Maters

These tomatoes are impressive even to people in Phoenix who have become jaded by the abundance of glimmering produce in every store. Even the post office here is knee-deep in fat squashes and glowing raspberries the size of golf balls and big-hipped artichokes that beg to be taken home and steamed.

And these tomatoes, grown by my sister, hail from humble little Indiana. She is one ridiculously good gardener. Except for one little slip-up this year: She planted pumpkin seeds with her 5-year-old granddaughter, and what came up were watermelons. ALL. OVER. THE. GARDEN. Taking over like a gang of crocodiles.

She has to pick one of her cucumbers the size of a battering ram to whack them over the head with.

It Looks Like Love To Me

A few months ago I wrote a post about Jinks and Beulah, two residents of Shiny Meadows who have been married since the trees that were eventually chopped down to build the Ark were seedlings.

My sister took this photo of them today.

He Had To Have Her

One of the reasons it's taking me SO long to pack stuff is that I'm going through every single one of the boxes I've been dragging along with me through the past FOUR moves, in an attempt to purge.

Today, I'm shredding old student papers. I glanced over the first page of one, and had to share the opening with you. This is from an introductory fiction writing class, circa 1999.

She was easily one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Her vibrant black hair glowed like a quiet creek. Her skin was the perfect shade of honey brown. Her eyes sparkled like the shimmering chandeliers that grace Buckingham Palace. And her body --ooh her body-- curved flawlessly from head to toe.

Although I had been in a similar predicament before, the feeling of nausea still felt fresh. Anxiety trampled through my tender veins as fear swept across my flesh like bugs scatter when the lights are turned on. I freaked like a stereotypical suburban school girl: "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!"

I know she felt it. I know she felt my eyes. I looked at her like Oprah looks at a fresh piece of fried chicken. God I wanted her. But could I have her?

Now an update. In little groups. Of three words.

Moving across country.

Two weeks away.

Closer to family.

Feelings are mixed.

Leaving beautiful house.

Leaving delicious winters.

And ridiculous summers.

Packing boxes constantly.

Too much stuff.

Still attempting downsizing.

Realtors bringing people.

Not enough people.

Market really sucks.

We pray lots.

Stress points: VOLCANIC.

Another update soon.

Maybe a haiku.

They Had To Be Stopped

In our backyard, there is a palm tree.
In the palm tree resides a community of pigeons, numbering around 13.

We have been tolerant. We have put up with the feathers floating on the surface of the pool water, and the buoyant shit-splats that look like chewed gum bumping into us when we swim. NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES WE CLEAN THE POOL WITH THE BIG BUTTERFLY NET.

Lately, it has gotten ridiculous. Not only have the pigeons been screwing as much as frat boys claim they are screwing, but their feces output has been almost otherworldly. Between all the screwing and the dropping of pigeon logs, you'd think the pigeons would be svelte and thin. No. They're all getting as big and bulbous as turkeys and taking on a welfare mentality.

Guess what? Today, we hired a guy to give our palm tree a most severe trimming. Picture Amy Winehouse's big ratty bouffant sliced down to a Marine-approved burr cut.

Take that, you shitting machines. You, who deposited so many layers of shit on the branches of our palm tree that the shit-chunks would finally launch downward from their own weight, falling like shit-baseballs onto our lawn, and then bursting into even more unsightly shit-pancakes.

Scott and I came outside this evening to see all of you confused like the morons you are, sitting dejectedly on our neighbor's roof. How triumphant we were. Scott doing a little dance and saying "Take that, bitches!" It was a day where we said "Take that" a lot.

I took photos of you in your exile. We laughed as we walked into the house. I downloaded the photos onto the computer and decided to go take more.



The neighbor's roof was empty.

You were all back in our tree, jockeying for position and trying to perch your fat asses on branches no longer than cigarettes.

I was a bit sorry that I decided to relay this information to Scott. It might have been better if I hadn't seen him burst out the back door and then go ballistic with the garden hose, snapping it like a whip and pinching the stream with his fingers so he could blast you out of the tree. While gritting his teeth and telling you what shitting bitches you are. This is what happens when you go back for more pictures.

I Know...How Could I Possibly Get Rid of This???

I'm purging again. And this time it's serious. I started the process (this one) about a year and a half ago. It continues. The goal is to cut my possessions by half.

I am EVEN giving up my Pablo Cruise girlie tank top. Acquired that night in 1979 when I met them in person and got my picture taken on various pop-rock laps. They were crazy, I tellya. Get this: the lead singer skateboarded onto the stage. Take THAT, Ozzy Osbourne! You and your silly chomping on bats.