I'm Still Here!

Yes, it's been awhile since I've written. I know some of you are going "Aha, I KNEW she wouldn't stick with it! She came in hot, and she's already flamed out."

No.

But summer is short in Michigan, and there's lots to do in a small window of time. So I've been spending more time outside doing, and less time writing about it. I'm sure that will change with the weather, and you'll have cussing, snark, old people shit, and poop posts galore to keep you entertained in the long, cold months ahead.

Meanwhile, we're still trying to get the yard back in shape after the Great Seawall Escapade of 2021-22. We've been getting out on the pedal boat, and taking day trips to our favorite getaway, Saugatuck. I've been hiking in the woods, and hitting a lot of car shows and cruise-ins, driving the classics while the weather holds. I consider all of this doing research for future blog entries! 

I did only one art fair this summer, Lansing's Old Town ArtFeast in August. Getting away from art shows in 2020 made me realize I was a little burned out on doing the 20-25 per year I had been doing. So I scaled WAAAAAAYYY back. I'm not done with art, mind you--I have two online shops, I sell in a couple of local venues, and I've done several commissions and am working on one now. But I realized when I wasn't doing shows that I really didn't miss the physical labor involved; the packing, hauling, loading, setup, teardown, re-loading, unpacking...I'm not as young as I used to be (see previous posts), and doing all of this takes its toll. I did something horrible to my left hip and low back doing the one show I did in August, and am still not 100% back from that. Add in possible (likely) weather complications for outdoor shows--wind, heat, humidity, rain, storms--and it's a recipe for eventual burnout.

This was my second time doing ArtFeast since the pandemic shutdown, and in 2021 I wrote a little wrap-up after the show was over. It showed up in my Facebook memories this year, and when I showed it to Matt, he said "That needs to be a blog post". So until I come up with something new and original to write about...enjoy this snapshot of a day in the life of an artist from 2021. 

Also...shameless plug for my art venues, because this is my playground and I can:

Online:

https://www.facebook.com/claudiaottingerART

https://www.etsy.com/shop/ClaudiaOttingerART

https://www.redbubble.com/people/OttingerART/shop

In Lansing, Michigan:

Great Lakes Art and Gifts: https://www.glagoldtown.com/

The Little Red Schoolhouse Antiques and Crafts: http://www.lrshlansing.com/

Old People Shit: Colonoscopies

 

Smile for the camera!

Yes, it’s time for another shitty post. One day I hope to be regular…about my posting schedule, that is.  For now, you’ll just have to enjoy them when I manage to squeeze one out.

Colonoscopies are a fun thing you get to do when you’re older. And now you don’t even have to wait as long as you used to because more young people are presenting with colon cancer. Eek. Seems like the earth itself is not the only place climate change is happening. Fifty used to be the age screenings started, and now it’s forty-five. I envision a day where twenty-one will make you a legal adult and your first colonoscopy will eclipse the first legal drink as your rite of passage.

Matt and I are both frequent flyers on the Up The Butt Airlines. He’s had aggressive polyps that have been invading his space since before age fifty, and I have a family history, so I’m on the five-year plan. And my number came up in 2020. Trust me when I say that was one year I REALLY didn’t want someone poking around up there looking for shit, because I figured that would be the year they would find something. I was secretly hoping for the phone charger that had gone missing, but I was honestly expecting much worse.

Those who have had it done know...the procedure is nothing because you’re asleep, but the leadup is where all the magic happens.

First you go to the pharmacy for the the Shit Kit, aka prep kit, which is some kind of magic liquid that tastes horrible going down and transforms to boiling lava when it hits your innards. Sometimes it’ll have a fun name, like GoLytely. Which is adorable because, trust me, there’s nothing lightly about how you’re gonna go.

Liar, liar, pants (literally) on fire.

I was given split-dose prep, which means drinking half and going through hell the night before and then doing it again four hours before the procedure.

The day before the test, you’ll fast except for clear liquids.

*Pro tip from your old aunt Claudia—fuck the prep instructions, vodka IS a clear liquid.

Black coffee is a clear liquid but vodka isn't?
I call bullshit.

Midway through starving yourself, you take two laxative tablets to prime the pump. Late in the afternoon, you start drinking the prep solution, which is essentially 2 liters of seawater with a packet of fake citrus flavor mixed in to make it taste like sickenly-sweet seawater. You drink 8 ounces of that swill every 15 minutes until it’s gone, while also drinking extra water to stay hydrated and to ensure maximum bloating and discomfort while you wait for the lava to do its thing.

About this time, some people start feeling pukey. And if you throw up the prep, it’s game over, so here’s another pro tip; visit your dispensary for some CannaMelts--edibles that dissolve under your tongue. Take one and it will help settle your stomach and the buzz will distract you a little from the horrors you’re experiencing.

I did the research for you. You’re welcome.

If you think drinking the seawater is bad, wait until it transforms to boiling lava and you’ve sprayed it out the other end for hours. Basically, it feels like you’ve shotgunned a giant drum of Drano and then parked yourself bare-assed on the mouth of an active volcano. And since that rhymes so nicely, let’s just call the whole process the Drano Volcano.

Round one goes on for awhile, and just when it tapers off and you think your butthole might not spontaneously combust after all, you mix up round two and start all over again.

Partway through round one, I began to regret making fun of people who hoarded toilet paper during the pandemic, because I was starting to see the need.

About an hour into round two, I started wondering if fire extinguisher foam would interfere with my test results. Because by then the Drano Volcano had ignited the Great Ass Fire of 2020, and it was raging.

And by the time I got to the hospital for my procedure the next morning, I could barely waddle and had smoke and sparks shooting out my tailpipe.

Miraculously, after the test the doctor came in and said, “Well, you're good, we didn’t find anything. But we did have to extinguish you a couple times and some pesky spot-fires kept cropping up in your bush. Here’s some burn cream in case you need it.”

Note for next time…fire extinguisher foam is O.K.

I never did find my damn phone charger.

APB out on this guy. White male, approx. 5', looks a bit snaky.

Old People Shit: Menopause, Being Childless, and PFPT

Hi again! Did you miss the old people shit? Fear not, it's the gift that keeps on giving! 

Last time I talked about menopause and weight gain. Another charming side effect of menopause is that, when the estrogen levels go down the likelihood that you’ll pee when you sneeze goes way up.

I didn't invent the word, but I like it.

Since I don’t have kids, I thought I might get lucky and stay firm down there. Turns out Mother Nature doesn’t seem to care much for non-breeders. So even though I never bowled down that particular alley and loosened things up, she decided I wasn’t going to get a pass after all. I did my Kegels like a good doobie, to try and keep things in shape, but it wasn’t enough, so I finally talked to my doctor and she sent me for pelvic floor physical therapy.

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with pelvic floor physical therapy--but you have an image in your head right now--you’re probably on the right track.

I was led into a small room, the door was closed, and I was directed to undress from the waist down and lie down on the table. And yes, the table had stirrups. And yes, my feet went into them. Then a young woman came in snapping on rubber gloves, and she began to put me through my paces. I felt like a finger puppet in a children’s show from hell. This happened three times a week for several weeks.

Wrong kind of stirrups, but the position looks right.

I’m happy to report that after completing my regimen I could sneeze without peeing (most of the time), and I could also walk down the middle of a busy road during rush hour pantsless because that’s how much personal dignity I had left. 

I didn’t want kids for a variety of reasons, so it just never happened. Every once in awhile, if I get a pang of “what if”, all I have to do is turn on Dr. Fuckin’ Phil and see some psycho kid cornering their parents in the bedroom with a butcher knife, or a teenager running wild on the streets drinking, smoking, snorting, popping and screwing everything in sight, and my poor uterus that hung its Gone Out of Business sign a decade ago still tries to crawl up under my ribcage and hide. I swear if I was still fertile, my tubes would tie themselves.

The Glass Slipper

Cinderella tried on the glass slipper this week, and it fit perfectly!

In this story, I am Cinderella. The glass slipper is actually a boat named Dorothy at Retro Boat Rentals in Saugatuck, Michigan, which is one of our favorite summer getaway destinations. 

Retro Boat Rentals has a variety of boats; pontoons, Duffy boats, donut boats, and several small jet age 1950s-60s fiberglass boats. Anyone who knows me and my love of anything Midcentury Modern with fins need not ask what style of boat Dorothy is.

Dorothy is a 15' Glass Slipper, a rare boat made by Marlin Marine of Hillsdale, Michigan in 1958 and '59. It was designed to look like a Ford Thunderbird from the '50s with fins, headlights, fake jet air intakes, fake jet exhausts, bucket seats, T-Bird style dash, and other automotive styling cues. The employee at Retro Boats told us only about 11 were ever made. An article I found online said around 14 were manufactured in 1958, and only 5 in '59. Dorothy is one of the rare '59s. 

According to the article, the headlights on the '58s caused a bit of controversy; a Coast Guard official was said to have told the designer "we don't want to see those things out on the water". To which the designer basically responded "hold my beer", and came back in '59 with dual headlights on each side.  

Retro Boats has kept the original outboard motors and dashboards on their boats, but converted them to electric, which makes for easy operation and a quiet ride. The Kalamazoo River is a no-wake zone, so they are meant to top out at about 4 mph. They even installed a stop on the throttle so you can't really open 'er up even if you wanted to. With the throttle open as far as it would go, we achieved a maximum speed of 4.7 mph. And when we hit a patch of weeds and got briefly entangled, that dropped to about 1 mph! 

I felt right at home in Dorothy, like I had, well, put on the glass slipper and it fit perfectly. What I wouldn't give for my own Dorothy to putt up and down the Grand River in! 

Why the Blog? THIS is Why!

So I can say shit without stepping in it.

I got thrown in Facebook jail recently. It was just an overnight in the drunk tank followed by an electronic tether. “Restrictions on my account” is how they put it. I’m sure no one else here has experienced this…right? 🙄

It’s happened twice now, and for saying some pretty innocuous stuff, IMHO.

The first time it happened, I didn’t even know for several days. I was just happily reading and posting away like usual, and I went into my profile for some reason, and saw a red banner that said “Account Restricted”. I’m like “what the fuck?” And I figured, well, maybe Facebook finally had enough of me saying fuck and I’d used up however many fucks Uncle Zuck allows without realizing I’d crossed that line.

There were three restrictions, all originating from the same date in late March, and all weirdly random once I saw why I'd been dinged.

I couldn’t go live for 30 days.

I couldn’t advertise for 30 days.

Group posts would be moved lower in feeds for 30 days.

These are all things I do so infrequently, I was down to maybe 25 days by the time I even became aware.

After each restriction, there was a “see why” button. So I clicked and sawed why.

Like I said, I figured I’d finally said fuck one too many times and crossed a line.

Nope. Amazing, I know, but that wasn’t it.

A friend did a remodeling project and posted before and after photos and I liked what he’d done, so I commented on it. And I used a word in the comment that Facebook didn’t think I should be using.

Now why, since the offensive word was in a comment to a friend, was I still allowed to comment to friends, and post personal stuff, but not to, say…advertise? Since Facebook would get revenue from that and it has nothing whatsoever to do with comments on personal posts, I still can’t figure that one out. It would take precious dollars from them. I do have a small business page, and I co-admin a couple of others, and I have to say… it was kind of refreshing not to keep getting those stupid notifications: “Your post is doing well, why don’t you boost it?” That makes no sense, does it? If my post is already doing well, why would I need to boost it? Wouldn’t it be better to boost one that isn't doing so well? Like, “That post you made is lying there like a limp schlong—maybe you should give it a boost, slap it around a little and see if you can bring it to life”.

But back to the topic.

What I said in my comment was: “Nice work! Be careful handy dude, or I might kidnap you and bring you over here to do ours!”

Apparently, Facebook thought I was threatening my friend with a criminal act. And I do get it, considering the times we live in, but, geez…context, please?

Turns out I didn’t have it so bad after all. I learned later on that a friend had an experience with the same word used in the same sort of context, only she ended up with a complete suspension from Facebook AND Messenger for 30 days—and then had her entire account deleted, never to be seen again. Everything she had--all of her photos, posts, memories, everything--gone over one stupid word used in a perfectly innocent context. 

Yikes, WTF, and holy screaming shitballs!

The day after I became aware of my account restrictions, I saw something I wanted to photograph and post. So I took the picture and started to post it, and stopped myself when I typed “I shot this picture”; a perfectly legit way to describe taking a photo, but I figured it would be another one of those words. So instead, I was careful to say “I took this picture”, so I didn’t end up deeper in the shit. Which is apparently a fine word to use, but I’m guessing the nearly identical one with a different vowel isn’t.

For photographer friends, you might want to consider this a PSA. Avoid that word, and any variations on it.

I did a standup comedy open mic shortly after my unfortunate incident, and I didn’t tell many friends I was doing it. I wasn’t sure how it would go, and if it went sideways, I didn’t want to bomb in front of a bunch of people I know, and maybe have someone post that and get in trouble. And if by some miniscule chance I killed on my first try, I certainly didn’t want my friends to post that either and end up in the Facebook clink.

The most recent situation was similar to the first one, only more ridiculous yet and with a slightly different set of restrictions.

Someone I know made homemade cheesecakes for a family outing and posted the flavors she had made. My comment to her was “I will knock you down for a piece of caramel pecan!” Apparently Facebook again decided I was threatening someone with violence; and even the schoolyard bully type will get you slapped. This time, I got a complete 24-hour suspension from posting or commenting, a 48-hour restriction from posting in groups, and for the next 30 days my group posts would be moved lower in feeds (whatever the fuck that actually means).

Juliet. Foxtrot. Charlie. 🤦

So my point is that apparently it’s okay to use ALL the words on Facebook that George Carlin told us we couldn’t say on TV back in the ‘70s, and deploy them at will, but there are others that are to be avoided. Here's what I hope is a helpful list:

KIDNAP
HOSTAGE
KILL
SLAY
MURDER
STAB
SHOOT/SHOT
HANG
BOMB
KNOCK DOWN
BEAT

I’m sure there are more. I’m equally confident that I will step in it again at some point.

So curse away, my foulmouthed friends--just make sure you post “fuck” and not “F Bomb”.

Old People Shit: Menopause, Turkey Necks, and the Dreaded FUPA

What the hell is going on under here?

Something women have to look forward to when they get older is menopause. A lot of women mourn the loss of their fertility when the babymaker stops working, but I for one welcomed it. I never had kids and didn’t have that “once more for old times’ sake” yearning, and I always had the hormones from Hell and everything that went along with them--epic PMS, horrible periods, and migraines that laid me out for days at a time. So I was really happy to see that shit go bye bye.

But there are things about it that are not so great.

For one thing, a lot of women gain weight. I was always very slim. Then I hit the wall of menopause head on--BANG!--the airbags deployed, and they never went down. I used to be able to eat anything and not gain an ounce; I could eat a side of beef, belch up a hoof, and gain nothing. Now fat sticks to me like baby shit sticks to a bedroom wall. If I so much as smell something greasy or high sodium, I blow up like a tick.

I gained it all in the abdomen, through the bust, and under my chin, where I have amassed an impressive collection of secondary chins, should I find myself in need of one at some later time. My ass is still as flat as a board, thanks to genetics on my mother’s side, but I make up for it out front. 

My father's side of the family is responsible for the chins. They are extreme overachievers in that department. Not a graceful swan neck to be found in that lineage, just a bunch of turkeys. 

No relation of mine.

There we go.

Our house backs up to a canal, and I swear to God I had a bullfrog sing me the song of his people when I was on the patio one day. Believe me, nothing will motivate you to put down the ice cream like being serenaded by a horny bullfrog that picks you as the object of his affection.

Hey baby, feelin' lucky tonight?

And what really pisses me off is that if Matt gets on the scale and doesn’t like what he sees, he just eats one less potato chip with lunch for a week and he’s down five pounds. If I got lost in the woods with nothing to eat but leaves and berries for a week, I might lose five pounds--but four of those would be from the giant load I’d dump the first time something rustled the bushes after dark.

Then there's the dreaded FUPA.

If you don't know what that is, it's the saggy, apron-like thing that now hangs between your hips where your nice flat belly lived before age, receding hormones, and gravity got ahold of it and gave it a yank. The technical name for it is the panniculus, but it's more commonly known as the FUPA, or Fat Upper Pubic Area (or Fat Upper P***y Area, if you prefer).

Yeah you are.

Personally, I like to call it the Fat Upper Pudendal Area. Nobody really uses the word pudenda anymore, and I think that's a shame. It's a really fun word.

Old People Shit: CRS

 

Getting older means I can’t remember anything anymore, which in turn means the chance I’ll stop talking mid-sentence and stare into space for an awkward period of time is not zero. So if I’m talking and suddenly fall silent and you look at me, and it’s like gazing into the eye of a chicken…that means the computer in my head is buffering while it figures out its next command.

To be honest, though it HAS gotten worse with age, my superpower has always been forgetting what I’m doing while I’m doing it. So it might be a little harder for the people close to me to tell when my cheese actually does begin to slide off my crackers. At some point, I’m pretty sure my life is going to consist of wandering in circles from room to room scratching my head and farting and mumbling, “Fuck…what the hell was I about to do?” I'm dangerously close to that now. I consulted Dr. Google about this, and he tells me I have a classic case of CRS (Can't Remember Shit).

I’m on the trifecta of old people medications--blood sugar, cholesterol, and blood pressure--but one thing I haven’t started taking is something for my memory, even though God knows I could use it. I don’t know…am I the only one who thinks that seems like some questionable shit?

I think most people have seen the ads for Prevagen. But if you haven’t because you’ve been hiding in your spider hole since 2020 hoarding toilet paper without a TV, it’s an over-the-counter supplement that’s supposed to enhance brain health. The main ingredient is something that “was originally discovered in jellyfish”. What the...? Anybody else wonder how THAT came about? I want to know who the scientist was that first saw a jellyfish float by and thought “That fellow is destined for MENSA. We must cut him up and find out what makes him tick”.

You also hear all the time that “60 is the new 40”. If that’s the case, would somebody please let my body know? Because when I was 40, I could get up in the morning without waddling like a duck for the first twenty steps and without my knees sounding like a goat munching on a tin can. My other superpower these days is feeling like I just lost an MMA fight when all I actually did was walk from the bed to the bathroom. Parts of me hurt now that I didn’t even know I had when I was 40. I can sit and read for an hour and need a trip to the chiropractor afterwards.

Now if I could only remember where his office is…

Old People Shit: the Anatomy of a Shart

 

WARNING--POOP POST AHEAD. But really, would you expect anything else?

I am a person "of a certain age". That age is over 60. And, Jesus, seeing that on the page is jarring!

There are three rules of aging, and the older I get the more I realize they are valuable to keep in mind.

Never pass up a bathroom.

Never waste an erection.

Never trust a fart.

I know, you giggle at that last one especially. But in my experience, everyone--EVERYONE--at one time or another has gambled on a fart and lost. If you haven’t, you now have something to look forward to. And the older you get, the more likely it becomes.

See, you have sort of a sentry down there called the pectinate line that is supposed to let you know what’s coming down the pike. You feel pressure building up, and that sentry goes to work analyzing (analyzing? asks the 12-year-old 😁) what it is, and whether it’s safe to release it into the wild, or if it’s best to hang onto it and find a bathroom. But…like other parts of your body, it's prone to malfunction when you get older, and can tell you an untruth that will quickly turn you from the life of the party into a social pariah who's heading home early and wishing for a change of skivvies all the way.

Or you’re driving your car, singing along to the radio, enjoying a beautiful day, and you lift up to do the one cheek sneak and suddenly your destination becomes home, the shower, and a change of clothing.

And sometimes that little bastard takes an unscheduled break and doesn’t even let you know when a fart is imminent, let alone that it might be something else. The nerve! Or maybe lack thereof...

I was shopping with my very elderly grandmother once, and she broke wind so loud that the guy stocking shelves down the aisle snapped around fast enough to give himself whiplash and just stared in amazement.  Between her rectal sentinel being off duty and her ears basically being ornamental at that point, I don’t think she was even aware she’d done it. He and I had a good belly laugh, and she just went on shopping.

Eating when you’re older becomes an adventure. When you're young, you can go out with friends, drink beer all night, eat pizza, nachos, or fried, greasy whatever, and maybe wake up a little hungover. You take a couple of aspirin, drink some water, or maybe a little hair of the dog, and go on with your day. But try that when you get older and your gut gets more finicky about what you send it. Every time you go out and see something on a menu that looks good, you have to weigh the odds of it using its power for good or evil. It can be a crapshoot. Sometimes literally.

Eating when older--especially if you’re drinking alcohol too--is like the science experiments you did in school where you mixed a bunch of stuff together and you knew there'd be a reaction, but you didn’t know what it was going to be or what form it would take. Would it be a solid, a liquid, or a gas? Who knew?

You're familiar with Publisher’s Clearinghouse, right? Well, think of eating and drinking when older as Digestive Clearinghouse--instead of showing up at your front door with balloons and a giant check they knock at your back door with cramps, gas, and a lifetime supply of embarrassment.

I just won Digestive Clearinghouse!

And high fiber foods are healthy, but I had to stop eating super high-fiber cereal for breakfast. I would eat a bowl and then throw some coffee on top of it, and an hour later I’d be the underwear bomber. That was really embarrassing when I was still working, especially when the old Fart-O-Meter in my arse suddenly started losing its sensitivity.

And I don’t know about you, but I can go from zero to “oh SHIT” in record time these days, especially if I'm under stress. If something nerve-wracking happens to me, my gut has to get involved, and that usually means issuing the “evict all tenants immediately” command. Seems as though my fight or flight instinct always decides flight is the best option and I should lighten the load first.  

And while we’re on this crappy topic…this applies to everyone, young and old. Why do we see whole kernels of corn in shit? And whole peanuts? We know we’ve chewed that stuff. Does it re-assemble down there? And why just those two things?

This is what I think about when I wake up in the night. Not the existential stuff like “why are we here?”, or “where do we go after we die?”. But “why is there whole corn in my doody?”. I’m really a deep thinker, people. Really deep. Like...ass deep. Aren't you glad you're following my blog?

Of Cats and Catapults

 

“Cats are clean animals”.

We’ve all heard that one. And, generally, it’s true. That’s because anything cats don’t want on or in them, they remove and put on YOU or something of yours. Dirt. Fur. Vomit. Drool. Poop smears. Dingleberries. Cat litter that gets stuck between their toes. Eye boogers. Real boogers.

There are two rules of living successfully with cats:

Rule Number One: Never walk barefoot in the house. Ever.

Rule Number Two: Never pick up anything off the floor with your bare hands.

That thing that looks like a leaf or a wood chip? It’s never a leaf or a wood chip. It’s something that’s going to go squish between your fingers and smell hideous. That’s the rule no matter what end of the cat it came out of. Step around the thing and get a tissue to pick it up with. If it does by some miraculous turn end up being a leaf or a wood chip, go buy a lottery ticket, ‘cuz it’s your lucky day.

When a cat pukes, it will never be on a surface that’s easy to clean. It will always be on your favorite chair or place on the sofa. Or your bed. Or that expensive rug you saved up for and splurged on (and, really, WHY did you do that with cats in the house anyway? Serves you right!). If there’s a mile of bare floor between your cat and the one throw rug in the room when the cat decides it’s time to heave, the cat will make it to that rug. Every. Single. Time. Might as well call it the throw-up rug.

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the cat will choose to puke on you. Generally that happens in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure the word “catapult” was invented by someone who woke up to a cat hanging over their face winding up to yak. It’s horrifying and requires that the cat be launched as far away from your face as possible as quickly as possible.

Alarm clocks should sound like that, shouldn’t they? That "eck eck eck" is guaranteed to bring you to full wakefulness with no snooze feature needed. Think of all the times you wouldn’t have been late for work if you had a clock with that feature!

Then there's waking up to the sound of a distant outside-the-bedroom puke during the night and the ensuing calculations as you try to figure out whether or not you can make it to the bathroom without your slippers. Stop that now and refer to Rule Number One.

Yup, that's barf in the window.  We called it the Vomit Snake.
I have no idea how it was produced intact, but at least it missed Matt's shoes.

My personal favorite is when a cat jumps out of the litter box and scoots its ass across the floor to get a good wipe. It’s such an undignified look, using the front legs to propel the back half along. Leaving that lovely contrail of shit on the carpet. When I see that, I always thank God for toilet paper and the opposable thumbs with which to grasp it. Can you imagine if humans had to wipe like that? Not only would we look absolutely absurd, but the most popular carpet color in the world would be Shit-Brindle Brown with a Corn Contrast. It would be on backorder everywhere.

The other fun thing is to watch cats get the shit zoomies after an especially satisfying dump. They burst out of the sandbox like Superman leaving a phone booth and proceed to fly through the house spraying poop dust everywhere as they celebrate the miracle of moving their bowels. Again, can you imagine humans doing that? “Yippee, I feel lighter than aiiiirrrrr….!!! Confetti, I need confetti, where’s the confetti? Oh wait…here’s a dingleberry—that’ll do!”

Duck, Duck...F**K!

Welcome back! Did you think I had abandoned this little project already? I know it's been nearly a week since I last posted. But, hey, it's summer, which lasts about five minutes in these parts-- so we have to get our arses outside and do summer stuff while we can. Which means less time for arses in chairs writing.

Having the backfill finally done after the seawall installation feels great. But it also means a huge portion of our yard was left bare with some grass seed thrown on top in hopes that it would germinate in July. I decided more needed to be done to give it a fighting chance, so off I toddled to the garden center last week to get some straw for coverage. I hoped that would help keep moisture in and birds away from the seed. The starlings, house sparrows, and other miscellaneous little brown feathered things had descended on it like flies on a cow patty as soon as the backhoe was loaded and the truck left the neighborhood.

I didn't realize straw mulch was available in so many forms these days. It's really quite remarkable. You can buy it in traditional bale form, or get long rolls of finely cut "sticky straw" blankets to cover large swaths of ground and keep your seed from washing out on slopes. These are held down with biodegradable stakes (sold separately, of course). Or you can get this:

Well sure, why not? It's got seed in it to add to what was already laid down, it has fertilizer in it, AND finely cut tacky straw mulch that tends to stay where you put it. Plus it comes in these handy bricks with handles and everything. 

I carted eight bags home from the garden center, spread it around, and quickly realized that it wasn't going to be nearly enough. So back I went the next day for four more. Nope, still didn't get me there. While I was at a car show on Saturday, I dispatched Matt to get me another four.

That time I overestimated. One and a half got me the coverage I was looking for. So we have a lot of extra now, which we might need because some of it is already disappearing--and I think we're going to lose more. Dammit.

We live on water, which means we get visits from Canada geese. I have decided I really kinda hate Canada geese. They're noisy, they're mean, and they drop dookie that rivals the size of German Shepard turds. And they travel in large packs, which makes them even more noisy and aggressive, and ups the poop level to astronomical levels.

This year, strangely, we've had very few. Early in spring, a couple pairs staked out territory on the neighbor's large corner lot just long enough to piss me off when they started honking at sunup every day. But then they disappeared. No families with goslings swimming through our canal like usual, and not even a lot of flyovers. Matt and I remarked on several occasions that they were weirdly absent, both at home and at his place of employment, where they normally gather in large numbers around a pond. There is an epidemic of bird flu this year (because why not, since Diseases R Us these days), so we wondered.

Well...they're baaaack. Laying down grass seed was apparently the clarion call. I have no idea where they've been all this time, or how the hell they found out about this wonderful new food source, but all of a sudden they've arrived, and in droves. I blame the starlings; they're sketchy little fuckers. They probably flew up and down the river announcing that the new Bird Buffet was open on canal number two. So while we, foolish humans that we are, thought we were laying a new lawn, what we actually did was open up the Golden Corral for cobra chickens.

While I was out on Sunday, Matt texted me a picture of geese in the yard and canal; and not just mom and pop and a few kiddos. Like, the whole extended family had gathered for a reunion. It took me a minute to realize what was going on, and then I responded with OMGWTFGETTHEMTHEHELLOUTOFTHERE!!! He assured me he had been trying, doing his best human scarecrow and running them off, but they kept coming back. And we've both played yard police several times since, running at them flapping and yelling like a couple of lunatics on hallucinogenic drugs.

Today I finished laying the seed, and there were no geese in sight when I started. But about thirty minutes in, I looked out and saw this:

It was a goose armada, gathering and waiting for their chance to storm the beaches of Dimondale. They were clearly watching and waiting for me to leave so they could enter the dining room. So I made sure I stayed out there a really, really long time, raking, watering, weeding, whatever I could do to make sure that didn't happen. They finally lost interest and paddled off. But they'll be back. I bet there was a scout hiding somewhere to call the others the minute I left the premises.

On a positive note, the seeds are already beginning to sprout in some spots. If you look closely, you can see the bits of green poking up through the straw. So maybe seeding in July isn't a lost cause after all.

And I have a nice clear area along the water's edge where I plan to put the native wildflower garden I've been wanting to do for awhile now. 

I started a small one last year to experiment with different plants and see if I could find some deep-rooted ones to help stop the erosion along the seawall. I chose a variety that would naturally grow waterside and didn't mind having their feet wet when the water was high. Overall they did very well.

Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the seawall really needed to be replaced, so there went the garden. I did save seeds, though, so if they're still viable I can get started on Building Back Better.

But now that I have more space, I need to decide what that's going to look like. Because even though I've had months to plan the darned thing out, do you think that's what has happened? I kept back-burnering it. I am really good at coming up with ideas, but the planning and follow-through often are, shall we say, somewhat lacking. And once I get into it I find out I really don't know as much about what I'm doing as I thought I did, which tends to throw my plans off even more while I Figure Shit Out.

The trajectory looks something like this:

How I think it's gonna go down.

How it actually goes down.

Well, native plantings should be more forgiving than a fussier garden while I fumble my way through. Probably. Hopefully.

I'll post updates. Unless it really goes sideways, and then you might never hear of it again.

And if anyone has a goose-chasing dog they can loan me, I promise I'll take good care of him!

Make America Gag Again

 

Happy day after TheDayWeBlowShitUpBecauseWe're'MericaGoddamit! Everyone still have all ten fingers?

On Sunday, the day preceding that infamous day, this little gem showed up in my Facebook feed:

I've cropped it to only show the flag, because it is someone's house, and I don't really know this person except from the jewelry-making world, but she posted it along with "Happy July 4th from my house to yours ". And got way too many likes and comments like "Beautiful!" and "Gorgeous!".

Ugh. Ugghhh.

Isn't regular MAGA enough? Do we really need an Ultra version? What's next, Supersize? (Jesus God, please...NO.)

I have to say, it was the most disturbing thing I saw online that day--and I had just watched a video of a python eating and then vomiting up a whole goat.

Hey, that just ran--er, slithered--across my feed too. I certainly didn't go looking for it. But since it was right there...

Show of hands...anyone have bulimic pythons on their 2022 bingo card? Not me--but why the hell not? Nothing really surprises me anymore. Disappoints, yes. Surprises...no.

#UltraBarf