Tag Archives: fire-pit

How To Grow Weeds In Your Own Back Yard


I am delighted to report that my defunct fire-pit/barrel-planter landscaping project is flourishing despite an almost complete lack of enthusiasm, personal interest, concern or care on my part, except for the odd brief confused and frowning contemplation of it, and subsequent picture snapping.  Because it’s pretty hard to describe this in mere words.

I catch a glimpse of it from my kitchen window and think, shit, I should do something about that.  But then I can’t think what, except maybe to destroy it, and really, it’s not hurting anybody, is it?

If anyone would like any pointers on growing unidentifiable (to me) green things in big pots by accident, I am definitely your go-to person.

While you’re thinking about that and wondering which one of us needs the most help, here’s some advice on pillow shopping.  If the plastic bag says “extra firm” you should take that seriously.  The two new replacement pillows for my bed which I brought home yesterday were hard to force into cases, there was so little give to  them. They took on the appearance of over inflated balloons with not a wrinkle to be seen.  No punching was required to get myself propped up in a comfortable position to read, but it was also kind of like placing my head on a slightly squishy rock.  This morning I wondered for a bit if my neck might be broken.  But it was just at some weird angle it’s not used to dealing with and seems to be straightening out as the morning progresses.

It’s been a long time since I’ve said anything about my beautiful, intelligent, astonishingly amazing grandchildren.  Here’s four of them and one large dog. They’re growing like weeds in their own backyard.   
Don’t think because I put them here that they’re less important to me than actual weeds. Sometimes it’s just fun to save the best thing for last.

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Sounds and Smells and Buttons

She is awake, but not yet ready to open her eyes. She hears the magpies on the back lawn where they often choose to have their morning arguments; complaining, scolding, squawking, and then flapping off in mad little bird snits.

She takes a deep breath of the fresh fall air, and detects just the smallest hint of wood smoke, all that remains of last night’s fire pit party next door. No echoes this morning of the teenage shouts and laughter. She imagines all of them blissfully sleeping in.

The clock radio buzzes and blasts out a bar or two of some inane music she can’t identify because her hand is so quick to reach up and silence it. There are more buttons to push, so she rolls out of bed. Computer button, coffee pot button, light switches, button to pull out to turn the shower on.

The shampoo smells like apples, the body wash like cranberries and the bar of soap like peaches. Then she spritzes the tub and tiles with something that smells like oranges. Thank God the coffee still smells like coffee.

There are still more morning buttons to push – the one on her electric toothbrush, the one on her blow dryer, the button on the garage door opener, and the one she can press to start her car if the mood strikes her.

Her hand soap has some kind of yogurt name and comes out foamy from a pump. It smells like summer. Her perfume smells like spider webs when she first puts it on. She knows this is a ridiculous thing to think, but there the thought is anyway. The scent mellows in a minute or two to something like a red door in the sunshine.

Her life is a strange parade of sounds and smells and buttons, she thinks. From habit she has been relatively quiet getting ready, although her husband is out of town for several more days, and she could have been singing at the top of her lungs and dancing on the table if she wanted to. Best not to get into that habit she supposes. Time to leave for work. No button to beam her there and back. But it’s Saturday, and there won’t be much traffic. She can breathe in the vanilla scent of her car deodorizer and push the buttons on the radio. Woot. And all day long she will have in the back of her mind that the next three days she is off.

She thinks it would have been really funny if the Plinky prompt for today had asked her to describe her life using nothing but sounds and smells and buttons. Of course it doesn’t do that, but she decides she will write about those weird things anyway.

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