Gardening 20 Minutes at a Time

Did I mention that my number two most favorite past time in the world just so happens to be gardening? Number one is NFL football (Never change 'Skins!), and if you continued reading beyond that last sentence then you're my kind of reader and THANK YOU! Welcome! Have a seat and let me tell you about my garden. In August I'll probably start rambling about my football team because my garden has been fried to death by the Southern California sun, so just sit back and relax before shit gets super obnoxious and victimy around here (note: victimy is apparently not a real word, as denoted by the bright red line that appears underneath it every time I type it. However, I must argue that if a Redskins fan who has just lost $1000 worth of perennials to the hot, hot sun is anything, it's obnoxious and victimy. So, spell check your ass, Apple.).

Anyway, the garden! Last year I went a little nuts. I only planted seeds that made food, or better, I only planted all of the seeds that made all of the food. Things got a little out of hand. It likely had something to do with the 40+ tiny tomato seedlings I placed sporadically throughout the back yard in a pacifists bid to avoid seedling thinning (I just can't seem to force myself to do it!). Then I totally got knocked up! It was the strangest thing. One day we were "trying" and literally the next day I was 20 lbs heavier and had my head in a toilet. While that was happening, I completely ignored my garden, expecting the weeds to quite literally eat all of the things I had planted. For a while, it looked like I was correct in my assumption, but then again I was one with her head in a toilet so what the fuck would I know? Huh? Anyway, the rest is a blur to me, but I recall my frazzled looking husband marching into the bedroom one morning while I had my head in a trashcan (I appreciated the change in scenery every once in a while.) and he said something to the effect of "THE GARDEN IS A FUCKING JUNGLE." and then promptly turned to leave, likely to tend to the very neglected children reeking havoc in my very neglected living room.

The moral of this story is that it's OK to let shit go to shit when you're in the throes of pregnancy. The End.

Wait.

Actually, we were talking about my jungle garden. Aaaaanyway, eventually, said pregnancy turned into a little human being and came out all human looking, but slept just enough for me to be like "Peace out, human baby! I'm going back to tend to my jungle garden." And so I did, and they never saw me again...until the human baby cried and needed to be fed again, which was about every 20 minutes, and kind of still is. So, at this point, with the help of my saintly husband, I have weeded my overgrown jungle into something slightly more palatable to our landlord, and I am actually really excited to see it all come together.

I planted three fuchsia salvia plants this year. I killed one last year.

This little front section that I've wanted to dig forever.

In it, I've planted some Japanese barberry (LOVE that color)

Silver Anouke Lavender in the same bed.

 Across the way, my calendula is going bonkers. I kind of dig this plant despite it's old school appeal. Its vintage!

 The most obnoxious thing in my yard, besides me, red celosia. We are kindred spirits, that hideously red, fuzzy plant and I.

Also, I'm certain that I'm the worlds winner for "Behind the Times" gardener of the year. But look at my big, fluffy, delicate alysum! I have the same kind of love hate relationship with this that I have with my celosia...and myself. It was one of those things that I started from seed just to prove that I could. So now I have, and while I can't say that I ever will again, I can say that it's been real.

I have more garden to share, I swear. But I also have a life to live 20 minutes at a time and therefore you'll have to wait for the next installment of my garden drama.

On a Day Like Today

It's been a looooong hard day of wrestling the coffee pot, darting around like a maniac in an attempt to appeal to some very small but tough critics. Nap time is just a god damn, hot mess, and you didn't even shower until you realized that also hadn't showered yesterday. It was time. You look at the clock periodically throughout the day and think to yourself "I wish this day would just end already! ARRRG!" but then you realize that it's only 8:45AM and your living room looks like ground zero because it hasn't been cleaned in nearly a fortnight! Finally after what feels like a century, the sun begins to set and you begin to fiendishly plan... Bedtime.

The mind is a wonderful tool for conjuring up all sorts of wild and exotic notions and ideas. For example: If I can just- Fold a load of laundry, unload the groceries, do a pass on every room of the house, vacuum the bedrooms, do the dishes (Which is never just "the dishes" by the way, and always includes, er, cleaning the whole fucking kitchen from top to bottom.), get both babes fed, bathed and down by 8PM, THEN by 8:15 I might just have an hour before the spouse gets home to pull THIS off!-

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

SO. You totally get that load of laundry did, unload those groceries, tidy up every single room of the house, run around with a vacuum cleaner in hopes of picking up something along the way and clean the whole fucking kitchen!

Now it's time for negotiations...

The big kid, at 2.5 years old, is smart. Too smart, really. She got me early and she got me quickly. The deal was that she would go to bed with no tears, fighting, screaming for wall pounding for the small price of being able to take her chocolate almond milk to bed. I didn't even blink when I agreed. Its a small price to pay for and hour of "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh" after a day like today. The little one, at a weenie 5 months, still has much to learn. She got breast milk. Which is not even close to chocolate almond milk if you ask me. Afterwards, she just laid there and stared at me as if we were having some sort of Mexican Standoff. To which I responded "Puh-lease, girlfriend!" and promptly placed her in her cozy little bed where little weenie 5 month olds belong at night.

Master of BEDTIME!

Then I finally showered for the fist time that day (and the day before)... and then...

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-SHIT, I heard the garage door opening. The spouse is home early tonight. Early? Rare, as it only happens on the "Ahhhhhhhhh" evenings for some reason. At any rate, I shared my sushi like a nice young lady should and also told him where I hid the good ice cream. That ought to teach him to come home early.

It can also be argued that my husband has a substantially more relaxed personality than I have ever been, and so I have no problem at all readjusting my views for one evening. I suppose I'm feeling a little better about today...

Its Like Groundhogs Day, Only More Vomit!

Once, a long, long time ago, I was cool.

My captives, who are currently sleeping in the back bedrooms of my home (I'll keep this to a whisper) would like for me to think differently. They would like for me to believe that my life has always been one vomit covered load of laundry after another. That I never showered daily, and that my BMI was never slightly below average.  They live under the impression that I have been kicked, bitten and splattered with various foreign gunk into submission, and that my memories of a different life have long ago left me. They would, of course, would be incorrect in the assertion.

I know for a fact my ass was cool once, because I have obtained photographic evidence to the fact. Buried deep, DEEP within the bowels of my Facebook page I have uncovered this:

I give you COOL

I rode the subway. In New York City. Where I lived.

I lived in this shit hole, and from my window...

I could see this shit hole. Which was an exact replica of my shit hole, no less.

I did the Europe "thing" once.

Here I am standing next to a man dressed up as a penis. COOL.

I swilled beer.

I had a cat. Which is actually not so much a cool thing as it is a symbol of independent living, which actually makes it sound like once upon a time I was a geriatric, which is actually not the point I am trying to make here. Well, I suppose it is my end point... aw hells. My cat was fucking cool damn it! Lookit dat punim! (His, not mine)

Then of course, this happened.

Ahhh, and yes this:)

This*

This*

And most recently... This

Followed by this...

So, of course now, whenever I try to do this...

My kids be all like "Biiiiiitch please."

So, I guess I'm just left with a whole lot of this

And, you know, somethings don't alway have to change... fat ass.

So here I am, living a life which is exponentially more insane than my past life. Educating myself on the ins and outs of raising a family, being an awesome wife, keeping a home and learning to duck when life throws shit.

*The order in which these events have taken place has been greatly exaggerated by the author of this Blog post.