WordPress, bless its heart, pushed me out of the nest, forcing me to squawk in a new birdsong. Between the better! bright! idiot-simple! publisher and the new laptop, I feel pretty stupid. I haven’t figured out how to name and tag photos yet. This one of Drusy, Queen of Crunchy Paper, is sitting here with its dull file type name and number. Imagine my chagrin!
In other news, the crunchy paper has been vanquished and placed in the recycling bin, as a warning to all the others.
Mercury is in retrograde and even if I did not believe in it, I am living that dream. My laptop turned its back on me, my bicycle clangs, my phone rings and people try talking to me. It is Hell. I want to hide out in my garden but we have carpenter bees and the sentry is trying to kick my ass.
Today would have been my dad’s 75th birthday. You may recall that he died some years back and has been refusing to phone home since. It’s very inconvenient. I’m sure if there’s an afterlife, he’s annoyed and demanding a taller, stickier croque en bouche.
I know I would.
Pete and I left the house this morning, determined to buy little plants at the farm, and to find the feed store out in scenic Hillsborough. Neither of us knows that town well, so we interrupted a young police officer, who seemed convinced that directing traffic around a serious accident on a narrow canal road was more important than pointing codgers to tractor supplies. This worked out okay, but he looked us over and I saw something in his eye that said if I hadn’t been crocheting, he might’ve given directions including a sharp right into the canal.
Portrait of the Artist As A Person Puzzled By Cloudy Cuba Last January
Turns out, we weren’t going to that store. We were going to a different store I had never heard of at the other end of the same rolling avenue. There, I had this conversation with a person who walked around Pete to talk to me:
Crazy-Looking Employee Who Approached Me Because I Look Crazy: Are you finding everything you’re looking for?
Tata: We’re looking for better methods to give our chickens water.
CLEWAMBILC: What method are you currently using?
Tata: A bowl.
Every problem you have ever had has been solved by a million people and at least some of them were really smart. Also: some of them were not smart enough to reach for duct tape. We found that other people trying to hydrate chicken had found plastic bottles, ceramic bowls and metal water silos. Then we found unusual seeds, apt fencing and went home to ask ourselves what had just happened, but now with better ways to give chickens fresh water.
I hope those accident victims were okay.
Strange turn of events: two chickens have joined our flock, and by flock, I mean pride of pussycats. These chickens came from a previous address, where a benefactor had decided they were meat, but residents named the chickens, making them pets. It’s a sentimental distinction. You could have a pig, name it Precious Loveydovey and still look forward to delicious smoky bacon. Many people do. These chickens came here last Sunday and already Pete’s collected four eggs; when he has eight, we will bake a celebratory souffle. I’m thinking it’ll be broccoli.
Our eyes met across an empty coop.
The arrival of the egg-laying chickens has caused us to reevaluate the chore chart at the Handmade House. The hens eat dandelion greens, other weeds and bugs and produce eggs. I have asked the cats what they contribute to the household. I can’t be 100% certain, but I believe they’re secretly updating their resumes.
So, I was pushing through things with my head down – my laptop is dying and I’m saving up for a replacement – when I suddenly realized April is nearly over and Poor Impulse Control is a gangly twelve year old. While I’m relieved that the blog doesn’t need braces, it’s still exasperating. What am I going to do with it? Where should I go now? I’ve given it a whole lot of thought and re-registered with the unnamed university. The application process, the counseling meetings, the phone calls have all offered daily tests of my resolve, and I didn’t know I had that. This has been very damned unnerving and I haven’t started having those naked/missed exam dreams yet.
Smell this!
On the other hand, a twelfth anniversary was worth marking. Faced with the choice between murdering me or setting up a blog so I’d write, Paulie Gonzalez set up Poor Impulse Control and demonstrated tremendous restraint. As thanks, I sent him a lovely port wine from Unionville Vineyards last week and hope he has a serene weekend. Thanks, Paulie, you mad charmer!
With good luck, I should acquire a new laptop pretty soon and posting should be easier, my stories should be lemony fresh and springy. And that’s good because no matter how it whines that all the other blogs have them, I’m not buying the blog heels.
Last week, I looked up and saw nothing but sticks.
Just about any time I’m listening to a radio station, I’m wondering where are all the women who make music. You may wonder, for example, who were the punk rock women and where’s the music. They’re here, in this one unbelievable catalog. And we are fucking lucky to have it.
These are the front yard chives, no relation to the backyard chives. They speak different dialects and don’t get them started on whose ancestors shot whose a thousand years ago. Criminy! Let it go, guys!
Tomorrow, we expect a brief return to wintery weather, followed in the coming days by the breathtaking newness of spring. Already, green is nearly everywhere. I am uncharacteristically hopeful.
My nephew comes to the house once a week to turn over the compost and do little jobs around the garden. I’d seen him walking down our street with an older guy and noted where they stopped, because even though this is a very small town an angry mob needs good directions. My nephew said this older guy is sponsoring him for Christian confirmation, but he, my nephew, is struggling with the concept of faith. His entire family goes to church every Sunday with sincerity and sheet music, so I waited patiently for him to say, “April Fool!”
We looked at each other.
We stood there.
We stood. Suddenly, I remembered I was the grownup, which was a little awkward.
The “African daisy” (Osteospermum app.) a half-hardy perennial native to southern Africa. It comes in many colors and is a popular bedding plant. Photographed at Longwood Gardens.
Photo: Bob Hosh
I said, “Faith is kind of weird. It comes and goes. What matters is what you do.”
He said something much more mature than I am about collecting principles for testimony, but I am not a Christian and these are not my rituals. I know less about this than he does and more than I want to.
I uttered some platitude about how behavior is most important. By this time, I was ushering him to the door, grinning like a jack o’ lantern in a wind storm. I did not say, “Kid, I’m always in your corner. Call me for tattoos and bail money.” He will never need it.
This wood chip plotted its escape from the yard, but did not get far.
Poor Impulse Control 