Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Treasure Hunters

Apparently, scrapping metal is "all the rage" now.  Actually it has been quite popular for a while, and I am sure that the ole timers don't appreciate the rise in interest, as it takes a hunk out of their work load and profits.  I think it is a wonderful thing.  Taking someone's, let say, discarded water heater that no longer works, is a great service.  It's removal benefits both parties.

Similarly, dumpster diving is also "all the rage".  These people call themselves "Freegans".  Can you guess what they are looking for?  I am all for finding someone else's treasures on the side of the road, or in an actual dumpster.  I have, in fact, been banned, by my darling husband, from bringing another piece of furniture into our house.  (Did he say Garage?  I didn't think so!)  However, these "Freegans" are not dipping into the trash pile for that sweet little rocking chair that just needs a coat of paint.  They are digging for food.  Yup.  Food.  I, personally, must draw the line.  But if that is your main food source, I get it.  The economy is terrible.   But, I am convinced that some of these people are in it for the feeling of espionage one can get from sneaking past a rent-a-cop.

In an unfortunate turn of events, a mixed conglomeration of these bread winning activities has invaded my neighborhood.  My yard, to be exact:
    At approximately 9:38 pm, the other night, the dog was shushed into silence, by The Man of the House.  It was assumed that he, the fearless pup, was claiming his territory from the small bird chirping outside, or a dog walking his owner nearby.  Upon further investigation, The Man of the House peered into the night, shocked to see someone digging through the trash.  His Dear Wife insisted he leave The Man alone.  "After all, dear, we did put some lovely things out there."  
    In her abject nosiness, she too peered from the upstairs window, unseen.  "The Man is dumping out MY trash!"  The Man had just picked up the bag and emptied the unmentionable contents, searching through them for who knows what.  The grass had been defiled.  His Dear Wife's bad kitchen habits revealed!  The Man of the House grabbed his fearless guard dog, and confronted The Man.  The Man rushed off in fear of his is life and The Happy Family was able to sleep peacefully.

Okay, the dude was literally digging through my big green trash can.  I have a problem with this.  Go through my junk beside the can.  Take what you want.   But the trash can is off limits.  I called the City, thinking they would be on my side.  I mean, the trash either belongs to me, or to them.  They said there wasn't anything I could do about it!  Yes, the guy tried to pick up, but I still had to go out there and clean up a bags worth of trash.  At night.  In my PJ's.  Another atrocity.  Is there no where to draw the line?  Can my trash not even have dignity?  Now, I will have to be self-conscious for my trash.  Isn't there an organization that supports the rights of my garbage?  We have some ideas to get back at them.  Or prevent further intrusion.

  • Collect all of dogs refuse for the week, and place in on top (this may not be okay with the city, but ridiculous times call for ridiculous measures!)
  • Booby trap can with pepper spray
  • Placing a sign that says "Our trash is our trash.  Get your own."
  • Placing a brick in each bag (again the city might not be okay with this one)
  • Laying in wait, and taking photos of the offenders, turning them in for littering.  
If you scrap metal, awesome!  If you are a "Freegan",  excellent!  If you love finding treasures, me too!  If you must go through green garbage cans, please have the decency to take the bag home first.  And feel free to leave me a tip under my door mat. 

Thursday, February 2, 2012

The Hoops We Jump Through...

As I was laying, or maybe I should say propped, by Jacob while he was falling asleep, I realized that I spend many uncomfortable minutes trying to make my children happy.  I was perched on the edge of his bed, laying there,  with my knees on the ground, wanting to go to sleep myself.  Sometimes it takes hours to get a child to sleep.  Desperation strikes at times, and you fall asleep only to be awakened by the child climbing over you to get a toy, a snack, or leg warmers.  I was still in the game, but barely... I forced my eyes to stay open.  I was staring at the side of his head, admiring the wax that is so plentiful in my children's ears, just wondering when he would fall out, when he turned his head, and closed his eyes.  I could see what is left of his darling baby face through the gaps in my bangs.  I wish I could have captured a photo just like that, with my hair in the way, his baby face exposed just enough to remind me how sweet and innocent he is, and how much we have to learn from each other.  Then he was asleep, breathing deeply, and I was filled with relief, as well as excitement;I could now get on with my evening.  It was a fleeting, precious moment, I am so glad I looked.

Dear Patty Presbyterian...

I have a friend, who will hopefully know the titled name to be hers.  The kind of friend that you have for a season, that you know is put there in your life for you to learn very specific lessons.  The kind that you wished you had taken more efforts to see.  We used to joke about the pressures of being Molly Mormon and Patty Presbyterian, and while we only keep touch through our blogs, I admire her, as many do.  I read her writings, and I think, "How will I ever be that amazing?"  I know she is a real woman, with real struggles, and I feel for her and her family, especially now.  She really is an exceptional woman, with an exceptional family.  And I hope that when she reads this, she will know I was thinking of her, though I never called or wrote.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Musing on Men: Why Mine is Better than Yours

Ladies...(and I address the ladies because it is exceedingly doubtful that any man reads this, including my own AND you must imagine that I am talking as if we are sharing a cup of tea, 
sampling cake, and wearing fine dresses, with parasols by our sides) 

It is not a new thing to get a compliment on my husband.  Oh yes, he is a great Man Child, and does not volunteer to clean the toilets, and frequently falls asleep during church, but that is what I call Charm.  You know, Charm, right?  The things that children and husbands do that are most bothersome, but no one is brave enough to tell you to your face, so they say they have "Charm".   I myself am guilty, and I apologize  if I have told you that you or your children, or your dog are full of Charm.  If you feel the need to take offense, then consider that I would never tell someone they had Charm, if I didn't have a special place in my heart for them.  It is almost pre-requisite.  And don't worry, if you haven't measured up yet, you will.  I have the ability to find Charm anywhere, for Charm adds variety, and I like variety.

Now back to my Charm.  I recently received a lovely compliment on how my husband helped me during a moment of distress, of his own accord.  Indeed, he saved me from having a complete emotional breakdown in the presence of everyone we know.  Instead, I was able to carry on in the bathroom.  Thank you, Dear !  It could only have been better if he had handed me an handkerchief as he swept the babe from my skirt.  I accept these compliments, like I am the deserving recipient of them.  Of course, the Man Child is the one who should be receiving them, and I always pass them on, and he is very humble, and even more deserving in my eyes.  I find that I am overwhelmed by how he helps me; I, an awful hormonal creature who often makes his life so much more stressful.  He takes me as I am, and knows what will get me where I need to be, he occasionally admits that I am right, he puts the boys to bed, and has amazing biceps. 

I have found that I am, perhaps, proud.  Indeed, I have noticed that he has competitors.  He is no longer the hands down winner of this non-existing competition.  I informed him of this, and he was shocked.  Shocked that there was such a competition going on within my brain.  In the end, he was not surprised, for even though he swears he will never understand me, he definitely knows me.  He is racing, he just doesn't know it, and though he may not win, I suppose, I am just glad that he is in the running.