Downbeat is NOT a Vegetable

The ants are back. I'm actually impressed by their sheer tenacity, in spite of myself. And the things I've chosen to do to try and over come them. The ants are back.

(This is where I spontaneously burst into a slightly altered rendition of "The Cat Came Back, the Very Next Day, Yes the Cat Came Back, and He Was Going to Stay...")

And they have decided to swarm my favorite new little plant sprout. Gussie? I warn you now, I'm bringing a REALLY CUTE little plant sprout to you as a gift, in a neat little ceramic container, the next time we get together to do quilting and gab. You'll love it. (RIGHT?!) With a little regular watering, you'll soon have tons of baby jack-pumpkins in YOUR OWN YARD... and if you pluck them when they are a nice color, and set them in the direct sun of your back porch for five days to cure, maybe you'll even give a couple of them back to me as Jack himself. I promise to love them forever if you do. And what will be better than hangin' with Jack-P and the babies in your own back yard bar-be-q later this summer? They are, after all, an edible squash. I mean, really. What could be better? And don't worry- I plan to visit them regularly to check on their progress. (Just kidding. I know you'll give my sprouts a fair shot, and if they don't make it, well... the ants probably came back... and finished the job.)

Also, speaking of hidden messages, have you ever gotten a communication from someone you thought was a good friend that you were actually keeping in touch with... even though you both moved away about the same time, in opposite directions? A communication that left you with the question.... "So... is she divorced now, or just self-fulfilling all of a sudden (she's painted her new apartment pink), or is her husband in another country for a while, possibly fighting in a war?" ...And when you got that email, were you too afraid to ask direct prying questions because it's obvious something has majorly changed in her life, and she didn't bother to tell you about it in the first place? Leading to the observation that you probably aren't as good of friends as you thought... now that you don't live in the same place and have similar husband issues to commiserate over... since I, myself, am DEFINITELY DIVORCED, AND SELF-FULFILLING, AND MY EX is DEFINITELY IN ANOTHER COUNTRY... fighting in a war or something... probably or something... (Don't worry-- I was lovingly supportive and patriotic and devoted to him the whole time we were married. And I still support our soldiers-- from a distance. A safe distance.)

Oh- and by the way, speaking of exness, mine recently came up with the observation that if he hadn't decided to get stationed out of the country, our marriage probably would still be going fine. Say WHAT? Ex-cuse me? Ex-plain that one! (My historical account of events is that we planned to go to another country together, then we divorced (well, we started the process), and he switched his orders to go get more schooling in-country, and later (well after the divorce was granted) selected a post in the country in which he currently resides.... leaving anything about leaving the country and reasons for divorce totally unrelated.... in my mind, that is.) Exness is a very confusing state of comprehension at times. I relate it to pickled beats. I have no comprehension of them either.

It amazes me that so many people can visit the state of Exness, and nobody has yet devised a way to post helpful directional signs to make it at least a little bit less confusing. You know-- This is the row for stunted carrots, and If you want really dirty couch potatoes, they're two rows up... and Frantic indecision is natural when trying to make supermarket selections post-divorce, please take your second left for greater self-awareness of personal vegetable preferences. Signs like that.

Personally, I think my sign would say "lost in translation, please check back later" on it just about now. It would be followed shortly by a very unusual sign with pink-and-yellow polka dots on it, clarifying that the one-way bridge you just crossed was for folks who are now "totally disinterested in following rules or or expectations set down by others, even if they are for your own good." It's a dangerous path, and because I chose to take it, my school work often suffers. Apparently, so do my vegetable sprouts. I suspect most teenagers would relate. And, judging from lunch yesterday, so would two-year-olds. Only their garden veggies end up cold and mushy on the dinner plate until they finally give in and eat them (or bedtime happens), and mine are just being taken away from me by the combined forces of ants and Management. Which doesn't explain my problems with school work. Sigh...

All I want is a nice warm fresh veggie soup, dammit! Can you think of anyplace with more rules, fewer personal accommodations, and higher expectations than an online graduate program about the science of providing 100% correct information 100% of the time? What was I THINKING??? And why wasn't there a sign to help me find a better road?? Who WANTS to be right all the time?? How boring. And besides, is anybody really capable of being always 100% correct, and still SANE???

(Which leads nicely into my latest theory that people who live in insane asylums probably get lots of sleep and regular meals and time to garden... and wouldn't that be nice?... of course, they probably don't serve much ice wine, ice cream, or let you play with power tools and sewing machines in those sorts of places... and there'd probably be rules... hmm)

So anyway, my vegetable garden is growing smaller by the hour, and Downbeat is definitely the word of the afternoon. I started the day with such high hopes, too. I was happy, the sun was out, the wind was blowing, I knew what my plans were for the day, and they included really getting some homework DONE, man... And now it's dinner time. And I'm blogging. And the homework ain't happened yet. Downbeat. It's not a vegetable. Just a vegetative state.

Astral Insanity

So... I love this woman. I've never met her. She' d probably irritate me in real life. But OHMYGOD, we are astrally connected on another plane of existence. Really. Only she knits and I make wall tapestry quilts. And she has three cats, and I have one. So far.

CrazyAuntPurl

Go there. Read that. Then, let me tell you about the garlic growing IN A CLOSED GLASS CONTAINER in my kitchen, that I had just this morning decided to plant, because I am so proud of it. And the fuzzy cat bed I bought for Abbigale out of guilt, and that she still wants nothing to do with, even though she has clearly decided that it belongs to her, so I can't get rid of it. And the way I felt about MY first-Christmas-after-divorce fake tree and it's strange similarities to the way SHE felt about HERS ...Or was that too much information? =)

I'll bet she's the actress they found to play my role in the sitcom... Yup... That's got to be why she's so familiar... and so much funnier, too!

Circles and Arrows, and a Paragraph on the Back of Each One

Went to my dad's 60th "Old Guys" party today. His label, not mine. He and mom invited everyone they could locate (or were actually still in contact with) from their days living and teaching in a town long ago and far away. And, as a nod to who they used to be, and what they all used to do together, they made it a potluck (like the ones I vaguely remember from my pre-school days) and Dad baked his famous oatmeal cookies with the Secret Ingredient.

Seeing those cookies on the counter when I arrived let me know just HOW IMPORTANT this event was for him-- because the combined efforts of the entire extended family have only convinced him to make these cookies about three times in the past 15 years. Yeah.

When you think about it, turning 60 is the new turning 50, really. Life perspective and life goals change. Talk of latest medical procedures or tests escalates. You start to think that maybe it's time to hire that kid down the street to mow the back yard. You take up yoga or biking. You eat less and take vacations more. If you're my Dad, you take Mom kayaking and finally buy a bigger TV. In your free time, you give detailed lectures to anyone who will listen about exactly what you plan to do with that brown spot in the grass that never goes away.

Seeing those oatmeal cookies today, I realized that those specific cookies are a symbol of comfort and of family continuity for me. They are a symbol of my childhood and my dad's love for the people around him. He only made cookies when there were people he loved to share them with- a lot of people. And when I was little, the coolest part was when he'd tell us he ALMOST FORGOT to put the Secret Ingredient in this time, but he remembered at the last minute, and that's why the cookies turned out so good. Again.

Actually, a lot of my family celebration/familial love memories center around cookies. Like the first time I actually one-up'd my dad, the quintessential one-upper. I was two. It was awesome.

So there we were, making cookies together-- me and my Dad! He'd rolled out the dough, and gotten the baking sheet greased, and there were the two cookie cutter shapes he'd picked out for us to work with, and I actually was going to HELP COOK. He set me up on the counter by the dough, and gave me the circle cookie cutter. Then he explained the general idea of using a cookie cutter to make shapes in the dough. Fair enough. WHOP! I thumped that circle down in the MIDDLE OF THE DOUGH. He almost had a heart attack right there in front of me. I remember-- very clearly-- that he actually shoved his fingernails into his mouth to keep from screaming.

So then he gently and carefully explained about fitting as many circles into the rolled-out dough as you could-- very carefully-- because you didn't want to RE-roll it out too many times. It made the cookies rise funny or something. Fair enough. WHOP! WHOP! WHOP!!

It was about then that his face turned purple, and his eyes got about as big as his glasses-frames. Ay-Yi-YIE! Then he actually looked at the circles I'd cut in the dough. With fear. He really thought that little 2-year-old me (who was being trusted to help Dad Cook for the first time ever) had just completely ignored his careful directions. Silly Daddy.

I'd placed those three circles right on the edge of the rolled-out dough, so close together that the edges just touched, in about half a second. Papa blinked a few times, and then handed me the other cookie cutter to try out, and got busy putting my perfect circles onto the tray to bake.

There's even a picture that my mom took around that time in my life-- of me and my Dad, covered in flour, hunched together over a rolled out piece of cookie dough. I'm sitting on the counter on the left, he's leaning against the counter on the right, and the cookie cutter is flying.