Bad Hippie, No Patchouli!

Stinky, Picasso, Ziggy, and Ruby would like to take a break from their regularly scheduled routines of eating, napping, and wreaking havoc on the Hippie Household to bring you this important public service announcement:

"Please help the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee raise money for The Humane Society of Tacoma/Pierce County's during their "Dog-a-Thon" for homeless pets!"

Ziggy would like to assure you that the name "Dog-a-Thon" is misleading -- the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee is walking to raise funds in support of a quarantine room for cats at the Humane Society's headquarters. Not that anything is wrong with being a dog lover, although Ruby might not be too pleased with you if you let the proverbial cat out of the bag, so to speak. Trust me. Her claws are sharp.

Here's a message about the fundraiser straight from the IBKC's Web site:

"The human members of the IBKC will be participating in The Humane Society of Tacoma/Pierce County's Dog-A-Thon walk for homeless pets. If you would like to help us reach our goal, or find out more about the walk, please click HERE."

It's no secret that the felines in our household are fans of the IBKC -- in fact, they were all rescues in their own way. Stinky P. Boo, cat extraordinaire, came with my first rental home. She had been abandoned by a local college student and grudgingly taken in by a previous renter, who was more than happy to leave her with me. Picasso came from Erie Shores Humane Society, and was a foster very much like the IBKC fosters. (His foster mommy lived on a blueberry farm. Go figure!) Ziggy was adopted after a coworker at HWSRN's place of employment posted a sign to get rid of him because he was "too furry." (Hmmmphhh!) And Ruby -- well, we found her on the mean streets of Mayberry-on-Acid, U.S.A., fighting neighborhood dogs and scrounging for food. She adopted us!

There's a lot of local kitties out there I'd like to help, and that we (meaning my fabulous felines) hope you can help, too! But if you have just a little bit of change to spare for the Itty Bitties, please give their foster mom Laurie a hand and support their efforts on this walk. (The kitties have ALMOST reached their goal of $15,000.) The IBKC brings a smile to my face almost daily, and I admire Laurie's dedication to fostering these kitties -- and finding them good forever homes.

Picasso says: "Why are you still here? Go to the IBKC's Web site and donate your catnip money to help out those Itty Bitties! It's hard out there for us kitties. We need all the help from you humans that we can get!

Thank you!

As a first-time and extremely green gardener (and I mean "green" in the sense of "I-don't-know-what-the-hell-I'm-doing-out-back-in-my-raised-beds"), I like to celebrate the small successes of my veggie crop. And by small, I do mean small. Behold! My first harvest of carrots and onions:

Yes, that's a picture of teeny-tiny carrots and some onion-looking things. They are small. But they were certainly delicious, although there really wasn't enough of them to go around. So I ate the carrots raw, and put the onions on top of a salad for HWSRN.

Impressive, no? We have had a most excellent harvest of lettuce, though, as well as chard. And my bush beans are going bonkers -- the leafy plant parts are huge, and the actual beans are starting to grow. My zucchini is starting to flower, and my heirloom chocolate bell peppers have tiny little peppers on their stems. The tomatoes, on the other hand, can suck it. No blossoms yet. Everyone else that I talk to seems to have green tomatoes growing and ripening on their tomato vines. Hmmm...I think I detect a bit of garden envy setting in. I did, however, manage to kill my strawberry plants, I think. Maybe. At least, I know that I killed all of the plant's runners. But I cut everything back to the crown, and can see a bit of new growth starting to form. I guess I'll just have to let this experiment run it's course before I know if the strawberries survive, Gloria Gaynor style.

Other hippie-like endeavors for the summer have included buying super cheap zucchini at the Farmer's Market, shredding it, and freezing it in Ziploc baggies for the winter. (Yes, I will regret this move if my zucchini plants actually produce zucchini this year.) Then there was the eight quarts of strawberries I picked for freezer jam:

Holy shit! My jam actually turned into jam. I'm a rock star!

Another four quarts of strawberries got drawn and quartered for winter, too. Earth mamas, unite!

Yesterday, I decided to pick local cherries -- 20 odd pounds of them. (It seemed like a good idea at the time.) Disclaimer: four pounds were for a friend. I got a sour cherry cake out of the buckets I lugged home, as well as 12 jars of fancy cherry jam that DID NOT gel. Damn you, David Lebowitz! Your no-recipe cherry jam recipe promised success. Looking on the bright side, however, I now have some pretty fancy cherry ice cream topping to gift at Christmas. Although, the jam is pretty good on toast, too. Runny, but good.

There's another baggie of frozen sour cherries in the freezer for winter baking, and once I get my lazy butt around to it, there will be a baggie or two of black cherries to freeze as a yogurt topping. All in all, not a bad haul (so far) for an inexperienced gardener.

Although, I gotta say -- I'm starting to realize that going back to the land means investing in a chest freezer. Especially if you plan on storing 18 jars of freezer jam in with your other frozen stuff. It's getting a little crowded, but pleasantly so, in my regular freezer. But it's sure gonna be a challenge to fit all of the blueberry and raspberry jam I want to make later in the season in there with the other stuff, you know?

Twenty-four years ago today, my maternal grandfather died after a struggle with lung cancer. The smoking habit that he had acquired during WWII had long been given up, but the non-filtered Camels he favored during his stint overseas had done their damage. I was 11 years old, and he was only in his mid-70s.

I don't remember much about my grandpa, but at least I got to know him a little bit -- my youngest siblings never even got to meet him. He's just a picture to them. What I do remember is that he had a thick head of curly white hair up until the chemo took that away from him. (My uncle has that same head of hair, minus the "white" part.) I also remember that my grandpa did the dishes for my grandma after every meal -- without prompting. And in the summers when my brother and cousins spent a week visiting with them, grandpa always made blueberry pancakes for breakfast at least once as a treat for his grand kids. It was, my grandma said, the only meal he ever mastered.

My grandpa was the first person I ever knew to buy a diesel car -- a huge boat of a late '70s station wagon, white with a faux-wood stripe down each side. I remember riding shotgun with him to a neighboring town on a shopping errand for my grandma, and having him point out local landmarks to me along the way. Riding shotgun was a big deal back then, but having him all to myself was even better.

Grandpa was a veteran, but he didn't talk too much about the war. He told me a bit about it, mainly because I was the only grand kid who was old enough to ask about or be interested in his experiences. I have the insignia to his uniform in my jewelry box. I found it in my grandma's jewelry box after she died, and pocketed it before anyone could throw it out. I remember him telling me that he was stationed near the front, but only in an administrative capacity. He had bad vision (and glasses), so the higher ups wouldn't let him join the infantry. It's a good thing, too -- he managed to break his glasses at least twice during his tour overseas, and had to write home for replacements.

My grandma met my grandpa on a blind date, just a few weeks before he was scheduled to leave for Europe. She was in her mid 30s then -- older than the average single gal, but still at home to take care of her younger siblings and sick mother. I wonder sometimes if she worried about her future, or was envious of her married friends. But according to grandma, she fell in love the minute she set eyes on my grandpa. Grandpa later told her that he had made up his mind to marry her when he saw her sitting on her mother's porch. He proposed one week later, and they were married in her parent's living room three weeks after their first date. My great grandma cried during the entire ceremony, mainly because her Catholic daughter had decided to marry a heathen of a Lutheran. (Oddly enough, it was my grandpa who later made all of his kids go to Catholic Sunday school and my grandma who would let them skip this weekly obligation.) Grandma wore a green velvet suit with a giant corsage for the ceremony, and grandpa wore his army uniform. In the picture a friend took of them after they said their vows, she is radiant -- and he can't take her eyes off of her.

My grandma had always wanted to be a writer. A "real" writer. So she practiced by writing long letters to grandpa during his tour of duty, but more often than not, she wrote him poetry. Poetry about how much she missed him, poetry about day-to-day things, humorous poetry to cheer him up. Grandpa would pay his more literary army buddies to write poems that he then mailed back to her. I have that correspondence now. I took the fat envelope of yellowing letters from her top dresser drawer a year before she died, at her request. She wanted them to live on in someone's memory.

Grandpa was a gardener, but I don't really remember working in the garden with him. It was a pretty good-sized garden for two people to have, and he spent a lot of time puttering around in it. I do remember helping weed it during a few of my summer visits, and shelling peas in the cool garage next to his work bench after he picked a basket of them. Grandma always had a garden, even after grandpa died. She even planted a patch of rhubarb in his memory -- his favorite pie was strawberry rhubarb pie. The funny thing though, was that Grandma hated rhubarb. But not as much as she hated grandpa's experimental bottles of dandelion wine.

My grandma and grandpa spent the winter months in Florida, so that grandpa could avoid the harsh winter air. They had a crew of snow bird friends down there, and bought a trailer next to my grandma's younger brother Roy. Roy lived in Florida year round, and would great my grandparent's annual fall arrival with an expansive smile and the same greeting year after year: "Welcome to Utopia!" Grandma and grandpa did come home for Christmas, though, to visit with the grand kids and to deliver bags of fresh grapefruit for our holiday brunch.

I don't remember when my grandpa was diagnosed with cancer. But I remember that he was suddenly very sick, and seemed suddenly very fragile. For some reason I can no longer remember, I was sent to stay with my grandma for a week to help her take care of grandpa. He had started chemotherapy and was not feeling well. I remember that my grandma helped him take a bath one morning and then asked me to dry his hair. He sat in his old brown chair and patiently let me blow dry and comb out his curls. But that day, his hair began coming out in clumps. I remember that it was this loss that finally made my grandma break down and cry.

The day before he died, we all gathered at my grandparent's house. The adults headed to the hospital to be with grandpa, but my aunt stayed behind to babysit the younger crowd. She decided to keep us occupied and make dinner -- meatloaf and mashed potatoes -- for the entire family at the same time, so we were all given jobs. Peel the potatoes, chop the onions, measure out the ketchup, mix up the beef, cut up tomatoes for the salad. My grandpa died while we were cooking that dinner -- I remember my aunt answering the phone and then telling us all that our grandpa was gone. I don't think we finished cooking that meal, or that we even ate that night.

My grandpa asked for me while he was in the hospital, but I was too scared to visit him. I was the only grand kid old enough to be admitted during visiting hours, but I was too scared to see him in a hospital bed or even worse, without his hair. My mom and dad never forced the issue with me, so I didn't see grandpa before he passed away. This is something that I always will regret. He asked, and I didn't go. I was his first grand child -- and an adopted grand child at that. My parents waited four years to adopt me, and my grand parents were very much involved in the process. Grandpa doted on me. I still have a picture of him holding me minutes after I came home from the adoption agency, and he is beaming.

My grandma lived for 15 more years after grandpa died. We moved her from the home they had made together to a smaller house, where she would be closer to the rest of her family. She made friends, found a church, gardened, welcomed new grandchildren into the family, celebrated birthdays and weddings, and even got to meet three of her great grandchildren -- The Beavis, and my cousin's two children. I remember that she came to take care of me after The Beavis was born, and wouldn't let me climb the stairs to get him after his naps. Instead, she made the trek up and down herself, calming her crying grand baby all the way. When he learned to talk, The Beavis would refer to her as "great grandma." This always made her laugh, especially when she replied: "Why, hello to you, Charlie," and he angrily insisted ( with a lot of foot stomping) that his name was NOT Charlie.

My grandma eventually outlived her oldest son -- her middle child. I'm sure this was almost worse than burying her husband. She grew frail and isolated, but insisted on staying in her home. She eventually fell down the steps and broke her hip. The doctors suggested admitting her to an assisted living facility and selling her house, because she was never going to be able to live alone again. Grandma staged a hunger strike in response. My grandpa was with her as she died -- or, at least, she thought he was there. She carried on long conversations with him in the end, and quietly slipped away during one of them.

We didn't celebrate the Fourth of July the year my grandpa died. And we didn't celebrate it for many years after that. Instead, we would take my grandma to the cemetery and then get together as a family for a simple meal. At some point, we did start celebrating the holiday with bigger barbeques and more guests -- but I can't remember when or who decided that it was okay to move on.

Some years I don't really think about my grandpa dying on the Fourth of July, but other years it really bugs me. This year is a "really bugs me" year, and I don't know why. I think it has something to do with watching my parents get older and physically age -- a phenomenon that I didn't really notice until the last few years. Maybe it's simply me getting older. Maybe it's hormones...or a combination of all three. But this year just seems a little bit lonelier celebrating the Fourth of July without the folks I used to see at our family cook outs.

It's official, folks. I'm now the mother of a teen driver. The Beavis earned his temporary driver's license this weekend, and took to the mean streets of Mayberry-on-Acid, U.S.A. in the soccer mobile to practice his technique:

Beavis says: "I actually think it's pretty awesome that I have my temps now, but there is no way in hell I'm going to let my dorky mom know that!"

So, now I get to ride shotgun while The Beavis learns to take turns at a reasonable speed and park in parking lots full of cars. And oh, the hills! The big practice hill is coming up soon. Will he get the car up it if we start from a full stop at the bottom? It kinda freaks me out that I'm going to be the one to find out the answer to this question.

And I thought it was a milestone when I sent him away to orchestra camp...for a whole week. Or when we sat in the ER with his first broken bone...and sat there again six months later with another sports-related break. Or when his high school orchestra traveled to ITALY to perform. That was pretty scary stuff, but it didn't involve moving vehicles and other potential life-threatening hazards. This driving stuff takes the cake in the "mom is really freakin' worried now" department. I think I may have to take out stock in Clairol if I want to survive the next couple of years with blond hair!

Question: Should I be concerned that the vast majority of ADHD books stocked by my library are currently checked out and/or listed as lost?

Either the whole town has ADHD, or one ADHD individual keeps checking books out and misplacing them! Lord help the rest of us, who are just as likely to misplace the books once we order them from the inter-library loan program. At least now I have an excuse to explain away my chronic and running tab at the library. I mean, really now -- how hard is it to return a book on time? Pretty hard, I guess, if you're me!

Here's a gratuitous beauty shot of Stinky P. Boo, cat extraordinaire, to hopefully make this long-winded post a bit more appealing.

In other, not-joking-now-about-ADHD news, my doctor has added a stimulant to the mix. Zoloft wasn't cutting it for me...made me sleepy and almost comatose. Sure, it calmed me down, but anyone can be calm when they're ASLEEP! I'm now taking an Adderall-based stimulant, which I split in two and take twice a day to avoid crashes. Aside from the one funky day I spent getting used to it, I am amazed at how well it works. I'm awake! And focused. And not jittery. I guess I never realized that I couldn't sit still...I'm not exactly the type to bounce off the walls and run around distracting other people. But the wiggly legs, constant yawning, and propensity to talk were just ways to keep me up and stimulated while my brain was crashing. To just be able to sit still and focus on the task at hand (even if it is boring) is a true revelation. Not to mention my new-found ability to keep quiet. HWSRN particularly enjoys this new development.

It's incredible to have energy throughout the day. To wake up, do the stuff you have to do during the day, and still have the desire to go running or play soccer in the evening hours. Before, it was a battle of wills to get to activities after work -- i.e., me vs. my tired brain. Now, running after work is a joy. (It helps that I now have a running partner, too!) Soccer at 9 p.m.? No problem! Not that drugs have improved my game, but they certainly are allowing me to focus a bit more and not get distracted! But -- if you do know of a drug that improves foot skills, please let me know. I'll have the doc write a script, pronto! I'm also happy to report that the new drug regimen is helping curb my sugar cravings as well as the tendency to shove food into my mouth when I'm feeling stressed or sad -- or even bored. All together, a huge improvement!

Interestingly enough, however, the drugs aren't the only part of the equation. The doctor, while a fan of medicine, also is encouraging me to set three goals -- a personal one for myself, an "outside" goal, and a relationship goal. Once I name these goals, I should focus on them each day (through meditation, walking, praying -- whatever works for me) and then -- get this -- work on "growing my neurons out." Yeah. I'm not sure what that means, but I guess the ADHD can shut parts of your brain down and keep them from working to their full capacity. Your brain may have all the correct pieces and parts, but they aren't switched on. Growing the neurons out switches the non-functional parts back on and allows you to finally become a complete, fully-functioning individual.

Yeah. I alternate between trying to grow my neurons out and laughing at the concept. Do you think a t-shirt with a big brain plastered across the front and a bunch of little dangly neurons growing out would be a hit? Well -- I'd wear one, at any rate!

In other news, we've reached the end of the school year. The Beavis has survived his first year of high school with little to no problems, and has graduated to the rank of a sophomore. Next up -- his temps. Think of me on June 13, people. I'll be at the local BMV, signing away permission for my son to learn to drive. In my car. On a real road. With other real cars flying by. Please...send hair dye. I'm gonna need it to cover the gray.

While driver's ed is not a good way to grow your neurons out, gardening sure is. After reading way too many books on the subject, I'm taking my first stab at the home garden. The Beavis helped me build a couple of raised beds (I'm a bit scared of power tools) and we've planted lettuce, swiss chard, spinach, bush beans, carrots, onions, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and some basic kitchen herbs. I'm rather surprised and pleased to report that stuff is actually GROWING in my mess of a garden -- despite my best efforts to either over- or under-water it. See? I even have proof:

Strategic placement of the paving stones as garden pathway compliments of HWSRN. Mainly because I am a weak-ass girly-girl.And a harsh task master.

And here's a shot of the second bed:

Sadly, the heirloom tomatoes I grew so carefully from seedlings are looking a little bit peaked. I'm not sure if they're going to make it, but we've given them some fertilizer and will see what happens. Yes, I do have visions of eating a full salad from those tiny lettuce plants some day soon, and possibly putting away some beans for the winter. And perhaps making some spaghetti sauce for the cold months. A girl has to have dreams, you know. Even if they are a bit far-fetched.

The feline members of the Hippie Household aren't that concerned with the progress of the family garden. They'd rather hang out and enjoy the various sun spots we have scattered across the house:

Ziggy says: "I wonder if I should pounce on Stinky? Nah...I guess I'll just stay here in this sun spot and rest. I can bug her later."

Ruby, on the other hand, seems pretty focused on growing HER neurons out:

Ruby says: "Ommmmmm..."

Either that or she's focused on her next meal. Who really knows?