Plant Whisperer

I inherited a mess of plants from the former owners of our house. My family scrambled to place bets on how long they would survive.

When the P-Dawg and I did a final walk-through before receiving the keys just over one year ago, the former lady of the house lovingly introduced me to each plant by name and gave me explicit instructions for its care and nurturing. I followed her around, scribbling in a spiral notebook which I promptly lost.

A few months ago, the family had gathered for a cookout at our place, and while the rest of us were chillin' on the patio, my mom and mother-in-law stepped into the sun room to inspect my plants, as is their custom.

I could see them through the windows, making their rounds.

After visiting the Hawaiian ginger and the cymbidium orchid, they lingered in front of my Christmas cactus with bent heads a-murmuring. There was some sad nodding and hand gesticulation, and then the two of them emerged with long faces.

"I hate to tell you this, Rima," my mother said with a glint in her eye, "But your Christmas cactus is dying, if not already dead."

"Yep, it's a goner!" my MIL gleefully interjected. "There will be no reviving that one. Have you ever watered it?"

"You guys!" I rolled my eyes. "It's a cactus! It will bounce back."

The mothers exchanged knowing looks.

"It's a succulent," my MIL corrected. "It does need water from time to time."

"You said succulent!" I snickered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I continued to water the Christmas cactus whenever it occurred to me, which is to say almost never.

And last week, this happened:



It bloomed.

The next time they came over, I flaunted my cactus and taunted the mothers with my stoopid-fresh plant cultivating skillz.

"Have you noticed how beautifully my Christmas cactus is blooming?" I asked. "And a full month ahead of schedule, no less?"

The mothers circled my plant with arched eyebrows.

"Well if you want to know the truth" my MIL said, "Even a rock could thrive in this sun room of yours."

"Dumb luck" said my mother.

Then they sauntered off arm-in-arm to identify hidden safety hazards in the basement.


Plants-a-plenty

Gold Star

The violin lessons are going much better. I'm still just working on rhythm exercises and improving my bowing technique, but progress has definitely been made. Today my teacher said something along the lines of, "That was actually not too bad," but stopped short of giving me a sticker. And I know she has them.

It gives me immense pleasure to know that I am a full page ahead of a third grader who started around the same time as me in the Suzuki Level One violin book. The two of us are now in fierce competition, although he doesn't know I exist.

I can feel OK about my progress as long as I'm one step ahead of the eight-year-old, but the problem is that he gets away with a lot more than me by virtue of being cute and little. My teacher is always telling stories about the endearing mistakes little Peter Protégé is making, but something tells me that she isn't regaling her other students with tales of "the soccer mom who always forgets her checkbook."

It kind of sucks being the eager non-traditional student, like the middle aged lady in your college French class who always sat up front and asked tedious questions in her bad accent. You know, the one who was always forming a study group and wondering aloud if there was a homework assignment just as the bell rang and everyone else was hightailing it out of there?

That's me as a violin student: I am nothing if not earnest. I pore over YouTube clips of violin masters, practice diligently, work ahead in my book, ask a million questions, and marvel aloud at the awesome beauty of a single perfect note.

I would have hated myself as a twenty-year-old.

The Great Interview Experiment: Avitable

The beauty of Neil's Great Interview Experiment is that a blogger like me, who frets about whether feelings will be hurt before hitting "Publish" on every post and feels compelled to mask obscenities under a thin veil of pound signs and asterisks, gets to interview the uncensored Avitable, who "crotch punches nuns and hates babies," and whose tagline is, "Tact is for Pussies."

Oh yeah, and he doesn't wear pants. Ever.

If you aren't already familiar with the ubiquitous Avitable, you should go check him out. He's very entertaining (when he's not drop-kicking puppies.)

1. Why is tact for pussies?
   
   Because "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Avitable." was already taken.
   
   
2. What, do you think, is so gratifying about making people laugh?
   
   Typically, if I can get them to laugh enough, they may pee their pants, especially if they are women who have passed bowling balls and/or children out of their vaginas. And then, as a sign of solidarity, I can pee myself too, because all of the cool kids pee their pants. This makes me look awesome and then people refer to me on the same level as Jesus and Bono.
   
   
3. According to Adlerian theory, a person’s earliest memory becomes the theme of his life. What’s yours?
   
   I subscribe to Sandlerian theory instead, which states that shampoo is bettah.
   
   
4. When’s the last time you cried?
   
   I had my tear ducts shot off in the Great War and so they rerouted those synapses to my penis so now when I cry I have an orgasm. To answer your question: 10 minutes ago.
   
   
5. What do you typically eat for breakfast? (besides pussies. Just kidding!)
   
   The souls of small children. Or Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
   
   
6. What would your life soundtrack be?
   
   Avril Lavigne, Taylor Swift, Gwen Stefani, Pink, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, U2, and Sinead O'Connor.
   
   
7. Please describe your most embarrassing moment to date.
   
   http://www.avitable.com/2007/03/09/1988-de-classified/
   
   
8. How did you meet your wife and what made you fall in love with her?
   
   Well, I used to work for her as a farmboy and we didn't speak much. In fact, all I'd say to her was "As you wish." The rest was history.
   
   
9. You’ve been invited to the White House for an exclusive meeting with the President and it’s going to be televised. Will you wear pants?
   
   That's a ridiculous question. Everyone knows that exclusive meetings with the President are clothing optional.

Thanks, Avitable!

I Would Like My Pellet Now, Please

I finally got my paws on some H1N1 vaccine, and all I had to do was pimp myself out for science.

I'm participating in an H1N1 vaccine study which aims to prove that a smaller dose of vaccine, when administered along with a type of protein that helps the body build up its immune system, works just as well as a full dose. I don't know if I'm in the treatment or control group, but the P-Dawg assures me that I did get some amount of FDA approved H1N1 vaccine.

And all I had to do was sign a fifteen page release form, obtain a physical, take a pregnancy test, disclose what form of birth control I'm using, promise not to get knocked up in the next year, have three vials of blood drawn and swear to return every month for the next six months to have it drawn again, take my temperature every night for the next week, and agree to keep a "flu journal" in the event I get sick.

Plus, I get paid three hundred smackers for my trouble. Which won't help me when I'm dead, but will buy me several dinners out.

I got vaccinated yesterday morning, and last night I started worrying that I might die felt slightly achy.

"P-Dawg, I feel kind of crappy. How soon would a person know if she was coming down with Guillain-Barré Syndrome?"

"About two to six weeks, I guess. Are you planning on getting Guillain-Barré?"

I made him promise that if I didn't wake up the next morning, he'd burn my diaries and go through my blog to delete any swear words or references to my mother, and then I went up to bed.

This morning I feel fine. You can thank me next year, when there's enough vaccine to go around as a direct result of my selfless dedication to medical research.

(That, or lay flowers on my grave. No carnations, please.)

A Few of My Favorite Things

The Sound of Music premiered on Broadway fifty years ago (November 16th, 1959), but I discovered it again for the first time last week.

The little J-dog was busy playing trucks when I popped in the DVD, but as soon as Julie Andrews came bounding over the horizon and opened her mouth to sing, his little head swiveled around like a periscope.

What is that exquisite sound?

Who is that beautiful lady . . . and why isn't she my mother?

He planted himself directly in front of the TV and gazed on with rapt attention for a good half hour.

Me, I was riveted by the fairytale plotline, the boundless optimism, the yodeling . . . and Captain Von Hawt, whose smokin' good looks had somehow evaded me for these past thirty-six years.

So in honor of the Sound of Music's fiftieth anniversary, here are A Few of My Favorite Things:

1. Coffee (touch of cream, no sugar)
   
2. Sushi
3. The Daily Show
   
4. Lithuanian folk songs
5. My attached garage
6. The iTunes Store
   
7. Leonard Cohen lyrics
   
8. Built-in bras
9. The Star-Spangled Banner (straight up, no soul)
   
10. Cosmic signs
    
11. Musical harmony
12. Reading in bed
13. White linens
14. Lost
    
15. Chamomile tea
16. Aveda Inner Light dual foundation
    
17. The combination of buttered movie popcorn with Skittles
    
18. Hot showers
19. Good lip balm
    
20. Lavender lotion from L'Occitaine
    
21. Striped tights
22. Black boots
    
23. Cinnabon
    
24. Cabernet Sauvignon
25. Guinness beer
    
26. Christmas Eve
    
27. Tylenol PM
    
28. Jello pretzel "salad"
29. Order and symmetry
30. Airplane Coke
    
31. The sun on my back
    
32. Abba
33. Geico caveman commercials
    
34. The smell of pipe tobacco
35. Foot rubs
36. Comments
    
    
37. and The Sound of Music, of course.
    
    
    

Not This Week, I Have a Headache

I've tried to sit down and write on several occasions this week, but everything comes out all gloom and doom. Blame it on November, low seratonin levels, potty training, and the contractors who are demolishing our living room, leaving my toilet seat up, and forcing me to resort to emotional eating.

With every passing year, the cloak of the approaching winter weighs heavier and heavier. I dread the holidays, the C1eveland sludge, and the impending threat of illness more and more. I typically spend December through March wringing my hands and hovering around my kids' foreheads with an infrared thermometer, and this year I'm starting early.

And because I am so worried about my kids, it naturally follows that I am short-tempered and irritable with them. Such as when they all but lick the doorknob at the H1N1 vaccine dispensation center. I yell because I love.

Every morning for the past several weeks, I have been going down a list cobbled together through dumb luck and trial and error, calling various pharmacies and public health offices to pin down vaccine. It's been much like searching for a needle in a haystack, but yesterday I hit paydirt and J-dog and V-meister were inoculated.

Of course, the vaccine takes more than a week to kick in and meanwhile I'm sure they will have picked up swine flu in the waiting room. I myself was not eligible for the vaccine, but don't think for a minute that I didn't contemplate snatching a vial out of Nurse Betty's grubby little hands and stabbing myself in the arm with it.

In other news, the honeymoon is over between me and the decorators. I've been reluctant to complain about them here because what kind of person whines about the luxury of having someone update their house for them? It's just that . . . well . . . if I'm going to pay someone to coordinate my home improvement projects, well then by God I expect that someone to own a cell phone and answer it . . . and to show up on time for appointments . . . and to communicate with the contractors so they don't have to call me every morning as I'm herding the kids out the door wondering which color paint to buy . . . and!. . . to stop steering me toward styles of decor I've repeatedly indicated don't jive with my crumb-ridden lifestyle.

The first time we met to "talk about colors and patterns," I told the decorators "no plaid, no orange." Next thing you know, they're showing me a plaid curtain sample and trying to pass it off as "checkered." And goddamn if that little fucker wasn't peppered with multiple orange squares, plain as the nose on your face. I said, "I like Arhaus, Pottery Barn, and Restoration Hardware! Don't show me anything with feet on it!" and . . .

. . . ended up signing off on this 1920s hallway table:





It should be noted that the table will be refurbished with new knobs and maybe some burnished mirror panels. Now, even though cloven-hoofed furniture doesn't normally speak to my heart, there was something about it that I found almost endearing. Is it trying to scare me? Because it's not scaring me at all. In fact, it looks much like the way I feel.

Ghost and the Mermaid