Garden plans

I’m not the type to garden. I used to be. I used to have a house full of plants and flowers and even small trees that I faithfully maintained, moved inside/outside to take advantage of seasons. I transplanted, re-potted, fed and watered like it was my job. I even had a vegetable garden for a few years, with experimental sunflowers and 10-foot stalks of sweet corn and rows of carrots. I invested time in the flowering bushes and plants adorning the house.

Then we moved to the farm, someone decided that we needed cats, and everything went to shit.

I’ve not had a house plant or flower since. Because cats. Even an unassuming aloe plant or tiny little succulent in a decorative jar looks like a bathroom to those bastards. Last summer was one of the first years I grew flowers in the front planter of the house…and we’ve been here for what? Ten years?

Here’s the thing: when the cats decide to use a flower pot that was home to your 100+ year old amaryllis flower as a cat box which kills the bulbs (or…the descendants of said bulbs) that your great-great grandmother transported from the Old Country, everything dies. Everything. Including the joy once found in gardening - or even the quiet satisfaction of keeping something green alive.

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But who is more of an optimist than a gardener (or a farmer)?

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I have a drawing - more of a sketch outline stuck on the fridge with a Mickey Mouse magnet - of what I’m hoping to accomplish in the yard this year. It is an ambitious plan and includes building a fire pit. And moving a tree. It is a small, stunted thing that hasn’t grown much since we’ve moved here; I’m convinced it was planted in a pot or maybe the root ball is still wrapped in burlap. Something has to be stopping that thing from growing, right?

On my list include plants that repel bugs - like lemon grass, chives, citronella grass. Also on the list include things that don’t need to be planted every year, such as lilac and raspberry bushes. And a rock garden where the crab apple tree stump collects weeds every year, despite early and often Roundup-ing. And climbing vines to cover a multitude of sins along the north and west sides of the house.

But I suppose I should consider painting said house, first.

This may be a plan to break into stages…multiple year-long stages. Too bad I only have until next May before Muffin graduates High School.

Lists on lists

Analysis paralysis

A cat is sitting on my “book of all things” so I will not access my to do list until he moves. This could take a while.

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The heck?

My “book of all things” is a black and white graph composition book. I saw a “Bullet Journal” tutorial and liked the concept. I’ve been using the system for about a year and a half. I find it very comforting to know everything is in one place. Things like recipes, crochet patterns, to do lists, passwords, shopping lists, scraps of writing or ideas for writing, doodles, meeting notes, events for every month, checklists for motivation, quotes I like, lists of books I should read - - anything and everything can be written/taped/attached/tucked into the pages and then easily referenced in an index set aside in the beginning of the book. I’ve even started color coding and tabbing the thing with sticky notes to make flipping through the pages easier.

I find having everything in once place is a bit disconcerting, too, however; after leaving my previous book on a counter overnight, a cat peed on it.

Yes, the cats are assholes.

And Yes, the Cleaning Of All The Things is a never ending activity in my house.

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I got nothing.

The oldest child came out to spend part of the day with the family on Sunday. We also had the lovely task of getting everything arranged for her student loan payments, starting in April. I don’t remember things being so damn complicated (multiple usernames, passwords, security questions, security pictures, and on and on and on, and for the love of anything holy yes it really is an authorized person on this end of the fucking website).

The day a bank starts using facial recognition software to authorize access to an account is the day I will back away slowly from the internet and begin my life off the grid.

Maybe. I like me some internets.

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(Random bits of detritus from recent days gone by:)

Sorta.

I have lists upon lists in my head of things I need to do including various projects that involve cleaning out closets full of clothing I’ve not worn since before my second child was born, planning a graduation celebration, paying bills, applying for various jobs in the area, and maybe running a vacuum cleaner around the baseboards. But it is raining or snowing or something uncomfortably cold outside, and that just makes me want to start a fire (by clicking the remote - heh) and spend the rest of the day cozied up in my chair working on something with yarn.

But I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I made pork chops and rice in the slow cooker, and in another slow cooker is bread pudding with Dulce de Leche. (Winter still has a vice grip on my recipe book *and* the Northland, it would appear.)

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Crafty

I poked my head into the broom closet for whatever reason the other day and noticed a huge stash of plastic grocery bags stuffed into the back corner.

And thus a project was born.

I found directions for making Plarn (plastic yarn). File that under “Internet wormhole” because wow. Plarn construction involves a whole damn bunch of folding and cutting plastic grocery bags from Stuff-Mart. I have broken blisters on my fingers from cutting plastic bags into strips.

You gotta know that I take crochet a little too seriously when my hands bleed for the craft.

Once I have everything cut, then I loop the strips together to form a long rope and roll it up like yarn. It isn’t difficult, but it is tedious. And is taking far longer than I expected.

My plan is to make “beach bags” or **GASP** “grocery bags” that can be used over and over. The great thing about Plarn is that the beach/grocery bag can be thrown in the washer (with something like towels) and hung to dry. Recycle the recycling.

Anyway. That is my most recent crochet project.

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Playlist: It is a compilation kind of day

A Hundred Miles or More: A Collection (Alison Krauss and various artists)

Anchored in Love: A Tribute to June Carter Cash (various artists)

And still

I am still a flurry of crumpled Puffs Plus Lotion and ChapStick and Lycall and borrowed (XXL) sweaters and oversized slippers and heating pads and hand sanitizer and decontaminating/washing All The Things.

Gawdamn. I hate the tail end of colds. You know, the kind of Just Sorta Sick that hangs around after Officially Sick exits stage left? Just Sorta Sick makes you sneeze for no apparent reason. Cough unexpectedly while trying to have a phone conversation. Hovers around the top of your head, threatening headache but then dumps a metric shit-ton of snot into just your left sinus. Then walks away.

Just Sorta Sick is an asshole.

It has been a week. A week. And I’m still not 100%.

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Smoke has officially forgiven me for the trip to the vet the other day. My bank account, on the other hand, is all kinds of pissed off. It wasn’t terribly expensive. In fact, I was expecting much worse. I just wasn’t prepared to deal with an additional expense right now. Which begs improvement of my financial planning skills, such as they are.

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I need a job. Or a hobby that makes money.

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Playlist: Classical Chill station on iTunes

Not gonna happen

On Sunday night, I was happily sitting in my chair, working through a particularly difficult spot in a crochet pattern, when the oldest of the five cats currently on the homestead horked up his supper on the dog’s bed, looked at me as if to say What? and sauntered away. Groaning, I set aside my work knowing I’d have to start over since I’d lost my place in the pattern, and went in search of paper towels. Damn cats.

I was thinking about how I’d have to get the foam sponge out of the liner on the dog’s bed so I could wash it and what a pain in the ass all of that is when I crouched down, paper towels in hand and got eye to eye, as it were, with the mess. And. It. Fucking. Moved.

I had to get Chad to clean it up because Christ on a Crutch there was no way I was getting within 20 feet of that…that…worm? It was long, white, flat, wriggling and about 10 steps beyond a line I’ve drawn regarding Disgusting Animal Scenarios I will not cross including things like blood-swollen woodticks attached to dog necks and half eaten headless birds brought as offering to my back porch door.

We’ve had cats on the farm since we moved out here and I do very little to maintain them except offer food and occasional shelter when the temperature threatens life and limb. I like when LT sleeps on my feet at night and I like how Olive occasionally attacks my boots while I try to write while sitting at the kitchen counter. I like cats, occasionally. Much the same, I’m sure, as how they feel about me. Except I do not barf up alien creatures and then casually walk away expecting the cats to clean it up.

So that incident prompted the adventure Smoke and I had yesterday.

After consulting Dr. Google first thing in the morning, I confirmed my research with our Veterinarian: worms. Probably tape. Medicine required - probably for all.

Ok. Fine.

And since I had her on the phone (and had to make a trip to town to pick up the meds anyway), I managed to snatch up a 4:20 (heh) appointment to get Smoke’s vaccinations updated. How efficient I can be! Smoke likes going places with me and when he sees his leash he’ll be all kinds of excited to go to town.

And he was.

Until I opened the door of the Vet Clinic. He got one whiff and put the brakes on. Hard.

If you’ve ever tried to wrangle a dog who is 100-plus-pounds of muscle and claw, it isn’t a simple task even when he is happy to comply. So make it even more complicated by scaring him out of his mind, adding some ice and snow to the parking lot and sidewalk, and trying to get him to go to the same location where he left his testicles.

It took three of us. One to hold open the door. One to pull on the leash. And me. I had the lovely job of hunching over him, lifting up his back legs, and pushing him into the Clinic, Smoke’s front legs still in full lock down, braking for all he was worth. It was a 10 minute battle of desperation and anguish. And I’m sure Smoke wasn’t happy either. Of course, this is on one of the busier streets in town.

Good times.

I think it took longer to get him into the Clinic than it did for the Vet to get him his shots and back to the rig. No need for any more trauma than had already been.

I drove home, each of us suffering our own versions of PTSD in silence.

Smoke finally acknowledged my existence again when I started making noises about going for a walk this morning.

That deworming medicine had better effing work.

Playlist: paused.