The Gardeners Anonymous Blog

Flying Spiders and Banana Pushers Costa Rica: Day 3

Warning this post contains strong language.

O.k., The chick I went to Costa Rica with, Erin, is tough. I mean, TOUGH. I thought I was tough, but she puts me to shame. So when you hear your tough, seasoned travel buddy scream from the bathroom, you know something is definitely wrong. 

I jumped up and yelled through the door “Are you o.k.? 

“Yes, but a huge spider just ran over my foot and freaked me out!” 

She opened the door, and there it was, crouched in the corner of the floor between the toilet and the shower trying to appear much smaller than he was. Holy crap, that thing was the size of my palm.

Erin finished up and hurried out of the bathroom and out to the office to check out. I still had to go potty. So I gathered up the nerve and took a seat…about six inches from the biggest spider I have ever seen.

I looked at him, all huddled up in the corner, and I actually began to feel sorry for him. I decided that the maid in the next room was not going to think twice about killing an enormous spider standing between her and the ability to clean the bathroom floor. So I decided to save him.

I had a large wide-mouth quart glass jar. I opened the jar and pushed it toward the spider. I realized before I came within three feet of him that he wasn’t going to fit. So, of course, I opened the bathroom window. I grabbed the laminated mini-bar menu and climbed into the shower. I started to scoop the spider towards the window. 

Now, I like to think of myself as brave and open-minded about creatures, but when that f---ing spider jumped into the air like someone had it on a string, I turned screaming and ran full force right into the tiled shower wall.  The last time I saw a spider jump that high, I was watching Arachnophobia. 

I peeked over my aching shoulder. The spider had settled back on the floor, so I took a deep breath, picked up the menu again, and decided to keep scooping till that fucker was out of there.

I pushed the menu toward it. It jumped, and I scooped again. It leapt up again, and this time I moved it within jumping distance of the window.  I scooped one last time, and the spider flew (and I sort of batted it) the rest of the way out the window.  I slammed the window, ran out of the bathroom and slammed that door too, as if the spider was now all pissed off and coming back through the window to get me. 

On our way out, we decided to look at the view from our room one last time. One of the toucans we had been hearing but not seeing for two days was sitting in the tree outside the window, eating and sunning himself. Toucans are also known as “banana pushers,” because of the way they look when they fly.

 And, I’m pretty sure they eat spiders.

Miata and Meth Addict Part 2

I asked the chicken-dancing man once again if he was alright, and once again, he was unable to produce a straight answer. So I asked him a different question: “Excuse me sir, have you been drinking?” This question triggered a round of wild arm-flailing reminiscent of a marionette having a spasm.  He answered with a word one wouldn’t expect from a tattooed sports car driver wearing all black and chains.  “No, I haven’t been drinking!” he insisted.  “I’m just . . . FLUSTERED!” 

Once out of his car, Chicken-Dancing Man was running all around my yard while running his mouth with his disjointed story. Apparently, he was trying to get to L.A., he left his cell phone on his girlfriend’s dresser (no doubt right next to his map of California and his crack pipe), and he swerved to avoid a rabbit.

He began following me around closely, begging me to use my phone. I told him to sit down on a piece of lawn furniture while I went to get a phone.

He lit on the chair for a split second, more like a hummingbird than a chicken. By the time I had turned my back, he was up and running through what used to be my fence, across the street to my neighbor’s house. 

As I walked inside my house, the phone was ringing. It was my neighbor asking if I was o.k. and letting me know that she had just called the police on the chicken dancer and was sending her husband over to help.  I let her know that I was fine, but that the chicken dancer was now at her front door.  I could hear him all the way from where I was, telling the same story about the rabbit, the phone, the drive to L.A. 

I dialed the sheriff myself, just to make sure that there they were on the way, and then I picked up my camera and walked back outside.

Chicken Dancer was on the phone to his father, supposedly.   

At this point, he was beginning to realize that his predicament was only going to get worse by sticking around, so he hung up the phone and danced over to the sideways Miata. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, my neighbors knew he wasn’t going anywhere, but Chicken Dancer seemed to think that if he revved his engine hard enough, his tires would magically reconnect with the ground and he would be on his speedy way again. 

It was just about this time the first sheriff pulled up.  

He sauntered over to the man in the slanted car and spoke to him for a few minutes while the neighbors and I stood across the street making bets on what kind of drugs were coursing through Chicken Dancer’s system. 

Soon, another sheriff arrived, followed closely by a fire engine.

When two more sheriffs showed up, I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt that I had no doughnuts to offer.  Then the EMT vehicle pulled in and unloaded their gurney.  They wheeled over to the Chicken Dancer, who was being quietly interrogated by a large group of various uniformed men.

By the time the CHP showed up, Chicken Dancer was having his person searched. It was clear he would not be driving to L.A., or home, or anywhere that day. 

All I Wanted Was A Fence Covered With Vines and Instead I Got a Miata and a Meth Addict.

Over the past several weeks I have been busily amending the soil, tweaking the drip system, and planting three types of vines all along my upper fence so that our family can enjoy more privacy and also so that the dogs would bark less at passersbys. Every morning, I would pour myself a cup of coffee and head up to the top of my property to check on them. I planted fast-growing vines, and could actually see them making progress every day as they stretched up towards the morning sun. Ah, those were the days of hope and prosperity…the blissful days before one man’s night of partying and addiction crushed my hopes, my dreams, and, well…my vines.

I was lying in my bed, cozy and happy in the knowledge that I still had another hour before I had to get up. And then I heard an engine revving up my hill, fast, followed by a loud crash. It got me out of bed alright. If I was a cat, I would have been stuck to the ceiling.

I looked out of the window and I saw a green sports car lying on its side in my yard and wearing most of my upper fence as a hood ornament. I heard the hysterical voice of a man.

I slipped on my Uggs (o.k. I lied: my Bear Claws. I am too cheap to buy Uggs) and my robe. Fashion was not my first concern. I ran down my stairs, secured my dogs, who were looking quite puzzled at the strange vehicle’s parking job.

I bolted out the door to my side yard. I approached the car and its flailing driver. He was talking loudly to no one in particular. He was tall, and tattooed, somewhere around thirty. He was sporting a large gold MC Hammer-ish chain around his neck. He had black hair, a black t-shirt, black jeans and giant black sideburns. Elvis meets Johnny Cash with a sprinkling of Sid Vicious.

I asked him if he was o.k. I never got an answer, just a steady stream of words. Words about a missing cell phone, a girlfriend, swerving to miss a rabbit, looking for Los Angeles, All the while the words were spewing, the Country Western, Punk Elvis was doing this strange flailing chicken dance. I gazed past the flapping Elvis, behind him I saw his car resting with all its weight on top of my brand new vines.

...to be continued

Rattlesnake Season-The Third Anniversary of My Rattlesnake Bite

I blew out my knee this week, and I am now on crutches. This reminds me that three years ago, I was on crutches for an entirely different reason. While photographing wildflowers on a trail near my house, I was bitten by a Northern Pacific Rattlesnake – a really big one, at that.

I stepped right on it while adjusting my camera. After it bit me, I shook the snake off my leg; secured the two dogs I was hiking with, sat down, and called my girlfriend. She lives at the trailhead, and I wanted her to call 9-1-1 from her landline for a faster response time.

I was rescued, I live to tell the tale, and I don’t even have a scar to show for all my suffering. Sometimes I contemplate getting a tattoo to commemorate the event. People ask me all the time if I still hike that trail. Of course I hike there. Why should I let something like that run my life? Receiving a legitimate bite by a rattlesnake is extremely rare, especially in the foothills of Los Gatos, California.

A couple days before my recent knee accident, I took my new neighbors out on that very trail. They were looking for a place to walk their dog. I was excited to show them the trail I walk at least 4 times a week, the trail where I had my misunderstanding with the rattler. It’s a beautiful hike where we often see deer, bobcat, herons, and hawks. And, the dogs love it.

As we walked, I told them the story. They were both wearing shorts and hiking sandals. Halfway through my story we came upon the place where I was bitten. My neighbors became oddly quiet, and started to slow their pace. I kept telling them they didn’t have to worry about it. “Just be careful and watch where you step. Stay on the trail. If for some reason you must go off the trail, you should wear boots, and perhaps carry a stick to test the area where you are about to place your feet. That’s all.”

I could see that my ophiophabia calming techniques weren’t exactly working on them. In their minds, they were packing their bags and moving…again.

Do Not Eat the Oleander

During this wet weather, the dogs and I have had to find something to do besides gardening. So, we have been cooking a lot, and eating, and cleaning, and eating, and organizing, then eating, and, oh yes, putting together jigsaw puzzles. My husband recently purchased 20, yes, twenty puzzles for me at a garage sale. I picked out the two with garden themes and donated the rest. I finished one, and was starting another when I realized: I used to be into extreme sports; now I do garden-themed jigsaw puzzles . . . .

I opened the box and dumped the pieces onto my “special” jigsaw puzzle board. As I was sorting pieces and studying the picture on the box, I noticed that some of the flowers in the jigsaw puzzle were Oleander. Icky! I don’t like Oleander. I will never plant it in my garden, and I don’t want it in my garden-themed jigsaw puzzle, either.

Oleander (Nerium) freaks me out because it is so toxic. Every part of the plant is toxic. It is one of the most poisonous of commonly grown garden plants.

Waiting for Santa and the Next Flash Flood Warning

That puddle on my patio is my septic system overflowing...yay.

Here I sit with nine dogs, three boys and a septic system that is slowly backing up into my house. We are waiting for the electrical system to fail, or a tree to fall, or both.  I have approximately 30% of my Christmas shopping done. Thunderstorms are expected throughout the day, and my husband is in the garage building an ark. 

Actually, my husband is building cabinets for one of the two rental remodels we have underway. I did try to steer him towards the ark idea, but he told me that if the world was going to end, it would have done so on Friday. 

I am expected to go out to the garage soon and start painting a door.

 Rusty helping me write after playing in the rain.

So here I sit watching my garden float away. What was once the lawn is now a muddy bog.  I have one dog on my lap, and eight at my feet. 

I just read the weather report: it says we might get a full inch of rain.  Judging by our rain gauges, the reality is more like 7 times that, and the rain shows no sign of letting up.

This is not doggie pee-pee. It is just rainwater seeping into my living room. 

My boys want me to drive them somewhere in this deluge.  I told them they would have to wait for the ark. 

Today I am wondering:

“How is Santa going to find us in this torrent? 

and 

“Why did we decide to do TWO remodels during Christmas?”

Flash Flood Fashion

 

Flash Flood Fashion When my phone’s text alert woke me early in the morning last week, the first thing I noticed was the roar of driving rain battering my roof. Oh, I sleep so well when it rains. There is something so soothing and cozy about the sound of the rain….and then there was that little tinkling alert from my phone.

I rolled over and groped though a pile of reading glasses on my nightstand for a pair with appropriate magnification, and examined my phone. There was a large scary red triangle staring back at me with the words “FLASH FLOOD ALERT IN YOUR AREA.” I had never received a message like this before. This was a warning for ME, on MY phone, flash flood alert in MY HOUSE. This seemed like a bad thing.

With visions of the apocalypse bearing down, I leapt out of bed onto a large, unsuspecting dog, ending up in a heap on the carpet next to where he had been lying. While he licked the surprised look off my face, I listened to the rain on my roof, which now sounded like the beating of Sioux drums telling me that Custer was on his way.

I stumbled to my closet and hastily got dressed. Catastrophic circumstances have never been a good thing for my personal fashion presence, historically speaking.

I sprinted outside wearing a baseball cap under the hood of my rain jacket, which I was wearing over my robe, which partially covered my pajamas, which were tucked into my black rubber muck boots. The only thing I was missing was a black rectangle over my eyes, and a big “DON’T” stamped across my outfit.

Swami's: Yoga and gardens and surfing, Oh My!

One of the koi ponds in Swamis

I have had a bad cold, which has slowed me way down, and therefore, I have a chance to write about the beautiful garden I went to see in place of Lotusland.

As you may know, my plans for Lotusland went down like tomatoes in a hard frost, after speaking to some unhelpful vagrant who answers the phone there.

Swamis

Instead, my friend Jennifer and I made our way further south to the Swami Meditation Gardens. Swami’s was started in 1937 by Paramahansa Yogananda, a world famous guru of Kriya Yoga. Yep, yoga and meditation was as popular then as it is now with the Hollywood crowd.

Swami’s also sits right on the famous Encinitas surf break.

The surf below Swamis. Note the many surfers in the water.

Imagine my delight: this garden combines my three favorite things, yoga, surfing and gardening. What could be better?

The day I went to Swami’s it was 78 degrees. The crystal clear sky was the exact color of Jennifer’s car, and the tide was very low. I sat in one of the many corners of the garden created specifically for meditation, cradled in lush green and cool shade.

And meditated my way right into a fantasy of living in Encinitas.

I would wake up in the morning in my little beach cottage. I would hop on my beach Cruiser

My bike Gerard Butler.

(Gerard Butler) and ride downtown for an early yoga class. Afterwards, I would have coffee or breakfast at Café 101. Then I’d ride Gerry home and pick up my surfboard. I would slide my board into Gerry’s cool surf rack and cruise down to the beach for some surfing. After and hour or two of catching waves, I would pedal Gerry over to the Swami Meditation gardens for a little communing with my third eye, and finally, I’d bike home for a nap. I would wake up, shower, and get dressed up.

Me and Jen's Karmann Ghia. She doesn't have a name for it yet. I want to call it "Mine" 

Jen would pick me up in her turquoise Karmann Ghia and we would drive down to the Beach House for a Hawaiian ahi & king crab stack and a basil pepper martini while watching the sunset.

Yes, when my brain is not bouncing from subject to subject, mired in useless bits of information and endless lists of tasks, life can get prettygood in there.

Back to reality.

Swami's is a fun place to visit if you are ever in Encinitas. It lies at the south end of town and it’s not very big, so go eat at Café 101, and then walk off your breakfast at Swamis. You might even have a vision.

Lotusland Lost

I would tell you what part of Lotusland this is, but I don't know 'cause I couldn't get a reservation.

I have, for some time, been longing to tour Ganna Walska Lotusland, a private garden in the upscale neighborhood of Monticeto, California.

I had planned to hitch a ride down to Santa Barbara with my friend Paree and meet up with another gardening fanatic friend, Jennifer, to tour Lotusland. The day before I left, I called Lotusland to make a tour reservation. The phone call went something like this:

Unknown Garden Docent or vagrant sleeping next to phone: “Hello, Lotusland.”

Drunk Skunk

Everyone knows that if you see a skunk in the daytime, you should probably stay away from it.  Really? Cause when I see skunks at night I usually run toward them and try to cuddle with them.

So there I was a couple mornings ago, nursing a migraine headache as I watered all the spots in my garden that my loser watering system fails to reach.  It’s a morning ritual.  I looked down at my feet, and there was what appeared to be a dead baby skunk. My immediate reaction was terror, and then I thought, “poor little thing, I wonder how it died?” It was unusual that it had died without letting off that tell tale…eh…odor.  

I was just leaning down to do a visual examination when the little skunk lifted its miniature head and stared me right in the eyes.  I did what every calm mature adult would do: I ran screaming into the house, calling the dogs in behind me.

Tiny wino skunk stumbling around my yard at 11 in the morining.

As if watching the zombie apocalypse, the dogs and I peered out my front window.  The baby skunk rose up and stumbled around.  The poor thing was so wobbly I thought it must be either sick or injured. Then, from my vantage point, I saw it choose a well-fermented wild plum from under the tree, and eat it. Then it ate another one, then another and another. That little midget skunk was drunk.

What to do with an intoxicated diminutive pew factory when one is trying to run a dog business?  Ol’ Yeller’s bright idea was to get our Havahart trap and bait it with breakfast sausage.

The whole time Ol’ Yeller was doing his Havahart thing, I was thinking, “why aren’t you baiting it with rotten plums?” Not surprisingly, the trap plan worked about as well as if I had invited the little thing to jump into the back of my car so I could drive it to the other side of the lake.

The tiny shit dwarf had no fear of us. At one point, my son and I threw plums at it in hopes of scaring it away.  Instead, the skunk staggered right up to me and looked up, as if trying to tell me that the plums I was throwing at him weren’t ripe enough.

Little shitty skunk ignoring trap, looking for more boozy plums.

My son, my husband, the dogs and I watched Pepe le Pew for an hour or so. Since dogs and skunks are incompatible playmates, I had to cancel a dog evaluation appointment and postpone another dog’s drop-off.  My son and hubby went to run some errands, and I walked inside to make a piece of toast to stave off the nausea building from my migraine. During this time, the skunk disappeared.

I thought this was the end of the story until three nights later.  As I was writing this story, my dog wandered out the side door.  Who should be standing there? You guessed it: that tiny striped wino.

For the second time in the 3 ½ years that I have had my dog, Moondoggie was skunked. I can now officially report that baby skunks produce the same amount of abhorrent stench as their parents.

Good times.