How do I let myself get talked into this?

Worst band.  Crappiest bar.  Roommate's coworkers.  One extremely toasted friend in absurdly high heels.

At the risk of sounding like Cinderella....

SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Bits I Left Out

Dearest, I was reminded by the Great and Powerful Deb that I had not mentioned one or two tidbits about my weekend of gardening fun.  I am certain that this is a loss that would devastate you, so I shall correct this immediately, pausing only to breathe a word of thanks to the G&P Deb.

Thanks, Deb.

1)  I renamed lasagna gardening.  [I know, I know.  You wouldn't have survived not knowing this. Critical stuff here.]  After the forty-fifth layer of something....organic.  Yes, we'll just call it organic.  After the forty-fifth layer of something organic, I was reminded of another layered character.  At that very moment, I dubbed my activity "Shrek Gardening."  I do recognize that I am opening the door to endless, and annoying, impressions of Donkey, but what to do?  Shrek Gardening was dubbed.

2)  At one point, I looked over at my dog.  All three dogs were keeping me company as I Shrekked away [see, now it's a verb!] and HRH Tuppence Marie had just visited her stylist the previous day.  She was all clean and clipped and fluffy and white.  She lay there, happily sunning herself, enjoying the beautiful fall day, watching birds wing by and gazing up at a cloudless sky...while draped like the Queen of Sheba across my newly created Shrek garden.  I stopped Shrekking to shriek, "That's a FLOWER BED, not a DOG BED!!!!" 

I believe the look I got from her could be accurately interpreted as, "Whatevah."

3)  While I Shrekked away, Roommate helped with the yard work by doing one of her favorite things:  demo.  In yard terms, that means pruning some hapless tree or shrub within an inch of its life.  I didn't realize that while doing so, Roommate's gardening attire behaved poorly.  Her jeans had gotten too loose and wanted to slip downward.  Her shirt kept riding up in back.  If I had been paying attention, I might have noticed these minor wardrobe malfunctions and therefore not been surprised by Roommate's statement:

"I bet you're glad I put on underwear!"

I know.  It was an absolute General Foods International Coffee moment.  What else could I do but celebrate that moment in our lives?

Gardening.  It's pretty awesome.  ALmost as good as underwear.

How I Spent My Weekend

So I found a book at my local thrift store entitled "Lasagna Gardening." Surprisingly, this isn't a book that instructs on how to plant lasagnas, pan and all, nor is it a garden for growing the products needed for lasagna. This is a profound relief to me, as I've heard the mozzerella plant is an absolute bear to grow.

 No, this a book on a particular gardening technique. 

The idea is, instead of digging and tilling and plowing and amending, organic matter is simply layered on top of sod. Or craptastic soil.  Or dead bodies--no, no.  Wait.  That's a different book.  One is to create layers of this stuff like layers of lasagna.

Ahhh!  Clever, huh?

Not the cheapest gardening technique on the planet, I don't mind telling you.  On the last run to the home improvement store, I dropped a C-note on this crap.  Literally.  Steer manure.  Chicken manure.  Compost.  And a small mountain of peat moss.  Roommate was thrilled to have this in her car. Thrilled.

Because she has a hatchback with foldy seats, that's why. Volvo couldn't have carried nearly as much crap.

Heh.

Anyway, between the stuff I got on Saturday and the other organic ickiness I'd picked up the day before, I managed to lasagna three-quarters of the ugly fence line and one of the four raised bed areas.

And no, the last one is NOT a shallow grave.  Silly!  I would never do such a thing!

Heh.

Another Return

Yes, it's that time of year.  Actually, it's not quite that time of year yet, but since the first day of fall happened over the weekend, I decided to do a surprise Soup Day.  That's why I made the sign.

I showed the sign to X-ray Andy, whom I adore, darling little cueball that he is, and he exclaimed, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Well.  Because it was a surprise Soup Day.  Hence the sign.

Fortunately, Andy is more than just a pretty face and he put the pieces together quickly.  I adore Andy.

The soups are nothing special or even particularly good, but it's been a long and soupless summer, so I'm hoping I get a pass. 

The cookies turned out well, though.  New recipe, called Butter Bars, though with the melted colored sugar on the top I felt they should be called Brulee Butter Bars.  I wanted to bring in cookies, but didn't want to shape the dough, put the cookie sheet in the oven, shape the next batch, trade out the cookie--snnnnnnnnnnn.

What?  Oh, sorry.  Even I fell asleep on that one.

Soup Day has returned.  Let the rejoicing begin.

A Cure For Gravity

<p>I'm so tired of gravity!  If only there was something, <i>something</i> in this world to correct my posture and lift my sagging bustline! Something that would help me sit up straight at my desk while being super stretchy and comfortable, with just a soupçon of lace, to make me feel pretty.  Oh, oh, and can it self-adjust for periodic changes, too?

Ah.  An answer to a maiden's prayer.

Computer Woes

My computers hate me.  Don't look at me like that, it's true.

See, I had plans for this weekend.  Computer related plans.  There was going to be writing on my blog (and therefore conversation with you, my lovely) and work on my horribly neglected work-in-progress and possibly, just possibly, forays into my next WIP.  I told Barnabas all of this.

Hm?  Oh, Barnabas Pimm.  My netbook.  Yes, I named my netbook.  No, it isn't weird.  No, it isn't.  Listen, do you want to hear this or not?

Thank you.

So I told Barnabas this, and reassured him that he would remain plugged in for all of it, as his battery is dying.  Or giving up the goat, as Roommate's mom would say.  And everything was fine until the power cable was bumped by a passing beagle.  Then suddenly, Barnabas was no more. 

Was it death by battery implosion?  Power cable failure?  Both?  A hideous plot by invading alien life forms? All three?  I do not know, and none of my geek friends have called me back.  I had to stride forward and find other solutions.

And stride I did.  I set up the desktop computer that had been languishing in Roommate's room for over a year.  Despite the acres of dust and miles of cords, I put it all together and booted it up, only to discover that the computer's ability to recognize the cable modem had disappeared.

Now I have no Barnabas, nor do I have access via internet to retrieve work stored on Barnabas and other places.  You know.  There.  The cloud.  Whatever. 

All I have left is my phone.  And wow, did I just say that and doom this poor phone??

I'm going to bed.  Wake me when technology is easier.

Goat? What goat?

Yard sales.  You either love them or hate them, right?

I love and hate them.

No, really, I do.  I love going to yard sales, garage sales, rummage sales, flea markets.  I love digging around in piles of stuff, searching for treasure.  I love finding that unbelievable deal, because someone is sick of his or her own clutter.  I love looking at what one of aunts calls "used crap." 

Seriously, she does.  She also calls antiques used crap.  Several years ago, she, my uncle and my cousin took me to a nearby town known for its antique stores and let me run wild for the day.  My aunt was ever so helpful, too.  She'd point at a store and say, "Oh, there's some more used crap we haven't looked at, over there!" A pip, she is.  An absolute pip.

Anyway.  While I love going to yard sales, I am pretty much sick and freaking tired of putting on yard sales.  Okay, yes, Roommate does do most of the work, but I get dragooned into a boatload of work I did not want to do in the first place.  Which begs the question; has Roommate forgotten what an essentially lazy creature I am?  I am beginning to fear this is the case.

Roommate's heart is in the right place, though, bless her.  The yard sale proceeds go to support breast cancer research and treatment for people who cannot afford care.  Any leftover items at the end of the yard sale is donated to Goodwill or the Salvation Army or Value Village.  And when she heard about shortages in Seattle Food Banks, she added a canned food drive to this sale; anyone who brought a canned food item to the sale to donate would get a free baked good.

Guess who baked the goods?

Roommate was quick to point out that "we" baked the shortbread, the chocolate chip cookies and the four loaves of banana bread the night before, because she HELPED with the baking.  Which is true.  She did help.  She pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven and slid another sheet I'd loaded with unbaked cookies into the oven.  Really, it was tremendous.  Based on this criteria, Roommate's mom chimed in that she, too, helped with the baking, since she pulled out two of the loaves of banana bread.  Now that I think of it, I have no idea why I was even in the kitchen. 

Despite my utter exhaustion afterward, the sale was a success.  Roommate and her mom worked very hard to make it so and I walked around, trying to talk people into buying more used crap than they ever wanted.  And after it was all said and done, the rest of the used crap was donated and is no longer in my basement.  It just doesn't get much better than that.

No, wait.  It does.  The best moment of the whole weekend happened when Roommate's mother made reference to an object that finally broke after a long period of ownership and use.  "It finally gave up the goat," she reported to Roommate.

I stopped unpacking a bin of glassware onto the folding table to turn and stare at her.  "What did it give up?" I asked.

"It gave up the goat," Roommate's mom repeated.  "Haven't you ever heard that saying?  That means it died."

The ten minutes it took me to stop laughing and explain the origin of something giving up the ghost was the absolute best moment of the whole three days.  It almost made the work worth it.

Almost.

Sigh.  It's done.  I'm done in.  I'd better get to bed now, as I feel like I'm about to give up the goat.

Snicker.