What Happened to Spring?

I curse this unseasonable weather. I curse global warming. I curse having to sweat and slave over a hot stove just to slap dinner on the table. I curse Gary Lezak for never using my clever phrase "partly moony" on his broadcast. I curse the thought of having to turn on the AC in May. A pox on it all.

Seriously, what happened to the gentle, meandering rites of Spring? Where are the delicately budding jack-in-the-pulpits and jonquils, the lilies of the valley and snow crocuses? Where's the unmistakeable green film of pollen on the hoods of our cars? Where's the eight-day stretch of dreary rainy days? Where's the beef? Ok, I know they were here, but that stupid snap of freezing cold weather turned everything to mush (although I noticed some homes in Mission Hills with still-beautiful tulips. They must pay people to stay awake all night and breathe on them). Our bleeding hearts have bled out, the azaelas are shot, the dogwoods have bought the farm and the naked ladies may never rise. It makes me sick, sick, sick.

However, there may be an upside to it all. Maybe our walnut trees won't grow those pungent green balls that pound our house incessantly and make walking in the grass a navigational nightmare. We've got about seven of those trees and even though I love the shade those stupid nuts are a pain in the nuts. (Crude, I know, but really!). At our old house we bribed Tyler to pick up the walnuts telling him we'd give him a nickel for every one. He pocketed $80.

We also have those trees that spawn helicopters. Not the kind that pull your weave out, but the ones that look like locust wings (remember how deafening those things were last summer?). They're a pain in the neck, too. The cold weather didn't stunt their production. I find them everywhere (almost as bad as Zooey's hair). Thank the Lord that we don't have a cottonwood. I REALLY HATE those things. All those poofy white puffs that float everywhere. Makes me feel like some duck has been caught by a fox.

So, bring back the Spring, Jimmy Dean! And some of your tasty sausages, too.

Zooey, Get Your Gun

So you already know about Zooey, our black lab that sheds like a woolly mammoth. She's a completely loveable dog, but I'm pretty sure she has some issues. Mental acuity issues. When she was a little fur ball puppy, she liked to bark at inanimate objects. One day I was in the bathroom getting ready for work and she was on our bed. All of the sudden she starts barking her ferocious bark, which at the time was little more than a yip. I turned around and she's trained on our ceiling fan, barking like a madman. Once I caught her barking at our fishtank. And a cabinet door that was ajar. She'd been around these things for months, but all of the sudden she now regarded them as suspicious persons. I should have gotten her into therapy then and there. So much pain would have been avoided. Never ignore the warning signs. They're asking for help.

She's kind of grown out of that phase and now only uses her ferocious bark (and it's really bone chilling now) around midnight when Ron's out of town or I'm home alone. She's downstairs, I'm upstairs. Scares the crap out of me every time. Who knows what she's barking at because I'm sure as heck not going down there to see.

I'm really sorry to say this, but even though we'd like to think she's really smart - she's not. She's got this red rubber thing (I think it's called a Kong) and loves it more than anything else in the world, except when Ron gets home and she tricks him into taking her out eighteen times before bedtime. We call this red rubber thing her ball, even though it's not really a ball at all. We say, "Zooey, get your ball" and she's off in a flash. She knows exactly where it is at any given moment of the day. We've taught her how to retrieve it when it goes under a chair or table; she even knows where I've hidden it if company's coming over. Based on this seemingly high IQ, we thought that she could possibly be the next Rin Tin Tin and make us piles of money. However, just to be mean, the other day I said, "Zooey, get your gun" with the same inflection I use when I tell her to get her ball. She zips off and comes back with that red rubber thing in her mouth. Then I decide to further test her intellect - I call her Marty. She runs up to me, sits (we only pet her if she sits) and swishes her otter tail back and forth in 6/8 time. My hopes for my canine sponsored retirement come to a screeching halt. She's not gifted. No AP classes in fetching or drug sniffing for her.

One night I'm going to wake up and she'll be standing over me with a knife, having watched too many episodes of "Wallace and Grommit." I'm going to start locking my bedroom door.

Going Green

I don't know what exactly made me wake up one day with the conviction that I needed to be a more responsible citizen when it comes to caring for our planet. I think it started when Ron went to Alaska a couple of summer ago on a mission trip and brought back pictures of a HUGE iceberg that had markers indicating how much it has receeded in the last decade or so. Or maybe it was the arguments made by the compelling and erudite Mr. Al Gore in "An Inconvenient Truth." Or maybe it was watching "Planet Earth" over the last few weeks. Oh, wait. Now I remember. It was the $300 bill from BP last month. Sadly, it took a painful tweek in the old pocketbook that made me reach my boiling point.

That was before gas hit a stinking $2.86 per gallon. The thought of having to put $45+ in the Kia to fill it up had me reaching for the crazy pills (and no one likes when that happens), so, Ron and I decided to voluntarily subject ourselves to the maddening manipulation and unending numerical vortex of the - dum da da da DAAAAA - the almighty car dealership. We've had four Toyotas over the last 20 years and think they're great cars. We have also been told repeatedly in both mass produced written communications and silky, seductive recorded messages that we are "valued customers." That made us feel really special. Well, after our four-hour experience today I'd like to see how they treat some poor sap who is not a "valued customer."

We decided to trade in our 2004 Kia. Now, we know that Kias are not in the same league as a Lexus or Porsche, and that their resale value is less than stellar. But it was a top of the line model, with leather seats, shiny wood details, side airbags and an engine that starts every time, the first time. And pretty low mileage as mileage goes. On his way out the door to take a look at our car, Bob, our salesman, asked us what we'd like to get for it. FIRST MISTAKE: We had not looked at the blue book value. It's stupidly easy to do. Do your homework.

After poking and prodding the Kia, Bob swaggers back over to us and gives us a figure. I am completely and utterly stunned. "That's really, really low," I said. We could get more for our riding lawnmower. Without wheels. I was hot. Ron told me later that my whole head turned bright red. I HATE when that happens! Ron's just sitting back, with his legs crossed, shrugging his shoulders, looking at me. Ah, I think to myself. I get it. I'm the bad cop today. So I tell our salesman "That's too low, Bob. What's blue book?" I ask. He said, "You mean Kelley's?" I almost said, "No, I want Regis' blue book." So he goes over to this computer that's in the middle of the showroom and has a handwritten sign that says "For Superior Toyota employees ONLY." Like I'd get on it and start writing this post. He starts plugging in stuff and yelling across the room, "Jan, does it have side airbags?" Yes, Burt. I mean, Bob. Get my name right, peehead. Meanwhile, Ron's frantically trying to get Tyler on the phone to have him check the blue book value of our car on our computer. No luck. Bob comes back and asks what we want to get out of it. I'm like, "I don't know. What's blue book on it? That's how much I want" He tells me it's $500 more than what he first offered. Oh, for cryin' out loud. "Not enough." He starts blaming it on the workmanship of the Kia. He blames it what the market will bear. He even blames his hemorroids. Not really. "Now," he claims, "if it were a Toyota it'd be twice that." Blah, blah, blah. Don't really care, Bob. So he goes back into the "Let's pretend we're agonizing over how to make this work" glass box with the finance guys and comes back with $1500 more.

At this point Ron's about to pull a Richard, which is pretty much loudly voicing his low opinion of something, with a liberal sprinkling of obscenities, followed by a grand and attention-getting exit. We point out that this will be our fifth Toyota with this dealership. Then Ron, in a brilliantly executed and flawlessly timed move, plays the "valued customer" card. As if on cue, we both get up to leave. Bob, jumps up, says to wait a minute, he'll see what he can do. Anyway, through my iron will and sheer determination to beat the damn system we finally get $2,500 more than the first offer. At this point I'm pretty proud of myself and thinking I could possibly do this for a living. Until we get home.

Blue book on our Kia was about $1,000 more than what we got (and showed that Bob flat out lied to me, but I guess that's his job. How sad is that?) Ron keeps talking about how good I was and tells me that I kicked butt. I think I should have aimed those kicks at an area in front of the butt.

So what did all of this wrangling get us? A charcoal grey 2007 Prius Hybrid that gets 55 mpg combined city/highway. It's sooooo cool. We're going to save the planet. And BP is gonna go bankrupt without our $300 every month. Ha!

On The Street Where You Live

I love our home. It's 70 years old and has terrific charm and a worn-ness that appeals to my love of old things (funny how my love of old things intensifies the older I get). The hardwood floors kind of creak and groan in certain places; no one will ever sneak up (or down) our bedroom stairs because the aged treads faithfully sound the alarm upon the first footfall. Even Zooey is a bit freaked out about them. Instead of bounding up the stairs like most dogs she kind of walks up like a normal person, but it sounds like she's trying to be all quiet about it. To tell the truth, sometimes I can't tell if it's Tyler or Zooey. I can always tell it's Ron - most of the time he's yelling, "Ja-ne-et, where are you?" or singing in his big booming song voice.

Anyway, we love our house and our neighborhood. It's quiet, the trees are big and the fall leaves are beautiful (until they land in our grass and then we wish we lived in one of those new developments that have seedlings). Each house is unique, not like the cookie cutter sprawl to the south. Especially notable is The House Next Door. Totally could be on HGTV's "What's Up With That House." When we moved in, we had a nice big empty lot next to us. We toyed with the idea of buying it, which, in hindsight, would have been totally worth having to sell Tyler on the black market to pay for it. The first thing our new neighbors did was cut down every tree on the place. So, so sad. The day they cut down the big walnut, our house shook. The windows rattled and the floors shuddered. It was a sad day in the neighborhood. We met the sap-thirsty tree killers when the foundation was being laid and they quite proudly told us that their house was going to be made of concrete. All of it. Foundation, walls - everything. I'm thinking, "Is there a big, bad wolf around here that no one told us about? I'm writing a letter." I know it's Kansas with the whole "it's a twister" from Wizard of Oz, but a house of concrete? A house of wax would have been SO much cooler. As it began to go up, you could see little pockets of neighbors huddled together, pointing and shaking their heads. Several of our neighbors received a letter saying that they were going to be holding church services in the house and that they were Branch Davidians. Yep, the Waco bunch. The house certainly looked like a compound or Hitler's bunker. We later found out that the guy responsible for the inflamatory letter was really, really irked because his shed was on their property and he had to move it six feet. He also snuck over one night before they moved in and turned on their outside faucet. A mean trickster, he is. He's the resident "guy you want to stay away from."

So, we now have a big square gray box, aka Motel 6, next door (but they hardly ever keep the light on for you). Plenty of room for all you guys who want to come for an extended visit, although I'm pretty sure there's no cable tv in every room. It's really butt ugly. It's gray with gray trim. Kind of looks like a house drawn on and Etch-A-Sketch. But, lest you get the impression that this is a totally bland house, let me be quick to point out that they do have a vividly violet colored door. And then there's the BRIGHT lime green accent walls in the kitchen (which we can see only when their blinds are open, which is about .03% of the time). They also have a climbing wall in the kitchen and rings in the living room the that guy gymnasts use.

Our only consolation was the promise of a six foot privacy fence they planned to erect. But the money ran out so the eyesore is still oozing for everyone to see. About a week before they moved in, we quick-like-foxes put up an arbor on the patio and planted wisteria in a vain attempt to obscure the view. Wisteria is such a crazy agressive plant that we're hoping it reaches over to their house and completely overtakes it. Shouldn't take more than a couple of decades.

We've had our share of "interesting" neighbors. On our old block we had a guy next door that we're pretty sure tried to kill his (second) wife by leaving the fireplace gas jet on while she was sleeping on the sofa five inches from the gas source. He was conveniently not home at the time. (The cops made several housecalls at that home.) And the woman who did all the man chores and chewed tobacco. There was also a guy who marked the four corners of his property with little statues of angels. And the old man who looked like Santa Claus and was always sweeping and spraying the street in front of his house and had eight million (at least) really odd ornamental features in his yard. And then there was the nudist. Nicest guy in the world. (His wife, too, although she preferred her body to be clothed.) He had a nudist party at his house once. They put up brown paper over all the windows. I wonder if they put plastic over the chairs and sofas. (Did anyone ever have that plastic slipcover stuff on their sofas? It was in the 60's and it had bumps on it, I think to make it not stick to every millimeter of your skin.) Anyway, Ron only saw him naked once. If he'd only looked a little like, um, I don't know, Taye Diggs or one of those Calvin Klein models (not Kate Moss). But no, he looked more like Barney Fife. Or Hal Holbrook.

So, who lives on your street?

Rev Run & Planet Earth

It's 12:40 a.m. and here I sit. Should be in bed. Should be asleep. But noooooooo. I'm thinking I can be all creative and funny and that millions will laugh themselves silly by the clever and urbane things I come up with. So I'm a little delusional. A bit of grandiose thinking is not bad for the soul. In fact, I think it's a real image booster. However, if I find myself beating a path to Family Tree Nursery to pick up a zillion narcissus bulbs I may have to scale back on the back patting.

I don't watch a lot of MTV. I used to watch Road Rules and Real Life with Kate, but that was a decade or so ago. I'm not much for watching beat up cars being turned into ridiculous vehicles/bedrooms/passion pits/drive-in theaters/soda fountains that are just asking to be stolen, or bratty little 16-year olds who are waaaay too full of themselves and force their daddies to foot the bill for an outrageously expensive party (talk about narcissus bulbs - these lassies grow them out their ears). But the one show I do watch is Run's House. It's hysterical. And not a dirty word to be heard. Rev Run (of Run DMC) is a Rev'run of a church somewhere in Jersey (?) and he's got these five normal kids: Vanessa, Angela, JoJo, Diggie and Russie, and a wife (Justine) who's got the patience of a saint. Last week Rev bet JoJo (17) eight hundred bucks that he'd have a good time hanging out with the old man. Are you kidding me? When she heard about the bet, Justine's eyes didn't pop out of her head, she didn't start bawling Rev out, or stomp around yelling about how utterly stupid and inappropriate it is to bribe your children to hang out with you. Oh wait, that's what I would have done. Anyway, Rev Run plays some bball with the boys and then takes them to Barnes & Noble, where he and JoJo camped out in the Parenting Teens section while Rev tried to get a handle on his oldest son's psyche. JoJo did not have a good time. Finally, they hit the batting cages and JoJo, against his will, cracked a smile. You should check it out. It's on a bunch of times during the week.

Another show that makes me laugh a lot - The Office. I want that theme music as my ringtone. I start bouncing in my chair when it comes on. Can't help it. Seriously. I told Ron that if I heard that music every morning I would literally JUMP out of bed every day. He doubts me. Since he leaves about three hours before my feet hit the floor, he'll probably never know. His loss.

We've been watching the Planet Earth series. Totally fascinating. I don't know how anyone who watches can doubt whether or not there was a Master Planner. The ecosystem is just too bizarre and intricate to think that anyone but God could have orchestrated it. Ron likes to think about God's sense of humor when he was creating things, like this funny bird of paradise that hops around during its mating ritual and has what looks like a bright blue smiley face when it displays its colors for the ladies. Tonight we learned about a five pound cat that lives in Chile. I want a five pound cat. Why haven't they come up with toy breeds of cats anyway? How cute would that be? Later . . .

Beam Me Down

Ok, so I was all jazzed about creating this cool little piece of me on the internet. I emailed Ron at work and told him he had to read it. When he got home, I peppered him with questions. "Did you read it?" "Did you think it was funny?" "Aren't I the coolest thing in Kansas?" All he said was, "You wrote about dog hair? What's that about?" I asked him if he'd ever read a blog and he said, "No." I told him to keep his thoughts to himself and that our friend, Leah, once wrote about how much she got pooped and drooled and thrown up on. That's the beauty of a blog. It doesn't have to make sense, or strike a blow at the world's injustices or be the next "To Kill A Mockingbird." It's about whatever. Whenever. Wherever. So there, Mr. Suck the Joy Out of My Day. (love you)

Last night I was, once again, mesmerized by technology. I was watching "American Idol" (I know more of you watch it than admit it, so no sneering and jeering) and! Lo! and behold! Elvis was singing a duet with Celine Dion (she dropped out of school in/after 8th grade). It was completely freaky. And kinda good. It makes me wonder what else has been hologram-ed (or however they do it) into our lives. Ron thinks the whole moon walk was done on a sound stage in Burbank. I had just gotten him to shut up about that and then he sees Elvis, apparently alive and well on the American Idol stage, but knowing full well that he died in August of 1977. And it was no velvet Elvis that some unseen puppeteer was controlling from a catwalk. It was the white suit, slicked back hair, tanned and healthy 3-D Elvis. I know. I want to get the technology to have famous people in my house so my neighbors will be jealous. I could have dinner with Martin Sheen and the whole cast of "West Wing." Or tour our grounds with, say, Jimmy and Roslyn Carter. Or cruise down our street with the Monkees doing that wacky walk. How fun would that be?

Ron and I ate at a wonderful new restaurant (at least new to us) . . . Mi Ranchita Concina Mexicana. It's in downtown OP, about 80th and Metcalf. We drove past there last weekend and there was a huge crowd outside so we took that to be a good sign. We were right. Great food, nice atmosphere, reasonable prices. When we left around 6:30 there were about twenty people waiting for tables. And it was a Wednesday for cryin' out loud! Watch those chips and salsa though. They just keep bringing them out and before you know it you're chipped to the gills. Check it out.

am I nuts or just have too much time on my hands?

Here I sit . . . no wedding albums to design . . . no zits to zap (on pictures, not me - I've been zit free for a pathetically long time) . . . nothing to do around the house (yep, that's a total lie) and I figure "Why not pretend you're a hipster and create a blog?" Incidentally, I found out that the definition of a hipster (roughly) is someone who sat around in coffee houses in San Francisco in the 60's, drinking Sanka and listening to jazz and thinking thought deep and confusing thoughts. A hippie, on the other hand, lived in a different part of San Francisco, sat around in Golden Gate Park and shared food, love, psychedelics and the idea that money was unncecessary and evil. Source of information: The American Experience, Monday nights on PBS (great show, by the way).

So . . . a blog. Sounds just a little repulsive. Like a blob. Or glob. Whatever. It gives me a venue to rant, rave, vent, theorize, prophesy, howl, poke fun at, endorse - this is no doubt what the founding fathers were thinking of when they included "freedom of speech" in the DOI.

So what to talk about? How about dog hair? We have a cute dog named Zooey. She's a black lab. Therefore, in the springtime, our house resembles a black lab. There's hair everywhere. I'm really not kidding. I find black hair on my stove and I get apoplectic. I find black hair in my dishrag and I jump up and down and fling the dishrag about until it's gone (just means it's landed somewhere else). Piles of her hair congregate in every corner, along every baseboard, places you'd think hair could not travel. It doesn't matter that I take her outside every day (ok, maybe once a week) and brush her like a madman. Birds could build five-story avian condos with the hair I brush off in one trip to the patio salon. Rabbits could feather (hair) their warrens for a year (er, maybe just six months, given how often they breed). If I could figure out a way to turn Zooey's hair into some sort of renewable fuel I'd be a gazillionaire eight times over. Just thinking about it gets my dander up (!) There's some tree (I think it's the ginko) that drops all of its leaves at once. Boom. Done. Leafless. That's what I want Zooey to do. Boom. Done. Hairless. Hmmmm