(Don't) Bring me a Shrubbery

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIV4poUZAQo&feature=fvw

The view from the front porch (pre-shrub massacre)

The view from the front porch (post-shrub massacre)

I've wanted to get rid of the shrubbery at the front of our house since we bought this place ten years ago. Their upkeep is a ton of work with little enjoyment in return. Our 80 year old neighbor, Mrs. "Smith," has also wanted us to get rid of the bushes.  I keep telling her that Obama already did that.  Anyway, when Mrs. Smith gets the chance, she reminds us about when the previous owner’s wife planted those dang things (she doesn’t use the word "dang;" but it’s implied). Mrs. Smith has a hard enough time getting her van in and out of her driveway all on her own...then you add numerous blind spots tucked into those hedges and even her cataract glasses can't help her maneuver her vehicle out into the street.

So what have we been waiting for? The winning lottery ticket? “Curb Appeal: The Block” to show up in our front yard? A run-away MARTA bus to plow through the bank of shrubs? Any one of those choices would be quite acceptable, but the truth is, we just could never decide what to put in their place. A retaining wall? Rocks and plantings? A terrace? Okay, enough with all the question marks. We still don’t know what the heck is going to replace the shrubs. But like all good girls in Decatur, we just had the chainsaw sharpened and were looking for a reason to use it. As Doc. B. stared in her own version of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, other Decatur girls drove by pumping their fists, whistling and giving the thumbs up sign. Wait, I was at work while Doc. B. took on this task, so I guess I just made up that last part – I bet it did happen though.

I was so happy when I pulled into the driveway and saw what had been accomplished. I got right out there with my camera so that I could document the monumental moment. While I was out there, a neighbor commented on how Doc. B. was wielding that chainsaw – so see, I guess I was right about the pumping of fists. I can’t wait to start dreaming about what we’ll make of that space. In the meantime, there’s a stack of shrubbery in our backyard in case anyone needs to get past the Knights who say Nee.

Giving up the Paper

The Olympic gold medal men’s hockey game is on in the background as I re-type this (I’ve already lost it once in blogger – NEVER type in blogger, ALWAYS type in Word and then copy and paste it to blogger – you’ll save yourself some major headaches). Canada is tied with US at the moment. Wouldn’t it be nice to see the United States men out on the ice after the game…celebrating with cigars, PBR and champagne? I’m keeping my fingers crossed but it’s a bit difficult to type that way.

I spent the last hour taking the final few steps to rid my life of paper…I’m transferring birthdays and anniversaries from my pleather-bound calendar to a free iPhone application I just downloaded. This is a major step in my life and included passing on one of my annual traditions: going to the Office Depot to carefully pick out a weekly-tabbed Day Runner with a yearly overview, address book, birthday reminder sheet and a list of international holidays. I tried this "getting rid of paper" thing once before in my life and swore I would never put all of my chickens in the same coop ever again. At least as long as I knew darned well that there was a raccoon around that could take them all down in one bite. Back in the 90’s I converted my life to a Palm Pilot – what a mistake since God was clearly not my Palm Co-Pilot. I promptly lost everything when it crashed, rolled and burned – nothing, not even my grandmother’s address and phone number, was pulled out alive.

Of course I won’t be able to completely give up on paper for a few reasons:

1. My writing utensil fetish. I love a good pen or pencil. Anything from a Sharpie to a fountain pen. My favorite is a black flair felt tip since that’s what my Dad always used at work and to draw his famous dog. I guess a Sharpie is my second favorite since Dad always has one in his pocket (right next to the box-cutters and rubber band wallet).

2. My attachment to mail. I love receiving cards. I’ll sift through all of the junk mail with no problems if I think that mailbox has a card in it. Hanukkah, Kwanza, Valentine’s, Confederate Memorial Holiday, I don’t care. Just send me a card with some handwriting in it. And heaven help our crazy mail lady if it’s my birthday and she decides to skip our mailbox just because a car is parked in front of it. I’ll chase her down like a dog.

3. Clippings from mom. Life would not be the same if I didn’t receive articles from the Ad-Visor, Marshall Evening Chronicle or Battle Creek News that were lovingly cut with left-handed pinking shears. Sure, I can read the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and Atlanta Urinal and Constipation on my iPhone, but it’s not the same as receiving an article from mom that she thought I would like.

4. My love of lines. I can’t live without graph paper, journals, diaries, legal pads, composition books, and post-it notes. I love to write, with a cool pen, on paper.

So, we’re in overtime now in the Olympic hockey game. Guess I’ll watch it so that I don’t have to read about it tomorrow in the paper…

Silence of the Chicken

How are you doing on those resolutions? Does your list fill a legal pad or did you simply type it into the "notes" application on your iPhone? I was tempted by the latter but I still can’t bring myself to completely give up paper. Perhaps I’ll add that to my resolution list, "consider giving up all paper except toilet and wrapping." Actually, I prefer gift bags so maybe I can even give up wrapping paper. Did you post your resolutions on Facebook for all to see or are you keeping them private? I think you’ve got to put your resolutions out there in the public domain or you won’t stick to them. Of course I won’t be putting mine out there, but everyone else should. Does your list include at least one item related to weight, nutrition, or how much alcohol you will or will not allow yourself to drink each day? Mine has at least 17 such entries. Okay, I’m exaggerating, it only has 15. One thing I’m thinking about for the New Year is whether or not I want to continue to be chicken godmother to the brood next door when their owner is gone. Up until the other night (for my Yankee readers, it’s okay to double up on your prepositions – "up under" is actually my favorite), I hadn’t given it a thought. Why wouldn’t I? What’s so hard about it? The hens put themselves to bed each night, I collect the eggs and close them up in the coop for the night, then I let them out in the morning…right after I eat the scrambled product of their immaculate inconceptions (yes, I created that last word – seems like it should be in the dictionary doesn’t it?). Well, Wednesday night was different. It was a cold, rainy, blue-moonless evening. I put on the crappiest pair of tennis shoes I could find and trudged myself next door to close up the chickens for the night. With the flashlight, I waded through the mud and chicken poop to do my usual peek into the coop to count off the four hens. The hay on the floor of the coop was all in disarray. My heart stopped as I listened to myself say "oh shit" over and over again as I realized that two of them were missing. Then I noticed that one of the coop windows had been broken out from the inside…a struggle of some sort had obviously ensued. In the pouring rain, I searched the entire mucky backyard without success. There was nothing more I could do that evening. With my blood pressure at its highest since Kanye dissed Taylor at the VMA’s, I went back to the house and poured myself a shot of leftover Christmas whiskey (doesn’t everyone have that tradition?). The next morning, in the light of day, I pretended I was Brenda on "The Closer" and went back over to survey the crime scene. Sure enough, one chicken was ready for chalk outlining. But where was the other one? I couldn’t find it. Perhaps Buffalo Bill had killed one and decided to keep the other for himself? I could only hope that Agent Clarice Starling was already on his trail. It was New Year’s Eve morning, and I really had to get to work soon or I’d end up having to stay there late to get my hours in. I went back home still conflicted about what to do with the deceased chicken. After several thoughts of asking Doc. B. to take care of it, I sucked it up, grabbed some plastic bags, and decided that since it was trash day, I better just deal with it. Thank goodness I did because synchronicity prevailed. As I walked next door, there in the front yard was the missing chicken. It had gotten out of the fenced back yard (flown the coop?) in order to save itself from whatever got its sister. Now all I had to do was catch her. For what seemed like hours (but I’m sure it was only about a minute), I ran around (insert bad pun) like a chicken with my head cut off until I caught the hen and got her into the back yard. I won’t go into details, but I then “took care of” the departed chicken, washed my hands about a thousand times and got myself to work by 8:15. All I know after this incident is that I don’t want to be a farmer. Even though farming is in my blood, it must get regularly filtered out by the desk job that’s in my heart. In the meantime, I’m still deciding if Chicken Godmother will be a role I continue this year. I probably will. That is if another chicken (or the hamster I’m also in charge of) doesn’t croak on the remaining two days of my watch. I wish you all peace, love and low blood pressure in 2010.