SRH gardening volume 1

Here's what my daughters call "my inspo"

This what I'd LOVE for the front of the house on either side of the new driveway. Of course I'll never stick to such a considered-looking palette, but I love the rocks and flowers.

These four images are from a rock garden in MA.

Crappy image, but I like the grasses along the steps.
(I'm NOT a native grasses girl)
I also like the railroad tie stairs.

So here's my "gessoed canvas"

People keep telling me I need to do "before and after" images of the transformation of the property. I dropped the ball on the "before" ones. Tim will probably have some, but I don't want to ask him because he's spent the past 4 days drilling 3 foot holes into the ledge and then pouring in some sort of bentonite mixture that's supposed to magically expand and crack the ledge open without blasting or drilling. He's been doing this on top of the usual cooking, ballerina schlepping, and a heavy workload.

The magical ledge splitting has yet to happen. He's grumpy.

I've spent hours stressing about plants arriving before I have a place to put them. This is definitely going to happen. The site work/utilities are now slated to be done by the end of August. I have 800 plants arriving sometime around June 5. I'll figure something out. The Sea Street gardens are important. They will be the most public portion of the project. We hope that if we create an awe-inspiring geologic/horticultural oasis, we will dismantle the wrath of the neighbors. Also, the woman directly across from this huge bed is my age. Her husband died suddenly in his car in the Market Basket parking lot last year before the ambulance could come and help him. He died thinking that our project was going to exacerbate the flooding in their home. We hope that the gardens and French drains below them will  improve the swampy basement situation. In addition, I hope that the pepperbush, roses, (and maybe little kim lilacs and lavender) will make the street smell good from spring through September, which won't help the fact that she no longer has her husband, and her boys don't have their dad, but good smells improve things no matter how shitty they are.

I put the Amsonia that arrived 3 months too early down there because I had no choice, but I think it might add something aesthetically to the beds, so I'm happy about it. (if it survives)

Below are images of the plants I've put in.

Look how fluffy and yellow the Amsonia gets in the fall!!!

(I took this picture last summer to show my sister in law my mom's wild irises. On a Friday in January, it occurred to me that the guys were going to dig them all up on Monday. Weirdly, for January in New England, that weekend was mild. Susie must've made that happen from the beyond. I ripped up what irises I could locate and dumped them in a pile on the ramp mom built for her partner. I hope they weather that poor treatment and thrive on Sea Street.

I ordered plants from 3 places. One place has started shipping, so I had weird plants that needed homes. I leave for Philly on Thursday, so I needed them in the ground. I left one dogwood in a pot and put the other in the bed above the Sea Street bed. (It was slated to go in the "rain garden" which will not be happening anytime soon.)

The "dogwood, sweet william, thyme bed" is above the street, so if all of those attempts die, no one will see my fail. (The images below are just to remind me where I stuck two Hellebore that arrived too soon for the rain garden. I also planted an anemone under mom's old lilac which I'll probably forget about)

 

Robin and Doug (not to be confused with Robin and William)

Doug spotted a seascape on Robin's cup
Do you see the surf, the beach, the ocean and the sky?

Doug's mug doesn't have one.
He insists he loves it anyway.

I want to start using these sorts of images as fodder for writing more regularly, so if you have any pottery images or cuptastrophe stories, send them my way. Robin and Doug texted the above images to show the "cups that won" being loved and used in their new home. Robin and Doug always take a while to make final choices when they come over to peruse the disorganized jumble of pottery that is strewn around my house. They haven't ever come shopping together, but they have similar shopping styles. There's a process of elimination that happens when indecisive people buy pottery; it's fun for them, but also seems to elicit a feeling of awkwardness; like they need to apologize for the pottery they don't buy.  

Robin and Doug are new friends in Manchester-by-the-Sea. Robin is a painter and Doug is a doctor. I met Robin hiking on the trails at Ravenswood when Leo was still a puppy. Like Robin and me, Leo and her labradoodle, Levi, are now great friends. It's hard making new friends in your 50s. Once you do, it's hard getting past the surface, infancy level of a friendship. Alcohol helps, but there's an intrinsic kinship that has to be there as well. Maybe it's that our foursome combines all of the astrological elements. Tim and I are earth and fire. Robin and Doug are air and water. We balance each other, or maybe we just crack each other up.

Robin swears this is Levi, but
I believe Leo has become her muse.

Robin showed me a video she and Doug had put together in a storm. He's approaching her on his bike. There's debris all over the road. He's wearing his mirrored helmet and a neon rain jacket. As he zooms by her, we see that he's rigged his bike with a battery-powered leaf blower. In the last clip of the film, the speed limit sign flashes a rebuke because Doug, with his extra power, has exceeded the speed limit. How could we not be friends with a couple who spent an hour in the rain making and remaking that film????

More Robin paintings:

When she moved, my mother in law gave me some of her peony bulbs.

She still laments not taking ALL of her peonies when she left PA for NJ.

When JP arrived on Mother's Day, I got bouquets of peonies.

Dad used to cut up cantelope for me.

He and I were the only ones who love it.

I know my mom would have loved this one

On a street in Ipswich

Outside her show at Zumi,

Robin and I photographed her work

to post on her blog

We might have a show together.

There's definitely some color compatibility

The monotony of February in New England calls for absurdity. The four of us recently spent an entire meal speaking in fake accents, predominately Northern Irish and Southern US. I thought it might be getting old, but when I reverted to my normal voice, I was booed. We came to the conclusion that people should have all delicate conversations in fake accents; it takes the edge off. One of my college roommates put "fluent in fake Chinese" at the bottom of her resume. I wonder if she's maintained her fluency or if it's disappeared in a PC rebranding. Imagine if Biden assigned Netanyahu a South Carolina accent and whoever is negotiating for the Gazans had to speak like Shrek? Maybe they'd get somewhere. 

Doug is a woodworker as well as a doctor. Robin is a potter as well as a painter. Robin and Doug had to deal with grumpy neighbors and zoning issues when they built their gorgeous garage/studio. We bonded over this because our neighbors are against any changes we've proposed to my mom's property. Robin lets me fire pottery in her kiln whenever I'm in a pinch. She offered this so soon in our relationship; it might have hindered our becoming friends. That's an odd thing to say, but I could see myself thinking, "I don't want to have them over because then they'll think I just want to use the kiln." Actually, I can't see normal Liz Kinder thinking that way, but the Liz Kinder whom Robin met on the trails of Ravenswood had just been clobbered socially. 

My mother had recently died. We moved to Manchester-by-the-Sea to grieve, to deal with her property and to give the kids a small town public school experience. Tim and I gave our neighbors drawings and plans describing the project we hoped to construct on my mom's 2-acre lot. We told them all to come and talk to us about it if they had any questions or concerns. Two supported us. One came to us with a concern that we resolved, and the rest signed a 5-page letter to the town denouncing our plans. Their first assertion was that Tim and I had been "underhanded." 

The couple next door have been a huge part of my life. Mom and Penny co-parented their combined 5 offspring. I was in two of their  daughters' weddings. The male half, who has been like a father to me (albeit a leering, lecherous one) has told his wife, Penny, that Tim and I are no longer welcome in their home because Tim and I want to build a house that he will not see from his own.  Penny is 82 and has to hobble through the woods to our house whenever we want to have coffee or a beer together. Another neighbor is our town moderator. He greets us with smiles whenever our dogs stop to sniff each other's asses. It's disorienting as we know he's doing everything in his power to stop us from building on our property.

It's been 2.5 years. Tim and I are going ahead with building what we can without special permits. I have been pouring over native plant catalogues. We are hoping to turn my mom's neglected, scrubby lot into a gorgeous, native plant oasis, and we will build a studio for me and a shop for Tim. We've employed Ray and Dan to do the excavation and masonry. Tim's dad, Jack, always said he could "pick someone's teeth with his backhoe." Jack would approve of Ray and Dan. Their craftsmanship is stunning. The new retaining walls look like part of the ledge, like they've always been there.

A few months after my mom died, the immediate neighbor on the other side threatened to sue us for "adverse possession." She didn't have a case, but she had a lawyer tell us to give her a 10'x50' piece of land and a 5'x90' chunk because we'd taken trees down on our property and "devalued" hers. The "good fences make good neighbors" wall now separates our properties. It's not a great picture. The wall is gorgeous.

"good fences make good neighbors"

She called the police when Dan was placing stones. She had them tell Dan not to stand on her side to place any rocks. The wall is taking a right turn this week. (The property line is odd.) Rather than rely on the police, she decided to place cinder blocks along the property line to remind Dan that he cannot step beyond our lot. She's a small woman, almost exactly my age. It feels like we're siblings sharing a bed, and she's making sure to kick me if my foot crosses onto her side. Ray and Dan are used to this stuff. Apparently it happens all the time. I wonder how long those blocks will remain after the wall is built. Did I mention the woman is a child psychologist?

🙌 🙌 🙌 🙌

With its beach, harbor and woodland trails, the beauty of Manchester-by-the-Sea is undeniable. People drawn to it are in some ways, "my people" in that they are aesthetically-oriented, but there's a divide. There are a group of people who believe that ANY changes will ruin the place. They approach town meetings with a white-knuckled NIMBYism that is baffling and sad. The other half see that the town can maintain its beauty and incorporate urban planning, infrastructure updates, and new housing.

Another neighbor fumed on Facebook about our project. They are going to manufacture pottery and run an architecture firm, and our street is zoned residential! This woman, too, is my age. Our kids are similar ages. She likes dogs. We are both named, Elizabeth. In some other world, I'm sure we would be friends. All along, she's been manufacturing dinners and running her life, blissfully ignorant of the ceramic and green building horrors happening in her midst. The head of zoning got involved in the Facebook tirade and explained that what we are doing complies with the town's bylaws. I limited my participation to a single 👍 when a friend cut through the speculation to explain our plans.

For the first time ever on the Friday after her Tuesday FB rant, I received the other Elizabeth's mail. Tim and I had gone out for lunch. We rarely do this because I always have a crisper filled with produce that I don't want to waste, and if I get a salad at a restaurant, and the lettuce hasn't been washed properly, I turn into a toddler. (I have, by the way, broken up with Trader Joe's produce. We've been on the rocks for the while. Mushy Persian cucumbers finally ended it.) I had on a cute outfit and make-up. I also had the perfect amount of "liquid courage," as we'd splurged and had beers. So when Tim suggested I ring her doorbell and ask her if she'd like to talk, rather than furtively shove her package in her mailbox, I stomped up there and did just that.

Initially I received a polite, "thanks" when I handed her the package.  She seemed to be optimistically assuming that "what happens on Facebook stays on Facebook," like those t-shirts with the cursive font: "What happens at Grandma's stays at Grandmas." When I asked, "I saw your Facebook posts, would you like to have a conversation?" she responded, "I have a fever." I said, "Oh! I'm sorry! Would you like to have a conversation another time?" She glared at me and said, "Maybe." The sun caught her eyes right before the door hid her from view. Being dismissive and cowardly really brings out their beautiful, earthy shade of amber green. 

My father's lament about Manchester was that no one ever knew when he was kidding or not. I had always felt slightly out-of-step socially as well. I hid my discomfort by excelling at sports. When I finally left the east coast and moved to San Francisco, all of my friends were makers. Helping two of them paint their rent-controlled apartment meant gleefully blowing holographic glitter onto the drying Ralph Lauren metallic paint. One room was raspberry, one gold, and the halls were silver. I met similar people in London and Philly. London, because I was in art school. Philly, because it's so cheap, creatives can afford to live there. In the summers, when I would come back to Manchester, I no longer had a lacrosse stick to hide behind, but I was mature enough to revel in the skepticism that my dyed hair and nebulous income stream fostered. I laughed out loud when anyone suggested I move "home."

Our kids are thriving in Manchester. For that I am grateful. Sometimes I worry that my girls' creativity is being squelched. When their friends come over, a seal-like pile of tastefully-made-up, crap-eating teenagers mounds on our couches. It's hard to pick out which one is mine in the slender, long-haired, supine mass of grey sweats and Uggs. The only time I see any sort of color is when summer comes and their tiny asses peek out of neon bikinis. Poor Tim is  tortured by the lack of real estate in those bathing suits. We see the parents of these other children when they drop them off or pick them up but have not made friendships with any. 

I entitled this blog post, "Robin and Doug-not to be confused with Robin and William." Above is my initial stab at a set of plates for Robin and William. We had our first meeting about their new dishes on zoom. We went through a Robin-curated group of old images of my work and each would chime in when a color or pattern appealed. The two of them had completely different tastes. The order was 8 bowls, 8 salad plates, and 8 dinner plates. The lack of direction was daunting but sort of comically freeing. I figured a couple of the plates in my first pass would inspire them, and we'd go from there. I eventually sell leftovers on my website or at farmers' markets, so I don't stress about having extras.

After presenting my first attempt to Robin and William, they loved all of the bowls and most of the plates. I was only 3 plates shy of completing the entire set. Clay absorbs the joy I feel when I'm working, and I'd been having a blast so I understand why Robin and William loved the results. BUT, they hadn't picked any of the plates that had really enthralled me, the combination I now call "Robin and William." 

I kept a "Robin/William" plate.

Robin and Doug raise chickens, 

and give us the most delicious eggs

(Yes, that is jalapeno pub cheese on green beans)

Why did I name the combination they didn't like after them? When Robin came to pick up the 3 stragglers, she told me they'd decided to spring for cups as well. Still smitten with my new glaze combo, I had made a bunch of cups in the "Robin and William" glazes. The cups were marching on a thin shelf along the stairs in my Philly studio. Robin said, "Oh wow! look at those! Maybe we'll just take all of them!" It cracked me up.

 

Their union emulates the name the fabulous Robin Williams, and they are the first Gemini/Scorpio couple I've ever met. Now their names are a glaze combo. Erica Jacobs, an amazing cook who posts unbearable Facebook pictures of her mouthwatering meals, has a bowl named after her.  (She probably has more of my pottery than I do.) The 'erica bowl' is shallow with a wide rim that frames her gorgeous soups. My friend, Andrew, likes a short cappuccino cup. I rarely make them, but he's broken every one I've made him, so now when I have to make a replacement, my "to do" list says "Andrew cup." 

My friend, Cats ordered the sink below. She wanted her sink to be "more of a Duke blue than a UNC blue." That still makes me laugh, but I haven't started calling that glaze "Duke blue." However, Cat's Darlington, SC accent is the source of my southern accent at dinner parties.

Vivian, Vivian, and Vivienne

Schloka is my dented, filthy 2011 Honda Odyssey Minivan. One would think that the arrival of Vivian, Tim's new Rivian would make Schloka feel bad about herself. Schloka doesn't need to impress anyone. She's used to my not responding when she leaves her TPSM light on to alert me that the batteries on the sensors that detect low tire pressure aren't functioning. She doesn't need me to replace those $400 batteries; she knows I'll  con some high school gas station attendant to fill up her tires every now and again. Schloka did cry desperately for help over the Christmas break while I was in Philly. She flashed every warning light she had, knowing I'd succumb and go to Dave. His service station, "incognito" is like the train stop at Charing Cross? Victoria Station? for Hogwarts. If you don't know it's there, you'll miss it, but it's 200 yards from my Philly store/studio. Dave is like a magical chiropractor for old cars. It took 4 visits and over $1000 during the 10 days I was feverishly glazing, but she's right as rain now. 

Last night I had to do both legs of Steel's club field hockey practice in Newbury, MA aka the middle of nowhere. There is, however, a ceramics studio there called 2 Rivers with the most generous owner on the planet, Lloyd. I decided to pass the time with Lloyd's advanced Wednesday night throwing class. They call it "whiskey and wine Wednesdays." I had 2 dixie cup fingers of yummy sipping bourbon while I did a couple of demonstrations for the class. We battled over my excessive water use and got into a discussion of what is and what isn't a "true celedon;"  It was fun. I left Lloyd's almost in time to be prompt in grabbing Steel and her friend, Caylee. But I realized, as I drove away, that I'd forgotten my thermos of mint tea. I ran in for it, said my good-byes again, and came out to find Schloka backed into Lloyd's tool shed. The shed door was ajar as was Schloka's. Schloka looked at me, headlights on, accusingly. I ran back in and announced to Lloyd that I'd forgotten to put my car in park, and Schloka had gone on a little joy ride. Schloka was obviously expressing to me that Vivian, her terrible new driveway mate, has turned me into an even worse driver. Vivian is a control freak and doesn't even let us turn her off. We just get out and leave. Schloka doesn't approve. Lloyd said he'd take a hammer to the shed door and sort it out and was just happy that I'd not slammed into any of the Wednesday Wine and Whiskey participants parked cars.

Vivian and her family at mom's memorial service

 Vivian the Rivian, is not to be confused with Vivian, JP's lovely girlfriend.

Viv kind of looks like Sophia Lauren.

 Viv at prom in JP's jacket.

"

I worry that JP might have peaked too soon
like me with Halloween costumes. 
Imagine if off-gassing from foam adhesive
kills my kids...after all of that organic food????

Vivian the Rivian is also not to be confused with Vivienne Westwood, the fashion designer who died and inspired my New Year's Eve look. It was a little over-the-top considering we were just hanging out and eating dinner at a friend's house with her mom and her best friend's mom. Perhaps my ouchfit would have been more appropriate for Steel's party at our house.

What kind of parents would go out when their 9th grade daughter is having "a few kids over...maybe some boys, but probably not" on New Year's Eve? We used to be that kind of parent until 2023. I have heard about Manchester-by-the-Sea high school parties in which $10,000 diamond bracelets have gone missing, handrails have been pulled off of walls, and barf has been an issue, but we felt that Steel and her posse, great kids whose main vices are sugar and cheese balls, could be left alone. 

After my fun evening at Lloyd's, Steel and Caylee hopped into the van complaining about one of their friend's inability to pay attention to basic plays on the field hockey field. The conversation moved from there to  Steel's New Year's Eve party.  Apparently the boys who "probably weren't coming" arrived smoking cigars. I don't really care about that. (Tim's father is famous for having given his four children, Pat, Erin, Tim and Michael cigars when their little brother, Johnny was born. They strutted around the neighborhood puffing away at the ages of 9,8,7, and 6.) Although, the idea of a cigar lighting my Christmas tree on fire is a little scary. Apparently, Steel made the boys go outside to smoke. The boys, then, wanted to set off fireworks. Steel suggested the roof. Apparently the girl who cannot learn field hockey plays was drunk on New Year's. This friend has tripped over absolutely nothing right in front of me in my kitchen. The idea of her drunk on my roof with boys setting off fireworks is torture. It's  a miracle that the only negative repercussions of that evening were 3 gallons of cheese balls ground into our rugs and furniture. If we have 9 lives in parenting, we used up at least one that night.

Irresponsible baby

  

I looked in the owner’s manual of my 2011 Honda Odyssey to see what a golden “TPMS” on my dashboard meant. The Tire Pressure Monitoring System was protesting. Did my new knowledge inspire me to get it serviced? Nope, with an imminent 3-day trip to Philly, I didn’t bother. Steel and I went to Philly for the weekend to hang out with old friends. We were picking up a puppy on the way home. (Only a Philly-based puppy rescue would give someone like me a puppy.) Cat vaccinations must be up-to-date for puppy adoptions, so the morning before the big trip, Nola, the cat, and I got into the car to get her shot. Vaccination appointments are hard to come by these days because of Covid. Careening down the driveway, I hear “flop flop flop” …flat tire. It was 10:23. The appointment was at 10:46, 15 minutes away. I limped Schloka, the Honda Odyssey, down to the local garage. Dave put on my spare for free, and told me who to call for a new set of tires. We were on time for vet appointment. Living in Manchester allows me to be an irresponsible, entitled baby. My son left his $400 bike, unlocked, in front of Dunkin Donuts for 6 hours. It was still there after dark when he needed it to get to a scout meeting. My middle daughter, who would not walk 1.5 blocks to CVS on her own in Philadelphia is blithely flitting out at all hours to meet friends and go to parties. Toby is simultaneously seduced and repulsed by the gated feeling of this wee hamlet, probably because she’s missing Philly and is more conscious of inequity in the world.

On my way back home from the vet I stopped to renew an audiobook that Toby and I listen to during our ballet commute. People in Manchester are completely dumbfounded that we drive 35 minutes to Marblehead 4 days a week. It’s as if we fly her to Paris for ballet. They warned us about the horrors of driving through Salem during the month of October. Halloween and the Salem witch trials are the basis for most of the town’s income.  You can’t get to Marblehead without going through Salem. It was a bummer, but we survived. I write while sitting in my car outside of dance studios or I walk around the Marblehead neck. It’s kind of fun, and it’s definitely cutting into my wine time, so that’s good thing. While I waited for the audiobook renewal, the librarians asked about my screenplay progress. Researching “how to write a screenplay” for me was fun for them. I got a handwritten list of all the screenplays in New England that I could access through their lending program.  It feels like I’m back at my posh grammar school and everyone is cheering me on. Even the mailboxes in New England welcome my tug by opening wide for my letters and bills. They’ve not been rigged to a stingy half inch, like the ones in the urban world. That regular thwarting of my momentum by fearful thin-lipped mailboxes has enraged me for YEARS. 

I’m delivering Meals on Wheels. Upon hearing this a friend told me I was now a “Manchester Mom.” Manchester moms have a lot of time on their hands. I bristled at the accusation and died my hair blue. I’m edgy! I don’t belong to the country club! He started to point out that the ability to dye my hair blue indicates that I don’t need to go to a serious job every day, but he edited himself. I’ve been wearing my mom’s jewelry. It’s not my style, but it was all given to her by someone who loved her and frankly, I like knowing it touched her skin. In response to compliments, I always say it was my mom’s. What I’m really saying is, “I would never have picked this out at Kay jewelers! I’m way too cool for mall jewelry!” But I am not too cool for anything. My hip, creative, progress-driven persona is in hibernation. Initially, purging mom’s house felt like progress. I scoffed at warnings to take my time with her things. I regret being hasty with some stuff, but I’m baffled by the pockets of resistance that remain. Mom’s mountains of vintage sewing and knitting patterns lurk in a laundry basket under the piano, I culled her make-up drawer, but kept way more than I can use in a lifetime. Sticky tubes of orange and pink lipstick and green eyeshadow from the 70’s beckon to me from the drawer in the bathroom-sometimes when I’m just going out for a run,. Mom’s shower cap still hangs on a hook in our bathroom. I hate everything about shower caps, but that one is telling Marie Kondo to fuck off. As guests stay in other parts of the house, our bedroom and bathroom are low down on the priority list when cleaning happens. I finally snapped and tried unsuccessfully to clean the stain from a coffee tsunami on the wall behind mom’s bedside table and bed. I even took on the spiders in her bathroom. As I spritzed Mrs. Myers Clean Day Honeysuckle Multi-Surface Everyday Cleaner, all over the place, I thought of elephants annually visiting and caressing the bones of their ancestors. I know dust is mostly comprised of skin. Has my cleaning procrastination been avoiding saying good bye to her skin?

My mom always had multiples of any given tool, most of them crappy, but she usually had one good one squirreled away. I found an old set of black-handled scissors in the basement that can cut through fine fabric or a finger, but there are 37 pairs of Dollar Store scissors in the kitchen that can’t cut a sheet of paper. There are ineffective nail clippers throughout the house, but there’s one old, ivory-handled manicure set that has out-lived its brown leather case. It lives in the second drawer of my mom’s bureau. I covet the remaining tools from that kit. Whenever my mom would visit, she would ask that one of my kids clip and paint her toenails. Steel usually ended up with the job. It was not easy; mom’s toes were gnarled with arthritis, and the nails were thick with fungus. Two days after my mom died, we went on a 2-week family vacation with another family. The Utah trip had been cancelled once because of Covid, and my mom would have been livid if we’d cancelled again. It was a blur of teenage angst and drama articulated by incredible hikes. We decided to encourage the kids’ sulking in group pictures. Every shot looks like a surly album cover. I remember thinking about my mom in Bryce Canyon. We hiked in those limestone spires, the hoodoos. I kept wondering what they reminded me of…oh!!! my mom’s toes. 

I recently discovered in my mom’s laundry cabinet a red-lidded Tupperware filled with powder. The post-it on top, advertised, in my brother’s child-like writing, “Jana-approved dishwasher soap for laundry challenges.” I made a paste out of the powder and some liquid laundry soap and rubbed it into grease stains on a pair of Steel’s hot pink sweat pants. Those sweatpants are back to their greaseless glory. Is everyone on earth sharing these laundry secrets on post-its and laughing at my grubby family? I suspect that everyone is also sneaking out and bowling without me. How could I be such a bad bowler and how could everyone else be decent at it?

My flawless sister in law, the laundry whisperer, came in July with my brother and kids for the initial purge of mom’s house. Gillian and Owen are my niece and nephew. GIllian’s boyfriend, Tyler, came up as well. Family friends appeared periodically to offer condolences during those first two weeks. My kids and their cousins would sit looking at their screens or their food, barely acknowledging that someone new had entered the house. Tyler, however, would spring up from his chair, hand out, jovially announcing, “Hi!! My name isTyler!” I got so frustrated with the Kinder/McDonald posse, that I finally said, “I don’t care WHO you’re meeting or WHO you are!!! From now on, when someone new comes across your path, I want you to say, “HI, MY NAME IS TYLER!!!!” 

The house had vomited clothes, furniture, books and rugs for a week straight. Tyler mused, “You guys keep talking about how Susie was a hoarder; I really wish I’d gotten to see the house when it was all packed with stuff!” Jana and I looked at each other and she said, “You did! When we first got here!” Tyler was unimpressed by my mom’s adolescent level of hoarding. I wonder what his house looks like. My favorite thing about the whole scenario is knowing that Jana had encouraged Gillian to tell her father that she was sexually active. Gillian decided to mention it to my brother casually while brushing her teeth. Hearing the news from his little girl’s frothy-toothpaste-filled mouth lacked the decorum he’d anticipated, but he handled it.

Steel was bitter about Tyler’s ubiquity. She’d been hoping for some girl time with Gillian. As a little kid, Steel had worshipped Gillian. Then there was the summer Gillian, at 13, was saddled for two weeks with Steel and Toby in her bedroom and wasn’t happy about it. 13 is a time for friends-not baby cousins, but Steel has held a grudge ever since. Jana, meanwhile, told me that Gillian feels that Steel is “too cool” to want to hang out with her. I hope all of this unravels at some point, and they can be friends. Like Gillian, I have always suspected that Steel is a bit of a “Heather.” If you’ve not seen the movie, Heather’s, it’s a campy classic. Christian Slater and Winona Ryder engineer the deaths of the popular kids at school. I’m starting to think that Steel is more of a diabolical Christian Slater than just a mean girl, Heather. This theory evolved on Toby’s birthday a couple of weeks ago. First Steel encouraged Toby to reject our big present and say, “I’d rather have a dog.” I told Toby that the dog was a separate issue, but I was definitely going to return the present if she didn’t love it. This put Toby in tears because she wanted the present but was feeling that she’d not been properly grateful. Next JP got a bad haircut while Toby was at ballet, and Steel and I were thrifting. Tim texted to warn us to be nice. I spent 20 minutes talking to Steel about how fragile JP had been recently and how she needed to be kind. Upon seeing him, Steel puckered her face and said, “It’s not THAT bad.” Tim went berserk. We’d all made amends over sushi, but at cake-cutting time, Steel said, “Toby, you take the big one. You’ve always been BIG!” Toby shrieked and ran to her room in tears. All of my confidence that Toby does not have body issues, despite being a ballet dancer, went down the toilet.  Toby has since assured us that she knows she’s a perfect weight and size. She said she’d just had it with Steel and that it felt great to scream and run away from her. I get it. My dad recently retold a story about a girl saying, “You’d better watch out for the hefty one!” at one of my field hockey games. The punch line is that I was the hefty one. I didn’t scream and run away from him. I merely responded, “It was good advice; watch out for the hefty one.”

Strawberry Shortcake

This is the only pic I have of Steel from Halloween/her birthday. She and her friend Gracie had a last minute change of heart. They went from slutty witches to Barbie and Raquel.

Speaking of the hefty one….I just got the following text from the guy who accused me of being a Manch mom, Hey-I am going to try and return some ground pork to Tendercrop…unless you want it. What????? As if he’d ever have the balls to return a bag of pork to a family-owned local farm. My mom is the only person who would try and pull that off. I just brought Philly style bagels to this guy; he only wanted sesame bagels because apparently, no good Jew would want anything but sesame bagels. I had no idea my penchant for salt bagels makes me a bad Jew! Now he wants me to take his cast off pork? I told him to make a goddamned meatloaf and fedex it to our mutual friend.

I was complaining earlier in this blog about mailboxes thwarting my momentum. I have very little momentum to thwart right now, but Leo, the new puppy is impossibly adorable, so all writing, soap making, gardening, potting, exercising and putting on too much old make up is coming to a grinding halt. I will instead be employing much of the army of mom’s cleaning products to remove piddle stains from all of my Home Goods rugs. I will be waking at 5 to take him out to pee and heartily congratulating him for doing so. I will be recording his every hiccup and sending these boring videos to everyone in my contacts list. I will be googling topics like "houseplants that are toxic to puppies," and “teaching a cattle dog puppy not to nip.” Then I will be administering multiple conflicting training methods to an increasingly baffled hound. I will also be nagging my children about not doing their parts.  I hope to be trying to seduce the cat, who is on a hunger strike, into eating delicious pork meatloaf. 

These images are so aspirational. All 21 McDonalds got together for nan's 80th and posed for beachy photos in light blue attire. They prompted a facebook post that read:

Our life is perfect. All three kids confide in us about everything that's going on in their lives. It doesn't come up often, but we have excellent modes of conflict resolution in our house. The kids independently told me they don't want any Christmas presents; they'd rather the money go to charity. We've all given up eating meat, wearing leather, sugar and alcohol. In the evenings we sit by the fire and play music, tell stories and darn socks. My son's room smells like dew, and I never find big clumps of wet hair festering on the edge of the girls' tub with a trash can 14 inches away.