Raking Part Tres

I’m on day three of raking the backyard.  Most of the Black Walnuts are in the compost pile, there are a few stray leaves left, and I am on my way to calling this exercise a true victory.  The last thing I have to do is mow the lawn, which should also be pure comedy, as I have never mown a lawn in my life.  Luckily Daddy-O showed me how to start the lawn mower before he left town and it was not difficult so this should be the easy part of lawn care.  I haul the mower out of the garage, push the prime button on the motor three times per the instructions, hold in the clutch, and give the starter cord (is that what it’s called?) a good rip.  Nothing.  I try pulling it again.  Still nothing.  A third time.  Nope.  Am I flooding the engine?  Wait, do I have to let it rest if the engine floods?  Or do I let the clutch out a little bit?  Maybe I’m not supposed to hold in the clutch while I try to start it.  [Let’s clutch out.]  Nope, that’s not right because now I can’t even pull the start cord.  I pull the clutch in again and give the cord a fourth rip.  Still nothing!  What am I doing wrong?  Also, the neighbors must be laughing at me AGAIN from the warm confines of their living room while they sip more of their pumpkin spice mochas and eat freshly baked zucchini bread.  Twenty minutes go by and I decide to give up on the mower.  I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.  I checked the oil, I checked the fuel level, I let the mower sit, I did a dance around it, I caressed it, I practically promised my first born to it but to no avail.  I finally put the darn thing back in the garage and decide to ask my cousin for help with this one as I don’t think my dad can do me much good over email.  

Something tells me I’m not pulling the starter cord fast or hard enough (...that’s what she said...hehe).  My dainty office worker arms are no competition for heavy-duty yard work.  But I refuse to be beaten out by a piece of common machinery. So tomorrow, I ride…or rather attempt to whisper sweet nothings into the lawn mower so it works.  That should do the trick, right?

Raking Part Deux and a Story About Poop

After corresponding with my padre over email about what to do with the piles of leaves in the backyard, I summoned up enough energy the next day to finish the task at hand.  I took my trusty rake and, after being instructed to rake all the leaves and nuts into the compost pile in the backyard, headed to the scene of yesterday’s conundrum to finish the job.  The second I started raking up the piles of nuts and leaves onto a tarp I had dug out of the recesses of the garage, I realized it was going to be a long afternoon.  I’m not sure how long it took me to get everything squared away but it felt like hours.  HOURS I tell you.  It wasn’t the leaves – no no.  It was the damn Black Walnuts.  Each nut weighs about ½ a pound.  Each tarp-full had about 120 nuts in it = 60 lbs of nuts.  Wait, that can’t be right…sixty pounds?!  Good God, no wonder my entire body is sore. 

After the exercise in patience and appreciation for nature, I decided to take a quick bike ride in hopes of blowing off some steam ‘cause I ain’t gonna lie, raking up Black Walnuts made me want to hack all the trees in my dad’s backyard.  I biked out of town, passed the family cemetery and paid my respects to my deceased ancestors (‘sup namesake), and admired the gorgeous sunset.  I was rounding a bend in the road, smiling at a chained up dog that I’m sure was rabid and trying with all his might to break away and gnaw my legs off, when I came upon a farm property that was spreading manure across its entirety.  Usually I don’t mind the smell of manure.  In fact, I kind of like it because it makes me think of home…although even that is kind of strange because I didn’t grow up on a farm.  Right.  Anyway, at first I was enjoying the pungent smell of cow poop.  But I quickly realized that the manure was fresh off the boat, literally being spread as I biked by, and it was covering fields that were on either side of me.  I was surrounded by cow shit.  Then what should appear on the horizon but a truck that is carrying the hot, steaming, fresh manure.  The thing is taking up most of the road so I pull over to let it pass.  The truck kicks up all this dust in the road that I end up riding straight through so I’ve now got dust and poop particles (as I’m sure there is such a thing) in my mouth and hair.  It’s right about this time that the poop stank goes from charming and nostalgic to foul and nauseating.  I bike up a hill and see an intersection that will allow me to escape this poop hell because at this point I’m gagging and fighting back the urge to ralph all over the road.  I make a right at the intersection and for a moment I have fresh air. SWEET RELIEF.  At least that’s what I think until I bike past a row of trees and realize I’m on the other side of the poop field.  I haven’t escaped the farm property spreading fresh manure.  I am biking around its entire perimeter.  Elizabeth, you idiot.  And somehow the stench seems stronger on this side of the field.  The smell gets so bad I have to use one arm to vampire cape my face to block some of the stank while I steer my bike with the other.  

Balance becomes increasingly difficult as I continue to mask my nostrils.  I pass a small farmhouse and what’s out front but a psychotic dog that is not chained up.  OF COURSE.  So I have my vampire arm caped around my facial orifices, Cujo nipping at my heels, and what I swear is vomit rising in the back of my throat.   As I look past the farmhouse (and pray for the dog to lose steam or be struck by lightening) I see, out of nowhere, two people biking towards me on the same road.  Somehow this makes me feel better.  Maybe I can warn them about the manure they are heading towards and we can all have a good laugh.  Or maybe I can tell them to punt the crazy ass dog they are also headed towards.  But when I get closer to them I realize they are two pubescent boys whom I’m sure are lovely but stare at me as if I have a second head.  And they kind of look like the McPoyles from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  No joke.  All they were missing was their sister and a glass of milk. 

Finally I arrive home and all I can do is laugh at myself.  Where the hell am I?  I am battling it out with Black Walnuts, manure, and rabid dogs.  I spend most of my day doing yard work, creating greeting cards and biking through the countryside.  And I am participating in community activities like Rotary Chorus. 

I am loving every.  Single.  Second of this.

Raking Leaves Part 1 and Francophilia

How truly gorgeous is autumn.  It’s breathtaking, in every sense of the word.  I mean do people know about this?  Do people know how freaking beautiful it is?  The leaves and the crisp air and the leaves and the pumpkins and the leaves… I feel like I have struck gold with this autumn thing.  Oh beauteous nature, what wonder you share with man.  Makes me want to write poems and dance with wands made of glitter and dried leaves.

Post bike ride yesterday I was feeling ambitious and somewhat on top of life after a personal revelation so I decided to rake the leaves in the backyard.  Now, I haven’t raked leaves since about 1995 and even then I wouldn’t call my leaf raking experience true raking.  I was 12 at the time and I probably half-assedly pushed a rake around our massive yard, clearing one path from the front porch to the sidewalk so I could continue my imaginative game of frolicking through the leaf castle maze like an autumnal princess.  Anyway, I was sure at 30 I could handle a small backyard.   Nope.  I was wrong.  About twenty minutes into the endeavor I had only raked a quarter of the yard and I was sweating profusely even though it was a cool 58 degrees outside.  My obliques were screaming and I was getting strange pains in my wrists (Am I holding the rake right?  Is there are right way to hold a rake?  Good God, the neighbors are probably laughing at me from the comforts of their living room while a wood fire burns and they sip delicious, warm pumpkin-flavored mochas...)  Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only 30 minutes I looked around and had 5 decently sized piles of leaves, twigs, and those damn Black Walnuts…and I had raked only half the yard.  You have got to be kidding me.  Then I realized I have a larger problem – where do I dump all of these leaves?  When I was a kid we used to rake the leaves to the curb** and the piles of golden browns and burnt reds would mysteriously disappear after a few days.  So maybe I have to haul all of these leaves to the front of the house and dump them curbside.  But didn’t I read something last week in the town newspaper that said leaf pile pick up didn’t start until October 14^th?  Or did I make that up?  I mean I was practically sleepwalking all last week so it’s quite possible I dreamt it…but no one else has piles of leaves on their curb.  There is a compost pile in the backyard…but aren’t compost piles illegal?  Something about not being able to burn leaves on your property…?  But if you’re not going to burn the leaves then what’s the harm in dumping them all in one massive pile of deceased nature? 

Now I’m at a loss.  Do I drag the piles of leaves to the front yard and dump them curbside, risking the possibility of strong winds blowing them all across creation?  Or do I dump them in the “compost” pile in the backyard that may or may not be illegal?  I don’t know what to do and I feel like a total Californian for not knowing what to do with raked leaves.  My dead ancestors are probably laughing at me.

Side note:  It smells like soup in this store.  Ohhh the guy behind me is eating Chinese food.  Why does the Chinese takeout smell like soup?  Chicken bouillon?  Wait, that’s not how you make Lo Mein…hmm suspect. 

This whole raking leaves thing is humiliating considering I was raised in the Northeast so I drop the rake in the middle of the yard, abandon the leaf piles, pray there are no strong winds in the next 24 hours, and decide to take a hot shower in hopes of washing away the embarrassment of this experience.  Plus there’s probably pumpkin-flavored something or other inside that will restore my admiration for autumn…and the leaves.

One other thing I noticed yesterday before I decided to have it out with the leaves in the backyard – on my long bike ride yesterday afternoon I rode by a mailbox that was painted in the same fashion as the French flag.  Oh wow!  These people must be real Francophiles if they live in the middle of the country and painted their mailbox to look like France’s flag.  Good for them!  They must be extremely cultured and love old, moldy cheese.  Maybe I can befriend them and then I’ll be invited over to discuss the differences between Gauguin and Monet, how only REAL champagne comes from the region of Champagne, and how absolutely disgusting the light display on the Eiffel Tower is.  I bet they have amazing art, smoke heavily, and eat baguettes at every meal while maintaining slender figures.  I was already planning the wine trip to Bordeaux with my new Francophile besties when I glanced at the house the mailbox belonged to and noticed they had a giant American flag hanging from the porch.  Wait…they’re not Francophiles, they’re Amurricans who painted their mailbox red, white and blue and HAPPENED to get the order wrong.  Blast.  I should have known better.  My dreams of living like Zelda Fitzgerald in Paris circa 1921 crushed.  The wheels of Brie and endless bottles of rich, oaky reds - GONE.  Le sigh.  Guess I’ll HAVE to settle for pumpkin spice lattes, apple pies, pizza…beer…baseball…tailgates…FIREWORKS… omg JOHN PHILLIPS SOUSA MARCHES.  FREEDOM.  I just got so friggin’ excited about America.  Maybe I’ll go out and rake more leaves now and then paint the mailbox.  In the correct color order of course.

**When I was younger I remember this suburban legend about a kid playing in a leaf pile curbside who gets run over by a truck or a car or some massive piece of machinery all because he was diving in and out of the leaf pile and it was difficult to see him.  I’m fairly certain this was a tale made up by suburban moms (much like how eating cookie dough will make you sick because of the raw eggs) to deter kids from messing up the perfectly swept piles of leaves.  File under “Lies My Parents Told Me.”

Fall Is Literally Falling

It’s fall here.  And full-fledged fall too.  Not the half-assed fall you get anywhere besides New England.  I am right in the thick of it.  Leaves just starting to change and fall to the ground; pumpkins, mums and Halloween décor showing up on every doorstep; smashed acorns, nuts and other deciduous proliferation.  

I haven’t been fully immersed in fall for 12 years and being in it again almost feels sacred.  There is a smell that accompanies dry, fallen leaves that is so distinct, like the sound of the katydid in summer or the complete silence of a snowfall.  I was sitting in the backyard on my 2^nd day here, lounging in an Adirondack chair underneath the Black Walnut trees, feigning spiritual productivity (Emerson will be the end of me), when I smelled it – the scent of dry leaves.  Immediately I felt like I was 8 years old again in central Pennsylvania, attempting to help my older brother and sister rake leaves but in reality I was making a mess of them, jumping into the swept piles of leaves by the curb, hoping I didn’t get any bugs on me and coming out with twigs and bits of dried maple leaf in my hair.  I remember one fall I lost one of my pink and white high top sneakers in a leaf pile.  When I jumped into the leaf pile I had both shoes on.  When I came out – boom, one was gone.  My best friend and I searched through that pile for what felt like ages (but was probably 7 minutes) but were never able to find the high top.  It wasn’t even like I had lost a sandal or a white Keds tennis shoe.  It was a chunky sneaker, the opposite color of a leaf pile.  I don’t remember being upset that I lost it; in fact I think I was almost relieved it was gone so I had an excuse not to wear the darn things again.  I never did like pink as a child. 

So the backyard is full of dried, fallen leaves and I’m reclining in the Adirondack chair trying to soak everything in and be grateful I am in western New York again when I start to hear several thuds around the yard…and the neighbor’s yard…and the woods behind the house.  I notice the culprit of the thudding are these green balls falling from the branches of the Black Walnut trees.  These spheres are massive – roughly the size of small baseballs – and dense as a mother if they’re making a resounding thud every time they hit the ground.  At first I find this charming.  Then when I realize that I’m sitting smack dab in the middle of a firing squad I recant.  Probability tells me that it’s only a matter of time before one of these spherical iron ball things falls square on my noggin and I’m knocked out like a drunk uncle after Thanksgiving.  So I cautiously arise, move the Adirondack chair back 5 yards out of harm’s way, and attempt to resume my reading.  The only problem now is I can’t focus my reading, as I am completely fixated on the potential for destruction these Black Walnut trees (and their orbicular offspring) possess.  These trees are awesomely tall, about 50 feet high causing the solid balls falling from the tippy tops of the branches to come flying off at a ridiculous rate.  How have these spheres not damaged someone’s roof by now?  What’s inside of these orbs that make them so dense?  Do you think I could eat them?  Maybe they’re poisonous.  Maybe they’re not good for anything.  Maybe it's a nut.  Maybe it’s a fruit.  Maybe I should get up and leave the yard before my head is cracked open like a coconut.  That’s when my stepmom calls from inside the house to tell me my dad has emailed from Vietnam.  I swiftly get up from my post and bound up the back porch steps into the house. 

So now what am I doing?  I’m back to my Adirondack chair in the backyard typing away on my laptop, looking up what exactly these Black Walnut steel balls are and, it turns out, these little green alien spheres are, indeed, nuts!   Huh!  Oh nature, you sly fox.  You had me fooled.  And I just realized that there are a few nuts left in the branches right above my head so I think I’ll re-bound up the porch steps and take my precious laptop (and noggin) into safer territory.

Fork. Words. Eat. / My Coffeemaker is a Decepticon.

A while back I made a few hasty comments on this blog about Michael Bay. Hasty...brash...uncessary...senile? Well, now I would like to rescind all previous comments. Give me a fork and a lobster bib 'cause I'm going to shovel those words right back into my mouth and digest them like a piece of gum - they'll never come out of me again. And if they do it will be seven years (at least).

Blame it on our giant flat screen TV, blame it on the amazing hotness that is Megan Fox, blame it on the henny, blame it on whatever you want, but I cannot deny how UH-MAZING Transformers II and Transformers were (in that order specifically - the order I watched them in. Which leads me to believe that all sequels should be watched first to avoid major dissapointment. I really think follow up films would be more appreciated if they were viewed out of order - I'm sure Jaws 2, Friday the 13th VII, and The Land Before Time Part 3,782 would have been raving hits with people had their blockbuster predecessors not been so darn successful. Sequels aren't half bad considering the other dung paddies the movie studios are slinging around theaters, i.e. Space Chimps. How embarassing for the people who made that movie).

I will wholeheartedly admit that I feel like a complete sellout proclaiming my love for this movie franchise. I almost changed my facebook profile to reflect my new obsession. But, like so many other obsessions in my life (like Furbies, Huey Lewis & the News, and bacon scented candles) this obsession will probably have a shelf life of 2 weeks, then it will start to rot, I'll kick it to the curb, and find something else to fixate on. Like rice cookers. So I refrained.

<-- Whaaaat he can't be serious. Right?

I'm not even going to spend time going over why I so thoroughly enjoyed these movies. No one really wants to hear that anyway. Not even me. All I will say is that Michael Bay, in all his ostentatious, exlposion-loving, robot destruction-ing, hot lead role casting, directorial glory, knows exactly what he's doing when it comes to CGI. Watching the two come together is like watching that liquid police officer robot from Terminator II fuse back together after getting blown to smithereens; it is one giant, perfectly molded, indestructible mercurial forcefield of deuschy awesomeness.

In light of my new love affair, I am now convinced that the coffeemaker in my office that I singlehandedly purchased from Office Max to caffeinate my sleepy tastebuds every morning is totally, 100%, without a doubt, a Decepticon. Albeit a slightly challenged Decepticon in that it seems to lack movement, arms, a voice of sorts, and, well, life period...but I am certain this wretched machine's sole purpose is to drive me postal.

*Said coffeemaker. DON'T BUY IT.

First of all, it cost $48.50. I could have bought a cheaper coffeemaker at CVS. Or just brought in the one from my apartment that is collecting dust underneath my oven. Secondly, it has a built-in filter that appears to do nothing. I'm confused about the purpose of built-in filters. Do you put another filter in there? Or do you just let the coffee seep through the mesh basket? Why is it even in there? Why is it a V shape? Why isn't it round? Why didn't it come with an instruction manual? Thirdly, no matter what time I turn off the coffeemaker (11AM, 4PM, the next morning...) the condensation build up drips from the top of the machine with the persistence of Dina Lohan: inane enough that it's not really a major issue but annoying enough that something needs to be done. So every day when I clean out the coffeemaker and the built-in filter(?) the machine inevitably spews grody left over coffee water all over me and the mini fridge it sits on, forcing me to gather an army of paper towels and mop up the soddy mess. Every. Single. Business day.


I don't know who designed this over-priced piece of crap plastic but they should be fired. Or promoted, considering they manufactured a product for probably $2, a loose button, and a cup of fat and somehow managed to sell it for $50. Every day it's like Maximum Overdrive in here, except the only machine to rise against is the coffeemaker. The other appliances in the office obediently sit to the side, quietly watching my boss circle his desk looking for that one on breast cancer publication from seven years ago that he just knows is in one of the piles stacked up to high heaven in his office.

The condensation doesn't just fall straight down to the burner either. It wouldn't be an issue if it just adhered to the basic principles of gravity and fell straight down. No no. Instead it projectiles all over the place, Linda Blair Exorcist style. By the end of what should be a simple task of removing the coffeemaker parts to clean them, there is water all over the coffeemaker, the mini fridge, the carpet surrounding the fridge, the Splenda packets next to the coffeemaker, the bookshelf, the couch, my pants...I mean it's just exhausting and ridiculous and the only logical explanation I can think of is that this machine has it out for me and won't rest until it gets me in the eye or it grows legs, attacks me while I'm drafting a letter of rec, ejects me from the office, and then takes over as Chair of Obstetrics and Gynecology. (But why would it want that? Coffeemakers don't exactly mix well with female body parts unless I missed something in health class...) Which is why I've decided that this coffeemaker is a Decepticon left behind on an Autobot mission, now forced to deal with health care administration (yarf) and can only find amusement and purpose in angering the Chair's assistant to the point of insanity.

One day I will forge my revenge with my own Optimus Prime. But for now I'll stick to cursing at the coffeemaker and praising Michael Bay. Life is silly, yes?

- Libby


P.S. Never google "hungry people." It's almost as upsetting as those ASPCA Sarah McClachlan commercials.

Ninjas of Jeopardy

While wandering around campus and staring off into space today I remembered that I am constantly surrounded by, what most people would consider, brilliant intelligence. No doubt. Some of the smartest people in the world reside in these giant brick monoliths that wreak of literature, mathematical equations, radioactive chemicals, and student activism. There is a lot to be said of people who attain their PhD and dedicate their lives to exercising their intellect.

...

And then there's something else to be said of these genius minds. The meaty arms of justice weigh fairly upon the rest of us poor saps who weren't necessarily blessed with book smarts by cursing the brilliant with a total lack of common sense. (Generally speaking - generalizations are ALWAYS the way to clarity...wait, or was it bullet points? Shoot...) Thankfully, for the Newtonians that inhabit this world there are administrative assistants to help guide them through their daily, mundane quests of making coffee, opening their mail, and even pointing out that their phone is on silent and THAT'S why their calls are going straight to voicemail. Oy vey.


This is the secret genius I wish to address - the administrative assistant. They tend to possess more random knowledge of this world than Ken Jennings. Ask them about that place that you ate at that one time that had that really good dip stuff and they'll know exactly what you're talking about. Or ask them to research, compare and debrief you on massage therapists in the area who specialize in hot meat Thai massage (or something) and they'll bust out an entire powerpoint presentation in twenty minutes. Or you could even ask them look into purchasing pharmaceuticals without an actual prescription and they could probably get it done (please see the next paragraph). They may not know the difference between hyperplasia and dysplasia (I never paid attention to latin roots in high school...), or remember anything about scientific notation, or be able tell you that John Keats died composing a Spenserian sonnet - not a Shakespearean sonnet (I don't even think that's right). But they can, at any given time of the day, tell you where the nearest hardware supply store is (corporate or privately owned), which aisle heavy angle L-brackets are located in; the name of the sales person working that aisle, their birthday, preferred breakfast pastry, type of car they drive, and their long-term boyfriend's name (yes, the sales person is gay so don't offend him); directions to the hardware store, sales specials that will be running through Labor Day at said hardware store, and whether or not the for-hire day workers are still running that tasty hot dog cart with bacon-wrapped weiners.

...

I think you get my point. Administrative assistants (for the most part...again, speaking in generalizations here) are like treasure troves of useful information. I have had about 5+ years of assistant work under my belt (stop your smirking, I'm working on it) and the amount of ridiculous information I have accrued in this time is out. Of. Control. Aside from the menial day-to-day administrative tasks (a.k.a. taking command of the computer program starship that IS Microsoft Office), I have been asked to clean personal closet space, rearrange oversized family photos on a living room wall, grade college essays in place of the professor, give consultation on plastic surgery, offer advice to people's children about schooling (I don't know why they asked me when their parents are professors...), research the difference between Sirius and XM satellite radio, fix a French coffee press (what the heck is that spring there for anyway?); purchase approximately $2,000 worth of food and beverage from Costco then convince the cashier, bagger, and store manager to allow me to use an American Express card that isn't mine to pay for all the loot; host a giant book launching party in a house that (again) isn't mine for a New Age writer who tried to tell me that rainbows are the gateway to your soul; wrangle bats out of said house-that-isn't-mine during said book launching party (true story). I've had to purchase train tickets (what?) for someone's twelve-year-old kid and then physcially put them on the train; argue with a lady named Trixie in a small town court in Georgia to get somebody out on bail, play marriage counselor / mediator through a divorce settlement, figure out how to get Amazon.com to recognize expired gift certificates (that was a tough one), attend a guitar lesson in place of a parent whose child had Turret's, ADHD, and a slight form of Autism, clean out the desk of a well-respected man who had unwrapped Christmas gift baskets from 2004 rotting underneath his desk, argue with Verizon and AT&T as to why they don't have an International Calling Plan that makes sense, and my all time favorite - research how to acquire Valtrex through a Mexican pharmacy without a prescription. For those of you who aren't familiar, Valtrex is medication for genital herpes.

I may not know how to shoot lasers at both poles to measure whether or not the earth is spinning at its normal rate, or tell you what the metabolic rate of a rat is when exposed to radioactive material, or even tell you how to do long division (eff long division, I hate that crap). But by golly I could tell you all of the presidents of the 20th century in chronological order, how to file your taxes, and which plants will survive in Southern California soil (not Rhododendrons, that's for darn sure). There are approximately 4.1 million administrative assistants in the United States today not only serving their superiors coffee and those crsipy little Pims crackers, but also enlightening MDs / PhDs / Lawyers / Insert whatever other professional occupation here on how to complete the daily tasks that make this world turn. No one ever suspects our po' man's wisdom but it's there, waiting to be utilized the next time you have to talk your way out of a parking ticket / post doctoral student lecture / exorbitant phone bill. We are, in a sense, the ninjas of jeopardy. Generally speaking of course.



- Libby