Crap! Crap, I say!

So, my bestest shared a few hours ago on FB an article on 'How to Cope with Bestie Seperation Anxiety'.  I figured, "Well, it is that time of year when I really start to miss her and feel lonely." and off I went to read it.  About 1/2 way through, I shouted at my phone that it was total crap!  "CRAP, I SAY!"  I slammed down my phone and marched upstairs to my trusty computer with my indignation.

Here's a little how I feel about life without the person who knows me best (outside of my husband, of course).  [dim the lights and queue the background music - in this instance, we'll play some Boys II Men quietly]  I've never made friends easily.  I know, shocker right?

I'm weird, and while I'm pretty OK with my own weirdness, I've discovered that many others just can't get and/or accept me.  She gets it.  I know that my brain doesn't work like yours; it's usually run about 5 blocks ahead of our conversation.  She knows and doesn't care.  I know my sense of humor is off; and by off I mean really bizarre [shit, I'm still dying laughing about this random nipple thing the hubs said about a week ago].  She's aware and tells me I'm weird.  I know I'm socially awkward and do inexplicable things bc of this.  She just doesn't give two shits.  And I'm the least PC person I know, and I never mean anything by it, it's just I like the way some words sound and would use them regardless of what they meant [perfectly illustrated is my love of the F-word.  It could mean anything and still I'd really love to say it].  This makes her giggle.  Mmmmm, k - the music's playing now.

My bestie and I kind of fell into those titles.  I wasn't hers for forever, and she wasn't who I'd proclaimed to be mine.  We hit it off the moment we met, but we were hardly inseparable.  But then one day, I think we both just realized that we had quietly come to mean that much to each other, and that life apart...well, it sucked.

This article [yes, yes...I understand it was meant for someone much younger - hence the Gossip Girl reference, but I still think it's crap] says the distance will be made easier by Skyping.  Or a phone call.  Or any other number of asinine things.  And it's not.  And I'm 100% selfish, I know.  I'd almost rather nothing than a partial something.  If she's not here, I just don't care.

Not a day goes by that I don't come home from work, get the kids through their homework and sit down to my FB feed to catch up on what she's doing in life that I don't wish I could walk over to her house, throw myself down on her couch with my legs dangling over the edge while shoving at her freak assed dog who is obviously trying to lick my face.  Never mind I've never done this.  I know people who could, and I hate them for it.

Not a moment goes by that I don't miss that when she comes to visit, my favorite moments are spent on my couch, not saying a word, watching documentaries about beavers...or the problematic raccoon population in Toronto.  Yes, you heard that right.  I've not seen her in three months, and I really just want to sit there.  Doing nothing.

I go out to restaurants wondering what she'd order (keep in mind, when we *could* go to restaurants together, we never did bc we were poor broke college students who saved their money for vodka & smokes...Ok, ok, that was all me - but she WAS poor back then too).  I wonder if I could bully her into ordering that OTHER thing I really wanted so we could split halvsies and I could have the best of both meals.  I wonder if she'd cough on her fries so that I'd stop stealing them.    I'll never really know.

When my kids do stupid shit, I wish she could see me explaining it to know that I just eluded to the fact I imagine knuckle punching them .  When my heart hurts, I daydream about her walking over with two rocks glasses and that vodka and us sipping until we got cut off [which, let's be honest, would take about five sips].  I have imagined her sitting next to me while I cry at the movies that get me in the feels, but no one else, and pulling out Kleenex one by one and throwing them at me while inferring I'm a baby.  

And more than anything, I want hugs.  Hugs from someone who long ago decided my weirdness was spectacular.  That she would never take it or me personal. That my life is great, but it's not perfect bc she's not physically here [which if she were, it would be].

And THAT is how you deal with 'Bestie Anxiety' - you imagine it different.  You tear up and wish things were different, and that maybe you could find someone to be a stand in, but you deep down know it never is the same.  'Other Ali' will never be Ali.  You hate the people who have their Ali's close by.  And then you do the last thing you can - you write angry epitaphs.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

That's right folks, it's the most 'wonderful' [said in scathing sarcasm] time of the year!  And as you've guessed, I'm referring to Pine Needle Season.  You heard me: Pine.  Needle.  Season.  The bane of my beloved home's existence.

Every year, as leaves start to fall, something much more nefarious ingratiates itself into my home & hearth.  My neighbor's pine needles.  I wish I could even say that they were mine, but alas, they are not.  Lurking just on the other side of my property, securely on my neighbor's land are three massive pine trees.  When I say massive, I mean MASSIVE.  These bad boys have to be close to four stories tall.  Four stories.  All having grown in the five feet between my driveway and the neighbor's house.

And every year, the needles drop.  And when they do, it's like some terrible viscous ooze from a horror movie.  Pine needles are everywhere!  There's no escaping them!  AAAARGH!  THE HORROR!!!

Carried into the house on the bottom of your shoes!  Simple, really...take off your shoes on the back porch.  But noooooo - these damned things sneak into the house itself on your socks, or via the dog.  UGH!

And it's not limited to the house!  They're in my Jeep.  My beloved Betty White no longer has carpeting. I now have a needle floor - the upside is that it is totally organic AND vegan!  Whew!

Windy?  Running to the car waiting for you in the drive?  Pine needles in your hair!  The perfect accessory for the evening out!

I had literally thought I was done finding new places these suckers hide out, until tonight.  See, I've found them on the window sills, in the cat's collar, burning out my vacuum, in the tub, the toy box, with the mail.  Everywhere.

Yet still, somehow, I was not prepared.  Thank God I was sitting!

In my underwear.  How in the holeeee hell do pine needles wind up in your skivvies?!?  It's windy out there tonight, but really?  I wish I could make this stuff up, but I can't.

Which brings me to what else I can't do - get rid of the freaking pine needles.  You can't burn them.  Sure, you can bag them & throw them away, but we learned in year one that a garbage bag filled with pine needles weighs more than a grown man.  So - suggestions, because as of now a line has been crossed.  It's all fun & games until someone gets a pine needle in their drawers...

I Wish For A Concrete Jungle...

Let me start of by stating, I think I'm a pretty spectacular wife.  Especially today.  Being a stay at home, I don't sit idle very long.  I take care of most all the chores in our home with minimal help - hey, it's all part of the "job"!  But today, I deserve a cake.  Or an award.  Or a massage.

See - my husband and I aren't your typical wife/husband, male/female chore people.  Taking out the garbage is equal opportunity.  And so is mowing the lawn...  Well, not any more!

See, my lawn is beautiful and flat.  In. The. Front. Yard.  My back yard?  [sigh]  We call it 'the forest'.  Normally, I mow the front 9, and back, up to the FIRST retaining wall.  Yes, you read that correctly...FIRST RETAINING WALL.  After the second retaining wall, well; that's another story.  And I typically leave that for my other half.  But in this case, I've left it for over a month and could no longer stand it.  Today: I mowed it.

I wanted to share the thoughts that ran through my head (in order) whilst mowing, thinking someone, SOMEONE must find them funny:

1. Why the hell did I buy this house?
2. Why am I so in love with this house that I could not sell it?
3. Why in the hell is it nearly 90 out?
4. Did I just run over an ant hill?
5. Holy Shit!  Sweat in your eye freaking hurts!
6. For the love of Christ...That was an ant hill, and they bite!
7. I'm sliding back down the hill...LET GO OF THE MOWER!
8. Did I just step in deer shit?
9. Nope...I slid in the deer shit.
10. I'm going to kill someone.  Not sure whom...but someone.
11. I wonder how much it would cost to just put in an Alpine Sled track?
12. Maybe just bobsleds?
13. What about a log flume ride?
14. I think I'm going to die.
15. No, I know I'm going to die.

Here is the after product:

From this vantage point behind the garage, you're looking out over the SECOND retaining wall.

From this vantage point, I'm standing in front of the far right tree in the above picture.  The retaining wall on the far left is 6' tall to give you perspective.  It's probably a 40' drop of near 75 degrees.

A Salad's Just Not A Salad Without Croutons

I'm a dog person.  There.  I finally said it.  I feel better now.  And I'm not just an any dog kind of person...I'm a MY dog kind of person.  I was bit as a child and therefore I am friendly with, but somewhat distrustful of most dogs I encounter, especially little dogs.  But my own dog...that is a completely different story.  See - my dog and I; we got a thing.  Mainly, that is because my dog is 100% pure awesomeness and, well; I am hilarious.

Ever see the movie Frozen?  Yeah, I know...me too.  In any case, SoCo and I are are very much like Kristoff and Sven.  We have wonderful conversations.  All the time.  Out loud.  In public.  We've even been known to text people, you know: to share our magnificence...

SoCo has a beautiful and rich alto voice [even though she's female - she's a lower range alto - but that's just her speaking voice, although I'm sure she'd sound lovely if she sang], which makes perfect sense, as she IS a coon hound, and well - her bark or bay are forces to be reckoned with.  She speaks slowly and simply, not because she is dumb, you knobs...but because English IS her second language.  And similarly to how many different groups throw festivals throughout the summer to show their pride, she starts off all of her conversations with: I am dog.  She's super proud of that, and wants to make sure you understand that fact and don't forget it.

Our conversation this morning started no differently...

SoCo:  I am dog.  Croutons!  I love croutons!

Me:  Yeah, me too, [talking into my closet] best part of the salad if you ask me.  No croutons...not worth eating.

SoCo: Oh, would you then like me to share my croutons?

Me: Wait...croutons?  How the hell did YOU get croutons?

SoCo: You [or someone else, but I am assuming you, since I love you most] placed some artfully on the floor for me as a treat because I am dog.  

Me:  You can't have croutons.  They are bad for you.  ...Wait!  Did you say croutons are on the floor?

SoCo:   [mumbling because she is talking with her mouth full] Uh huh.

Me:  My God!  WTF are you eating?  We're upstairs.  There are no croutons up here, and definitely NO croutons on the floor...  [I drop my clothes and run over to her]

SoCo:  I just told you...Croutons.  You love croutons - and I love these like you love croutons...so they are croutons.

Me:  THOSE AREN'T CROUTONS!  STOP EATING THE CAT LITTER, YOU JERK!

SoCo:  The cat left me these croutons?  I knew she loved me...

Hello, Ladies...

It's that time of year again...  The bees are flying.  The pollen is covering my car.  Flowers are blooming.  ...and my neighborhood smells like dirty crotch.  Yeah, I said it.  A Pescadaria.  It's terrible. And it's powerful enough to make you gag as you stroll through the lovely tree lined streets.

Bradford. Pears.  We had one in our yard.  Lovely tree, really.  It bloomed these beautiful white blossoms, was the last to lose its leaves.  And totally fouled up the place.  Funny how it took us near six years in our home to notice the stench.  But notice we did!

One day, walking out of work, the breeze blew and I smelled it.  OMG!  A little part of me died inside.  "That poor woman," I thought to myself, and got into my car with my husband.  We drove to our sitter's and picked up the kidlets.  We drove home.  I got out of the car...a breeze blew...and you guessed it, I smelled it again!

Good Christ, could that be me?!?  I put my bag onto the ground and knelt down to "fix" my shoe.  I thought I was being stealth.  Apparently not, as my husband came up beside me and said, "Don't worry, there is NO WAY that smell is you, or else we all would have died in the car!"  I felt relieved, yet mortified.  He smelled it too!  Well, if it wasn't me...  WTF was it? ?  We surveyed the yard and couldn't imagine what it was.  Hmph.

That evening, our family went for a walk.  We turned down a street and my first thought was of how gorgeous it was; lined with these beautiful white trees.  My next, and immediate, rumination was, "Jesus Christ kids: RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!  YOU'RE GOING TO SUFFOCATE!"  As my husband looked at me and delivered the punchline from his favorite stupid joke, we realized it was the trees!  I couldn't believe it.  No tree could smell that bad...and yet -

He looked at me as if in challenge.  I accepted.  Unspoken, I walked up to the closest tree, pulled a branch down and took a whiff.  I doubled over, gagging.  He started laughing.  Immediately, our children asked what was wrong with me and why their father was laughing at my dilemma.

"Nothing kids...Mommy just doesn't like the smell of the tree."  It was hot.  And humid.  And we realized that if we didn't make double-time, we were going to die as there was zero breeze to move this stagnant and repulsive air.  Quickly we turned around and made back for home.

A small while later while I was inside, I heard the hubs laughing hysterically while playing with the kids in the driveway.  The back door opened, then slammed.  In comes my oldest with the most infectious smile on her face.

"What is it, Baby?  What is so funny?"

"Well, I picked this flower for you, and Daddy said you would love it!"

Confused I stepped forward to look at the flower crushed in her palm.

"And he said I should tell you where I picked it from."

Bewildered I asked, "Okay?  Wherever did you pick it?"

"Oh, I picked it off the 'Fishstick Tree'. [insert the sound of me choking on my own spit].  It's that white one in our front yard [pointing with her chubby finger]  I named it the 'Fishstick Tree' because that's what it smells like: like cold fishsticks..."

I've never looked at those trees the same again.

Queue the Psycho Music...

Packing lunches is a battle in my home.  I'm raising self-sufficient children, whom are all capable of shoving what they'd like to eat into this reusable bag.  It accomplishes so much more than that...it also decreases how many times I'll ever have to hear the words, "I just didn't feel like eating THAT for lunch!"  Oh, really?!?!  ...then why did you pack it.

And yet; it's still a chore; for my youngest of Things.  She *hates* packing her lunch.  There's the daily scream that there is nothing to eat in the house (of course, untrue) and that it's unfair she has to pack her lunch (again, untrue because everyone, including their father, packs their own lunch daily).  I digress...

Today was no exception.  No exception in that she hemmed and hawed over packing her lunch.  No exception in that she had a somewhat apocalyptic meltdown over there being [read this in the tone of a belligerent and exasperated six-year-old] 'absolutely nothing I ever want to pack to eat in my life!' in the fridge.  And yet; today was different.  Vastly different.

It suddenly became terribly quiet.  ...and then humming started.  My youngest beats her own drum, and frankly, we've joked that the aliens she loves to converse with have put that beat in her head - but that's the tune I heard hummed out.  I thought to myself that she must have taken a deep breath and found some strength to muster up her inner packaging Goddess.  Sweet.  I left it all alone and sat nursing my afternoon caffeine.

Mistake.  Wrong.  Fail.  Boo.

Precisely 15 minutes later, the humming dwindled and this child sidled up to me on the couch.

"MOMMY!  I packed my own...well, you'll never guess!!!"

I looked up.  The Horror!

"OHMAHGAWD!"

[she giggled]

"Mommy!  I packed a peanut butter roll-up...... [she paused for DRAMATIC effect, yet what happened, is that the music from Psycho started playing in my head] with: FLUFF!"

It was out of my mouth before I could stop it.  "No shit!"

Ooops.  Can't shove that back in.  My bad.

She looked defeated.  "You knew I used fluff?  How?"

"Well, baby [the music is getting to a dull roar in my head now], it's all over your hands.  And on your shirt.  And smeared on your face...and SWEET BABY JESUS - IT'S IN YOUR FREAKING HAIR!"  At this point, I get up.  [music begins its absolute crescendo]  I walk into the kitchen.  I brace myself for the inevitable...

And what I find is a perfectly clean kitchen.  A roll-up on a plate.  A packed lunch.  And a girl's purple Nerf gun on the counter - also covered in fluff.  I've decided I don't want to know...

This Kid Is Your Kid...This Kid Is My Kid...

There comes a point in every parent's life when you look at your kid(s) and decide, that kid is most definitely like you...or in this case: me.  We've known it for some time, but last night solidified that...

While cleaning up from our delicious dinner, my oldest was standing at the foot of the table and loudly exclaimed to me, "Well, I *am* your kid!"  That was to say, she was trying to verbalize that she thought she was just like me.  Haha, kid...no.  You may look just like me, but you do not act like me.  Noooooo, no.

My son, our beloved middle, who was STILL eating when everyone else had already left the table; loudly exclaimed that HE was my child.  Again, no.  His father hung his head and laughed.

"Oh, baby, you are certainly just as cute as your mama...but you are Daddy through and through."

Together these children, baffled, asked, "Are any of us your kid?!?"

Right then, as if on cue, my youngest - who had at that point been "practicing" piano in the living room [by lying on the piano bench and pretending to write in her theory book] while half singing to herself bellowed in a most decidedly baritone voice, "Hey!!! I know aliens!"  ...and then giggled.

Their father, whose head was still hanging, began to shake with mirth.

"Aaaaaand, that one there [pointing into the living room]  That's my kid."

My Anniversary

I've now hit the one year anniversary of when I was let go from my job due to outsourcing.  It's also the one year anniversary of finding who I really am. The one year anniversary of feeling valuable.  The one year anniversary of realizing that I *CAN* totally do it [whatever IT may be].

I'll admit, I was terrified when it first happened.  Having had a job since I was 12, much of my identity was caught up in the fact that I was good at what I did, and that I was a hard worker.  I've come to know that none of that changed; only the mere what of what I was doing altered.  In a moment of self-pityand distress, I confided all my self-doubt in a friend (who is wiser than she gives herself credit for, and has come to mean more to me than she could possibly know), who told me, "You've got this.  You'll be just fine.  Just. Go. Do. It."

And I did.  I've done more things than I thought myself capable of and tried doing things I never imagined were done by everyday people in the past year than I have in my lifetime; sum total.  Sure I've failed, but I've also succeeded...tremendously.  I no longer look at obstacles or new ideas with an underlying fear, but with humor and pride; because my friend was 100% right: I've totally got this.

I've made bread, and yogurt [and I'm going to make cheese next, because: why not?!?].  I've canned jams and sauces.  I've destroyed a bathroom...and then fixed it.  I've overseen home repairs.  I've sewed.  I've crocheted.  I've managed projects.  I've been a General Contractor of Life.  And contrary to my initial unease: it all pays very well.

My paychecks these days consist of mainly hugs and kisses.  I get weekly snuggle bonuses.  I've heard sentences that make me want to cry:
"You made this?  It's awesome!"
"I love XXXXX that you do/make best!"
"I don't know what I'd do without you!"
"You're amazing!"

I find the times of thinking I am a sucky mom/wife are diminishing daily.  I find my self worth inversely correlated to that and therefore increasing daily.  Most of all, I'm happy.  Not that I wasn't happy before, but a new found inner peace kind of happy.

With that, I look forward to what this next year is going to bring me...  and I rub my hands together and think, "Bring on that cheese.  I'm ready for it!"

It Drives Me Crazy...

So, here I am once more feeling like a maniacal ranter over The Who's song Eminence Front [the first time was when the company I formerly worked for used it as background music to their "Rah, Rah Get on board" with our Corporate Kool-Aid 'culture' reform].  I realize that I am smarter than the average bear, but that one just blew my mind, until...

A car company recently decided to use this song to promote their overpriced cars that masquerade as luxury SUVs.  The song is clearly discernible for those who appreciate classic rock.  To verify that I wasn't insane as I started my rant to my husband [who at this point stares at me, while I believe, praying that when I explode it doesn't get on him], I picked up my phone and used my handy little song app that only needs a small portion of a song to go fetch it, so you may purchase it or read the lyrics; or in this case - validate my ire.

Immediately, I am incredibly incensed [I cannot begin to explain why this pisses me off, rather than amuses me...but it does.  Anger me, that is].  How on earth could a marketing team use a song and not pay any attention to WHAT the song is about and stands for?!?  At the very least, I would hope these educated folks would have looked up the lyrics [assuming they are Millennials who didn't grow up with a parent or two listening to this on the radio].  Or, even better...Wikipedia the song.  Not difficult.  Unless you're illiterate and unable to browse the interwebs?  Hmph.

In any case, one would find that the lyrics BLATANTLY discuss putting up a front or facade to make things appear not as they are, but as they 'should' be.  Ok, idiot marketing ppl...completely disregard that, but at least pay some heed to the fact that the man who wrote the song even admits it's about snorting too much blow.  Good God!  For that reason alone, you should possibly avoid using this song, no matter how catchy it's hook is, to sell any product outside of say...Uh, Cocaine.  And last I checked, most drug dealers aren't putting ads on prime time television...yet.

15 minutes into my diatribe, my husband calmly informs me that they really probably never listened to the actual lyrics of this song.  Ever.  Hiroshima...In my living room.  How could you not, if you decide to use the hook for, what I assume is, a multi-million dollar advertising campaign.  That would be like the EEOC using the song Brown Sugar to promote Equal Opportunity Employment for minority women, purely because they enjoyed those sick beats.  Well, maybe not that bad...  But, you're getting my drift?

In my mind, the ad agency picked a song with a recognizable and awesome tune to play, not too quietly, in the background of an automobile commerical.  A song about taking too much drugs, the need to keep up with the Jones' and putting on airs to make sure everyone thinks you are something much more than you are...and base a campaign for a gas guzzling, expensive, not quite luxury but wishes it was, SUV on it?  Bravo.  Well done.

Wanna Go For A Ride?!?

There is nothing more terrifying than packing a family of five for a vacation.  You doubt yourself right until the moment you arrive and realize you should have triple checked every single bag.  You have nightmares about leaving someone behind on the days before departure (thanks Home Alone for all that nonsense).

Each child o' mine has their own suitcase special for this year's vacation.  They were Christmas presents.  I decided to start youngest to oldest in packing order this time.  Why you ask?  Because, my little blonde angel has more clothes than the next three of us combined...and that's without having busted into the stacks of her older sister's hand-me-downs.  Lucky her.

She was interested, not in helping mind you; but in watching my efforts.  I counted out undergarments and put them on her dresser.  I opened the closet and two drawers.  I pushed up my sleeves and thought, "Since I'm dressing her, she's going to match!"  Hooray.  She plopped down on her bed.

I pull out stretchy pants...as many as I could find.  This because, as all moms know: stretchy pants take up the least amount of space in a suitcase.  Oh, and they're most versatile.  Wear 'em with a dress.  With a cute shirt.  A tank and a long sweatshirt.  Yes.  Stretchy pants.

I lay out seven pair that were at the bottom of her drawer.  I put undies on top of each pair of pants.  She looks up at me in wonder.  "Mommy, whose stretchy pants ARE those?"

I stop.  And stare.  I'm completely dumbfounded.  I hold up the pair I'm currently accessorizing.

"THESE stretchy pants?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, stretchy pants, while having ample amounts of give do not have enough, I fear, to stretch to cover the area of my backside...so, I'm going to go with: they're yours."

"Well...I've never even seen them before."

"Yes, I know.  You have more clothes than the sum total of Kardashians, and I've pulled these all from the deepest recess of your wardrobe.  Not only are you going on vacation, it's going to be like Christmas as I've unearthed seven brand new, (Ok, not new-new...they are hand-me-downs from friends), never worn by you before...outfits.  My miracle work here is officially done!"

With that, I finished up matching outfits and accessorizing and closed her case.  I zipped it shut to find she had scooted off the bed and ventured into the living room to interrupt her sister practicing piano.

"Hey, Mommy said she bought me a whole new set of clothes special for this trip.  Wait until you see my fashion and all these new presents...but you didn't get any!" She giggled.

OH BOY...that is NOT what I said.

"MOOOOOOOM...."

And with that I made a mental note to pack duct tape and ear plugs into my purse for the insanely long impending car ride.

I Hope You Dance...Er, Um, Grow. I Hope You Grow.

Outsourced.  It's an easy word to say, comprehend even.  It's a hard word to grasp in concept, you know...when you've been the Outsourcee.  I find myself quickly approaching the first anniversary of my Outsourcedness.  It's a strange matter.

Like the 12 steps of AA, Outsourcing takes you through a myriad of emotions: anger, bitterness, numbness, and, if you're lucky...hope.

I found the hope in my new found job as Domestic CEO.  I made a choice to tackle that like I tackle most everything in my way in life; with zest and fervor (truly, the only thing I may love more than tackling is headbutting - but that's a whole different story).  I hoped [there it is again] that this would be the best job of my life, and with all things, I like succeeding so I gave it my all.  I cleaned my house as if I was possessed.  I repaired things.  I remodeled.  I grew tomatoes.

Tomatoes.  Yes?

No.  Whooooooa, no.

A friend gave me hope [oh boy!] that I too, could have a garden.  "Let's start small," I said.  "I've killed everything I've grown except my husband and kids to date."  I took a class.  I ran to various stores to purchase supplies.  I threw some seeds in peat and put them on my porch in the glorious sunlight to thrive and be fruitful.

They were rotated.  And watered ["BE CAREFUL NOT TO OVERWATER!" I told myself].  And then, sweet Baby Jesus...they grew!  AND GREW!  I took pictures.  I texted friends.  I believe, I posted it in social media.  I was proud.  In the back of my mind I spit on my Outsourcer, "Let me go, will you?  I'll show you how miraculous I am...I'm growing tomatoes!"

It came time to transfer my seedlings into my containers.  I mixed soils and composts and fertilizers in my garage.  I readied my containers with love and care.  I chose their new homes with precision and calculation - paying heed that the deer that love my yard would not get to them.  Moving day came and went.  ...And so did my babies.

Everyday I would check them.  "They're not growing."  I'd water them.  I'd beg them.  I scoured the internet and books from the library to see what I'd done wrong.  "...they're...not...growing..."

"No, No, NO!  This can't be happening."  After all, I had hope.

And as the days passed into those first crucial weeks, my hope, like those poor, poor tomato souls - died.  The day I had the strength to pronounce their death, my neighbor witnessed something horrifying.  He stood behind me for God knows how long, and watched as I swore at my failed attempt at gardening.  He watched me beg, and I think I heard his snort when I finally offered them money and/or drugs if they. just. grew.  I kicked their bucket  - literally, not figuratively or metaphorically - and stomped away.

I let go of hope of homemade ketchup and spaghetti sauce and salsa and pizza sauce and fresh Caprese salads.  I pouted.  I.  Was.  Hopeless.

That is, until this Christmas.  I gave my husband a composter.  And my friend tells me, "Your tomatoes are going to LOVE his compost.  You can do it this year...I know you can!"  ...and I purchased some seeds.