I'm Turning My Tiny Greenhouse Into a She-Shed!

So, we rent a house in our charming Connecticut town. It's a very sweet house, if a bit cozy.

"Cozy" is ALWAYS a euphemism for "this house is so damned small that I can feel your hot breath on my neck at all times" and "if you EVER check your texts while blocking a communal passageway again your phone is soon going to become one with your duodenum."

Our sweet, wee boys of blog entries past are now hairy teens (one of whom who jokingly dubbed himself "Massif Boi" the other day). They have horrid long limbs that are either flailing about, flung haphazardly over furniture, stuffed deep inside the fridge in an effort to extract ever more orange juice (legs may be included), or frozen in a gorilla-like clutch in homage to an electronic device.

(The 11-year-old gets a pass, as he is still comparatively small—much to his chagrin. "Why am I the shortest person in our family?!" he complained recently. "This is not fair. Is this to be my eternal fate?" He was encouraged by the promise of something called "puberty," which has yet to arrive.)

Our rental house has very little privacy. It has a truly awful basement that isn't even worthy of exploration, which is really saying something given that our former basement in Mamaroneck was lousy with man-sized hopping crickets and I still ventured down there.

There is basically nowhere to hide, except for inside a few closets that are stuffed with all the crap that doesn't fit anywhere else in this cozy house. The property is large and pleasant, with a bunch of trees and shrubberies in the lower half, bordered by a babbling brook. So one could wander down there and hide behind a tree, I suppose.

This wasn't quite what I was looking for when it came to a private oasis in which to seek my muse. I decided I wanted a "she-shed!" Nay, I coveted one.

She-sheds are mystical little places that are either converted out of old gardening sheds and abandoned kids' playhouses on one's property, built by hand, delivered in a clever kit, or constructed by lucrative she-shed carpenters. They are like "man caves" except they are absolutely riddled with whimsy and feminine creativity and "quaint details." Plus, they are out in nature and blend into their natural surroundings. I never heard of any damned she-shed stuck down in an old basement.

Here are some adorable examples.

Being a renter, I didn't think asking my landlord for a building permit would be a very smart choice.

But it just so happens that right off the living room of this tiny, really tiny, way too small, cozy little house is an unused greenhouse. There is literally a door from the living room that opens right into it! (Note: It is not a large greenhouse. You could not swing a cat in it without damaging the glass. You might be able to swing Schtinky Teddy, but that is another story.)

Of course, we noticed it when we toured the property. "How charming!" I thought. "I'll grow herbs in there!" I planted a few in pots and forgot about them. They died peacefully, unwatered and unattended. 

I forgot about the greenhouse. Until today.

I had an entirely new vision. I would clean the damned thing and make it into MY she-shed: An art studio and greenery which would be MINE MINE ALL MINE. My NEW greenhouse would be awash with vines and winter-loving plants. Cucumbers would dangle fatly from the ceiling, and I could just lean up and bite one while I sat there! A mobile made out of origami unicorns and flying fish and magical sea turtles would swing gently over my old drafting table, soon to be rescued from the garage! I would fill plastic tubs with art supplies! Plug in an aromatherapy diffuser! Play super awesome music and maybe hang some sweet-ass curtains and start to do macrame and all that shit! I might even meditate in there!

I WOULD GROW SO MUCH FUCKING MARIJUANA IN MY SHE-SHED!

(Kidding. Seriously! But some GIANT pot plants growing right inside the big glass windows of this greenhouse would look really enticing to all those joggers and bikers and dog walkers and stressed-out moms that pass by my home, methinks. I could make some cash, methinks. I could afford a BIGGER she-shed with all that cash, made by reputable she-shed builders. Maybe I could even live in it full-time with my whole family in an adjunct "shed" built off the lucre of my Pot Empire, and I could also purchase a yacht.... NO NO NO never mind!)

So today I began scrubbing the green funk of 40,000 years off this little greenhouse. Brushing out the cobwebs and the long-leggedy beasties that have made it their home. (Good thing I am not scared of spiders. Hello, Charlotte!) I got up on a ladder with some Windex and some scrubbies and paper towels and went to work.

Then I went up to the 11-year-old's room (remember him? He's still cute and he doesn't even smell bad!) and we opened his window together. It looks right down on the greenhouse.

I said: "I am going to do something very ill-advised and dangerous soon and clamber out your window, stand on this ledge here, and scrub green funk off the skylights on this here greenhouse. Now, if you hear a scream and/or a loud thump, please do come out and check on me, okay?"

He checked out the scene and nodded at me very sagely. Then he grinned. "Yup," he said. "Okay. Okay, Mom. Got it!" He never even said, "What the HELL are you thinking, mother?!"

Yes, he shall be invited into the she-shed! Especially because cucumbers are the ONLY vegetable that he will eat. Also, he is still little enough to fit inside.

Updates to be posted. Here are the early photographs of this project:

View from the living room into the greenhouse.

After cleaning some of the glass.

Green Funk!

Green Funk begone!

Really, Really Bad Valentine's Day Gifts for 2019

First of all, I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day. It's a Hallmark holiday designed to psychically wound the single, the lovelorn, the dumped, and all the depressed losers who are clearly unworthy of love.

But it's really much more dreadful if you are actually in a relationship, and your dumbass sweetie decides to purchase a last-minute Valentine's Day gift for you at the local drugstore. Because then you know your significant other is a psychopathic asshole.

An amputated Valentine sloth in a cup. His expression pretty much affirms that your loved one is a cheating bag o' dicks.

Here is this year's crop of creepy, unromantic, and soul-crushing gifts that will make you question JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING about that cheap-ass bum who used his CVS "ExtraCare" bucks to buy you a deflated, phallic stuffie that was made in a factory by weeping orphans.

I think this thing is intended to be a sex toy of some kind, with nubby stubs for "her pleasure." Honestly, you should not want to feel it even touching your neck, let alone your vulva. Plus, it has been manhandled by every germy-handed kid that came into the store, and probably gnawed on by a teething baby. 

This puppy's heartbreaking sadness speaks volumes about the person who gave this gift to you.  The flowery quote on the back reads: "Not even the noblest of poets has measured what the human heart can bear. I, too, have sought in vain for my soulmate, my love, my other self, only to end weeping on the shores of life's bitter mysteries. I have felt pain. I have felt sorrow. I have loved more magnificently than one will ever fathom. By the way, this huge box of chocolates will make your ass even fatter than it currently is. Which is a difficult thought to endure."

Nuff said.

Let me say this once, and once only. THERE IS NOTHING SEXY ABOUT THIS. Nor does the giraffe look "wild." He looks like he needs to redirect the Viagra from the neck to the nethers. And that bow-tie? Break up with whomever gave this to you ASAP. You do not want to grow old with that motherfucker. 

There something vaguely penile about this. Maybe it's just me. 

Seriously, this is even better than Mr. Romance of a few years past, because this dildo is EDIBLE. Did I say that out loud? No, I typed it! However, one has to wonder who gives this gift. If it's a decrepit old auntie, you might forgive her. But if your lover gives you this gift, he has an offshore bank account and is likely screwing the neighbor's cockapoodle.

Yes, if "love" means sitting on the toilet for a few hours after the 'Love Bandit" has made its way through your colon.

Seriously, WHY would you ever think this is a good idea? What he really means is "If you try to leave me I will KILL YOU and feed you to my pet hogs." The man who gives you this is secretly into German Scheisse Videos. 

Speaking of Scheisse. Maybe this is supposed to be a Hershey's Kiss, but it looks an awful lot like a shiny, space-age turd. Like that emoji turd, maybe, but with a twist and a dollop of extra turd on the top? But it LUVS you.

Woodstock, drunk in the gutter and consumed with existential angst. If I got this I would cry for about 5 days over the cruel, cruel nature of this terrible world. Then I would call my attorney.

When I visited Walgreen's, I noticed a store employee arranging the terrible panoply of stuffed horrors on the shelves. He did not seem to notice the casual way in which he flung this spank-ass Mickey Mouse into the shelf, but I did. Titillating! Inviting, even!

For more Valentine's Day fun on this blog, you might like:

22 Awesomely Terrible Valentine's Day Gifts
Terrifying and Dismal Valentine's Day Gifts
Subliminal Messages Behind Common Valentine's Day Gifts
All the Beautiful Ways to Say I Love You

I Made a Pet Out of My House Mouse

I now have a pet mouse. In the absence of any other pets, I have decided to adopt the only other female in the household, who happens to be vermin. In fact, I am not sure "she" is even a female. It has been suggested that "she" is a male who has a wife and litter behind the stove, and is thieving crumbs and goodies to fatten his family.

I resent these accusations, for I have a spiritual bond with "Avomato," whom I have named due to her obvious loves of avocados and tomatoes. She has destroyed many such items.

Avomato requires a balanced diet. Including CHEE-TOS!

Bloodthirsty members of my household have many things to say:

"Mom, are you really putting a plate out with snack for a MOUSE?"

"What is WRONG with you?"

"This mouse must die."

Why do I have such a soft spot for wee Avomato? Is it because when I am typing away, lonely as a monk, I hear her stirrings in the kitchen as she drags away a glorious orange Chee-to that I have left for her?

Others have suggested that Avomato will leave "poo." All I have to say is that she is very cleanly thus far, and has left only 1-2 small turds. Or maybe 3-7. Or 8-15. I vacuum them up with the Dustbuster and all is good.

Who can say this for their cats? Cats leave large and horrible turds in litter boxes, which must be pulled out daily, lest the cats get snarky. Dogs are worse. Who hasn't seen a happy dog walker, swinging a hot bag o' turd as they stroll along, having wrenched that very turd from its clutches in some neighbor's grassy sod? I have had the pleasure to walk a dog, and the experience of tearing the turd from the grass blades nearly made me wretch.

Avomato's wee turds are tiny. And there is no scent. The fact that they are on MY KITCHEN COUNTER is troubling, but as long as they don't mingle with anything similar (e.g. chia seeds) and I disinfect the counter regularly, what's the trouble?

I have stepped into dog turds in neighbor's lawns, unawares, in sandals. Just saying. This was disturbing.

The only problem with Avomato is her lack of true love. I give, and she receives. She never cuddles with me. She is rather heartless, after all. She hides whenever I come to greet her with a hearty "Avomato, my love!" Just earlier, I spied her from the outside window, head into a bowl of gnocchi. I rushed inside to have a heart-to-heart, but she had vanished behind the stove. It is a one-sided relationship, but I don't mind.

She is perhaps faithless, and cruel. She is perhaps a male mouse. She is nothing I imagined, but I feed her all the same. I leave small things out for her, because it is brutally cold outside. Where would she go now? What would she find to eat? What if a plethora of Avomatos invade my kitchen, come the spring?

She found me. She found my warm kitchen. She found my expectant heart, open to a creature we normally would rather extinguish from our lives. Many would have purchased a trap. Please, for goodness sake, don't ever use one of these sticky traps. They couldn't be crueler. In college, my friend and I found a passel of tiny, stuck mice on a "Mr. Sticky" mousetrap. The custodial staff had put them down, unbeknownst to us. Heartbroken, we thought about peeling the mice off, before we realized that to do so we would have to tear their limbs off. The glue was that strong. I don't want to tell the end to that story; it has haunted me to this day.

If you must use a trap, use a humane one: See Me and the Mouse in the Night.

Who is to say who should be lucky, and who unlucky? What differentiates you from the mother mouse who climbs frantically from the broom which has dislodged her from her nest in the garage? What makes you better? Do you care for your children more? Would you climb down walls with your children clinging to your back, knowing that there is no savior waiting for you? I've seen a frantic mother mouse doing just that. A group of mice is called a "mischief." A mouse can squeeze through a hole the size of half a dime.

Are you that amazing? I think not.

I will choose to be kind—senselessly, stupidly—even for the smallest and meanest among us. I would rather make the mouse a heroine in a children's bedtime story. May there still be little boys listening to that story. Boys who would make a mouse sentient, and allow her a name. She will have a story to tell. This heroine mouse might become a memory when you are old and jaded, and will awaken a small spark of empathy.

But if cockroaches ever rear their heads, they ain't welcome. Kindness has its limits.