I need two décor items that’ll sit on the left and right sides of the squared-out fireplace hole. Right now, there are two pillow pumpkins—brown with beige tops—seated like lion statues at the entry of a fancy person’s driveway. I thought about plants, tall thin ones, but that’s no permanent solution, especially when fires in there would singe the poor things’ healthy leaves.
I’ll leave that there, since it’s a creative thought loop I get stuck in whenever I sit down to relax. My inner interior designer, if I let her, would never take a day off. But then I wouldn’t either, so I give her a little boot in the butt so I can sit on mine without disruption.
Don’t knock it until you try it, but what if it’s a plastic Ziploc full of a white substance taped to your wall?
At last night’s dinner over at the family’s, I spied the weird contraption and of course had to ask. Turns out the powder was cornstarch, and it lures unsuspecting Asian lady beetles to it like moths to a flame. Since I’m not above letting something work for me—especially after vacuuming the little buttheads up by the hundreds—I hung my own DIY solution on the screened-in patio.
Yes, you heard that right. They’re on the inside of the screen—the space where only human beings and pets approved by said human beings are supposed to be.
It’s night one of putting the kitchen closing time at 8 p.m. At 7:30, Evelyn sat down for last call: yogurt with granola and seven saltine crackers. At five minutes ’til, I told her plates and bowls would be picked up, and she’d better pound the last couple of bites, or they’d be heading out to the pigs as slop.
Now, now—we have not, and will not, make the leap into hog farmers. But I do remember the Krain Restaurant, a Sunday ritual for my family after church, and with the heapings of hash browns left on people’s plates, that’s exactly what they did—gave them to the oinkers out back.
We’re now on try number five to get out of bedtime. Evelyn’s little head bobs just above the top of my laptop as she makes it to the end of the hall and turns into the living room.
There’s this feeling she doesn’t like. She thinks it might be related to the new magnet math tool, or the toys we brought down from the attic, but she doesn’t know. It’s a similar discomfort to boredom, she says. And although I had time and space for a ten-minute talk about it earlier, it’s now becoming a thing. An unsolvable thing. My only answer for her is resting that cute little head of hers on a pillow until slumber hits.
Ugh. Being a parent sucks sometimes.
If I had it my way, I’d tell her to grab her blankie and pillow and let’s put on movies until dawn, and who cares about structure and routine. That’s kind of what I want to do. But I also feel the tiring pull on my eyelids and know that if I get to bed soon, I could wake up early enough for a run before my 9 a.m. appointment—before the day warms up, when getting sweaty and worked up becomes less and less lovely.
I better get. Love to you. Love, me
Going On 40 