”. Or, how about, “justifiably ticked-off"? Maybe, if you're from the coal region, you could say that you’ve got your “gotchies in a twist, da f*ck!” But seriously, I’m just not sure about “bitter“. “Bitter” just doesn’t capture how pissed off most people are. Or how motivated many are to work to rise to the challenges, etc., etc. You know... all that other great "Yes We Can" stuff and "We are the change we are waiting for" that motivates the other 49 states so well?

We're like that, too, in Pennsylvania!

Don't think of us as bitter.

We're righteously angry!

We're all angry and "Yes We Can, Dammit!"

So, you know, I think a $3.95 thesaurus would have solved that one small word choice problem, done and done. But really, no harm, no foul.

Now, about the hunting and religion thing...you said:

"And it's not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

Here, it’s not so much an issue of word choice, but instead, perhaps, punctuation. I do only take the tiniest amount of issue with the lack of semi-colon or at least additional commas and conjunctions in some attempt to separate Pennsylvania’s deer hunters and nuns from the immigrant haters. Or is it "haters of immigrants"?

If I can use an analogy, lumping us all together like that is like saying “And it's not surprising that starving people will eat lard or tofu or feces or raw heroin or poodles." I mean, okay, there’s an argument some people will make against eating lard, but in reality, you just haven’t tasted a French fry until you’ve tasted one fried in lard. And with tofu, again, while admitting that you actually eat tofu and enjoy it can seem ridiculously cultish, and trying to convince yourself that it tastes like something other than congealed cardboard is more an act of faith then based in any reality- aside from that, there are still real health benefits and positive consequences to eating tofu that cannot be denied, whether one chooses to eat tofu to maintain good health, or whether it is only in illness that one begins to cling the hope offered by those more scientifically unproven yet miraculous claims of solidified-soy-curd converts.

But c’mon, tastes aside, eating either lard or tofu is much different than putting poo in your mouth. Or poodles.

Does that make sense? Do you see where maybe a comma or semi-colon or two could have easily straightened out that string of run-on cling-ons?

Although, to be honest, you probably could have safely left out the gun and god mention altogether. The fact is, some of us here in the hinterlands do like to hunt and pray - often at the same time - but frankly, we'd do it whether the mines were opened or closed.

Sure, we might hunt more often when chicken breasts cost $6.99 a pound or when we‘re out of work, because hey! Free hunting day! And can you blame us for clinging to religion, especially in the middle of a cold February and what with the church hall being heated on Tuesday nights for Bingo and the coverall jackpot being $1200? $1200 will pay for a lot of buckshot. And c’mon, Senator Obama, you really going to tell me that it didn’t ever cross your mind even once to bury a statue of St. Joseph in your backyard when you were trying to sell a house? That spiritual hocus pocus works. Just ask Oprah and Eckhart Tolle.

Anyway, I know that you know that not all of us fed-up small town Pennsylvanians are consequentially bitter, gun-toting, rosary-wielding hicks who won’t sit next to a Burkinabe immigrant in the lunchroom and who refuse to buy Italian shoes because they just seem too hoity-toity. Or vice versa, for that matter.

And I know that you know that I know that you know. And I know that you know that I know that…well, you know.

But you know how it is.

You said the thing about the stuff, and I heard the thing about the stuff, and I live in Pennsylvania and grew up in a small town and maybe I'm supposed to say something, I dunno. Most of all, though, I’m a just a real pill when it comes to semi-colons and word connotation…or is it denotation?…well, whatever, I'm just like that.

You've got a friend in Pennsylvania who is picky about being lumped-in with poodle eaters without the protection of a comma is all I'm saying.

Anyway, I just wanted to drop a line saying, yeah, I know.

And now you can write me a long letter telling me how much work it is to run a Presidential campaign, especially one where every ninny with a keyboard is parsing every word out of your mouth.

And then I can write you a letter saying, “I know you didn’t mean to say ‘ninny’, but….”

And you’ll say, “I know you know.”

And I’ll say, “I know, you know, you know.”

And we'll all just...know from now on.

You know?

Glad we got that cleared up.

You and Hillary are both doing an awesome job. Don't eat too many Tastykakes. And don't either of you get tempted into any cow-tipping jokes.

So. Not. Funny.


Signed,

Righteously Drunk Angry in Pennsylvania

I'm so much more than bitter.

How To Have A More Civil Argument With Your Dear Spouse

How Not To Argue

We join our couple's heated discussion already in progress.

Dear Husband: ...and furthermore! Let me tell you again how much it really drives me nuts when you leave the car radio turned on and cranked up so that when I get in the car and start the engine, I'm greeted by All Things Considered blaring at 120 decibels! I don't know which is worse: simply being bored to death by a monotone NPR announcer or my ears bleeding while I'm being bored to death by a monotone NPR announcer.

Dear Wife: Oh yeah?! Oh yeah?! Well...well...uh... your hat is funny looking!

Dear Husband: What...? I'm not even wearing a hat!

Dear Wife: Okay then, what about all those times that I did turn off the radio, huh? Oh yeah, forgot about those times, didn'tchya! All those times that I was juggling a baby and a bag of groceries and a chainsaw and I still went back to the car and turned off the radio because I remembered how much my dearly beloved hated the radio playing as soon as he started the car! What about all those times that I did remember to turn off the radio? Do I ever get a "Thank you, Toots!" or a "Gee whiz, you're one considerate broad"? Oh no! (Pointing finger in the air for emphasis.) I only ever hear about the times that I forgot to turn off stinking NPR host Robert Siegel!

Dear Husband: So basically you want me to thank you for all those times that Robert Siegel didn't shove a pointy stick in my ear.

Dear Wife: Oh, someone's going to shove a pointy stick somewhere, that's for sure, buster.

Dear Husband: Well, harrumph!

Dear Wife: Well, harrumphdy-harrumph!


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How To Argue With Dignity and Respectfulness

Two weeks later and after mutual agreement to rise above the petty squabbling, wife gets a phone call while at work.

Dear Wife: Hello?

Dear Husband: Why hello, Dear Wife!

Dear Wife: Why hello, Dear Husband! Howsoever can I help thee?

Dear Husband: Well, methinks that you took my car keys to work with you.

Dear Wife: Why, I find that quite impossible to believe. Surely you are mistaken.

Dear Husband: No, I am ever so sorry, but I do believe this is a fact. Also, I do believe that you have taken your own keys with you to work as well.

Dear Wife: No, this just cannot be. I beg of thee to check the top desk drawer again. I am sure that you will find your car keys resting comfortably within.

Dear Husband: Done and done, and yet there are no keys, and what with me needing to drive our eldest child to a birthday party in fifteen minutes.

Dear Wife: You don't say.

Dear Husband: I do say.

Dear Wife: Hmmm. Well, in fact, I did just walk to the break room and have discovered that I am, in fact, in possession of both our sets of keys.

Dear Husband: Fancy that!

Dear Wife: Yes! Fancy that!

Dear Husband: Fancy, fancy that!

Dear Wife:

Dear Husband:

Dear Wife: I suppose that I can clock out momentarily and drive home to return your keys.

Dear Husband: That would be much appreciated! Thank you so much for your gracious return of my keys!

Dear Wife: You're welcome.

Dear Husband: That you took.

Dear Wife: Yes, yes...took accidentally.

Dear Husband: Oh, of course! Accidentally.

Dear Wife: Yes.

Dear Husband: And, moreover, thank you for all those other times that you remembered not to take my keys to work with you. I so do appreciate your previous consideration in this matter.

Dear Wife: You're welcome.

Dear Husband: Did I also ever thank you for all those times that you didn't accidentally hit me in the hand with a hammer? That was awfully copacetic of you.

Dear Wife: Okay, har-dee-har. I get it Mr. Funny Guy.

Dear Husband: At this time, I'd also like to thank you for all those times you didn't light my socks on fire...and the for all those times that you remembered not to...

Dear Wife: *click*

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It's like Hepburn and Tracy around here, I tell ya.

Hepburn and Tracy.

To Did List

1. Raked and hand de-thatched entire back yard. As always, done in a moment of first-breath-of-spring madness, beginning with much adrenaline and gusto and iced-tea fueled vigor, and ending with a quarter-sized blister on my right hand because Damn The Gardening Gloves, I'm Doing This Spur-of-the-Moment Commando Style!

2. Woke up next morning in utter agony as each one of my "raking muscles" made itself known in a sort of all out sado-charley horse knot fest. Wept freely until the 600 mg ibuprofen kicked in.

3. Surveyed rake-damaged lawn and then sped off to Home Despot for $45.89 worth of sun-and-shade mix high traffic area grass seed. Barely cajoled remaining uninjured muscles (those would be my tongue and the muscles controlling my eyebrows) into lifting the bag of seed out of car and into garage, upon which I then promptly began forgetting about it. Made quick note to find bag of seed again in mid-December and with a family of mice nesting on it.

4. Wrote a list enumerating all the wonderful perks of owning a 1/3 acre of dirt as opposed to a 1/3 acre of grassy lawn. Convinced myself after no. 3: Making mud buffets keeps kids quiet for hours.

5. Found a dead squirrel under yew. Dug squirrel grave with my eyebrows.

6. Ate more ibuprofen.

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How's your Spring going?