It's getting time for us to talk about what type of plants we'd like to thrive in our yard. Although we're in the same zone as home, it seems like my favorites don't do well around here. I've asked around, looking for indeginous plant-people to question, but so far I've not found a single person who has anything in their yard other than dead grass. I'm currently struggling with online search engines to try to find possibilities for us.
We have a 6' high brick wall in the back of the yard. We'd like to plant something across the back that will be pretty and develop some kind of decorative hedge. Right now we're leaning towards crape myrtles dotted across the back in 5' spacing.
We also have a space to plant a tree in the back. We'd like it to give shade and would prefer for it to have a pretty foliage change in the fall. All of my favorite trees would get way too tall for the small space, so we're trying to think outside the box. The Hater says that shade trumps ornamental factors, and I'm okay with that so long as we have some kind of color change in the fall.
Meanwhile, we need to plant something in front of the AC unit to help give it shade. Our other option is to get one of those fabulously obnoxious AC team covers.
Our front beds are still slim. I need some kind of ground cover for the front beds - something that likes full sun, hot hot, but not something that will take over the place. The front beds are low priority for us right now. The Hater is pulling for the low maintenance of mondo grass, but I'd like to see something with more color and charisma.
Eventually we'd like to extend the back porch to make a place big enough for an outside table. Then we want to create another bed on the back side of the house. We have no idea what we want to plant there.
I have a bad experience looking for green-thumbers at the nursery because we've found that they'll tell us anything to get us to buy from them. That's not cool and makes me jaded to go back for advice.
So if you have any idea where I could go for advice without pressure, let me know. We really don't want to commit unintentional herbicide, but we want to make informed decisions.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
the existential bubble bath
I have been on a business trip this week and am now back to tell all of the exciting details. I'll grace over the boring ones...
So somehow I was "nominated" (their word, not mine) to attend this business meeting with some other nurses at the place where I work. We were going to carpool to a place that The Hater affectionately calls "the Gatlinburg of the Midwest". You might think that six hours in a car (both ways) with two strangers would be boring, and you'd be partially correct if that had been your assumption. And although there are tidbits that could be told about three women refusing to make a potty pit-stop, I'd much rather get to the protein of this story.
We stayed at a super swank country resort while we were at the meeting. Now I've seen lots of mounted deer heads in my life, but I have never seen 30 of them all-together in one room. One big room with every other Midwestern wilderness animal's head that you can imagine. And it wasn't just one room of heads, either -- there were heads everywhere. Goats. Buffalo. Fish. Lots of types of deer. Foxes. Squirrels. Badgers. Birds. Bears. (You get the picture.) I can only imagine that it was the taxidermist's wet dream to land this particular job with a charge to stuff every walking animal to cover every square inch of wall space at this particular location. And although there are tidbits that could be told about walking around corners and being faced with lots of angry looking animals, I'd much rather get to the protein of this story.
The presentations I heard were nothing short of awful. It was almost interesting content, but you could hardly grasp any of it with the poor, poor delivery. There was some fancy tech, which was nice to break the monotony of boredom, but not even the most techy robot can save the worst public speaking skills. And although there are tidbits that could be told about how many games of spider solitaire I played on my phone during the presentations, I'd much rather get to the protein of this story.
My room, although scattered with at least 5 mounted dead things, was really nice. I had two balconies that overlooked a full lake and blooming redbuds and tulips. I didn't go out to the balcony, mostly because there were more than a dozen mosquitoes looking through the window at me, pleading for me to open the door. The beds were comfortable and the pillows weren't too squishy -- but la pièce de résistance had to be the bathroom.
Specifically, the jet tub. The jet tub that was about 2 1/2 feet deep, 5 feet long, and 4 feet wide.
Do you remember the scene in Pretty Woman (1990)
where Vivian (Julia Roberts) takes the hugest bubble bath since the beginning of time (while singing Prince)? That scene was my motivation, but my bath put it to shame.
It was wonderful, even other-worldly. And I emptied the entire bottle of hotel shower gel into the water so that I, too, could have the mountains of bubbles that cascaded over the side of the tub. It was so deep that I practically floated. It was hotter than the center of the sun. The lighting was perfect. It was the most glorious bath that I may have ever had in my life*, and the best part was that I knew I wouldn't have to be the one who had to wash the tub out afterwards.
On the drive back to OKC, the three of us talked about what we liked the most of the trip. I was eager to tell my bathtub story and was shocked to hear that neither of them took their equally heavenly tubs for a spin. Seriously. When I told them how absolutely heavenly it was with the bubbles and the moment and the floating and the wonderful quiet -- they admitted that they made a mistake by overlooking the prize in the room. I think they must have been distracted by the moose heads over the beds.
And although we did spend lots of time together and tell lots of stories, I would hope that they remember my description of how peaceful and tranquil the bath was so that they will learn to take advantage of tubs they don't have to clean in the future. But they'll probably just remember that I was a 4-H chicken judger for two weeks when I was in middle school.
* The only thing the scene was missing was a cool glass of shiraz.
* By the way, if you live under a rock you may not know that the Lady Vols just scored their #8. Pat Summit is the bombdotcom. Wear that orange loud and proud, Vol fans! Cue up a chorus of Rocky Top for the ladies!
So somehow I was "nominated" (their word, not mine) to attend this business meeting with some other nurses at the place where I work. We were going to carpool to a place that The Hater affectionately calls "the Gatlinburg of the Midwest". You might think that six hours in a car (both ways) with two strangers would be boring, and you'd be partially correct if that had been your assumption. And although there are tidbits that could be told about three women refusing to make a potty pit-stop, I'd much rather get to the protein of this story.
We stayed at a super swank country resort while we were at the meeting. Now I've seen lots of mounted deer heads in my life, but I have never seen 30 of them all-together in one room. One big room with every other Midwestern wilderness animal's head that you can imagine. And it wasn't just one room of heads, either -- there were heads everywhere. Goats. Buffalo. Fish. Lots of types of deer. Foxes. Squirrels. Badgers. Birds. Bears. (You get the picture.) I can only imagine that it was the taxidermist's wet dream to land this particular job with a charge to stuff every walking animal to cover every square inch of wall space at this particular location. And although there are tidbits that could be told about walking around corners and being faced with lots of angry looking animals, I'd much rather get to the protein of this story.
The presentations I heard were nothing short of awful. It was almost interesting content, but you could hardly grasp any of it with the poor, poor delivery. There was some fancy tech, which was nice to break the monotony of boredom, but not even the most techy robot can save the worst public speaking skills. And although there are tidbits that could be told about how many games of spider solitaire I played on my phone during the presentations, I'd much rather get to the protein of this story.
My room, although scattered with at least 5 mounted dead things, was really nice. I had two balconies that overlooked a full lake and blooming redbuds and tulips. I didn't go out to the balcony, mostly because there were more than a dozen mosquitoes looking through the window at me, pleading for me to open the door. The beds were comfortable and the pillows weren't too squishy -- but la pièce de résistance had to be the bathroom.
Specifically, the jet tub. The jet tub that was about 2 1/2 feet deep, 5 feet long, and 4 feet wide.
Do you remember the scene in Pretty Woman (1990)
where Vivian (Julia Roberts) takes the hugest bubble bath since the beginning of time (while singing Prince)? That scene was my motivation, but my bath put it to shame. It was wonderful, even other-worldly. And I emptied the entire bottle of hotel shower gel into the water so that I, too, could have the mountains of bubbles that cascaded over the side of the tub. It was so deep that I practically floated. It was hotter than the center of the sun. The lighting was perfect. It was the most glorious bath that I may have ever had in my life*, and the best part was that I knew I wouldn't have to be the one who had to wash the tub out afterwards.
On the drive back to OKC, the three of us talked about what we liked the most of the trip. I was eager to tell my bathtub story and was shocked to hear that neither of them took their equally heavenly tubs for a spin. Seriously. When I told them how absolutely heavenly it was with the bubbles and the moment and the floating and the wonderful quiet -- they admitted that they made a mistake by overlooking the prize in the room. I think they must have been distracted by the moose heads over the beds.
And although we did spend lots of time together and tell lots of stories, I would hope that they remember my description of how peaceful and tranquil the bath was so that they will learn to take advantage of tubs they don't have to clean in the future. But they'll probably just remember that I was a 4-H chicken judger for two weeks when I was in middle school.
* The only thing the scene was missing was a cool glass of shiraz.
* By the way, if you live under a rock you may not know that the Lady Vols just scored their #8. Pat Summit is the bombdotcom. Wear that orange loud and proud, Vol fans! Cue up a chorus of Rocky Top for the ladies!
Monday, March 31, 2008
mandated hookey
I can't say that I'm a huge fan of serving jury duty, but I do like leaving at 10:30 and being told you're done for the day. Did I go back to work?
Heck no. I'm excused for the day. No way I'm going to show up and let them think I'm available to work. Only a fool would do that, and my Mom didn't raise a fool.
Although there was a Fool today who showed up. He was mad that he had been drafted to civic duty. And he talked back to the judge twice. She raised her voice and told him that she "didn't appreciate being talked to like that". Fool kept mouthing off, and I walked out of the room as she stood up and raised her voice even louder. I thought, poor Fool. He's going to be held in contempt... and we went back to the big juror holding room. About fifteen minutes later, Fool came into the room. He didn't say anything else the rest of the morning.
Nope. I'm hanging out, and the cat is so excited that she left her sleeping perch on the bed and has come to sleep next to me instead. I rank.
Apparently there were three trials today, but two pleaded out, and tomorrow I have to show up for jury selection of the third trial. Maybe I won't get chosen. I'll have to pick out a new book.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
life soundtrack
IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie
Here's what mine came up with:
Opening Credits:
Rod Stewart, “If You Think I’m Sexy"
Waking Up:
Todd Snider, “Beer Run”
First day at High School:
Hootie and the Blowfish, “I Go Blind”
Falling in Love:
Bob Seeger, “Old Time Rock and Roll”
Fight Song:
Bob Marley, “Redemption Song”
Breaking Up:
Sting, “Fields of Gold”
Prom:
Bread, “Mother Freedom”
Life:
Eva Cassidy, "Imagine"
Driving:
Counting Crows, “American Girls”
Flashback:
Harry Connick, Jr, “A Wink and a Smile”
Wedding:
Temptations, “My Girl”
Birth of Child:
James Taylor, “Sweet Baby James”
Final Battle:
Snoop Dogg, “Drop it Like it’s Hot”
Death Scene:
Disturbed, “Down With the Sickness”
Funeral Song:
John Denver, “Thank God I’m a Country Boy”
End Credits:
Dean Martin, “Memories Are Made of This”
Fun, fun. Let me know if you decide to play, too, so I can come see what tunes were decided for you! And no, I don't typically wake up thinking about beer.
PS: We really did use "My Girl" at our wedding! That's what was on when we walked out of the sanctuary.
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie
Here's what mine came up with:
Opening Credits:
Rod Stewart, “If You Think I’m Sexy"
Waking Up:
Todd Snider, “Beer Run”
First day at High School:
Hootie and the Blowfish, “I Go Blind”
Falling in Love:
Bob Seeger, “Old Time Rock and Roll”
Fight Song:
Bob Marley, “Redemption Song”
Breaking Up:
Sting, “Fields of Gold”
Prom:
Bread, “Mother Freedom”
Life:
Eva Cassidy, "Imagine"
Driving:
Counting Crows, “American Girls”
Flashback:
Harry Connick, Jr, “A Wink and a Smile”
Wedding:
Temptations, “My Girl”
Birth of Child:
James Taylor, “Sweet Baby James”
Final Battle:
Snoop Dogg, “Drop it Like it’s Hot”
Death Scene:
Disturbed, “Down With the Sickness”
Funeral Song:
John Denver, “Thank God I’m a Country Boy”
End Credits:
Dean Martin, “Memories Are Made of This”
Fun, fun. Let me know if you decide to play, too, so I can come see what tunes were decided for you! And no, I don't typically wake up thinking about beer.
PS: We really did use "My Girl" at our wedding! That's what was on when we walked out of the sanctuary.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
toilets that spit
There had been a story in my head that I wanted to complain about a certain aspect of public bathrooms, especially the stalls that are so small that you have to walk in and your pants leg touches the toilet in order for you to shut the door. That's so utterly gross to me that I now have a mental note in my head of restaurants whose Ladies' Room I refuse to use on that principle alone.
And these aren't low-key eating establishments, either. We're talking real chain restaurants.
This can't just affect me. The last time I noticed this I pulled out my handy tape measure in my purse (the one that Mom was sure I needed in my Christmas stocking) to see for myself what kind of clearance they had created. Two inches. TWO INCHES. I don't care if you're a skinny skinny girl, in order to use that stall and shut the door, you're going to have to brush against the public toilet.
Gross me out.
But I think I've found a new gross that's grosser than that gross. This, in fact, could be the grossest of all.*
This afternoon while still at work I decided to make a pit stop in a restroom I don't usually use. I was trying to be spontaneous. After I had pulled and tied my pants back up I turned around to flush the toilet. And that's when it happened.
It spit on me. On my arm. From my wrist to my elbow, and I'm sure some of it got on my scrubs. And not clean water, mind you -- I'm talking about pee water that I had just deposited, not to mention whatever else was growing in there from the last time it had been cleaned.
I stood there for a moment, just a little shocked. Had that seriously just happened? Was it after the clean water had been exchanged? The scientist in me flushed again to verify -- and yes, indeedy, it was BEFORE the clean water entered the bowl. I had, indeed, been unintentionally baptized by pee water.
I immediately ran to the sink, washing both arms over my elbows. Three times. The whole point of pee'ing in a toilet is so that I don't have to wear it, yet that's exactly what I ended up doing anyways.
So now I have a new boycott list in my brain as it pertains to public bathrooms. I will share them with you as part of my duty to provide important Public Service Announcements:
1. No stalls that require you to get up close and personal with the toilet in order to shut the door.
2. If it smells so bad your eyes water, hold it until you get home.
3. If the toilet plunger is obviously soiled and sitting in the sink, hold it until you get home.
4. No toilets that spit.
This is not a static list and will be updated on an as-needed basis.
* Grossest of all: I changed my mind. The grossest of all is when you're in the bathroom with strangers and they don't wash their hands after they have used the facilities... and then walk back to their table to help feed their kid. The Hater always likes to come back from the restroom reporting who did not wash their hands after using the urinal. (This takes place right before he braggs on himself for washing his hands.)
And these aren't low-key eating establishments, either. We're talking real chain restaurants.
This can't just affect me. The last time I noticed this I pulled out my handy tape measure in my purse (the one that Mom was sure I needed in my Christmas stocking) to see for myself what kind of clearance they had created. Two inches. TWO INCHES. I don't care if you're a skinny skinny girl, in order to use that stall and shut the door, you're going to have to brush against the public toilet.
Gross me out.
But I think I've found a new gross that's grosser than that gross. This, in fact, could be the grossest of all.*
This afternoon while still at work I decided to make a pit stop in a restroom I don't usually use. I was trying to be spontaneous. After I had pulled and tied my pants back up I turned around to flush the toilet. And that's when it happened.
It spit on me. On my arm. From my wrist to my elbow, and I'm sure some of it got on my scrubs. And not clean water, mind you -- I'm talking about pee water that I had just deposited, not to mention whatever else was growing in there from the last time it had been cleaned.
I stood there for a moment, just a little shocked. Had that seriously just happened? Was it after the clean water had been exchanged? The scientist in me flushed again to verify -- and yes, indeedy, it was BEFORE the clean water entered the bowl. I had, indeed, been unintentionally baptized by pee water.
I immediately ran to the sink, washing both arms over my elbows. Three times. The whole point of pee'ing in a toilet is so that I don't have to wear it, yet that's exactly what I ended up doing anyways.
So now I have a new boycott list in my brain as it pertains to public bathrooms. I will share them with you as part of my duty to provide important Public Service Announcements:
1. No stalls that require you to get up close and personal with the toilet in order to shut the door.
2. If it smells so bad your eyes water, hold it until you get home.
3. If the toilet plunger is obviously soiled and sitting in the sink, hold it until you get home.
4. No toilets that spit.
This is not a static list and will be updated on an as-needed basis.
* Grossest of all: I changed my mind. The grossest of all is when you're in the bathroom with strangers and they don't wash their hands after they have used the facilities... and then walk back to their table to help feed their kid. The Hater always likes to come back from the restroom reporting who did not wash their hands after using the urinal. (This takes place right before he braggs on himself for washing his hands.)
Sunday, March 23, 2008
chocolate-covered cancerversary
There's an elephant in the room. The c-bomb fell in our laps two years ago today.
It's been a while since we've given any update, mostly because there's not a lot to tell right now. The idea is that the I-131 I had in November will continue to work for six months, or approximately until May.
My next set of scans and labs have been scheduled towards the end of May. I see the endocrinologist the week after that to get the results, and then it's just a matter of figuring out what to do next based on what we find out.
It's been a matter of one day at a time for two years, and I wish I had a better premonition than to say we really have no idea what to expect. The Hater says that I'm a pessimist, but I would totally disagree.
A pessimist would claim that the cancer is still growing, that the scans will reveal persisting or new hot spots, but none of it would matter because we're all going to die anyway. Conversely, an optimist would claim that everything will be clean and my tumor marker will be zero, but it wouldn't matter because life is grand.
I don't really think I'm an optimist, either. Not in this situation, anyway.
I'd like to think I'm taking a realistic approach to this dog and pony show, but I honestly think I'm too close to realistically look at anything.
This leaves us with few labeling options. If we ignore the laws of mutual exclusivity, you might say I'm waiting with clouded realistic expectations that have slightly optimistic undertones, except for the pessimistic moments. That's not to say it's a collectively exhaustive situation either, because some days I don't think about it altogether.
Some days I just hope that we have fudgecicles in the freezer.
Easter is a time of hopeful optimism, a time to rejoice that no matter what mokeys we're carrying around now, there is hope that someday it'll all be gravy. And not just any gravy -- we're talking warm chocolate gravy that's simply divine.
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