Cleaning Carpets, Oh Joy!

So my friend, Moe, went on a rampage the other day and, among sixty other things all accomplished in one rainy day, she shampooed her rugs. I think someone should slip her some Ritalin.

I deliberately bought a light gray-brown wall-to-wall berber years ago after I saw it in the library and figured if it could withstand library traffic, it could withstand my family. In some ways I'd rather have hardwood like the oak in my dining room. But hardwood just seems cold and noisy. Being able to stretch out on the floor with the kids on a winter evening and play Parcheesi was a lot more important at the time.

But there's a price to pay: dingy carpets that really should be shampooed more than once every eight years - especially if tread by a small dog that needs a cork in a stretegic place. So, shamed by Moe's industriousness, I bought myself a Hoover carpet steamer and went to work. Didn't bother moving furniture - just did the high traffic areas. And what came out of the carpets looked like coffee. Uck. I don't see any more Parcheesi games in my future.

The Diaper Dude

The first grandchild is on the way and I attended a modern baby shower. Much of it has not changed. Pink and blue are pervasive. You can blame the manufacturers for forcing gender specific colors down our throats. In this case, we won't know if the baby is a boy or girl till it's born, so shopping was a nightmare.

One thing that has changed is that the fathers-to-be are much more involved. The couples tell people, "We're pregnant." I gather that many baby showers now are couples showers. In this case, it wasn't - a gaggle of happy women congregated outside under a canopy while the few males in attendance hid out up on a deck and drank beer.

So how to acknowledge the dad when all the attention is on the young mother-to-be? Ah-ha! A diaper bag just for dads - aka The Diaper Dude. Why should the mother have all the fun? So the dad of the moment received not one, but two! - a black one that could pass for a computer case and will no doubt be the "formal" one (relegated to the closet), and a camouflage design that will, I'm sure, become a constant companion.

I like the idea of men changing diapers. I love to see young dads carrying their babies in public and taking them out of church when they get cranky while the mother sits serenely in her pew. The axis has shifted. No, things are not yet equal, but in one generation, the axis has definitely shifted.

Do they have changing stations in men's rooms? I'll have to ask someone about that....

The Art of Mulch

Sounds German. Actually, I have never figured out the art of mulching. You pile it on. It dries out and gets full of dead leaves, bits of detritus and sand, and the next year you do the same till you've built up a mesa of junk - sort of like a capped landfill.

So I spent today digging the top layer of old stuff off and dumping it in potholes around the yard. Then there's raking and laying landscape fabric to keep the danged weeds at bay. Then there's the mulch-slinging to cover the landscape fabric. I like black cedar mulch. It makes my car smell good and it's faux bottom soil - the black cedar mulch looks like the nice rich river valley soil which I'd give my eye teeth for. NH has rocks, not soil.

So now I'm pooped and think I'll go sit out on the deck with a glass of wine.

Chihuly Glass

Chihuly glass is a little hard to describe. It's sort of like the Grand Canyon; it just has to be experienced. Dale Chihuly is a bigger-than-life glass blowing artist. He doesn't create glass objects, he creates entire symphonies in glass.

In March I saw his latest installation at the Phoenix Desert Botanical Gardens. Desert gardens sounds like an oxymoron, but trust me, it's spectacular, especially in spring when the desert is in bloom.

I'm still trying to figure out how something so alien as brilliantly colored glass can look so natural in a desert setting. A boat marooned in a dry creek. Glass flames licking up through cactus. Aqua chunks of ice floating among the dry reeds. You have to see it to believe it.

Half-Baked (but still cooking...)

-which is to say, I am still a work in progress. And so are you. But this isn't about you - or is it?

I thought long and hard about a theme here - there are my creative obsessions; my quiet water kayaking; my speed demon skiing; my girlfriends; my glorious (and somewhat ratty) gardens; my very big old house in the historic village; my very little dog, Haiku; my grown children; my life alone; my crappy memory and inability to keep track of time ...

I realized that what I want to write about is my life now - I'm past the half-way point, but I am still searching, still learning, and having more fun than I've ever had. Oh yeah, I am truly half-baked. Just add wine and reset the timer.