Cootersnap!

Yes, I've seen "Field of Dreams". No, I didn't like it. Sorry. Anything that is so blatantly in-your-face drooling sentimental tug-on-your-heartstrings drivel makes me cringe (yes, I'll still cry, but it pisses me off). But there are days when Iowa does feel like heaven... especially in the morning.

To wit, around 5:45 this fine Friday morn, Gus and I went out back (the fence is, by and large, DONE). He did his usual route of watering the bachelors' buttons, the zebra grass, the hostas... I raked up some twigs from the lilac trees, snipped a few suckers off, checked to see if anyone had been gnawing on my basil again and went in to make coffee.

For a change, the dishes were done. Most times, when I cook, I leave everything to clean up in the morning. But I was feeling uber efficient last night, I guess. And part one of my eggplant parmisan is done: the sauce. Usually when I make this dish, it takes forever and I end up skimping on the necessary labor to make the perfect sauce and wind up with a passable quick 'n dirty one. Last night I took the time to finely dice my onions, carrots and celery... the mirepoix, the basis of flavor. I took the time to simmer it for an hour or so, to let the flavors marry and the sauce thicken. And tonight, the eggplant will be done to perfection. Panko is my friend.

Anyway, with the dishes being done, it was almost as if I had an extra recess or something. Y'know that feeling? So I went out front with my coffee. As I was watering the ageratum, two young girls walked by and gave me a cheery "Good morning!" One girl was carrying a helium balloon that had no string. She commented on how pretty the lillies were. The other girl just smiled, and they giggled as young girls are wont to do, and continued down the road. It was 6:30. I know this because neighbor/friend Mark and his dog, Brodie, were just leaving for work and you could almost set your clock on them.

The birds are chirping, as are a few errant crickets. The sun is shining, the coffee is strong and black, and it's payday. Before a long weekend. Does it really get any better? It's days like these that I look forward to looking back.

My day lillies. And to think I was going to dig 'em up and plant something else.

I took these around 8:30 Friday night. I love my fence. When I got home that night, poor Gus had had some 'accidentS' in the kitchen (med induced, I'm sure), so as I was cleaning up, there was a knock on the front door. 'Twas Victor saying "Mark has something to show you!" So outside I went. Lo and behold, there were my beautiful fence gates. We're going to hang 'em today and the fence will be DONE!!

I can't remember what I was reading... only that it caused my mind to go off on a tangential walkabout of no consequence. The brain lit on 'style' for a while. Personal style. A way in which you act or dress or come across that exemplifies your own unique characteristics. What does your wardrobe say about you? Your shoes? Your hair style? What would you *want* these things to say about you?

This was something I had to think about long and hard. As far as clothing goes, I really have no sense of fashion. My summers are spent in t-shirts and shorts, sandals or tennies. Last year I actually purchased two miniskirts, one of which I have worn once. And I swear it made me shamelessly flirtatious. Not my style. But a light breeze while wearing a miniskirt is a very very lovely thing, I will admit. Unfortunately, I was too self conscious in the damn thing to bend over, so into the far recesses of my closet it went.

Now, if I could get away with it, I would wear this little flowered dress every day that's been hanging in my bathroom for at least ten years. It's more of a 'frock', maybe. Something your grandma might wear in the back yard to garden in... if she happened to have a privacy fence. Sleeveless, cut just above the knee, loose empire waist with two patch pockets on the front. It's been relegated as my summer 'robe'. But long ago when I was a helluva lot cuter (and basically didn't give a damn about much), I would wear this thing in public, belted, with bloomers underneath and cowboy boots or my hi-top Chucks. Yep, I thought I was the sexiest thang in the world when I wore that get-up. Come to think of it, there were many absurd apparel choices that walked out the door of my apartment...

So. What do my clothing choices say of me now? I'd expect the words 'comfortable' and 'utilitarian' to be bandied about. Hey, perfect for Iowa. But what in the hell would I wear if I were to go to NYC, say, to a club? Oh wait. I wouldn't go to a club in NYC. I don't dance. Well, except for when I'm drunk and Victor talks me into going 'clunching' (don't ask). But you get my point, no? I'm not saying that I don't clean up. I'm simply saying that perhaps I don't clean up as nicely as your poorest Manhattanite, because by and large, feeling good is more important to me than looking good.

Y'know, the reason all this silliness has come to light is because of my neighbors down the road, Michel & Jacque. Last week while weeding out my lily beds in front, they stopped by for a little neighborly chat. They're a very sweet gay couple and were talking about the Pride Parade here in town that was happening the next day. Michel asked me if I was going to it, to which I replied "No, I have to work." A split second after I said that, I tacked on "But you go and be proud for me." Uh? Didn't cross my mind to say anything different to them, because really all I was trying to do was weed and perhaps I was just making vapid conversation in the hopes that they would leave me to my work. After they left, I realized something: these guys think I'm a lesbian. Hee hee!!

So there you have it. My neighbors think I'm gay (**not that there's anything wrong with that**) and I'm thinking they think that because of the way I dress. Ah, who knows? Who cares? They can think anything they want. They make really good cake.

As most of you know, I work for an architect. This morning I had to go to a construction meeting in his stead. Let me just say this: sexist cocksucking contractors can kiss my ass. From the snide "What are you doing here?" to the condescending "Well you can take the meeting notes."

My responses: "Same as you." and "Bullshit. I'm not doing your job for you."

I did not make any friends today.

As a disclaimer, most of the guys there were fine. It was only two guys I wanted to rouchambeau. And rouchambeau hard.

I guess I didn't mention the fence is of the white picket variety. Therefore, there is no way Gus could squeeze through, what with his giant poog boob 'n all. Anyway, looka here at this picture. See that small section of pickets? Now see that line where the rails are up? All those pickets are now screwed on, too.

So, let me point out more stuff. Check out the white blooms in the right foreground. Those are from one of three of the Japanese Tree Lilacs that live in my yard. They're not only beautiful, but those blooms are incredible... yes, they smell like lilacs.

Now then, see that whole sunny part of the yard? That's a chunk directly behind my neighbors' garage where my garden will go. I'll be putting in some tomatoes and basil late this year, but better late than never. Next year, that entire area will be tilled up and sprouting stuff. So yeah, the yard shape is a little odd. You'd be very hard pressed to find a 'normal' lot in this neighborhood. That back line of posts (to the far left) meet up with the sixth side of the yard at probably a 115 degree angle.

In fact, here's a pic of the sixth side. Up to the left is where the fence connects to my shed. And yep, that's one of the lilac trees. All I can say is: I hope Gus appreciates all the hard work people have put/will put into the building of his fence. What can I say? My friends rock. And, in case I haven't said it enough, I APPRECIATE EVERYTHING MY FRIENDS HAVE DONE TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN.

Neighbor Mark and Friend Bob hard at work setting rails to one side of the fence. I think the poog is going to enjoy not having to wear his harness, which tends to slide to one side of his giant dog boob.

Of course, if he didn't run in counter-clockwise circles constantly, he might not have this problem.