Tales from the Shark Tank

I love gardening. I love to see things grow. I love the magic in seeds, that turn into various plants that feed both body and soul. I have been known to let sow-thistle and hawkweed grow just so I can watch the butterflies come to the flowers, and later watch the goldfinches come for the seeds, looking for all the world like scraps of flying sunshine. I’m plotting to grab a milkweed seed pod or two (they’re ripening across the road within easy reach) and establish a bed in an area where it’s tricky to mow. It attracts butterflies so well one of its other names is “butterfly weed”, with Monarchs heading the list. It grows happily in marshy ground, and for an added bonus is one of the few native plants that can hold its own head to head with Canadian thistle.

And yet this year I’ve had a horrible time getting myself up off my butt and outside. Some of it has been the weather – either it’s been unbearably hot, raining or both. But some of it has been a combination of lack of energy and sheer inertia. The end result is that not only did I not get anything in the ground this year, but the weeds have overrun everything.

I don’t know exactly what changed, but something did. I noticed that I had a tangle of exceedingly healthy vines at the base of the maple nearest where we park the cars that was comprised of a combination of poison ivy, nightshade, multiflora roses and wild grapes. None of those are desirable plants, to say the least. I sprayed them with vinegar several times over until most of it withered, then got in there with a rake and gloves and yanked it out. It all went into the trash can, not the compost nor the marsh across the road where I’ve dumped other things to decompose. Another couple of weeks went by, but I’ve managed to spend an hour or so most days doing the long delayed work. All the weeds and grass in my raised bed have been pulled, running through the soil until I stopped finding roots from grass or creeping charlie. It’s thoroughly mulched now, in hopes I’ll have a usable bed again come spring. The cottonwood, maple and mulberry saplings have been cut down. I’ve yanked barrowloads of Queen Anne’s lace and wild lettuce, though I’ve as much and more yet to go. I’ve come in sore and tired, but after a week of it I’m okay by the next morning. I’m even starting to see perceptible progress. I’m enjoying myself.

I still have to kick my behind out the door in the first place, but that’s okay. At least I’m finally doing it.

Joseph and I were in Indy for not quite a week shortly before he started school. It was busy, both because I tried make sure both sets of grandparents get as much kid time as they wanted and because this time I tried to at least touch base with people I don’t always have time to see. (I see my amazing friends Li and Michael because I usually stay with them.) So I went somewhere in addition to Mom’s pretty much every day, until the middle of the week. That day I woke up to find that if the wall hadn’t quite fallen on me, it was certainly shedding a few bricks in the vicinity of my head. Yeah, that wall. The one with “fibromyalgia” engraved on it. That really is a pretty good analogy for what it feels like when that sort of fatigue catches up with you.

A lot of the time when I’ve noticed that wall getting a bit shaky, I’ve just kept going. I am, as I may have observed previously, ridiculously stubborn, and besides I hate to miss anything. I just shove the loose brick out of my way and proceed to ignore it.

There’s just one problem with that. It doesn’t go away. If I don’t take the time to rest, bricks continue to tumble at an increasing rate until there are simply too many to shove aside, climb over (or out from under) or otherwise slog through. If I push it to that point, I’m pretty well useless.

If you look up fibro you’ll see “fatigue” as one of the primary characteristics, but that word isn’t strong enough. It’s not just being tired. It’s being unable to keep your eyes open. It’s knowing that you aren’t alert enough to drive safely. It’s feeling as if your thoughts are wrapped in batting, disappearing into softness when you try to pin them down. At its worst, it’s what a friend and I call “cat days”, when instead of being awake for about 16 hours in a day, that’s about how much you sleep.

So about the fourth day of the visit, when I found myself asleep by 10:00 and dragging at 8:00 the next morning, I didn’t fight it. I cancelled plans other than a late-afternoon expedition promised to my son and dinner with his godparents, and rested. When other adults were available, I went back to sleep. It worked – the following day I was fine, and we went on with our plans. But I hate calling and making those apologies, hate disappointing people, hate disappointing mysef. I look in the mirror, and the woman looking back at me doesn’t look like there’s a thing wrong with her other than her weight. It’s a good thing most of the people I know are aware I’m more likely to push myself too hard than to shrug off an obligation on a whim. As a society, we are not kind to those whose problems aren’t physically obvious. We are suspicious of any sort of weakness, often viewing it as a moral failing. It’s hard not to judge myself that way, even when I know I know it’s not valid, when I know the people whose opinion matters to me don’t judge me so.

I’m learning. I’m working out how to pace mysef. I’m learning to say no, to remember that if I have a lot to do, it’s far more likely to get done if I stretch it out over several days than try to get it all done at once. I’m learning to notice when those first few bricks start to shake loose, rather than going on until the whole thing lands on my head. I’m learning that not only do I not have the energy reserves of any two normal people, I no longer have the reserves of one. If I were battery operated, it wouldn’t be holding anything close to a full charge.

It’s aggravating (very), but really no more than that. It isn’t life threatening, and if I’ve finally had to acknowledge I’m not superwoman worse tragedies have occurred. I have a wonderful, loving, non-judgmental husband, who will point out to me when I’m the one being hard on myself. I have friends who will look at me and tell me it’s time to stop for the day if I start into the “just one more thing” script. I’ve never been particularly good about taking care of myself, but I have people around me who help with that, and will give me a metaphorical kick in the tochis if I’m disinclined to listen. And I’m finally learning to do it for myself. I would say that is a Good Thing.

Life has been random, as is its nature, and so shall this be.

I hadn’t intended to make rye bread any time soon. I made a large batch a couple of weeks ago. (A small batch isn’t worth the effort, as you have to mix the starter three days in advance.) I love it, but I’m the only one who eats it. I have five of my six small loaves left in the freezer. On the other hand, I had not reckoned with the baking gremlins. I was intending to make Indian chapattis to go with lentil and tomato soup for dinner. I grabbed the nearest canister of non-white flour and mixed. Only one problem – once blended with water, it became very clear that the grain in question was quite a dark brown and sticky into the bargain. I took a bite, and sure enough, I had grabbed the rye flour instead of the whole wheat. That left me a choice – either toss it out, or add another cup of water and a bit of yeast and let is start fermenting. So after I’d pulled out another bowl and made the intended chapatti dough, I turned my mistake into the basis for another batch of rye bread, which is now bubbling away happily. It’ll be ready to bake with on Sunday, and I’m figuring that this one will be seedless raisin rye, just for fun.

Our son will be a C.I.T. (counselor in training) for the day camp he attended last summer. They’ve never had a C.I.T. program before, but they had a couple of kids they really wanted to keep that would have otherwise been too old – Joseph and his girlfriend. He starts Monday, and he’s tremendously excited. I’m not sure if it’s about camp, about the prospect of some responsibility, or about spending every week day for the next six weeks with T. It doesn’t really matter, though; what matters is his about-to-jump-out-of-his-skin enthusiasm. But one of the things that came with it was a staff meeting this last Tuesday, and after it we got some carry-out and went to have a picnic.

It was the perfect day for it; sunny and warm but not hot. Indeed, it was the first rain-free day in most of a week. J. was done eating long before I was, so he went off to explore the park a bit. It wasn’t long before he was back, urging me to hurry and finish so he could show me something.

“Something” turned out to be a whole colony of bird’s nests made out of mud. It took us a few minutes to figure out that there were birds sitting in them. They’re up in corners on the park buildings, no more than 3 or 4 inches under the eaves, so it’s quite shadowed. But there was the line of a feathery tail, and then we noticed the curve of the top of the head at the other end, one eye watching us carefully. We walked around, finding that every suitable corner had its own nest, some of them with distinct cheeping sounds coming from inside. We watched for awhile, until I saw a bird fly in and another fly out, and there was that distinctive divided tail. They’re small, fast, and absolutely beautiful in the air. Finally, after much wandering around, one of the adult birds hopped up to sit on the edge of the nest and I got a picture with my phone. Not a great shot, but good enough to compare to a photo at home, and sure enough – barn swallows! I’m trying to figure out how to set up a place they would consider appropriately safe from our cats to lure them to nest here. Not only are the a delight to watch, but they evidently eat their weight in insects daily. Given the bugs around here, that sounds wonderful! It shouldn’t be too hard, as the birds actually prefer rough wood to painted surfaces. They need something that their mud nests can adhere to.

And that’s life. I just let Tornado in the door, and watched as she got past her nemesis (Cloud) by the simple expedient of jumping over her. Tornado ignored my laughter; Cloud licked her paw and then wandered off as if to say “We planned that game of leap-frog”. Tomorrow I’m planning to drive over to Chicago for the day, and Sunday His Boyness wants to go swimming, weather permitting. Not terribly eventful, and even though some of the eventfulness of the past month or so was joyous, the calm is wonderful.

My son’s bar mitzvah is coming up quickly. I waited until the last minute to go suit shopping because he’s been growing so incredibly quickly, but the last minute has arrived. So off I went, figuring I shouldn’t have too much trouble getting him a suit.

Wrong-o, fuzzy one. He’s right on that line where men’s suits are absurdly broad in the shoulders, (even at the smallest size) but boy’s are too tight across the chest, and a bit short in the sleeves. And don’t even start on pants – the shortest available inseam is 2 inches too long.

Now, I can attend to things like hems and sleeves. It won’t even take me very long. Shoulders, on the other hand, are trickier. While I can give them extra support with temporary pads, there’s still that boy-head balanced on that slender neck in the middle, and it just looks silly. On the other hand, shoulders are, bar none, the most difficult structure on a suit to adjust – so much so that tailors will tell you to get the shoulders right and everything else can be worked around. And that’s true, if the suit has side-back seams to let out or take in. Unfortunately the current style has only center-back seams, and altering those to come out straight is first cousin to impossible. I know. I’ve done it. I ended up sewing it up, then drawing my straight line and hand-stitching the thing to get it right. It was a miserable experience, and one I swore never to repeat.

So that’s where I am. I’m going to call a place online that specializes in boy’s suits tomorrow morning, run through the kid’s measurements, and ask for advice. If they can fit him, I’ll be thrilled.

If not, I’ve got some serious and intensive shopping to do, followed by some equally intensive tailoring.

We’ll have to see.

For quite awhile now, I’ve had a problem with WordPress, the program I use to write this blog. It’s hard to put anything new online when the “Publish” button has disappeared, y’know? So I’ve been poking at it off and on for awhile now, trying different ways to figure out where the controls had gone and how to get them back.

So as is the usual thing, the fix turned out to be both very simple and not terribly obvious until I tried something and it worked. So maybe now I can start writing again. I’d like that habit back.

Well that was a pity-party to end all! I won’t delete the last post, because, well, it’s where my head is, and the mood is the primary reason for the extended silence. But wow do I need to adjust my own attitude!

It’s snowing, and the wind is, to quote my husband, “howling like a banshee with a smashed toe.” If it were snowing harder, it would be a genuine blizzard; as it is, it’s “simply” a winter storm. By 5:30 this evening we’d gotten notice that school would be delayed two hours, and by 7:30 the Powers That Be had decided canceling altogether would be the better part of valor. I couldn’t agree more; I might have kept our boy home even if school was in session. We had freezing fog earlier, with the result that I watched my neighbor’s car slide majestically where she didn’t want it to go twice. The first time she recovered; the second, she had to be pushed out lest she go into the marsh altogether. Neither my beloved husband nor I had to set foot out the door today, and set foot out the door we did not.

Better yet, my husband has his work computer, so that unless our internet goes out (always possible when things ice up), he can work from home. There again, I’m very glad he can stay safe.

On the other hand, that will give me the job of keeping our son out of his hair so he can actually get work done. I love our boy dearly, but he demands a great deal of attention, prefers to claim it from his dad, and needs frequent reminders of such things as “leave [insert parent of choice] alone; s/he is working/ sleeping/ otherwise doing something that precludes playing a game with you.

Normally that’s fine; I enjoy doing things with my kid. But life has been unusually frustrating lately mostly due to the need to play construction manager for my mom long-distance. I get to be the heavy hand that insists that they aren’t getting paid until all the work is done. I get to coordinate with both insurance and mortgage companies. I get to explain things, then explain them again, and then again, because I’m telling the contractor things he doesn’t want to hear, like that he’s not getting more money until the work is done. I get to call and take them to task repeatedly for failing to show up when they say they will and not calling. And I get to tell them they put themselves in this position when they complain bitterly that they haven’t been paid for the portion of the work that’s done, when if they’d just showed up when they said they would the whole thing could – and should – have been done before Thanksgiving.

All that makes for a rather short-tempered Alisa, and even when I try not to let it, that sometimes splashes over. I do well enough when my son wants me to watch a video that he’s watched at least 20 times already with him, or at least he takes it with good grace when I say I will watch it once but not more than that. I handle it with less grace when he asks to decorate a cake every five minutes while I’m trying to actually get something done like oh, say, dishes. And I know I need to take a weekend off when the sound of him humming a single note – his form of autistic “stimming” behavior – makes me want to either scream or dissolve into tears. I deal for the afternoon and evening, but a full day of it? Now? I just wish it weren’t right now.

I feel guilty for feeling like I need a break from my kid, or just a break, period. But guilty or not, it’s there. Anyone got a desert island I can borrow for a few days?

We’ve lived here for 5 years now. I expected to have deer nearby, and have not been disappointed. Sometimes they’ve been a source of great amusement, as when the little fawn came up and peered at me and the cat through our side door, nose pressed right up against the glass, while mama had quiet conniptions at the edge of the field about 10 feet away. I swear I could almost hear her wishing for hands so she could scoop baby up and get the little idiot out of reach. Eventually, baby put her nose down and Sophia-cat stood up on her hind legs, they touched noses through the glass, and then the little one bounced off to Mama. I see them bounding across the road about a block away or browsing at the edge of the fields on either side of the house, but I’d never had a problem with them on the road.

This year all that has changed. I swear Clan Cervine has a collective death-wish. I came home one day a month or so back to tell my husband that I had not hit the deer; they had hit me. It was literal truth; I’d seen them close to the edge of the road, hit the brakes, and managed to stop before I ran into anyone. Evidently hooves don’t brake quite as well. They didn’t stop at all, with the result that the last two in the little herd, an adult and a juvenile, went bouncing off my front bumper. No harm to the car, and I assume none to them, but really – running into a stationary object the size of a mommy-van? That wasn’t the only odd encounter, either, just the most extreme. You’d think if they were standing and browsing in a field solidly 50 feet from the road that they’d either keep browsing or run the other way when a roaring monster approached, but no – they’re just a likely to explode into motion and across the road, directly into the path of the dragon. As one of my friends put it, deer are not the sharpest spoons in the drawer. It’s not just me, either; the other night my husband came home and commented that he’d come perilously close to having a cervine hood ornament.

I’ve always been fairly careful, and I’m really not all that worried. I’ve learned to watch the brush at the edges of the road for motion at window height, and to slow down if Bambi’s kith and kin are anywhere in sight. I really have no desire to be an instrument of evolution, culling the stupid (or slow) from the gene pool. But I could really use a little cooperation from the browsing contingent. I mean really – running into a van after it’s stopped? I know all their hormones are carbonating seasonally now and overriding what little wit they originally possessed, but they’re prey animals. They’re supposed to know enough to run away from dragons. Aren’t they?

I really don’t have that big a garden. Four feet by four feet, containing two cucumber vines, four tomatoes, a couple of potatoes, thyme, basil and a collection of marigolds and moss roses. I can weed it in ten minutes, and water it with the hose – no sprinkler needed, it just doesn’t take that long.

But small as it is, I have an abundance of those cucumbers and tomatoes. My basil is bushy enough that I could (and probably will) make several good batches of basil. My harvesting basket is full, and so is the mixing bowl, usually used for bread, that I poured the excess into. It’s colorful, too, since half my cherry tomatoes are pear shaped red ones and the other half pear shaped yellow, and both are incredibly prolific. I’ll probably take a quart over to my girlfriend, since she didn’t get a garden in this year and they won’t keep until I next go in to Indy. (Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll have more by then.) Judging by the number of green tomatoes and blossoms, they aren’t slowing down any time soon either.

My son wants to try to make homemade ketchup, and I may attempt it. These are salad and slicing tomatoes, not sauce tomatoes, so I don’t know how it will go. On the other hand, I might as well try it. It’s not like I don’t have the tomatoes to spare.