I need a haircut.
I tried out a new concoction called flexible shaping gel yesterday and woke up this morning a dead-ringer for Albert Einstein.
Well. Less the mustache and unruly eyebrows. (Why do men's eyebrows get longer and thicker the older they get, while women's brows very nearly disappear? I'm thinking discrimination - but I'm not sure which way it leans.)
Don't get me wrong: I'm crazy about Dr. Einstein - even though it's necessarily a posthumous relationship - but I don't think I'll ever adore him enough to want to look like him.
Nevermind about that. Wild hair is on my head, not on my mind.
The bottle tree armature I ordered finally arrived, even though I'm disappointed it was made in China. Bottle trees are an old Southern tradition rooted in this country, and shouldn't we make the effort to keep some things sacred and ours?
I doubt the Chinese manufacturer has any idea what it is he's crafting and exporting.
"Tree for bottles? Crazy Americans."
My metal tree was on back order from a garden supply catalog and I very nearly forgot about it, since I ordered it months ago. But if they're selling out of the things, it's nice to know I'm on trend.
Bottle trees are making a comeback is the news, good readers. My advice is to start drinking.
I planted my tree on the east side of our lot, because there's a spot that's been nagging for a splat of bright color, but I had to uproot it because my plan is for cobalt blue bottles, which are wasted unless they're situated between a bottle tree gardener and the sun.
Huge old fir trees block the morning light here; west was best.
Now it lives in a half-whiskey barrel in a plot alongside the driveway where I can see it from the window over the kitchen sink. Can a person succumb to too much joy? All in a moment, I get a hit of branchlike neon blue bottles that scream, "Look at us!" - hummingbirds and all the other winged ones that flock to the feeders, cheerful flowers, the squirrels.
Washing dishes used to be one of my least favorite chores, but not anymore.
Today, I dragged myself upstairs and got back on the NordicTrack, which I've given the cold shoulder since breaking a foot last fall. I convinced myself to climb back on because I wanted to get something down from the pantry yesterday, but needed a chair to reach it. I put one foot up on the seat, hung onto the chair's back, and made to haul myself up so both feet were firmly planted.
Trouble is the leg that was already on the seat wasn't strong enough to heft the rest of me up.
What? I can't climb up on a chair anymore? Well, if this wasn't a wake-up call, I don't know what would be.
Ergo, onto the Track. I lasted for 22 minutes at 3 mph. This does not a hardy woman make, but I didn't want to wound myself on the first day. We'll see how far this thing takes me.
Good neighbor Mrs. Z bought me a present a couple of days ago: "Keep Chickens!" by Barbara Kilarski, who lives in Portland, Ore. It's a good read, humorous and loaded with information for small property owners who just want a few birds to keep fresh eggs on the table.
"Listen to this," I said to Fearless Leader: "Sight and hearing are a chicken's two best senses (besides their sense of humor). They find tasty bugs and grubs by seeing them crawl around in the dirt, or hearing them shuffle under leaves or grass. Chickens don't have a great sense of smell or taste, which perhaps explains why they think worms and beetles are delicious."
FL rolled his eyes and said not a word, but I can read his mind and he wishes everyone we know would refrain from doing anything that feeds my dream of keeping hens.
Don't pay him any mind.
* Lynne Horner is a former Maui News features editor and writer who now lives in Springfield, Ore. Her "Second Thoughts" column appears every Tuesday. Send email to her at email@example.com.