tucson botanical gardens

trumpet fanfare!!!

This is my 100th post. Does that call for cake?


Last year, I went through something I hope most homeowners never face - the moment when I opened the gas bill at the end of January and saw this: $200.01

Now, first of all...$0.01? Are you kidding me? Southwest Gas couldn't eat that penny just to avoid being a big corporate jerk? If Southwest Gas had been a person standing over my shoulder when I unfolded the statement, they would've jabbed the air with their knobby, stick-like index finger and made an annoying squealy sound to rub it in. And then probably they would've laughed maniacally and scampered away to go barbeque small children in a cave somewhere.

Second of all...and my parents can attest to this - my house was COLD last winter. Like, at-least-three-layers-of-clothing-during-the-day cold. I spent (let's be clear) more than two hundred dollars on gas in January and yet my house stayed consistently below 55 degrees during the day. To reiterate: Are you kidding me?

Thirdly, Weatherbug says it's 60 degrees somewhere in Tucson. Our thermostat, while unwilling to actually commit to a specific temperature, is hovering indecisively somewhere between 66 and 69 degrees this morning. Also, last night was a milestone of a happy sort: the first night this fall that we didn't have to turn on the swamp cooler for sleeping. Hooray!

But - and fourthly - happy cool weather means shivery cold weather is on the way which means Southwest Gas is lurking in the shadows somewhere rubbing their scrawny little hands together and thinking about Gold! Wonderful gooold! Or something. Which means that we need insulation badly. Which means that we need to get the damn electric done for a change. Which means that this past Saturday, we ripped out a couple ceilings on a whim after work.

Which, if we make a humongous stretch, brings us back to the first and second posts I ever made back in July of 2006. I will summarize them here:
Post #1 - I don't talk enough to have a blog.

Post #2 - But if I am going to force myself to talk about something, it will have to do with all the glorious sweat equity we are going to put into our poor, dilapidated abode so that in a year's time, it will be a little jewel of a house with insulation and everything and we will never have to pay more than sixty-five dollars in gas bills. Ever. Even in January.

Which brings me to my specially prepared 100th Post Celebration Speech and Comprehensive Plan for the Future of the Casita:

"Less talking -- more ripping out of ceilings!"

Carma?

Four new tires!

How exactly can it be that I developed two flat tires before dinner last night? I drove the truck less than a mile down the road around 4:00 yesterday afternoon and it was fine. Certainly no more wobbley than usual. By 7:00, its puffiness factor had decreased by fully fifty percent. Did I run over a pile of glass or nails or steak knives during my brief travels and not notice it? Did a pack of dogs attack my truck while I was slicing pears for the croustade? Could the tires have been slashed? We found no evidence that any of these scenarios took place.

I've had tires slashed in Tucson before, but I thought it highly unlikely to happen more than once. I thought my karma was in better shape than that. I offer people rides home if they're stranded. I bake them things. I don't mess with their vehicles.

And anyway, I know where my karma's off. I know that someday I'm going to come back as a shallot and wind up diced into a delicious glazed pork dish. I could see how I deserve that.

But I don't think I deserve slashed tires again. I don't deserve two flat tires in one day regardless of how it actually happened. And I'm pretty sure I didn't deserve to be told this morning that the remaining two tires are bulging and rotation simply won't cut it this time.

When Raphael ventured out into the driveway last night, all we really wanted was a loaf of bread to have with the chili. Not a crisis.

Thank god I don't have to be at work until late on Tuesdays. My morning off is the perfect time to spend three hours getting all four tires replaced.

so done

I'm taking a digital photography class right now.

Well, not this second.

But in order to actually learn how to use Adobe Photoshop, I probably should be in class right now. In fact, I should probably be more or less constantly sitting in class. I should lurk in the bushes outside my teacher's windows attempting to catch a glimpse of him at his computer.

Pardon my language, but...Holy Cow. Photoshop is hard.

My brain - which has momentarily ceased itching and has gotten kind of melty after being in the sun all day long - feels like it's being twisted into knots or French-braided or something. I hope it doesn't freeze that way.

my brain on t.v.

I'm considering a little T.V. tonight.

Now, if I were me three years ago, this might sound strange. Alarming, even. But you see, I haven't actually turned my T.V. on since the end of May. Not counting last Friday when I was sick, right before my face inexplicably swelled up and I had to go to the Emergency Room and missed the entire second half of some movie in which a homely, overweight girl who inherited a small-town diner from her father makes out in the bathroom with this really leggy, hot, blonde stranger from the big city who is also the lusty yet unrequited love-object of not only the homely girl's brother, but also his best friend (who also happens to have been Homely Girl's number one crush since, like, first grade even though he's clearly a huge jerk)...and...and...and...

...and, mainly, my concern is that I did not get to see how this obviously riveting movie ends and although I refuse to ever actually rent it, I am actually dying to find out how the whole mess got sorted out and if the homely girl got hot. So if anyone knows the movie I'm talking about, comment tout de suite, please.

I forget my point.

Ah, yes. So, except for the sick thing which I don't think counts because never under normal circumstances would I have watched that particular movie, I have not turned on the telly for something like three and a half months.

Except, since Wingal right now is all like "You watched that movie about Beverly Hills girl scouts on the lake in June, girl, don't you no-T.V. me", I'd like to be clear that I'm not counting movies either. If you'll recall, there was a point back in July where everyone and their sister-in-law had to re-watch all the Harry Potter flicks. I am not immune to that kind of pressure. I am not a houseplant, people.

So, to recap: no T.V. (except as it facilitated movies and while I was feverish) for over three months. Not on purpose, mind you. This isn't some sicko personal challenge that I'm making you watch. I just haven't thought about it.

But that's all about to change. Two minutes ago, the Healthy Chinese I ordered for dinner arrived at the door, and all of a sudden I'm feeling rather...sit-commy.

Is this it for Jenny's good T.V. habits? Tune in next time!

...but nothing's even falling

Fall's on the horizon - or, as we like to say here in the low desert, "somewhere that's not here it's getting cooler which means that little breeze coming through the curtains must be a harbinger of autumn. I'm gonna go buy a squash".

And Fall at my house is when a young woman's fancy turns to (surprise) cooking.

I didn't realize my fancy had turned yet, actually, until about three minutes ago when I found myself standing over the stove, toasting some bread cubes at 7:30 in the morning. On a work day. Because I'm going to take a salad to work and we have no croutons. Oh, and also I was boiling some eggs. Because what's a salad with no eggs? Not a salad, that's what.

Meanwhile, I am also contemplating making up a batch of hearty chili sometime soon here, to take the chill off those +70-degree nights and perhaps (in a stunning move on my part) pairing it with some individually sized pear croustades.

Yum.

Why oh why can't my job involve more food-related activities? "Okay, guys, we've buried some jugs full of cider and a cherry gallette around here somewhere. Your job is to set up a couple of one by ones and excavate in ten centimeter levels until you find them. You'll get your archaeology certificates and, since the cider should be good and fermented by then, we'll all get nice and sloshed. Nobody tell the Dean."

Gotta go! The croutons are done and they smell delicious. Just in time for work.


Brain Update: Still itchy. Would a tumor cause a person's brain to itch?

problems

My brain is itchy.

sick of it all?

You know how you're at work some days and you're sitting in front of your computer and instead of really focusing on whether Sahelanthropus tchadensis is actually a direct human ancestor or just another Miocene ape, you're thinking Man, I just wish I could be sick for a few days, maybe enjoy a mild bout of the flu, stay home, drink plenty of fluids, watch movies, read magazines, get away from work for just a little rest and relaxation. Wouldn't that be great?

I know where you're coming from. I am guilty of these thoughts, too.

And I actually did get sick this week. I can, in fact, pinpoint it to Wednesday right around 11:30 A.M. And today is the first day I feel like a real person again.

So from personal experience, I can tell you a few things:

1. There is no "enjoy" anywhere in the equation.

2. You need the fluids, but, boy, you're so not in the mood to stand there for the thirty seconds it takes to fill up the water glass.

3. Movies? What movies? Movies involve driving somewhere, making decisions, speaking in a rational manner to other people who are not sick and can't possibly understand why this whole transaction is so hard, and trying to figure out where the hell you left your car keys. Not to mention your pants. There are no movies.

4. Magazines. See number 3 above. Oh, and don't count on your subscriptions showing up while you're sick. It wouldn't matter if they did anyway, because you'd just have to make the trek out to the mailbox, and you're not going to have the energy to find the appropriate clothing to make that happen.

5. Rest and relaxation? No problem. If sleeping 18 hours a days (but not actually while it's dark) is considered either of those things.

6. My educated conclusion? If you think you could use a sick day or two...it's healthier to fake it.

(angelic music and virgin-mary flames)

I've been lazy lately. Is it the change in the weather? Is it the beginning of the fall semester and all the hard latitude/longitude-related questions it brings ? Is it the sudden lack of weekend houseguests clamoring for walks in the desert and drinks at two in the afternoon? Is it because I know I will have to work Saturdays for, possibly, the next eight or nine months OF. MY. LIFE. from here on out? Maybe I'll have another nephew by the time I'm back on a normal schedule.

It makes me tired.



The main thing I've been contemplating lately is how the Kong has taken over my life. The Kong - that hard rubber hollow beehive-shaped dog toy that has saved many a dog-owner's sanity.

Ours is a cheerful red.

Don't get me wrong. I am a die-hard fan of The Kong (angelic music and Virgin Mary-type flames appearing from behind the toy).

But it bounces funny. Unpredictably, even.

And that means that I NEVER know where the hell it's gotten to. Also, it means that every ten minutes I have to rescue it from behind the couch while Lila lies sprawled full-length on the floor with her nose poked as far under the edge as it can go, crying softly and then staccato-barking if the wait gets to be too long. And in dog-time, too long apparently means twenty-seven seconds. "Some! One! Get! My! Toy! Or! I! Will! Just! Die!"

But back to that whole never knowing where it is thing. (Unless it's under the couch.) My thing with Lila is that I am wracked with guilt when I have to leave her in her cage - or the self-deluding crate - while we're at work. And I do have to, because the last time I left her for three hours to get my oil changed, she chewed up the couch. The Italian leather couch. So, eight hours is completely out of the question.

The only thing that assuages my guilt is loading up the Kong with peanut-butter so she can have at least five minutes of gooey, peanut-buttery Kong-sponsored happiness before she conks out or eats another blanket or whatever for the next few hours. That way she'll still love me when I finally release her.

I leave for work at 8:10 A.M. Except on Tuesdays. So every morning, at about 8:08, I finish packing up my lunch and I glance briefly around the kitchen waiting for a crescendo of angelic music. Then I wander into the living room. The Arizona room, my steps quickening. The bedroom. Back into the living room.

Now you have to understand that the Kong to Lila is like a ratty old teddy bear to a four-year-old child. She carries it around everywhere. Every morning, she greets us by running around the house, finding the Kong, and growling enthusiastically around its thick rubbery goodness.

Then she loses it.

So next I head outside. It is now 8:13. I scour the corners of the yard. I look over by the woodpile. Under the plant table. Back behind the palm tree. Next to the fake stone Buddha head.

Sometimes it doesn't appear until the next morning, unearthed for Lila's growl-ey morning ritual.

Sometimes I am forced to say goodbye (and "I'm sorry don't hate me") with a paltry Milkbone. A veritable Milkbone of Guilt. (Milkbone grows horns and glows with an unearthly red light.)

On Tuesdays, I leave for work at 11:10.

It's 9:00.

I should probably start looking.