PunkKittyDiddy

106 Degrees: Feels Like An Acid Bath. On The Sun. After A Volcanic Eruption.

So many lives snuffed out this past week or so.  Michael.  Farrah.  Billy Mays.  And my fuschia plant.

Fuschia?  What was I thinking?  It was exactly like getting too attached to a young, wide-eyed college co-ed character in a "psycho on the loose" slasher flick entitled, "Die, Co-ed, Die!"

While I'm sure my lack of gardening experience must have factored into the plant's untimely demise, I can't say I didn't try.  Plus it might have been a slightly ambitious plant for the novice gardener.

See, since buying the plant, I also acquired the Sunset Western Garden Book.  Geographically, according to this tome, we live on the cusp of two different gardening zones.  The blurbs for both zones specifically issue dire warnings about the fuschia - out of ALL the plants in existence, both blurbs single it out.  By name.  And not in a good way.  One blurb insists: "A wide variety of plants can flourish here.....except for the fuschia."  The other blurb backs it up with: "No, seriously.  Only an idiot would try to maintain a fuschia here." 

I'm taking liberties with the paraphrasing, but............you get the idea.  And so do I, finally.

We hit our second day of triple digit temps today.  Even my once-almost-flourishing new hibiscus shrubs (now on life support) were nearly burned to a crisp in a single day.  (Yeah, and those are described as hardy plants in my newfound plant bible.)  Hell, our patio candelabra got all Dali on me.  The heat kicked an inanimate object's ass.

Fine.  I'm lowering my expectations.  This will be like the horticultural version of Survivor.  Every week, you can tune in and see which plant got voted off (or bumped off) the patio.  Stay tuned.

P.S.  In the interim, I'll also try to stop geeking out on this topic, and remember that there are other things to write about....................

Plant Massacre II: The Harvest

No, I don't know when to leave well enough alone.  Thanks for asking.

Still, it seems a shame that such a beautiful plant as the fuschia should fall victim to......me.  In an attempt to mitigate some of my guilt over the nearly inevitable fate of the plant I wrote about yesterday, I'm trying to propagate new fushias from some cuttings.

Which is rather hilarious, in that I know nothing about keeping the grown variation alive.  I'm not sure why I feel remotely qualified to attempt more advanced maneuvers like propagation.  But what the hell.

Worse, I find myself sitting and staring at the cuttings.  What am I doing there?  Waiting for some sci-fi inspired - or perhaps a musical-inspired a la Little Shop of Horrors - growth spurt to occur right in front of my eyes.  I've been practicing my doo wops in anticipation. 

Geez.  I need a job.

Plant Snuff Blog

Couldn't resist.  I had to have it. 

Now let's see how quickly I can kill it.

Wait - that's creepy, calling it an "it."  Serial killers de-humanize their victims in such fashion.  "It puts the lotion in the basket, or else it gets the hose."

(BUT....if I name it, and then kill it, that's probably creepier, right?  Not to mention, I'm keeping it in a basket, and it does get the hose sometimes.  Just a trickle, though.)

Anyway.......I found this at a local nursery.  It's a fuschia. 

Apparently they are really easy to kill via overwatering, and they aren't too keen on heat.   So, it's the perfect plant for a girl like me, who knows nothing about gardening, doesn't realize she knows nothing about gardening, has an itchy trigger finger (at least where those spray gun garden hose nozzle attachment thingies are concerned), and lives in a place where the summer temps reach triple digits.

It's just that.....it was soooo prettttttttyyyyyyyy. 

I had to have it.

Wow. 

Sobering moment of self-awareness. That stupid "Which character from Lord of the Rings are you?" Facebook application was right.  I am Gollum.  With a garden trowel.

Horticulture Shock

As soon as we finally had a backyard to call our own, I was pretty glib about what I thought we should do with it.  What the hell!  Let's throw some plants back there or something!   

Been a mighty steep learning curve. 

In that ongoing grudge match between me and our new backyard, the backyard is still winning.  However, it does have an unfair advantage.  You can't fight City Hall....or the Department of Water and Power.  Water rationing is underway, and since we don't operate within an income bracket in which phrases like, "Hey, the butler just informed me that we have a full-time horticulturist on staff!  Bitchin'!" get bandied about, that lush expanse of dew-covered green lawn and climbing ivy and rose bushes that I'd conjured up in my imagination when we first bought the house is just gonna have to wait. Maybe indefinitely.  (Turns out that green, in the aesthetic sense, isn't necessarily green in the eco-friendly sense.  Like I said....steep learning curve.)

For now, I'm warding off the alien-face-hugger weeds as best I can.  And while we can't afford to transform our entire outdoor living space into something less prison yard-y in one fell swoop, I've been concentrating my efforts on beautifying the patio and the yard's periphery.  Only, for an endeavor that is ostensibly about curling ivy and fragrant jasmine blossoms and tropical foliage, the results sure haven't been pretty.

There weren't many survivors in that first batch of fledgling plant recruits that I dispatched to the patio.  I watered 'em.  Sometimes.  (I was always under the impression that that's what you do with potted plants.  You water 'em - sometimes - and you go about your business.)  What kind of plants were they, you ask?  They were the kind in pots.  That you water.  Sometimes.  

See, in the past, I could never quite figure out why self-proclaimed gardening enthusiasts would classify this as a "hobby." Hobby?  Yeah.  Whatever.  Don't strain yourself sprinkling a bit of water on that begonia or anything.......

Pride comes before a fall.  And widespread plant massacre. 

My patio plants hung in there. For a little while, anyway. Then things started to go wrong.  Horribly wrong.  (Consult the picture above and to the right.  One of my ex-plants.)   The internet filled my head with all sorts of ominous theories.  WTF?  What's all this crazy talk about "root rot" and "replanting"?  "Mulch"?  "Aphids"? "Soil pH balance"?  "Planting zones"?

Turns out those gardening enthusiasts know a thing or two about gardening.  Go figure.  You can just stick a plant in a pot or in the ground......but screw you and the wheelbarrow you rode in on if you don't know whether said plant is an annual or perennial, and if it needs full sun or partial sun, and if the soil needs to be acidic or have limes added to it or whatever. 

Uh....what?

I've since learned that - GASP - some research and effort is required.  My father-in-law has enlightened me about stuff like deadheading (no, nothing to do with Jerry Garcia) and over- versus under-watering.  (Talk about horticulture shock.  What do you mean, "It depends on the plant"?!  What is this, a science or something?)  This latest batch of plants is.....well, maybe not thriving, but they are doing better than their predecessors.

Now I've gone and planted a few hibiscus shrubs in the corner.  Immediately one of the blossoms shriveled up and fell off.  I hung my planticidal head in shame.  It took me a little while to figure out that blossoms die sooner or later, eventually, even if things are going well.  Blossoms have a relatively short shelf life.  Who knew?  (I mean, besides the gardening enthusiasts....)  The same shrub that I initially thought I had slaughtered has since unfurled an even bigger and better blossom.  So I've gone from considering myself a ruthless, cold-hearted plant murderer to thinking I am the shit.  I put a shrub in the ground and it hasn't died.  Yet. 

Funny, I'd been thinking a lot lately about maybe taking up belly dancing, or getting back into martial arts, or pursuing some other activity that I'd previously considered to be a "real" hobby.  But now I have all these plants to tend to. Still...if I can get the hang of NOT butchering the poor suckers, this gardening thing might be an OK way to pass the time.....

Lighting Design So Good, It Hurts

So, tomorrow was supposed to be the date that our Myles of Style episode airs on HGTV - which would finally have revealed our new "rock n' roll" living room in all its glory.  We don't think that's still the case.  At least, our episode is not listed on HGTV's website schedule, nor is it listed in any of the new/upcoming episodes on DirecTV's guide.

Thus far, our episode just seems to have disappeared into the ether.  Is it a relatively innocent case of disorganized scheduling?  Or were we really too Al and Peg Bundy for the otherwise demure network?

Which reminds me that I forgot to show you the kick-ass custom lighting fixture that was made for us, and subsequently censored by HGTV, during the filming. 

If you needed further proof of Kim Myles' creative genius, here it is.  (With a nod to a very clever MOS colleague named Cucuy who helped construct the thing.) 

Is this the world's coolest lighting fixture EVER, or what?!?!?  (That's a rhetorical question, by the way.  Only responses along the lines of, "Holy shit,YESSSSSSSSSSS!" and "OMG!  Its exponential awesomeness has blinded me to the banality of the common lightbulb forevermore.....!" and so on will be deemed acceptable.  See, I can practice censorship, too.  It's MY blog, beeeeyotches!  Now bow down and lick my boot!) 

But seriously......why this was deemed "too S&M" for their fanbase is beyond me. (The network is based in Tennessee, if that matters.)

For filming purposes, we were provided with a second chandelier that acted as a stunt double of sorts - still a perfectly lovely item, though in no way as groovy as the original.  (The only reason this Vivienne Westwood-eseque masterpiece is still hanging in the garage, and not in our groovy new room, is because I.G. and I know so little about this new-fangled invention called "electricity."  Which involves working with wires, and stuff.  It's like in the movies, when the bomb squad expert has to decide whether to cut the green wire or the blue wire.  Cutting the wrong wire will blow everything sky high.  Cutting the right wire will save the world - or at least a schoolbus filled with cherubic preschoolers being chaperoned by nuns on a field trip to a soup kitchen.  No pressure or anything.

Yeah, so...neither I.G. or I want to blow anything sky high.  Least of all ourselves.  We will enlist an electrician friend of ours to relocate this baby just as soon as we figure out where we want to put the censor-friendly one.) 

Anyway, I seem to recall hearing at the time that Kim was told by a certain HGTV authority figure that if she were willing to remove the buckles, the original lighting fixture could stay.  If that's true, I'm glad she scoffed at the idea. 

See, it's a chandelier made of belts.  Belts have buckles.  I know for a fact that people wear belts in the Midwest - it's a crucial component of that iconic "Old Man With Pants Hiked Up To His Armpits" look so revered in that particular region. 

So, let me see if I've got this straight:  a belt buckle is kinky if juxtaposed with a lightbulb, but morally acceptable when placed next to some guy's crotch? 

I have to stop trying to make sense of the conservative mindset.  It hurts my brain.

We did get a DVD copy of our episode - so there's that.  Not sure if it was due to time constraints, but another really awesome custom art piece also "flew" under the radar when compiling scenes that made the cut for our episode.  Let's just say that an Alfred Hitchcock-ian inspired installment featuring a murder of crows didn't get the airtime it deserved, either.  

Some of the coolest shit never made it to the screen. I will post pictures after our episode airs. 

Stay tuned.  (But as for when, specifically, I can't tell you.....)

Some Babies Are More Bad-A$$ Than Others.....

Wee Zee's favorite accessory?  NOT elaborate, starburst-themed hair scrunchies.  Or a Hello Kitty handbag.  Or plastic Disney princess shoes encased in feather tufts and plastic jewels.  All of which are also in her arsenal, but.......the obvious suspects aren't topping her list of must-haves for summer fashion in all its bare-armed, summer sundress-ed glory.

Baby wants tatts.  Lots of 'em.  At her request, I started plying her with ink (well, the water-spawned temporary kind, anyway) this morning, but she was not content with one.  Or two.  Nooooo.  She wanted the whole sleeve experience.  And she started getting biker-chick ANGRY when I pointed out to her that we were running out of available body surfaces.

I am so proud.

This ties in with a broader theme of delinquency that has been emerging.  Last night we went out for Mexican food at one of our favorite local haunts, which is sparsely populated on weeknights.  Every time the waiter turned his back, Zee went and raided the candy stash that was kept on a shelf inside the (abandoned) hostess podium.   Sure, this might have been a good time to teach her about how stealing is wrong, but I was too busy canvasing the joint and keeping an eye out for the authorities waiter.  We made a good team. 

She split her haul with me, so at least she picked up a valuable lesson about sharing.

How To Not Become Nearly Divorced At The Local Home Depot

Yesterday I witnessed the spectacle of a well-trained husband.  He was elderly.  There's definitely a generational correlation about this issue;  I just can't figure out why.  Maybe they were brought up better.  Or maybe, by that age, they've just given up.  Anyway......

My FIL and I were walking into the garden section of Home Depot as the elderly husband in question was exiting (or attempting to) with his wife.  His wife was suddenly glommed onto by the relentless tractor beam of begonia appreciation, and she could not fight the gravitational pull that was sucking her toward a certain sidewalk display along those lines.  She said to her hubby,"Aren't they beautiful?" 

Now, this first time, he either didn't hear her, or was pretending not to, so intent was he on getting out of there before the last remnants of their life savings were gutted and bled upon the sacrificial altar of conspicuous-consumption-fueled back patio obsession.  (The Big Orange Logo-d DIY Warehouse Of International Renown must surely hold workshops that teach you how to construct such an altar.  It would probably be practical if I too learned how to build one.  The Cost of Private School Education will likely be my first victim.)

Anyway.

So the wife says again to her husband, "Aren't these beautiful?"

She wasn't screeching, but her comment still somehow stops him in his tracks.  And he turns, and without stuttering or rolling his eyes (if anything, he widened them!), responds with, "Oh my!  Yes!  Yes, they ARE beautiful!"

And she seemed appeased.  It didn't appear that she needed to be appeased with an actual purchase, either. 

And that was that.  No arguments ensued about budget, or how many begonias they already have on their patio, or why buying some power tools would be a wiser purchase. 

I was awestruck.  Did that shit just happen?

They should write a book or something.  I'd buy it.

When Technology Fails You, There's Always Cirrhosis.....

I was just dissed by a website.  Twice, I think.

So a certain technology blog is giving away a free Kindle.  To put yourself in the running, you have to participate in a survey.  I thought, what the hell!  I'm bored, and I'd like a Kindle, and I don't have anyone else to talk to at the moment, so sure, I'll talk to a computer....

Only....I answered the first question pertaining to my age bracket, and it immediately booted me out of the survey!  "Unfortunately you do not meet the requirements for this survey," it tells me. 

(Oh, pardon me.  Terribly sorry.  Don't know what I was thinking, messing around with this new-fangled internet thingie when I should be knitting matching sweaters for my cats as my dentures soak in a cup placed on a pretty lacy doily nearby.)

As if that weren't insulting enough, the survey then proceeds to taunt me with: "For information on making responsible choices about drinking, please go to [a certain other website - one apparently designated for raging alcoholics]."

WTF?

Yeah, that's me..........Faye Dunaway in Barfly.  Because what else is there for a woman over 30 to do except pickle her liver between rounds of shuffleboard? 

Gratuitous Dog Joy

If a picture is worth a thousand words, what are these saying, exactly?

My theories:

"I'm slacking off on actually writing anything!"  written 142.85 times.

"Despite a lifetime of devout cat worshipping, I'm finding these dog units aren't so bad, either!" written 62.5 times.

"How can I parlay laying around on the patio with my dog, cats and toddler into a handsomely-paying career?  Hmmmmmm......." written 47.619 times.

This theorizing business is surprisingly hard work.  At this rate, I'll have actually emitted a thousand words on top of the 2,000 word credit I've accumulated for inserting a few photographs. 

This is a recurring problem for me.  I'm prone to working harder, not smarter. 

Why don't I just shut up now and coast on the reserves?

Only....I feel compelled to keep blathering till I'm at least neck and neck with the end of the photograph, because I can't stand all that extra white space that would otherwise be loitering at the bottom here.  It's dedication to a higher aesthetic standard, is what this is.  Not verbal diarrhea.  No sir.  Not me.

Hey!  End of photograph!  Finally!  White space mightily defeated!  Huzzah!

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