Time Destroyed my Thyme: Failures of a Suburban Organic Gardner

I was Queen of the garden, guardian of nature, supreme boss of the land.

 These photos showcase delectable memories...

...of last year's amazing garden.

 An army of multi-colored sunflowers stood guard against my garden fence, their bright and showy blooms following their namesake across the sky each day.

Plump, warm tomatoes hung from sprawling branches no cage could contain and mingled with sweet basil and savory green onions.  Oregano and thyme trailed over the garden wall, perfuming the air each time we brushed past. 

I scavenged through cookbooks and websites in search of new recipes to utilize the bountiful harvest.  Graceful flowers mixed with aromatic greenery covered tabletops and counters. The essence of summer permeated our home.

After the success of last Spring's garden I decided to kick it up a notch: this year I would grow all my plants from seeds. I would be a suburban organic farmer and locovore extraordinaire. Better Homes & Gardens would be knocking on my jasmine covered garden gate begging to do a photo shoot.

I planted my two favorite varieties of tomatoes, basil, parsley, thyme, green onions, chives, sweet red onions, yellow squash, zucchini, four types of peppers and two kinds of corn.  I worked organic manure into the soil with my thinly gloved hands.  I tied homemade tomato cages together with biodegradable twine.  I nurtured my seedlings with daily waterings, organic fertilizers...I may have even sang to them a few times, encouraging them to grow vigorous and healthy.  I was going to have a garden to rival Martha-Freaking-Stewart.

 

Bees and dragonflies darted between the delicate blossoms.  Green tomatoes small as peas and mini ears of corn poked from beneath green leaves.

Then the trouble began.

A family of field mice conducted nightly raids on the yellow squash and zucchini decimating the harvest until Hubby wiped them out in revenge. The young plants never recovered (though neither did the mouse colony).

My tender seedlings needed daily watering. The lack of rainfall this Spring doubled my monthly water bill.

Finally the rains came and brought with them a plague of mosquitoes so thick I had to douse myself  with half a bottle of Deep Woods Off AND wear long sleeves, pants, and an utterly unattractive scarf/hat combo just to pull a few of the never-ending weeds erupting from the soil.

Then came this Amazonian heat and humidity. Summertime arrived with its red hot guns blaring. June brought afternoon highs topping 100 degrees. Nighttime temps hovered in the 70s. Just a peek at the garden and I was soaked with sweat. All I could do was stay inside and hide in the A/C.



  Unfortunately, my garden wanted to do the same...

The weeds and repressive heat threw a coup d'etat on my garden.  My harvest consisted of one dish of lackluster tomatoes.  One 3 by 5 inch dish. Only brittle skeletons of my beloved herbs and crops remain.  The once beautiful plot now looks as if it was the victim of a forest fire or plague of locust.  The wild weeds have taken over and mutant mosquitoes reign over the land like Dracula's spawn.

Bye bye dreams of BH& G. Screw you summer and Martha-Freaking-Stewart.  Screw. You.

Next year I'm just going to hit the farmers market and save my sanity and my skin.

I get the point Mother Nature.  I know who's the boss now.




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An Open Letter to Bright House Networks

Dear Bright House Networks,

To put it succinctly: you suck.

Our tumultuous relationship has endured so many problems throughout the years I have had to repress  memories like an abused girlfriend.  From the cable going out during the Superbowl to home phone service disappearing while I had a jaundiced newborn, your crappy customer service and constantly inconsistent internet peculiarities are slowly driving me insane.  And help keep my local wine store in business (I should investigate if you own any of their stock).

I know I don't call you as often as should.  I don't call at 10 p.m. when the only channel I want to watch is suddenly unavailable because I know I won't get to sleep for hours; instead I'll be replaying my fight with the cranky swing shift service rep desperately in need of a Red Bull.

 I don't call when the TV guide channel mysteriously disappears for days leaving me no freaking idea what is on my 70 to 150 channels (depending on the day, the particular television set and your mood).

I don't call when the box resets during the season finale of my favorite show or when my child has an absolute meltdown as he discovers his favorite channel has been suddenly dropped from your ever-changing line-up.  I should  require one of your reps take him to Chuck E. Cheese so I don't have to deal with his tears.

I don't call when the phone goes out in the middle of a conversation.  It actually comes in handy when talking to certain family members and it would be brilliant if I had bill collectors calling. I don't use the home phone much anyway but I did just use up 96 minutes of my stingy cell phone plan dealing with your incompetent minions.  You can take that off my rapidly rising bill.

Two hours of my life were just wasted by your untrained internet support team.  Two hours I should have spent working (or at least pretend to).  Two hours during which I had a feverish child calling for a Popsicle and juice while I was trapped underneath my desk tangled in a pile of wires with a phone squished to my shoulder and a flashlight propped under my chin.  And I understand it is not your fault I do not regularly clean below my computer tower, but thanks for ruining my cute white capri pants anyway.

Yes, I do know how to check if my computer is actually on.  And why yes, I did reset my modem, just as I have had to do countless times before when your services have screwed up.   Thanks so much for making me disconnect my wireless router when you didn't know how to reconnect it so I then had no wireless service AT ALL.  My husband will be thrilled when he comes home and cannot get any work done on his laptop.  No biggie. I'm sure he won't mind driving back to his office for a few more hours.  No, I cannot call the router manufacturer; it WAS working before I called you, just slowly.  YOU screwed it up.  YOU need to fix it.  No, I will NOT have a nice afternoon.

Two customer service reps later (they were at least here in the U.S. not Mumbai) and I had your touch and go crappy internet service running once more.  Isn't this what you pay service technicians to do?  I'd like my $25 an hour for technical services I provided please.  You can take that off my bill also.

Then there is that little issue about your billing. You are not selling used cars.  There is no reason my neighbor should be paying less and getting more services. I have good credit and I have paid my bill on time for over ten freaking years.  Do not make me turn on my car-haggling-bitch mode.  You do not want to go there.  I know you pretty much have a monopoly over this whole phone/internet/TV scam, but I am tired of being screwed.  I feel dirty and used after I deal with you.

Bright House, I would not take this crap from any person (especially one not related by blood).  I think it is well past time we terminate our volatile and contemptuous relationship.  I deserve better.  And you owe me a case of wine for my troubles.

Sincerely,
(who am I kidding...I'm just being polite)

A Soon-to-be Ex-Bright House Customer


P.S.

I found it absolutely delightful your automated customer service just called as I was writing this to take up more of my time with a survey. Just so you are clear about my answers: 

Was I satisfied with my Bright House services?  Utterly and Completely Dissatisfied.

Was I satisfied with the knowledge demonstrated by the technicians?  Who are you kidding? I know you recorded the conversations. Completely Dissatisfied.

Please rate your overall Bright House experience.  I think I made myself clear with the FIFTH rep I yelled at earlier.  Are you stupid?  Completely Dissatisfied.

How likely are you to recommend Bright House services to others?  Baby, I'm telling as many potential customers as possible how much you suck. Unless you can do some major ass kissing, our relationship is OVER.

{click}

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The Simple Things...Boys are Mess Magnets

I had no idea what I was getting into when I gave birth to a wiggling, peeing on the OB yet still absolutely amazing baby boy.  As I have already discussed, I always assumed I would have a girl and our lives would be filled with antique baby dolls, vintage Barbies, tutus, fairy tale books, and of course, a few messes and scrapes when she embraced her inner Tom-boy.

Nope.  Not happening here.

I have a boy and boys are mud magnets.  Now I do have to say, Kiddo is pretty well behaved and I run a tight ship around here, but there is just no way he can avoid messes.

I have learned to laugh instead of yell, to grab the camera while I catch my breath and sometimes slowly count to 10.  The mess will be cleaned up.  The memory will last forever.  Sometimes the simple things are the snapshots of life that stick with you forever...

After baby powdering his entire bedroom age 2 1/2.

King of the mud age 3 1/2.

Hanging in his "mud hot tub" at 5.

Sometimes it's just the simple things that keep us smiling...

 Think Kiddo is the messiest kid?  I do, so I'm linking up with Jessica at Four Plus an Angel for her messiest kid contest.


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Shaking my Booty to the Beat @ Flirty Girl Fittness Class

I'm still wiping the sweat off my face glistening after my first Flirty Girl Fitness class.  My gym has yet to install the stripper poles or set up the chairs to straddle, but my hips and pelvis are feeling the burn and my leg muscles are still screaming singing after my slightly stilted yet still sexy workout.

After watching Terri Hatcher demonstrate her steamy pole dance exercise routine on an episode of Oprah, Canadian sisters Kerry and Krista Knee created Flirty Girl Fitness.  They opened posh, ladies only gyms in Toronto and Chicago which feature a tantalizing lineup of classes including Chair Fit/Striptease, House Music Honeys, Pole Tease, Coyote Ugly, Burlesque, and Bikini Boot Camp.  Their Flirty Girl Fitness Program is also available in a  DVD set, complete with six routines, a keepsake box, and a pink feather boa.

Of course, I had never heard of it.

I had no idea what to expect when I walked into the "Booty Beat" class.   One of my favorite instructors recently received her Flirtification  (a.k.a. certification and official independent contractor license) to teach her own Booty Beat classes.  I showed up for my regularly scheduled intensive Body Pump toning class to see the Booty Beat flyer taped beside the door:

Booty Beat is the ultimate sexy, fun cardio dance party! We take our moves
straight from the hottest videos and coolest dance floors and incorporate them
into a fat burning, super-fun, easy-to-follow routine to provide the perfect
combination of cardio and strength training. You will feel like you are a part of
a music video rather than in a cardio crazy, core chiseling, booty toning, arm
sculpting workout class. --FlirtyGirlFitness.com

I was already dressed in my gym clothes.  I couldn't just stand in the doorway looking like a prude or a chicken.  I sighed, mustered up my courage, and walked into the class.

First your must understand something: I am one of the least coordinated women on the planet.  I can't  make it through five minutes of aerobics on a DVD in the privacy of my own living room without thoroughly humiliating myself.  During my last aerobics attempt my cat fled from the room while laughing at me (shh, I know she was) in her smug feline way.  My feet and arms simply cannot handle two opposite movements simultaneously.

I am not rhythmically challenged; I love to dance, but only to music I can immerse myself within.  None of that MTV choreography crap.  I could never be a Brittany or a Madonna.  I'm suppose I could say I'm a more sensual dancer, moving my hips along with the beat as my body follows along--more belly dancer than pop diva.

Luckily, the first class was nearly empty.  Only three of us were brave enough to strut our stuff in a studio lined with mirrors.  And I was miraculously the youngest.  I said a quick thanks to whatever higher power for keeping the 17-year-old model/dancer gym regular our of class (she is sweet as can be but come on,  my self-esteem evaporates in her presence). We started on a wide learning curve.   Our instructor's CD didn't work.  None of us had any experience with the dance moves.  And well, we had to kick our inhibitions out the door.

The first move was the hardest for me: The Brittany.  Just the name made me cringe.  My hands had to perform four different movements while my feet danced at a slightly faster pace. And it was not timed properly with the background music.  Not my most graceful moment.  Other moves were much more my style:  the sexy "Angel" (hands up then shaking your glitter down your body), the slowly gyrating "Corkscrew,"  even the butt slapping "Oh No You Didn't."

Each song/routine consists of about four separate "flirtified" dance moves strung together and repeated at an aerobics pace.  Since my instructor is more into toning than aerobics, she prompted us to pick up weights while dancing and modified some moves into more traditional squats and lunges.  Oh yeah, I felt the burn.  And not just because I was hot...

During that first class we laughed at ourselves, learned a few new moves our significant others probably wouldn't mind us demonstrating, and worked up quite a sweat.  It was fun.  I didn't feel as if I was ready to don my tightest tank top and a cowgirl hat and jump up on a bar for a sexy dance a la Coyote Ugly, but I walked out slightly more confident, more aware of my sexuality, and with my head held high. 

If the class gains enough followers my gym may invest in some poles for our entertainment.  Management will have to add a curtain in front of the peek-a-boo window; we don't need any of the  bodybuilders outside dropping any weights on their feet while gawking.  And I might need a glass of wine (or two) before my first sashay on the pole.  Adios inhibitions...

This first video shows a routine similar to what I attempted in class.  Except we couldn't do it as fast.  Or coordinated.  And my instructor is NOT a perky playmate barking out instructions.




And if we ever get those poles...



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Florence + Flowing Skirts + No Fights = Fab Night

{Not me}

 

{Me}

After wasting an afternoon playing fatter, wrinkly Barbie doll attempting to find something hip yet age appropriate to wear to the Florence + the Machine concert (then embarrassing myself by posting my options online) I did what women usually do when suffering from a wardrobe crisis: I went shopping.  I kicked all the outfits back into the dark recesses of my over-stuffed closet.   I bought new dress. It was inexpensive. It was pretty.  I didn't have to pick out accessories. It made me feel good.  Perfect.

The Hubby and I slogged through rush hour traffic in the rain and eventually made it to the tourist side of town. As we ran through Universal CityWalk we placated ourselves with dreams of a fabulous show and cold beer. Yes, I said beer.  Wine is for home appreciation, good food, the Opera, and upscale bars.  Beer is for concerts, NASCAR, and our English Pub.

Once inside the Hard Rock we slithered our way through the crowd to find the perfect best available floor space.   I needed a clear view of the stage.  I needed to have room to dance.  And I needed to have no assholes in my direct vicinity.

Hubby claims I am an asshole magnet at concerts.  There is almost always some jerk who feels it is necessary to completely invade my personal space, yell over the music to his asshat buddy or into his phone, spill beer down my back, and accidentally grope me repeatedly.  Though I am shy and timid in everyday life, don't f@ck with me at a concert.  I simply will not put up with that sh$t.

Until very recently, I never though much about what I wore to shows.  Standard uniform was black tank (velvet, sparkly, or vintage rock band), jeans and big black boots. Beer + big black boots = bravery.  Get into my space and I would stomp you like fine grapes in a barrel.   If someone dared to get pushy I would bum a cigarette and use it as a prop; a few burns and they would scurry away.  Worked every time.

But now I wear heels or occasionally flip flops if it's raining or an outdoor show. Stomping doesn't work nearly as well.  No one can light anything in doors anymore (which is nice because I hated coming home smelling like an ashtray).  And I am with my Hubby who wants to be The Man standing up for his woman, but can't really get involved. He'd be fired in a heartbeat if he was ever arrested for fighting.  So I am on the lookout to avoid assholes and trouble.  We stood five feet from security.  I felt like such a grown-up.
 

{not Me, buy MY hair}

I did get a couple of "nice hair" comments and stares on the way to the bar and bathroom.  Florence Welch, the lead chanteuse/siren, has my hair.  I'm older, therefore it was mine first.  I thank her everyday for making my I'm too lazy to straiten my waves in this humidity hairdo stylish.

The audience for Florence was mixed:  emo teens, hipster adults sporting glasses and flannels, and a profusion of women.  Many holding hands.  Many whom I first thought were flannel-shirted hipster guys (sorry).   Hubby surveyed the crowd and informed me point blank, "You are NOT allowed to get in a fight with a dyke tonight."   Nothing against lesbians whatsoever; most of them could have chewed me up and spit me out without blinking a mascara-free eye. Would not have made a fun night.

An Amazon stood in front of us with a child about Kiddo's size.  He was falling asleep at her feet.  I don't mind kids at concerts (we took Kiddo to see Paul McCartney last year) but not when it's a sold out, standing room only venue.  The poor thing was hugging his lovey and fighting to keep his eyes open.  I feared he would be mashed into rock show road-kill.

As the floor filled around us, a perky, pig-tailed and bejeweled 40-something bumped into me. When I whipped around she hugged me and shoved her ten-year-old between us, raving about how he just looovveed Florence + the Machine.

Our one night out and we were surrounded by kids. Not funny, Karma.

Once the the band took the stage everything around us was forgotten.  Florence Welch enchanted the crowds with her powerful pipes, haunting lyrics, and sheer Gucci-goes-goth get-up (see hot pants).  Her gauzy costume floated across the stage as she whirled and danced like an ethereal pagan goddess while belting out tunes such as The Dog Days Are Over, Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up), and Howl.  The band was tight; her vocals pounded through the venue and mesmerized the awe-struck audience.

Florence + the Machine is one of the few bands who truly sound great live.  Florence proved how the award-winning debut album Lungs earned its title: she has one hell of a set of them.  Beautiful.  Ethereal.  Utterly fabulous.

Hubby left with a huge crush on Florence Welch.  Which I suppose I can deal with; when we looked up the YouTube videos of the show Kiddo raved how she looks just like me.  Well, maybe if I was ten years younger, taller, thinner, had legs up to my armpits, and could carry a tune anywhere besides the shower.  It's nice to dream...

If you haven't listened to them, give them a try.








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A Little Bit of Happy

Quick Writing Prompt

Mama's Losing It:  On a piece of paper write down something that makes you happy…take a photo of your paper and wa la…there’s your post.

Rockin the Baby

 I'm hooking up with Shell for the wildly popular "Rockin the Baby!" meme today.  It was a great excuse to dig through the FEW digitized baby pics I have available. When Kiddo was a wee little thing (nearly eight, yes EIGHT years ago!) we didn't have a digital camera. They were new, primitive (my crummy cell phone has more mega pixels), and ridiculously expensive.  His babyhood was cataloged on that splendid old antique called film, so my adorable baby pic choices are limited.


Oh, what I could have done with a DSLR.

I didn't link up with Shells previous meme "Rockin the Bump" which spread like wildfire across the blogosphere.  I never had any of those artsy professional pregnancy photos taken and the few pics I talked Hubby into snapping are not exactly flattering.  Once again, FILM.  We couldn't see what they looked like until AFTER they were developed and handed over in a little white envelope.  No editing.  Scary stuff (especially the photo he took while I was in the middle of a contraction).  Not for sharing.

 Why do I feel like an old geezer lamenting the days before television and cordless phones?

 
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**And in other news, in honor of the last space shuttle mission, please be sure to check out the Blast From the Past: Your Shuttle Stories on NPR.   If you click through the slideshow of amazing photos and stories you will find ME at #13.

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Godspeed Discovery, Godspeed—A Space Shuttle Launch at Dawn

 April 5^th, 2010. The Space Shuttle Discovery was scheduled for launch at 6:22 a.m. at Kennedy Space Center.

As a native Floridian, I witnessed Space Shuttle launches from backyards and schoolyards since the program started in 1981.  I have countless of memories of bright streaks of orange rising over the treetops and billowing vapor trails climbing through the clouds before breaking through our atmosphere  into space.  But I had only been up close and personal once.

This particular launch fell during Spring Break, the weekend of my 10^th Wedding Anniversary, and I finally had a child old enough to burn a launch into his memory.  Everyone was free from work and school. It was time to go and feel one up close.

Getting to and from the Space Coast on a launch day is an adventure in itself. A sixty mile drive home can easily take over five hours. Highways clogg to the point you are forced to turn off your car engine to avoid overheating.

But this early morning launch was essentially a night launch. The last night launch scheduled. I had never witnessed the spectacular show up close. It was worth the trouble.

After an extremely dramatic weekend (Paul McCartney concert in Miami, Easter festivities in Orlando, and a near scalping by the family cat only hours earlier) we dragged ourselves out of bed at 3 a.m. I hastily packed a bag and carried my sleeping child to the car for our journey.

We made it to the Space Coast in decent time and parked a few blocks from Rotary Riverfront Park directly across the Indian River from the Kennedy Space Center. We could see the shuttle lit up on the colossal launch pad across the dark water. The crowd was massive. Thousands of drowsy tourists and locals lined the shore of the tiny park. Carrying a sleeping 6-year-old made the task of finding a clear view a little tougher, but we finally squeezed into a perch on the boardwalk.

The countdown was on.

Though we were crushed together in the darkness, the international congregation surrounding us remained on their best behavior. We chatted with a young couple from Sweden, some German Sailors on leave, tourists from California reverently waiting to witness a moment of scientific glory.  Sleeping children crashed on blankets and folding chairs. Adults adjusted camera settings and zoomed in on the  launch pad. The excitement in the air was palpable.

Suddenly the final countdown was on. Everyone seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of a safe launch. Fingers poised above camera shutters. Only whispers spread through the crowd before we tensely, excitedly chanted down  10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1... liftoff!

Cheers erupted as Discovery's orange flame illuminated the black sky. Children stared in wide-eyed wonder upon parents shoulders and a collective cheer sounded above the roar of the rockets engines. We could feel the powerful engines booming across the water after a slight delay.  Discover had made it! We had lift off! 

We stood glued to the spectacle above us until Discover faded into the darkness. The crowed breathed a communal sigh of relief as the light of the last booster rockets dropped into the sea. Strangers from around the world shared hugs of congratulations and relief.   Tears of pride and joy mingled with cheers that beautiful morning.

Some tried to escape the melee before the sun tickled the horizon. Knowing the traffic would be horrendous, we stuck around for a bit to savor the sunrise over the Cape.

The blue dawn crept in slowly around the shuttle's gray vapor trail. Within minutes startling oranges and yellows illuminated Discovery's path like a flame licking through the sky. The view changed every moment; the startling colors in each frame captured by my camera morphed through every color of the rainbow. The early morning ocean breeze slowly shifted the spectacle from a con trail to a dragon to an ethereal face smiling down upon us from the heavens.

Godspeed Discovery, Godspeed.

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An Open Letter to My Child Regarding His Latest Obsession: Flipping the Bird

Dear Kiddo,

You know I love every cell in your beautiful, rapidly growing body from the tiny mole on your foot to the Molluscum bumps on your chin.  I love you when you are being an absolute angel snuggled up to me covering me with kisses and I love you when you hose down the bathroom with errant pee.  {You just may not realize my screams and rants are words of love and devotion.}  But I do, I swear. Always and forever no matter what.

But I have to tell you, this middle-finger obsession is driving me too close to the brink of sanity.

{Not MY child}

I wish I knew which rotten little ruffian thought he was so cool when he flipped the bird on the school playground last month and exposed innocent children to this crude and obscene gesture.   I have a strange desire to coat that brat's finger with industrial strength Bengay.  So he'd have to leave it up.  For a long time.

Ever since that day you have a flagrant obsession with everything touching, brushing, bending, or grazing either of your tiny middle digits.

At least 25 times a day (and sometimes 25 times an hour) you come racing over to me, trying to rat yourself out by questioning the appropriateness of your hand gesture.

Mommy, I touched  the table and my middle finger was a little higher than my other fingers.  I that okay?


Mommy, I was scratching and my middle finger stayed on my arm longer.  Is that okay?

Mommy, I was in the shower and the soap slipped out of my hand and my middle finger came up a little...


Mommy, uh, I was eating my sandwich and some jelly got on my middle finger and I licked it off so it was up and...


Mommy, I was peeing and my middle finger was on top, so it was higher than my other fingers...


And several times a day:


Mommy, uhm, I was thinking about my middle finger and...

STOP IT.  I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT ANYMORE.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why you are hell-bent on ratting yourself out.

In the beginning I was patient and kind.  I gently answered each and every redundant question.  I have told you IT'S OKAY at least a thousand times by now.

No, you are NOT giving anyone the highway salute, the Bronx salute, the one-finger salute, the bird (as in giving, flipping, or flying the bird), or flipping off someone.  You are NOT IN TROUBLE.

I do apologize for the day when I kind of lost it after you told me about your finger for the 68th time and I finally showed you explicitly what you are not allowed to do.  I flipped you a perfect, intentional bird.  And told you not to do this EXACT GESTURE to someone.  That's it.  If you are not doing that exact gesture you are golden.  The end.

But you still refuse to let it sink in.

You are a good-hearted and very intelligent 7 1/2 year-old.  You can read Harry Potter.  You are nearly at my level in math.  Just don't flip anyone the bird.

Tell me all about your day at school or at camp.  I want to hear every detail of why Obi-Wan can wield a lightsaber better than Anakin (or is it vice-versa?) or how Sponge Bob can fart bubbles or how the kid in your group eats his boogers, but please, I beg you, not another freaking word about your middle finger.

Or I may have to tape your fingers together like you asked me to do last week.