Naked Ladies Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate

I feel like a student in Professor Snape's Potions class.

This morning I had a landscape artist come out to evaluate our new back yard. I'm normally quite handy with a trowel and trusty weeder, but in this back yard I'm pretty stuck. The first thing the landscaper said was, "Oh my dear, you don't have a back yard with a tree. You have a tree for your back yard." She's not kidding. Apparently this Silver Maple of ours is very very old. The bad news is they also have a relatively short life span compared to say an Elm. We also have a wild Mulberry tree which I thought was a kind of Oak. See? Mulberry tree, not Mulberry bush. Goes to show you what I know about this yard and how ill informed those nursery rhymes are.

The whole reason I had this person come out was to evaluate if they could till the soil for us to seed grass specific to shady areas. Not so much. Maples are also fastidious in their root structure by spreading out and only goes 2 - 3 feet deep. No tilling for us. Because the root structure is so close to the top it will leach all nutrients and water so this explains why our grass looks the way it does: clumps sparsely dispersed in clay dirt. Awesome. Her solution was to just put mulch down. This sounds like a terrible idea to me. A brown yard? Well, I guess that's what we have now so perhaps its not that bad of an alternative. The only prayer we have of doing grass is just putting top soil down - a lot of top soil - and seeding it with fescue, not rye. I learned more about grass root structure today than I thought I would ever learn. Rye is the main grass of all that sod people use. Fescue doesn't have a matrix root system. It's just one solitary blade per seed.

As I was getting more and more dejected about our options for the yard, the landscaper picked up on my mood and went to the truck to get her encyclopedias of botanical species. I was highly relieved to learn that my options were more than just hostas and ferns. Our conversation went something like this:

"So the horny toadalis is fantastic with it's feathery plumes, that is unless you want to get the limnanthus sacquaguia, otherwise known as Puffy Faces. As you can see it's broad leaf structure would be a nice contrast to the Mugwort with it's variegated leaf. I would steer clear of the hemlock, besides it's not indigenous to this area."

"What about this pretty purple flower?" I said pointing to the day lily looking bloom.

"Oh no, dear! Climaxius Epictus, or Man's Folly, will not grow in climate zone 5, which as you know we are right on the border of 4 and 5. But this lovely Witches Death would suit that corner nicely with fall blooms or the Snake Weed. I might consider planting the Japanese Blood Grass over there but it needs moist soil so perhaps the Viking Ship Heucharella. That one is a native plant. "

"What about hydrangeas? My husband loves the purple flowers."

The landscaper scrunches up her face to show her disgust. "If I see anymore of that Russian Sage and bourgeois yellow day lily I will just scream. Those hydrangeas were all the rage years ago. A burning bush might be a good alternative."

I'm guessing that is a solid "No" from her on the hydrangeas.

"But there's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Now these would be lovely by the rocks." She said pointing to a familiar plant on the page.

"Oh! You mean Lady in the Bathtubs!"

Double blink through her spectacles and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why would you call Bleeding Hearts, 'Lady in the Bathtubs?'"

"Because my grandmother grew them and if you pick off the blossom, turn it upside down and open it slightly it looks like a Victorian woman in a bathtub."

"Haven't tried that. And look at all these Rhododendrons in your yard! I'm surprised they've lasted this long with such an alkaline soil. Comes from the limestone. You must use quick lime once a year to keep them happy. My goodness, you can see these people had no idea about plants putting this peony in the shady corner. It is most certainly unhappy. And we must trim back these yews. Why on earth they would plant these here? I should also mention that we need to get a jump on this otherwise we'll have to wait until the last hard freeze of winter. That typically is May 15th."

Excuse me? May 15th? Did she really just say "hard frost" "typical" and "May 15th" in one sentence? Oh. My. God. How am I going to survive winter?

The conversation went on for 2 hours for a 20 x 20 space and I'm being generous with those measurements. Some of the names of these plants were absolutely ridiculous. Inky Fingers? Red Hot Poker? Scotch Broom? Love Lies Bleeding? Naked Ladies? Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate? Digitalis - otherwise known to me as the main ingredient for heart medication. Witch Hazel - which grows in the shade by the way. I vetoed the Hemlock for the record. Murphy, our second Scottie, ate some wild Hemlock and hallucinated. He landed in the doggy hospital overnight while his psychedelic trip wore off. One of my big requirements for the yard is nothing can be poisonous. I'm also against prickly plants.

In the middle of all this the movers show up to remove all of our boxes and packing material for a small fee, of course. They were exceptionally early. It took them about 10 minutes to remove the remnants of our two months of unpacking. As I drew up the check, the movers and landscape artist were in a battle about what to do with the mulberry tree.

"My wife makes jam with the mulberries."

"The berries also make a lovely wine, that is if you can get the berries before the birds. However, this one is a volunteer."

"Volunteer?" Man, am I glad the mover asked this question.

"Yes, it was a noxious weed that they let grow. However, it's not thriving and nor should it being in so much shade. Best to rid the yard of it before it becomes a larger problem."

"I'd rather have the wine than the jam, personally." Said the mover.

As for me and the rest of my morning, I've had 3 phone calls from the company for follow up and the landscaper came back for a second look at the Maple.

"They're notorious for dropping branches, these Silver Maples."

No kidding. I could have told you that looking at all of the limbs scattered across the yard from Sunday's storm. Rocket science.

"You need to call the tree people and point out the missing bark on the underside of that limb. Could be a bad sign that might call for the tree to come down which would be thousands upon thousands of dollars. Besides, it would alter my design plans then with more sun in the yard. Yes, yes, you need to call the tree people." And with that she handed me a sticky note with a name and phone number.

Inspired Completion

Last night my husband and I ventured away from our usual fanfare of animation movies and actually saw something with REAL people in it. We've been trying to see this particular movie for a couple of months now, but life gets in the way. Whether it's a good dining experience that takes 2 hours longer than anticipated or a family having to discuss treatment options for their loved ones, we just seem to miss all intended shows. Not yesterday. We actually made it to see "Julie and Julia."

I had particular interest in this movie as one of my dearest friends, "Martha," sent me the book a few years ago. I enjoyed the read while simultaneously thinking, "Good Lord this woman is mad trying to do 500+ FRENCH recipes in 365 days." But, she did it. On that level, it was quite inspirational for me. Like Julie Powell, I have a predisposition for starting things and not quite getting them completed. Take the quilt in my mother's basement for example. It's been resting there nicely for about 6ish years. Or my novel(s). Yes, potential plural on that, folks. I have somewhere around 3 novels on my computer. It was highly reassuring to hear from another dear friend that a lot of her set aside writing time was spent deleting what she already wrote. That is where I get in trouble with that project. Playing editor and author at the same time is highly unproductive. So at least Julie Powell succeeded in finishing something with a self-imposed deadline.

Don't get me wrong; I make deadlines, but typically these are deadlines that are externally imposed. I wouldn't have two advanced degrees without deadlines in place. But I play head games with myself (to my downfall) and see how I can rationalize skirting deadlines I make for myself. If you need any help in understanding how my brain works, just look for a post a few back about me with unstructured time.

I have to say I quite enjoyed the movie even if I left feeling quite hungry. All of a sudden I felt inspired to make boeuf bourguignon. I already know how to make it, but I've never done it the Julia Child way. Turns out I wasn't the only one inspired for French cuisine after seeing this movie. Mom told me that a few Sundays back they decided to embark on Julia's Duck with Cherry Sauce. Mind you the book in all of it's genius actually does teach you the art of French cooking in steps if you actually followed the steps in sequential order. However, Dad apparently decided to skip steps 1-4 where you first learn how to even roast a duck to making one with extravagant cherry reduction. He probably used the cherry pitter he inherited when his Mom died. I'm guessing here - we haven't talked in months so this is all extrapolated from my daily talks with Mom. She said it was amazing although they washed every pot and pan about 3x minimum during the 6 hours or whatever it took to make the dish.

J started thinking about making Coq au Vin this evening. Again, it's not complicated just time consuming. He also wanted to clean the house and plant somewhere close to 500+ bulbs in the backyard. I have a feeling we won't be dining on any pearl onions and succulent chicken this evening given the fact he's still in his pj's surfing the net. As for me, I'm going to go outside and find my trowel to lavish the last day of summer up here in the midwestern north. Getting those bulbs planted by sundown will be almost equivalent to making all those recipes within one year.

Reciprocity and Generosity

The whole concept of gifts is one where I personally struggle. There is a certain etiquette and decorum about a finely fashioned gift that begs the question: is it about the gifter or the receiver? It also makes me wonder where and how expectations get placed.

I know I've brought this subject up before in older posts, but background information is always key in understanding context. Growing up, my family culture had striking differences between my paternal and maternal sides. The maternal side usually had larger budgets for the daughters and grandchildren, but the spouses always appeared as an afterthought. I didn't recognize this when I was younger, but as a married woman I can now sympathize with what my Dad experienced. There is a striking message as your wife opens up gifts of expensive jewelry and you get socks. After awhile a request of socks and underwear as a present seems appropriate because at least you aren't going to be disappointed. So sad, but so true.

On my paternal side, the couple was recognized in a mutual joint gift and everyone got the same thing. On one of our last Christmases with my grandparents, my parents were absolutely ecstatic with a dolly. You know, the kind movers use to wheel around heavy boxes. Seriously. Ecstatic. I get it. But then again I love presents that are either completely practical or completely indulgent. The siblings on my paternal side also extended the small remembrances for everyone that didn't have to be elaborate, but made sure you were acknowledged and important. I still love the homemade chocolate dipped fortune cookies, The Dog calendars, and whatever glam fun I got from my cousin. Gifts for all of the dogs are also included, which makes my heart sing.

I realize I am not the most consistent gifter, which is difficult to acknowledge. Honestly it depends upon my wealth status as to what I can do, which I realize is a universal truth for everyone. One year I was able to bring everyone bottles of wine. That felt great. I also realize how important it is for nieces and nephews to be remembered. It always meant a lot to me when I got something from my aunts and uncles. I have to say that J and I aren't really great about this since we've been out of SLC with our own niece and nephew. Birthdays come and go in the time warp continuum and I typically beat myself up about forgetting them. So when I receive something in the mail for my birthday from my sister-in-law I feel pretty rotten about accepting it.

On the other hand, what do you do with friends who are also as flaky as you are in the gifting department? One year you get an amazing package and then years go by without birthday or Christmas remembrances even though you send things to them. Do you stop giving them gifts? Or other friends who are so consistent and you are the flaky one? Or what do you do with gifts that are so extravagant there is nothing you can do that would seem fair (a cookbook can't compare to diamond earrings)? Another dilemma is the gift that says, "I don't know who you are," or, "This is really all about me," or "You are an afterthought"? I've experienced all of these scenarios and I'm still at a loss of what to do about them.

I'm all about fairness when it comes to gifts. I'm also all about making sure the other person feels recognized for their uniqueness. When I give gifts, they are 100% from the heart and typically very well thought out. My one exception was last Christmas when I was in my fuzzy haze and sent family notecards to a girlfriend of mine who didn't take her husband's last name. That was a big faux pas. I know I made other mistakes last year in gifting and cards albeit with the greatest of intentions.

The last hurdle is giving things to your spouse. Is it really a gift when you are essentially using "our" money? Hard to surprise them with a luxurious gift and always wonder in the back of your mind if they will question the cost rationale. Or do you really believe them when they say, "Don't get me anything"? Anniversaries and Valentines are especially tough. One person gives something from the heart and the other comes up empty handed.

Gifts should equally reflect the giver and receiver in my idealistic view. It should say something about the relationship like a common interest or acknowledging that you really heard them when they mentioned they liked something specific. Although this seems simple, it is really quite difficult upon execution. If it wasn't, there wouldn't be a need for a post like this one. But, that is, I suppose, my gift to you.

Utah Man Am I

When I was younger my feminist side was rather pissed off that the Utah Ute fight song didn't use the gender neutral term of "person" rather than "man." I got over it. The song is catchy and it is part of my childhood inner jukebox. The season tickets was a tradition my paternal side of the family embraced. Grandpa would sit there in the stadium with his "special juice" and radio. I never did understand why he brought the radio as it echoed the live crowd and calling of the plays, but now I understand he was just needing the commentary.

In college I attended most of the games after "pre-partying" at one of the local fraternities. Because the family season tickets were near the student section Mom was often worried she'd see me passed down while crowd-surfing. For the record, that only happened once. Well, only once at a Utah football game. One other time at a concert in Reno, but that is another story.

The passion for the Utes and their recent switch to a the more politically correct hawk named Swoop, still runs in my veins. I do miss the guy riding the horse dressed as a Ute Indian riding around the stadium with a bit U flag, but I understand why they changed. As I've moved around the Nation I've tried to watch various games on television which is difficult when Utah is not a Big 10 school.

In 1998 I watched the NCAA tournament where Utah's basketball team seemed unstoppable. There I was in my tiny cement dorm room screaming at my tiny television set for the Utes much to the dismay of my other roommates. My boyfriend at the time thought it was amusing that I actually yelled and cheered.

Coming off of a Sugar Bowl upset and triumph last year, I was determined to find the Utes football season on our cable selection here in Milwaukee. That's when I discovered we actually had the BYU cable TV channel. Are you freaking kidding me? BYU? This tells me exactly what our community is comprised of...enough Mormons to command BYU television to be a staple on our cable selection.

I was raised in a family who cheered on the Utes and anyone who played BYU. It wasn't a far stretch for me to move to Boston and adopt a similar stance about cheering for the Red Sox and anyone who played the Yankees. In Boston there was a substantial Mormon community in Belmont, seriously just the next town over from us. The Temple rose along route 2 like it does along the Washington DC beltway: a shining imitation silhouette of Sleeping Beauty's castle. However, we never got BYU cable TV in Boston.

When I searched the official Utah athletic web page I noted that most of the games were being broadcast on some Mountain West cable channel and gave subsequent directions about how you too could call your cable company who would be happy to supply access for a modest fee. I decided it wasn't worth it. Besides, I'm the only one in the family who enjoys football. Somehow I married a guy who is not sports oriented. He understands the rules, but if given a choice of watching sports or doing something else, he'd take the latter. The only reason why he will watch sports is to be amused how much I engage and yell at the television.

Last night was another clear example of why I love this man of mine. He searched out the broadcast of the Utes playing San Jose State and set the DVR for me. There we sat with our ice cream: me yelling through most of the first quarter, J laughing at me, and Edgar cowering at his mother now turned wild screaming woman at the light box. I realize I have quite the potty mouth when it comes to my team and bad plays.

And then, there it was, a shining moment of connection with my family flashing across the screen: the Utah Pig Bus. One of my brother's fraternity buds created this tailgating icon that was even honored in the victory parade after the Sugar Bowl win. This is the same fraternity brother who convinced my own flesh and blood how it was a *good idea* to do a skit and jump into the San Francisco Bay from an oversize Styrofoam toilet (supposed to look like a helicopter) called "Snowy, the Hellaskier," for Red Bull. The same Utah Pig Bus where my parents trekked out to hang with the guys and meet their future daughter-in-law. The same Utah Pig Bus that I now see Facebook photos of children of the guys I used to pre-party with. Just seeing the Pig Bus on ESPN U made me miss my crazy brother.

On a sad note my other Alma Mater, Tulane, was absolutely humiliated by BYU yesterday, but at least the Utes remain undefeated even if they didn't bring their best game forward. How do I know it wasn't their best game? My sore vocal chords prove it.

Isn't It Rich? Aren't We a Pair?

I hate this song and yet whenever we end up ill, J strikes up the band. It's all I can do to cover my ears before he mentions anything about clowns.

I'm on day 4 of being bed-bound. Let me just say that this whole sick thing is beginning to wear thin. I've rescheduled somewhere around 6 interviews so I do not infect others. By mode of default, J and I have begun to think we have the dreaded swine flu. Fever? Check. Sore throat? Check. Wishing your head wasn't attached to your body? Check. Wondering if your swollen glands are going to burst through your skin like Aliens? Check. Debating about eating because the thought of chewing is exhausting and painful? Check. "Sexyish" flu bed head from all of the sweats and chills? Check. The oh so attractive look of pasty white death warmed over? Check. On the positive, both of us have the cluster of symptoms so at least we aren't alone in our misery but that does leave us at a lack of a caregiver when we're both moaning about how it hurts to lie still.

I think one of the worst parts is that guilt of duty thing. Unprecedented, J has been out of work for 3 days straight. This takes a lot and tells me exactly how terrible he feels. But every morning he pulls himself out of bed looking quite pasty and debates if he feels well enough to go in and take care of his patients. It usually takes a few calls to his boss and hospital ward under his care before he decides he really would be better off at home.

We are going stir crazy. What I wouldn't give for a nice trip to the grocery store. I hate going to the grocery store, but truly it sounds like a great exotic break from the mundane.

Last night I woke up from a dream that my head was being used as a dodge ball. I kept thinking I really needed Tylenol, but the thought of getting out of bed was more painful than just lying there in agony. Finally when my husband roused from sleep an hour or two later I mustered my request for the two magical pills that might stop the chills and ease the pain. He was woken up by a dream of having died in a car accident. I have no idea what time it was so suffice it to say I was highly cautious about dosing myself with more when I finally got out of bed this morning. I have to say my fingers hurt from typing. I guess the writing is on the wall: time for me to get back in bed.

Shape Shifting

After several esteemed colleagues told me that while they love to follow my blog, "for the love of all that is holy, please change the font," I did. I suppose embracing the inability to write HTML and translate that into Mac-speak, is a part of self-awareness and growth. I do have limitations and boy oh boy, computer speak is one of them. One follower told me that my "improved" font looked like tiny old English and another had to copy and paste my entries into Word so they could reformat it into something legible. So sorry for the strife!

I have been conspicuously absent from posting lately. Let's just say that the stars aligned and I've been in interview after interview. It's been a much needed change of pace. I actually get to dress up in my real-adult-costume of suits and heels to head out and get a feel for what is out there in the professional world. I must say that my former graduate school colleagues have been a huge support for me during this challenge. It's so nice to know you have people you can count on for support, ideas, and brainstorming.

Who knows what will come of these forays into professional life, but I certainly am enjoying the process.