My Neighbors Took My Grass!

Someone stole my pot plant last night!  I went outside this morning and all that was left was a little short stubby stick of green and brown stuck out of the ground where my treasure had been.  In happier, more intoxicated times, it looked like this:

I had such dreams for my plant.  Just a couple of days ago, my house husbands and cannabis consultants. Nick and Dave, reported that my plant was a gal after all, bursting with little buds, high in the air, capable of, after a little drying and rolling, making me and a few others high ourselves.  According to Nick, my little bit of greenery could produce thirty to forty joints, which, I think (not that I know....), could produce quite a few dollars for my pocketbook.

Ahh, but that wasn't my idea -- I didn't want to get rich, I wanted to get stoned, preferably with a few select friends who would really appreciate this find -- you know who you are... -- and who would also, just as important, keep me from imagining myself as the lead character in Psycho, under the shower or not.  You see, my own personal history with marijuana has featured plenty of paranoia -- I was sort of a misfit with all the other "free spirits" on the 3rd floor of Brown at UMass in 1974.

But this was my grass, just about literally -- how could I not smoke it?  I had it all planned -- I'd sneak out in the middle of the night, cut the leaves down, bring them in to dry, and plan my pot party.  But that dream has gone up in flames, or more likely down a neighbor's lungs.  I guess I can hope they'll do the neighborly thing and invite me over to smoke MY grass.

Calm and Quiet

A quiet week in Portland.  Kanha is off at sleepover camp in western Maine, aptly named "Survivor Camp" -- I think she will! -- while Theo and I are home holding the fort.  We got back from vacation on Block Island, in Rhode Island, on Friday night.  I know, I've been told how crazy I am to go on an island vacation in another state when we live in Maine, the state of hundreds of craggy rocked, surf splashed, stunning islands.   But still BI, a home away from home for me, was beautiful, mostly because it was shared with old friends who make time stop, laughs flow and love abound over a bonfire and folk songs on a moonlit beach.  Plus the water was warm enough to swim in -- I went in three times in five days, which might be a record for me, Ms. Salt and Sand Hater.

The calm feels odd after a summer of running Kanha from camp to camp -- soccer, tennis, basketball, gymnastics, Fractured Fairy Tales, writing -- phew, I think I got them all -- and a July of a promising romance.  Now Kanha is out of my hair and the romance has gone ka-phoo-y, and Theo and I are sitting around licking our wounds.  Well, he's probably just licking his paws or one of our pairs of shoes.  Not all bad I suppose -- time for respite, recovery, and rejuvenation before the onslaught of school, my new business (more on that in a future post -- perhaps I will have a story about how Kanha and I are not going to starve to death...), a future romance or two -- maybe??, and cooler temps.  Here's to a lovely end to summer 2011.

House Husbands

Last week, Nick, my contractor, went on vacation, which was a bit of a shock.  After six weeks or so of his being here every day, we're kind of like an old married couple, the happy version -- he helps me with the groceries when I come home, I pick up the dog poop in the yard for both my and his dog, I ignore the dirt he tramps around the house, he ignores the junk I stack on the edge of the stairs that gets in his way as he carries lumber up the stairs.  I suppose we might move into the OMC, grumpy version, if this project goes into 2012 but for now I'm enjoying having a temporary "husband."

But every good couple needs time apart so once I had adjusted to Nick's upcoming absence, I was feeling pretty good about being a swinging single for a week.  But alas it was not to be -- Dave, the painter, showed up.  Short, smiling, and entirely paint speckled, Dave arrived with his adorable twenty-something son in tow.  My silence was broken but still I smiled widely in response:  if we're down to painting, I must be getting pretty close to move-in date!, I thought.  

Dave made a pretty good replacement husband from the start -- he was cheerful, communicative, puppy-friendly, and a hard worker.  I was happy to have him around for a week.  And the incredible thing about Dave was he took his responsibilities as a husband very seriously.  On Wednesday, while I was toweling off from a shower in front of the mirror in the second floor bathroom, which is accessible only through Kanha's room, I noticed the bathroom door -- which was at least three-quarters closed -- sliding slowly open.  I wheeled around and said something incredibly clear, concise, and comprehensible, like "yow!", only to see Dave standing in front of me.  His body faced the wall, but now his face faced me -- not that I saw it for long.  I was too busy winding my towel around me while he was racing out the door down the stairs.  We reconnoitered awhile later, after I was dressed and he was appropriately chagrined.  He said, "I'm really sorry," and seemed sincere -- so I decided not to quiz him on what he was doing in Kanha's bedroom staring at the wall.  Perhaps getting new painting technique ideas?  

We managed to remain adult about the situation for the rest of the week -- no more too-husbandly behavior on his part -- and he even came up with a new business idea for me before the week was out.  On Friday afternoon, before heading home for the weekend, he brought me outside to show me the pot plant I was inadvertently growing in my front yard.  He appeared to be quite the expert -- told me this plant probably wouldn't get me high because it's male, not female, gave me tips on drying the leaves if desired, suggested it started growing from a roach dropped along the edge of the garden.  At that point, I was happy for his expertise -- maybe I'll try baking it into brownies and taking over for Nancy on Weeds... -- but truly glad he was not my husband.  Hurray, it's next week and Nick is back.  

Heat

Finally it's hot in Portland -- in the 80s every day this week, and I will not be one of those complaining, even in a house with no air-conditioners, a menopausal mom, a dried out flower garden, and a daughter and dog who wither in the sun.  After this winter of snow, ice, shoveling, breath hanging in the air, slippery sidewalks, huge heating bills, and too many temperatures in the teens, all lasting far into April, I will enjoy every drop of sweat I endure.  

Not my two charges though.  Kanha, from the day she came home from Cambodia - a country where the average temperature year-round is around 90 degrees - would emerge from a half hour on the playground on a warm New England day with a head of hair so soaked it appeared she had been for a swim rather than a swing.  The wet head look has diminished over the years, as the pediatrician predicted, but she still tosses and turns in the warmth of her bedroom even with the fan on high.  It's hard to imagine how she would have managed if she hadn't left her original tropical home.

It turns out Theo has the same challenge.  With a body of thick, beautifully brindled hair that doesn't shed, I can't see him enjoying life in western Tennessee where he was born.  Last week, after watching him mope lethargically around our house for several days and discovering that the poor puppy, like all dogs apparently, can't sweat out his discomfort (must have missed that in 7th grade science...), I called every dog groomer within 20 miles until I found one who could cut his hair immediately.  I took him in the next morning and by noon he had emerged a new man.  

With all that hair gone, we could see his real body -- the spindly legs, the cylindrical torso, the big brown eyes unhidden by wisps of fur.  He looked fresh and innocent, and not one little bit like the dog we had taken in -- except for his bushy, oh-so-confident, erect tail that the groomer had left to its own devices.  He was a puppy with a bigger bounce in his step that day, relieved to be a few pounds lighter and a whole lot cooler.

As for me, I sweat on -- or I suppose, when I'm feeling feminine, I "glow."  It's a small price to pay for days that might include an intense workout running up and down the stairs in the park around the corner, a barefoot walk through the surf on a magical Maine beach, a hike through a fairy house building zone up to a view of terns and gulls flying above a tiny estuary that extends to the ocean, and a dinner created from farmer's market delectables at my beautiful mosaic table on our lawn.  So the flowers are drooping and I must dab my brow often.  I'm warm, in many ways.  

Theo's Incredible Journey with His Pal Hunter

Theo, it appears, is not only energetic and adorable but also very very clever.  Yesterday, when the plumber who my contractor Nick hired to outfit my new bathroom inadvertently left the gate to our new fence open, Theo hustled up his buddy, Hunter, his tall thin theoretically more mature friend (Nick's girlfriend's dog who spends most days calmly pacing our yard while Nick works) and the two of them escaped onto the streets of Portland.  Truthfully, it could have been Hunter leading the way -- he lives a few blocks in one direction of our house and his "mom" works a few blocks the other way -- perhaps he just wanted to go home, and Theo would have been happy to sign up for the adventure.  In any case, I can just see Theo's gleeful little face, tongue wagging, paws bouncing down the sidewalk, his pal Hunter at his side, with nary a look back to Grandma, aka me, working away, entirely clueless that her little baby was off, exposed to the dangers of the city.

I'm not sure how long they were gone -- probably just a few minutes --  before the plumber walked through my front door, which was open to the yard, and said, "Are the dogs in here?"  It wasn't terror that struck me, just disbelief.  Wasn't this why I paid $1300 for two small sections of fence?!  I was up and off, with Nick close behind, sprinting down various streets in the West End, shouting  HUNTER!  THEO!  I asked people along the way if they had seen a couple of Mutt and Jeff dogs scampering about and they only looked back with pity.  I purposely stayed on our side of State Street, the major three lane artery carrying all the traffic from Portland over the Casco Bay Bridge to South Portland -- its cars move with a sense of unimpeded urgency -- just their constant stream would keep any unleashed dog from trying to cross, I was sure.   

After about ten minutes, I stopped back at my house to grab my cellphone and there it was -- a blinking light on my voice mail.  It appeared the $2 tag on Theo's collar had been a better investment than the fence.  I listened to a young woman named Annie report she had a dog on her front steps with this phone number around his neck.   When I called her back, she reported Hunter was there too -- thankfully the partners in crime had stuck together.  And where were they?  I'm sure you can guess.  Not only on the other side of State Street, but on the other side of High, the equivalent "vein" taking all the traffic out of South Portland from the bridge back into the city.  Somehow the two of them had managed to cross all six lanes of bustling cars without getting a mark on them.  I like to imagine one looked out for the other, making sure neither got hit, but probably it was just patient drivers who really did brake for the animals in front of them.

I arrived at the address Annie provided a few minutes later on foot with Nick showing up simultaneously in his truck.  We found three smiling and obviously dog-loving twenty-something women sitting on the granite steps of their apartment house petting the two canine pals.  The women had brought down a giant bowl of water that the dogs had indulged in -- the excitement of their journey had gotten them a little tired and thirsty, I guess.  I'm sure they would have been just as happy to hang out there with their new human friends but we said our profuse thank yous quickly and ferried them on their way, Theo walking home with me, Hunter riding back in the truck.  The time had come to split up the perpetrators, to end the caper, to get dogs and humans back home safe, sound, and relieved.

The Price of Cleaning

I spent yesterday morning cleaning, because my cleaning lady was coming.  Or should I say my cleaning guy and gal?    -- the hip twenty-somethings from the eco-friendly cleaning service Green Clean Maine  I hired recently to clean our house.  I must say, there are so many reasons I don't like my cleaning people -- I think of them as the James Franco and Anne Hathaway of the cleaning world, doing a thankless job in front of an unappreciative audience.  (Just to be clear -- this is nothing personal -- they're really quite polite and friendly young people.)

First there's the cost. I pay them $100 every two weeks to mop the floors and dust the windowsills and scrub the tub, a rate that comes out to about $35/hour/cleaning star.  I know they're not pocketing that since they are employed by a real business with a company van, an office, and a boss, but from the purchaser's perspective -- that would be me -- it's a pretty impressive rate of pay for the simple labor they perform.  

Then there's this cleaning before the cleaning issue.  You may wonder why this is necessary, which would prove that you have never paid someone else to clean your house -- or that you're my friend Lynn, whose house never ever has looked like it needed to be cleaned, even in the midst of a fifteen-person dinner party.  But Lynn's house is not my house and after two weeks of Kanha, Theo, and I living our normal lives in our house with too many walls and no closets, the interior looks like fifteen dinner-partiers were here too -- they took their coats off, ate a good meal, read a few magazines and a book or two, helped Kanha with her homework, and even took a quick roll in our beds, and left all of the evidence behind and none of it where I thought it was supposed to be.  (Looking around, I'd imagine they'd report it was a very good party.)  As a result, in order for James and Anne to be able to get to the floors and shelves and table tops to clean them, I must pick up the mess.  

Then, once I've completed the unveiling of as many surfaces as possible, I must vacate my own house.  If I had a job, with an office and a boss (even without the company car), this would not be a problem -- I would trip out the door over the pile of shoes, past the pills of dust, away from the streaks of dirt, drop Kanha at school, do my productive day of work, and come happily home to a shiny clean and and oh-so-so environmentally correct home.  But I have no office other than the one in my bedroom, and that needs to be cleaned too.  Moreover it's unnerving to hang out and see, out of the corner of one eye, Anne scrubbing my soap scum off the bathroom sink or James wiping up last night's cheese crumbs from the counter.  The company's environmental bend assuages just a tiny bit of my liberal guilt over having someone else clean up my mess -- there's plenty left for me to wallow in.  So I make up an errand or two and head out for an hour and a half and try to feel more productive than penitent.  

Yesterday my timing was slightly off.  Anne and James were just finishing up when I got back from the post office and grocery store and vacuum shop and pharmacy -- I couldn't come up with anything else needing doing -- so I came in and let Theo out while they were donning their rain boots and loading up their jars of no chemicals cleaning solvents.  I turned away for a minute as they headed out and Theo, in the unpredictable way of all dogs, came racing back in, tracking every drop of rain water and dirt that could be contained in four little dog paws across the beautiful and formerly very clean floors of our house.  I'm thinking of just calling the fifteen partiers back over right now -- and perhaps Anne and James will want to come too...

The Incompetent Gardener

A glorious day in Portland, Maine, and we deserve it, if I do say so, on behalf of all of my fellow Mainers who have survived a cold and very white winter and cold and very gray spring.  When this past winter snuck up on me -- my first winter back in Maine after five away -- I had, somehow, forgotten how nasty a winter up here can be.  Winters in Massachusetts can be unpleasant but just two hours north brings a few more degrees of cold and a few more inches of snow in a typical year, and that is enough to huddle inside in front of the fireplace and step up your planning for that Florida condo.  Worse, spring comes later, colder, and even a bit less bright -- it seems a complete indignity to me that one still needs a pair of gloves on a morning run on many May days up here in the north.

Ahh, but I started my story on a positive note so I must return.  It's sunny and warm enough today to go without a jacket and the birds are chirping and the flowers are showing their colors.  Whoops, I'm starting to frown again.  You see, all of a sudden I have a garden, a real garden, with mulch and wood chips and plants I don't know the names for and an irrigation system.  To many of you, I suspect this would seem great good fortune, not impending terror, and on the days when I am just looking out the window and feeling grateful for my cool old house and its patch of yard and the haven of plants, trees, and flowers that form its border with the city streets, I too see the garden as a blessing.  However, on a day like today, a Saturday, when the sun is shining and the clock is not calling me to work and my neighbors are out in their yards, sweeping out the last dead leaves and planting bushes and cutting their grass, sadly, my heart is not light -- it is filled with dread at my total incompetence amongst a gaggle of greenery.  

Not that I haven't tried, but over the years, we -- my gardens and I -- have never gained a sense of mutual love, never mind respect.  There was the patch of vegetables I planted at my first real house in Natick, a Boston suburb, that quickly became overgrown with weeds.  I didn't understand why I only got zucchini, which, as we know, cannot be killed even by the blackest-thumbed gardener, until my friend told me that you really had to pull out the weeds that were scaling the vegetable plants, even if you thought they looked cool.  There were the brussels sprouts my ex and I planted one summer in the eight inch wide strip of dirt at the front of our parking area at our old house in Portland, stalks of which we pulled out of the thawing snow the following March.  They almost looked edible although we didn't dare try eating them at that point -- the eating season was long gone, never mind the growing one.  There was the comprehensive and detailed garden of mostly seeds planted in the raised beds in my adorable backyard in Cambridge a couple of years ago as a joint project with Kanha and my niece and her future husband.  I provided the real estate and the three of them did the planting -- tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, lettuce, radishes, peppers, and probably a few more vegetables that one would dream of pulling out of their own ground and devouring right in that spot on a beautiful New England summer day.  I'm sure it won't surprise you that the only thing we ever saw in full grown, edible form were the tomatoes and basil --  they had started their lives as baby versions of themselves and not just seeds, giving them a fighting chance of survival that our gardening skills did not.  By the end of the summer, the blight going around had even destroyed most of the tomatoes and, in fact, most of my gardening will.  

But here I go again.  Perhaps I'll do better this time.  I'm working with plants here, not vegetables -- maybe they're easier.  (Or maybe not...).  I have an incredible head start -- the garden is already mature, someone with real talent and love for the greenness of life created it and all I have to do is keep it alive. I'm committed to making this house my home so perhaps that commitment will blossom into skill when I drag out the trowel and hoe.  

Today I spent an hour, digging up weeds  -- well, really, digging up dandelions because they were the only green things I was sure were weeds.  It's a start.  I've invited my friend Barbara, gardener extraordinaire, over to exchange libations for advice.  I'm humble and hopeful.  Let the spring blossom, throughout the city and in my garden.