After working hard outside all evening, Brian takes a shower and gets changed. He's wearing athletic, basketball-playing-in type of shorts. Upon seeing him in the kitchen, this exchange occurred.
Lisa: Are your pants on backwards?
Brian: No! Why would you say that? (Said in a weird sort of overly defensive tone.)
Lisa: No that's not it...they're on inside out!
Brian: No they're not! They're REVERSIBLE. (Again, really emphatic and offended.)
Lisa: Are you sure? Alright, whatever.
Then I get to looking a little and I'm puzzled.
Lisa: If they're reversible why are there tags on the outside, and why wouldn't they sew the seams a little differently, and...
Brian: (Interrupting me) It's really bothering you isn't it? Fine, I'll put them on the other way. (Proceeds to change the shorts in the kitchen, which probably isn't sanitary but probably was enjoyed by the neighbors.)
After a brief, silent moment, we make eye contact:
Lisa: The shorts weren't reversible were they? You just didn't realize they were on inside out.
Brian: (Smiles sheepishly and bustles out of the room.)
I'm still a little puzzled about the defensive nature that Brian assumed and the immediate fabrication about reversible shorts. Who says men aren't sensitive?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
To Everyone who Rejected My Pizza
(Original Myspace Post Date: June 23, 2007)
Friday night Brian and I decided to enjoy a quiet night at home. Instead of going out to eat, we began working on home-made pizza. Mmmm....my favorite. It takes a long time but it's so much fun and I even have a special pizza making song that Brian and I sing together while working. (I know that sounds dorky, but I actually have quite a few "special" songs I sing around the house.)
1. Dan calls. They're not doing anything. I say, "come on over, we're making pizza!" Naw, he can't come over. He has to mow his grampa's lawn. Sounds like a lame excuse to me.
2. We call Brian's parents to chat about something. I yell at Brian, "tell them to come over for supper. We're making pizza!" I don't even think they entertained the notion. We clearly said it wouldn't be ready for at least two hours giving them plenty of time to get here. Rejection. (To their credit, they live two hours from our house. Still, how often do I invite them for supper?)
3. My mom calls. I say, "Come on over. We're making pizza!" She says thanks, but they're just too tired. I'M OFFERING TO GIVE THEM SUPPER! So I tell her that she is now the third person to reject our pizza. My own mother who bore me from her loins! She turns to my dad and says, "Lisa asked if we want to come over for pizza." I here his low, gruff, voice in the background go, "NOOO000ooo," as if I had asked if they wanted to join us at a Metallica concert. Thus making four people to reject my pizza. (Fine, to their credit, they had just arrived home from Minnesota about a half hour before calling.)
So Brian and I ate our pizza...alone. And it was really good! But am I hurt? Well, just a little.
Friday night Brian and I decided to enjoy a quiet night at home. Instead of going out to eat, we began working on home-made pizza. Mmmm....my favorite. It takes a long time but it's so much fun and I even have a special pizza making song that Brian and I sing together while working. (I know that sounds dorky, but I actually have quite a few "special" songs I sing around the house.)
1. Dan calls. They're not doing anything. I say, "come on over, we're making pizza!" Naw, he can't come over. He has to mow his grampa's lawn. Sounds like a lame excuse to me.
2. We call Brian's parents to chat about something. I yell at Brian, "tell them to come over for supper. We're making pizza!" I don't even think they entertained the notion. We clearly said it wouldn't be ready for at least two hours giving them plenty of time to get here. Rejection. (To their credit, they live two hours from our house. Still, how often do I invite them for supper?)
3. My mom calls. I say, "Come on over. We're making pizza!" She says thanks, but they're just too tired. I'M OFFERING TO GIVE THEM SUPPER! So I tell her that she is now the third person to reject our pizza. My own mother who bore me from her loins! She turns to my dad and says, "Lisa asked if we want to come over for pizza." I here his low, gruff, voice in the background go, "NOOO000ooo," as if I had asked if they wanted to join us at a Metallica concert. Thus making four people to reject my pizza. (Fine, to their credit, they had just arrived home from Minnesota about a half hour before calling.)
So Brian and I ate our pizza...alone. And it was really good! But am I hurt? Well, just a little.
Bloodbath in the Kitchen
(Original Myspace Post Date: June 23, 2007)
On Saturday, my friend Heather, who has until recently hated dogs with every fiber in her being, decided she would meet my dogs and give them a try. I told them both, "This is your one chance to shine! You've got one shot. Make me proud." I sent them out to her as though they were my children who were going to audition in front of George Lucas for the lead roles in the next installment of the Star Wars movies. I was nervous and anxious. Everything was going well. Reggie kept stepping on Heather's feet but that can't be avoided. (It does hurt though.) Annie was being really nice but she just kept shedding which, I thought, lacked basic manners. Nobody was jumping up onto her lap or trying to jump onto the porch swing next to her. We'd been working at this for months. I could almost smell success. And then it happened.
So, on Monday I decided to don my dog groomer/veterinary assistant cap and take care of the dogs. It was time to clip nails and tend to ear infections. I got out my trusty clippers. Me and the dogs have come a long way in the nail clipping department. I used to be a nervous wreck about it because there is a vein running down a dog's nails and if you clip the nail too short, you'll clip the vein thereby creating a bleeding frenzy. But I've gotten good. I'm faster, the dogs are more patient. The whole process is all kinds of better than it used to be. Brian doesn't even need to hold Annie anymore. She just stands there and is good.
I clipped Annie's nails. No incidences.
I began clipping Reggie's nails and the little guy squirms so much Brian had to sit down with him and hold him. I was almost done. Last paw. Three more nails to go. I make the snip and I know the second I do it that it was no good.
Reggie yelps and looks me square in the eye with a betrayed look. I will carry that look to the grave. The blood begins pouring out of his little dog-finger/toe. I panic and start yelling at Reggie to just "LAY DOWN." I yell at Brian to get some flour STAT! (Thanks to Nancy who has taught me that dog blood does not clot as quickly, or at least the blood coming out of claws, so throwing flour on it helps.) Brian hops up, gets a spoonful of flour. I elevate Reggie's paw. Brian spoons the flour on and we try to stem the flow of blood with paper towels. The flour is working. Then Brian asks, "Is Reggie dripping?" I look at his sweet little face and his mouth is just dripping. It didn't look like saliva. I think it was dog sweat. I yelled, "He doesn't feel good! He's going to pass out!" He clearly looked woozy. (Although it is possible that he was merely confused by my frenzy.) I began pounding on his chest, yelling, "Don't you die on me now!" (Okay that's a total lie. I thought it would be good for the story.) Brian, who maintained a cooler head throughout the ordeal, simply asked Reggie, "Do you wanna go out?" At which Reggie hopped up and ran out the door looking completely unscathed. But all night he licked that wounded toe, looking at me out of the corner of his eye with a hurt and puzzled look.
But no one escaped the bloodbath. After clipping nails I laid my medical gear (cotton balls and q-tips) out on the kitchen rug to take a look at Annie's ear, which seemed to be bothering her. Cleaning her infected ear caused it to bleed. But she was very stoic. Next time, Brian shall do all the dirty work.
Prologue
On Saturday, my friend Heather, who has until recently hated dogs with every fiber in her being, decided she would meet my dogs and give them a try. I told them both, "This is your one chance to shine! You've got one shot. Make me proud." I sent them out to her as though they were my children who were going to audition in front of George Lucas for the lead roles in the next installment of the Star Wars movies. I was nervous and anxious. Everything was going well. Reggie kept stepping on Heather's feet but that can't be avoided. (It does hurt though.) Annie was being really nice but she just kept shedding which, I thought, lacked basic manners. Nobody was jumping up onto her lap or trying to jump onto the porch swing next to her. We'd been working at this for months. I could almost smell success. And then it happened.
We had come inside and Reggie was happy. Heather reached a hand toward him to pet him. And then Reggie lifted up his little white paw...and ran his claws down her naked leg. She shrieked in pain and I knew we had failed. It was over. My shame was complete. One chance Reggie...that's all we had and you blew it.
The Drama
So, on Monday I decided to don my dog groomer/veterinary assistant cap and take care of the dogs. It was time to clip nails and tend to ear infections. I got out my trusty clippers. Me and the dogs have come a long way in the nail clipping department. I used to be a nervous wreck about it because there is a vein running down a dog's nails and if you clip the nail too short, you'll clip the vein thereby creating a bleeding frenzy. But I've gotten good. I'm faster, the dogs are more patient. The whole process is all kinds of better than it used to be. Brian doesn't even need to hold Annie anymore. She just stands there and is good.
I clipped Annie's nails. No incidences.
I began clipping Reggie's nails and the little guy squirms so much Brian had to sit down with him and hold him. I was almost done. Last paw. Three more nails to go. I make the snip and I know the second I do it that it was no good.
Reggie yelps and looks me square in the eye with a betrayed look. I will carry that look to the grave. The blood begins pouring out of his little dog-finger/toe. I panic and start yelling at Reggie to just "LAY DOWN." I yell at Brian to get some flour STAT! (Thanks to Nancy who has taught me that dog blood does not clot as quickly, or at least the blood coming out of claws, so throwing flour on it helps.) Brian hops up, gets a spoonful of flour. I elevate Reggie's paw. Brian spoons the flour on and we try to stem the flow of blood with paper towels. The flour is working. Then Brian asks, "Is Reggie dripping?" I look at his sweet little face and his mouth is just dripping. It didn't look like saliva. I think it was dog sweat. I yelled, "He doesn't feel good! He's going to pass out!" He clearly looked woozy. (Although it is possible that he was merely confused by my frenzy.) I began pounding on his chest, yelling, "Don't you die on me now!" (Okay that's a total lie. I thought it would be good for the story.) Brian, who maintained a cooler head throughout the ordeal, simply asked Reggie, "Do you wanna go out?" At which Reggie hopped up and ran out the door looking completely unscathed. But all night he licked that wounded toe, looking at me out of the corner of his eye with a hurt and puzzled look.
Later I cleaned the blood spots off the rug in the kitchen, trying to assuage my guilt, scrubbing and quoting Lady Macbeth. (I think you all know the line.)
Epilogue
But no one escaped the bloodbath. After clipping nails I laid my medical gear (cotton balls and q-tips) out on the kitchen rug to take a look at Annie's ear, which seemed to be bothering her. Cleaning her infected ear caused it to bleed. But she was very stoic. Next time, Brian shall do all the dirty work.
Here I am I suppose
Well, here I am. Trying my hand at blogging out in the real world, without the safety net of my fake blog on myspace. I really enjoyed blogging on myspace last year - until the pressure became too great to bear (don't ask). And, as I use facebook a whole bunch more than I ever use myspace now (I'm all growed up!), this made more sense since I could link the two. We'll see if I have what it takes to keep this one going. I'm going to try to pace myself.
But first, I'm going to move all my blogs from myspace to this space. So, they're old, but hopefully still a little interesting if you haven't read them before. Happy reading!
But first, I'm going to move all my blogs from myspace to this space. So, they're old, but hopefully still a little interesting if you haven't read them before. Happy reading!
Dirty Feet
(A post originally from my myspace blog. Original post date: June 12, 2007)
Okay, so I just got in from working outside, weeding and watering, and I don't know why I bother. I love getting my hands and feet dirty, working in the soil. It makes me feel connected to the earth and God.
But SERIOUSLY! Why does nothing at my house grow...except for trees? I've got trees trying to establish life in every possible inch of soil. Darn things. Who knew it was so easy? I'm amazed people are upset over the rain forests being chopped down. And Arbor Day...plant a tree?!? Just head over to my postage stamp sized yard and you will see that trees are doing just fine. I probably have the cleanest air this side of the Mississippi. I have a tiny patch of sunny area in my backyard in which I attempt to grow a sad garden each year and these two blasted trees keep growing right there, blocking all the sun from my garden. And the trees are, technically, on my neighbor's property so I can't just run over there with my chainsaw. (Okay, I don't have a chainsaw...but if I did.) And despite this, I really love trees and feel I am a tree-hugging-hippy.
What doesn't grow? Well, Brian and I have planted bushes in front of our house at least three times. I finally had some lovely boxwoods that were established and they up and died this year!!! Turns out it was because I salted my sidewalks this winter. So it turns out I can either risk my life (and the postal carrier's) by walking down an icy sidewalk, or I can have nice shrubbery.
We have planted grass every spring for 10 years and it grows in the cracks of my sidewalk but certainly not in the areas I intended it to grow. I never knew it was so impossible. And then I see other people throw down seed and...voila...in two weeks they have a lucious, green lawn perfect for frollicking in. (And sometimes I drive by and they are, in fact, frollicking just to taunt me.)
My tomatoes have the blight. They have had it every year since 7 years ago. If you don't know what the blight does I'll tell you. It crushes your spirit. You have beautiful tomato plants growing tall and strong with yellow blossoms everywhere. And then the brown spots start, caused by a fungus that saps the life out of the plants and saps a little of my soul every day. All I want out of a garden is fresh tomatoes. You know that big, fat, red, juicy, still warm tomato you bring in from the garden, wash the dirt off, slice up, stick in your mouth, juice runs down your chin and you are in Heaven kind of tomato? Yeah, I want that. And I want tomatoes for salsa and tomato sauce and just plain tomato canning. But, that's not for Lisa. I don't want other people's stinking tomatoes! I want my own! I want the fruit of my own labor! People are always so sweet when they hear about my problem. They say, "Oh Lisa, I have far more tomatoes than I can do anything with. Why don't you come help yourself?" Oh, how nice for you that your tomatoes are so FERTILE AND PRODUCTIVE THAT YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY USE THEM ALL!!!! Oh what I wouldn't give to have that problem. Let me just wallow in self pity. But...every year I try again.
My hostas shrink up and die. I accidentally killed my lavendar plant. Brian axed my delphinium (sp?). I tried to grow cucumbers for three years. I had one little chubby cucumber, or as I called her, "Hope." A squirrel grabbed it, ran up the tree, ate two bites, and threw it on the hood of Brian's car. Ah well, I admired the little bugger's spunk.
I just never imagined that keeping the homestead looking nice was so much work! We just sort of suck at it. No wonder my dad was dragging us out of bed at 7:00 AM on Saturdays to get out and weed. It seems like it takes a small army of children to keep a yard looking nice.
I suppose I'll keep trying though my heart will keep breaking. And even though having a green thumb is not one of my gifts, I'll try to be thankful for my others.
Okay, so I just got in from working outside, weeding and watering, and I don't know why I bother. I love getting my hands and feet dirty, working in the soil. It makes me feel connected to the earth and God.
But SERIOUSLY! Why does nothing at my house grow...except for trees? I've got trees trying to establish life in every possible inch of soil. Darn things. Who knew it was so easy? I'm amazed people are upset over the rain forests being chopped down. And Arbor Day...plant a tree?!? Just head over to my postage stamp sized yard and you will see that trees are doing just fine. I probably have the cleanest air this side of the Mississippi. I have a tiny patch of sunny area in my backyard in which I attempt to grow a sad garden each year and these two blasted trees keep growing right there, blocking all the sun from my garden. And the trees are, technically, on my neighbor's property so I can't just run over there with my chainsaw. (Okay, I don't have a chainsaw...but if I did.) And despite this, I really love trees and feel I am a tree-hugging-hippy.
What doesn't grow? Well, Brian and I have planted bushes in front of our house at least three times. I finally had some lovely boxwoods that were established and they up and died this year!!! Turns out it was because I salted my sidewalks this winter. So it turns out I can either risk my life (and the postal carrier's) by walking down an icy sidewalk, or I can have nice shrubbery.
We have planted grass every spring for 10 years and it grows in the cracks of my sidewalk but certainly not in the areas I intended it to grow. I never knew it was so impossible. And then I see other people throw down seed and...voila...in two weeks they have a lucious, green lawn perfect for frollicking in. (And sometimes I drive by and they are, in fact, frollicking just to taunt me.)
My tomatoes have the blight. They have had it every year since 7 years ago. If you don't know what the blight does I'll tell you. It crushes your spirit. You have beautiful tomato plants growing tall and strong with yellow blossoms everywhere. And then the brown spots start, caused by a fungus that saps the life out of the plants and saps a little of my soul every day. All I want out of a garden is fresh tomatoes. You know that big, fat, red, juicy, still warm tomato you bring in from the garden, wash the dirt off, slice up, stick in your mouth, juice runs down your chin and you are in Heaven kind of tomato? Yeah, I want that. And I want tomatoes for salsa and tomato sauce and just plain tomato canning. But, that's not for Lisa. I don't want other people's stinking tomatoes! I want my own! I want the fruit of my own labor! People are always so sweet when they hear about my problem. They say, "Oh Lisa, I have far more tomatoes than I can do anything with. Why don't you come help yourself?" Oh, how nice for you that your tomatoes are so FERTILE AND PRODUCTIVE THAT YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY USE THEM ALL!!!! Oh what I wouldn't give to have that problem. Let me just wallow in self pity. But...every year I try again.
My hostas shrink up and die. I accidentally killed my lavendar plant. Brian axed my delphinium (sp?). I tried to grow cucumbers for three years. I had one little chubby cucumber, or as I called her, "Hope." A squirrel grabbed it, ran up the tree, ate two bites, and threw it on the hood of Brian's car. Ah well, I admired the little bugger's spunk.
I just never imagined that keeping the homestead looking nice was so much work! We just sort of suck at it. No wonder my dad was dragging us out of bed at 7:00 AM on Saturdays to get out and weed. It seems like it takes a small army of children to keep a yard looking nice.
I suppose I'll keep trying though my heart will keep breaking. And even though having a green thumb is not one of my gifts, I'll try to be thankful for my others.
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