Moving is like a mission in a weird game; but you aren't just collecting things, you're collecting things and putting them in various sized boxes. Then, you put the smaller boxes into bigger boxes, until you're nauseous at the mere sight of a piece of cardboard.
Then, you find out all those BOXES have to go in a CAR and be DRIVEN to a new place, where you aren't sure you'll have power, and you KNOW you won't have internet, and you start looking at your iPhone like it is The Holy Grail of Life Giving Connectivity and realize you're soon going to have to take things to a whole new level of Boxdom. Why?
Well...
You still haven't bought a toaster. Or a plug-in counter top burner. Or a microwave. Or a tea kettle. Or important things like one of every single thing that belongs in a kitchen. Also, you still don't have pans yet, and the whole of your dining capabilities rest in the hands of a fistful of forks you nabbed from your soon-to-be-former housemates (because how awesome is it to have a fork with tines THAT LONG?) and a partial set of dishes from said housemates. You also don't have a cat crate to house the soon-to-be-neurotic cat that's only just gotten over the fact that you disappeared for a week and left him to watch furniture move and his little friend die.
You sit in a corner for a while, babbling incessantly to yourself about Lists and Boxes and Panic Attacks and Where Are The Meds, Again, and Why Did I Ever Decide It'd Be Easier To Wait Another Month.
Then you find out the trip you were going to take to get the bulk of the stuff to New Place is canceled. Just when you organized your brain enough to throw Panic in a dark cell with a ball gag and straight jacket on.
Suddenly, like The Joker, there it is again, cackling at you.
So you walk around high-strung, which starts a fight about how your part of Moving is "easy" and all you can think is "What the fuck EASY. YOU get to leave me there and go home to a house that has everything right where you left it and people are happy and there's internet and cable and a working, clean kitchen and people who aren't entirely CRAZY. I have to deal with unpacking all these damn BOXXEN and try to keep a cat from dying of a heart attack and find out at three a.m. that I FORGOT TO BUY MUSTARD AND DAMMIT I NEED MUSTARD RIGHT NOW and there's no handy person with a car right there saying 'hey, it's right down the street, let's go pick some up and maybe a little drive-thru food, too since we're passing eleven hundred places that sell hot food convenience' because there's only an aunt and crazy uncle and I can't drive and the nearest store that's open after midnight is FIVE TOWNS OVER and there isn't even a goddamn TOWN for thirty fucking miles!"
Pretty soon, you've got high enough stress levels that you're sure you've lost at least a dozen years from your optimal parts usage and you've cleaned most of the kitchen.
So, hours later, we've moved all but one giant box and a few small boxes (plus one cat and one suitcase) in one load, dealt with several bouts of crying, , deposited BOXXEN, drove most of the way back, stopped for a drink, and came home to a cranky mama that was supposed to be asleep for all the hours it took to drive out. Silly opens the door and out bursts a massive smile and streak of curls, who dances on seeing Daddy is home, but is NOT coming inside till she sees Lala is home, too. And all you can think is... it's going to break her heart when Daddy drives off for all day again in a week and comes home alone.
As important as it is... I find myself wanting to say "Nevermind, I don't want to go, I want to go back to having my safe space and playing with my girl and watching her grow up and never missing a minute of it and god dammit, why did I choose to move so far away?"
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Friday, July 17, 2009
How Our Little Stinkerbell Got So GRIM.
GRIM.. -sigh-
Gabrielle Renee-Iris M****. The dash makes me twitch every time I see it, dunno why.
Silly was the one to decide she'd have that name. And she shares the story with total strangers if they so much as coo at Stinkerbell. Gabrielle for Xena's companion. Renee because it's the actress' name.
We thought... okay, that's done. She'll have Blue's last name. All set.
..and then the day after seeing our little girl's first sonogram (one a kidney-bean, the other a lizard), Silly's Nan passed away. This is a woman who'd fought hard to stay around for her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; past the death of her husband and soul mate, past the loss of her sight, past weekly dialysis and failing organs, past a money-grubbing daughter in law's bumbling care. She had the BEST (and apparently lower-class) British accent and a spitfire spirit to back it up. The first time she met me, we attempted to explain who I was. She cut everyone off, took my hand, and said "Call me Nanna."
On her last good day, she sat and talked to Silly for hours, told her all about her pregnancies and gave her every bit of mothering advice she could squeeze in. She touched the sonogram prints, and got to see them in whatever small amount of vision she had left. The next day, when we got the call, we rushed to the hospital. She was still hanging on.
She waited till we all got into the room with her, the whole family touching her arms, legs, and hair. Silly said "I'm here, Nanna." As quickly and quietly as the next breath, she was gone.
Months later, I'd hear a low-class British accent over the newborn's monitor, calling me by name in a calm, comfortable, seeking way, followed by "...could you come in here, please?" The only other person in the house was The Boy, and he was sitting in the same room, engrossed in his video game. Acting nonchalant, I got up from my desk and went to GRIM's room. Sure enough, no one there. Just Gabby. Gabby who had somehow managed to get her hat off and bury her face in it.
What else could I do? I said "Thanks, Nanna, I see it." and got the hat out. Checked that Gabby was breathing normally, and closed the door behind me when I left.
Every once in a while, Gabby giggles and waves at nothing. She's very focused on SOMETHING when she does it, and she's done it since she first learnt how to smile. After that experience, ever since.. I say hello to Silly's Nan and Pampy. I hope they enjoy their visits.
Anyhow.. that's how Gabby ended up with two middle names, and how a baby girl with the initials GRM became our GRIM little giggler.
Gabrielle Renee-Iris M****. The dash makes me twitch every time I see it, dunno why.
Silly was the one to decide she'd have that name. And she shares the story with total strangers if they so much as coo at Stinkerbell. Gabrielle for Xena's companion. Renee because it's the actress' name.
We thought... okay, that's done. She'll have Blue's last name. All set.
..and then the day after seeing our little girl's first sonogram (one a kidney-bean, the other a lizard), Silly's Nan passed away. This is a woman who'd fought hard to stay around for her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; past the death of her husband and soul mate, past the loss of her sight, past weekly dialysis and failing organs, past a money-grubbing daughter in law's bumbling care. She had the BEST (and apparently lower-class) British accent and a spitfire spirit to back it up. The first time she met me, we attempted to explain who I was. She cut everyone off, took my hand, and said "Call me Nanna."
On her last good day, she sat and talked to Silly for hours, told her all about her pregnancies and gave her every bit of mothering advice she could squeeze in. She touched the sonogram prints, and got to see them in whatever small amount of vision she had left. The next day, when we got the call, we rushed to the hospital. She was still hanging on.
She waited till we all got into the room with her, the whole family touching her arms, legs, and hair. Silly said "I'm here, Nanna." As quickly and quietly as the next breath, she was gone.
Months later, I'd hear a low-class British accent over the newborn's monitor, calling me by name in a calm, comfortable, seeking way, followed by "...could you come in here, please?" The only other person in the house was The Boy, and he was sitting in the same room, engrossed in his video game. Acting nonchalant, I got up from my desk and went to GRIM's room. Sure enough, no one there. Just Gabby. Gabby who had somehow managed to get her hat off and bury her face in it.
What else could I do? I said "Thanks, Nanna, I see it." and got the hat out. Checked that Gabby was breathing normally, and closed the door behind me when I left.
Every once in a while, Gabby giggles and waves at nothing. She's very focused on SOMETHING when she does it, and she's done it since she first learnt how to smile. After that experience, ever since.. I say hello to Silly's Nan and Pampy. I hope they enjoy their visits.
Anyhow.. that's how Gabby ended up with two middle names, and how a baby girl with the initials GRM became our GRIM little giggler.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Midnight Phonecalls [ominous music]
I changed our land line's ring tone. heehee.
Now, it plays the opening bars of..
It sounds epic. xD
I forgot to tell Blue and Silly... Both said, the first time the phone rang while they were home, they "nearly had a heart attack". I thought it was a far cry better than our usual 'LEE LEE LEE ... LEE LEE LEE', one of the standard, ear splitting out-of-the-box rings most cordless phones have.
I say it fits with our future plans to turn the boot room (tiny, tiny foyer) into a Haunted Mansion styled space. They say I'm going "a bit far" with the whole thing. In the end, though, we've kept it. I think it grows on you.
...besides, if they made me change it, I'd pick the William Tell Overture. LOL
ON TO THE PHONE CALL!
This is why I'm making a post, after all, to write about a phone call. Rather, what the phone call stirred in me.
I think a lot about the garden. When the realization first sank in, I was all gung-ho, ordering scads of seed catalogues and talking "garden" nonstop while visions of our back yard transformed danced through my head. As time marches on, however, my excitement dims. I'm holding onto the hope that it'll happen, that I'll make it happen, but every idea... every effort that goes nowhere leaves me more and more despondent. I've accepted that it won't look the way I want, that I'll likely be gardening out of containers for the foreseeable future. I've accepted that we simply, honestly, cannot work out there right now. We're all getting over this virus and the weather has been peaking steadily at 115* F. Hell, our inflated-ring pool is like slightly-warm bathwater now! WITHOUT the help of a solar cover! There's no way we could go out and rip up the ground like this.
Still... I'd like a little enthusiasm from my pair. I've stopped badgering them with facts and bits of trivia, I would love to hear the occasional suggestion or even encouragement. Now, when my seed books arrive, I don't bother beyond a cursory flipping. Drop it open to the middle, glance at a couple pages, sigh, and toss them in the drawer with the first ones. The ones I'd so lovingly studied, shared with GRIM, wrote notes regarding.
It's happened. I've hit the "what's the point" phase, and I haven't even got a handful of soil to show for it. I didn't plan on having anything planted this year, but I would have liked to buy a tomato and put it in a bucket. Something.
Which brings me to tonight's midnight call. My ominous Bach making me smile. There are only three people who would call me at midnight, when the baby's home. Silly, who works graveyard and gets lonely. Mom, who knows I'm almost always up at night. Patti, my aunt. We've both been the type for odd hours all our lives. Sometimes, midnight is the only chance you get. Your one chance to talk without an impatiently eager child clamoring to be heard by one end of the phone or the other, away from spouses that have an innate sense and decide that's exactly when they need you (similar to the previous).
The house is quiet, everything is peace and calm, you've had a chance to destress and let go.
~dee doo deet... deeedaaduuuudum.. dooodoodoooot dooo dee dooo, dooo~
So. It's my mom.
My son has informed her that I will *be there* for the fourth.
He is emphatic.
I WILL be there.
No one can dissuade him.
There is no argument strong enough, no reason valid enough.
I will be there.
He knows it.
KNOWS it.
...I'd like to know HOW he knows that.
I offered for him to come out here. Have a barbecue, watch the fireworks, splash in our wading pool, get heatstroke in the park down the street, maybe. I never once said anything about going out there. See, we already had two families coming in for Blue's feed-me-till-I-pop barbecue. I thought it'd be better to add two (or three, or four) mouths to the party, than have me out there.. alone.. trying to remember how long you wait before adding sauce.
Blue had told me the next DAY that he'd called it off because we'd all been sick. He couldn't take grilling and smoking in this breath-sucking dry heat, let alone a repeat of his birthday's chaos. I'd texted mom later that night, saying I would be out for the fourth, if it was okay with her. I hadn't talked to anyone outside of my own house or Blue's mom since then. Mom's phone wasn't set up for texts yet, so it never arrived.
Baffled.
The boy has the pure, singular ability to baffle.
Anyhow, our call gets dropped mid-sentence, and I can't reach my mom. I'm going straight to voicemail, then I get some man speaking Spanish. I wait a little while, and she doesn't call back. Now, she isn't in the best of health. I know this and I'm starting to worry, so I dig my aunt's number out of the phone and wake her out of a sound sleep. Sure, she can go check on mom, tell her I've been trying to call back. Then, since mom's busy, I end up chatting with my aunt.
She's renovating that tiny house, the standing vestige of my grandfather's memory. She's planting in his once-loved soil; mourning the dead lizards that crawled into the walls to hibernate and didn't find a way out.
As is generally true, talk of the property leads to talk of my grandfather. Everyone but his family called him Jim. We called him many other things, from 'grandpa' to 'Fattio Daddio'. He was a great man, but had flaws like anyone else.
He used to cut up half gallon and quart milk jugs, the "paper" ones, and make them into "lizard houses". You could find him outside, kicking back on a pile of old wood like it was a luxury lounger, and he'd gesture you over.
"Quiet!" he'd hiss, grabbing you roughly by the wrist before you could step into an unseen bolt-hole. Once you were settled in, silent and still... he'd lean back again.
Like a magician, his hand would disappear. Bringing it out again with a casual flourish, he'd drop a blue-belly lizard in your lap.. or your palm.. or on the sleeve of your borrowed "cover" shirt.
And there it'd stay.
Staring at you.
You could swear... the damned thing was judging you!
Eventually, it'd look back to him, he'd nod, and it'd skitter off or settle in.
Once they were on me, I found I could sit stock still for hours in that heat. I'd giggle and try to stifle it, squirm a bit with the excitement of it all, and stare deeply into reptilian eyes that seemed just as human as any other. Sometimes, they'd let me touch them, but mostly not. My grandpa, meanwhile, would be crook'd into his lounge, muttering around his rollie cigarette.
I used to think he did it because he loved me best. I was his first, he told everyone. First grandchild; and later, the bringer of the first great-grandchild. His golden one. I thought it was my duty to learn everything he had to teach me. That somehow, all of these experiences were lessons I would need to know when I was grown, when I would take on the mantle none of us could picture him letting slip. Now... Now I think he just needed some peace. A little space of quiet and stillness. Like a child told to play "Let's Pretend" and they've been given the role of "moss on a log", I eagerly accepted and strained to do the best I could at being still and silent.
He never was an outwardly affectionate type. He told people he loved them by saying things like "get a haircut" and "you're too fat". If cornered, he'd admit that he was never taught how to show love. He didn't want his family to be taunted in school, so they should cut their hair. He worried about their health, afraid of seeing them die from something that could have been prevented.
Mostly, though, his love came through in money. "Take some money out of my account and buy that girl of yours a new dress. I don't like her wearing rags." That was said after the family got together (in old, faded clothes) to scrub his floors clean, after he was moved into what would become his hospice area. This man, who would fish out clothes that had washed downstream and take them home to wear, whose ceiling was a schitzophrenic's dream of colors, who'd eaten out of cans he bought by the case.. hated seeing his children or his grandchildren in anything less than "Goin' To Town" clothes.
So we got to talking about the lizards in the walls, my aunt and I. Until she mentioned them, I'd forgotten all about those cut up rectangles. They, like my grandfather, had just... always been there. Accepted, loved, appreciated, sought out. No matter how faded the logos got, no matter how warped by rain they'd become, we - and the lizards - still returned to them, year after year and season after season.
It looks like my Big Idea is going to have to wait for another entry, but I do hope you'll stick around. Whoever... wherever... you are.
Now, it plays the opening bars of..
Bach-Toccata and Fuge in D minor
It sounds epic. xD
I forgot to tell Blue and Silly... Both said, the first time the phone rang while they were home, they "nearly had a heart attack". I thought it was a far cry better than our usual 'LEE LEE LEE ... LEE LEE LEE', one of the standard, ear splitting out-of-the-box rings most cordless phones have.
I say it fits with our future plans to turn the boot room (tiny, tiny foyer) into a Haunted Mansion styled space. They say I'm going "a bit far" with the whole thing. In the end, though, we've kept it. I think it grows on you.
...besides, if they made me change it, I'd pick the William Tell Overture. LOL
ON TO THE PHONE CALL!
This is why I'm making a post, after all, to write about a phone call. Rather, what the phone call stirred in me.
I think a lot about the garden. When the realization first sank in, I was all gung-ho, ordering scads of seed catalogues and talking "garden" nonstop while visions of our back yard transformed danced through my head. As time marches on, however, my excitement dims. I'm holding onto the hope that it'll happen, that I'll make it happen, but every idea... every effort that goes nowhere leaves me more and more despondent. I've accepted that it won't look the way I want, that I'll likely be gardening out of containers for the foreseeable future. I've accepted that we simply, honestly, cannot work out there right now. We're all getting over this virus and the weather has been peaking steadily at 115* F. Hell, our inflated-ring pool is like slightly-warm bathwater now! WITHOUT the help of a solar cover! There's no way we could go out and rip up the ground like this.
Still... I'd like a little enthusiasm from my pair. I've stopped badgering them with facts and bits of trivia, I would love to hear the occasional suggestion or even encouragement. Now, when my seed books arrive, I don't bother beyond a cursory flipping. Drop it open to the middle, glance at a couple pages, sigh, and toss them in the drawer with the first ones. The ones I'd so lovingly studied, shared with GRIM, wrote notes regarding.
It's happened. I've hit the "what's the point" phase, and I haven't even got a handful of soil to show for it. I didn't plan on having anything planted this year, but I would have liked to buy a tomato and put it in a bucket. Something.
Which brings me to tonight's midnight call. My ominous Bach making me smile. There are only three people who would call me at midnight, when the baby's home. Silly, who works graveyard and gets lonely. Mom, who knows I'm almost always up at night. Patti, my aunt. We've both been the type for odd hours all our lives. Sometimes, midnight is the only chance you get. Your one chance to talk without an impatiently eager child clamoring to be heard by one end of the phone or the other, away from spouses that have an innate sense and decide that's exactly when they need you (similar to the previous).
The house is quiet, everything is peace and calm, you've had a chance to destress and let go.
~dee doo deet... deeedaaduuuudum.. dooodoodoooot dooo dee dooo, dooo~
So. It's my mom.
My son has informed her that I will *be there* for the fourth.
He is emphatic.
I WILL be there.
No one can dissuade him.
There is no argument strong enough, no reason valid enough.
I will be there.
He knows it.
KNOWS it.
...I'd like to know HOW he knows that.
I offered for him to come out here. Have a barbecue, watch the fireworks, splash in our wading pool, get heatstroke in the park down the street, maybe. I never once said anything about going out there. See, we already had two families coming in for Blue's feed-me-till-I-pop barbecue. I thought it'd be better to add two (or three, or four) mouths to the party, than have me out there.. alone.. trying to remember how long you wait before adding sauce.
Blue had told me the next DAY that he'd called it off because we'd all been sick. He couldn't take grilling and smoking in this breath-sucking dry heat, let alone a repeat of his birthday's chaos. I'd texted mom later that night, saying I would be out for the fourth, if it was okay with her. I hadn't talked to anyone outside of my own house or Blue's mom since then. Mom's phone wasn't set up for texts yet, so it never arrived.
Baffled.
The boy has the pure, singular ability to baffle.
Anyhow, our call gets dropped mid-sentence, and I can't reach my mom. I'm going straight to voicemail, then I get some man speaking Spanish. I wait a little while, and she doesn't call back. Now, she isn't in the best of health. I know this and I'm starting to worry, so I dig my aunt's number out of the phone and wake her out of a sound sleep. Sure, she can go check on mom, tell her I've been trying to call back. Then, since mom's busy, I end up chatting with my aunt.
She's renovating that tiny house, the standing vestige of my grandfather's memory. She's planting in his once-loved soil; mourning the dead lizards that crawled into the walls to hibernate and didn't find a way out.
As is generally true, talk of the property leads to talk of my grandfather. Everyone but his family called him Jim. We called him many other things, from 'grandpa' to 'Fattio Daddio'. He was a great man, but had flaws like anyone else.
He used to cut up half gallon and quart milk jugs, the "paper" ones, and make them into "lizard houses". You could find him outside, kicking back on a pile of old wood like it was a luxury lounger, and he'd gesture you over.
"Quiet!" he'd hiss, grabbing you roughly by the wrist before you could step into an unseen bolt-hole. Once you were settled in, silent and still... he'd lean back again.
Like a magician, his hand would disappear. Bringing it out again with a casual flourish, he'd drop a blue-belly lizard in your lap.. or your palm.. or on the sleeve of your borrowed "cover" shirt.
And there it'd stay.
Staring at you.
You could swear... the damned thing was judging you!
Eventually, it'd look back to him, he'd nod, and it'd skitter off or settle in.
Once they were on me, I found I could sit stock still for hours in that heat. I'd giggle and try to stifle it, squirm a bit with the excitement of it all, and stare deeply into reptilian eyes that seemed just as human as any other. Sometimes, they'd let me touch them, but mostly not. My grandpa, meanwhile, would be crook'd into his lounge, muttering around his rollie cigarette.
I used to think he did it because he loved me best. I was his first, he told everyone. First grandchild; and later, the bringer of the first great-grandchild. His golden one. I thought it was my duty to learn everything he had to teach me. That somehow, all of these experiences were lessons I would need to know when I was grown, when I would take on the mantle none of us could picture him letting slip. Now... Now I think he just needed some peace. A little space of quiet and stillness. Like a child told to play "Let's Pretend" and they've been given the role of "moss on a log", I eagerly accepted and strained to do the best I could at being still and silent.
He never was an outwardly affectionate type. He told people he loved them by saying things like "get a haircut" and "you're too fat". If cornered, he'd admit that he was never taught how to show love. He didn't want his family to be taunted in school, so they should cut their hair. He worried about their health, afraid of seeing them die from something that could have been prevented.
Mostly, though, his love came through in money. "Take some money out of my account and buy that girl of yours a new dress. I don't like her wearing rags." That was said after the family got together (in old, faded clothes) to scrub his floors clean, after he was moved into what would become his hospice area. This man, who would fish out clothes that had washed downstream and take them home to wear, whose ceiling was a schitzophrenic's dream of colors, who'd eaten out of cans he bought by the case.. hated seeing his children or his grandchildren in anything less than "Goin' To Town" clothes.
So we got to talking about the lizards in the walls, my aunt and I. Until she mentioned them, I'd forgotten all about those cut up rectangles. They, like my grandfather, had just... always been there. Accepted, loved, appreciated, sought out. No matter how faded the logos got, no matter how warped by rain they'd become, we - and the lizards - still returned to them, year after year and season after season.
It looks like my Big Idea is going to have to wait for another entry, but I do hope you'll stick around. Whoever... wherever... you are.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Err... Oops?
So.. now Silly (wife) and Blue (Hubs) are sick.
Apparently... I was contagious. -cough- I uh.. didn't know.
Here's hoping everyone rebounds faster than I did! lol
Apparently... I was contagious. -cough- I uh.. didn't know.
Here's hoping everyone rebounds faster than I did! lol
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wobbly.
So, after the work on Booshy Boosh, I got sick. We don't know if it was due to something on the bush being breathed in (it was dusty and smelled funny) or if something else got me, but I've been unable to continue on Project Clear Out for the past few days. To put it simply... I'm wobbly. When I stand up, my legs feel like they're shaking and soon to give out on me. I'm weak, nauseated, dizzy, having a hard time with food. Everything feels like it's separate from me, like there's a layer of cotton batting wrapped around me and keeping the world outside. Most of my time has been spent curled up on the couch, wishing it was over. Today, after a lot of sleep and a lot of huddling, I'm feeling quite a bit better... and GRIM is sick. -headdesk-
While I was having problems sleeping, I talked to Blue about the pots we saw that I wanted. Turns out, we've both had very different ideas of how our back yard would look in the long run. Hm. This... could be a problem. Miscommunications have abounded, on both sides. I'd talked of planting the garden under the old swing set, he'd talked of reusing the wood FROM the swing set to build my raised beds. I'd mentioned getting GRIM a baby swing to hang from the swing-frame's eyes, closest to the play house, he'd seemed agreeable.We'd talked about taking out the two idiotically placed trees in the middle of the yard and planting one shade tree off to one side. I want to keep the play house's frame and rebuild it where it stands. He wants to tear the whole thing down and put up a new one somewhere else. I think we should take out the old tool shed and put in a newer one, maybe something bug-proof. He doesn't see a problem with the existing shed staying. I want to rip up all the damned palm bushes. I have no idea how he feels about those. I also want to rip out a bunch of the purple-flowered vines we have, as they're taking over and clearly animals are hiding in there. He sees no reason to do any such cutting. We DO agree on one thing, though. We both want to keep the freaky-weird citrus tree that stands in the little grassy island between playhouse and shed.. maybe the fuschia if I can save it.
I dropped another bomb on him, today. I want to scatter seed for Corsican Mint in our lawn. He doesn't know why, and I'm not sure I really have a reason, other than I like it and I happen to think "lawn" in the back yard is a complete and utter waste of resources and space. Not that I want a cement pad back there.. but there's a lot you can do with all that space that isn't mowing/blowing/raking/weeding/feeding/watering/etc.
So while we were talking about the pots I wanted, I found out I won't be getting them for my birthday. Since they're at Big Lots, chances are they wouldn't be there for long, so I won't really be getting them at all. He was full of reasons why they'd be a bad idea, why just getting regular wood half-barrels is so much better than planting in plastic-foam-form "wood" half-barrels.. but I'll admit I was sad. I had a specific plan all laid out in my head, and it needed four round containers. Large containers. I've seen what happens to wooden barrels after a few seasons and I thought plastic would be much better. Anyhow, we talked and it was all very "meeting of the minds" and we both were very clear that any talk we made of the back yard and "plans" was very up in the air. Nothing is set in stone and we're talking about things we'd like to have in place years down the line. That's all fine and good, but if I got planters for my birthday, I could garden THIS YEAR, not next.
Putting away the daydreaming I'd been doing about the plastic half-barrels did do me some good, though. It got me back into looking at what's out there. The next day, I had something new in mind. It's not pretty, it's not architectural, and it doesn't fit with my little dream garden. Honestly, if this thing works as well as I think it would, I couldn't care less how it looks.
I'll share the New Idea with you next time.
Good gardening!
While I was having problems sleeping, I talked to Blue about the pots we saw that I wanted. Turns out, we've both had very different ideas of how our back yard would look in the long run. Hm. This... could be a problem. Miscommunications have abounded, on both sides. I'd talked of planting the garden under the old swing set, he'd talked of reusing the wood FROM the swing set to build my raised beds. I'd mentioned getting GRIM a baby swing to hang from the swing-frame's eyes, closest to the play house, he'd seemed agreeable.We'd talked about taking out the two idiotically placed trees in the middle of the yard and planting one shade tree off to one side. I want to keep the play house's frame and rebuild it where it stands. He wants to tear the whole thing down and put up a new one somewhere else. I think we should take out the old tool shed and put in a newer one, maybe something bug-proof. He doesn't see a problem with the existing shed staying. I want to rip up all the damned palm bushes. I have no idea how he feels about those. I also want to rip out a bunch of the purple-flowered vines we have, as they're taking over and clearly animals are hiding in there. He sees no reason to do any such cutting. We DO agree on one thing, though. We both want to keep the freaky-weird citrus tree that stands in the little grassy island between playhouse and shed.. maybe the fuschia if I can save it.
I dropped another bomb on him, today. I want to scatter seed for Corsican Mint in our lawn. He doesn't know why, and I'm not sure I really have a reason, other than I like it and I happen to think "lawn" in the back yard is a complete and utter waste of resources and space. Not that I want a cement pad back there.. but there's a lot you can do with all that space that isn't mowing/blowing/raking/weeding/feeding/watering/etc.
So while we were talking about the pots I wanted, I found out I won't be getting them for my birthday. Since they're at Big Lots, chances are they wouldn't be there for long, so I won't really be getting them at all. He was full of reasons why they'd be a bad idea, why just getting regular wood half-barrels is so much better than planting in plastic-foam-form "wood" half-barrels.. but I'll admit I was sad. I had a specific plan all laid out in my head, and it needed four round containers. Large containers. I've seen what happens to wooden barrels after a few seasons and I thought plastic would be much better. Anyhow, we talked and it was all very "meeting of the minds" and we both were very clear that any talk we made of the back yard and "plans" was very up in the air. Nothing is set in stone and we're talking about things we'd like to have in place years down the line. That's all fine and good, but if I got planters for my birthday, I could garden THIS YEAR, not next.
Putting away the daydreaming I'd been doing about the plastic half-barrels did do me some good, though. It got me back into looking at what's out there. The next day, I had something new in mind. It's not pretty, it's not architectural, and it doesn't fit with my little dream garden. Honestly, if this thing works as well as I think it would, I couldn't care less how it looks.
I'll share the New Idea with you next time.
Good gardening!
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