really? strep throat? what am i, eleven?

We are going into The City today. Mort likes the city. He likes to announce that is isn't "The Country". And he likes the skyscrapers. I like cities that are country-esque. And I like cities that have people I love dwelling within them. Someday we will take Mort to a horrid city proper that makes me freak out because you can't see the sun and the wind is always blowing. He will probably love it.

I am uncertain whether or not to be horrified or pleased by my son's faith. Or lack thereof.

We went through our usual ritual surrounding all meals and snacks.

"Mooooommmmmmmmy! I'm hungry!"

"Okay, what would you like?"

"I dunno. What do we have?"

This is the part where I list every food item in our home, a couple non-food items for my own amusement and all the possible ways in which one could combine them. And then he scrunches up his face in disgust and disappointment and asks, "That's IT?"

Except for the time I said, "How about some steamed broccoli?"

And he said, "That sounds nice!"

That was a good day.

Anyway, tonight when I landed on the chicken option, he paused and mulled it over. Then he said, "Do you promise it won't be the kind of chicken you gave me last time that made me throw-up?"

For the record, it was fish. I thought if I just didn't address the fact that it didn't look or smell like the chicken it was beside on the plate, he wouldn't notice and I would have successfully added another food to his repertoire. But he ate it and promptly gagged and threw-up. However, since he doesn't know it was fish, that means I can try again at a later date. Not that particular kind of fish, mind you. Just fish in general.

Dear Hartford Courant Newspaper,

    I have paid taxes in both New England and rural Pennsylvania, and it is with great conviction that I must inform you that both areas are of equal fashion triumphs and mishaps. To assume that anyone in rural Pennsylvania finds Kate Gosselin's (of Jon & Kate Plus 8 fame) goofy hair-don't "fancy" is grotesque.

    Save for Kate herself,I have never seen a woman anywhere--not in America or overseas--with that hot mess on her head. It is cruel and ignorant to blame an entire region for one fool's folly. After all, despite the fact that everyone in New England seems to be existing under the idea that Land's End is consistently being shown on the Paris runways, you don't see me vomiting all over your lame-ass lack of vision. Let's just keep pointing that  accusing finger squarely at the idiot who imagines that all of America is clamouring for her hair secrets. If anyone other than she finds that hair to be the next "Rachel" or Farrah", I would bet money that there are an equal number of misguided soccer moms in Connecticut and Pennsylvania and Massachusetts and Rhode Island and Arizona with that dead groundhog on their head. 

    Let us recall the adage about glass houses and stones and monogrammed Land's End and L.L. Bean tote bags and if we don't have anything nice to say, keep it to our non-ironic wearing Docksider selves.

    

    

Today is Stella's birthday. Even though we have it on the calendar every year, we usually forget it. It falls right in between a slew of other birthdays and an anniversary, and y'know...she's a dog.

Today, however, today with all of Stella's forgotten birthdays foremost in our minds and all of her ill health as of late, we had a family brainstorm on how to make this year stand out.

Mort was all for giving her one of her current half-chewed bones.

But we decided to splurge and give her what every dog really wants: meat. Organic, pure, right off the cow meat.

Mort set the floor for her with a napkin and place mat. She gobbled down her birthday meat, took a step off the place mat and regurgitated the birthday meat all over the kitchen. A successful birthday party enjoyed by all.

Exciting options in the world of allergy management. I can take a pill in the morning which does successfully alleviate my symptoms, but also successfully prevents any of my already limited sleep from happening which means I'm a stumbling zombie all day. OR I can take a pill in the evening which also seems to alleviate my symptoms, but knocks me out so much that I not only sleep through the night, but also through the morning and feel like I'm in a daze throughout the day. Such compelling choices. However shall I choose? Oh, and of course I mustn't forget option number 3: no allergy medication and just sheer misery. Considering how whacked-out tired I am, that's looking like an excellent choice. I am useless today. USELESS.

Apparently it is going to rain for the next 37 days or so. I have bought organic plant feed to help my wilting little sparrows better fight for their right to have roots in the soil against the weeds, and organic weed preventer that won't kill the weeds, but will prevent new ones from growing. And I got a phone call about buying the Brooklyn Bridge? Sounds like a great deal.

Anyway, so I was going to treadmill it with Pandora, but I think I had better garden. 

The mom who is under arrest because she isn't forcing her son to get chemo? Not thinking I'm on board with that.Granted, I get my back up when I read about moms whose children died from something utterly preventable like dehydration or a hangnail because they chose to pray over them instead. But leukemia? I dunno. Just because there's a very high rate of survival doesn't mean his survival can be guaranteed. And chemo is a lot for someone to go through. And when it comes down to it, that seems to me like the kind of thing that is up to the family, not the government. I don't know, I don't know. I don't have the answers. It's so sad. And now on top of everything, they are chasing down these poor people who have gone into hiding?Where do you draw the line?

And having said that, I'd like to bitch about people who cart their children around in very tight, crowded, public spaces with those enormous backpacks. I'm not talking about a sling or a wrap positioned so that the child is swaddled close to your back. I'm talking about those gigantic, hulking, going-to-hike-the-Appalachian-trail packs. I don't think they should be allowed in small indoor spaces. And if your kid is riding in one, he or she is too young to enjoy the sights you're viewing anyway. And my kid got whacked in the head by three different monstrosities such as those and the mom never even noticed. They are the yellow HumVee of the child toting world. And if you have a kid on a leash, in a backpack, in a front-riding carrier, and two by the hand and none of them are even muliples? You have too many kids.No one is going to offer you a television show about your experience or pay for your tummy tuck or your husband's hair plugs, so knock it off. And when I see you later with a cigarette in your hand? Seriously. You didn't get the memo on that one? Yeah. 

Shouldn't Mad Men Season 2 be on DVD by now? What are they waiting for?

What in the world is lovelier than this very morning?

Some days it is better not to think too much, to let thoughts float at the top of your head and refuse to bring them into focus for introspection. Because it will just make you sad for absolutely no reason except that you are all outta wack. I wish there was a chiropractor for thoughts. Just snap and bang; your head is a lovely screen call of pretty and mundane. Not that I believe in chiropractors. If it works for you, keep with it. I think they are tricksy, but that's me. I'd totally do acupuncture though.

GARDEN is planted. I'm adding another row of corn in two weeks so that we aren't overwhelmed with more corn than you can shake a stick at, but everything else is done. I found another giant hole chewed by my friendly neighborhood rabbits, so I put up yet another friendly piece of chicken wire. Chew on that, beyotch. I'd like to say that removing all the topsoil has solved my weed issue, but it has not. I need to newspaper and straw it. I feel like I'm building a house for one of the three little pigs.

Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Heating Pad.

It was so beautiful yesterday. The kind of spring day that cause me to wonder if it ever existed or is a memory I've stolen from a movie or an advertisement. Jeans and t-shirt weather. Glorious sunshine, blue skies and puffy white clouds. A little kid laughing and shrieking with the hose, drenching their sneakers and chasing daddy.

I couldn't stay away from the garden. I weeded and repaired four wheelbarrows worth of soil and rocks. I put-up chicken wire in my latest move against my rabbit foes. I planted marigolds and roma tomatoes, grape tomatoes and brandywine tomatoes. I planted yellow and green peppers. I planted oregano and basil. I cleaned-up the broccoli rabe, the broccoli, baby carrots, arugula, spinach and lettuce. I planted borage. I worked and worked and worked and it was outstanding. And then I realized my back hurt. And today I am in rehab-dictated position with a heating pad.

I should have skipped the aleve and gone straight for the prescription stuff.

And I see my garden out there, still needing me to finish weeding, still needing me to plant jalapenos, Thai chili peppers, orange peppers, cilantro, onions, soybean and corn. And I can't do a damn thing.

We visited my sister and her fiance at their Airstream yesterday, and now Mort is very vocal and intent on his desire for a "moving home." And really, no one could blame him, because it is super-cool, but eventually I had to tell him to get a job and start saving. And then Duke and I laughed and laughed.

Let's play guess what time I woke-up last night (this morning?) I will give you a hint: I watched back-to-back episodes of Roseanne. That is a darn good show. Do I hear 3 am? Cause if I do, we have a winner! 

Why does my internal clock feel that 3 am is an appropriate time to spring to life?

My garden is overrun and causing me great anxiety. My indoor seedlings are becoming leggy and nervous, looking to spread out. I have found not 1, not 2, not 3, but 5 holes chewed through the fence by my friendly neighborhood rabbits. And one tunnel dug beneath it. And I can't get out there to work because it will not stop raining.

Abrupt subject change.

I have a friend, Riley, who could truly teach Martha Stewart a thing or two. The woman is a full-time stay-at-home mom, who works outside the home in the evening and on weekends. She runs her household by herself for the most part as her husband travels nonstop for work. She is like a mythical figure blessed by the Greek gods. Her home is always always always immaculate. Eat off the floor immaculate. Her flower beds are always lush and overflowing with nary a weed. Her child just turned four and is already able to write. She does elaborate crafts. She changes the decor of her home for every holiday. And I'm not talking she strings up some lights. She creates her own garland with handmade snowflakes and hearts for Valentine's Day. And even though she just spent 5 hours in the emergency room with her wee one, who will be completely dependant on my friend for the next month or so, I just received a thank-you note for a birthday party that very recently took place. Handmade. Two paragraphs written in regards to the gifts we brought. With a picture. Seriously, Riley should run for State Senate. Or Ruler of the Free World. That woman can get some shit done.

I really need to remember to read the online discussions of the local newspaper. That is some damn funny stuff. Demented and sad, but funny nonetheless.

The axis of evil is alive and well and in my garden. Weeds, birds and rabbits. And there you have it. I haven't even fully planted yet due to this $#@% nonstop rain, and already the rabbits have chewed a hole through my fence. But y'know what rabbits? I KNOW people. People who deal in chicken wire. I didn't want to go there, but it's on. I made what I thought would be an annoyance to keep the birds aflutterin' on out of my plants and leave my strawberry blossoms alone, but as with all things scarecrow, they just sit on top of it. And the weeds. Ugh. WEll, I have reached the point of no return. The next day it is not pouring rain, I am starting over. I'm digging out every inch that isn't planted and then replacing the soil. Other than that, I'm at a complete loss.

I am so tired I feel like I'm trying to resurface from anesthesia.