I have met the enemy…

… and it is Yellow Nutsedge.

I cannot even estimate how many hours I’ve spent in hand-to-hand combat with this creation of Satan, but I know I added three to the total today. It is a motherfucker of a weed.

There is exactly one herbicide that is sold over-the-counter, so to speak, to control it, and they allow right up front on the label that YEARS of regular application may be required to achieve eradication. Not to mention that something toxic enough to kill this shit is not going anywhere near my veggie garden.

Yellow nutsedge scoffs at six months’ solarization with black plastic, and I have seen with my very own two green eyes that it will grow straight through a chunk of wood that perchance gets in its way. You simply can’t kill it, or even barricade its growth.

So I dig, and sift the soil I’ve dug, and pluck the little bulbs (they really do look like tiny brown nuts). And then I dig and sift and pluck some more. And I’ve done so for two years now. Because the bitch of it is, the whole thing doesn’t really come out like that photo up there. No, the root is fragile and will snap off at the slightest whim, and you can get down, down, tracking six inches of root and thinking ohyoulittlebastardyou’reminenow, and then notice there’s no little nut on the bottom. And know that it will grow again shortly, probably having sprouted a twin, like the Hydra of Greek mythology.

After my many seasons of battle, I’d like to think I may have at least reached a stasis of sorts. But then again, I did spend three hours in the hot sun today.

Stay tuned for more gripping updates from the front, because this mission is clearly far from accomplished.

my sunny day

So I went to Target today because I had that kind of list going. Tried to get out fairly early since the weather promised hot, like July hot, 90-degrees hot, but by the time I got the Burley attached and Kira loaded and water bottle and snack for both of us, and double-checked I had my list and my phone, it was well after 9:00.

And by the time I was clicking into my pedals to head back home it was like 11:00, not because it’s so very far to ride (it’s less than 10 miles) but because dag, I was buying sunscreen and have you seen the sunscreen display lately? It is enough to TAKE YOU TO THE BRINK. Joe Jackson said it, and I love it: If choice is freedom, I’m so free it’s driving me insane.

Sheesh, I remember when it was just Coppertone, and then Hawaiian Tropic, which was pretty much just baby oil that smelled like you should maybe lick it or something, pranced onto the scene. And then what the hell happened? Seriously, people. We’re talking upwards of seventy-five linear feet of shelf space devoted to the stuff, more brands than I could count, with offerings from SPF 4 to SPF 70, spray it, slide it, squeeze it, slather it. Have mercy.

Anyway, so it took me like half an hour just to pick out sunscreen, which really drug out the Very Brief shopping excursion I’d planned. And you’d think, or at least I did, that because I was limited to buying only as much as I could transport in a compact bike trailer already largely dedicated to its live occupant that I could’ve gotten out of there without, you know, HEMORRHAGING dollars, but I can assure you that you, and I, would be mistaken in that notion. My tab was $136.25.

And then Kira fell asleep about halfway home, which is right about as I pass close to downtown, and I thought I’d pop by the farmer’s market area and see what was fresh and available, since I could in reasonable conscience welch on the promise of a playground that I’d made to her.

What was fresh and available, I discovered as I got not quite to the market, was police officers. And press badges. Intrigued, I ducked down the alley and came upon a crowd.

I stood in line while Kira slept, and by the time she woke up we had prime seating for this fella’s stump for Terry McAuliffe, who’s one of the Democratic candidates in Virginia’s gubernatorial race.

His hair is indeed pure white these days, but no, it doesn’t actually glow — that’s the sun a-beatin’ down makes it look so. Those folks behind holding the campaign signs had shade; me, I was glad to have some SPF 30 handy.

my “girls trip”

Dunno what you’re up to the next couple days, but here’s what mine look like:

And I’d like to say that my ass — literally my ass, and just to solidly redline the overshare, my crotch too — is SO not ready for it. But I wouldn’t miss this, the second annual Big Bike Adventure, for all the world.  There will be photos later, along with a story or two I imagine.

Have a great weekend, y’all!

to bare the sole

This one’s for my readers who regularly, or irregularly, pound the pavement. Or the treadmill.

Particularly if — like me — you routinely pony up some serious cash for your favorite running shoes, or are contemplating doing so with the notion that perchance better shoes will reduce your incidence of injury or overcome the encroachments of age, I’m going to suggest you click here and peruse.

Article link courtesy of my brother, whose dominion of information is second only to perhaps Google itself. Thanks, Mek.
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jaw-dropping

Outside of the merest bit of NCAA basketball last month, I’ve watched exactly no minutes of television in 2009.   I am, no question, largely divorced from popular culture across all mediums.

So perhaps everyone reading this already knows of Susan Boyle.  Me, I’d never heard of her before yesterday.

My lovely friend Christina sent me an email with a link to a thought-provoking article on “the poverty of connectivity” from the Magazine section of nytimes.com that tied into a recent conversation we’d had.

I read it, and was mulling, when my eye wandered over off on the side to the “Most Popular” list, where I saw “Unlikely Singer is YouTube Sensation,” yada yada.  And, for the heck of it, I clicked, because that is the way of the Web.

Watching it changed me, just a bit.  If you haven’t seen it, you should.

YouTube: Susan Boyle. Ageism, beautyism, be damned.

family-photo Friday

We’re pretty sure spring is here!

spring break ‘09

Hey y’all. I’m going to be taking some time off. Yes, I may pop in once in a while, but look for pickins to be slim to none here for a bit. It probably won’t be long, but I’m not sure I know that right now.

In no particular order:

1) It’s the start of garden season, and since Garden Plot Fraught underwent some fairly serious annexation over the winter, this is a far more intensive project than in years past. I have got some major bed-building and soil-amending and conceptualizing and just plain dirt-diggin’ to attend to.

2) There are a lot of miles calling my name in the coming gorgeous spring days, and at least until semester’s end I cannot justify increased time riding and running without giving up something. Because there’s that pesky 24-hours-in-a-day thing curtailing my life.

And most pressingly perhaps, 3) It’s time for some of that movement toward being a better person that I reference in my About section. And this time around it’s pretty clear that that means time journaling and writing down stupid ugly sometimes painful crap that’s in my head, stupid thoughts I’m having and stupid things I’ve done and my feelings about the above and general ugliness I don’t much like to look at. And while I know there are those who throw all their angst onto the public blotter of a blog, that’s not going to happen here at Fraught, partially because I know that it will take the tides of seclusion and privacy to get me where I need to go but mostly because that’s just not how I roll.

And if I’m blogging, I’m not journaling. Period. Because blogging is a heck of a lot more fun, and when I’m done with a post not only am I sort of all writ out for a while, but it’s such a different kind of writing, I can’t for the life of me seem to switch gears very well. Maybe I just need a new clutch or something. I’ll be sure to get that looked at.

So, now. Don’t go way far away. I hope to be back soon.

just a friendly ride

Wednesday means Kate’s Carnival/Madhouse over at One More Thing. This week’s topic is “rivalry.” Click here to see who else is playing along, and don’t forget to let Kate know if you want in on the craziness.

I kind of wanted to pretend that I misread it as “revelry” just because I figured I could go on about all kinds of crazy stuff I’ve witnessed in the name of intoxication of one stripe or another, but okay, rivalry it is.

There is at least one person in Texas who is terribly in danger of doing lasting damage to his health by snorting hot coffee out his nose and/or aspirating the last bite of his breakfast bagel deep into his lungs when he reads this, but here it is: I’m not competitive by nature.

Oh, all RIGHT. (Get someone to pound you on the back there, Bikeboy.) That’s a lie in at least some circumstances. But I will stand firm and say I’m not MEAN competitive, the way some people are. Like the local woman I toed up with on some triathlon starts for a couple of seasons who literally (and I mean that in the literal and not figurative sense of literally) wouldn’t speak to me for several years.

The season after I stopped competing, if we were sharing airspace she would — while it fell some short of brimming over with warmth — acknowledge me. And after a few more years, she even made attempts to converse on occasion, if “Ya ridin’ much?” constitutes conversation, which I’m going to say it did, because I’m big that way, and I like to think well of my fellow woman. And because I always knew it wasn’t personal, not exactly, though heavens to Murgatroyd it sure felt that way sometimes.

So. I’m not her, and never was. I can promise you that whatever finish line I’m out there headed toward doesn’t mean that much to me, in the scheme of things. And if there’s no finish line — and there so, so seldom is for me any longer — well, good gosh. Let’s have it be about the love.

Now, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be out there doing my damnedest to push myself, most any day. That’s how I’m wired. But if someone is out there pushing too, I have no problem saying, Man, you are killin’ me today! What’d YOU eat for breakfast??

However. On group rides, I’ve noticed that there are instances when my willingness to hurt some greater fraction more is, well, enhanced. And that willingness is centered on certain individuals.

I have examined myself, and my motivations, both pretty and less so, and I can tell you: It’s like this. If I know full well someone is easily capable of riding me into the ground (like my sweet Emily), I have no struggle. These people have no desire whatsoever to remind me that they are entirely up to the task of humbling me, and I’ll lag behind them on a climb and think nothing of it.

And if I am out there with someone who maybe could or maybe couldn’t top that next hill ahead of me, but they don’t care about who’s where on what day, I can happily give that a good leaving alone too.

But put me out there with someone who is dead damn determined to show that they are stronger than I am — and trust me, you can smell it a good ways off — and yes, the rivalry kicks in. I admit it. I’ve never yet thrown up at the top of a climb, but I’ve come interestingly close a couple of times, and it’s always been in that kind of company.

But you can be sure that I’ll still talk to them. Nicely, too. Because really, I’m not so competitive as all that.

April 6

You know those statistics about men dying younger than women?  Well, I took them to heart when I embarked on my search for the ideal man to marry, and picked one three years younger than I am.  Plus I feed him lots of whole grains and cruciform veggies in my quest to beat the odds.

He turned 42 today.  Happy birthday, love.

Megan conceived of, picked out, and paid for her gift:

And mine?  Well, I have to confess it’s not the first time he’s received something that I fell in love with and had wall space already picked out for.  But I don’t do it with complete disregard for his tastes.  Honest.  It’s a landscape, or peakscape perhaps, from the Sierra Nevadas, original oil:

And he got the new U2 release.  Art and music — what more could an engineer ask for?

Oh.  Right.  Well, he’ll probably get that.  And maybe a metric socket set, too.

watching my words

Although I not long ago proclaimed my curmudgeonly nature when it comes to grammar and usage and suchnot, I’m the first to say that few things tickle me like a word of fresh coinage with some solid vamp and appeal. 

A few come to mind: “Props” appeared on my horizon just a few years ago but I use it a lot.  It plays a perfect role, to my mind, since I always feel like I should be adjusting my bustle or something if I say “Thank you for the accolades,” and “Thanks for saying such nice things” is way over on the blah side.  Props it is. Others, off the top of my head, that have worked their way into my vernacular are locavore, generica, ginormous, and wing nut (and yes, do comment with your own favorites.)

Several months ago now I ran across the term “squick” in one of its derivations.  “Oooh, no, that squicks me.”  From a former vegetarian commenting on cooking poultry, it was clear from context what it meant, and I immediately pounced:   cool!  A fun new word!  And, in the way of things, it popped up oh a half-dozen times in quick succession, emails and blogs and suchnot, and then, yes, I began using it myself.

Sent an email to a contemporary of mine last week that contained it, and got back a response that ended with “ps:  Squicked???”

It wasn’t like he didn’t know what I meant from context, and I almost blew it off with a “yeah, you heard me, and get with it already” but because he once long ago referred to me as a wordsmith I figured I should come back with a citation, some authority, and thus make good on my reputation.

So, as I am wont to do in these situations, I went to supplicate at the feet of the great god google, whereupon my eyes were turned to urbandictionary, where I found not one but 10 citations.  Join me, if you will, for the first:

1. Noun. The physical sense of repulsion upon encountering a concept or situation one finds disgusting.
2. Noun. A situation or concept which engenders this reaction.
3. Verb, transitive. To cause someone to have this reaction.
4. Verb, intransitive. To experience this reaction.

The concept of the “squick” differs from the concept of “disgust” in that “squick” refers purely to the physical sensation of repulsion, and does not imply a moral component.

Stating that something is “disgusting” implies a judgement that it is bad or wrong. Stating that something “squicks you” is merely an observation of your reaction to it, but does not imply a judgement that such a thing is universally wrong.

The statement “kiddie porn squicks me” and “kiddie porn disgusts me” may both be true. In my case, the second sentence is true, and I assume that the first is also true, but, having never encountered it, I have no way of knowing for sure.

In general, distinguishing between “squick” and “disgust” is an important part of living in a tolerant society.

I read all that with pleasure, and agreement: Indeed we SHOULD differentiate between “disgust” and “squick”! For this very reason are new words invented! Praise be!

And then? And then. Well. I read the second citation. And citations 4 through 7, and 9. I’m going to link to the whole thing right here and make you pop on over there to read it, not because I’m lazy but because if I were to post it in toto, well, let’s just say the folks typing in those search terms don’t really need to be directed here to the pages of family-friendly fraught. So go ahead and click for those citations. I’ll be right here humming campfire tunes and thinking wholesome thoughts when you get back.

So. While I do still like the word… well. Knowing its origin (and don’t get me wrong; the sick, twisted, and perverse part of me kind of loves it) I’m just not sure I, personally, can embrace it for describing how I feel about, say, cheek piercings, or eating organ meats, which is pretty much where I was going with it. And more’s the pity, because dag, really, it’s such a FUN word. And like a new pair of sassy shoes to liven up a holdover outfit, I say there’s nothing like having a fresh perky word to pepper into an otherwise lackluster conversation.

Though I suppose I could do my best to work up a broader interest in BDSM activities, just to have an occasion to use it in proper context. Or simply wait a few more years for it to drift into acceptance by the good folks over at Merriam-Webster, who just last year gave the nod to “pescatarian” and “kiteboarding.” (Neither of which, I see, yet meet with approval by my spellchecker.)

Let’s hear ‘em! What are your own pet new words/phrases?

later, ‘mater

I am so late. I’m going to blame my dad, because he is the one who is supposed to start tomatoes for me, or at least hint to me that it’s time to get working on it. But he isn’t doing those things this year, to my grieving disappointment, so I’m left to my own devices. And my own devices are laggards, curse them, invariably running well behind schedule.

I did at least remember last summer to save some seeds. I have this fancy-nancy method of seed preservation and cataloging, which is to smear seeds onto a slice of paper towel, label it with something supremely precise and Latin indicating its species, cultivar and origin (e.g., “Yummy CSA”) and let the goo dry thoroughly. Then I stick them in a ziploc in a drawer and forget about them until February April.

Then I get my fancy-nancy seed starter kit out. If it looks strangely to you like a styrofoam egg carton, I hate to tell you but you might have that nasty Conficker virus, or maybe you need to adjust your monitor or something.

I spoon some potting soil in, and then I tear out little smidges of towel with two or three seeds thereon and place them on top of the soil.

Then I cover them up, and wait.

It’s fun to let the girls water them, and they get pretty excited to see the shoots pop out. Almost as excited as their mommy does.

It’s also a good idea, of course, to label the egg carton
deluxe fancy seed-starter, so you know what’s what. I am living on the edge this year and thinking I will remember that I planted 6 cells of Sungolds, 4 Brandywines, and 2 Russian Blacks.

Typing that, I’m wondering why I did so many Sungolds, but I do like to give them away. I sure don’t need 12-plus Sungold plants, much as we enjoy ‘em around here. They are bright orange, the size of a shooter marble, and wonderful bursts of summer in your mouth.  And if you want a plant, by all means let me know.

Since I got such a late start, I think I’m going to experiment with a little auxiliary warmth, in the form of some heating-pad action. I need to research this so I don’t fry those babies, but I’ve heard rumor of such being used to good effect. Anybody know anything?

foolery

It’s Wednesday and thus Kate’s Carnival (or madhouse, if you prefer) over at One More Thing. Today’s topic, fittingly, is “Fools.”

I gave serious consideration to writing about George Bush the younger (I’d thought to title the post “F”), whose arrant ignorance on a wondrously broad range of topics, including leadership and decision-making, was so distressingly apparent over the last decade or thereabouts.

Or about those rendered so shortsighted by greed that they think little of destroying, forevermore, vast swaths of Appalachian landscape via mountaintop removal and all its sequelae.

But those topics seemed a little heavy for my generally amused mood this evening. So you get instead this story about one of my favorite pranks, made all the better by its serendipitous nature. It took place about ten years ago, but it still makes me grin. Probably because although I like to think I have a good sense of humor and am fairly imaginative, I lean far more comfortably into verbal play, so any prankery I actually manage to pull off gets me all giddy and gleeful.

A friend of mine, L, had headed out of town on a lengthy business trip. Knowing his flight was due back well past any sane person’s bedtime and not wanting to charge extended parking to his company, since he owns it, he parked his car at my place and asked if I’d mind dropping it in short-term parking the day he was due back.

In retrospect, this seems like a lot of hassle, since someone had to follow me out there and take me back home, but these were simpler, child-free days, he was a good friend, and I honestly didn’t think anything of it. (And in case you’re wondering, we don’t have a taxi queue at our small regional airport, so getting a cab, particularly late at night, can be a long and annoying process.)

L owned, and still does, a number of radio stations, a couple locally and some elsewhere. He is in all ways a stellar person, and he also knows how to poke fun at himself, which always elevates someone in my esteem. He’s an extremely savvy businessman, and cares deeply about the people who work for him.

Because he’s a savvy businessman, and because his business is radio, he is constantly thinking about radio. If he rides in your car, he’ll ask you why you listen to what you do, whether it’s his station or the competition (remember our timeframe: no XMRadio), or he may ask you what makes you hit the preset to move to another station. And back in those days, when we saw a good bit of one another, he gave me grief, in small but consistent measures, about listening to so much public radio. No advertising dollars in it, you know.

So when I got in and started his car, a venerable Land Rover — I think it probably even had crank windows — the radio was, of course, on. Tuned to one of his stations, if I recall, and a song I didn’t care for, so I hit the preset. Another commercial station, not his. And another; his second station. Hell’s sake; I can’t be driving and listening to this; where’s the damn NPR preset? Nowhere, is where. Commercial all down the line.

He called early the next morning, laughing and swearing at me. To this day, he loves to tell the story of getting in his car, mentally cursing me for tuning in to NPR and leaving it there — and then punching each of his presets.

I’d done every last one.