I ran across this old post the other day, and it reminded me that–no matter how many gorgeous roses he destroys–Oliver is still a pretty awesome cat. And I love the little bugger.

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Posted: July 12, 2010

Originally titled: Dear Oliver, I Forgive You for Eating the Rose. In Fact, I Forgive You for Every Rose You’ve Ever Eaten. And That Time You Ate the Last Piece of Homemade Bread I Was Saving. And That Time You Ate the Unopened Loaf of Bread I’d Just Bought.

Update: Fortunately, this incident was never repeated, and we do not have a roach problem. Phew.

Update, #2: Unfortunately, I have not been able to train Oliver to track and kill slugs.

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Jesse was out of town this weekend, and last night I was up late waiting for him to get home. I was reading, when I heard a noise across the house. It was nearing midnight and I’d texted Jesse asking him to call me when he was close so I wouldn’t freak out hearing someone at the door. (The night before, I’d seen this odd man walking around our neighborhood I didn’t recognize, so I was just a tad jumpy.) So, hearing the noise, I went to investigate. Turned out to be Oliver, though I didn’t know what he’d been doing. He just crouched near the bathtub, looking a little wild, and I cocked my head and asked him what the heck he thought he was doing. I chuckled and left him to chase his shadow or whatever it was he was into.

Later, I heard more noise and I went to investigate again. This time, I walked into the bedroom and flipped on the light. A movement caught my eye and I turned toward the wall, where I saw a giant cockroach flit up the wall toward the ceiling. Keep in mind that our bedroom walls are a bright Creamsicle orange, the exact worst color to see a brown-black streak of bug scurrying across.

I yelled and ran out of the room. I was muttering to myself, angry that I was going to have to kill the roach all by myself, angry that we had a roach in our house to begin with. We’ve never had cockroaches here. Ants, spiders, earwigs, sure. But never roaches. Arg.

I grabbed one of Jesse’s shoes, which would give me the most surface area for roach-squashing, and marched back to the bedroom. Glancing in the room, I saw the roach near the ceiling, and I sighed, realizing that I couldn’t reach it to kill it, and certain that if I tried it would jump on my head and burrow into my hair (because that’s what roaches do, you know).

I left the room to regroup and strategize when I saw Oliver coming toward me, eyes wide open, body inching toward the ground, in hunt mode. My eyes widened and I wondered if it would work. I pointed to the bedroom and said, “He’s in there. Get him!”

If this were a movie, Oliver would have given me a subtle nod, but he didn’t, he just pivoted and ran into the bedroom. I couldn’t believe it. It worked! Then, I heard scuffing noises, the sound of paws on walls, the thud of Oliver’s body landing on the carpet and springing against the walls again. There were a few minutes of struggle, during which I texted Jesse to inform him of the drama awaiting him at home, and then Oliver walked out of the bedroom and sat on the carpet a few feet in front of me.

I looked at him, wondering why he’d left, wondering if he’d lost the roach. I was about to console him and encourage him to go back and try again. Then, he opened his mouth and something dark fell to the ground and immediately started crawling away.

I screamed, loud, and ran into the hallway. I clasped my hand over my mouth. It was nearly midnight, after all, and I didn’t want the neighbors to think I was being attacked or anything. I poked my head around the wall and saw that Oliver and the roach had disappeared again. I creeped out and found them both next to the front door, where Oliver was doing something that I could only assume was tearing the legs off the offending bug.

“Good boy! Good cat!” I called, pumping my fist and hissing yes! at my supreme luck at having a perpetually hungry housecat with good reflexes. Jesse’s shoe lay, discarded and unnecessary, in the living room.

After it was done, I gave Oliver a treat and praised him effusively. Jesse came home shortly after that, and I gave him the run-down. He congratulated Oliver, who looked quite smug, and put his shoe away. And then we all went to bed.

Every morning, I go outside and pick slugs off my plants, dropping them into the cups of beer that have collected a great number of their brethren.

Picking slugs off of still-wet plants is exactly as pleasant as it sounds. The slugs are slimy and hard to hold. Gloves are impossible. You have to just pick them with your fingers, and they instantly curl up and shrink and try to slip out of your grasp. (They often succeed. So, then you get to pick them up again.)

This morning, I must have picked up at least twenty of the slimy little buggers. I have no idea how many are in the beer cup, as I can’t see to the bottom, but each morning there are new ones floating at the top.

But still–still–no matter how many I kill, it seems my yard has an endless supply of replacements.

Today, I put eggshells around one of the zucchini plants, trying to rescue it. The brown-sugar-and-yeast concoction will be ready to go into traps tomorrow.

Last night, I went out after dark to deliver a pie plate of stale beer to the garden. I stepped onto the porch. Slugs were crawling up the side of the house. Big, fat gray ones. Smaller, darker ones. Leaving little glittery trails behind them.

I slid on my flip flops.

And felt something slimy.

And disgusting.

Yes.

It was a slug. In my shoe.

The feeling still haunts me.

The slime. The gentle squish. The stickiness.

I think they’re winning…

What a strange sight. They were in a little plastic mesh bag with some wood chips and a cotton ball. They writhed around, climbing on the mesh, on top of one another, their little legs always moving. We took home our bag and that evening released them into the garden.

If you’ve never released 300 ladybugs into a garden at dusk, might I recommend it? It’s creepy and weird and a little exciting.

The next morning, the ladybugs were still all over the garden, and some of them were looking rather amorous. I took this to be a good sign.

Now, a few days later, they are mostly gone. I’m hoping that they are living happily around the yard and will come back to the garden spot should a crop of aphids show up. We’ll see. A few stragglers are still hanging out in the parsley, so at least there’s that.

In other gardening news, I have slugs. Yuck. Fat, nasty, slimy slugs. They’re eating the zucchini. Not cool.

So, I have begun an all-out war on them. I buried a plastic cup near the zucchini yesterday and filled it with beer. This morning, there were at least a dozen slugs floating in the beer. I also put out some boards, and I’m making quiche tonight so I can get some eggshells to form a barrier around the plants. (This will have to happen in stages, like the newspaper, since I can’t make that much quiche.)

I’ve also got a little slug-attracting brew going (brown sugar, yeast, warm water–wait two days and then fill traps with liquid). I’m going to “plant” traps all over the garden.

I’m hoping these more “natural” methods work so that I don’t have to resort to chemical warfare. Slugs, be gone!

Oh, and ladybugs–come back!

A giant black and gray, furry spider dropped from the ceiling of the car onto the steering wheel.

I screamed.

“Screamed” might be a slight understatement.

At any rate, I had to stop the car.

This part of the story has nothing to do with the carnitas. It ends there, really. I killed the spider and somehow lived to tell the tale. I just needed you to know how close I came to dying the other day, all in the pursuit of carnitas tacos.

On this side of the whole affair, let me assure you–they were worth it.

First, you simmer the pork in yumminess.

Then, you let the liquid simmer down until there’s just fat spattering around and you let the meat get brown and fabulous.

It looks insane.

See?

Then, it ends up looking like this.

Then, you make chipotle cole slaw.

Then, you put it all together and it looks like glory.

And tastes like it too. The meat is smoky and tender, with crispy bits (crispy bits!). These tacos could not have been better.

Crispy bits!

(But I must recommend you follow them with Dulce de Leche brownies. Do you know the only thing that’s better than Dulce de Leche brownies? Dulce de Leche brownies with vanilla ice cream. Oooooh, yeah.)

I never remember to take pictures of our food, as I’m usually focused solely on consuming said food, but Jesse had to make a last-minute run to the grocery store for the ice cream I’d forgotten earlier, so I snapped these pictures while I waited for him to return. The light was better over by the window, so I took some shots there.

Here’s a behind-the-scenes one. Gracie had to investigate. (Oliver was locked in our bedroom–if he’d been out, that bowl would not have stayed where it was!)

The trip was exactly what I needed. On the way to the beach, I turned the radio up loud. I took my time. I thought my thoughts. I didn’t have to articulate anything. Didn’t have to explain anything. Clarify anything. It was just me, the road, and the radio.

And then, the beach. The very best part about living here. I needed to be reminded. I needed to spend hours staring at the ocean. Breathing the salty air.

The beach was nearly empty (I drive to a beach farther away for this very reason–space). I started reading The Life of Pi. I listened to Coldplay. I watched the tide go out. The ocean was flat and dark, a  neat line of small waves separating the water from the land. The sun was warm, but not too hot. I felt alone and calm.

I watched the birds. The little ones, running from the waves on their little stick legs. The seagulls, lazy today because of the lack of people (specifically, the lack of children with bags of chips). And the pelicans. The water exploded as they dove for fish. Again and again. Lovely.

When I felt good and centered, I went home. I made dinner (a lemony lentil recipe with rice, plus roasted sweet potato wedges). I made dessert (Dulce de Leche brownies). I felt satisfied.

And then I wrote. And thought some more.

When I’m feeling grouchy, I’ll try to remember that I’m not very far from the beach, from the constancy of the ocean, from the sand between my toes and the shockingly cold water. The clarity that comes from a nearly empty stretch of sand and water, the clouds above white and far away.

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately outside in the garden. After a long semester, it feels good to have dirt under my fingernails. Since we had such an early spring and mild winter here this year, I was able to start things from seed outdoors (in my cute little seed-starting-pod contraptions). I’ve never attempted starting things from seed indoors because You Know Who would probably chew whatever managed to grow. But this year, I’ve gotten zucchini, tomatoes, Jalapenos, basil, and parsley–all from super-cheap seed packets from Walmart. Score!

So far, I’ve transplanted the zucchini and herbs and almost all of the tomatoes into the actual garden spot. I still have several tomatoes I need to figure out where to put. Some will go in containers, others will find spots in the garden–somewhere in the middle, I think. When Sharon and I gardened together, everything was in neat rows. It was so organized and adorable. When I garden by myself, apparently things are a little more…um, can we say whimsical? That makes it sound nice, doesn’t it? Because I do not, apparently, do well with planting in rows.

But all is well. Whimsical is fine. And going back to the tomatoes, I have a dilemma. I bought two kinds of tomatoes, roma and cherry. I planted the seeds on different sides of the planters.

And then I forgot which was which.

So, I have no idea which plants are romas and which are cherries. Now I can’t get rid of any of the plants, because I don’t want to end up with all of one variety. A lot of the seeds took. So…if all of these plants grow, and if all of these plants produce, then I am going to have a boatload of tomatoes this summer.

(Which, honestly, I’m totally fine with.)

(But don’t hold your breath.)

(Because I’ve never done very well with tomatoes in the past.)

Yesterday morning, I made some tonics for the garden, the roses, and the yard. I got to haul out all my weird garden-y tonic ingredients, which made me feel eccentric. Eccentric is fun. Kind of like whimsical.

On the garden went a concoction of fish fertilizer, instant tea, soap, and whiskey. On the grass went a mix of Murphy’s oil soap, mouthwash, and tobacco “tea.” And the roses got more whiskey, soap, and peroxide.

I can assure you that these tonics smelled exactly as good as you would imagine.

(Also–I did not invent these myself.)

(And, I spilled some mouthwash in our garage accidentally, so now the garage smells like Listerine. It’s not as bad as you would imagine.)

I realized as I was making the tonics that many of these ingredients are awfully old. I bought them two years ago. I hope the plants don’t mind old whiskey and tobacco juice. You don’t think they’ll be able to tell the difference, do you?

This week and next, I’ll finish the planting and will hopefully finish putting down the pine straw I got for mulch. I have to do this in stages because I’m putting down newspaper first, but I’m only using the free local paper, so when I run out I have to wait for the next issue to come out. I only feel a little bad that I’ve never once read the local paper…but it does make good weed cover.

So, that’s how things are growing around here. One of my zucchini plants is just about busting with little zucchinis, and my fingers are firmly crossed that things will continue to go as well as they seem to be going so far. Heaven knows I could use a good gardening year!

Two weekends ago, Jesse and I went on a thrift store adventure.

Proving, yet again, that we are really in our 70s. (We also love public television and Jeopardy! and we’re usually in bed pretty early. In case you needed extra evidence.)

But it doesn’t matter if we’re a little dorky, because we’re both a little dorky, and we like it that way.

So, our little adventure. We started the Saturday with breakfast at Chick-Fil-A (we had a coupon) and then drove up to Hampstead, visiting as many thrift stores and Goodwills as we could. We bought old books and random cables. And we saw lots of weird things–which was half the fun.

We found relics from our childhood, which made us feel old. Anybody read The Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley Twins? Oh, memories…

We also found some pretty cute places. A little bakery. An store that sold funky antique furniture. A shop with large metal flamingos outside. There’s a running joke in my family about pink flamingos. When my parents first got their place in West Virginia, Dad teased Mom that he was going to put a pink flamingo in the yard–bring a little Florida with him to the Mountain State, as it were. (Of course, my mother was mortified at the prospect.) Then, my sister found one and put it in the window of their place so that when they showed up, it was there waiting for them.

We’ve been buying Mom pink flamingos ever since. (Ornaments. Plastic yard decorations. Magnets.) I thought the ones we found at the shop were probably a little too big to be funny, so I took a picture with one instead.

Around lunchtime, we headed back into town and made our way to the beach, where we had another coupon (sensing a trend?) for a hotdog shop. We split a chili slaw dog and a “hurricane” (ice cream) which promptly melted. The weather was perfect. Sunny, warm, breezy. We walked the beach, getting our feet wet, watching the waves.

We had a lovely day. A lovely, goofy day. Just like we like it.

In other news, I chopped off all my hair. It was 80 degrees yesterday. My neck thanked me.

I continue to grade papers.

I may forever be grading papers.

At least, that’s what it feels like.

We went to the English department picnic yesterday, and Jesse played corn hole (another term that always sounds bad) and I ate lots of tasty picnic food. Afterwards, Jesse and I spent time browsing the local library  and running errands.

I wanted to post some pictures of the weekend last night, but then I spent hours grading and all motivation to do anything disappeared.

I wrote this post. But, that was about all the mental energy I had, after spending the evening grading. I can only write short, simple sentences. I respond to verbal questions with grunts and hand gestures.

Forgive me.

First thing I’m going to do in the zombie apocalypse is head to Warren and Sharon’s house. Warren knows everything there is to know about surviving the apocalypse, and Sharon can patch me up if I get hurt. (I cut my thumb the other day. It was very dramatic. And bloody. And gross. And Sharon came over to patch me up. She is an awesome friend.)

Plus, if I get depressed because it’s the end of the world, S. will say something cute and D. will look stinking adorable, and I’ll feel better.

Sounds like a plan.

Wait, how is it that time again?

How is the semester nearly over? How are finals next week?

I swear, I thought February would never end (shortest month–go figure), but the rest of the semester has whizzed by. (I say this every semester, don’t I?)

Well, ready or not, the semester’s almost over. Then I’ll have about a week off before Summer I starts, and then it’s four weeks until the Real Summer begins. No major plans, no month-long journeys to San Francisco (though we’re toying around with a long weekend in Tennessee). I do have big goals for the book this summer and hope to get a serious amount of writing and editing done once all the literature has been discussed and all the essays and exams have been graded.

I’m sure about midway through the summer class, I’ll feel like time is slowing down. But at the end of it all, I’ll be back here, shocked that the class is coming to an end.

(And very, very happy about Real Summer beginning.)

Ah, now if I can just make it through finals…