Enjoy!
I have no blog ideas today. Instead, I give you a video of our cat, Wednesday (and yes, her brother is named Pugsley) protecting the kitchen from a deadly enemy: the sun, reflecting off the refrigerator door. Enjoy! It's March, and snowy, and thus the perfect time to contemplate whether or not to do a garden this year. I'd like to pretend I have free will, but unfortunately, growing plants is buried deep in my genes.
My family tree on my father’s side is blooming with green thumbs. Naturally gifted with the superhuman ability to spot stinging nettle at a hundred paces, and also born with the knowledge that said stinging nettle is terrific for treating arthritis, gout, stomach upset, and anemia in cows (and probably humans, too, Dad says), the Longos were destined to make their living off the land from the moment they got on the boat in Italy, setting sail for America. What the Longos do not have is a decent sense of direction. Hopelessly geographically challenged, the Longo fate was forever sealed when my great-great- grandfather, Giuseppe Longo, got on that boat bound for Ellis Island thinking it was a charter to Oahu. When he stepped onto the pier in New York in the middle of December, his dreams of becoming a successful pineapple farmer should have withered and died right then, carried away by an icy blast of negative-six-degree wind. But no: Giuseppe was not a quitter. Instead of trying to find another boat to take him somewhere warmer, old can’t-find-his-way-out-of-a-paper-bag Giuseppe had the bright idea to walk south. He and his wife Josephine hit the road, immediately heading northeast. They ultimately collapsed on the side of a meandering dirt path somewhere in central Connecticut. “I hate it here!” Josephine declared. “The soil’s rocky, it’s so cold I can’t feel my face, and the pineapple will not grow here, my darling.” (Josephine was a loving, yet sensible, old bird.) “Then we shall raise Holsteins!” Giuseppe announced. “Holsteins love cold weather and rocky ground. Look over there, Josephine: a whole field full of stinging nettles covered in snow! Welcome to our new home.” Unfortunately for Josephine, divorce was not widely acceptable back in the eighteen hundreds, and she was stuck. She helped tend the farm, and bore Giuseppe many, many farmhands—er, children—who were forced to join him in his passion of having a successful dairy farm. Was it successful? Eh. What it did have was a lovely garden, thanks to Josephine. She watched the weather and tested different seeds in the soil, and soon intuited what plants would thrive, and which would die horrible deaths in their new homeland. She had some false starts, mind you (rest in peace, bougainvillea brought all the way across the Atlantic in Josephine’s loving arms, only to turn black and disintegrate less than a week in the new world), but soon, she had a lovely mix of flowers and vegetables surrounding their shack, from petunias and peonies to bell peppers and radishes. Josephine toiled every day in her beloved garden, coaxing buds to bloom, weeding away the stupid stinging nettles that threatened to take over the peony beds by the hour, lovingly flicking away the green worms that dared to place a single horned foot on her blushing tomatoes. Then a freak frost hit in early August, killing everything except the nettles. Should you even bother trying to grow a garden in New England? Eh. Living in New England is, quite frankly, no fun. Winters are tough; I’ve got three different friends online right now talking about their seasonal depression. All live in Connecticut. This depression comes about due to lack of sunlight in the winter season, and from living in Connecticut.
This winter arguably hasn’t been bad in terms of snowfall. I think the local school system has had maybe one snow day, which is probably a new record. What we have had, however, is more typical of New England, and significantly more dangerous: sequences of days in which it’ll snow on Monday, heat up to fifty degrees on Tuesday, then drop to negative temperatures Tuesday night so all that melted snow will turn into a sheet of ice. I’m not making that scenario up. It happened two weeks ago. On Wednesday of this aforementioned week, I stepped onto my front stoop and immediately slipped. My first thought was to protect my back, so I cleverly broke my fall with my face. Now I had a fat lip and a cut chin. I’m in the middle of a job hunt right now, so of course, as soon as I stepped back inside, I got three phone calls requesting I come in for an interview that day. I landed none of these jobs. I won’t make that mistake again, I decided, but winter had other plans. Two days ago, it snowed again. Then temperatures rose, snow started to melt, and things were looking good. Not so fast, winter said. Temperatures plummeted, turned the yard into a hockey rink, and then winter put the final touches on its devious plan: it dropped another half inch or so of snow, hiding the ice beneath. When I stepped outside this morning, I was feeling optimistic. The sun was shining, there was plenty of coffee in the pot, and a new month meant spring was just around the corner. Two steps out of the house, I realized my error: all was not well; in fact, things were very, verybad. It was freezing, I was out of coffee creamer, Connecticut’s new governor was proposing a new tax on air, and I was going to face-plant yet again. In the three seconds during which I pinwheeled my arms to try and regain my balance, I had two thoughts: protect my back! But not with my face! This time, I broke my fall with my belly and knees. My belly worked as sort of a bumper, as I’ve put on a few pounds as of late, and I only took one scratch to the gut. My knees, however, fared worse: now I had scrapes and bruises on both, and walking or driving was going to be a challenge over the next few days. As soon as I stepped inside, I got two phone calls for interviews. Face-to-face, of course. I sighed, pushed my kneecaps back into position, and hoped for the best. Seasonal depression in Connecticut: Can you blame us? I'm pretty sure I didn't used to be this socially awkward. There was a time in my twenties, even into my thirties, when I could converse with anyone with ease. My friends thought I was funny (if a little quirky), and there were many times I was invited to parties and events simply to provide social lubricant to the situation.
Somewhere in my forties, this changed. There's no exact moment that I can point at and say, "There it is. That's when I stopped being delightful in the company of others." It just happened over time; my circle of friends got smaller and smaller as I learned more and more whom I could trust and whom I truly enjoyed spending time with; I stopped caring so much about hurting other people's feelings by turning down invitations. Lately, though, I've taken this to the extreme. Oh, sure, circumstances dictated it, but I became a full-on hermit. Until I got a text from a friend and former coworker inviting me out for pizza. Several other former coworkers would be there. Did I want to go? Ugh. People, I thought, except that original former coworker, the one doing the inviting, is someone I really like. How much did I like her? I asked myself. Enough to put on pants and go out in public? Then I thought back to the last time I'd socialized with anyone outside of family. It was December. Early December, actually. That's pretty bad, I realized. Even shut-ins visited with their caregivers a few times a week. I should go. So I did. When I arrived at the restaurant, only a few other people were there. I was able to hug people appropriately and say hello and ask how things were going. But over the next half hour, more and more coworkers joined us. I panicked. What do I say? What do I do? Can they tell I haven't had a non-family conversation since December? "How have you been?" the young lady to my left said. She seemed happy to see me, and I remembered her as a nice girl, who always greeted me cheerfully in the mornings when we worked together. How had I been? There were so many ways to answer that! Be positive, I thought. Say something upbeat. Maybe tell her the story about how Jason found a free treadmill online, but when he brought it home, it wouldn't fit through the basement door. That's funny, right? How he had to bring it in through the front door, and now we can't get it downstairs where the exercise bike lives? Yes, I could go with that. I turned to her and smiled. "I have a treadmill in my living room!" I blurted out. She looked at me for a moment. I recognized that look immediately. It's the one I would sometimes give my mother when I was younger: slightly furrowed brow to signify concern, combined with a polite and somewhat forced smile. The look that said, You are a crazy lady. Dear lord. I am a crazy lady. Serves me right for socializing. Writers are often asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” This is one aspect of writing I struggle with all the time. Once I have an idea, I’m pretty good at running with it and getting it down on the page, but it's being struck with that idea to begin with that’s the problem.
Every writer is different. For example, my best writing friend gets ideas for stories every five minutes. He tries to write those ideas down or speak them into an audio file as they come to him, but he’s already exceeded the memory capacity on three different phones just from those idea audio files. His issue is getting them all written. He’s great about offering me some of his ideas to use, because he knows he’ll simply never have enough time to get all those stories written. The problem is, I always feel bad, like I should’ve come up with the idea myself instead of borrowing one of his. And though “Eat Your Vegetables,” one of my short stories in Insanity Tales III, is sparked off of one of Rob’s ideas, it is absolutely my story, and nothing like the carnivorous garden tale he would’ve written. (I’m telling you all this for a reason. Bear with me.) The past month or so, I’ve been working on Longo Looks at . . . GARDENING. It’s the next in line in my series of chapbooks taken from past columns and blog posts I’ve written over the past decade. It should practically write itself. All I need to do is shape and mold it, maybe stitch it together with introductory paragraphs and transition sentences. Sounds easy, right? Except it’s not. I’ve been struggling with it for a couple of reasons. One, it’s not gardening season yet, which is kind of the point, because I was hoping to release it for gardening season. But because we’re still firmly in winter, I’m in no mood to think about the work it’s going to take to get the pepper plants percolating this spring. The other reason is because I had something kind of amazing happen the other day. I was in the kitchen, pouring my third cup of coffee of the morning, when an idea struck me. I grabbed a paper towel and a pen and took notes. In thirty seconds, I had the crude outline of a plot for a novel. I knew who four of the characters would be, and a possible fifth, and I knew when and where it should be set. I wasn’t entirely clear on what the ending would be—I’ll have to spitball ideas with Rob on that—but I had a solid start sketched out on that coffee-stained Bounty sheet. I knew I could have fun with the characters, and I was eager to get started. I sat back down in front of my laptop. Longo Looks at GARDENING was already open, waiting for me to finish crafting it. I looked longingly at my paper towel notes. Then back at the computer screen. I had to finish this book. But I really wanted to work on this other thing. I’ve mentioned to Rob several times how jealous I am of his ability to generate ideas at the drop of a hat. He’s often told me how frustrating it is, because the ideas come at the most inopportune times, and at any given moment he’ll be working on six different stories, and not finishing five of them. My point is, I get it now—at least a little bit. See, I’m the type of person who cannot leave something unfinished—certainly not the gardening book I’d promised my aunt would be ready this spring. So I’m still plugging away at that one, but my mind is still grinding its gears thinking about the other. All I need is a little more writing time in the day. How hard could that be? They say sleep is overrated anyway. Here we are again on a Friday, and yet again, I have zero blog post ideas. What I do have is this old post, and here's the thing: it's been almost four years since this one ran, and there's still no cure for being geographically challenged.
Geographically Challenged I’d like to talk today about a disability that nobody speaks of—yet if we did, we’d probably find that one in four people suffer from it and I completely made up that number. I think it’s important to talk about this affliction, because those that have it struggle with it every day. I also think it’s time that I confess to having the disorder myself. I will suffer in silence no more: like many of you, I, too, am geographically challenged. I’m not talking about occasionally turning left when you should’ve turned right. What I’m referring to is the knack for getting lost every single time one pulls out of the driveway. (I once got lost in my driveway.) You people with a natural sense of true north have no idea what I mean, I’m sure. Ever notice those friends who are mostly fabulous at Trivial Pursuit, except that they never seem to be able to capture that coveted blue pie piece? Geographically challenged. The blue pie piece represents geography, and remains frustratingly elusive to us. It’s a problem with many repercussions. When socializing, I cannot contribute to any conversation that references a street in town. “You know, down on Marigold Street. Just past the consignment shop.” No. I don’t know, and I can’t find it, even if I’ve accidentally stumbled across that consignment shop four times in the past. If I have to meet someone somewhere new, I’ll ask them to verify the address six or seventeen times, which I’ll admit is pointless, because I still won’t make it. The phrase “I think I’ve been lost here before” is a common one in my car, and completely truthful. I’ve been lost on many, many roads along the Eastern Seaboard. I like to think of myself as an accidental tourist. I once pulled out of a parking lot and questioned which side of the road we drive on here in the States. I should point out that I’ve never traveled to any country where they drive on the other side of the road. There was no logical reason why I shouldn’t have instinctively known to stay to the right of the double yellow lines. But for a moment, I got myself turned around. If not for the angry pedestrian walking his rather large, rather rabid-looking St. Bernard that I almost hit, I’d probably still be driving on the wrong side. (The dog owner also shouted some colorful new epithets that I’ve since stolen and made my own, so bonus.) Please, you directionally savvy people, don’t dismiss the geographically challenged with “get a GPS” or “use Google Maps.” Both of these tools, we can assure you, are imperfect. Because we are so dependent on them, we follow their instructions to the letter. “Turn left in 400 feet.” Exactly 400 feet later, which is incidentally 8 feet after the stoplight, we’ll turn left, and find ourselves on the lawn of a golf course being attacked by geese. And make one little typo (Windsor, CT, instead of Windsor Locks, CT, is a really easy one to make) and our golf-course goose is cooked. On behalf of the geographically challenged, I’d like to offer a blanket apology. We’re not making it to your party, or book club, or wedding. We’re undoubtedly stuck on the George Washington Bridge, wondering why Newport is so congested. I recently bought new underwear.
Now before you get all nervous (or excited, for the piggos out there), this isn’t one of those types of blogs. I’m not going to describe snippets of lace or see-through mesh numbers. No, I bought these panties from Hanes, because I’m old and I care less about looking sexy these days, and more about not giving myself a wedgie when I sit down. So back to my underwear shopping. I bought them online, and I’ll admit, I had to sort of guess what size to get. You see, the website did provide a size chart, but it went by waist and hip size in inches. I find these types of charts not helpful at all, mostly because they never have a size that correlates with both my waist and hips. (“Impossible,” the Hanes representative said when I called for advice and gave my measurements. I had to assure her it was not: I’d inherited my proportions from my mother, who inherited hers from my grandmother. I also told the Hanes representative that while Grandma would’ve had some sort of sassy comeback to the impossible remark, I was simply going to hang up now and maybe give my phone the middle finger.) I guessed at my size and waited for my cute new undies to come in the mail. When they arrived, the first thing I noticed was that the size chart on the package of underwear itself actually included a third column, one labeled “pant size” (For example, if you wear a size 10–12, you’d buy a 7 in Hanesland.) This one little column would’ve been extremely helpful had Hanes made it available on their website, or if the judgy “That’s impossible” customer service rep had bothered to mention it before I’d hung up on her. I’d bought the wrong size. By a long shot. I held up my size 9 Hanes and sighed. I could return them and order a smaller size, but that sounded like a lot of work, plus possibly I’d have to use printer ink to print out a return label. Have you seen the price of printer ink lately? The return label would cost more than the underwear! I chose option two, which was to call the Hanes help line, put them on speakerphone while the representative asked, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”, and flip the phone the double bird, which everyone knows is twice as bad as just one middle finger. Then I sat down and got to work. In less than two weeks, I was able to eat my way up to a Hanes size nine, which was no easy feat, let me assure you. But I did it, and in record time, too. I like to think Grandma would’ve been proud. I did a lot of chopping and shredding and baking and boiling and bagging this past fall, in anticipation of this very moment: it’s a cold, snowy day … the perfect excuse to dig out some of the carefully prepped and frozen bounty from our garden.
My thought was to make beef stew. That way, I could use up some of the potatoes, onions, and green beans I’d harvested last year. Plus, we’d bought some beef a month ago on clearance at Walmart, and it wasn’t until I got home and looked at it, graying in the package, that I realized perhaps buying beef on clearance at Walmart was not going to result in the highest quality meat. The only way we were going to choke down the stuff was by simmering it in water until it disintegrated. I'd labeled it “for stew” and thrown it in the freezer. With the Crock Pot on the counter, ready to go, I tossed in some water and beef bouillon, then went downstairs to the chest freezer for my main ingredients. The meat came out, along with the green beans, cubed potatoes, and … wait, where were the onions? I glanced out my basement window to our now-snow-covered patch of dirt. There, poking up from a half inch of white, were the unmistakable tips of our onion stalks. It seems I’d forgotten to actually pick, wash, chop, and freeze them. Oops! No worries. I had onion powder. I grabbed a frozen container of peppers to add instead, and to make the stew look heartier. I dumped everything in the Crock Pot, set it to low, and went upstairs to nap. A few hours later, it was time to see how my concoction was doing. I dipped in the ladle, and came up with … well, gross. I wasn’t going to eat that. The green beans were white. (Turns out you can’t just zip ’em in a sandwich bag—they’ll get freezer burn.) The potatoes, which I’d partially cooked before freezing, had disintegrated into cottage-cheese-looking clumps. And the peppers had lost their skins, so now everything had strips of sharp-edged green slime stuck to it. The good news is, I hadn’t cubed the beef yet, so I could fish that out easily, rinse it off, and dump out the rest of the pot. I did so, leaving a steaming stain of what looked suspiciously like stew vomit in the snow outside our front door. I rinsed out the pot, started with a fresh new batch of water, more beef bouillon, and the meat. Opening the cupboard, I found a dusty old can of sliced carrots, and two fairly dust-free cans of whole potatoes. I rummaged around, finding Jason’s hidden stash of canned green beans behind a stack of recipes we never look at. He prefers canned green beans to fresh. And I hate baking, thus the ignored recipes. It was a brilliant hiding spot, all in all. Everything got dumped in. This new batch of stew took me exactly ten minutes to throw together. Feeling guilty, I looked outside again. A withered onion stalk waved back at me from the snow. I put on my boots, trudged out to the garden, and dug out the onion. Snow and half-frozen dirt clung to a bulb the size of my thumb. I brought it inside, cleaned it, chopped it up, and tossed it in to the new batch of stew. When Jason came home, I handed him a steaming bowl of beefy yumminess. “This from our garden?” he said, beaming. “Sure it is,” I said, eyeing the onion peel in the trash. “I guess it is worth it to do a garden, then,” he decided, like he’d done any of the planting, weeding, pruning, dusting with Sevin, flicking off of Japanese beetles, picking, washing, chopping, and freezing. “Sure it is,” I said. Next year, I’m planting canned vegetables. I doubt he’ll even notice. I get teased sometimes (and avoided other times) because of my interest in true crime. I devour the stuff, consuming it in the form of books, television, documentaries, and podcasts. I’m not alone: there are millions of us out there. And yes, most of us are women. I guess men prefer to talk about more, er, manly things, like sports and cars and guns and stuff.
Except thanks to true crime, I can talk about stuff like that too. Guns are a no-brainer: whether you want to wax poetic on classic firearms like, say, the 1851 Colt Navy revolver, or discuss the kickback of more modern weapons like the .44 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog, I’m happy to contribute that the former was the weapon of choice of one John Henry “Doc” Holliday, the latter of David “Son of Sam” Berkowitz. See? We can have a perfectly normal conversation if that’s your topic of choice. Ah, but maybe you’re a sports fan. What’s your passion? Football? I just listened to a fantastic podcast called Gladiator, all about Aaron Hernandez, so yeah, we can talk football. What’s that? You’re more of a boxing fan? It’s crazy how they never found out who shot Hector Camacho, isn’t it? Speaking of crazy, did you hear about that boxer down in Texas who just confessed to killing, like, a hundred people? Or maybe you prefer the relative tranquility of baseball. Are you kidding me right now? I’ve read, like, everybook out there on the 1919 Chicago White Sox. (Not all true crime is murder, folks. Some of it is about the disgrace and downfall of some of the world’s greatest athletes.) On this we probably agree: Shoeless Joe Jackson was framed. You seem uncomfortable. We can talk about something else; that’s perfectly fine. You like cars? We can discuss cars. What do you drive? A Corolla? That’s nice. You know what’s a terrible car? The white van. You know, because serial killers love ’em. Ted Bundy, Paul Bernardo and Karla Holmolka . . . say, where are you going? So far in 2019, I've received a story rejection, gained ten pounds since Christmas, and discovered that sometime during the night last evening, Pugsley pooped in a very inappropriate place. I need a haircut, my roots are showing, and I did not wake up a lottery winner.
2019: So far, I give it a D. |
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