It's Worth Two in the Bush

There's something about a perfectly trimmed hedge that says, "I give a shit about curb appeal." If you've ever tried to trim a hedge, you can really appreciate one that is as squarely perfect as Kid's fro. Or is it Play's? I don't know, but I think Kid was the taller one. All I'm sayin' is, hedge trimming is hard. Sure, Scissorhands made it look easy. Snip, snip and a bush turns into a moose. But his hands were sharp. If you were like me growing up, you had three options for hedge clippers: the pair that was rusted shut, the pair that was rusted open and the dull pair. To cut anything, you had to settle for slamming shut the handles of the dull pair as hard as you could. The blades would then pinch and fold twigs like nobody's business. Once pinched and folded, the tiny leafed branches could be ripped off with a good tug. The result was a blurr of a hedge, its edges fuzzed and some stray, stubborn branches giving it the look of my 8th grade hair cut. I consider myself somewhat of an artist. I mean, I can draw things. And I design stuff in the computer all the time. I have an eye for symmetry, but apparently not when it comes to giant plants. I'm one of those people who will cut and cut and then cut some more hoping to get it right eventually but it never really matches the picture in my head. I would be just awful with one of those Banzai trees. It would just be a stick in the middle of a pot and people would ask, "What's this?" and I would say, why, that's my stick. Used to be a beautiful little tree but I cannot leave well enough alone. Who wants a cocktail?

When I became an adult and had my own house with a backyard, a deck, woods and critters, the previous owners were big hedge fans. Or fans of the bushy bush, I should say. They ran the length of the front of the house and were enormous horrors against the back of the garage. The first time I mowed the lawn a snake literally flew out of one of those bushes and landed in front of the mower. I think it was committing suicide. Even snakes thought they were overgrown. So I decided to do something about it. Because I already knew I was bad with the clippers (and the only pair I'd inherited it turns out was the rusted shut pair...why don't I ever throw anything away?!), I bought an electric hedge trimmer. Power tools are supposed to be faster and easier. I should have bought a chainsaw or a beaver. Electric hedge trimmers, I discovered, are for bushes that have already been hedged by giant gas-powered hedge whackers or an army of machete-wielding Zulus. 30 seconds into the project, the bush ate the electric hedge trimmer and for all I know, it's still lodged in there today. It was easier to unplug and cut the cord than try to get it back. I felt like I just fed the beast and bought myself more time. It's not that I dislike landscaping or that I totally suck at it. I love the outdoors and have moved my fair share of this good earth, but I am admittedly stumped by making something round and foofy into a perfect cube with tools ill-designed for this purpose. What I need is something like a cookie cutter. A bush cutter. One hedge-shaped, please. You take it up in both hands and slam it down over the bush, pull it up, and tada! Kid's fro. Repeat until satisfied. I'm fairly certain that's how they're getting it done at Disney.

Smoke 'Em If You Gotta

The last time I smoked a cigarette (I think) was the summer between my junior and senior year at MSU. And it's not like I was stressed out by finals or something and smoked all summer long. When I say a cigarette, I really mean more like a half a cigarette cuz I split it with my sister as we were tooling around in my Dodge pick-up truck with the windows rolled down and Bad to the Bone blaring on the radio. She found them in my glove compartment and raised an eyebrow at me, so naturally I lit one up. I want to say they were Virginia Slims but probably they were Camels or Marlboro Lights, long forgotten by a friend or that hitchhiker I picked up in an earlier episode. Turns out Tess and I are horrible smokers. We tried to look cool but it's hard to do that when it takes you 20 minutes to light the thing because you don't want to actually inhale. I think when it comes to smoking, inhaling is the key. You gotta breathe that shit in. You gotta want it. Even if you don't, in order for it to work, you at least gotta act like you want it. We finally managed when Tess decided to dangle it from her lips and talk like a union worker while lighting it. I guess if you put yourself in context you can do just about anything. I want to remind you that was the last time I smoked a cigarette (cigars are another blog), which everyone knows is entirely different from the first time you smoke a cigarette. The first time I smoked was shortly after I met Jim, when I was a freshman at MSU. So you can see why I always tell people I was a smoker in college. Hated to quit, but I still wear the patch to this day just in case. Jim was a smoker and a fast friend. He had a mohawk which was awesome and a pierced ear and a sly smile and twinkly blue eyes. He was quite gay at a time when I was quite not (yet). I loved his stories and his witticisms and his generally broody yet suddenly cheerful disposition. But the thing that impressed me most from the moment I laid eyes on him was his ability to walk and smoke a cigarette at the same time. Listen, I was not born or raised in a Hoover, but my only real exposure to smoking was my Oma who I can only remember from the waist up at the kitchen table enjoying an occasional nicotine fix, wisps of smoke trailing upward and losing themselves in her curlers. I never actually saw her on a walk with a cigarette. It's not like I didn't know it was possible. It's just...Jim looked so frickin' cool. Let me tell you, I was inspired. I don't know that I've admitted this to many, but I was so moved by his abilities that I actually bought a pack of Marlboro Reds - it took me several minutes of practice to pronounce it properly to the clerk, but I had to do it cuz that's what Jim smoked. As soon as I left the store, I started walking and smacking the pack against my palm like I'd seen Jim do. I honestly don't know what this does other than hurt your hand after awhile, but it makes a cool sound, even if I was doing it upside down. I think it helps clear your head cuz that's when I realized I didn't have a lighter. But I can pronounce that, so it was no trouble really walking into a different store to buy one of those. I tried to look cool opening the pack. I'm pretty sure it was obvious to anyone watching me dance that I was new to this. I finally managed to put a cigarette to my lips and light the son of a bitch just like Jim. I breathed in and blew out just like Jim. Unlike Jim, my eyes watered and I coughed while trying to hide my eyes and suppress the cough. Waving the smoke away from your own face is probably a sign you shouldn't have started it. Maybe if I walked a little... so I mosied down the sidewalk with a lit cigarette in one hand, an open pack in the other and all the time in the world. What a glorious feeling. Jim feels like this every day? Lucky bastard. I took another hit. Squinted my eyes this time and they didn't water as much. Blew the smoke out and pointed at a squirrel with my cigarette. "Hey, you. I'm smokin'. And walkin'." And more coughin'. I didn't think I would get it immediately, but I had hoped I would, I don't know, love it eventually. Not so much. I managed to smoke the whole cigarette but I gave the rest to Jim. He never asked why there was one missing from the pack. Maybe he was used to it. I wondered how many other foolish friends of Jim had tried to mimick his smoke-walk and, instantly defeated, gave him the other 19. Probably kept him in smokes till he graduated. I guess I'm just not the smoking type. I have friends who smoke and friends who don't and whether they do or not has never really precluded friendship. It's a little smelly, but hey, so's my cat so what are ya gonna do? That's why they invented Febreeze. Which, by the way, you should not spray until they put the lighter down. Eyebrows do grow back, I'm told. But the look of surprise never really goes away.

This Is Your Captain Speaking

When you're afraid of something but you do it anyway, are you really afraid of it? I am one of those people you could classify as "afraid to fly." I say things like "I'm afraid to fly." That's a pretty good indicator. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just booking a flight. There's an incredible amount of deeply internal self-talk going on during the drive to the airport. Chances are I hardly slept the night before. Sometimes people do that cuz they're afraid to miss the flight. I can't sleep because I know I have to get on the flight. I've flown a lot, not as much as one of those crazy businesspeople but enough to have crisscrossed the country numerous times. I've crossed the Atlantic a few times. I've only missed one flight despite sprinting (how afraid are you when you are actually sprinting to board the thing you're afraid of?) from one gate to another in Memphis. I guess I was still high from having landed safely. The best time to ride the roller coaster is immediately after you've ridden the roller coaster. I survived! Let's test it again. One of these times will surely be the disaster I've envisioned every time I buckle in. Maybe that's the part I fear most. My own imagination. Outwardly, I look like everyone else getting on the plane. Smile at the boarding personnel, trundle my carry-on down the jetbridge, give a reassuring nod to the other passengers that I've done this before, glance at my cell phone a few times. One thing I always do before boarding is touch the outside of the plane. It's a thing, like if you connect with the bird it will get you there safely. Then I say hi to the flight attendant, look a little bored while waiting in the aisle, stick my tongue out at the baby when mom isn't looking, brighten when I realize my whole row is empty for the moment, swing into my window seat (if I am so afraid, why do I insist on this view?), pull out my Sudoku puzzle book and purple pen, pop a stick of gum in my mouth, shove my backpack under the seat, buckle my seatbelt, text loved ones goodbye, turn off my phone. And the last thing I see before I bury my head in numbers are the words, "Your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device." Now see, that's all it takes. Every mini peptalk I've given myself that morning from my bed to seat 17F is shot to hell. I am painfully aware that my seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. I've read that thousands of times. If someone had written "Peas taste like chocolate" in that exact spot on the seatback in front of me I would probably be eating them right now. I act like I'm doing puzzles, but inside I'm thinking why do I need to be reminded every time I fly that I could end up floating? Who has not read that yet? Can we just take it off of there? I want to stand up and say, hey, any first timers on board? This your first time flying, miss? Well, let me tell you something in case you haven't heard. Your seat cushion floats. It's a miracle of science. In the unlikely event of an emergency water landing, you will be fine. The thing is, we don't believe you fully grasp that by me telling you, or the flight attendant telling you, or the in-flight safety video and seatback pocket card telling you. In the likely event that you will forget this important tidbit as we plummet toward Lake Mead, we have written it in Arial caps bold on the seatback in front of you, at eye level so that you may read it and be reminded at the very instant you need to know it. Of course, your head will be between your knees, so perhaps we should have tattooed it on your ass when you boarded.

It doesn't take much to get me thinking about what could actually go wrong while I'm suspended 35,000 feet over purple mountains majesty. Of course, my visions are peppered with every aviation misstep and horrific crash known to man. I picture the plane bursting into flames at least twice during the flight. The first time is right when the plane takes off. It's so loud and things shake and one time I saw smoke coming out of a vent and that was the flight that an orange-vested mechanic with a really big wrench visited just before take-off. I thought what if he missed something? Maybe he went back for a different wrench and we took off anyway and now, boom. That's when I see the fireball come down the aisle. My palms get sweaty and my mouth goes dry just thinking about it. I take deep breaths and eventually the fireball morphs into a nice flight attendant who asks me to please not hug the seat in front of me and call upon the Lord Jesus Christ Our Saviour just yet. Would I care for a sedative? I mean, I really have no reason to be afraid. Not until we start to land anyway. And if it's particulary windy I'm fairly certain the plane will burst into flames. I know it will if there's lightning. I don't know why I assume the worst when I have never really had a bad flight. I'm a little claustrophobic and I'm not good with heights, but those things don't even enter into the equation. I fear the fireball. The odds of that happening are somewhere in the neighborhood of me winning planet Earth, I'm sure, and for that reason I am mildly okay with having not hit it big in Vegas just yet. I have to fly there by way of Miami (don't ask) in two weeks and I am already nervous about boarding. While I'm there I will be nervous about hitting it big. So when I get on that flight home with $13.1 million in my backpack, I'm buying it an extra seat and strapping it in. I want to make sure it's floating next to me on the other side.

Scattered Pictures

I am equipped to take a picture of anything at any time. I used to rely on my photographic memory, but now I have a little thing called a cell phone. This means I can drink more, remember less and be reminded later of all things that are probably best forgotten. I can also document any wrong-doing, compare strange babies and see the inside of my pocket at random intervals throughout the day. I can snap indiscretions. I can capture joy. I can take pictures of my breakfast. I remember when cameras were special. Back in the day when they were huge and heavy and you had to put film in them and once you closed the back you didn't dare open it again till all the pictures were taken. People who had cameras were good at taking pictures. It was their craft. Others respected it because camera people had special powers. They could make a bulky box with a roll of plastic in it freeze a moment and preserve a memory. They knew how to frame it up, not to face the sun, whether or not to use a flash, how to hold 'er steady and just the right moment to press (and hold) the button. The results were crisp and seemingly real. The smiles fresh, the colors like fruit you could almost taste. A picture was a special thing. You'd wait a few days for it. And it always came with 11 or 23 or 35 others you could flip through, careful not to get fingerprints on the faces. Sometimes the pictures would be a mix across several months because you just didn't take pictures that often. You took four or five at confirmation, then your family went to Albuquerque and then you graduated. All on one roll. You'd pick out the three best ones and find good frames for them. You'd take your time undoing the frames, pulling out the fake pictures of a fake family celebrating fake times so you could make it real. Then you'd hang one on your dorm room wall (following strict regulations regarding holes vs. double-sided mounting tape) and prop one up on a shelf and tuck one in the corner of your loft and voila! You've got pictures. The ones without frames would get tacked to a bulletin board or pressed into an album or left loose in a drawer. Now my unframed photos are in my cell phone, on my hard drive and littered across cyberspace. I've gone through at least three digital cameras since they were introduced and all of them have literally hundreds of pictures hanging out inside them that I haven't looked at in years. I have folders upon folders of pictures on my laptop as well as on my iMac as well as on my 360G external flash drive. I have pictures I took with a set of digital binoculars at a Tiger game. 57 pictures of Tigers at bat, Tigers in the field, the umpire's butt (heh-heh), the scoreboard (it was 2-0 in the 3rd), what the hell am I gonna do with them? Well, I'll tell you what I'm not gonna do with 'em. Delete. Those pictures are just like the ones in the drawer. You never throw them out. You don't know why. But you gotta hang onto them. Even the bad ones. I should take a lesson from my Dad. He started scanning all the family photos a few years ago and now he has them all saved and organized by the instant they were captured on film. He even identified people in the pics (I think he made up some names). But I'm too lazy and I don't have nearly the breadth of photos he has. And mine lack historical significance. Unless you think a drive-by shot of the hotdog statue in front of that hotdog place on the Cape means something. He was putting ketchup on his own head! I guess I think the camera is kind of taken for granted nowadays. If you wanted to, you could take a picture of every second of your life and skip journaling altogether. (Please don't do that.) A picture is worth 1000 words, they say. I guess they haven't seen the inside of my pocket.

Beans Belong in a Bag

Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot... I don't know what I hate more, beans or the fact that they have a song. No one else gets a song. "Peas, peas, the horrible mush, the more you eat, the more you wish you were dead" just doesn't have the same ring to it. Probably because you don't get the same gastrointestinal results. Nothing like a good toot to inspire a little ditty. Hey, did someone fart? Let's sing about it! But first let's find out where farts come from. Well, I had four cans of beans just now. No shit? Not yet! Heh-heh. Mostly air at this point, sort of a tooting sound if you must know...let's sing about it! Okay! Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot! I think you have to dance a little, too, and given my knack for interpreting lyrics, you can imagine the finish I put on that one. I am not a fan of the bean. Similar consistency to a pea in my mind, so I don't eat beans. I find the texture too pasty and the taste not too tasty. Whoa....I feel my own little song coming on. I might have to call Fergolicious. I don't like beans in chili or baked beans or beans from a can. Yes, I've tried them all. I will eat fresh green beans and green bean casserole. I enjoy a good fried green bean because anything fried is worth a shot. Except fried peas and fried non-green beans. And refried beans. Refried beans look like they've had a lot of things re-done to them, the least of which is frying and then frying again. There's no delicious coating of batter. In some cases, there's not even a resemblance to beans. It's just a swath of brown wiped on your plate or your tortilla that won't change much passing through your 28 feet of intestines. That makes me hesitate to send it through in the first place. What's the point? Maybe along the way, these mysteriously twice-fried beans motivate other foods to pick up the pace. Follow me, I know the way out! Maybe they magically convert the chips and salsa you just wolfed down into a gas you can gently blow out the other end. Despite that glorious payoff, I just can't bring myself to ingest brown slop. I've come a long way in the bean department, however, as I recently ate several black beans and did not sound the alarm (well, minutes later there was an alarm of sorts). They were in one of my favorite salads, the Quesadilla Explosion, and I'm fairly certain they have made cameos in other Mexican dishes I've enjoyed. I don't mind the renegade black bean, but I will not eat them en masse spooned in a sauce on my plate next to the rice. I just shuddered. I hate it when they encroach on the rice! I don't know if I'll ever develop an appreciation for the bean. I think it would have to be in some sort of romantic setting where I'm a cowboy out West traveling via covered wagon and me and the boys are down to just the one can of beans. We've been riding for days and there's no Wendy's in sight. Even then I'd shoot and eat the horse first. Or one of the boys. Probably the one who makes the coffee. I don't like those beans, either.

Is This Beneath Me?

I had to check twice because I honestly can't believe I would include this topic in my 100 things to write about, but here it goes: wood floors vs. carpet. Apparently, I like to argue with myself about things that on the surface seem innocent, but if you know any good euphemisms, suddenly become dangerous territory. Whatever page you're on, read ahead with your own context. I can't control it anyway.

There are pros and cons to both types of flooring. Wood floors are often buff and pristine; carpets are warm and fuzzy. Wood floors threaten to splinter; carpets trap unwanted pet hair. Wood floors collect dust; carpets fade with age. Cleaning either one of them poses challenges, but it's widely believed that wood floors are easier. What do you really have to do other then wipe it down and oil it every now and then? Carpeting, the shaggier it is the more crumbs you'll find. You can't really get the job done without a vacuum. And if you spill something on it, chances are you'll have a stain. Spill something on a wood floor and the dog will take care of it - easy peasy! Personally, I prefer wood floors because once you install them, they are easier to maintain and I believe they look more modern. They come in a variety of shades that will match any set of drapes. There's nothing worse than having to try to match your carpet to your curtains. Usually too many variables there to satisfy all parties involved. I like walking into a house with wood floors, especially one that doesn't have a lot of rugs. I mean, a rug here and there is okay, but the whole point of a wood floor is to showcase the beauty and splendor of the wood itself. Why are you masquing it with a toupee? I think sometimes people believe wood floors are cold so they go with carpeting instead. Carpeting does warm up a home, no question. And if you like all the colors of the rainbow, carpeting can take you there in a heartbeat. I've seen a lot of carpet in my day, and there's no question it can be somewhat overwhelming in terms of selection (and at times, price), but the payoff is there when you finally squish your toes in it. You can't squish your toes in a wood floor.

Ultimately, there are a lot of great things about having either one beneath you. To each his own, I guess, but I like things clean and simple. I can't afford it right this instant, but mark my words, I will have a wood floor someday. And it will be the buffest ever!

I Feel Like a Heel

Today's subject is: high heels. My objection to high heels dates back to my formative years, back when Tess and I played Barbies in our yellow house on 4th street. When you look at Barbie's feet and then you look at your own, well, even a 5-year old can put two and two together. Not knowing which came first - did the little pink pump fit the foot or did the foot fit the little pink pump? - I wondered if my feet were gonna do that. All I knew was, my feet were flat. And I wanted to keep them that way. The thought of walking around on my toes all day because it made for a "longer leg" and "straighter lines" and "looked better with a skirt than combat boots" was not enough to sway me. GI Joe had flat feet. He had combat boots. And a kung fu grip. Not surprisingly, I was not afraid to hold my hand like Joe for hours under my pillow while sleeping in hopes I, too, would someday develop such a power. It really just lead to metatisis nervosis, which my doctor says is common in girls who don't wear heels. Apparently, if the pain can't shoot through your calves, it has to go somewhere else. The last time I wore heels was probably a wedding. Maybe Wes and Emilie's, I think they were the last to have faith in my uncanny ability to pull off a pink gown and died-to-match heel. Those same heels served me well in two earlier weddings; I'm probably one of the few who can take a shoe from forest green to black to pink, but I also think bridesmaid dresses are distracting enough so no one really remembers the shoes. I never forget the shoes. Mostly because those walks down various aisles were some of the longest of my life. I think they do that on purpose. Put people like me in toe-pinchy shoes like that to slow us down. If they let me wear my sneaks I'd be up to my groomsman lickity-split, snatch him by the arm and whip him over to his spot in line. No one would have a chance to cry about my hair or say how pretty I look in taffita. I once went to a wedding where the bride wore her softball cleats. Of course, the other bride wore Converse. It was a perfect match.

Heels just don't work for me. There was a brief time when I was just out of college, and the occasional sorority function when I was in college, where heels were somewhat of a staple in my wardrobe. Mostly a low heel, of course, because A.) I wobble and B.) I'm afraid of heights. For some reason, elevate my heel more than an inch off the ground and I walk like someone just dropped me in the center of an ice rink. My arms shoot outward and I flex my knees; I imagine working my way closer to the boards. I literally panic. I want to kung fu grip the nearest elbow. Consequently, I'm fairly certain there's nothing "more stylish" about jamming me into a pair of heels, but my mom and sister, God bless them, tried for a long time. Confirmation, prom, graduation, interviews, weddings, baby showers, church, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas... despite all my protests, there were many occasions when I just had to do it. I'm the kind of girl who wore her softball pants under her long black band skirt, but for my mom, I switched to the cleats AFTER the concert. I really tried to wear heels when it mattered most and to walk in them with an air of confidence despite my inner turmoil. I remember when I got my first real job, I could make it from the front door to my car and from my car to the office and then back with some modicum of pride. Never mind I removed right shoe to drive. It's been several years now since my last donning of the heels. I just haven't had cause to wear them and truthfully, I'm not sure I still own a pair that would pass inspection. Or allow me to move much beyond the closet. Unfortunately, wearing heels is nothing like riding a bike. First of all, they don't give you training heels (smaller heels that extend out from the sides for balance). You don't get a helmet. And if you fall, no one rushes to help you up, dust you off and get you right back out there. You just get a lot of dead stares over the rims of martini glasses. Finally, when you stop wearing heels, whatever you once knew about walking in them is gone. You are back to square one... wobbling along without a parachute until somebody throws you an elbow.