This Blog is Like a Box of Chocolates

... and I bet you wish you knew what you were gonna get

LAWN ADVENTURES PART DEUX

My other half (the lawn-mowing, trash-toting, oil-changing half) is still in Nevada, so I'm still in charge of the outdoor portions of home. Nevada is the middle of nowhere. More on that later.

Unfortunately grass continues to grow after you cut it once. San Diego has also been quite rainy. Which (thank you, First Grade) makes grass grow faster. I've been avoiding it all, but today Jon called and let me know that he would be leaving a week earlier and gone a week longer on the next work-up than previously planned.

Since 'The Navy' is unlisted in the phone book, I attacked the lawn.

Well I tried.

I located the weed wacker and successfully turned it on for... 20 seconds. I think it needs more line. I don't know why it stopped. Henry walked outside as I was heading towards the lawnmower, my Plan B. "I'm a lawn guru," I told him out loud.

strut. strut.

I turned it on and started to push towards the grass when a BIG lizard ran out from underneath. I screamed and ran away.

('guru' is a loose term.)

I mowed the front but only like three swipes of the back yard.

The overgrown tomato plant got ripped out of the garden and lavender and chives joined the rosemary and romaine lettuce in its place. We'll see about all that. This was successfully done with no breakage or screaming. Except for the lettuce leaves I accidentally broke off. And the plant I inadvertently ripped out with the tomato.

I should stick to housework.

Therin Lies the Problem

When the husband is deployed, even if only for a month-long training, life goes on.
The sugar snap peas grow

The child grows

The grass turns into a Jungle of Amazonian proportions so that indigenous dogs must make pathways through the foliage just to do their business. A Jungle where ladybugs sway on the tops of tall grasses, two feet or more above the ground. A Jungle that rivals the chaos of the tomato garden.


In such a case... where domesticated backyard grows afoul, the temporarily-single, mild-mannered housewife must cry with Lady Macbeth, "Un-sex me!", a cry for the gentle nature of woman to turn hard and masculine in order to complete the work at hand.

(Although, unlike M'lady, I am not going to murder anyone. Just mow the lawn.)

I quoted Mrs. Macbeth as I grunted and sweated, the lawnmower becoming an extension of my arms as I hacked at the overgrown tangle of green. Ladybugs flew away in confusion (Ladybugs, it seems, procrastinate and would not survive any sudden form disaster, as they need the shaking of the grassy stalk they're resting on in order to feel the need to retreat.), weeds screamed as they were mown down, Nate screamed as he sat in his chair, frightened by the roar of the lawnmower (our neighbor came over and rescued him after a bit) (Apparently, temporary men make terrible mothers).

Here is the lawnmower posing with the last of the Jungle, which looks tame compared with the before picture above.

After finally mastering the Jungle, I quickly threw Shakespeare away and turned straight back into a woman, desperate for a shower and some chocolate.

"Woman, King of the Jungle", sponsored by the Navy and coming soon to a deployment near you.

Best. Costume. Ever.

Three years from now, expect to see Nate in this... with brown hair, for Pete's sake.

One Quarter Irish

But he's got his Irish great-grandmother's blue eyes.

The Mailman

My son has blue eyes and...sigh... light hair. I can't type "blonde". I can't. It's light brown. At the nail salon the other day, the Vietnamese women fawned over him, asking if he wanted a pedicure, what is name was... if his daddy had blue eyes.

No... his daddy has green/brown eyes... just like me.

What about his blonde hair? Does his daddy have blonde hair?

No... his daddy's hair is brown... like mine.

...oh...

I felt compelled to defend myself.

Our mailman, I explained, is Filipino. So no need to worry there.

But in all seriousness, how did these two:
Make THIS baby:
Good thing he looks like his daddy's baby pictures.


Because the milkman is blonde.

Misuse

Apparently we're not normal.
I left Nathan on top of his blanket and when I returned minutes later, his blanket was on top of him. Impressively, with the correct side up. Misuse of blanket.
Henry rests his head, and his toys in Nathan's seat. Perhaps he's playing house. Misuse of Bumbo.

Most heinous of all, I put my son in a girl's coat to see how it would fit his girl cousin. Misuse of baby. Big time.

Cookware

The place this post is coming from:
The boy child and I both have colds. Mine is merely inconvenient. His is keeping him up and interrupting his ability to eat and BREATHE at the same time. Kind of crucial. He's miserable but he still laughs when we take a walk and he sees Henry, trotting beside the stroller. EVERY time he sees Henry trotting beside the stroller.

The reason for this post:
My ability to surprise even myself with my lack of brains. I tell people that I left my memory in the hospital on September 21, 2010, but really that's just a joke to make folks laugh and distract them from the fact that I am missing brain cells.

On to the post:
Because I desperately want to be a super mom, I make my own baby food, that is, in addition to breast milk (har har).
So today I get back from a successful shopping trip and fire up the stockpot with extra water in the bottom and the steamer basket up top and I steam away. Carrots, plums and pears. I decide to make more carrots, so I throw them in and run out to check the laundry.
*Ominous music*
I need sustenance, so I sit my butt down outside and eat a blood orange, fresh from the market. It is a law of the universe that something bad always has to happen right after a very enjoyable, sunny citrus kind of moment.
As per said law, when I return to my carrots, I am greeted by the smell of burning teflon. The carrots are perfectly steamed. The water is gone. The stockpot is ruined, complete with peeling teflon strips in the bottom. I trash the chemically-altered carrots and banish the pot to the patio.

That should read "BANISH the pot", because I did it with vehemence.

This is the same pot that I had been about to consult Pampered Chef about replacing because it was not wearing well. Now, however, I have ruined it all on my own and any hopes I had of it being replaced are dashed. Banished, rather... to the patio.

In confirmation of my MENSA-less capabilities, in answer to one of tonight's Jeopardy questions referring to a California city, I answered, "Las Vegas".

I live in California.

Dear All-Clad, I would be an excellent candidate for your charity. I would be ever-so grateful if you'd send a stockpot of the STICK variety, as I am permanently done with non-stick, to my address. In return for your kindness, I will be eternally devoted. I would even put a bumper sticker on my car for you or wear Soffe shorts with "All Clad" across the butt.

Even that.