Playing Hookie

We did not make it to V-meister's gymnastics class yesterday afternoon.

The sun was out.

The playground beckoned.

In it, a great puddle of mud with J-dog and V-meister's name on it.





People got wet.



And it was thrilling.



The very reason why galoshes were put on this earth.

N'est-ce pas?

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

Saved by the Bell

On Saturday, I was hanging out in the kitchen of our church hall, waiting for the V-meister to complete her first day of L1thuanian school.  The V-meister actually speaks fluent L1thuanian already, but I like to run around like a headless chicken six out of seven mornings a week and besides, my daughter is not yet old enough to realize that she could be doing gymnastics or watching cartoons instead of reciting noun declensions of a Saturday morning.

Anyway.  There was another mom there prepping ingredients for some chili she was planning to serve at a dinner party that night.  Because I know that hers is a non TV watching family who also bakes their own bread and probably composts as well, I asked her if the chili was vegetarian.

It was! And before I knew it, I had launched into a monologue about my new flexitarian diet.

Now, I didn't know what flexitarianism was until I read about it in Martha Stewart's magazine two days ago, but I liked the sound of it and wanted to impress chili mom with my healthful ways.  All of a sudden, not only was I a flexitarian who eats nothing but grains, fish, poultry, and the occasional Big Mac, I was also making my family healthful recipes from the Moosewood Cookbook every other night. So while my friend V, who also happened to be in the kitchen listening to our conversation, shot me a look that said, "I saw you eat three pounds of ground chuck yesterday," I went on about the versatility of bulgar wheat. (What is bulgar wheat?) 

My friend V was on to me.  She said, "So. Do your kids eat these Moosewood recipes, too?"  And I was all, "Um, if I'm making something I know they wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, I'll give them soy nuggets instead."  And she was all, "You are so full of crap."  Which she didn't actually say out loud, but it was written all over her face, as was, "I'd like to see you turn on a stove."

My point is that while waxing poetic about quinoa, I realized that I have an affliction whereby I feel compelled to match my tastes and convictions to those of whoever it is I happen to be speaking with at the minute. And it's not that I'm lying, exactly, because I do like salmon and while I was speaking with chili mom, I was 100% convinced that I would never eat another Chuck Peterson Hungry Heifer special again as long as I lived, until I came home to find the P-Dawg making spaghetti and meatballs.

Before I had a chance to exchange wheatgrass smoothie recipes with my soul mate chili mom, the bell rang and I had to go retrieve the V-meister.  But now that I'm aware of my condition, I'll be working on developing a better sense of self.  Let's just hope that in the meantime, I don't meet any communists or trekkies.

Spaghetti with meatballs is a regular part of my flexitarian diet

Rimarama Recommends: The Outdoors

My kids are Outdoor Kids but I am an Indoor Mom, which can be problematic.

In grade school, one of the worst punishments you could impose upon me was to send me outdoors until dinnertime.  If Chrissy Long was not available to play Mary Lou Retton with, I'd just roller skate around and around the cul-de-sac, hoping for the salvation a wipeout could bring.  Once back in the comfort and safety of my bedroom lair, I could rejoin Ramona, Beezus, and Nancy Drew OR resume the work of molding Barbie-sized wedding cakes out of wads of wet toilet paper if I so desired, AND I DID.

But like I said, J-dog and V-meister?  Outdoor kids.  They love dirt and sunshine.  And back when I was pregnant for the first time and busy planning my stay-at-home-motherhood fantasy, frolicking outside was not accounted for in my short-sighted daily itinerary of: nurse baby and read books until dinnertime.  So it was kind of a shock when all of a sudden I had these two kids for whom I was expected to provide, you know . . . fresh air.

Well, I don't know what happened - maybe it's the fact that I actually like our new backyard, maybe it's old age - but I'm slowly coming around to this Spending Time Outdoors concept.  On more than one occasion last week I daresay I experienced an intense desire to go on a hike.  (Has anyone else had this happen to them?)

I even put on sneakers and packed a picnic lunch, for crying out loud.  And you know what?  It was lovely. There are some really nice things outdoors, readers.

And do you know what else?

Nothing beats meandering down a mossy trail on a cool summer's day with walking stick in hand and two wonderstruck little human beings tripping along beside you.

What's Up, Doc?

In my family, garden pest control is serious business.

My dad is a gentle soul by nature, but he keeps a professional grade slingshot always at the ready for his rabbit nemesis. You never know when that doggone rabbit is going to turn up in the garden, and the last thing you want to be is caught unprepared.

One time it showed up during a family Scrabble tournament and my dad forfeited the chance to score a triple word score using the letter "Q" for what he saw as his golden opportunity to take Bugsy down once and for all. One minute he's sitting at the dining room table, rubbing his palms together over his trophy prospects, and next thing you know, he's crouching behind a rhododendron bush out back.

I can't even tell you how many times I've popped in on him standing stock still by the back door with his slingshot poised to shoot, but as far as I know, the rabbit and all his progeny are still on the premises.

Then there's Uncle Vic, whose been fighting the chipmunk family in his backyard for going on ten years now. After trying every method known to man to rid his vegetable garden of the chipmunk contagion, my uncle finally resorted to smoking them out with fireworks. But those chipmunks are still partying it up under his lawn, and my uncle's got a deck of cards in his nightstand with a picture of their leader on the ace of spades.

With the arrival of the P-Dawg into the Rama clan, however, a new age dawned in the realm of man-on-rodent combat - the age of technology.

When we were first married and living in the hut, the P-Dawg and I discovered a skunk family living under our back porch. After placing several unanswered calls to our city's pest control department, my husband decided to take matters into his own twenty-first century hands. And that meant "internet research."

Luckily, I happened to walk into the computer room just as the P-Dawg, his index finger poised above the mouse button, was preparing to click "Confirm Order" on a batch of powdered fox urine.

Rimarama: "Tell me you are not ordering urine over the internet, P-Dawg."

P-Dawg: "Just hear me out, Rimster! According to the extensive internet research I've been doing, fox urine is the very last word in skunk control."

Rimarama: "Are you freakin' kidding me, P-Dawg? For all you know, some dude peed in a cup and you're about to send him $39.95 for it! I can't let you do this! Please step away from the computer now."

The skunks were eventually exterminated using more conventional means, but the P-Dawg's war on pestilence was just beginning.

I got a UPS shipment this afternoon. Hoping that my new flannel sheets had finally arrived, I tore the package open to find a load of these:



"The Pestacator": A solar powered, underground rodent repellent. The P-Dawg plans to use them to wage war on the mole colony in our front yard.

Let the games begin.

BooBees

I have a fear of bees.

You'll recognize me as the person who goes nuts at the picnic if a honeybee so much as ventures within a five mile radius of my plate. I'm the one who will flip the table over in my haste to flee, then ruin everyone's good time by hovering nervously and trying to shoo it away for the remainder of the outing.

I'm not even allergic, just skeert.

But bees were the furthest thing from my mind this morning as I tripped along a flower lined sidewalk at the local outdoor shopping plaza, on my way to purchase a birthday gift for the P-Dawg.

I was minding my own beeswax (HAR!), thinking merry thoughts and humming a Barry White tune in my head when I walked straight into a swarm of honeybees (and by "swarm," I mean, "one or two").

As luck would have it, one of those bees made a beeline (you don't see it, but I just fell off my chair and am ROTFL) for my shirt and disappeared therein.

I reacted the way any sane mellisophobe would do: by flailing hysterically, renting my garments, and dancing a little jig as confused eyewitnesses watched from the sidelines.

By some crazy miracle, I was not stung.

But what's even more amazing is that the kamikaze bee who flew down my shirt? Fell out onto the sidewalk, DEAD AS A DOORNAIL (or dazed and confused, at the very least).

I can only assume it was my boobees that struck him down.

(Incidentally, tobacco is supposed to be a good antidote for a bee sting. I got stung on a Girl Scout camping trip once and was carrying on about it until our scout leader stubbed out her Virgina Slims menthol, broke it in half, and smeared the tobacco combined with some spit on the affected area. Which totally shut me up. I hope somebody gave her a badge for that. "Bee prepared," is what I always say.)


OK, who threw that tomato?

Getting Rid of the Junk in Your Trunk is Damn Hard if You Recycle

When the P-Dawg came home from work yesterday, I was sitting at the kitchen table, dejectedly staring out the window and eating potato chips.

"What's up, Rimster?"

"Man, I am sooooo depressed. I went dress shopping for D's wedding today and, holy crap, nothing fit! I got junk in the trunk, P-Dawg!" said I, shoving a mouthful of Dan-Dee rippled potato chips down my gullet and chasing them with a swig of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

(My situation necessitated emergency caloric fortification in preparation for the diet I planned to start the next day. Because there was rather a lot of trunk junk, to be honest - a whole slew of empty Ben and Jerry's pints, some Reese's chocolate peanut butter egg wrappers, and possibly even a couple of crushed beer cans. I was headed straight for an SUV in the pants.)

P-Dawg tactfully assessed it with a quick sidelong glance and said, "Don't worry, Rimster, your a$$ isn't that big. Pass those chips, please."

***********************************************************************************

I freely admit I have been eating more and moving less all winter.

It's been difficult to eat well since the P-Dawg, trying to recoup the twenty pounds he's lost over the last month as the result of his snore-no-more surgery, is now eating like Renee Zelwegger before her starring role in Bridget Jones' diary.

You may already know that I've been loathe to go back to Jazzercising after the J-dog's December freakout in the day care room. But what really sealed the deal was when a friend told me that when they start slacking off at her BodySlam class? The instructor bellows, "WHAT DO YOU GUYS THINK THIS IS? JAZZERCISE???"

(I have to admit that, at times, Jazzercise did seem a bit too easy. I mean, when the blue haired lady with the walker and the housedress doesn't even break a sweat while doing crunches to the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel, you kind of have to wonder.)

So, now that the weather is finally turning here in the frozen tundra, I've decided to hang up the crazy stripe leg warmers and leopard print leotard in favor of a J-dog approved exercise regimen: walking.

This morning, after dropping the V-meister off at school, the J-dog and I set off on a long walk over the hills and dales of our 'hood. I even weighed my pockets down with a bunch of rocks all Virgina Woolf style, having long ago read in some stupid baby magazine that this was a sure way to crank it up a notch while strollercizing.

(I am also deathly afraid of dogs, and felt that the rocks could double as ammunition if I were to find myself duking it out with the Rottweilers two blocks over.)

We had a nice long walk, even though, when all was said and done, I ended up chucking all the rocks out, piecemeal, onto my neighbors' lawns.

Not in self-defense, mind you. They were heavy and anyway, after about twenty minutes of vigorous walking, I felt sure that I was back to a size four already.

Indeed, I was feeling so good about my workout, that immediately after dropping the kids off at my parents' house for an afternoon of grandparent sanctioned Krispy Kreme and apple juice freebasing, I swung by H&M and bought myself two pairs of capris in the next size down.

Which I was able to squeeze into before lunch if I peed first and lay down while holding my breath to zip them, but not so much after.

Nevertheless, I have full confidence in my new fitness plan, and I'm feeling better already!

So much so that I might even kick back with a celebratory ice cream sundae tonight after the kidz are in bed.

Germs Are in da House

We've been dodging it all season, but the puking illness finally struck the Rama household last night.

I like to make sure my kids have the most colorful and chunkalicious meal possible before they fall ill with a gastrointestinal virus. (I also make it a point to lick their plates clean for them and request that they sneeze directly into my face at least once during the crucial incubation period, but who doesn't?)

In keeping with this tradition, I kissed the little J-dog a thousand times yesterday and fed him winter squash, blackberries, and some Red Dye #2 pellets for the dinner that he proceeded to chuck up at various intervals throughout the night.

Consequently, the P-Dawg and I stayed up half of last night cleaning carpets, stripping and laundering sheets, and hosing down our youngest spawn.

The best part about the puking illness is you never know how many times it will hit, or when!

And Murphy's Law states that, as soon as a soiled set of bedding is replaced and the stricken child has been bathed and clothed in clean pajamas, the process will repeat itself. The child will not -WILL NOT - stage a repeat performance until every last morsel of recycled material has been cleaned up from the previous show.

Now I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Who will be next?

Thank God I saved my biohazard suit from two Halloweens ago. It's probably too late to avoid contamination, but one can never be too careful.

What Would Al Gore Do?

Pledging to participate in Blog Action Day by writing a post related to the environment on October 15th seemed like a good idea when I signed myself up a month ago.

But as the time to post drew nearer, I started feeling like a fraud.

Sure, I've invested in those cute, recyclable canvas grocery bags, but I forget to take them with me on 3 out of 4 trips to the store.

I've switched to one ply toilet paper and energy-saving fluorescent light bulbs, even though, as Steven Colbert would say, they make me look like Skeletor (on a good day).

I've made a few other small lifestyle changes, but somehow they feel negligible.

I suspected that saving the earth involves a little more blood, sweat, and tears than I am currently producing, so I decided to assess my personal ecological imprint using this calculator.

My results?

If everyone in the world lived my lifestyle, we would need 5.7 planets to support it.

I played around with it, changing different variables in my answers to see just what it is I need to do personally to prevent the Earth from biting it.

Ditch the car, move into a solar-powered commune, wipe the little J-dog's bum with palm fronds, and eat nothing but locally grown, organic nuts and berries, that's what.

I became discouraged.

But suddenly, a flash of inspiration!

What Would Al Gore Do? I said to myself, and clicked over to the climate crisis web site.

Hope rose like a phoenix from the ashes!

I found ten very simple, yet high-yield tips for reducing my energy consumption.

From here on out, when faced with a difficult environmentally related decision, I will simply say to myself, W.W.A.G.D?

It turns out I don't have to move into a dome home or wear a hair shirt, after all.

(But I would do those things and more, if only you would run for Prez, Al. I've always thought you were HOT in a non-ozone threatening kind of way.)

Oh, Hell to the No

Saving the Planet, One Blog at a Time

Peoples of the internet, go ahead and ask me how many times I’ve made use of my toilet plunger today.

Yes, that’s right.

It’s the little V-meister.

I’m always telling her, “One square for number one, two squares for number two.”

Why, yes, I do exaggerate, but you’re picking up what I’m laying down. I’m trying to run, if not an entirely green household, then at least green-ish. Chartreuse.

But the V-meister, she be liberal, too.

With the toilet paper.

We’re talking about at least twenty squares for a mere tinkle, my friends.

Is there any way, short of hosting an intervention with every potty trip she takes, that I can remedy this situation? She's felling trees left and right, and she's only three.

Sigh.

October 15th is blog action day, but it's not too early to start thinking about how you might be able to contribute with your super blog powers. Click here to find out more.