"bubbles!"

Josephine was helping me clean off some clay pots for garage storage* when she figured out how to make water droplets by swinging the hose back and forth really fast. She declared them "bubbles!" which was cute enough to merit a photo.

Not that my standards are exceptionally high, as I have pictures of her doing just about everything. For instance, talking. Phenomenal.

*Sometimes I do things, too. Not cute things, but if I can achieve a semblance of organization, I consider it an enormous accomplishment and try to remember to take pictures of it.

A Story About Clay Pots

Introduction

We're all suffering from full-blown colds today, so my brain's in a fog of congestion, decongestant, coffee, and exhaustion (as the cold has only slowed down Sean and me, not Josephine). So this story might not make sense. But since I am ridden with unbridled self-pity for my weary condition, I'm just going to sit here and type whatever I want and then post it. It will make me feel better, and it doesn't technically put out anyone, as you are not required to read this.

Chapter One

Our neighbor's dogs enjoy the challenge of digging under our fence.

It is too hot and dry here to keep things alive in clay pots.

Those seemingly unrelated issues at some point collided in the form of a long row of soil-filled clay pots lining the fence we share with the ambitious dogs, along with rotting boards, cinder blocks, and concrete chunks. If you're picturing something not very classy, you've got the right idea.

Chapter Two

Eventually I found a guy on craigslist who would deliver 33 limestone blocks to my driveway. So the other weekend, I pulled away the pots and junk, much to the snarling, snapping delight of the dogs. I was using a two foot board to try to flatten loose dirt before putting the blocks in place... until one of them successfully grabbed the board and tore it from my grasp, snapping back the bottom of the fence plank in the fierce process of dragging it into its eternal possession.

It was an edgy process, to say the least. I now consider Sandlot a horror film.

Chapter Three

The completed task left a pile of rubbish and unusable pots in its wake. Bulk pick-up was this week, so I dragged it all to the curb on Monday, hoping to high heaven someone would wander by and say, "Look at all those free pots! I'll take them and put them to great use!" But seeing as how all wanderer-bys are also residents of this drought-prone place, the pots just sat there lonely, abandoned, unclaimed. My conscience couldn't stand it.

Intermission

This story is going somewhere. Not anywhere especially grand, though. The length of the story is not directly proportionate to the satisfaction of the ending, so prepare your expectations accordingly. Another good option is to save this story for a time when you have a cold or your brain is similarly numb.

Chapter Four

So I kept wandering down the the curb, pondering different pots, dragging back in two or three, cleaning them up, repurposing them. (Yes, this is what my life is like). Eventually, my beleaguered conscience found homes for all the pots, except for about 5 small ones, which I still pulled in this morning, minutes before the dump truck doomed them to a sad, unmerited fate. I have faith they'll find purpose somewhere. (Anyone need some small clay pots?)

Chapter Five

Josephine had a birthday in April, for which I had painted some scrap boards with chalkboard paint and hung them on the fence as a gift to her. It was only a small can of paint, one already used by its previous owner (another craigslist thing), and I used several coats on her chalkboards, but it appears to be a self-replenishing can.

Chapter Six

Mama Jo sent Josephine new Crocs. As the rubber on the soles of my running shoes is worn through, and I have recently redeemed a voucher for a a three month membership at 24 Hour Fitness, I ordered new sneakers. I got the Earth kind where your heal is lower. They are interesting. I think they're very comfortable. This is a tangent. The point is we had recently acquired two Zappos boxes.

Conclusion

There's really nothing better for an immune system than working in a hot garage, shuffling around dusty objects, and breathing in paint fumes. So I put my most promising clay pot idea to work-- the plan being to put stuff in them, then write on the pots with chalk. It sounded all Martha Stewart-ish, until I realized it had to be applied to my garage, at which point any hope of cute quickly faded away. I did break out the chalkboard paint, covered the Zappos boxes and painted various tubs and the rails of the shelving unit I had made out of old garage door tracks that I found up in our tiny attic when we moved in.

In the end, I did get my piles of materials sorted much better than they ever have been before, the garage is almost neat, I got to play with chalk, and that tiny can of paint is still half full. Success.

The End