WHO’S EATING MY EGGPLANT??

My one small eggplant with small tomatoes.

I grew up in West Charlton (a half hour south west of Saratoga Springs) with a vegetable garden the size of a gymnasium.  We had an asparagus bed, strawberry beds, rhubarb, potatoes, tomatoes, kohlrabi, cucumbers, and rows and rows of beans, peppers and corn.  I am certain that I left a number of things out, but suffice to say, we had plenty of vegetables.

My father turned over the soil every spring after we picked out the rocks, that somehow were not there last year, and added cow manure (from our small herd) to the soil.  Every Memorial Day morning, we headed over to a nearby greenhouse to pick up a few plants to supplement our planting of seeds.  Of course a few items, like asparagus, strawberries and rhubarb came back every year on their own.

It sounds idyllic, to be surrounded by all these natural, luscious vegetables and I did like to eat them, but to me the garden mostly represented work.  A lot of work.  Almost every summer morning, my brother and I could be found in the garden either weeding or picking. It was one of our summer chores. Picking strawberries is relatively easy as is picking tomatoes, but picking green beans off a green bush is slow and tedious.  My brother focused for a short period of time and was done fairly quickly.  I would procrastinate and linger, thereby increasing my lack of enthusiasm for the job and garden.

A number of afternoons every week were filled with canning and freezing.  We would peel and chop while my mom presided over the stove blanching beans, sterilizing bottles or ladling spaghetti sauce into jars to be sealed.  Our basement contained two cupboards of homemade canned goods and our two freezers held bag upon bag of frozen vegetables and beef from our herd.  Trips to the market were primarily for dry and canned goods.

The variety of cucumbers was impressive.  My mom made sweet chunk pickles, dill pickles and bread and butter pickles.  I would frequently come home from school and have a dill pickle or two with a glass of grape juice.  There was always at least one jar of pickles in the fridge at any given time.  With this basement of plenty, my brother and I used to calculate during the cold war, how long we could survive down in the basement between our freezer and two cupboards of canned goods.  Despite the hard work, it was something we were proud of.

Now, thirty years later, I am ready to face vegetable gardening again.  Not as the cheap labor this time, but as the designer, purchaser, chief laborer, waterer, harvester and consumer. The dread I experienced from my days of seeking out thousands of green beans hidden amongst thousands of green leaves has been conquered.

I lived in NYC from 1981 until 2005 and did not really have the opportunity to grow vegetables but now living in Saratoga Springs has ignited my interest in growing my own vegetables.  I was under the impression that my interest and enthusiasm would be enough to grow vegetables.  Not so.  I have spent the last couple of years trying to grow vegetables on my plot of land in town.  First we tried it in the back yard and the plants limped along, so I then moved it to the side yard but the ornamental plum tree nearby cast too much shade.  We took the tree down in 2011 and the plants improved but when the angle of the sun started to shift in August, the tomatoes remained green on the vine.

Apparently, I have one major factor against me; lack of sun.  Although we love our large, hundred year old maple tree in the backyard, its foliage does dominate what goes on and grows back there.  You can have a shade perennial flower garden but it is tough to have a shade vegetable garden.  To add to my shade issues, the opposite side of the street has about half a dozen tall pines that cast a wide berth of shade in the afternoon come mid-August.  I had briefly considered speaking to the property owner about taking them taking down the trees for the benefit of my garden but felt that my request was a little over the top.  People told me to forget vegetables, but I am determined and would even consider green beans.

Armed with the last four years of information and experience, I tried some new strategies this year.  I added even more nutrients to the soil, placed the eggplant and tomatoes in the most advantageous sun spot and planted earlier this year to capitalize on the angle of the sun.  It did not hurt that we enjoyed an abundance of sunny days this summer.

 AND – my results were quite exciting.  This year I have had real peppers, more tomatoes, bushy basil plants, cucumbers, lettuce that keeps coming back and finally some eggplants.   My younger son and I watched the promising purple blossoms on the plant magically turn into small eggplants.  We monitored its daily growth and anticipated the day we would pick it and eat it.  Life was good and going our way. Summer of 2012 would be the start of our garden legacy.

Alas, it was not to be. Tragedy came to our White St. garden; the eggplant was gone.  Plucked clean from its stem.  No tearing, no remnants, no clues.  I discovered the horror first, notified my son and he came running outside.  I gave voice to what we both were thinking,”Who’s been eating my eggplant?”  I made sure to say it loud enough for both my human and animal neighbors to hear. 

I do not want to minimize the attention that a full time farmer gives to each of their plants, but with our eggplant crop numbering four plants in total, our precious plants were watched over obsessively.  Each time we entered and exited the house, we passed by our beloved plants and cast an admiring glance its way.  So when our loving glance was met with an empty cruel space, our devastation was magnified.

We consoled ourselves with the hope of the other two growing eggplants.  There would be more. Other eggplants would soon be on the horizon.   But it was not to be.  Two more eggplants were taken from us.  Unplucked, unappreciated and uneaten by us but picked precisely and carted away by an unknown fan. 

 Interestingly enough, the eggplants were taken from two different gardens.  One was taken from a potted eggplant in the back garden and two were taken from the side garden with sidewalk access.   I called a garden friend and put forth the question, “Who’s been eating my eggplant?”  His thoughts were that it was a human criminal due to the detail that they were picked so precisely without harm to the plant or surrounding plants. He suggested that my son (Joe.tech) set up a camera to catch the thief. (My suggestion was not taken.) Certainly the side garden was accessible to both animal and human but would a human passerby dare to enter my gate and pick an eggplant.  I hope not. 

Over the next couple of days a couple of suspects were seen near or heading toward the garden.  One morning, I walked out of our back door and a woodchuck was headed down the path towards me and possibly in the direction of the side garden and tempting eggplants.  Without a word, but a stern look from me, he turned around his squat body and headed back from whence he came. His actions were suspicious. I guess I showed him.

The next day my husband saw a squirrel make off with a tomato rather handedly. Apparently he was casually walking away and did not seem concerned.   Do squirrels eat eggplants?  I cannot imagine that woodchuck maneuvering that ample round body amongst the other vegetables to procure an eggplant without damage.  The squirrels, with their size, dexterity, rather large population, and overly confident manner, had jumped to the top of our suspect list.  No humans had been seen lurking near the garden or acting suspicious.

At this point, it must appear that whining is the only action that we took.  Not so.  My mother (gardener extraordinaire) offered her unused plastic, lifelike owl.  We placed the owl right next to our largest eggplant hoping that he looked impressive.  I also set up a little series of sticks in a cross hatching pattern to limit access to my eggplants.  This protection worked for a number of days and passed the test of us being out of town for four days over Labor Day weekend.  However, the next weekend, when we went to NYC, two smaller eggplants were swiped.  In a rush to save our remaining eggplant, we picked it before it’s time, but…. we have an eggplant at last.  We should have about ten eggplants, but we have only one.

Now. I am not the over protective type with my possessions and property nor do I feel that I should have dominion over all animals on our lot.  My neighbor Jane and I share a fence line where we both enjoy the plants that appear to grow on both sides.  I have saved two squirrels from death in my back yard in recent years.  One was trapped in the light-post glass and the other had fallen into a barrel of rain water.  We rescued them both with oven mitts and without hesitation.  When a bug is found in our home, anything from an ant to a centipede, we gently capture it and escort it outside.  (We are less warm to any mice that wander in)  Our household upholds a welcoming policy.

BUT eating my eggplant is where I draw the line.  As we speak, the eggplants are featuring five more purple blossoms with hopes of maturity.  This week, I am heading over to a gardening store to secure some chicken wire to surround my plants.  Depending on who the eggplant lover is, it may or may not help.  My husband added another owl to the garden and quite frankly, I prefer this more natural approach to protection but I have been driven to use unsightly chicken wire to protect my eggplants.  

Useless owl presiding over the eggplants.

As each eggplant begins to emerge from the purple blossoms, I imagine the dishes I will make with my aubergine vegetables; the parmesans, the fried eggplant with lemon and the eggplant sandwiches.  I am headed out of town for an overnight and hope that in my absence, my two owls and chicken wire do their job and protect my highly popular eggplant.  I will keep you posted on the survival of my veggies and if the mystery is solved as to, “Who’s eating my eggplant?”

Update – Monday 10/1 – Well I never made it to the hardware store before departing to purchase the chicken wire and construct my protective structure.  So when I returned Sunday evening, one of the small eggplants was gone.  Disgusted with myself, I headed over to Allerdice hardware  Monday morning, and as I am discussing my eggplant dilemma with one of the male clerks, the person to my left taps my arm.  I turn and it is a friend of mine who is an avid gardener.  We all discuss the animal possibilities and decide that it is either squirrels or bunnies and she recommends cayenne pepper.  Kim suggests that I sprinkle it around the ground, and plant.  No harm will come to the animals and as they nibble the plant or lick their paws they will experience the cayenne’s peppers spicy heat that will send a message not to come back.  Sounds safe and easier and less unsightly than the chicken wire.

Upon arrival at my home, I head into the kitchen, snatch the cayenne pepper and start sprinkling away. Inventory reveals that I have three blooms left and one small, lonely eggplant holding on in the fridge waiting for others to join it and make a meal.  At this rate, I may have to cave and make one serving of whatever – either one parmesan, one sandwich or one serving of fried eggplant.  This story is not over yet.  Even if my remaining eggplants survive, I still want to know, “Who’s eating my eggplant?”


Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BOB??

About five months ago, we became a one car family as Bob is no longer with us. Many of our friends and family knew and were fond of our red Honda Accord Bob.  A number of you have asked about him and his whereabouts.  Well –here are  Bob’s final days.

Johnny was driving home in December from Schenectady when a concerning amount of smoke appeared from Bob’s hood.  With much coaxing and a little luck, Johnny made it home.  I think Bob would have wanted to live out his days at home so we did not rush him to the garage.  We gave Bob some rest over the holidays, with the occasional unsuccessful start up.  After the holidays,  the garage gave us the prognosis that Bob had suddenly developed a number of  serious issues that he would not recover from.  We were given a couple of choices and in the end went for quick and painless, selling Bob to Jerry for scrap and moving on.  Bob would have wanted it that way.

On a Wednesday in early February – Johnny and I met Jerry down at the garage to say goodbye to Bob.  I staged a brief photo session with Jerry as the photographer, Johnny and I as the showroom models and Bob as the consummate star.  Most shots were familial with Johnny and I standing next to Bob, some were of Bob alone and some of Bob and I hinted at a deeper relationship. (The edgier pictures have been lost)

 I questioned Jerry as to his experience with photo sessions and cars and he said that my reactions had been run of the mill, middle of the road or god forbid, “average.”  Imagine – me labeled as average. In the end, I was thankful for that label as Jerry described women who sobbed on the hood of the car not letting go or who chased Jerry and their car down the driveway.  In this case, average was just fine.

It is now July with no new car on the horizon.  We have easily adjusted to one car with more walking and the occasional complicated ride scenario.  The first month, we casually researched a new car and listlessly perused the classifieds for a second hand car.  Nothing felt right, nothing felt appropriate.  We’re not ready yet.  It would be like remarrying before the one year anniversary of the death of one’s spouse.

At some point, we will be ready and something will strike us.  Until then, we have celebrated Bob with a short tribute of poems  and photos to Bob.

ODES TO BOB

Bob was my pal, my roommate,  my go to guy

Bob was trustworthy, reliable and unflappable

He was sturdy, low to the ground and had control

One might say –Bob was one of a kind

Bob did not disappoint

He carried me without hesitation through the Smokey Mountains

To Arkansas and to my dying father

And back again consoling me with his strong frame

Bob delivered us safely on all our travels

Surviving one or two scratches

And a substitute hood in a different color

A couple of bad hair days for Bob

But he rebounded back for another nine years

Purchased by my grandmother in 1992

Bob would have turned 20 this year

That’s 90 in car years you know

A life well lived, a life well remembered               

An example to all                                                                                                                            

My memories of Bob are many and varied

My gratitude to him unending

Thanks Bob

By Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Bob was always quite great

We’ll never forget him

He’s always  our first mate

We’ll always remember him

Concealing him in our hearts

 AFTER…………

Scrapping away his  parts                                       

 By Lucas Martinez

AND now for some Haiku – A nod to Bob’s Japanese roots.

The only car dad

Would  allow me to drive - gone

Run into the ground

By Joseph and Diane Martinez

Work horse, strong, driven

Treasured family member

Limitless road, Bob

By Johnny Martinez

SANTA OR SEX

 

    

   Oddly enough telling our children that we have been playing Santa for the past ten years and telling them about sex, seems to developmentally occur around the same time.  This year my younger son (fourth grade) did not write a letter to Santa, did not set out cookies and milk and seemed relatively unthreatened that Santa was watching and he better snap to.  At the same time, he and all of his friends are all ears, giggling when the word sex is mentioned and his eyes are glued to the screen during  kissing scenes.

       Hence – my dilemma – Santa or Sex.  Which do I tell him about first?  As luck would have it, I have a fifteen year old and can draw upon that experience five to six years ago to guide me.  I recall discussing both Santa and sex with my older son but I cannot for the life of me remember which one‘s truth was first revealed.

        The Santa discussion I believe was in the fall, before Christmas and I encouraged him to now be a Santa for his younger brother and sustain his belief.  He took it pretty well, with a little surprise but I thought he understood until Christmas Eve when he frequently kept checking the Santa tracker on TV.  I remember thinking, didn’t we just go over the existence of Santa and why is he constantly checking on Santa’s whereabouts?  I didn’t mention it at the time and by the next year he seemed to have adjusted.  Perhaps, he was in a transitional phase.  Understood.  I’m still not over it.

       The sex discussion, I believe was the following spring near the end of school after his 11^th birthday.  I went to the library and after looking over several books on “breaking the news” I selected one that was “middle of the road.”  Some were all about the egg and sperm and really skirted the intercourse issue by saying “when the Mommy and Daddy hold each other really close.”  Hmmm.  At the other end of the spectrum, there were books that were committed to discussing the pros and cons of a variety of condoms.  Okay – we weren’t there yet.  In the end I selected something that described some of the biology and got down to it with a paragraph that described intercourse.   At last – the defining paragraph. 

  

     I brought the book home and set up a time to read it together with my older son;  quite a change of pace from our usual morning ritual of reading Harry Potter together.  Nonetheless, I was committed to sharing the good news.  He took it all really well and seemed a bit bored actually until the “defining paragraph.”  Although the date escapes me, I recall him saying –“Could you read that paragraph again?”

After rereading the paragraph, I asked him if he had known that.  He answered honestly that he had not and then came the classic question “Do you and Dad do that.”   Despite my relative ease with the topic, I owned up to it only happening  once by saying,  “We had your brother didn’t we?”  My older son is adopted so that answer would make sense to him but it also opened up a new door about his biological parents.

       The ensuing discussion went well focusing on the reproductive qualities of sex rather than the pleasure factor.  My husband promised a follow-up discussion but that did not happen for at least a year.  In the meantime, I had my own follow-up discussions covering such topics as protection, masturbation,” no means no”, legalities, i.e., you are seventeen and your girlfriend is sixteen.   Many of these topics were covered on car rides when my son and I were alone, he was seated up front and I unfairly had a captive audience. Whenever, I embarked on one of my information sessions, I usually got an “Oh Mom,” but I did notice how sweet and attentive he was with his girlfriend a couple of years later. I tried to have a tone that communicated a healthy but responsible attitude towards sex.  Somewhere along the line, I think he now knows that we had sex more than just the time we conceived his brother.  Whatever.

       I believe as a child I may have learned about Santa first.  I recall my Mom telling me about Santa and confiding that my older brother, David, already knew and had been keeping up the charade.  As to sex, I recall pestering my Mom about how one became pregnant.  When she broke the news calmly about intercourse, I was shocked, really shocked.  One would think that I would have had an inkling.  After all, my mom had already informed me about menstruation and how babies were born.  Furthermore, we had a small farm and there was a virtual sex arena in our backyard as the cows gave each other “piggyback rides”.  One would think, but no I was shocked.  The conversation did not stop there.  I beleaguered my mom with question after question.  My brother had apparently heard the news and walked away without a question.  I think there could be the same outcome in our home: my older son took it quite calmly and my younger son will be filled with questions.  And why not.  It’s worth questioning.

       So – Santa or Sex.  I’m not sure yet but perhaps next fall as my younger son is in 5^th grade and Christmas is around the corner, an opportunity will present itself and my dilemma will be solved.  You see, it truly will be  Santa or Sex;  somehow, the topic comes up at the same time.  But if I had my druthers, there would be a Santa and then my problem really would be solved.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Backstage at the Thanksgiving Show

   

Husband and Guest doing a frogstand

      I’m not quite sure how it started.  How the first germ of an idea came to be or how it developed into the extravaganza it is today.  Perhaps it was the Adirondack family fitness challenge, which could do the most sit-ups, push-ups and pull –ups that provided the spring board.  Maybe it was the constant climbing/ dance lifts my niece Cara did onto my now husband then boyfriend’s back that clearly needed a performance opportunity that spurred us on.  Or maybe the fact that Grandpa Dave, mom and I would sometimes casually sing together provided an inspiration.

        Whatever it was led us down the path of the annual post dinner Thanksgiving show. No sitting around after dinner regretting our gluttonous intake with our belts loosened; we were ready for action. It started small with my niece Cara singing the repetitive song Mr. Pumpkin, followed by one of my brother’s twin sons Jeremy executing his hand stands.  Next, Grandpa Dave would take out his harmonica and play something down home like the “Swanee River.”  To bring back the vaudevillian flavor of our program, my brother and I would then perform the family frog stands on the rug.  Those who could like my husband’s nephew Tommy, the twins Jeremy and Greg as well as my husband Johnny joined us.  Cara and Johnny would perform a few ballet lifts and we would finish off the show with an uplifting rendition of “Amazing Grace.”  Grandpa Dave, my mom and I would sing the first verse and then everyone would join us on the remaining verses.

      I think you see where we are going with the show; nothing too typical, nothing professional, the unusual was favored.   We used our lesser talents and brought forth are parlour tricks, if you will.   My husband and I are professional dancers and performers but have never used that as an act; we prefer to do frog stands or acts of flexibility.  An Argentine Tango just wouldn’t fit in.  In addition, I produced the show yearly and Johnny was our unflappable MC.  I seem to have the talent of creating something out of nothing, putting a spin on it and justifying it.  He, on the other hand, had the talent of communicating this to the audience with conviction, comedy and drama.

       What kind of family puts on these yearly events?  Well, “the show” never occurred until I met my husband and his family and we started having our annual Thanksgiving celebration up at our camp in the Adirondacks.  We all slept there for two to three nights so perhaps our personalities coupled with cabin fever provided the right atmosphere for our theatrics.  My husband’s family is artists of varying talents, and my brother’s family is divided between sports for the three guys and dance for my niece and her mom Bonnie.  On top of this each family possesses some circus like abilities; my husband’s family is extremely flexible through the hips and my brother’s family has unusual balance.  As the producer, I have exploited both characteristics to provide comedy and oddness for our annual shows.

       Over time new family members arrived and with the new additions, the show altered. As the creator and producer, I was thankful for the additions, as putting a new and interesting spin on Mr. Pumpkin and a frog stand every year had become challenging.  Tommy’s girlfriend Melissa (now wife) joined us in 2000, and my family expanded to include two boys Joey and Lucas in 2002.  Thanksgiving 2002 included the mystery of the stolen prince that involved my 10 week child and somehow tied the whole thing together.  Tommy was always fun by himself but now with the addition of Melissa they would add an act that entailed art.  No slouch in the athletic category, Tommy also participated in the flexibility category while last year Melissa somehow sustained her yoga headstand next to my flailing headstand that lasted all of 2 seconds before falling three times.  Persistence is one of my strengths and downfalls, as I continued to say “I got it, just one more try.”

       Sadly, the theater was black in 2008 when Thanksgiving was in New York City without my brother’s family and we were uninspired with half the cast missing.  However, in 2009 we were back together in Vermont and the New Yorkers made the six hour trip up to Stowe, Vermont for the Holiday.  I’m going to say that this was one of our better shows.  Grandpa Dave had written his own introduction for his musical performance and had a costume, Tommy and Melissa had planned some camera flashing in the dark outlining the body act, the flexibility acts with the Martinez hips and my head to toe touching flexible back were impressive and the dog obedience act outdid itself.  We were back.

Son executing the frogstand

       Of course no show is complete without an audience and we were lucky to every year have Uncle Freddie, Johnny’s mom Carmen and Cream Puff (Uncle Freddie’s dog) as our consistent fan club.  My brother was also in the audience but annually made his walk to the stage with dignity to perform his requisite frog stand and his wife Bonnie (also in the audience) was frequently involved in a dog act.  My mom, sitting in the audience, rose every year to sing the finale “Amazing Grace” with solid harmony. The rest of us were running around backstage in the dining room and kitchen readying ourselves for our barely rehearsed acts.

       Thanksgiving 2010 was filled with joy to be together but tinged with sadness as the Adirondack house was for sale and we were quite sure it would be our last Thanksgiving there. Nonetheless, the show must go on and we received new inspiration that year in the form of the neighbors.  We had just found out that new friends (the Maxwells) in Saratoga had a home down the road from us in Speculator and they were joining us for dinner.  They took their food and theater seriously, bringing all sorts of goodies to eat and arriving for the show with a violin and a reading from Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Canterbury Tales.”  I’m not sure anyone quite knew how to take the first thirty seconds of Otis’s reading of “The Canterbury Tales” in Middle English wearing a unique hat, but within minutes, we realized that it fit the 19^th century salon theater style we craved and embraced it.  Hence, we had ushered in a new era of “the dramatic reading.”

       The Maxwells were not the only new performers that year.  Logan Blaise Martinez (heir to Tommy and Melissa) had entered the world and was debuting at the age of eight and one/half months.  Actually, he was in two acts; the first being a series of unusual baby sounds assisted by Tommy and he opened up the lift act.  I am practically proud of this further development of Johnny and Cara’s lift act which had grown a little predictable and needed a new spin.  I called this act – the unaware, the bizarre and the classical.  Tommy and Logan did some interesting poses in which Logan unaware of his participation was highly cooperative.  Lucas and I on the other hand worked our butts off.  Lucas and I frequently do lifts at home and it was time to bring it to the public combining my strength and sense of drama with Lucas’s flexibility and passion for the bizarre.  We concluded the lift segment with some classical ballet lifts with Johnny and Cara who has now grown to 5 foot 7 inches.  As always, the frog stand is done as both a nod to the tradition of our show and a nod to vaudeville.  Amazingly, it never gets old.

       To bring you up to date with our most recent show, I’m going to say that it was one of our most casual shows.  With our beloved Adirondack home now sold, we hosted Thanksgiving this year in Saratoga. Additionally, it was my birthday, so my energy was high but I started to slow down after dinner and had not given the show as much forethought.  Unfortunately, we were missing my brother’s family but I did have many people from which to cast the show from.  Providence prevailed and the arrival of some new guests and presence of the Maxwell’s violin and dramatic reading script pushed me into action.  Within fifteen minutes, I had auditioned a hoola hoop participant, secured some audience participation on the frog stand and put together a show order.  I notified the sound man (Joey), the MC (Johnny), cleared the living room floor of the Greco/Roman pre-show act going on by the four young boys and organized the audience.

       Somehow the show always comes together and this year was no different featuring a wonderful harmonica act, a hoola hoop act, a poem, a violin and piano duet, a Thanksgiving reading, a gymnastic feat of cart wheeling into the chair, a piano solo, a reading of the menu from the Thanksgiving dinner at the NYC Delmonico Hotel in 1888 and of course our closing song “Amazing Grace.”  New audience members appeared simply stunned after some of the acts before clapping. We aim to please.

        Perhaps not our best show, but entertaining nonetheless and after the music, the solemn readings and the comedic physical acts, we bring it all together with the singing of the song ‘Amazing Grace.”  As we face each other and sing our thanks with moist eyes, I am touched by our ability to do our show in any location.  In past years our strains of Amazing Grace drifted across the quiet Adirondack lake and the solemn November landscape. Now our voices carry out into the Saratoga Thanksgiving evening and a passerby can look in and see a group facing each other with meaning and grace.  No television, cell phone or computer required.  Just us and our many “talents.” It is a time worth revisiting.  It is a time worth preserving.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Author performing the frogstand

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ONE TOO MANY SOCK FIGHTS

       I thought I had hit an all time low when I was wearing one Halloween sock and one Christmas sock last week, but no, I was capable of going lower.  Saturday evening, I had a performance at a benefit; I was to dance a Tango solo with my husband, Johnny, and a group Latin piece with two other dancers in our company Tango Fusion.  In my preparations of gathering together my costumes, my three pairs of dance shoes, my jewelry, hair products, gloves, thong and fishnets, I added red toe nail polish to a small bag of make-up.  After doing our run-through at 7pm, I had one hour and fifteen minutes before show time, seemingly enough time to do make-up, paint toe-nails and don my costume. Please note, that my Latin costume required open toed shoes and decent polish was a must as my August pedicure had seen better days.

       So – I go to polish my nails, only to discover, that the little bag that held the polish, had been left behind along with two bracelets and some make-up.  No one had polish so one of the dancers suggested red magic marker.  Excellent idea and since we were dressing in a pre-school room with art supplies my luck was returning.  Simultaneously another dancer’s gaze and mine went to the top of a shelf and we saw  a container with art paint.  Its contents revealed a number of containers of red paint featuring an array of colors.  I chose a straight forward red that we’ll call “lipstick red” selected for its’ hopeful potential to wash off.

       So there I was, with my foot propped up, tissues separating my toes, using a small  art paintbrush to color my nails with watercolors.  In and of itself, not so bad, but after being down to one pair of daytime earrings and one pair of evening earrings for the last couple of weeks and after being able to only pull together one Halloween sock and one Christmas sock to wear with slacks, I felt I was at a very low point in regards to accessory organization.  In my defense, I am high functioning: mother, wife, family gal, friend, dance teacher, dancer, choreographer, writer, volunteer, cook, gardener, tennis player, book lover, assistant soccer coach and party thrower extraordinaire – so something has got to give.

       I had recovered fairly well from a huge sock fight that we had in the spring; most of my socks made it back to their original pair.  (In the heat of the battle, many pairs come undone) But our last skirmish in late September left me undone.  My younger son was in charge of repairing the socks and although capable of organization, this was not one of those times.  Couple the sock fight with the fact that we had yet to really put everything back in place from our summertime rental   http://dianelachtruppmartineznocompromises.blogspot.com/2011/09/exit-strategy.html  and you have the recipe for missing clothing, accessories, paperwork, etc.  Upon entering your home at the end of the rental season, you are filled with high hopes of maintaining the order that you thrust upon your home for the rental; you vow to put the contents of packed away boxes in their place.  Then school and fall activities start and your goals are pushed aside; boxes remain unpacked and the socks that you didn’t take with you are difficult to locate.

      

 As I wait for my toe nail polish to dry, I reflect on what socks and earrings have in common.  Ah – they are in twos.  This leads me to wonder what else comes in twos on my body and what will be the next jeopardized accessory.  Let’s see, I have two eyes, but fortunately the contact lens case connects the two lenses so that helps.  I have two breasts and as luck would have it the bra cups are attached, so no mismatching there.  Oh-oh –shoes, yes shoes I believe are next.  They are not attached when not on my body.  Well - I am forewarned.  Wish me luck.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez