Plotting, Potting, Planting

Behind a half-built shed, I found two unused pots, and suddenly I had a brilliant idea.  I hauled the pots to my car and left them sunbaking while I wandered wilted aisles of unwanted vegetables in tiny containers at the hardware store.  I found dirt in a bag and bought two.  Evidently, all the dirt on my living room floor wouldn't work.  I had to import.

I headed towards a wire rack that spun when I touched it and tipped over when I spun it.  Pictures of gorgeous gardens full of fresh veg and flowers stared at me from the fronts of the seed packets.  From the looks on the back, all I had to do was push the seeds into the ground at various intervals and *poof* I would have the luxurious vegetation they taunted me with.

I knew better.

The last time I planted anything it only lasted about three days before reverting to a weed patch.

But this time, I wouldn't plant it in the ground.  I had pots.  Lovely, unused pots I'd found behind a shed.

Now all I had to do was find the right seeds.  The perfect, smell-good, look-luscious, plant to put in those pots.  I wanted a fragrant wildflower called Four O'clock.  It has a black seed about half the size of a black bean, and it grows a bush with these amazing pink and white flowers that start making the world smell like the inside of Bath and Body Works just as the sun starts to set.

Of course, they had a spot on the tippity rack for Four O'clocks, but no packets.  After nearly braining a passing granny when I tried spinning the rack to look for more, I found a big, big, pack of fragrant wildflowers that had my seeds in it, along with a myriad of other seeds I didn't care about.  I sighed.  What's a budding gardener to do?

I bought all the extra seeds and took them home along with my imported dirt.

Now, I have two pots sitting beside my front door filled with rich, brown soil (not dirt) and guess what?  There are beautiful, perfect, tiny green shoots carpeting the surface.  Besides the Four O'Clock, I'm not exactly sure what I planted, but they look promising.

I think this is why gardening has lasted as long as it has. (I mean, besides the obvious need to eat.)  It's exhilarating to watch something dead-looking send out feeble arms and wave at the sky like an old friend.

Phenoms = My Kids (Future)

For the first time in my married life, I will be home by myself all day come September.  All three of my lovely children will be away at school.  All day.

And I'm thinking... what do I do with myself?

But before that, I have to make sure they have a school to go to.  The program we had the kids in last year was experimental (part time school, part time homeschool) and we liked it lots.  But both teachers in that program decided to leave the school and do other things.  From what I understand, they have replaced those teachers, but I'm not sure I want to go that route anymore.  For one thing, my youngest refuses to learn anything if I'm the teacher, so he won't be staying home, even part time, and he's old enough to enroll.  If he's not staying home, I might as well send the other two, since they seem to enjoy school too.

So, here's the question: where?

We seem to have narrowed it down to two schools, possibly four.  I have them on waiting lists for two charter schools we have in the area.  And there's the public school closest to our house on the list, as well as a third charter school.  My husband seems to hate every option we have, so I've just given up on getting him happy about it.  Either they're too preppy or too lame or too far from home or too sleazy or not sleazy enough.

I'm sort of hoping for a miracle between now and August that says, "Yes.  Send your children to this school.  They will not get stuck in the land of waitlists.  They will have wonderful friends and a great education.  The school is not far from home and the bussing is bully-proof.  The extra-curricular programs are second to none.  By graduation, your children will be the phenoms you know they can be."

Sigh.

Here's to hoping.

Out With The Old...

I'm writing to you today from my very own, brand new (to me), laptop computer.  It's actually sitting on my lap, cord free, as I type.  Isn't technology something?

But...

My old laptop, my old friend, sniff.  I have written every serious story on that beast.  The matte black exterior holds hundreds of hours of my thoughts.  Even though some years ago the down button went the way of my stripey white belt, and the 'L' button only works every other time it's pushed, and I can't close it or unplug it or it dies.  All those things are small compared to the fact that it's been across the world with me and held my hands during some really rough patches.

We bought the oldster in 2006, before we changed countries and before I had written my first novel.  

My children learned to type on its imperfect keyboard.

Goodbye is lonely.

Good thing I have a shiny gray computer curled up quietly on my lap to keep me company.

Yellow Belted

I've been trying to drown my rejection by eating far, far too many chips and re-reading my favorite books, but ideas for improving my manuscript keep encroaching on my pity party.  That's the problem with brains.

Besides, I can't give it the proper maudlin concern because twice a week I get to put on a YELLOW hapkido belt.  That's right.  We took our belt tests and my kids and I all passed.  We are no longer whiteys, and all those stripes I worked so hard for have gone the way of most other pieces of used tape.

Against the backdrop of the black hapkido clothes, the yellow belt is especially bee-like.

It was a lot of fun to watch my kids.  Their attitudes during the evaluations reflect their attitudes in general.  My oldest did everything that was asked of her with smiling determination and a disinterest in detail.  My middle child put all his considerable energy into doing everything perfectly with an intensity rivaled only by a few other members of my family.  My youngest viewed the whole thing as a game and played joyfully.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure where I fit on this spectrum.  Probably pretty close to my middle child.  Always have to do my best.

And this time at least, my best was good enough.

D.O.W.N. Down

Just got word back that my latest manuscript wasn't accepted for publication.

It stinks.

It's hard.

I think I'll go drown my sorrows in a big bag of Doritos.

Can a woman drown in synthetic cheese?

He Shall Have Power to Crush Thy Head

As a kid I used to pick up snakes all the time.  There was a family in our ward when I was six that had frogs and snakes in their irrigation ditch and we'd go crazy there.  I used to love the way they felt. (Before you ask, yes I had warts.)  Right about the time I hit puberty, I decided I didn't like snakes all that much.

Today, I picked my son up from Kindergarten and because we had to drop something off at a friend's house, we walked a different street than usual.  I was pushing the stroller with my niece in it, my son was holding my hand and telling me about the teddy bear picnic they had at school today.  Suddenly, he stopped.

"Mom, look!"  Except he says it "Mom, wook!"

Sure enough.  In the grass was a garter snake.  Harmless, small, and fascinating for a five-year old.  At first, it was so still that my son said, "I think it's fake."  I touched the tip of the tail to prove him wrong.  Being a homeschooling Mom at least some of the time, I had to tell him everything I knew about garter snakes, which boiled down to "It won't hurt you," and "see its tongue poking out?  It smells with its tongue."  We watched it for a minute and I nudged my son with my elbow.  "Pick it up."

"No, Mom.  You pick it up... please?"

I'm a sucker for a cute face and a please.  After gathering up my reserves of courage, I darted my hand in and picked it up.

It felt eewier than I remembered.  It twisted and pulsed and had the misfortune of feeling scaly.  My son and niece each poked it a few times to see it squirm.

About that time, some kids from my son's class came up and saw us (me) holding the snake and wanted to be part of that party.  The little girl dared take the snake from my hand, and that made my son think maybe he'd like to hold it too.

I noticed some yellow slime on the tail end of the snake while my son was holding it and thought, "I bet that was some protective secretion the snake has on its body and we're rubbing it off."  So, being a natural idiot, I had my son put it back in the grass.

That's when I looked at my own hand.  The yellow slime had indeed been some kind of secretion.  Poo.  While wiping my hand off repeatedly on the grass I remembered why I stopped liking snakes.

Mom Upside Down is Wow (aka The Day After Mother's Day)

I'm sure a lot of you out there have heard of "Kid President", but this is my first encounter with the genius.  Thanks to my sister for sharing it with me and giving me a good laugh.  I feel it only appropriate that I do that same for you, after my downer of a post yesterday.

Whether you're a mum or not, this clip will entertain.  Enjoy.