Michael Jackson and Climate Change - Is There a Link?

I suppose I would be remiss in not commenting on some of the goings-on lately, though sometimes I want to live in my little bubble of blissful ignorance a little while longer and not really pay attention to things - or just altogether pretend they aren't happening.

First, holy cow, but a lot of people died this week. In addition to my sister-in-law's grandmother, on a national scale we had the deaths of Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, and Michael Jackson. Is is just an Ozark saying that people die in threes? Call me superstitious, but it does seem to happen a lot. (Insert Twilight Zone theme music here)

Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon didn't really phase me. I was too young during the part of the 70's I was alive to be impacted by Charlie's Angles or the Farrah 'do. Of course it's tragic that she couldn't beat cancer even as a celebrity, but unfortunately it's a tragedy millions of non-famous Americans deal with daily. As far as Ed McMahon, I'm still trying to figure out what he did to make himself famous.

I was, on the other hand, a bit shocked when I'd heard of Michael Jackson's death, but not really surprised. With all the plastic surgery and who knows what else, it's not really unexpected that his heart would suffer the consequences. I was shocked simply because I thought the guy would never go away. That's not really meant to sound as callous as it does...I think MJ was a really talented guy, and it's been sad over the years seeing him sink lower and lower into what can only be described as a cesspool of madness and delusion. You have to wonder what happens to people as kids to make them such screwed-up adults. It's also obvious and sad that money and fame are the two things, as usual with our society, which kept him out of prison and were actually going to allow him to attempt a comeback. I'm currently temporarily without television, and I'm glad - I have a feeling all tv-watchers are getting hammered incessantly with the who, what, when, where, and whys of this situation, rehashed every which way.

Still, anyone who grew up during the 80's will think of MJ with a bit of fondness, for without him we wouldn't have been shocked and amused to find out his hair caught on fire while shooting that Pepsi commercial, and we wouldn't have ruined countless pairs of socks trying to moonwalk through the living room. (Chad, I'm talking to you.)

Meanwhile, the House VERY narrowly passed the so-called "climate-change bill." *sigh* You know, I want a clean environment as much as anyone. I'm very much an outdoors person, and it kills me seeing litter on the sides of the roads. I hate seeing clear-cuts for new housing developments. I've lectured, lectured, and lectured friends, family, and strangers alike on how irresponsible it is to throw cigarette butts out the car window or on the ground (you KNOW who you are). But, this idiotic excuse for a massive tax increase scares the living daylights out of me. In this administration's short time in office, we've seen government interference into the private sector where government doesn't belong on a scale never before imagined. Government is sticking it's nose into not only our private lives but our pocketbooks with no shame or apologies. All of a sudden, we've got a government-owned car company. We're discussing government-owned banks and government-owned health care. WHY do we think the government can do a better job than the private sector? I challenge anyone to name ONE thing they haven't screwed up. Take the government-run Post Office - it looses millions every year, yet prices for postage keeps going up. Now look at private-sector shipping companies such as UPS or FedEx - efficient, profitable companies - otherwise they wouldn't exist. Bottom line - you get results when you HAVE to make a profit to stay alive, and when you have competition.

But I've gotten off the subject - I was talking climate change bill. Let's forget for a second that, believe it or not, scientists still don't even agree that greenhouse gasses cause climate change...and a rising number of them are now saying that they don't. Personally, I'm not really sure what I believe, but what I DO know that in the earth's history it's been through many heating/cooling cycles without our help. This bill is a perfect, very un-Constitutional example of what this administration believes is appropriate - controlling citizens and changing behavior through taxation. In a nutshell, this bill will tax and put major restrictions on all energy deemed not "green" enough. Don't get me wrong - I DO think we need cleaner energy - I just don't think this is the way to do it. It's my understanding that renewable energy sources just haven't evolved to the point of being as viable or as cheap as gas, coal, and oil. This is going to hit EVERY American right in the wallet, at a time where our economy is struggling. Likely we will use less energy, but it will be forced upon us. I guess we'll just have to see how things play out for now.

On that note, I'm going to get on my gas-guzzling, carbon-spewing lawnmower and mow the yard while I still can. I assume soon we'll all be using scissors. Or goats. Oh wait - no - goats emit methane. Scissors it will be.

You may all now commence trying to moonwalk.

Beating the Heat

Lucy never fails to put the sprinkler to good use. If it gets much hotter, I may join her.

Berry Blues

If you haven't perused the comments from my last blog post, there's some pretty funny and creative, and definately true, suggestions for subdivison names. I have a feeling this topic may be explored further in the future.

As if you didn't know (and maybe you don't if you live in a cooler climate), summer has fallen on us like a big, extremely hot, extremely wet blanket. Made of wool. Now are the days of walking out of the house intending to do something outdoors, but turning around less than five steps from the front door. The days when it seems the only bearable way to mow the yard is at 4 a.m. Yay summer.

Last week I thumbed my nose at heat and humidity and drove to a local berry farm for some good 'ol berry pickin'. I'm a pretty big fan of blueberries, especially since they are key ingredients in my very favorite pie (besides pumpkin), the Blue Goose Pie, which is made with blueberries and gooseberries. Nummy. Since my six blueberry bushes I planted last year are now down to two sick-looking, non-berry producing, sparsely-leafed twigs, I have to find my blueberries either in the supermarket or at someone else's berry orchard. One of my far-off goals for the future is to figure out how to successfully grow blueberry bushes.

Which reminds me - did you hear about that British guy who won the lottery? It was the equivalent of 50 million dollars. His biggest aspiration for the cash is to hire an expert to show him how to grow "proper carrots." I hope I don't have to resort to such drastic measures in my blueberry goals.


I arrived at the berry farm early, bathed in bug spray and ready to pick. I must've looked like a serious picker because the Berry Guy immediately handed me two buckets and spared me the picking lesson he'd finished giving the people before me when I arrived. He showed me to a row of bushes heavily laden with berries, and I commenced to picking. It wasn't long before I became aware of the people picking around me. Is it the heat that brings out the inner obnoxiousness in people? And how is it that I'm always around them? Or, is the heat making me less tolerant?

Over a few rows was a woman speaking in a very shrill, very loud northern voice, on topics ranging from ticks to the heat to everthing Southern she's had to grow used to since moving from Minnesota.

"Oooh but my gooooodness isn't it hoot oout already toodaeeey? Eyee shoore am glad I wore dees shooorts, doncha know!" I swear, she was a living, breathing, Minnesota stereotype.

Then I met the guy picking behind me. The Berry Guy called him "Frank", and apparently he's a regular picker. Frank was definately from a foreign country - I'm guessing by his accent to be from maybe Poland. I'm not that great at placing accents, but I was relatively sure it wasn't Australian. Frank was reminded by the Berry Guy to please stay on his row and don't skip around so they'll know what's been picked. As soon as Berry Guy left, Frank turned around and started picking on my row.

I looked at Frank.

Frank looked at me and said, "I pick on dis row."

I said, "Umm...are you sure that's ok?"

Frank says, "Jes...we pay for dees bellies an I pick dis row."

I sometimes wish I didn't have this combination of personality traits that causes me to have an inability to be rude, even when the case calls for it, and a deep-running tendancy to avoid confrontations with strangers. I really wanted to tell 'ol Frank to get himself back on his own row and quit picking just the big juicy berries on MY ROW that were in easy reach, but instead I just kept picking. Pretty soon Berry Guy came back to check on us, and he rolled his eyes and admonished Frank for getting off his appointed row. Frank turned around and picked back on his row until Berry Guy left, then promptly turned around back to my row. This of course meant war. I started picking at lightening speed, zipping around Frank and snatching choice berries. At this point Frank stopped picking and said, "Dis big field...you go pick anywhere."

I think Frank just told me to get lost. I didn't, but I did smile at him and move in even closer. I kept picking right out from under Frank until he finally moved back to his own row mumbling under his breath - possibly something about the rudeness or impertinence of American women, but I don't think he was mumbling in English - and soon left with his mostly full buckets. In the meantime, we were serenaded with more from Minnesota Lady:

'Oooh geez...when I get to heaven, I'm gooona ask God why he made ticks. Wee didn't have dis many in Minneesooooota."

"Isn't it sooo funny how people here talk? (Uhh...us???)

"Ooooh! Dese are suuuch nice joooocy berries! I just hooope I'm not gettin' da chiggers toooo!"

Yeah. Me either. I finally finished my two buckets and headed off to pick a few raspberries, leaving Minnesota Lady to keep chatting with other pickers who were pretending they were deaf.

And people wonder why I want to go through the trouble to grow my own produce.

Pine Quail Oak Valley Deer Trail Lake Estates

Ok, so I'm not doing as good of a job as promised as getting back into the swing of blogging, but I do believe I'm justified considering our pending relocation to central Arkansas. Relocating stinks. Flat out stinks to high heaven. While I'd rather be spending my mornings relaxing out on the back porch at home, hot mug of coffee in hand, thinking of things to blog about, this past week I spent a majority of my time down in Little Rock hitting the real estate hard. One word will very aptly describe my feelings during this hunt: FRUSTRATION.

Looking for a new house to buy can be fun - it's just shopping on a much larger scale, but with much more at stake. Once you sign, you can't just simply return it. But the excitement is that much higher, also. Finding a great-fitting pair of pants, as wonderful as that is, doesn't come close to finding your perfect home. So much of our lives and identities are wrapped up in our homes. A home shows our personalities, and also dictates how we'll live our lives, whether in the country, city, or a subdivision.

Several things, however, have put kind of a damper on the excitement of finding a new house. First of all, I still don't want to leave Mountain Home. I know it's best for our future, and there ARE going to be advantages - but I still don't WANT to. It's much more exciting to house-hunt when you're totally 100% into the move. Second, I'm extremely intimidated by the city. I've never really minded VISITING cities - probably because of the knowledge that I would soon escape back to familiar territory. But lately when we've been in Little Rock, I've had to fight nearly full-blown panic attacks. Though it sounds a bit dramatic for even me, the fact that this will soon be "home" nearly sends me into involuntary hysterics. Thirdly, I've been hugely disappointed with the houses we've been looking at in our price range.

Unfortunately we're moving to a really booming area where land is more expensive. I knew from the beginning that we wouldn't be able to afford a house on 20 acres like we have now, but we still figured it wouldn't be too hard to find a reasonable house on a few acres out of town. My dreams include much of what we have now, though on a smaller scale and preferrably outside city limits. I wouldn't even mind neighbors - real neighbors that you actually get to know, visit with over the fence, and take some fresh eggs or even a pie to every so often. Yes, I DO want to live in Mayberry.

This has turned out to be harder than I ever thought. Instead of "acres per house", we're moving to an area where it's more of a case of "houses per acre." I thought Mountain Home was booming - which it is, much too fast for my comfort. But, compared to the central Arkansas area, Mountain Home is in a rut. Radiating out from Little Rock seems to be a never-ending procession of bulldozers making the way for new subdivisions, with sign after sign proclaiming "Future home of Arbor Ridge" (that one was ridiculous because it was clear-cut) or "Lots Available now in Quail Glen Estates". It seems to escape this parade of "progress" will mean getting too far from hubby's work.

A majority of houses out there for sale in the area are located in subdivisions. In the past week, the word "subdivision" has reached the status of a dirty word. I'm APPALLED at the number of these housing developments in central Arkansas - acres and acres, miles and miles which were so recently forests and fields are now covered with brick cookie-cutter houses all jammed up to within a few feet of each other, all with ridiculous titles such as "Whispering Meadows" (uhh...excuse me, but where's the meadow?) and "Majestic Pines Estate" (again...where are the pines??? And does a 1/8 acre lot really qualify as an "estate"?). These titles are of course all perched on pretentious brick or stone entrance gates. And we've all seen the houses in these places - about three variations on the same brick structure, featuring a very small front porch (not meant for spending any time on) and a very large garage. Front yards are for looking nice only - nobody hangs out in the front yard. Certainly not in view of other residents of the neighborhood.

One of my best friends lives in the area in one of these places. Acutally, one bright shining beacon of hope in this mess of a relocation is that we'll again live in the same vicinity. We were taking a break from house-hunting one day this week and visiting on the back patio of her cookie-cutter brick sub-divided home, gazing into the windows of the house behind hers (the privacy fence isn't high enough), listening to the yapping lap dogs in the privacy-fenced yard to the left, and the soothing sounds of a weedeater in the yard to the right. In a nearby yard, someone was talking on a cell phone. I felt like a rat in a trap. How does one get used to this kind of living? Of course, Laura is a bona-fide city girl, married to a bona-fide city boy, who both think their perfectly landscaped postage-stamp yard is just heaven.

"I just noticed we don't have squirrels", Laura observed during our visit. Really? If I were a squirrel, I'd live somewhere else, too. The largest tree in the whole neighborhood is in Laura's yard, a scrawny pin oak with a whopping 6" diamater trunk. Besides, I'm not sure that neighborhood would tolerate squirrels, what with actual nature and wildlife messing with the picture of utter perfection. This got us on the subject of restrictions on their house dictated by the subdivision - what color they can't paint their garage door (it's the only thing not brick), how many shrubs one must have, how short the lawn must be, etc. In addition, there are many restrictions on what you can/can't have in front of your house - such as a boat. Where else are you going to keep a boat? Paid storage, I suppose. Hmm...sounds an awful lot like Socialism to me.

(side note: Maybe we should all live in subdivisions to acclimate ourselves to what this current admisistration is leaning toward.)

I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said before. Goodness knows I've heard and read plenty of anti-subdivision rants, so I'm just adding my two cents into the fray. Subdivisions are definately too lucrative for developers to go away. But, I'm going to do my best to stay out of them - if at all possible. I do think I could come up with some more truthful names, though. Here are some I compiled during my house search:

Brick Houses Only Estates

Privacy Fence Drive

Previously A Farm Acres

No Tree Valley

If anyone has any to add, feel free.

The ray of hope finally appeared late in my search, after meeting with a real estate agent. She seems to genuinely understand our plight, being a country girl herself. She assured us that while what we're looking for is relatively rare in the area, they do exist - it's just a matter of being willing to dig while being patient. We actually looked at a couple of possibilities, one of which is actually going to be a consideration. We're really in no huge rush, since we of course can't buy until we sell. Despite my cynicism I do have faith that all will work out eventually, and we'll find a home that meets our expectations. I just hope my sanity lasts until then.

Hooray for Garage Sales

My fondest wish is to go at least three years without packing a box. I hate packing...and yet I seem to be doing it ALL THE TIME. I detest putting treasured items in a dark box, wondering when I'll see them again, and wondering where I'll be when the box is finally unpacked. Not to mention wondering what will survive, and what will inevitably bite it. I used to find the packing activity a little exciting - the idea of a fresh new start in a fresh new place was something to look forward to. I'll admit I do feel a drop or two of the excitement, but it's overshadowed by the fact that we're moving to an area I don't really want to go, and that I'm sick of this moving business. I'm ready to nest. I'm ready for a real mailbox and a real address that won't change every two years. Who knows how much of my mail has been scattered all over Missouri and Arkansas?

In preparation for THE BIG MOVE, I decided to rid myself of some junk by having a garage sale. This was my first ever "solo" sale, and I did learn a lot about hosting one. First of all, I had to borrow a town friend's garage and driveway to stage the sale, since I was pretty sure The Homestead wouldn't draw a crowd - especially since half the time the UPS guy can't even find us. So, at the crack of dawn I planted signs, set up my wares, and opened for business. I had a lot of lookers, and eventually some buyers. A garage sale is a great place to people-watch. Some folks were extremely nice and courteous, and some were of course as rude as the day is long.

All in all, I did pretty well. I got rid of most of my unwanted stuff, plus made a little cash. I probably could've made more cash, but the thought of packing all that stuff up again made me into the worst haggler in the world. Here's the dialogue from one of my sales:

Lady (with a beaufont hairdo wearing a mu-mu and crocs, I kid you not): "Will you take less for this clock?'

Me: "What will you give?"

Lady: "$5"

Me: "How about $8.00."

Lady: "How about $5.00?"

Me: "7.00"

Lady: "$5.00"

Me: "6.00"

Lady: "Mmm....$5.00"

Me: "$5.50"

Lady: "5.00"

Me: "5.25"

Lady: "Nope. $5.00."

Me: "$5.00 and a stick of gum."

Lady: "Ok. Sold"

Eh, at least I didn't have to pack it up. Besides, was Marden's. Shhh...don't tell. *wink*