Plant a Tree for America

I heard the shovel clank against something hard, and my whole body shook violently when it did, causing me to fall backward. The metal tip had gone less than an inch into the grass when this happened. My sister, Krishelle, who had shown up bright and early at Bob and Cathie's beckoning to supervise the ordeal stood across from me, offering barely more than moral support.

We were twenty minutes into digging the second of four holes so I could plant these trees that had been delivered earlier in the week. I had oh so naively assumed that this would be a quick and painless project.

You guys. John Denver lied to us with that magical voice and admittedly exceptional head of hair. Because he made it sound like you could basically do it in your sleep. But I planted four trees for America this weekend and it was far and away the most difficult thing I've ever done in my entire life.

The Thing That Happened on Friday

You guys. This thing happened on Friday morning. I hesitate telling you this story because I think you might not believe that it's true. But I'm telling you, this story is true. It will seem unlikely that this could happen to anyone and especially that it would happen to me of all people. But this happened. It really truly did happen. And the moment it did, I wished a witness had been there because I knew that nobody would believe me.

It all started when I decided to seize the day. When I went to bed on Thursday I set my alarm for 5:00 AM. I was going to get up and go for a two-hour run because the half Ironman is now five weeks away and OH MY GOSH I'M GOING TO DIE.

I was so proud of myself for setting the alarm for that early and I decided that I would consider it a victory even if I hit snooze for three hours until finally getting up and just going to work. Because sometimes you just have to be proud of yourself for setting goals.

Pictures from my Phone & Weekly Distractions

Bob and Cathie showed up at my house tonight for another landscaping consultation. You guys. Everyone in this world needs a Bob and Cathie.

No. I'm taking this a step further. Everyone in this world needs the Bob and Cathie. Not just for the entertainment. Not just for the incredible (and usually outdated) family gossip. But because those people somehow seem to know how to do everything. Maybe it's a parent thing. Maybe it's a generation thing. I don't know. But in case these omnipotent skills are specific to Bob and Cathie, I hereby loan my parents out to the world. There will be a sign-up list on my door. You can rent them in hour-long increments. Don't forget to laugh at all of their jokes if you really want to hit it off.

And now, your Pictures and Distractions.

The world's cutest grandma and leading expert on Queen Noor. Thanks, Cathie, for the photo. 

Did Eli Get the Garbage Bins Out?

The Stranger community really pulled through this week. I got tweets. I got emails. I got Facebook messages. Several of you left comments on the most recent post. Comments which were entirely unrelated to what I had written that day. All efforts were made by Strangers everywhere to make sure that I, Eli Whittlebottom McCann, got the garbage bins out to the street by Wednesday morning.

On a side note, I'm starting to forget what my real middle name is anymore.

You guys. You started posting comments and sending reminders on Tuesday morning. And I was like, "gee thanks. While you're at it, remind me to retire when I'm 65." Because I really didn't think that reminding me that far in advance was going to be effective.

I knew on Sunday that the garbage bins needed to be out on the street Wednesday morning. It doesn't help me to remember that on Sunday. Or on Tuesday morning. Or at any other moment in time than on Tuesday evening at 11:38 PM, right before I go to bed.

Man on a Corner

I walk passed him every morning. He sits on the same downtown Salt Lake City corner. I think he might be schizophrenic. I'm not a doctor. I don't know. But something is clearly causing him to behave in odd ways. Sometimes he yells. Usually he's not yelling at anyone in particular. Most of the time the yelling doesn't seem to relate to anything happening around him. His yelling portrays him as astigmatic and disconnected.

His clothes look homemade. Like they used to be a part of something else. Like they weren't intended to be clothes until he got a hold of them. Curtains? Discarded fabric? A blanket? He's been wearing them for a while. I know this, because I pass him every morning.

He's homeless. And he's loud about it. If you make eye contact with him he tries to pull you in to whatever hallucination he's having. So I don't make eye contact with him. Not anymore. I used to. But it was too uncomfortable. Barely more uncomfortable than not making eye contact with him as he tries to talk to me when I pass by. Every morning.

Yard Work

One of the main reasons I bought a home is because I wanted to till and take care of the Earth. You guys. I freaking love yard work. This was instilled in me at a very early age.

Flashback! 1987

Cathie: And don't come back inside until every blade of grass has been dusted! Twice!

Eli: But I'm only three years old!

End Flashback

See?! I grew up on yard work. Yard work was my only friend for the better part of three decades. There were a number of shovels in the garage that I considered to be family. We still get into awkward fights every year at Christmas.

So when I bought this house in December, it was with eager anticipation that I began my paper-chain countdown to yard-work season.

Yard-work season has arrived. And I am suddenly beyond overwhelmed.

Pictures from my Phone & Weekly Distractions

You guys. Wednesday was garbage day and you forgot, AGAIN to remind me. This is getting really serious. In the four months I have lived in this house, I think the garbage bin has made it to the curb on time exactly three times. And the first time was two days after I moved in and there was basically nothing in it but I was just so excited to participate in the neighborhood activity so I rolled it out there anyway. Isn't reminding me on Tuesday night to take the garbage out to the curb one of your duties listed in our Stranger contract? I inform you about mole rats and satanic chickens and you make sure I take the garbage out, don't sign up for triathlons, and stop unnecessarily taking my clothes off at the dentist and pharmacy.

June Snapple wouldn't forget to remind me. Just sayin'.

And now, your Pictures and Distractions:

My new exceedingly heavy bar stools. NOT THAT I KNOW WHAT A BAR IS, CATHIE.

Blog Comments

More often than you might expect I get emails from blog readers who are curious about how I feel about the comments on Stranger. My friends and family are constantly asking me about this, too.

"Don't you think it's annoying when someone leaves a comment telling you to marry Jolyn/Rebecca/Hannah/TheQofC?"

"Did it make you mad when that anonymous commenter said that your writing is boring?"

"Why don't you delete the comments that call you a liar and say that you exaggerate?"

"Why don't you ever respond when people accuse you of being gay? THEY ARE ACCUSING YOU OF BEING GAY!"

You may have noticed that I'm not the world's most avid comment responder. I make a point here and there to pop in and say hi, but mostly I'm too lazy and tired and distrac . . . oh look! A bird!

My Favorite Complication

A French woman asked me from the driver's seat where to turn. I pointed to the street and she emphatically and in a strong French accent told me that the homes lining the road were "lovely." Rebecca nodded along, agreeing with her mother's pronouncements.

For reasons that made absolutely no sense to me, I was asked to assist on this mommy/daughter adventure to retrieve Rebecca's vehicle, which was parked somewhere halfway across the valley. They needed it driven back to Rebecca's home in our neighborhood. I was sure there was at least one unnecessary person in this process. And I was sure that one unnecessary person was me. But when Rebecca had called moments earlier and asked me to drive to her house to assist, I knew that compliance would be easier to survive than an explanation.

And in any event, Rebecca time is always welcome in my life. I know few people as wonderful as that half French woman.

Rebecca's mom wanted to make a quick stop on the way to see my house, since she hadn't had the opportunity previously. So I directed her back to my starting location.

That Old Couch

Several years ago I graduated from law school and moved to the BIG city with nothing but a dance belt and a tube of chapstick to call my own (please see Waiting For Guffman if you have not already). I had no furniture. None, whatsoever. And suddenly, I had an apartment that I needed to fill.

Unfortunately, I also had no money. I had spent my twenties sinking every penny I could get my hands on into education and traversing the couchsurfing world and now that I was done with school I had taken a government job in the state judiciary, which SPOILER ALERT did not pay me one million dollars.

Suddenly feeling the need to furnish my adulthood in one fell swoop felt incredibly daunting. I had moved to Salt Lake City with a law school friend, Matthew, who was in the same position as me and so the two of us went on a quest to find as much free furniture as possible to fill our 7th floor two-bedroom apartment on Broadway Ave.

We found this and that, here and there. Grandma furniture. Old lamps that needed to be taped up. Tea kettles, Venetian masks, and Snuggies. The usual things.