Love and Lawn Care

As hurricane-driven rain pounded the windows, I scanned an advertisement for getaway packages to my favorite hotel located on the shore of my favorite beach.

“Look,” I said to the Captain of my Love Boat who was staring out the window as the mole holes filled with water. “They have a holiday package for Jingle Bell lovers, a Paws package for Floof lovers, and a Romance package for. . .”

“Great Gophers! Can you believe that!?”

“So much for romance. What is it?”

“That guy next door is working on his yard again. In the middle of a Category 3!”

My guy doesn’t normally escalate above tropical storm level. He’s so cool, the ice in his tea doesn’t melt. The last time I saw him this upset was when the same guy took his new lawn tractor for a spin in our yard. I called it being neighborly. He called it trespassing and threatened to border our yard with the kind of spikes that make hay out of John Deere’s tires.

“He wants to make sure his yard looks nice come spring.”

“He wants to make me look like I learned lawn care on a seaweed farm.”

I waved the hotel brochure like a white flag.

“Why don’t we take a nice trip where someone else takes care of maintenance? They have a romantic getaway with chocolate covered strawberries and rose petals.”

“They have chocolate covered rose petals?”

“No, they sprinkle them around to look nice.”

“When they’re sprinkled around our yard you make me rake them up.”

“We could get the Paws Package and take the dog.”

“Remember when we let the dog sleep with us? It smelled like burning tires in our bedroom for a week.”

I tossed the beach brochure in the recycle-when-we-remember bin. "Let’s just order pizza delivery for the guy next door and turn in for a nap when he stops mowing to gorge on pepperoni.”

“Now that’s a romance package. I don’t have rose petals, but the rosemary in the yard is going to seed.”

It goes to show. The weeds in your garden just might be the spice of life.

 

 

POINT AND SHOOT

I was born in February and I’m a little concerned that the symbol for my birthday month is a fat, naked stalker baby with underdeveloped wings and a bow and arrow. I don’t know about you, but I go some places a baby should be afraid to follow, even one armed with projectiles. 

Somehow the thought of an undiapered toddler, especially one packing a weapon designed to shoot warm fuzzies, accompanying me to the mall clearance sales and auto-flushers seems horribly inappropriate.  I still bear a French manicure-shaped scar from reaching for a cunning pair of Capri pants on the red dot clearance rack.  If that naked baby grabs the last pair of Prada pumps on the sale table, he’s likely to lose something more important than a finger.

I can see why he’s armed. Anybody named Cupid who goes parading around in his birthday suit here in the red mud section of the South is likely to suffer grievous knuckle prints from guys named Pork Chop or Tiny. And if he ventures out to watch the Nascar drivers go fast and turn left, he just may get tire marks someplace where parking is prohibited.

So just to be sure we’re on the same track, I checked with Cupid to see how he felt about his job.

Me:  So, Cupid, how does it feel to go to work naked every day?

Cupid, the God of Love: Well, I save a lot on dry cleaning and there’s no dress code, so it’s kind of empowering. I use an awful lot of Chap-Stick, though. I’m trying for a corporate sponsorship.  My endorsement deals keep me living in the lifestyle of my dreams.

Me:  You dream of flying naked for the rest of eternity?

Cupid:  Don’t knock it. Even in the weather that frosts my feathers, it beats a business suit and 80-hour work weeks. And I don't have any place to carry a cell phone, so the boss can't ever call me on my lunch hour.

Me:  But do you think it’s safe for a baby to fly around by himself?

Cupid:  It’s not like I’m unarmed. (He tested the point on a heart-tipped arrow.) Hey, I’m the one that made Kanye apologize to Taylor Swift. I just grazed him enough to let all the hot air out.

Me:  If you’re such a sure shot, why are there so many divorces?  You know, I was married and divorced before I settled down with the Captain of my Love Boat and I’d rather have my legs done in the hot wax section of the car wash than go through that again.

Cupid:  Hey, everybody makes mistakes. Actually I was aiming for someone else, but, when you bent over it was like a heat seeking missile and a barn fire.

Me: So you’re saying the whole fiasco was my fault?

Cupid:  Well every action has an opposite and equal unexpected consequence. That’s math, you know. Or science.  Whatever. I was a Liberal Arts major.

Me:  I can identify with that. I graduated with honors, but they don’t take GPA in the Express Lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

Cupid:  Well, don’t be eyeing my job. I had to knock off a guy with winged feet to get this gig.

Me:  So now that Valentine’s Day is almost past, it’s the off season for you. What keeps you busy the rest of the year?

Cupid:  Oh, there’s lots to do.  I like to spend part of the summer posing as a sculpture in a wishing well fountain.  All that loose change comes in handy for the bathroom vending machines. 

Me:  Is that all you do? Make people think their wishes will come true, then steal their money?

Cupid:  Of course not.  Somebody’s got to keep up with the Kardashian sisters.  And Jennifer Lopez. I think I’m gonna need a bigger box of arrows.

 

 

 

 

 

Hippy is Not a Guy with Long Hair

I’m like Shakira--my hips don’t lie; even when threatened. Don't ask me how I know.

However, without much coaxing they’re willing to reveal every bite of doughnut I’ve had in the past ten years. Try to stuff them into a pair of pantyhose and they’ll also let on what happened to the last box of Thin Mints, the banana bread the neighbor brought when the Captain was flu-bound, and the six dozen zombie cupcakes intended for the third grade Halloween party.

My hips and I have never had a very good relationship. All I long for is to see daylight between my thighs one time before I die. On the other hand my hips fantasize of a day when we can coexist on the buffet deck of the Love Boat without me snarling every time a skinny chick sucks down a piece of cheesecake.

These days they’re spreading the dream to my chins, who have rebelled and resorted to disguising cupcake crumbs in their folds for a late night snack. I’m so nearsighted, I thought it was just stray whiskers. If I ever locate my bifocals, I intend to act sternly in regards to my personal appearance even if I have to read up on excavation techniques to dislodge a certain Hostess Twinkie that's been missing in action for several days.

When I was fifteen, I was all shin bones and shoulder blades. Now I’m fifty and I’ve discovered that love handles are the new hipbones. I used to sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” but now I have to admit that my head and toes lost touch long before I discovered the beauty of a long distance relationship. My knees are still active, though. They take every possible opportunity to go out. So these days, I’m more likely to sing “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and hope I don’t lose anything important when I stand up.

Last week I wanted to buy a pair of hip hugger jeans, but I had to get three estimates on the location of my navel to determine the right size. I was going to wear them with a halter top just like the old days, but my kids hit me with a restraining order, the comic strip character Cathy came out of retirement to stage an intervention, and the government declared the entire Head to Toe area unsafe. I’m expecting FEMA to approve my application for natural disaster assistance any day now and Naval engineers to construct an overflow device to be worn around my waist.

In the meantime, I’m investing heavily in Krispy Kreme; specifically Cruellers, Raspberry Filled and Chocolate Glazed. Because even though hips don’t lie, maybe they can be bribed to keep the sugar coated truth to themselves.

A Terrible Waste

Those crazy kids Barack and Michelle made the cover of In Touch magazine this past week sharing the secrets that keep their love alive. Is it just me or does anybody else have a problem with the President of the greatest nation in the world dishing on his love dare in a trashy magazine? I can see him giving up his diet tips to help reduce the need for national healthcare, but isn’t it a little undignified for the First Couple to act out their version of the Presidential Dating Game in the cheap seat glossies?

I appreciate candor as well as the next person, but I don’t want a President that kisses and tells. That’s just un-American. That sort of thing is supposed to be exposed by freedom of the press.

My problem is this. If the man doesn’t keep quiet about keeping the First Romance alive, how can we expect him to keep his lips locked when it comes to lying to the Russians about how many nuclear half baths we’ve added to the White House? How do we know he won’t leak the National League standings to Fidel and Charlie McCarthy Castro?

I refuse to encourage the media in meddling in the private affairs of the President and his main squeeze. I’m proud to say that I did not buy that magazine. No siree, I read that puppy right there at the cash register, leaning against the Snicker bars and Juicy Fruit gum.

Speaking of puppies, I’m wondering how long true love is going to last now that they have a pooch on Pennsylvania Avenue. A few episodes of Doody Gate and there’s going to be a drop in the polls for the love match.

I can just see the President getting up and shrugging on the First Plaid Bathrobe in the middle of the night and padding along the White House shag when all of a sudden the First Feet find a squishy gift left unnoticed by the new puppy Bo who, at five months old, is still a better leaver than Retriever. The first thing the man of the house is going to do is blame it on the Missus.

“Michelle!” he bellows over the handy Intercom.

A few minutes later a sleepy voice answers back. “Baby, I’ve been up interviewing with trashy magazines and modeling longwaisted dresses all day. This had better be good.”

“There’s POOPY in the White House!”

Silence. Then, “Baby, this is America. There’s been poopy in the White House for 200 years.”

Mr. Obama, wise in the ways of political excrement, thinks to himself a minute. “The situation is foul and stinky and I put my foot in it and smeared it everywhere. I need someone who’s an expert in smelly waste to help me out.”

So he calls Bill Clinton.

Anything But Tuna (AW Blogroll for February)

The February Blogroll on Love vs. Romance is reflecting more opinions than a poll for the best Superbowl commercial (I’m a softie for the Clydesdales). But for the most part, Love is ahead in the count. If this were a tennis match, Love would be at Game Point and Romance would have Love. Funny, that’s how it’s worked out for me, too.

We’ve heard from Ralph Pines, Razib Ahmed, Kat Frass, and Benjamin Solah. I’d like to turn from Benjamin’s political perspective toward more personal politics. Then we’ll be off to Scribbletown to see what’s happening there.


Anything But Tuna

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope. I think it’s fine if you choose to shave your legs only in months containing an ‘R.’ Pull up your socks and nobody will notice.”

Bill threw a wool jacket over one arm to have ready in case my hot flashes wore off before we got home. A man who overlooks legs that would choke a weedeater and remembers to bring along an overcoat when the temperature is topping 70. Who says romance is dead? All the same, for my fiftieth birthday, I’m hoping someone will give me a working thermostat.

Romance when I was 20 meant heels, hose, a revealing dress, and a delicious dinner with a date fueled by hormones. These days I keep my hormones in a bottle, and wearing heels means a good chance of spending the evening in the not-so-cheap seats in the Emergency Room draped in a hospital gown that reveals more than any dress I ever owned. I don’t consider it a date if I have to pay the deductible on my health insurance.

I’ve known Bill Dear since he was married to the Tuna Casserole Maker and I was married to the Salesman. That was back before home computers, but right after hand-held calculators became such a hit. Having already surfed the Marital Blissless superhighway with a sweet talker, I was suspicious of Romance, a slippery devil I couldn’t count on when the going got tough or long division was involved.

But these days I recognize Romance for what it is when it grows up: Love in action. So Bill doesn’t try to sell me on the idea of an electric razor for the Mohawk on my shins. And I feed him pot roast. Or barbecued ribs.

Anything but tuna.


Remaining Blogroll:
escritora
ChaosTitan
Cathy C
harri3tspy
truelyana
tatkinson

Roast Rage

Contrary to the biased opinion of teenaged boys in the 17-19 age bracket who crash into my kitchen at an hour past minute rice, shedding sweaty soccer gear, band instruments, and rented video games, My name is not What’s For Supper. Likewise, I am not the seating hostess at Denny’s, nor am I the Sample Girl at the food court.
Now I understand my mother better. She used to stare longingly out the window while mashing potatoes and mutter, “If the world were to end today, I would have to serve biscuits to the four horsemen of the Apocalypse before I could go to glory.” I thought she was batty. Really it was roast rage.
Pondering the matter while I munched on the crunchy brown parts of the chicken crust last night, I decided that there are some actions that could tend to make me snippy in the kitchen. So I have thoughtfully prepared a menu of activities for potential combatants to avoid when I’m engaged in actual food preparation. Break one of these rules and I can’t guarantee what will happen with the potato masher.
* Don’t kiss me when I’m making gravy. Gravy is a narcissistic beast and fully capable of expressing jealousy in the form of oddly shaped lumps and unappealing consistency. (This one is directed more toward the head of household who is filled with joy and the love of life whenever he smells food in the final stages of preparation. I don’t see much of a problem where the teenaged boys are concerned.)
* Don’t tell me the potatoes have lumps, but you like them that way. The potatoes won’t be the only thing that’s served up with a few extra bumps that evening.
* If your main objective is to stand in front of the stove and steal samples from the chicken plate, don’t offer to help me in the kitchen. If you want to be of assistance, save me the trouble and stick your bottom lip in the cheese grater.
* Anyone apprehended peeking into pots boiling merrily away on the stovetop and making the same sound I make when I step in something gooshy will come away with a better understanding of the term "cauliflower ear. "
* Sampling the meatloaf and saying, “You know what would make this good?” is grounds for assault with a meat mallet.
* Don’t report the fun everyone else is having in the living room, scream for me to come watch the new Geico commercial, or exclaim “Oh, you missed it!” while I’m carefully browning the crescent rolls. Pillsbury didn’t spend all that time packing dough in that little can for me to let it go up in smoke while I’m dashing into the next room to watch a lizard talk.
For those of you who can't remember the rules, feel free to ask questions. I'll be in the kitchen. Sharpening my potato peeler.