I have a guy for that

“You know how I’ve got a guy for everything? Well, they’re all in New York. My suit guy, my shoe guy, my ticket guy, my club guy… and if I don’t have a guy for something I have a guy guy to get me a guy. And oddly enough, his name is Guy.”

Every time Barney Stinson says "I have a guy for that" it totally resonates with me because I?  Say that all the time.   And it's true.  I have a guy for almost anything you can think of.  Need a plumber?  I can give you no fewer than four numbers of guys I know.  Carpentry?  Check.  Electrician?  You betcha.  Landscaper?  Yep.  Tech guy to fix your computer?  Heck, back in my teaching days (when kids brought in their work on floppy disks, yo) I had a rep of being That Lady Who Knew a Guy who could get almost anything--anything--off that disk so a kid could turn in their work.  I was legen (wait for it....) dary for knowing a guy who could pull data off a disk.
I have a small engine repair guy.  I have a car repair guy.  I have a tree guy, a wetlands guy and a prairie guy.  I can find a guy who can get you hooked up with fireworks and game tickets and used cars and custom-built cabinetry (actually, these are four different guys).  I have a guy who does brick work, I know a floor guy, a pinball machine repair guy, a guy who paints, a drywall guy,  a guy who can fix your antique grandfather clock, a guy who can clean your carpet, a guy who can dig a pond in your back yard and sell you the gravel to line the bottom of it.

It takes a village to keep Green Girl's world running in perfect order.

I'm always handing out the name and/or number of a guy to friends in need.  It's my special gift, I guess, to know all kinds of people who do all kinds of things.  Waaaaay back, during my bartending days, I used to collect jobs the way some people collect shot glasses or bells.  A guy would come into the bar and I'd say, "So, what do you do?"  It was interesting to hear what people did for a living and I heard it all--from blues traveler to professional wrestler to dry cleaning equipment repairman.  That's partly why I know a guy for almost anything you can think of.  Plus, a lot of my regular customers were plumbers, electricians, construction workers and car repair experts.  It was really convenient as a poor college student to have any number of people at my disposal to give me a hand when I had car trouble.  I'll never forget one guy in particular who ran a salvage yard--he replaced a broken windshield on my Pontiac LeMans for me for free.  Because I was working my way through college.  Such a kindness.

Here and there I continue to collect all nature of guys who do various things.  If you required a guy, I could recommend my financial adviser guy, my bank guy, my butcher guy and my heating and cooling guy.

Yeah, I have a guy for that.  And they're all really good guys.  When a fellow Bumble Book Clubber, girlfriend, neighbor, mom at a baseball game muses, "Oh, _____ is broken at our place and we need to find someone to repair/build/replace it."  That's when I announce, "I have a guy for that."   It's true.  I always do.

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gluttons

It's fair to say that Team Testosterone takes Halloween VERY seriously.  They costumed up directly after school and we swung by Grandma A's house first because she loves the boys and they love her.  (Look at her--ready for the trick-or-treaters--you love her too, don't you?)

After giving love to Grandma A (and Grandpa B), we turned west and joined our old neighbors for the rest of the night.  A, the H's second daughter takes Halloween even MORE seriously than Team Testosterone.  She has a map of the region with notations like "gives out full-sized candy bars" and "teacher--gives homework passes."  Just before the 2 hour trick-or-treating extravaganza commenced, A told the boys, "I don't know if Mr. G should come.  I'm planning to move pretty fast, so if you can't keep up, you should stick with the moms and the little kids."

I pointed out that Mr. G has been in candidate training and his weekly 3 mile run should have him in tip-top shape for the night.  She nodded and at precisely 5 o'clock took off like a bat out of hell down the street, Team Testosterone keeping pace.  (Oh, and her costume?  Was fabulous--she was the zebra from Madagascar 3--wrapped herself in zebra stripe duct tape and stuck a rainbow afro wig on her head.  Love that girl.)

Darned if those four kids didn't turn up 2 hours later and they weighed their bags on the H's bathroom scale.  Somehow A's bag weighed a full half-pound more than the boys'.

The money house of the year?  Some guy giving out cotton candy.  Verdict?  If you want the Best Halloween Ever, you stick with A.  She'll run you ragged and work you to the bone, but you'll end up with all the candy you'll need for at least a year. 

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putting another pin in it

It's Halloween.  We returned from vacation Monday night and last night was a mad crush of catching up on homework because it's the end of the quarter and Team Testosterone is (quite rightfully) in panic mode.  Tonight trick or treating begins at 5 o'clock sharp, so we'll squeeze in homework around that grand tradition of scavenging through the old 'hood for candy while dressed in our Halloween best.

What we didn't do is carve pumpkins, which is to Halloween what decorating trees is to Christmas.  Egads!  No jack o' lanterns on our porch!  No frightful wielding of Ye Olde Cutco Cutlery Carving Knyfe.  No cursing whilst striking matches in the wind.  No rash rising up my wrists and arms as a result of my Strange Allergy to Pumpkin Guts.

This causes some dismay here at Chez Green Girl.  We grew pumpkins for carving.  We picked said pumpkins for carving (after calling "Dibs!" on various squashes since August).  We hauled said pumpkins to the front porch where they added a festive autumn vibe for the past month and a half.  But we haven't cut scary or spooky or happy or angry or bizarre faces in their tough skins.

But Mr. D suggested that we don't have to stick to the arbitrary date of Halloween to carve pumpkins.  "Why do you have to do it before Halloween?" he asked.  "Let's stretch the holiday out--carve them tomorrow night--or Friday.  We live in the country.  The only people who look at our jack o' lanterns is us, so who cares?  Let's put a pin* in the pumpkin carving for now and do it later."

The man has a point.

We did that very same thing for our anniversary date.  That occasion was back in mid-August, yet we still haven't gone out to celebrate.  And Mr. D's birthday is tomorrow, but we're sticking a pin in that holiday for at least a week (because of games and practices and a wedding and the aforementioned extension of Halloween) until we've got time to properly observe it.

So, we're putting a pin in pumpkin carving, but we're taking care of the important business of trick or treating tonight because you cannot put that off till later (although, if you do, David Sedaris wrote the FUNNIEST piece EVER on the topic--go read it NOW for gut-ripping laughs).

Happy Halloween!

*For those of you unfamiliar with pins, this is a reference lifted from the movie Bolt:

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green girl still has pixie dust in her hair

Yes, yes we do lead a charmed life here at Chez Green Girl.  So, we go to Disney World last Tuesday and stay at the Kidani Village at Animal Kingdom Lodge and everything is all peaches and roses.  My hair cooperates.  The weather is gorgeous.  The view from our room looks like this:

We saw giraffes, wildebeests, ostriches, zebras and some crazy kind of horned cows every single day.

We ride all nature of rides because that's who we are.  We don't really care about princesses, although we trip over one every 20 paces or so.  We're here for the thrills--sharp turns, steep drops, that sort of thing.

Except for me, I skipped the Tower of Terror.  But I totally rode Space Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain Railroad multiple times.

Hands down, Magic Kingdom is the best park of the four.  (We don't count Downtown Disney because it's basically a large shopping mall.  Ick.)  We love Adventureland and Frontier Land the most of all.

Team Testosterone ready for Jungle Cruising and pirate spotting.

 The beauty of this end of the park is all the space for climbing and running around.  (And buffets loaded with delicious meals that this mama didn't have to plan, prepare or pick up afterward.  That ranked pretty high on my list.)
 

That giant treehouse is beyond cool. 

 We spent almost 2 hours on Tom Sawyer's Island.  While the boys explored the caves and old mills and played war games in a fort, I took in the views.  Mr. D speculated that building our very own replica might cost about what another trip to Disney World might cost.

Kid heaven.  Yes, I appreciate the irony of flying all day to a place where my kids can run around on trails in a wooded area.

 Even though we don't give a rip about the characters, Mr. G enjoys hamming it up when we pass one between rides.

Pluto and Goofy, Goofy and Goofy.

 So, we're minding our own business in Animal Kingdom and next thing you know, they throw us in a parade--on this amazing float where we ride past the crowds and wave.  We smiled and waved as we toured the park with Mickey and the gang.  Mr. B claimed his face hurt afterwards.

That's right, smile and wave, boys.

 We took a detour one day to Sea World, which is not so magical.  Still, we saw a walrus, a manatee, amazing shows and a great shark exhibit.  I have opinions on Sea World and how it could rival other theme parks, but that's a post for another day.

Mr. B thinking that a Great White Shark has one awfully large mouth.

 We rode on stuff there, too.  Sadly, two of the main attractions were not the right size for our whole family.  

So we strapped Mr. G in this handy seat while we rode the Manta roller coaster.  KIDDING!  I sat with him and bribed him with a stuffed animal and frozen treats until his brothers and dad got done riding it.

 When you go to Disney World in October you can trick or treat at Magic Kingdom and enjoy a great Halloween party.  Fireworks, another parade, music, and treats?  We're in!  Plus, going on the rides at night is super-cool.  The Haunted Mansion was doubly spooky in the dark.

The Blues Brothers....or Men in Black...depending on your frame of reference, could not WAIT to get to Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween party. 

Because we're those people living a charmed life, it only rained an hour one day.  That wicked hurricane skipped us and I never pulled out the rain ponchos except while watching Shamu splash.  Superstorm Sandy caused a bit of turbulence on our flight home, that was all.  We had sunshine and short sleeves all week.  We hardly fought, we barely stood in line, we learned, laughed and smiled almost constantly.

All good things must come to an eventual end.  It's tough to leave a magical place where the politicians can't bother you.  It's hard to say goodbye to flying in outer space, soaring over California, floating past the Briar patch, and chewing your way through the world.

I'm going to use the remaining pixie dust to zoom through the grocery store and restock the cupboards now.  Reality kind of bites after such a fine vacation, but we came home to some goodness--like TB's football team making it to the playoffs and another shot at trick-or-treating.  Even in a cold place without a cast taking care of your every need and nonstop entertainment I find myself appreciating being back home.

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we're real loud over here this summer

Boys in the pool yell, shout, splash and belly flop.  Monday night we had 15 in there at once. 

Crickets.  My favorite summer sound.  Their constant chirp is so friendly.

The heavy earth-moving machinery behind us is not so friendly.  Crashing, grinding, growling, slamming, dumping all day long, all week long.  About 60 acres behind our property is getting made over from cropland to wetland as part of a wetland mitigation project.  I've never seen such PILES of dirt--imagine 60 acres--the fill they're moving and bringing in all day long.  The HUGE bridge they made over our creek to get their mega-trucks over.  It's jaw dropping.  I should take pictures over the weekend when the workers aren't there.

The wind rifling through the dry, dry leaves.

The chafing, crisp sound of our feet crossing the burnt-out lawn.

The buzz, constant buzz of wasps.  Such a year for wasps and yellow jackets, hornets and bees.

TB (AKA Tall Boy--the summer help) and I taking out a fresh batch of wasps' nests, armed with long sticks and cans of wasp killer.  We sound like one of those shows on Animal Planet.  "Did you get that one?"   "Whoa!  Look out!"  "That was close!"  "I got it!  I got it!"  "Okay, you get that one over there, I'll cover you."  "Just try and poke it and then we'll nail it with the spray."  "That was close.  There's another one right there."
(Punctuated by the occasional, "Mr. G!  I said to stay by the house until we kill them all!")   TB and I deliver the same dialogue as Turtleman without any rehearsal.  It's all real drama, going down all over the property as we discover new nests.

 The thump of baseball hitting the palm of a leather glove.  The sweet ping of an aluminum bat connecting with the sweet spot of a ball.

Crack-bam!  Crack-bam!  Crack-bam!  Another Nerf skirmish ensues and foam bullets soar past my head.

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anglophiled out

I woke up this morning yearning to tell Carson I'd take my tea on the terrace. I desperately wished for cook to whip up a healthy breakfast while an upstairs maid got my children ready for school. I felt so tired this morning--that second hour of Downton Abbey wore me out. It's exhausting to sit at the edge of one's bed, hands clenched, breath held, eyes bugged out while those characters die, marry, fall ill, vow, lie and confess. I cheered for Sybil. I wept for Anna and Mr. Bates. I felt SO DAMN CONFLICTED towards Cora. I wanted to bitch-slap Mary.

This came on the tails of a weekend marathon entrenched in the War of the Roses as I wrapped up reading The Lady of the Rivers by Philippa Gregory--which of course meant I had to skip through The White Queen because I can't read historical fiction out of chronological order. WHYWHYWHY did you write this trilogy in such weird order, Ms. Gregory? And how does the House of Lancaster turn from York to Tudor? I forget. My mind is bogged down with details. And it doesn't help that all these characters share the same name (I swear, the women are all named Anne, Mary, Elizabeth, Catherine or Margaret. And the men are either John, Edward, Richard, George or Henry). And title. When one Duke of York dies, another character gets named Duke of York and is referenced as such. One wishes Ms. Gregory would notate her novels-- (Duke of York: Richard, the one whose brother Edward became king, son of Richard Duke of York, Grandson of Richard Duke of York, AKA the evil brother with aspirations to usurp his brother's crown and kill his 2 nephews in the Tower, given humpback in Shakespeare play.)--that would help so much. Simon & Schuster could publish an entire line of Philippa Gregory books, the British History Annotated for Idiots Edition.

And the hours I've spent poring over pictures of the castles, manors, palaces referenced in these books to get a stronger sense of place. I would dearly love to make another trip back to England just to see some of these historic spots.

This behavior requires gallons of tea. And a long hike with a dog at my heels before returning home to slippers and scones fresh from the oven.

Spill it, reader. Did you spend your weekend as an Anglophile?

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it's easy to see how you'd be confused

by the photo recently published in People. That could be me--I look just like Kate Middleton--right down to the soles of my muddy Wellies, except I'm a bit shorter, my thighs are a big thicker, my dog is a lot bigger and my prince charming would be wearing a baseball cap.


(It helps if you squint and tilt your head. Then the resemblance is positively uncanny.)

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kind of a big deal

Yesterday I spent my morning at Cornerstone Press's Stevens Point Office (actually, their only office, but it sounded cool to write it that way). I cannot tell you what a thrill it was to meet 20 strangers enthusiastic about my work. The ideas they're bringing to the project, the various networks and resources, the energy is really validating. A few things occurred to me as I drove home:

1) How cool for college students to bite off and chew a big, meaningful project. When I was at college, the only outlet for English students was contributing or running the campus newspaper--as you know, a newspaper is temporary--the news is constantly replaced with new news, so there's not a permanent "feel" to newspaper work. Compared to the people at the College of Natural Resources, who were busy saving species from extinction, improving the local wildlife refuge, creating boardwalks, studying Asian carp; liberal arts majors didn't have many opportunities to do much aside from writing essays and reading books. Important projects. I never had that experience. It's neat to see students get to own and manage a Big Project of Substance, like publishing and marketing a book.

2) The student editors BLOW ME AWAY. Besides being super nice, they have read my work with such close attention to all kinds of details that I know I'd never have caught at their age. Their professional ability is impressive as hell.

3) The marketing ideas they're tossing around are so INSPIRED! Everything I heard made me more thankful for this opportunity.

4) Whipped, Not Beaten will be available before Christmas. Just in case you were like Jen on the Edge and buying gifts for all your favorite aunts and girlfriends ahead of time.

5) Listening to people talk about my writing, how they related to it, how it affected them, made me believe in my work a little bit more. What a confidence-builder.

In short: I learned a lot, it was a good use of my day.

In other news, I'd sent this image to a few of my friends because it's kind of what I suspect about myself:

You know how you think you're really graceful and athletic, but in real life you're a flat-footed putz just clodding around and all that dexterity is in your head? (Maybe that's just me.) I've long suspected my running and my karate is like that. Not too pretty.

So the other day one of the karate dads sent me some photos he'd taken during our Black Belt test. Suddenly I feel less afraid of what I really look like--by some miracle (not photoshop), you can see in the image below that I'm actually OFF THE GROUND and the guy behind me? He's one of the brothers testing for his 3rd degree and we look a little alike. Except I don't have sideburns. Heh.

That's me in front, with the taped foot.

Thus I conclude based on the photographic evidence presented that maybe Mr. O hasn't been kissing my butt all this time and maybe I am qualified to go on to a 3rd degree. Huh.

Happy Weekend, all. I'll be back Monday with the latest news about yeti sightings in the Back 40 and pictures of my Halloween Costume.

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anarchy club

Season 4, Episode 2:
The morning after, the news about 4 dead Russians hits all over Charming and all the Old Ladies are asking about it--Clay tells all to Gemma, Jax starts to tell all to Tara (until Gemma interrupts them) and Lila asks Opie who tells her unequivocally "No. The Russians were connected with a lot of bad people--could've been anyone." I love that he protects her from knowing. She asked him about it, sure, but she seemed happy to think he had nothing to do with it. It was the first, but not last time he will abide by that wedding vow I bet...and as I pointed out to Mr. D, if she knows nothing, if the Feds pull her in, she is safer.

Meanwhile, Gemma's all twitchy about the discovery that Jax or Tara knows more about John via Maureen Ashby (Jax's dad, Gemma's 1st husband and founder of the Sons who had a family with Maureen as well--totally soap operatic). Her quote? Totally awesome: "This Irish gash is reaching across the Atlantic." Yay! We're keeping the Irish storyline alive! Later Gemma becomes even more erratic, tearing apart Jax and Tara's house while babysitting (gotta love a grandma who babysits in tight leather pants and mutters "shit" under her breath while scavenging through every drawer and cupboard), looking for what else Maureen might have sent. Why is she worried? What does she think Maureen sent? Is she just jealous of John and Maureen? She concludes it must be at Tara's office and sure enough, she finds a trove locked in Tara's desk. At the bottom is something official signed by Wayne. Much later a conversation between Gemma and Clay (who doesn't seem worried about this) reveals John's death is probably their fault...somehow. Tres Hamlet, no?

The sheriff and USDA discuss the body count--Agent Potter has the best lines--when Hale tells him, "Good morning," he tosses back, "Not if you're Russian" in that voice. He is just eerie, this character. And now that his inside man is dead, their operation is at a standstill until they figure out WTF happened. The sheriff is advised to proceed as normal, so he turns up at the club later with the fire department and the slightest hint of a smirk "smelling smoke." In a stunning scene, he feels a wall while Clay and the gang look on and determines, "it feels hot--could be electrical," grabs an axe from a fireman and starts destroying the wall--the wall where all the pictures hang. I totally dig Sheriff Roosevelt, he's got balls and integrity and while he's in direct opposition to the Sons, I have a hunch they may play for the same side at some point.

I'd feel safer if he wore the badge in my town.

Between Gemma's nosing around and Sheriff Jackson's visit to the clubhouse, Clay and Jax meet with their new partner in the gun trade (now that they've cleared the Russians out of the way). They're selling to a drug cartel--while Jax shows their inventory, which is jaw-dropping--I began wondering what kind of gun I'd favor if I were an outlaw. I like the sound of a Glock. Anyone else care to share? Funny thing, the cartel doesn't want Glocks. No Glocks. But RPGs if they can get them--and some other stuff packing serious firepower. The cartel's main guy is "Romeo" Parada, a bad-ass Mexican who is cooler than Samuel L. Jackson. No shit. As Clay and Jax conclude their gun show to the Galingo (sp?) Cartel, Clay hands Jax the downpayment (in a grocery sack) it comes up that while in prison Clay's agreed to move drugs back for the cartel as well.

Say it with me, Outlaw Awesomeness.

Clay and Jax have (best scene in the whole show--the interaction between them is so well-played) a talk about this. Jax is PISSED about Clay's agreement to run drugs. Clay argues he needs the money if he's going to get out of SAMCRO soon--he's broke and this will pay the way for his and Gemma's retirement. Plus the cartel can keep the Russians from retaliating. Long silence. Finally Jax agrees, IF Clay stands by him letting out too--he's to back Opie for president when he steps down and keep Gemma off his back, too. The tension is totally ratcheted up before they return to the clubhouse to vote.

At the table, no one's happy about the drugs. Especially the old-timers like Bobby and Piney. Jax makes a convincing case when he lays out the stacks of money from the Cartel, but they agree to vote later. Jax and Opie leave to check on the ammunition (which is manufactured on the Reservation). After the room clears, Clay and Bobby talk--Bobby tells him he loves him, but loves the club more. The general feeling is that the club's falling apart. Later Tig and Bobby talk--Bobby's concerned that Clay relies so heavily on Jax instead of them, he's shutting them out and SAMCRO's headed in a bad direction. I predict everyone's loyalties will get tested--but let's take a moment here to appreciate Tig's hotness, okay?

Sigh.

Opie calls Jax on WTF just happened back there--he gets Jax like no one else. Jax tries to argue, but wise Opie sees right through him. As soon as they reach the Res, they're met by Russians. Just before the sheriff and crew arrive at the club, Jax makes a desperate phone call while at gunpoint, "I don't speak Russian, dad, but I think they want their weapons back." I totally thought Opie was a goner--Jax won't die yet, but Opie totally COULD. Like JK Rowling killed Dumbledore, SOA's writers would totally off a character like Opie. While they're lying on the floor waiting for salvation or death, Opie quips that it's his honeymoon. He should be in bed with his wife the porn star.

Just before SAMCRO arrives at the Res, Romeo shows up in a Hummer and he and his sidekick cooly take care of business, busting a cap on each of the Russians and leaving Jax and Opie grateful and stunned. Romeo shakes off their thanks, they're associates now, happy to help. But funny story, SAMCRO hasn't voted yet on whether they're running the blow.

The episode ends back at the clubhouse--where Tara pulls out her engagement ring to lighten the dark mood. Hugs and shots of whiskey all around, but there's no getting around the elephant in the middle of the room. The new alliance with this cartel is dangerous business and half the members aren't on board.

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so. freaking. pumped.

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