Et tu, Bun Bun?

So I've been burned before whilst performing my Sleeping Beauty routine. You know, the part in the movie where she's singing outside about wanting to find her Prince and all the little woodland critters flit to her side and perch on her delicate finger or gaze up adoringly at her longing face.

In the years we've lived in our home, I've inadvertently created dinner for feral cats by feeding and attracting chipmunks, lured hissing and ferocious raccoons to our porch by feeding the feral cats who I didn't want eating my chipmunk friends, and given my poor house cats a terrible case of fleas by enticing all sorts of wild animals to our yard. Oops. You'd think I would have learned my lesson?

This year, my backyard visitors have amassed to quite an impressive list. We have Chippy 2 (RIP Chippy), a squirrel that is almost cat-sized, Bun Bun, a cardinal couple, a dove couple (who come every year) and other random birds who come and visit my feeders.

The nice thing about birds, chipmunks, squirrels, bunnies, and cardinals is that they all like sunflower seeds. So I've been feeding them all, and not attracting, say, raccoons and feral cats, with the seeds. I thought I'd finally figured out how to strike a balance with the woodland critters.

I also have a love of flowers and have spend grueling hours planting, watering, and fertilizing my blooms. Do you see where this is going? I had a new rose bush I planted this year. A bud appeared and died pretty quickly, and I was super excited to see last weekend that there were two big buds back on my new bush! Huzzah!

I was NOT super excited to check on said new buds two days ago only to realize that Bun Bun ate them. Ate them all, stripped the leaves, left sad, hollow, empty branches in her wake. BUN BUN! I give you seeds and this is how you repay me? Bad Bun Bun. I thought we were tight. : (

Here's Bun Bun:

and here's what's left of my rose bush:

I wish I had taken a before picture of the bush. It was doing pretty well, actually. How was I to know that Bun Bun would betray me so completely? I am not going to go Farmer Bob on her, though. I may, however, invest in some wire fencing.

Stuck in the middle . . . with all of you.

We just had another big family wedding. In our family, if you're getting married, you can't avoid "big." I am the youngest of 9 kids, and they all have kids. Their kids are just about all grown, though.

A little background . . . my mom and dad were each married, with 4 children each, when they divorced their respective spouses (both were abusive to the children, go figure). Then they married and raised their 8 kids, sometimes having as many as 6 or 7 in the house (my eldest sister Connie moved on her own as soon as legally possible). I came along about 12 years after my youngest sibling and about 25 years after my first sibling. Of course when your siblings are already in their mid-twenties, especially in the late '70s & '80s, they are typically already married and having children. I have a niece who is actually older than I, one who is 6 months younger (mom and stepdaughter pregnant at the same time! how fun, and sort of odd.), and many who are just a 5 years or so younger than I.


This set up insured a few things for my childhood: my youngest siblings would hate me for coming along and stealing the title of "baby" and that they may have to babysit instead of going out with their friends; when I was older, I was the playmate for the gaggle of younger nieces and nephews and sat at the kids' table long after entering my teens for the simple fact that I could keep an eye on them; and that I truly didn't feel like I fit in anywhere in my family as I was too young to have real relationships with my siblings and a little too old (I was also babysitting many of them by the time I was 12) and further removed to have that type of relationship with my siblings' kids. A child of 9, a family of 45 "immediate" members, and I felt like the odd man out, an only child. And, in many ways, I was.


By time I was old enough to do fun stuff, most of my other siblings were all out on their own. Lucky for me, this meant my parents both had time to take me to Girl Scouts, camping, on vacation, and also the funds to do it. Of course this didn't help my relationships with my siblings any, but it did give me a privileged childhood.


Fast forward to today and I am happy to report that I've found my niche. For a few years now, I've gained the trust and confidence of many of my siblings and have grown really close to a few of them. When my sister was having a rough time through her divorce, she told mom that she liked talking to me best because I was the only one who understood her. As far as their children, I am also the only sibling invited to the twenty-somethings' after hours parties and out with their friends. All their friends think I'm the coolest, a 30 year old aunt that has been there, done that, and still likes to have fun, and many of my nieces and nephews rely on me for advice or just an adult ear that is not their parents'.


Now I am stuck right in the middle of our giant family, the glue that holds the older generation to the younger, the one that can be counted on by everyone for both recreation and tomfoolery, and also for a shoulder to lean on when needed. The hub in the center of our family city. I wouldn't have it any other way.


I should be getting some pictures soon and I'll post more about the actual wedding, which was an absolute blast! I'm so happy for my brother, who has found love again after a young marriage and two fabulous grown children. His bride is truly special and sweet, and I think that this celebration gave hope to some of my other siblings who have gone through their own divorces and some who have even found new love (another of my sisters is engaged to be married for the second time as well, with two grown children).


Oh, what the hell. Here are a few pictures until I get the mother load emailed to me:




My husband and I (sorry so squinty!). I wish I had a full-length shot of my dress . . . it is HOT. Probably my favorite dress I've ever owned besides my wedding dress.




My parents, waiting for the ceremony to start. This is as "excited" as they get, folks. BUT. Can you believe they are in their 70s??? I have awesome genes.

My brother and his son wait for the bride to walk down. They are both about 6'3". We are a very tall family!

It's official!

Now it's time to party! Hopefully I'll have some great reception shots to write about later.

June 11th

Happy birthday, honey. You make my life so happy.

Just like riding a bike.

Riding a bike, that is.

My nephew and his fiancee found a bike on the curb set to go to the garbage collection the next morning, didn't want it, and gave it to me! I've been wanting a bicycle for about a year or so now but wasn't sure if I'd actually ride it enough to warrant purchasing one. Free bike. Done.

This afternoon while I'd been working, I kept peering out the window to see if it would be nice enough for a maiden voyage on my bicycle. It drizzled a bit around quitting time, but I'd gone to Target for a few new t-shirts and when I arrived home, it was chilly but decent.

Now, I knew beforehand that there were a few logistical issues with the bike. The seat and handlebars were both definitely not on the factory model. There also may have been something up with the pedals. My nephew tried to lower the seat a smidgen for me but when I sat on the seat, I was pedaling near my ears. That can't be good for the knees. So then we put the seat back up (Don't worry, it's mostly safe. I can reach the ground with my toes.) and it was kind of a stretch to reach the handlebars. Good thing I naturally have very long arms. There was also an issue with the braking system/back tire in that either the tire was hideously overinflated for no good reason or there was something wrong with the brakes that only allow for enough contact to stop the brake when the tire is inflated enough to reach it. Whew. If you were rolling the bike down the drive before you hop on, you'd notice the brakes catch in an odd way and the tire stop rotating completely, but I was really hoping it would resolve itself once I got going with enough velocity.

One more count against me, as if Frankenbike wasn't enough. I hadn't ridden a bike in probably 15-16 years. I'm trying to remember when I decided my pink and grey Huffy wasn't cool anymore. Could I have been as old as 15? As far as I recall, I did a lot of unnecessary walking in my pre-licensed years, thinking it would be far better accepted by my peers if I arrived late than on a pink and grey Huffy ten-speed.

Trying to muster some confidence, I skip-rolled Frankenbike to the street (I'm not starting off going over curbs; I'm not crazy), awkwardly threw my leg over a too-high bar and seat, and started pedaling.

Then came the first moments of OH MY GOD, WTF IS WRONG WITH THIS BIKE? No wonder it was in the garbage, it's garbage! And CHEESES SLICED, it is going to kill me! as I wobbled precariously and trying not to pedal too fast but enough to stay upright. The alignment is terrible, the brakes a joke, the rack and pinion steering . . . oh, well, you get the picture. But did I stop? Oh, no. I wasn't sure if it was because the bike was really a lost-cause heap of metal or if I had simply lost my proficiency during my 16 year hiatus.

Just to the end of the block, and back. Don't want my neighbors to think I can't ride a bike.

But by the time I'd gotten down there, I was a little more comfortable on it. Before I knew it, I'd been around the different parts of my subdivision and the one over. At first I was convinced there was something horribly amiss in the steering hardware; I couldn't turn. A few more blocks, and I started shifting my weight properly. I was curving gracefully instead of putting one foot down as a fulcrum.

Doing well now, I welcomed the wind in my face and enjoyed snippets of suburban life as I watched neighbors grilling, setting dining room tables (I tried not to look in the houses, really . . . and I've got a bridge to sell if you believe that one), mowing lawns, a group of neighborhood boys playing basketball in the street . . . and it was just fun and exhilarating. However, I knew my muscles would make me pay tomorrow, so I rolled on home after about 15 minutes.

Unfortunately, I still can't tell if the mechanics are actually faulty on the bike. My inclination would assume YES, because who would put a perfectly working bicycle in the trash? And I don't know if I made natural compensations for the bike or my ability made that big of improvement in such a short time. What I need to do is borrow a fully-functioning bike and see how it rides compared to my Frankenbike. For now, I can take a spin around the neighborhood free of charge, so that's good enough.

Without further ado, Frankenbike:

Look how low those handles are compared to the seat! I will probably buy a new bicycle if I take up the sport with any regularity.

Jelly Rolling Around In Bed

I'm preforming self experiments on natural selection. For example, I learned that when I went off hormonal birth control last September and started ovulating for real, my 15-year-old skin issues disappeared completely, as if to tell the male tribe "open, and ready for business." It also seems as though I need to be ready to spring into action for a crying infant, even in a dead sleep at 4 am. Ahhh, 30 is a grand ole age, complete with biological metronome to remind me that, although financially and emotionally my husband and I are not ready to take on the task of populating the next generation, our bodies are subverting our efforts and sending mixed messages to our poor, confused brains.

Enter, 4 am last night, when my poor, drunken husband slunk into our bedroom only to be met by my wrath. To give credit where credit is due, he probably made less noise than a church mouse, tensed on his tiptoes to glide across the carpet, not daring to breathe in a manner that might stir the air. And to discredit myself, I woke up anyway, tossed and turned, and shouted out commands between rolls across the mattress. "Shut the window; the rain is coming in." "Let the cat in." "Let the cat out." "Get rid of this blanket, I'm hot." "Where is the blanket, I'm cold?" I rolled around in bed for almost three hours, when I knew I'd laid in bed too long and past the time to get up to go to work.


It reminded me of the conversation I had with a good friend this weekend. My best friend and her husband had a baby about 3 weeks ago. I've been visiting with them at least once a week, lending a hand where I can, providing sanity and "adult conversation" to my girlfriend, and providing a sympathetic ear to her husband when he needs one but knows better to complain to the lady who just squeezed a person out of her vagina. This weekend, in hushed tones, he told me that he's not waking up in the night to the crying baby (she is, of course) and it's making her irritated at him and making him feel guilty about not doing his "share." She refuses to wake him up when she should because he should "hear the baby and wake up and want to help." He tells me that he does want to help for these night time cries, very badly in fact, so he can counteract the uselessness of his nipples during the day, but just doesn't hear the baby. I just listened and told him not to take it personally, as I've noticed myself that men will sleep through an earthquake while women notice a barometric change of two millimeters or less and wake instantaneously. I suggested that he talk with her and explain the need for her to just push him right out of bed if she needs him to get up. I asked her if she wanted to borrow my parents' dog's shock collar.


I also made a Jelly Roll this weekend. I enjoy baking immensely, but often forget that, when baking as opposed to cooking, measurements are paramount to the perfect result. Even when you're talking jelly. It came out very well for my first time rolling a cake--it stayed together quite nicely and didn't even crack. The jelly, however, oozed out of both ends and, when cut, soaked right through the spongy cake part. Hmm. I guess when they mean 1/2 cup for the roll, they mean 1/2 cup. Silly me thought, I like jelly. No, wait. I love jelly. Two cups of jelly, then! Oh well. Next time, I'll remember this lesson and follow the recipe directions.

How does this work?

So, I love my mother-in-law. She is a really sweet person, and so generous. Whenever the husband and I dog sit, she insists on writing us both checks for our "trouble." This past time, she left John and I our own cards with checks inside. We decided to open them together. His says, "To Brother John, thanks, wuff, wuff, etc." and mine says "To Auntie Clarissa, thanks, wuff, wuff, etc." Um. o.O So my husband is my nephew? I had no idea our family tree was more like a bramble.

Okay, Red Cross, I'll stop rolling my eyes.

I just received a donation request form from the American Red Cross. Great, give blood, it will probably save some one's life.

They have titled a local effort the "Twilight Blood Drive" for next month. The graphic on the flier is that pair of now infamous cupped hands from Meyer's book cover, but instead of an apple, they hold a cross. The Gothic writing that would typically reveal the author's name says, "What do you give for?"

At first I'm all, FFS. Why is the ARC hopping on the extremely overladen bandwagon of highly estrogened women and girls of all ages, capitalizing on the swoonicity of RPat? Then I thought, it doesn't matter. Apparently this particular drive is aimed at high school targets, and if fantasizing about vampires and a deep, soul-shattering love at 17 years old is what gets transfusionees a little more A Positive, cheers. In fact, genius idea, whoever thought of that.