For those of you who don't already know, my husband works in emergency medicine as a paramedic. You've heard it said that sometimes a person is born for a particular job? My husband was born for this job. Not necessarily paramedic work but emergency response in general. His response to an emergency is something like, "Out of the way! I know exactly what to do!" while my response typically involves closing my eyes and crying. You know, different talents and all.

So in this regard, I respect and appreciate my husband's job a great deal. However, in many other ways I despise it. Actually, I only despise one small part of it: the god. damned. pager. For his actual paramedic profession, he only has to respond to pages sent out while he's at work. Nevertheless, the pager gets to sing its pesky tune every day at 6 a.m. since it doubles as an alarm clock. I realize this is probably part of the design, but does it have to be so reliable? And you'd think that with the money I've dropped on post-high degrees I could demystify the inner workings of a 3x2 piece of plastic, but it ain't happenin. I rue the day I suggested we simply use the pager as our alarm clock rather than replacing our old alarm.

Unlike his duties at work, as a first responder hubby potentially has to respond to a page at any hour of the day. Or night. Of course, he only has to cover a specific geographical area, but since there's no such thing as a Smart Pager (yet), we hear every page. At every hour. Are you starting to see the big picture here? And let's not forget that pager tones are designed to shock the body out of slumber faster than you can say, "Who drooled on my pillow?" Therefore, Mr. Emergency is not the only one roused when Old Man Wilson's ticker is giving him trouble at 3 a.m.

I realize I sound insensitive. I know I should be proud that my husband is there to help the community. And I am. No, really. I am! However, 97% of the pages that come through are outside of his "Response Zone" yet still wake me up. When hubby is home and the pager goes off, I can quickly roll over and groan my disapproval while he fumbles for the silencer. But when he's working and has left the pager on--MAX VOLUME--I start to take issue with his role as "servant of the community." I have bruises on my thighs that rival Grobachev's birthmark from running into our footboard while frantically trying to get to the pager. Yes, logic says the pager would be off when hubby is working, but that requires a kind of attentiveness that is simply not part of my character. Although irate at the time, I forget about the whole incident within 24 hours...only to relive it 24 hours after that.

But we all have our crosses to bear, and I guess this is mine. *insert heavy sigh of a martyr* I try to limit my complaints about the pager--especially after having the "what if it was our child choking and a first responder had his pager off because it was an in-con-veeeenience?" card played. Instead, I find my own ways of coping with the situation which I've recently learned are not always appreciated. A couple mornings ago, while getting ready for work, my hubby said with concern in his voice, "I just don't know what I did with my pager. I have to find it!" This was his work pager--Old Faithful, if you will. And then something fluttered through my memory.

I cautiously peeked around the bedroom door and said, "I think I know where it is." I had his attention. "Um, I'm pretty sure it's wrapped up in a couple pieces of paper toweling and tucked inside the Ziplock sandwich bag box in the kitchen drawer."

A bit of a head shake. "Nice, babe."

It seemed like a good idea at the time: hubby is already asleep, he has the next day off (e.g. doesn't have to get up early), and I spot the pager on the kitchen counter on my way to bed. Memories of me dashing down the hall to the kitchen to push any and every button so as to turn the screeching off before the girls are awoken flood my mind, and I know I have to do something. The key is to muffle the sound so none of us will ever hear it, and that takes more work than one would think. So I wrapped that bad boy up like it was a week-old fish and tucked it into the further recess of our kitchen drawer.

Sure, it wasn't an ideal situation for hubby to find himself in ("Uh, sorry boss. I just can't find the thing. Yes, I know it's an important part of the job"), but how about some props to me for an outstanding hiding place! Three days passed before I had to think about that thing. Three peaceful, serene, quiet days.

"There's a random painted highway and a muzzle of bees...."

Yesterday's weather was unequivocally gorgeous. Cloudless skies, warm--but not hot--temperatures, and clear air. We got a new swingset for the girls on Tuesday, so while they were fully entertained by new swings, bars, and rings, I set to work on random yard work that was long overdue. (It's a sign of maturity [old age?] when you receive a hedge trimmer for you anniversary and love it.) We have six overgrown evergreen shrubs along the front of our house, and they desperately needing trimming.


After the trimming, I had to rake the clippings out of the landscaping stones which is never easy and always curse-inducing. To make matters worse, we never take the time in late fall to rake the dried leaves out, so now I was wrestling to rake multiple layers out of a space much too narrow for my lawn rake. When all else fails, use your hands! After scooching a rather large mass of leaves out of the shrubs (and thinking, "Wow, they're still quite heavy; they must retain moisture really well"), I noticed a couple of bees buzzing around. Make that 10 bees. No, no... make it 15. You know, there have to be at least 20. And they appear to be pretty pisssed off. Shit.

The heavy bunch of leaves? The top of their nest. (Reminder: I moved it with my hands.) On the underside of that bunch of leaves? Bees and larvae. Lots of larvae. Left behind between the shrubs? A hole about 5" across and 4" deep, and the bees were in and out of it, frantically searching for their queen, their babies--their home.

I called a local beekeeper who confirmed they were bumble bees (which can, in fact, sting repeatedly), and our best bet was probably to "smoke them out" which I quickly learned is doublespeak for "kill them." She recommended we do it in the evening, when they're not busy bees. I've been using the pronoun "we" because it sounds nice, but in reality my husband was working so it was more of a you/me situation. But that will never do, so I called my dad over who helped me spray the mass of leaves (which is when we discovered all the larvae). Tonight, when hubby is home, we'll spray the hole in the ground. However, it appears the bees have left once they discovered life as they knew it was over.

I feel guilty for uprooting an entire colony of bumble bees who were simply making hay out of my laziness (old leaves = great hive material). Sorry, bees. It wasn't personal, it's just that I have these sweet girls...

I hardly dare check the calendar to verify this fact, but I'm almost certain I've passed the halfway point of my summer break. [moment of reverent silence] That sucks.

So far our summer has consisted of swimming lessons, gardening, and general "house work" such as de-cluttering and painting (living room, kitchen, bathroom). On a whim I decided to paint two of my kichen walls the other night which was very unlike me but very much like my dear-but-far-away friend. Maybe it's one way of staying in touch? This week we tackled the living room, and next week I'd like to paint the bathroom and the youngest's room. It's now or never.

My parents have a wonderful, secluded home with a pond, and the girls and I love to spend our summer days there. The pond keeps my dad incredibly busy with weed/algae control, fish feeding, beach grooming, and the like, which is okay because he can't sit still anyway. Monday afternoon he was on the pier, fiddling around with a stick (fiddlestick?) and the barrels under the pier when he lost his balance and fell in. The idea of him falling in cracks me up based on all sorts of character details of my father, so there's no need for a lot of "awww" or sympathy here. However, the unfunny part was that he was wearing his glasses and resurfaced without them. Damn. As anyone who wears glasses understands, replacing a pair of graduated bifocals costs about as much as a purebred labradoodle--and without the snuggles.

So yesterday he asked to borrow our scuba mask so he could search for them on the bottom of the pond. I don't know about you, but the idea of watching my 67 year old father (as of today, actually) struggle to the bottom of the pond in a scuba mask to search for his missing glasses is absolutely pitiful. The bigger question: is it pitiful enough for me to offer to do it for him, amidst the muck, mud, and weeds? *sigh* Yes. But as soon as I offered, the tingles of panic skittered beneath my skin. Let's be real: 10am or not, it was going to be dark down there, and fish don't loiter on the surface, folks.

My first dive was pathetic, and I'm embarrassed to remember it in the privacy of my head muchless recount it here. But I doubt I went down farther than two feet before I felt something closing around my throat. I came to the surface and mumbled something about it being too dark or cloudy or something, but the let-down evident in my dad's posture and face forced me to pull myself together. This sounds like melodramatic license, but in the spirit of the Odyssey and Odysseus, I was giving myself "battletalk" to dive to the bottom. [Allow me to add that I realize I am pathetic. The fact that I need self-delivered battletalk to dive sex feet into a small pond should make one wonder how I'm trusted with the lives of two children on a daily basis.]

Mostly what drove me on was the fact that this was a rare opportunity to do something for my dad. He's forever helping/bailing us out, and there's rarely an opportunity for repayment. Until now. For God's sake, find those glasses!

I dove again and this time made it close enough to the bottom to get a good look around. Huge mistake. It was carpeted with weeds--a year's worth of Ramen tangled together per square foot. What flavor Ramen? Perch. At least that's what my dad told me those little striped fish were.

I came up for air and felt a little bolder, having made it to the bottom without panicking. I made another dive and looked around. And another. Now that I was becoming an expert, I had my dad reenact the event (minus the actual fall, obviously) so I could venture a better guess of where the glasses may have settled. [Note rising confidence: now I'm a forensic expert as well.] Two more dives. Five more. I was staying under longer and getting better looks around, but it was still a tangled mess down there. I came up, and my dad said, "Well, what do you think?" This was not an actual question; it was my "Operation: You Have Permission To Call It Quits" cue. I was thinking of giving up and waiting for my husband to get home from work to give it a try, but I figured I should dive a few more times if for no other reason than I was already in the water. I went down to a little deeper area to look around, and just as I was floating back to the surface for air, something caught my eye. I resurfaced, sucked in air, and said, "I think I see them." I dove again, right back to where I had been, and DING! DING! I had them. Victory was mine.

I've never been an athlete or a huge competitor, but the feeling I had when I recovered those glasses was exhilirating. "Raaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwr!!" I rode that high for a good 30 minutes which isn't bad for something that was free and legal. And I think I've earned some pretty decent mileage with my dad, too.

My daughter and I took a bike ride today, and it occured to me how fortunate we were to be able to take our bikes to local vendors for excellent food. Our first stop was at a local farm that just opened to buy an antibiotic/hormone-free, grain-fed chicken and a dozen brown eggs. On our way home from the farm, we stopped at the orchard and picked a bucket full of montmorency cherries before stopping at the local cheese factory for some fresh cheddar.

Earlier this week I heard a segment on NPR that featured author Barbara Kingsolver speaking about her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. In it she chronicles the year she and her family spent engaged in subsistence farming. I've been intrigued by this idea for awhile and Kingsolver shared some interesting pieces of information that really stirred something in me.

First, she shared that it cost only fifty cents per person, per meal to grow and raise their own food. I don't know the details behind this figure, but by any measure it's a steal since they raised chickens and turkey and grew virtually every vegetable possible. Second, she also explained that one of their primary goals during that year was to become more aware of what they were consuming, what fossil fuels were required to provide them, etc. As an example, she shared that she gave up bananas because the cost--the environmental cost--of consuming bananas was too great. What do I eat, without thinking, that has to be shipped to me from across the country--or an ocean? Finally, she shared that their approach to meal planning became, "What do we have in abundance?" rather than, "What do we want or feel like?"

I love this idea of providing for oneself, even though it's not something my family is in a position to do. (But here's a guy I respect a great deal who is attempting to do just that with his family of four--and not at the suggestion of Ms. Kingsolver, either.) True, we have a garden, but that hardly qualifies as sustaining ourselves. However, we can buy our food from local farmers' markets in an attempt to "keep it local" and conserve resources. So it was especially rewarding today to travel just over a mile round trip and come home with the majority of our evening meal.
It also motivated me to give our garden a little TLC. The girls helped me pull weeds and were quite excited to see some small green tomatoes hanging on the vines. I also have some elaborate plans for next year's garden. Perhaps I'll have to come back to this entry to remind myself of my current passion in this area.