Rainfall

We’ve been enduring rain of Biblical proportions and twice — TWICE — in the last few days, my beet shoots have been run off in a swell of water and at one point, my lettuce was DROWNING. I never thought I’d be so protective of a pile of plants, but there I was, standing woefully in the rain as though in a gardening-themed wet T-shirt contest wailing, “MY LETTUCE!” Honestly, you’d think my village was being raped and pillaged and the last of the food stores was trickling off in a wave of horror. And frankly, it was all for naught, for my veggies survived wonderfully, with the exception of my beets, the final batch of which were essentially washed away during this afternoon’s monsoon. I mourn the loss of a pickling-friendly vegetable, botulism be damned.

Also, a plea to anyone out there who can help: Am I the only person who’s Clearblue Easy fertility monitor has FREAKED THE HELL OUT? I mean, I pee on the stick in the morning, yet the monitor doesn’t recognize that it’s a new day until — oh my God — THREE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON. And by 3 p.m. I have completely forgotten about the whole ritual and as a result, I’m not really using it, but let’s be honest, it’s not like it was working anyway. I’d be better off just WINGING IT at this point.

And hey, if you, like me, won’t be frequenting a spa anytime soon, may I recommend a few slices of cucumber in your water? It’s surprisingly refreshing on a hot day, and if you put on a robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers, you can at least PRETEND that you’re about to rush off to a hot-stone massage, rather than the reality of digging in for a nice load of non-dishwashered DISHES, which are inherently unpleasant, even if you are going to wash them with lavender-scented dishsoap. Like that’s supposed to be SOOTHING. (Actually, it is. Don’t tell anyone.)

And please, indulge me in a moment of brand loyalty. A friend of mine lamented today that she couldn’t find any toilet paper on sale, and frankly, I was a little horrified, because I do not understand this, this non-loyalty to toilet paper. Perhaps its my upbringing that was fraught with one-ply and a childhood of sore backsides, but toilet paper is one area that generic — or a less than optimal brand — should never be leveraged. In fact, generics should not EXIST, and the FDA should be actively involved in this. It’s Cottonelle with Aloe and E or I won’t buy toilet paper. I simply won’t buy it. I was once the same with tampons (Tampax only, and don’t get me started on OB. Who ARE YOU PEOPLE?). And I’m not a brandy-brand type person, like AT ALL.

And finally, three things, also unrelated:

1) My husband is a long-suffering (LONG) Celtics fan, who literally watched every. single. game. for every. single. season. even when they were LAUGHABLE. (I did, too.) And tomorrow night/tonight could be a seriously momentous occasion in his life. Yes, I said it: IN HIS LIFE, and that’s not an exaggeration. This is a championship that could potentially make him give up watching SPORTS. I don’t think you understand what this potential championship means for his life, and our marriage. Lakers fans don’t understand this — they’ve HAD championships in recent memory. So I’m asking you: pray for us. Pray for the Celtics. Save my marriage. Oh, and help Paul Pierce cement his future in the NBA and even get his jersey retired. Because he will, along with Tommy Heinsohn. Larry Bird. Cedric Maxwell? Uh … yeah, Cedric Maxwell.

2) I neglected to mention that at the swimming hole outing over the weekend, I got shit on with the World’s Largest Seagull Poop. I mean, this thing was EPIC, and I’m not even sure why I’m asking you to do a favor for my husband (and a legion of Celtics fans), because he was completely lacking sympathy and, in fact, seemed ANNOYED that I was a little distressed that my head quite suddenly resembled a Port-O-Loo for seagulls. I mean, that turd must have weighed a POUND and will it gross you out immensely if I tell you the only available means of getting rid of it was to jump directly into the lake and that I sort of just washed it out and carried on with the rest of my day? (Because what else, really, was I going to do?)

The real point of this is to tell you that JESUS CHRIST, if you are the type of person who FEEDS THE SEAGULLS, then I’d like you to trudge out into the backyard and stab yourself in the eyeball with the nearest tree branch. Because you — YOU — will not be the person to get POOPED ON. You will be the person who dumbly stands there telling your kids to “Look at the pretty birdies!” and throwing your leftover hoagie rolls at them while they literally SWOOP AND POOP, SWOOP AND POOP. ON EVERYONE ELSE.

3) Just when you thought you were free of my vitriol against Eat Pray Love, my Goodreads friend Amanda asked me to expand on it for her book review site, so I did. And lo, fresh hatred for Elizabeth Gilbert! (And might I tell you that HOO BOY, this feels VERY LOADED after Suzanne Finnamore found my blog and began a mini-email-relationship with me? Incidentally, she occasionally e-mails me to this day and sent me a signed copy of Split, and I love her more now than before, because she’s interminably gracious and outstandingly kind. I sense that I won’t be getting the same treatment from Gilbert unless it’s done with tremendous irony.)

*A Flock of Seagulls. Oh, I’m KILLING MYSELF over here.

41 comments June 16th, 2008