Who Will Win?

No - I'm not writing about the impending election which is a hot topic around here. Rather, I'm writing about another issue that isn't exactly rocking the nation, but is taking up a considerable amount of my time.

S. and I both like plants and the way they bring a little personality to our house. Since we moved in at the end of June, I've been keeping a look out for big plants on sale, and nurturing some of the 4" (and much less expensive) variety that will one day be big and gorgeous also.

I take pretty good care of all seven of them: watering, fertilizing, wiping down and trimming leaves, giving their pots a quarter turn towards sunshine, or trying different locations until that perfect amount of indirect light makes them happy. They're not orchids mind you - just ordinary house plants. But still, I get excited when they grow new foliage. I feel successful when they grow big enough for re-potting. I secretly call them my babies (yuk, right? what nerd says that?)


So you can image my dismay at finding white mealybugs and their webby little nests. Just typing out the word 'mealybug' gives me the shudders because they're kind of creepy, not just because they're insects, but because they are suckers. Not biters. They feed on plants by sucking out the juices. Plant vampires, if you will.

And they are prolific, determined little scrappers!

The plants were put in a strict quarantine (the laundry room) after I pulled these buggers off with a toothpick and then squished them. Ew. Yesterday they got a pesticide bath and today I'm swabbing each individual leaf with rubbing alcohol on a q-tip.

Some Internet sites have suggested these pests are so hard to get rid of that it's best to throw the plants away and start over. But I think not just yet. I'm on a mission. It's me vs. mealybugs!

PS Image to right was borrowed from http://www.answers.com/topic/mealybug. Does anyone else think they look like the Trilobite fossils found at the River Falls Learning Center in Indiana?

At the risk of being mean . . .

Yeah. I'm pretty sure I'm not crazy about receiving scriptures in emails on a regular basis from people I hardly know.

Not because I disrespect the Good Book in any way. I'm just not a person who wants to be bombarded with what someone else thinks should be the thought for the day. I mean, c'mon - I dont even like inspirational posters, or emails that promise good things will happen if you send this hug/rose/smiley face to 100 of your closest friends.' To me, it's more than believing that religion is deeply personal. It's about feeling somewhat foisted upon . . . and I would feel that even if I agreed with the message!

If you (the ubiquitous you) is moved by something inspiration and you want to share with me personally how it deeply touched you, I'm really fine with that. But please take me off your email list when you randomly type out a scripture with no context or wherewithall. Because otherwise, I'm going to be annoyed rather than uplifted.

Now. Tell me what grump I am, and how I'm going to burn for all eternity. I have a response for that too.

Shhh!

Yesteday in the Home Organization section at Lowe's, there was a tiny Latino man with a cart that needed to get past me and my cart. We smiled and manuvered past the obstacles in the aisle. Then he decided what he needed was on the other side of me - again the cart dance with smiling and nodding.

On his way out, he leaned over and said in a conspiratal whisper: You have cute legs.

My surprised and loud response: These ole things?

He shook his head, put his finger to his lips, closed his eyes, and shhh'd me! I didnt know what to make of that and so said nothing. Perhaps my mouth was slightly agape - I'm not sure. I was still looking in the direction where he and his cart rolled around the corner, only to see his head reappear around the end cap and repeat the whole shhhhing gesture. Then he winked and disappeared.

It was the most comical, ridiculous exchange. But I must admit, I was truly flattered. Several times I caught myself smiling and perhaps believing the biking/treadmill routine was finally paying off.

But shhhh! dont tell anyone. It's a secret that only the mysterious little man and I share.

. . gentle into that good night . . .

Sometime between going to bed at 12 am and waking at 6 this morning, my panties gave out. No really. They up and died. They used to be microfiber hiphugging jobbies that shrunk after a washing into what looked like Carters underwear for children. Carter's brand slogan just happens to be: 'if they could just stay little for a little while longer.'

"Little' no kidding. This tiny pair fit last night, but this morning . . . I could pull them up over my head and still have coverage in all the imporant places. Gramma's bloomers from her large days were smaller, and sorry Gramma, but that's saying a lot.

So goodbye sad, limp and shapeless skivvies. You always made me feel supported and protected, from begining to . . . end. I'm sorry your demise was so sudden and soon soon.


Ummmmmm . . . .


. . . . amen??

Geez I dont know how to end this. I've never stood over a dead pair of panties in a waste basket before.

I Had a Dream

It was such a happy dream that when I woke up in the middle of it, I went back to sleep in the exact same sleeping position and concentrated only about the dream to see if it would pick up where it left off. And it did!

I woke up rested and buoyant. But I cant remember a thing about that dream. And it's bugging the heck out of me!

Just because it rhymes, dont make it poetry

I have written some really, REALLY bad and overly dramatic poetry over the last 25 years. But I kept this drippy tripe because, well, it kind of saved me. It was therapeutic to write about teenage angst, evolving ideas about love, and a marriage that sucked at the heels of my soul like a killer riptide.

While unpacking boxes I found two pieces about Sam, the first husband. They were written 10 years apart and I think there is a worthy comparison here - just not sure what it is.

1995
I gave. I gave. I gave it all.
You wanted short. I was too tall.
I'd break my legs to be that small,
then would you be happy?

A smile, a hug or laugh or two
would have been the greatest gift from you.
Funny how my heart was true
but not content or happy.



2006
My countenance was a reed
waving, bending, from storms recovering.
Then unhappy 'he' pulled me down
with heavy words and blows to my sinuous fiber.
Each day I could stretch a little.
And each day a little less, and less,
until my head drooped, back bent forward,
low to the earth where his feet trod.

What was motion? And freedom?
With no air to stir me I could not remember.
Root rot choked my last autonomous bits.

Then from the nadir I noticed the wind,
and riding with it the scent of peppery pine oils.
Whisperings in trees spoke urgently to me,
lowly, inconsequential me! and I listened,
awakened to the knowledge of my very own self.
I demanded my body rise above the choke-hold
and ascend to the bliss of forgotten powers.

I am burden-less. My roots wiggle without his permission
and I wave, and I bend when I want to.
I remember how glorious it is to be just me.


See? It's all drivel. But damn it felt good afterwards.

The Old Days

So many old acquaintances have come out of the woodwork lately. I feel like I'm taking a long bath in nostalgia.