Dig Yourself Out of This One

         Holey Moley. Sacramento has more trees per capita than any other city in the world, save Paris—and that, only because they annexed a forest.  So you are told on tours of our State Capitol, and I believe it.

          I love trees.  And I am honored to have planted more of them than I can count over my lifetime. But I blew it a few years ago and planted two trees entirely too close together.

          First, I dumped a truckload of dirt onto the lawn to create a berm.  This may seem like a cosmetic choice to create varying heights, but in fact is the only way to garden in Rocklin, which used to be a granite quarry.  Unless you have a jack-hammer, which is how we planted a big Chinese Elm once.

          Next, I planted a dwarf Blue Spruce in the new mound.  This is in honor of that being Utah’s state tree (where I grew up) and also because I wanted a Christmas tree to decorate in the yard. 

          Several feet away I planted a Japanese Maple, whose red leaves I thought would provide a nice contrast with the silvery spruce.  Except the spruce didn’t stay a dwarf.  It grew and grew, finally scrunching the poor maple.

          I consulted with my arborist friends, Ruth and Clare Williams, and learned that the best time to transplant the maple would be NOW.  In the cold.  As soon as the last leaf falls.  I watched and waited.  First I spent an afternoon trimming all the shrubs in the area, so the tree would have plenty of room and look intentionally put there.  Then I asked eldest son, Richie, to help dig a hole for the maple’s new home, a few more feet away.  

                LIFE TIP: Do not ask engineers to weigh in on creative decisions and do not ask geologists to dig holes.  It turns out that geologists use giant vacuums when they dig, so as not to disturb utility pipes.  Guess who got to hold the vacuum for HOURS, sucking dirt out of a hole so the maple could fit?  And, since this was only a Shop Vac, it jammed full of dirt clods every few minutes and had to be cleaned out, slamming the suction tube against the ground to loosen the clay, like I’m an octopus wrestler.

Finally we got a hole big enough to bury an unruly pet.  Not that I’m planning to do this.  But it was not big enough to accommodate six feet of maple tree roots.  Furthermore, the maple trunk was firmly ensconced in the berm, unwilling to budge without another entire day of labor devoted to digging it out.  And they cost hundreds of dollars to replace, should it die.

So we decided to leave the maple exactly where it is, and live with the crowded landscape.  We declared a moral victory, gave the hole a proper burial, and filled it in.  Visiting hours are from 10 to 5.

Have you seen my newly designed website here?  Check it out, buy books, watch my YouTube Mom videos, and stay entirely too busy to garden.

Going to the Dogs

You might remember an amazing dog act that won America’s Got Talent  a couple of years ago—The Olate Dogs.

          Great story, too—the man who started it all began as a poor boy in Chile, and even invented his own technique because he couldn’t afford the dog treats so commonly used for rewards.  Today his grown son is on stage with him, along with about eight poodle-mix rescue dogs, all of whom appear to adore their trainers and eagerly entertain the crowds.

          Well, they recently came to Rocklin, California, where I live.  St. Bob and I attended one of their performances and were astounded at the tricks and stunts these dogs could do.  In costumes, yet.  I can only assume that not one of them has ADD, because they seemed not a bit distracted by their clothing, nor by all the other pooches on stage.  (Then again, nobody released a squirrel, so we can’t be totally sure.) 

          The performers all willingly posed for pictures afterwards, and a good time was had by all.

          That is, until we got home.  And there sat our completely untrained, spoiled rotten dog, Mickey.  

           When you dress Mickey in a costume, it must tickle her somehow, because she holds up one leg, as if she is a boy answering a call of nature.

          I have actually trained her to do yoga (by rewarding her for her morning stretches, which she would do anyway), 

and to run around the coffee table (which she also likes to do anyway).  Otherwise, she ignores any attempt at getting her to entertain us, unless you count chasing the cat, which I do not.

To prove she is an outlaw, she even devises hideouts. 

It’s possible that the Olate family has a knack for choosing smart, trainable dogs.  Or, more likely, they simply know what they’re doing.  Maybe one day they’ll offer a summer camp and Mickey can attend for a couple of weeks.  But you and I both know she’ll pretend she doesn’t know a thing, once she gets home.

Take a break from training your dog, and read some of my novels.  You can find a book for every mood, right here.

LOVE Your Sweater!

          Last week St. Bob and I were walking through a parking lot when we saw two women—strangers—approaching one another.  Here’s how the conversation went:

          “Oh—I LOVE your sweater!  That is so gorgeous!"

          “Thank you!  You know, every time I wear this, I get so many compliments!”

          “It’s darling!  Where did you get it?”

          “Oh, I bought it so long ago, I don’t even remember…”

          “Well if you ever get tired of it, pass it my way!”

          (Laughter) “Okay—will do—and thanks again!”

          Then each of the women hurried off.  I turned to Bob.  “You will never see men having a conversation like that.  Not in a million years.”

          In fact, go ahead and re-read that dialogue, and picture two men as the speakers.

          Bob frowned, appalled that I would expect two men to gush about one another’s tops.  In fact, a pet peeve of Bob’s is that I refer to men’s tops as tops at all.  Men have shirts, sweaters, and jackets.  Not tops.  Naturally, I text him photos of signs disputing this assertion, whenever I find them.  

But he is immovable on this point.

          Nevertheless, I think men would be happier people if they would get a little bit excited about such things from time to time, and show a bit more enthusiasm.  Both of those women went off smiling, a lilt in their step. 

          Girlfriends definitely rock, even ones you only have for a few seconds.

And, as long as we’re on the subject of girls, I highly recommend you read my chick-lit comedy novel, Sisters in the Mix.  You can find it here in both paperback and digital versions.

All That Glitters...

          I’ll admit it: I’m a girly girl.  I like Queen Frostine, Princess Anybody, pink cupcakes, and sparkly stuff.  When Christmas comes around, I can’t wait to see twinkly lights and wear shimmering jewelry.  But this brings us to THE GLITTER PROBLEM.

          I bought a glittery, mint green top this year, to wear to holiday parties.  And, what the heck, I figured, I’d wear it to church as well.  Except I forgot that things which are covered with glitter are actually secret weapons designed by passive-aggressive crafters who want to control the world, or at least to cover it with silver flecks.

          I sat down at church and immediately noticed my black skirt looked like the night sky in the Southern Hemisphere—loaded with stars.  Then I noticed St. Bob’s black pants and coat, also speckled with constellations. Oops.  And when I stood up, two piles of glitter remained on the bench, like parentheses framing the spot where I’d been sitting.  Glitter was on the floor, on my purse, on my face—everywhere.

          And glitter on your face does not brush off.  You can scrub your skin until it’s raw, and glitter will stick like you used Gorilla Glue to keep it there. In fact, it’s surprising people ever use glue with glitter when it sticks all by itself anyway. 

As I walked, little puffs of glitter followed me.  You could see everywhere I’d gone in the building, just by following the glitter path.  It was like Hansel and Gretel, except no birds were eating these silvery crumbs. I should have brought a hand held mini-vac with me, or at least one of those sticky roller things.

It’s amazing someone didn’t call the police and report me for littering.  I mean glittering.  But they probably wouldn’t haul me in anyway, because they know exactly what would happen to the back seat of their car. 

Luckily, you can watch my short YouTube Mom videos-- there are hundreds of them-- without getting a speck of glitter on you.  Check 'em out here.

Brain, Brain, Go Away

 I love hosting parties-- the music, the delicious goodies, the hugs and laughter of friends.  The only thing that makes it better is having a Christmas party. Here's the setting:

So when the women at church wanted me to have a Christmas party for the Relief Society last week, I gladly whipped up some rich hot chocolate, some spiced apple cider, and some cranberry juice for those who wanted a cold drink.  

And all this was to complement the wonderful chocolate cake, cheesecake, and pumpkin pie my first counselor brought over. My second counselor led us in sharing our Christmas Traditions.

          It had been raining earlier (that’s as close to snow as we get here in Rocklin, California), and I noticed someone had left a green umbrella by the front door.  A few women slipped out before I noticed it, but as the last few were leaving, I asked them if it was theirs. No takers.

Well, not wanting anyone to get caught in the rain without their umbrella, I announced it at church, hoping the owner would raise her hand.  Nothing.  I asked the secretary to send out an email, so we could find the elusive umbrella owner. Still nothing. 

Days went by.  Finally I pointed it out to St. Bob and said I couldn’t believe what a tough time we were having, finding the owner. Maybe I should try to call those who came, one by one.

He stared at me.  “That’s your umbrella,” he said.  “It’s been in the hall closet all year.”

WHAAAT?!?  I didn’t even know I owned a green umbrella and I guarantee I did not put it by the front door.  So now I’m debating whether to call the police and report a break-in and rearrangement of belongings.  It’s something a leprechaun would do (it’s green, after all), but that’s a different holiday.  So maybe a confused leprechaun.  

Or maybe I’ll just put it in the closet and pretend this didn’t happen.  Like when I couldn’t reach my neighbor, because I was calling my own phone number. Times like that.

Meanwhile, stay out of inclement weather entirely, and read my books—buy them as Christmas gifts and all your shopping will be done!  

What's Worse Than Coal in Your Stocking?

There’s only one thing worse than coal in your stocking and that’s stones in your kidney.

          Okay, there’s actually something even worse than that. It’s having kidney stones when your husband has just had wrist surgery and says, “Hey, it’s my hurt time.” Again.

          You know how everybody has Christmas traditions?  Well, apparently the Hiltons have a tradition that whenever St. Bob gets an injury, I somehow manage to upstage him.  And it works any time of year.

Two years ago when he had cancer surgery I promptly dashed across town with sepsis following my first bout with kidney stones.  A year ago when he tripped over a high curb and hit his shoulder on a post (the bruise seriously looked like an eggplant)

 I then tripped over a vine in the veggie garden and did a face plant in the gravel around our raised beds.

          I came staggering into the house, glassy-eyed, looking for ice packs to put over my entire face, using all the frozen veggies I could, which I personally grew and froze, and now needed to put on an injury I got from growing the stuff in the first place, which is a vicious cycle that would make most thinking people quit gardening permanently.

          Bob thinks I’m trying to get all the attention, but I think he’s setting up some kind of contagious dark magic force field that causes me to have calamities right on the heels of his.

          Now, if only he can keep from getting sick or injured for the rest of the year…

Avoid mishaps entirely, by staying inside and reading my books!  In fact, you can get all your Christmas shopping done in one spot.  Check ‘em out here.

The Earring Conundrum

                The problem with earrings is that you can’t see them when you’re wearing them.  Your clothes, your shoes, other jewelry – these are all visible.  But ear bobs are just out of sight.

                And this is where men come into the picture.  Men, if they really wanted to be useful (but I have done a survey and they do not)  (Okay, the survey was two people—St. Bob and Richie)  would keep an eye on things and let us know if an earring is missing.

                You can count on one ear how many times a man has said, “I believe you’re missing an earring.”  You could go to lunch, the movies, and to check out the new Bass Pro Shop with said men, and they will not notice the missing earring. (They will, of course, notice all kinds of sporting gizmos.)  When you finally flip down the car visor to put on some lipstick, and suddenly notice the BIG, GLARING ABSENCE OF ONE EARRING, they will claim no knowledge of this whatsoever.

                “How can you miss seeing that one earring is gone?” you will say.  And you are thinking, I would tell you if one earring is missing. If you wore earrings.

                “Your hair covers your earrings and I didn’t even know you were wearing any,” Bob will reply.

                “Why do women wear earrings in the first place?” Richie will ask.

                “To look nice.  Probably for men,” you suggest.

                “But we don’t care about earrings,” Richie says.  “So you’re wasting your time.”

                Clearly.  And you are certainly wasting not one, but TWO earrings, when zero would get exactly as much attention. We are talking total obliviousness.  In one earring and out the other.

Fortunately, you can buy my books for less money than a new pair of earrings!  Check ‘em out here.