About the detritus of winter

So today I took a box of daffodil bulbs from the shelf in the garage where it had sat all winter. Certainly I'd meant to plant them in the fall, when bulbs should be planted; indeed, after Angela gave them to me, in September, "plant bulbs" had gone on my to-do list each weekend. 

But somehow fall got away from me, maybe because I'm always in denial--if fall has really come, then it will lead, inevitably, to winter. I'm not fond of winter's long chill, and if I pretend it's not fall yet, perhaps winter will not come, either.

So the bulbs don't get planted.

But the garage is cool, and mostly dark, and that's how bulbs are supposed to be stored. So when a day comes in late winter that feels more like early spring, I think about those bulbs and decided to take a leap of faith, being an optimistic sort, that if I plant them, they will grow.

So I haul the necessary accouterments outside: the bulbs, the trowel, my gardening gloves, a trash can for the detritus of winter that must be moved before things can grow.

And there in the afternoon sun, on the south side of the house, winter--long and gray here in Indiana, frigid and snowy, dangerously icy, welcome long since wore out--disappeared.

I took my clippers and trimmed back the dry, dead leaves from daylillies and roses; scooped up crackly bronze pin oak leaves blown from trees that aren't even in my yard, gathered last year's tomato plants and the fall's chrysanthemums. Gathered them up and threw them away.

Dug my trowel deep in the earth, moist and soft from last week's soakings, and wiggled it around, so I could place each daffodil bulb as deep as I could, shoving it down with my fingers, then pressing the dark dirt down gently. 

I've worked on these beds--the horrible plastic-y clay soil is now buried beneath years of black dirt and compost and mulch I've worked in. Every spring, when I plant my marigolds and petunias, tomatoes and peppers, I spread bag after bag of something--anything!--more planting-friendly that that clay. 

I put a dozen in a little front bed, around the crab apple tree, among the daylillies; then another couple dozen in the narrow bed along the south end of the house, where tulips were pushing up and a few brave crocuses already bloomed.

I'd taken off my jacket early in this process; the sun shone strong and warm on my back, and I started to remember what a warmer world felt like.

Not an hour's work, after all--I really did have time to do this last fall. 

It's not guaranteed these bulbs will sprout, given the negligence they've suffered, but I'm feeling optimistic. Some of the bulbs were sprouting a little; I'm thinking they may just keep growing and bloom right when they are supposed to, anyway. 

How tidy the little beds seemed after I was done, all winter's garbage gone. And I felt I'd planted so many mysteries that will make the spring even better than usual: will the bulbs grow? And bloom? And what colors will be where?

So winter left us one March day on Hearthstone Drive; trucked away in a garbage bin. We dug spring up, and resurrected it. Again.

New Twitter Name: CathyBlogs

Tweet me at CathyBlogs

About Peter Tork

Last week, I was surfing channels and stopped dead at The Smithsonian Channel because I heard the announcer say, "Coming up next: The Monkees."

The Monkees. On The Smithsonian Channel. 

That was just weird enough to watch.

And worth it--while I knew some of the story--the manufactured first-boy-band-ness of them, the emnity with their producer, the bad break-up--I'd had no idea that Jack Nicholson was in any way involved (with Head, their weird, probably bad, first-and-last movie).

Lots of screaming girls in that documentary. Girls who, in 1966 or '67, where older than I, but none who loved Monkees more. Me, my brother, my sisters--we all loved The Monkees. We played them for my parents--we'd put their albums on and pretend to play. We were the original lip-synchers.

My littlest sister was always Mike (she got the leftovers), my brother was Mickey, my other sister was Davy, and I was Peter. I liked his (relative) quietness, his quirky goofiness. He didn't sing many songs, though--I'd have preferred he had more of a lead role in the band.

I remember writing a fan letter--I really sent it, but I have no idea who I addressed it to--begging that I BE a Monkee. Like they needed a 12-year-old clarinet player.

Sometime in the late '80s, The Monkees came to Fort Wayne and yes, I went. No Mike--I think he's permanently estranged from the troop--but Davy, Peter, Mickey--there they were, on the Coliseum stage, and I was breathing the same air as they. There for an hour or so ... I was 12 again.

Funny how now and then, a Monkee song is used in an ad or is covered by another band--Smashmouth, among others.

On my Facebook status, on the night I watched The Monkee's show, I mentioned my affection for them. And how surprised was I when a friend who'd lived in California in the '80's commented that he had MET Peter Tork--he'd MOVED Peter's stuff. My friend was working for a moving company, and he MOVED PETER TORK. Peter seemed down on his luck, at that time, my friend said--kind of sad. 

I felt badly at that, but still--I know knew someone who HAD MET PETER TORK!

So I'm surfing MSNBC.com just last week, and what headline do I see? That Peter Tork--my Peter--has cancer.

Oh no. I just meet you, and now this.

Prognosis looks okay for Peter, and I have to say, in the Smithsonian show, he seemed good. Maybe my friend moved him at a down moment.

Hang in there, Peter. Remember, I'm a believer.

About getting Twittered

The other day at work I was talking to someone across the field at the cubicle farm -- I had needed him to call me and I said, without thinking, over the heads of a bunch of technically challenged people (who laughed),

"You could have Twittered me."

Out of context, a rather suggestive statement.

But lately, it's a heck of a good way to get my attention.

Those 140-character updates are both hypnotizing and addicting, whether I'm following my closest family ... or some organization for work ... or, God forgive me, a celebrity.

If I enjoy getting updates from my nephew ("I hate cleaning the grease tubs as work") (He works at a KFC), and if I learn a lot about what our competitors are doing at work ("New blog post about blah blah blah"), it's my new BFF I really can't quit following.

ohiamsosorrytoadmitthis

John Mayer. 

Indeed, I am one of John's 50,000+ Twitter followers. But the beauty of Twitter? I feel like he's Twittering just to me.

Because there's my Twitter screen. And in the list with my sister, my nephew, my friends, my interests, is my new boyfriend, John Mayer. Twittering to ME.

His guitars, his Oscar experience, his jokes, his new web site, he's telling me all about it. 

And sometimes, it's so, so hard not to reply, to tell John just what I think of tux, his music, his poll on People. 

Twitter gives you ... the illusion of chumminess. The Twitter illusion.

'Cause I know that really? John Mayer does not follow my tweets. He doesn't know I had to choose between McDonald's or Burger King for lunch, or that I love my netbook, or that I needed coffee this morning. John. Just. Doesn't. Care.

Oh, well. His loss, huh, that he won't know he's the star of my latest blog post? 

But if YOU'RE wondering what I'm peeping about, just follow: CathyBlogs

The Play-doh is FOUND!

No time to go into details now, but for those following the Play-doh story, let's just say the mystery involved Taylor and a (formerly) empty Boy Scout popcorn tin.

About lost things

Last week I filled out one of those 25-things lists on Facebook but instead of 25 things about me it was 25 things I dislike.

And I forgot to put one of the things that I dislike the most: losing things.

I hate losing little things that don't really matter and are easily replaced--like , say, cheap sunglasses. And I hate losing, or perhaps I should say misplacing, things that I really need, say, like a birth certificate or an immunization record. And I really hate losing something that is hard to replace, like a cell phone.

One reason I hate to lose things is because I can't give up looking for them. Because I'm a pretty good finder, I have a lot of motivation to look. And a certain competitiveness with the lost-ness, and a certain tenaciousness about the search. I HATE giving up.

I also hate looking for something I suspect I might have given away--certain purses, for example. In occasional fits of tidiness and clarity, when a housekeeping mood comes on, I get rid of things that I later regret. That must be what happened to that red purse I bought in 2002....

I lost a pedometer last week, I'm missing a sock, I can't find an immunization record for a MMR I think Tony should have gotten in the late '80s (but, kudos to me, I found Angela's).

I'm still missing the lip gloss I lost last February in the Ft. Wayne airport while waiting to catch a flight to NYC. Sephora, cinnamon, tube, if anyone finds it....

Which leads me to what got lost today. 

Play-doh. 

Four (read, 4!) tubs of it. Mixed together. In a big pile. Shaped into something resembling a pizza. 

A light pink ... a dark pink ... a blue ... and a purple....

Missing.

Mind: I did not lose the Play-doh. No, indeed, the blame lies on the little girls, who spent most of the afternoon sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the 'doh, rolling it, cutting out circles, rolling it, bringing it in to us and trying to give us pieces of the pie.

And now ... it's gone. Gone!

Well, now, it's not gone. I know it's here ... somewhere. 

But where the HELL where!?

I've looked everywhere. I looked all around the kitchen table and under it. I looked in the toy area. I looked in the TV room. I looked in the bathroom.

I looked downstairs in the playroom. And in the game room. And the storage room.

I looked upstairs, in the extra bedroom (but not in the bedclothes ... mmmmm), in the books, in the bathrooms (two), in the exercise room, in my bedroom. 

No Play-doh.

Somewhere, in this house, a pile of multi-colored Play-doh is slowly hardening. It's been missing long enough I think it's beyond saving, for play purposes. If it's gone long enough, it will harden into what I like to think of pre-adolescent art; I might have to save it forever to preserve the episode.

But until I find it, I will be on the lookout for stepping unawares in it, or for plunging my hand into it. 

Or I may go to bed tonight and find myself getting way too close to it.

But until I find it, I'll be obsessed by it--the thought of that blue-green muddle will hound me.

(And I really hope that it's no where that a GUEST might come across it....)

I hate lost things. 

About the dramas of the day

No, I am not a drama queen, nor even a princess, but sometimes what gets us through the day at work is a little drama.

And where do we find the drama? 

In the parking lot. Lots, actually. Lots of drama in parkings lots. (I think I channeled Dr. Suess there for a sec.)

We have parking lots on both sides of our building. So everyone is assigned to one side or the the other.

The big lot on the east side is general parking.

The several smaller lots on the west side are assigned parking. And therein lies the drama.

For office people, the west-side lots are most desired. So much so there is a WAITING LIST to get a west-side spot.

I've been a west-sider since my first day, when I was given the spot of the person I was replacing (he retired). 

Imagine my surprise when a co-worker with a little more seniority than me discovered that I had a west-side spot and called me out on it. "How'd you get that spot!?" she demanded. "HR gave it to me," I replied. Seems she'd been waiting a couple of years for a west-side spot. And she harbored a little resentment towards me until she eventually moved on to a new job. 

She never did get a west-side spot.

There's a little game that gets played on west-side peoples' days off, too. It's called, "Who Takes Your Spot." In this game, people with lesser spots (east-siders, far-west vs. near-west) vie for the prime spots of people on vacation, sick, traveling, otherwise out-of-the-office. It's a brutal, winner-take-all contest. And your prize is that you get to walk 50 less feet or so into the office! 

You know you've really made it when you get assigned to the managers' lot. Closest to the building, these 30 or so spots are coveted, doled out sparingly to directors and managers by HR, and specially watched for the "Who Takes Your Spot" game. Competition for these prime spots makes the Daytona 500 look like a preschool tricycle race. Friendships have been shattered vying for front lot spots. 

Those front lot spots are also the ones most likely to be stolen by company visitors who have no clue where visitors are supposed to park (side of the building) and just pull up right by the door.

Visitors have been double-parked into spots by disgruntled employees. Threats, including "tow trucks" and "calling HR" have been thrown about.

Who knew a parking lot could be so fraught with drama?