Tag Archives: seeds

Your Honesty Shine Shine Shine

Posted by Tata on

Recently, we in Central Jersey had a notable earthquake. I say notable because to the best of my knowledge, I had never noticed an earthquake in my entire life. To be completely honest, I thought my washing machine, which I’d just started, was destroying itself in some particularly ostentatious manner and wanted me to know all about it, by which I mean the whole house shook and violent noise crowded out reason. My cats went flying. I have a blind cat. She seldom flies. I called my neighbor Andie. We met and she accompanied me to find out what evil possessed my washing machine. In the basement, we found a washing machine with a very innocent look on its face agitating in a very normal manner. My mind went blank, but Andie was already on Facebook, and people were talking. I still thought explosion. I live in New Jersey. Things explode all the time. Anyhoo, she called me a bit later and told me it was an earthquake, and we should expect aftershocks. It was at this moment I realized my irrational fear of earthquakes might actually be rational, and I did not see that coming.

My relationship with numbers is fraught. You think 12 and know what 12 means. I think 12 and wonder if 11 and 13 seem a little like they’re wearing yellow with brown shoes. Don’t do that! In fact, don’t wear colors you’ve ever seen in a diaper. If you’ve never changed a diaper, you might be surprised about the range in that color palette, and oh boy! Don’t stand next to me in the paint store.

Back to confusing numbers: this month marks 20 years since Paulie Gonzalez demanded I start blogging and created this website. I can’t believe Poor Impulse Control is almost old enough to drink, but I’m sure it’s been sneaking out with its friends to get fake IDs. I mean, who wouldn’t? If I were 20, I’d be giving it the old college try. And speaking of college, I retired from the unnamed university almost 2 years ago. I continue to run out of day before I run out of things I plan to do, but I 100% can’t figure that out. How the fuck can there be that much to do every day? Are days too short somehow?

Thing is: I wake up every day now happy. I don’t have to deal with a malignant narcissist trying to change what words mean, and I’ve let all that go. I wake up each day knowing I can study for classes I enjoy, hang out with my cats and plan fantastic dinners with Pete. My dean informed that if I’m not careful, I might accidentally get a college degree, but first I have to pass 3 semesters of Latin. So this summer, I’m going to try taking 2 summer classes in Latin and 1 in the fall. That’s a lot of numbers. I have no idea what they mean.

Yesterday, I started planting my garden. It’s early. In this zone, we’re not supposed to plant before Mothers Day, but my instinct for some years now has been to plant a month earlier. About 3 weeks ago, I felt restless and bought seeds at the local co-op, like a stupid amount of seeds, like $90 worth. It was ridiculous, but y’know. You might need a metric boatload of seeds. Yesterday, I planted beets. Today, I planted mesclun, spinach and other stuff. Tomorrow, I might go completely mad and plant potatoes.

Oh yes. Potatoes. In containers! See if I do not! Spring is here, and another year of my nonsense begins.

As I Waved And Went

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The Urban Dictionary defines Seedbombing as:

when an individual or group who throws, shoots, or slingshots pellets of dirt filled with seeds, often into empty or abandoned lots; usually part of an urban renewal project or event

Larry: Let’s throw an awesome event where we eat, drink, and mingle in between seedbombing expeditions around the neighborhood!

Jim: Cool! Let’s go buy some seed pellets and slingshots!

Previously on Poor Impulse Control:

We dismantled Dad’s kitchen and I ended up with a bigass container of dried black beans; by bigass, I mean a 7-quart Sysco restaurant container, and by beans, I mean of indeterminate age and/or magical power. For many long months, I stared at this container and waited for inspiration, which means breath of the gods and there’s just not enough Gas-Ex, thank you. One day, a plan came to me. Pete laughed out loud, uncertain I’d do it. Two nights ago, we filled a quart bag with beans and went for a walk. The plan:

1. On a rainy night, fling beans near chain link fences everywhere.
2. Wait.
3. Watch out for falling giants.

The possible results:
1. Planting.
2. Composting.
3. Feeding outdoor critters.

We enjoyed furtively peppering lawns, alleys, empty planters and scrubby gardens with prospective beanstalks, which process became more entertaining the closer we walked to the center of town and spectators. No one asked us what we were doing. No one said, “You’ve literally beaned me.” No. People watched as Pete and I walked by and I exhorted our little legumes to grow toward the sun, be free, be free! This public art project memorializing my father is called the Beany Benediction.

No cows will be harmed in the making of it.

Not to mention this and this and that. Essentially, seedbombing is one of my favorite things and recently, a thing happened.

Ammo, art supplies or weapon of vengeance, but also seeds.

Ammo, art supplies or weapon of vengeance, but also seeds.

Two of my dear friends are retiring, packing up and moving out. They offered me their seeds. I was kind of heartbroken for them, being without a garden for the year or two in which they assemble their new life, but they are joyful. My friends brought me four approximately shoebox-size containers filled with carefully alphabetized and labeled seed envelopes. I started feeling like I’d taken decongestants in a room full of black light posters.

Last Saturday, I sat down with the boxes and discovered my friends had brought me a problem and a solution. More than half of the envelopes were dated three years or older. Once I’d pulled out envelopes for 2011 or earlier and poured the outdated seeds into five pint containers, the project of plantable seeds looked much more manageable.

Yesterday would have been my dad’s 74th birthday and, over the weekend, my youngest sister Dara had her first child, a little boy. For the past three days, I’ve been flinging seeds everywhere while I waited for someone to stop me or say anything at all. No one does.

Everyone fears a random giant.