humor - grace grits and gardening

And then I bought an island…

February 16, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

My Farm!

Once upon a time, not that very long ago, I owned a farm. Virtual, that is. It started out innocently enough with a simple invitation to join Farm Town. It looked like fun, so with a few clicks of the mouse, I was growing grapes and wheat on my cute little square patch of farmland. As I quickly became more proficient with harvesting methods and crop rotation, I planted more complicated crops, even hiring farm hands to harvest. My paradise expanded to include a river with crystal clear waterfalls and lush landscaping. An assortment of trees and flowers grew along the riverbanks, separating my property from my sister’s. I visited neighboring farms and had lots of farm friends. In no time, by the sweat of my brow and with very little down, I was able to afford a red brick mansion and buy a second farm back off the north forty! I had my very own lake stocked with bream and catfish – a virtual dream come true – with a dock! Oh and a hammock. I love hammocks. Life was good.

My lake and hammock:)

Looking to diversify, someone suggested I expand into the restaurant business. I opened a cute little cafe, hiring some of my best friends as wait staff – Becky, Judy, Carrie. I was boosting the economy! Together we whipped up turkeys and bacon cheeseburgers and lobster. Ummmm. I even learned to make creme brûlée! Some dishes took days to prepare, and others were ready in minutes. It was a popular little cafe – all my friends flocked to see the adorable decor and fancy ovens. Soon I added an outdoor patio with a giant flatscreen for watching Razorback games! But it was stressful. I should have stuck with farming – I know farming. Food & beverage is a totally different animal. It became difficult to adequately concentrate on my farm with chicken adobo ready and waiting on the stovetop. We were always under the gun to get food out on time – just like restaurant wars on Top Chef. If the service was slow, patrons would just rudely turn around and leave. Once I had to fire my own mother – she couldn’t get the food on the table fast enough. But business is business. She went right down the street and opened her own cafe…

Becky and Judy also became competitors with nearby cafes. But we helped each other. There were times I was at the bank – the REAL bank from which I received W-2 income – and Becky often called me in a panic. I’m in Mt. Home and my chicken pot pies need to be served at noon!!!!! I would run home at lunch, serve her chicken pot pies, check on my own cafe and crops, eat a real sandwich in my real kitchen, walk my real dog, and run back to my real job. It was exhausting. But I hated to see a pot pie gone bad.

And then I bought an island. I needed a vacation spot away from the hustle and bustle of the farm and cafe. A place where I could wear a loin cloth and coconut shell bra in total seclusion. But once a farmer, always a farmer. I began planting stupid crops on my island too. Tropical fruits and veggies. And fishing. I fished on the island. I couldn’t relax. I was Thomas Tate.

Once in the middle of the night, I jumped suddenly from bed and understandably alarmed John. “What??? What’s wrong??” He had been in a deep sleep. “Omg I have pot roast to serve!!!” I jumped up to log onto my computer to serve pot roast before the nasty flies got it.

The next day I quit. I just walked away. Cold turkey. My virtual life was running my real life. I could be using that time to learn a language or cook real food in my real kitchen! Or work in my real garden. Or write a book! I immediately blocked all games so I would not be tempted to even peep at my dying crops or receive updates from devoted farm neighbors who continue to water my wilted flowers. Did they worry about me? I know that my farm is overgrown with Johnsongrass, and the flies and bugs and roaches have taken over my restaurant. Sometimes I feel bad.

Occasionally someone on Facebook cries out for help – “I only need 10 more nails for my barn raising.” Or, “I’m gonna miss my farm so much when I go home for Christmas.” Last week, one of my Facebook friends was upset because someone had reported her to the Facebook police – and she had done nothing wrong – she had no idea why she had received a “warning” about her activity. It was probably just a glitch in the system… new timeline and all… One of her friends commented, “That is sooooo terrible. You are such a good farm neighbor.”

talya

Musical Pairings:

Kenny Chesney, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”

Zac Brown Band, “Knee Deep”

Do you think I’m Tex-y?

February 8, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

In my zone. I was typing away furiously, the words freely flowing – life is good. Typing is one of my true talents – I am speedy, and I have the high school trophies to show for it – at home in Arkansas, underneath the sink in the bathroom, where the mice play. Tall trophies. I won them at the Cotton Boll Vo-Tech School in Burdette, where Mrs. Byford took all her bright, shiny Future Business Leaders of America students. And unlike today, there was a 1st, 2nd, 3rd place trophy and a whole room of leftover slow typists who went home with nothing but a day off from school. I might never speak French, but I could type. This one girl I knew once said, “I never want to learn to type – Everyone will always ask me to type their papers in college.” What? What kind of sense did that make? Who was going to type her papers? Kids today are born knowing how to type. The typing gene was passed down from those of us who took timed speed tests in the 1970s.

So as I was on a roll, cracking myself up, a certain mischievous schnauzer plops a raccoon on my air mac hitting just the wrong key and launching me into a whole new level of cyberness. Ugh!!!!!!!!!!! She typed a whole line of jumble. Of course, it wasn’t a real raccoon, although I wouldn’t have batted an eye had it been. Thank goodness for the Undo Button. I threw the raccoon across the room and looked down at my keypad and screen to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. That’s when I really noticed Great Grandma Creecy’s hand searching for the undo button! WHEN did my hand turn into a piece of fried chicken?

Daddy always said, “Doesn’t matter what you do to the rest of your body, your hands will give you away.” Once again, here he was, speaking from the grave, right as rain. He didn’t say a whole lot but when he did he was usually right. And his message was usually delivered deadpan. There was nothing funny about this.

Maybe it was the bad lighting in my bedroom this morning? And I probably needed to drink more water – that was my new years resolution this year (and every year). Like most resolutions, I did really well for a few weeks…. I bet I was dehydrated! All that night sweating was shriveling my hands! And my nails were disgusting. My cuticles were jagged and each fingernail was a different shape! Gross. Looked like I had traded in my banking job to pull Johnsongrass full-time. But the most glaring thing was this warty thingy near my wrist. It was sorta like a wart but wasn’t. It was like a hard knotty zit – one that had nothing inside but you kept thinking it might. Handsome-Dr.-Ruben-with-the-perfect-skin said it was nothing, “But I can freeze it off, if it bothers you.” Yeah it bothered me – it stared at me all day long. While I typed. It was stifling me.

So he burned it off, turning it really nasty for a week or so. It blistered up and popped and drained and scabbed and healed. And then lo and behold, it came right back. Staring at me again. A bit smaller but still there! I hit the Undo button, restored my words, put Mac back on the desk and ran downstairs to get rid of this carbuncle myself.

I got the duct tape. Duct tape fixed everything, right? I cut off a piece and taped it over the heinous thing. Somewhere, somehow, I heard that duct tape cured warts – maybe it suffocated the virus? This wasn’t a wart, but it was wart-like. It might not work, but it couldn’t hurt, right? At least I wouldn’t have to feel it glaring at me. I didn’t have the silvery original duct tape, but I had white. Would the color affect the outcome?

There aren’t that many things I would undo in my life – one things affects another. If you undo something in junior high, you might not have that fab typing trophy in high school. But I would undo the amount of time I spent baking in the sun which has brought me to this point of wearing a piece of duct tape on my KFC hand.

Needing a professional, I tossed a couple of dog treats to Annabelle and Lucy so they wouldn’t eat a book, and drove to the nail salon for the works. All my little Vietnamese friends were thrilled to see me – no one else was there at 10:30 am. Everyone had jobs.

One of my favorite parts of the experience is picking a new toe color. There is an entire wall of polishes arranged in rainbow fashion with like colors grouped together. The color itself is important, yet secondary – I choose based on the name of the polish. If the color doesn’t have a cool name, I’m not gonna wear it. I can’t walk around for weeks with toes named “Getting Miss Piggy With It” or “I Eat Mainly Lobster”. This is just like choosing a horse at Oak Lawn. First the name of the horse, then the color. I always bet on a gray house, unless it has an unfortunate name. Bad name. Bad karma. Wasted two bucks.

I only do browns, cherry and blue/greens (polish not horses), but only if the name speaks to me. If the bottom of the polish has lost the label and I can’t identify the name of the color – I pass. I had been wearing Rosey Mistletoe’sies pretty much since Christmas – it was time for a change. After careful consideration, for my toes I selected “Do You Think I’m Tex-y” from the new Texas Collection. It spoke to me. But only for my toes. I keep my fingernails au natural. I’m predictable that way. I like my fried chicken plain.

I sat in the big spa chair with my feet in the hot water and prepared to relax. I was plugged into my favorite tunes to drown out the odd Vietnamese instrumental renditions of Moon River and Deep Purple that played over and over – with a random Christmas song thrown in. I’d rather listen to my own odd assortment of songs… This was my chance to catch up on Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher’s split. My favorite nail lady, Na, was attending to my feet. A lady I didn’t know (or maybe I just didn’t recognize her?) came over to address my nails. Hmmmm, interesting outfit to say the least. Was she hiding from the law? I should definitely watch America’s Most Wanted just to make sure… Maybe she was from another planet. I do think it’s a possibility. As she studied my nails, I studied her. On this beautiful, warm, 60 degree February day, she was smothered head to toe in strangeness.

“What this?” she barked, pointing to my hand. Oh, I still had duct tape on my warty thing. I ripped it off – ouch – and dipped my fingertips back into the water. She looked at the thing on my hand, shook her head as if thinking, “I not believe these white people”. It wasn’t that bad. I wanted to say, “What’s this?” and wave my fried chicken hand the length of her entire ensemble. But of course, I didn’t. I hold these thoughts in, to later spew forth into cyberspace. Sparkly black beanie, beige turtle neck sweater underneath a thick second pink sweater with pink furry collar(!) underneath a white lab coat. And odd yellow reading glasses perched on her pointy nose like an exclamation. She had to be percolating under all those layers! Her face was flushed, especially her nose. I studied her. Oh great! She was sick! Bird flu or something which would be passed to me.

“Are you sick?” I asked. She did not respond. I knew she heard me. She acted like she couldn’t speak English. “ARE. YOU. SICK?” I asked again a bit louder and more slowly in case she couldn’t hear through that beanie on her head. “No. Not sick.” She replied. “Allergy.” Hmmmm, I was skeptical. I should have never asked because suddenly the floodgates opened. “My father in Vietnam have allergy. My nose run and run and run. It horrible. It not stop. I up all night. My nose run.” Oh God.

The allergy lady dipped my hands in paraffin wax and then wrapped my arms to the elbows in towels. I had flashbacks of my recent facial. Typically I pass on the paraffin, but maybe this would help my wart thingy. As soon as my hands were all bound and tied, my nose itched like crazy. Oh great this would drive me nuts! This was ruining the whole relaxing experience. I tried to rub my nose with my huge hand which was now brining in paraffin, but couldn’t adequately maneuver. Allergy lady glared at me over those yellow glasses, looking perturbed. “What you do?” “My nose is itching – I’m trying to scratch it,” I whine. Without warning, she reached up and swiped my nose with her bird flu hand!!!!! I flinched and accidentally kicked Na who was massaging my feet. This immediately set off an incessant chatter of choppy Vietnamese. You know what I mean – we’ve all heard it before. A customer does something that doesn’t sit right and off they go on a rant. The customers have no idea what’s being said, but we all know it’s about us! Great, I’d done it now. I’d have to find a new nail salon.

After the paraffin wax treatment, my bump thingy was still there of course, but now it was pink and glowing. Still, I felt better. Fresh toes always make a girl feel better.

talya

Musical Pairings:

The Rolling Stones, “Get Off Of My Cloud”

R.E.M., “Losing My Religion”

Welcome to Jurassic Park.

February 5, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

This morning I found a tampon on the stairs. UNUSED, thank God! But still, a tampon on the stairs! It was open and lying midway up like a dead albino mouse, with the ‘tail’ dangling off the step. I have lost all control. The schnauzers are running the zoo.

Thirteen weeks and six days ago, I had a cleaning lady. I was gainfully employed at the bank dressed everyday in my favorite peep toe heels, pencil skirt and non-sports-team-related blouses. This allowed me a part-time house elf. Her name was Debbie. During these peep toe years, Debbie came twice a month and cleaned the house from top to bottom, whether needed or not.

It was needed.

She cleaned toilets and made the house sparkle. Debbie Day made the entire work day better. No matter how many irate customers I encountered or how much second hand smoke I inhaled during the day, being greeted by fabulous CLEAN in the evening made everything worthwhile. Clean, buffed floors and lemony furniture. A fresh, peaceful house that smelled of comet mixed with bleach. Never mind that it was an environmental chemical site. Even our old stained sink looked brand spanking new after Debbie Day.

Now I am trying to perform these household duties with two schnauzers under my laceless worn-out converse sneakers. And evidently not very well.

Annabelle. The Schnauzers are running the zoo…

I never much liked this plant
anyway.

Annabelle is still a puppy with recessive billy goat genes. Last Christmas (her first), she destroyed two vintage Shiny Brite ornaments while I frosted cupcakes. The ornaments, displayed in a bowl on the coffee table to keep them safe, were oh too shiny and sparkly with flecks of silver glitter. Near Annabelle’s eye level—they were a schnauzer siren song. She left behind tiny shards of glass scattered in front of the fireplace, along with the little rusty metal cap and hook that, up until that point, had survived sixty-plus years…. Annabelle does her best work in front of that warm fireplace.

A few weeks later, as I stored away my Christmas decorations, I noticed there was not a single trace of the decorative moss that had lain all around my manger scene, cradling baby Jesus. Did the camels and donkeys eat it? Or, the Christmas Schnauzer? My nativity was displayed on the small chest beside the loveseat, waaaaay on the far side of the room next to the window. A few days later, I discovered one of the wisemen under the buffet. (By process of elimination, I decided he was the myrrh-carrying wiseman.)

So now with the tampon incident, Annabelle can open cabinets?

She has further evolved from goat to velociraptor?

Does she have a sickle-shaped claw hidden somewhere in that curly matted coat, allowing her to open the bathroom cabinet and snag a Tampax?

Of course with no squeaker inside, she tired of it quickly, and abandoned it on the stairs. It was too plain for her… It laid there, beneath my wall of tastefully displayed black and white family photographs. Right below Nana’s portrait. WhatWouldNanaDo?

Nana would laugh, but in that moment I was horrified. A new high low. Was there nothing sacred?

Yes? You called for me?

In addition to munching family heirlooms, someone occasionally has accidents in the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs. I never catch anyone in the act, but when I discover the puddle, grumble and grab the cleaning supplies, both dogs stare at John like he is responsible. They look completely shocked. They are conniving. I drag out my new best friend – the self wringing twisty mop – to disinfect and eliminate the awful pee smell. Because our house is ancient and the floors are unlevel, the pee flows freely from one end of the room to the other, pooling underneath the bed, completely out of reach. This is not your regular, standing on your feet, normal-people mopping. This is on-your-knees, stuck-under-the-bed, pulling-a-hamstring, crazy-people mopping. With Annabelle licking my face.

If I’m not mistaken, by now shouldn’t we be living high above the city in a uber-cool sky pad apartment with push-button, space age conveniences? Hanna-Barbera promised as much on Saturday mornings forty years ago. My housekeeping should be seen to by Rosey. And, I’m pretty sure Astro never ate a tampon. Where is my futuristic utopia? The closest thing I have to a robot maid is Siri who lives in my smartphone and sometimes randomly speaks to me from deep inside my purse at the grocery store.

Siri is no Rosey.

While John is in Atlanta this week creating sprockets, I have four whole days to get this house in shape. But, I don’t want to start too soon as it will be a completely wasted effort and back to zoo-like conditions by Wednesday. Of course I could summon Siri to dial up Debbie. Maybe she could secretively squeeze us in. I’m sure she misses us. How could she not?

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.