Smells Like Patchouli & Weed in Here...

At the moment, Sara is down in DC for a conference & I'm trying to buy a car, trying to convince people to give me some catering work, and hanging out with the chilluns - so things are a bit hectic around here, as usual. Had a productive past few days though, aside from all of that... finally had a minute to finish the garden out front, even though it's a more modest selection than in the past. We do have the basics though - San Marzano, Cherry and Rutgers-Hybrid tomatoes - some peppers - butternut squash - cilantro, rosemary, sage, thyme - and Thai, Minuette, Ruffled Purple, and Globe basil. mmmmmmm.... oh, and for the one person that might actually care, still have red & golden raspberries, concord & pinot noir, mission fig, pear, and a peach tree that is going through some sort of 'roid rage at the moment. Seriously, it's unbelievable... we have an Alberta Dwarf peach tree that is about 15 feet tall or so, and the thing has so much freakin fruit that the whole tree is bent over and the top branches are touching the ground. So far I've picked about twenty pounds, made two batches of jam, force fed them to the kids, and they're still coming. Every morning when I walk out the door I'm half expecting to see some musclebound high school wrestler injecting oxymetholone and horse tranquilizers into the trunk... "Yeah man, you look ripped! You're gonna kick that fig tree's ass! Those puny grapes have nothing on you man! Headbutt!"...
On the completely opposite end of the high school clique spectrum, Sam has learned his first protest song. For some odd reason (I think it was Sara's doing) he has latched on to Dan Zane's cover of "We Shall Not Be Moved"... Granted, it's a good song and pretty catchy, but if there was a Wikipedia entry for Really-Ass-Funny it would be a video clip of Sam sitting in the back seat singing "We shall, we shall not be moved. We shall, we shall not be moved. Just like a tree, planted by the water, we shall not be moved..." He's got the look down too - little bit of sorrow mixed with camaraderie and sheer determination. Seriously, drop him into the middle of a logging protest and he would fit right in.
Oh yeah, I'm also posting a picture of Stella and my father sleeping... just because I thought it was funny...

Stella Toast

Ever feel like that 6 hours of sleep you get is just too darn much? Too much work and a couple of lunatic children just not enough? This is the plan......
Actually, I take it back. I don't feel crazy at the moment. Ever since Thurman died, Satchmo has been a different dog. Lonely... Depressed... not sure which... I always liked the idea of two dogs though, they were fun together. It wasn't just all the dashing around - they slept next to each other, licked each other clean, wrestled over toys, you know the drill. A few weeks before Thurman died he started having seizures every once in a while - it was pretty creepy for me to watch, and Satchmo was genuinely disturbed by it. I didn't notice at first, but as the seizures increased Satchmo used to disappear when it happened. It occurred to me a while back that maybe Satchmo felt the same way I did when Thurman was gone. Thurman was a relentless pain in the ass... he stole our food, had accidents in the house, his breath smelled so bad that sometimes you could tell when he walked in the room before you even saw him - and sometimes I miss him so much it aches. Anyway, as much of a pain in the ass as it may be, I'm trying to make everything whole again in a twisted sort of way.
To be honest, Sara was saddled with it in the beginning. In keeping with my history of bad timing, we got the dog on Friday morning, and I worked from Friday night until Sunday night - putting Sara on full time two baby and un-housebroken puppy duty for three days. When I got home on Sunday though, things actually looked pretty good. I was expecting two kids covered in a crust of dried spit and graham crackers, and poo in every corner. What I came home to was a full refrigerator, dinner on the stove, well rested kids, and a remarkably poo-less house. Go figure... after three days I might have put myself in the dog crate...
So here we are, one larger. Amazingly wee (only about eight inches from front to back and four inches high) but she manages to take up every spare moment... For those of you who can't tell from the head shot, she is part Pug and part Jack Russell, about eight weeks old, and smaller than a cheesesteak.
If you need to get in touch with me for any reason, I only have eight seconds (usually from 9:26:04 pm to 9:26:12 pm) to talk, and I am booked until July 19th. At the moment I am in the process of hiring a second Joe who will be able to take over some of my personal affairs...