Spring Planting, Seed Packets try again

Seed Packets are in the stores. I love looking at the nice pictures on the front and imagine that my plants might remotely look like the pictures on the packets. I always buy five or six packets a visit with every intention of planting them. I plan my garden as I drive home. I imagine how nice it will be to have fresh squashes and cucumbers and especially those tiny tomatoes that I can eat like candy.

Once I’m home I put the seed packets on the windowsill over the sink so the pictures will keep looking back at me and remind me that I want to do this. I make a plan to garden like my mother in law used to. She bought little kiddie wagons at garage sales, filled them with potting soil and planted them. This way she could garden from a stool, no pressure on her knees or back. Plus, she could easily move the plantings around the patio for more sun or rain, overall, a very clever idea.

Just to further prove my intentions, I buy a tee shirt with stencils of seed packets on it. This way, anyone who looks at me will see me as a serious gardener - who else would wear pictures of seed packets on their chest? I buy the soil, some new cutsie gloves that are always too small for my hands, but again, we’re going for affect here.

Somewhere around June I begin to become suspicious that I’m not going to plant any of the fifty seed packets that now face me with hateful stares from the windowsill. I tried to appease them by organizing them alphabetically into groups of flowers vs. vegetables. Still, they stare at me, the Zucchini whispering - “Why am I always last? Why not reverse the alphabetical order and let me at think you’ll plant me first. We both know it’s not true, still, I could enjoy the fantasy, however brief, of being first, before you put us all in the junk drawer with the seed packets from last year.” He’s got me there. Zucchini have always been a very wise vegetable.

Soon it will be July. I like July. The pictures on the packets have faded from the sun and I feel less guilty. It’s too late to plant them now and we all know it. I know my junk drawer has last years seed packets in it. I begin to slowly throw them out, just a few at a time so it’s not obvious to this year’s packets. I’m sneaky about it, but once in a while a few seed packet on the windowsill see what I’m doing- making room in the junk drawer that will soon be their tomb. Like brave Samurai, a few wait and choose their moment of demise. And suddenly I’ll look down and see them floating face down in the dish water. Their paper packaging soaking up water and disintegrating, freeing the seeds to feel themselves immersed in hot soapy Dawn grease cutting water is better than never having felt water at all I suppose.

By August, all of this year would-be crop will be laid to rest in the dark junk drawer, with screws that go to something, batteries that may or may not be dead, keys that can’t be thrown out until I figure out what they unlock, coupons that won’t be used, and receipts that are too faded to read anymore.

Next year, I’m planting at least six vegetables and three flowers, no, really, I will, and I’ll get the tee shirt to prove it.

Jesse James the Jerk Rides Again...

I have been a big Sandra Bullock fan for years. Ever since she did The Net. It was one of the first films where the heroine didn’t need rescuing because she outsmarted her nemesis herself. No rescue from Prince Charming needed. I loved it.

Now, while she probably hasn’t even landed from her Oscar win high, she is slammed to the depths by the person she loved and lauded on every talk show since she married him. Jesse James. We all thought he was a stand up guy. Tattooed and intense, espousing to be a reformed alcoholic, he won us all over with what appeared to be unshakable integrity. And now, with his recent admission of an affair with a woman who is so tattooed, she even has a tattoo on her forehead, he rends his carefully crafted “bad boy gone good man” in twain. He’s like Peter Cook, the moron who cheated on Christie Brinkley. I guess for Sandra, like dear Christie, it’s not enough to be beautiful, have a flawless figure, be a millionaress, be on the A-list, and the capper, be by all accounts, a genuinely decent and moral person. I can only imagine the pain Sandra is feeling today. After praising him in her acceptance speech, today she must feel a ton of humiliation on top of the hurt.

What does a woman have to do to be enough for a man? I asked myself that, but then it occurred to me, that’s the wrong perspective. I think we should ask why can’t a man realize when good is good enough? More isn’t always better and more will get you in trouble.

What’s wrong? She doesn’t look like the girl you married? How close do you look to the guy she married? Did you allow you body to be stretched and ravaged by pregnancy with rotten kids that now only want money and car keys?

What’s wrong? She doesn’t cook gourmet? Why is that? She couldn’t find the time to study gourmet cooking between working full time, wrangling kids, school obligations, making sure your bait was thawed by morning, and doing all the household chores?

What’s wrong? She’s not a freak in the bedroom? Did you shower before you got in bed? When was the last time you saw a dentist? Were you considerate all day today, or did you just start being nice at 9 PM? Do you still think she’s turned on by a disgusting porn tape, or have you finally realized she’s just pretending for your sake? How about you make her a scented hot bath and pretend it’s a turn on for you?

What’s wrong? She doesn’t make enough money so you can pay all the bills and get all the toys? Apparently no woman can make enough money for a man. If Christie and Sandra can’t do it, none of us can.

What’s wrong? She doesn’t get along with your mother? YOU don’t get along with your mother. You’ve just put it on your wife to the buffer, meaning whipping boy, between you and your mother. When your Mom calls, do you signal your wife to give you the phone or wave her off and dive for the nearest exit because you don’t want to listen to your mother ask you questions that always lead to her giving you advice that you know you should follow and know you won’t.

What’s wrong? She left you “for no good reason, I didn’t do anything”. And that’s the problem in a nutshell, you didn’t do anything. I think good marriages, straight or gay, happen when you both realize that you can find a hundred people with qualities you like, the trick is finding a partner with bad qualities you can stand. Instead of wanting more, choose what you have, unless the issues are major, like addiction or similar, work to stay together. Somewhere I heard a great saying; “there’s no perfect fit in an off the rack world.”

Good luck Sandra Bullock. I’m holding a good thought for you. You have a lot of women in your corner. And as far as Jesse the Jerk is concerned, the Italians in my neighborhood have a succinct saying, "Fuck'em where they breathe...."

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I hope everyone has a great St. Patrick’s Day. As I write this column on the 12th, St. Patrick’s Day is still five days away. We are making all the usual preparations.

First, we bought beer. But now we have to do that again because somehow the bought beer has been tested for quality to the point of extinction.

The seven quality testers now have to argue over which brand should be bought for the party. Four are voting for Guinness because of tradition. I’m sure it’s for the flavor and has nothing to do with the higher alcohol content. Two are advocating for Bud, which is mother’s milk in my clan, and one tester is wisely suggesting that we buy a variety of beers so everyone will be happy. That idea won’t fly because it eliminates too many arguments over which is the best beer. The fewer arguments, the less the chance of the hooley (party with punch) becoming a donnybrook (punching party), well, we can’t have that... My mother, who was not one of the quality testers, suggested her favorite beer, Coors light. Only the fact that she is a mother saved her ejection via the back door. I’m not a beer drinker myself because I hate the taste of it, tastes sour, bitter and just awful to me. But there’s something about the mention Coors light that makes a serious beer drinker’s head pop up and spin around. My brother's call Coors Light "piss water".

We will be having the traditional corned beef and cabbage - because we actually like it. I love colcannon (mashed potatoes except you replace half the boiled potatoes for boiled cabbage, very tasty). I have my grandmothers handwritten recipes for tea brack and soda bread. I’d make the tea brack from scratch but I discovered a fast, easy and delicious shortcut; buy the dough for roll-up crescents and sprinkle raisins and dried fruit bits on the dough, roll and bake = delish! Seems odd though, to serve tea brack with coffee instead of a bracing Irish tea, but that’s the way Irish Americans do it. Of course, it is Irish coffee (which contains our four basic food groups; coffee, liquor, sugar and milk) a nice big cup of Irish coffee first thing in the morning on St. Pat’s and continuing through the day - it helps block the smell of boiling cabbage.

We’ll be making green cupcakes with green icing and green sprinkles. The only scary thing about food green food dye is that it remains green on its journey through the body. It can be a wee bit of a shock unless someone clues you in beforehand. I forgot to tell it to my husband one year and he was prepared to rush to the E.R. the next day, certain that his intestines had gone gangrene. I did a fantastic job of keeping a straight face while addressing his concerns and simultaneously ignoring the wicked family members who were laughing in the background.

Next we have to delegate someone as the Designated Defender. Just like a Designated Driver, someone has to be the Designated Defender at Irish family parties now. This is the person who answers the door and talks to the police when they come. We didn’t need them when I was a child in Sayville, NY, because the police (whom we either knew or were related to) would come in and have a short one with the family before admonishing us to keep it down. They were always invited to come back after their shift.

In truth our St. Patrick’s celebrations have become thin and sedate as the family has spread out over the country and everyone tries to have no more than two DUI offenses on their record these days. Still, I know we all think back to our happiest times with too many people drinking too much, singing too much, fighting too much, the near arrests, the property damage .....ahhhh, it’s those little things I miss.

Two Million - Robbed!

Man robbed of $2 million bank withdrawal
Reuters Nov. 24, 2009
TAIPEI (Reuters) – A man in Taiwan was robbed of more than $2 million in cash that he had just withdrawn from the bank...Three masked gunmen robbed the 50-year-old victim in the southern city of Tainan, logging the highest-value robbery in city history...The gunmen approached the victim..., as he drove from the bank to his watch shop nearby, ..
Police are looking for the three men while advising people in the 769,000-population city to be more vigilant. "We're putting out a notice on public safety, telling citizens that we're ready stand beside them for protection as they use the bank.”

This story would have gone so differently on Shelter Island.

“Did you get the money from the bank, Joe? We should have at least five thousand for the trip.”
“Yeah. I took out some extra too.”
“How much?”
“I took out two million, Jean. I went to the bank in the Hamptons because I knew they wouldn’t have that much cash on the Island.”
“Im sorry, honey. Say that again.”
“I took out two million. I thought, just once in our lives, we should go for broke.”
“Joe, if you took out two million, we are broke.”
“Actually, that statement is truer than you realize. You better sit down.”
“Okay, I’m sitting.”
“Maybe take a Xanex.”
“You’re scaring me, Joe. What happened?”
“Three guys jumped me as I came out of the bank. They got all the money.”
“I don’t need a Xanex, I need a gun.”
“Jean, you can’t shoot yourself over money!”
“I’m not going to shoot myself over money, I’m going to shoot you, and yes I can. We don’t even have two million...”
“I maxed out our credit lines and credit cards, cashed our CD’s. I just wanted this to be a really memorable trip for us. We never get off the Island and how many other chances will we have to get to Atlantic City?”
“So, you were robbed of all the money we had, all the money we saved and all the money we could borrow.”
“I’m so glad you’re taking this so calmly, honey. I was sure you’d be furious.”
“Relax, Joe, I’m way past furious. I’m past irate, mad, annoyed, cross, vexed, irritated, indignant, irked; enraged, incensed, raging, fuming, seething, choleric, outraged; livid, foaming at the mouth, doing a slow burn, steamed up, in a lather, fit to be tied, seeing red; sore, bent out of shape, ticked off, teed off, and PO'd. I should be entering homicidal rage in the next ten seconds. Please call the Island police.”
“They can’t do anything for you. We were robbed, that’s the whole story. The locals can’t do anything.”
“They can keep me from killing you, Joe.”
“Jean, Jeannie, honey, you’re talking crazy. You’re just upset. We’ll get through this together. Why are you taking out the iron frying pan? That’s for camping. Jeannie, put it down honey. I’m your husband, you can’t kill me!”
“I get $100,000 in life insurance, Joe. It will help me start a new life.”
“They won’t pay on a homicide, Jean!”
“Oh yes they will! The agent is a woman. I bet she’ll give me double indemnity after you fall on this frying pan and die of a head injury!”