Dailyish Pictures: June 2008 Archives

Chris bought us both some gloves for the weekend of Back Breaking Manual Labor (notice it is getting its own capitalization now, pretty soon it will come with exclamation points too: BACK! BREAKING! MANUAL! LABOR! and it will be a month, not a weekend).

Notice the radically different gloves available for BACK BREAKING MANUAL LABOR. The men's are 'Performance Select' clearly stating that these gloves will help you achieve any goal and look incredibly distinguished and discriminating while doing it (that 'select' bit). Whereas the ladies gloves are dainty ('mini'), will result in a 'perfect home' if worn, and are made of soft jersey so they'll be comfortable on our soft hands. After testing these two extremes during our month of BACK! BREAKING! MANUAL! LABOR! I have come to the conclusion that Perfect Home, Mini Dotted Jersey Gloves are Utterly Useless. And I have the slivers and blisters to prove it. These gloves are purely for show and only to be worn in the two minutes before your garden bridge party shows up, so you can be seen removing them and wiping the non-existent sweat from your brow as the maid brings out afternoon tea and you exclaim, "goodness! Is it time for tea already? I was so enjoying working with the land, it is so invigorating. Well do sit down everyone! I'm famished!"

This is my lucky cats piggy bank. My mom gave it to me years ago. Superstitiously I've always made sure that they had a nice ledge in a well used room, preferably up high with a good view in order to maximize their ability to induce prosperity (kitties like to sit up high). It seems to be taking quite awhile for them to find their groove, but any day now I expect to be cashing in.

To compensate for my pathetic swiss chard, I will dazzle you with one of my plants that is doing well. Having done nothing but water and provide a lightly shaded spot for my gardenia, it has rewarded my non-action with an abundance of blooms. Since it is getting crowded out by my scented geranium, I picked all the flowers hidden by foliage and brought them inside.

The little vases come from Michaels for about two bucks each. They are on my 'continually collect' list and anytime I happen to be in Michaels I buy another. Someday, when the demilitarized zone becomes inhabitable, I'll be ale to strew them about with tea lights during barbecues. That should be in about ten years.

(I realize that I have already featured a gardenia, but this is a better picture and there are more of them, so therefor this is totally fresh and new.)

It was the curled toes. They sleep all day, especially in our sweltering  non-airconditioned house, so I have a wealth of sleeping kitty pictures. However, this one stood out. The hint of a kitty smile and the little curled up feet smugly reminding onlookers that life is better if you're a cat.

This is one of my lavender plants next to a very pretty pink flower.  I haven't the foggiest idea where the pink flower came from, but when I took a break from weeding it popped up. I wonder what else I've been ruthlessly removing? It may be prudent to extend this weeding hiatus a bit longer to see what else I misjudged. Is anyone else getting the peculiar feeling that gardening is trying to tell me something? There is a valuable life lesson at my fingertips, I'm sure of it...

Kyna's last dance recital was held at the Del Mar fair, which for those of you who don't know, is a lot like those old time country fairs with live stock, horse shows, and rides for the kids. Only massively huger. Like the fair in Charlotte's Web raised to the power of fourteen.

After her performance, Kyna and I ate sno cones, bought two hot dogs and a bottle of water for twenty two dollars (I am so not kidding), and spent an inordinate amount of time petting livestock. On our way out we hit the rides. This swing one was by far Kyna's favorite. It used to be my favorite too. There is something wonderfully freeing about swooping through the air. I have a vivid memory of being on a ride just like this when I was a teenager and having some sort of teenage epiphany.The kind where the world looks bright and clear for a second or two before the hormones notice and put a stop to such cheery nonsense.

This time however, it was not my favorite ride. This time I sat in the chair directly behind the most precious six year old thing in my life and FREAKED OUT. Every swoop made me check the chains to her chair with my eyes, every whoosh made me calculate whether my arms could move faster than her forward trajectory should one of those chains snap. I was actually dead. My heart had stopped beating the moment we were lifted off the ground and it didn't start until our feet touched again. At which point Kyna turned around, a huge smile on her face, and said, "let's do that again!"

This is Dish, I think. It may be Rag, but since Kyna is asleep I'll just have to guess. She is one of Cheddar's babies and quite friendly. In this photo she is grooming herself on Kyna's lap. I'm continually amazed at how great Kyna is with these little guys. Gentle, caring, and nothing like what I thought a Cheetah might be like with mice.

This is my front garden so far this year. Notice my two tomatoes in pots. Notice how they are still alive. So far, so good.

This is Kyna and her tap shoes waiting patiently for her turn on the big stage to rehearse.

All right, all right. I know that shells are only chic now if they are part of a goth mantel display along side skeletons in glass bell-jars and taxidermy, and when displayed en masse, especially in a white bowl, they are so yesterday, but that's exactly what I have in my living room. I like to pick one up every so often and feel the coolness of the shell, trace the spiral with my finger and occasionally smell them. Little salty scent memories of the ocean.

This is the little side porch at Brenda and Justin's place. I love everything about it. The nonfunctional hammock, which houses the spiders, the rocking chair, and the steps covered in tools. This is a completely utilitarian porch. Found on instinct by all visiting smokers. Heck, a rocking chair beneath a spider hotel? What's not to love?

The Boston skyline, with the sterns of sailboats down at the MIT sailing pavillion. Every photographer has to have that one 'red boat picture'. This could be mine for a while.

This is a very beautiful bridge the party barge went under. I have no idea what it is called but I promise to find out and update this post.

This would be the Longfellow Bridge connecting Boston to Cambridge, MA, and spanning the Charles River. Its upstream sidewalks are narrower than the downstream ones. You can read all about it, except for the reason why, here.

This would be Pico the Destroyer, very cutely basking in the glow from my Ikea lamp. After about five minutes she turned around and sat with her back to it, so she could make sure her tan was even.

This is Kyna and Chris heading off to kindergarten. (Only Kyna stays.) My friend Lisa, who is a pediatric physical therapist and more safety conscious than Smokey the Bear will be horrified. And rightly so, I'm sure I would be horrified too if my dad hadn't driven me to kindergarten on his motorcycle when I was young. It's that whole illogical imprinting thing. I lived, so I'm sure she will too. Another reason I'm totally ok with it is the incredibly high cuteness factor. Are they not totally adorable? Cute, cute, cute.

And Internet (Lisa), before you feel compelled to email me with gruesome statistics, let me assure you Chris drives about ten miles an hour on back roads to get to her school. In fact, he just walks his bike there. Really. It's only me he takes on the freeway.

Proof I participated in selecting a new councilwoman for San Diego. I also voted for a mayoral candidate and city attorney. As for all the other propositions, positions and congressional seats, I found when I truthfully looked inside myself I really didn't know enough about the candidates to cast a vote one way or another. I am not always so remiss in my politics. In fact, if it were federally or globally relevant I'd be keenly interested, know all the players, and have something fairly intelligent sounding to say about it. Unfortunately, the few times I did tune in to learn more about who was running for what at the local level, they all seemed so transparently San Diegan I got bored. There was no spice or pizazz. I wanted the Barbie look-a-like transvestite candidate, Rover the dog candidate, mascot of the San Diego little league, or the Pottery Workers Collective Voice candidacy. These were the voices I wanted to hear. The alternative culture, the living culture, the loudly dissenting, vividly discussing, and generally grandstanding proof that this yogurt of a country is alive, thriving  and breeding new ideas.  Maybe not necessarily good ideas, but ideas nonetheless.

Long live the Pottery Collective! May they eternally fight the good fight for bubble free clay and universal access to kiln time!

This is Kyna newly home from school where they made rice crispy treats. Can you tell?

This is another miraculous find from my mother's house. I  was visiting for a cup of tea and mentioned that  I was having difficulty finding the perfect fruit bowl.

"You could use that one over there," she said, pointing to this fabulous gold streaked blue one. Yep. That would be perfect. Thank you mysterious genie house.