Half-Assing the Homestead: Identity Transgression Through Guerrilla Gardening for the Average Suburban Witch

The main reason I started this blog is because according to the Internet (which, again, does not lie) a successful homesteader is one who can chronicle the work they do and when in something at least loosely resembling an organized fashion. In fact, when I was Google-surfing for Excel templates last morning–don’t give me that side-eye; what else are you going to look up at 3:15 a.m.?–it turns out there are an awful lot of search returns for “garden spreadsheet template”, especially if one opts to throw in the search phrase, “stop judging me.”

Considering I cut my teeth as a drinker on boxed wine, I guess we all know which one of these search returns I immediately bookmarked.

However, it turns out that there is another method to my madness. It turns out that beneath this cool exterior of intellectualism is a really petty, unforgiving kind of person who not only manages to hold a grudge list to rival the likes of Richard Nixon, but also really dislikes things not looking “nice.” My preoccupation with things looking “nice,” admittedly, borders a bit on the pathological; when I was pregnant, I often found myself folding sheets and towels, and then doing it again until I could completely eliminate any visible traces of crease marks.

I also had an unrelenting craving for Taco Bell mild sauce, which is unfortunate because a) heartburn is a major issue for a lot of pregnant women due to acidity imbalances and I was no exception, and b) it’s Taco Bell, which might not seem like a big deal until you stop to consider that I’ve been trying to read 50 books this year and I’m smack-dab in the middle of You’ll Learn to Hate Everything You Put into Your Mouth, by Buzz Killington. 

Uncharted Identities in Suburgatory: One Witch’s Perspective

When I was a kid, I knew two things: one, religion was a waste of time, and two, I did not want to be a stay-at-home mom, because I had no intention of ever getting married or having children. Eventually, I grew up, and it turned out that neither of these things were actually true for me. My religion has proven to be the exact opposite of a waste of time, especially as it concerns surviving the rotation of carpools, play dates, and forgotten anniversaries/holidays/birthdays.

Edit #1: So, it turns out that July 7 is my husband’s birthday. Whoops. This year, I plan on baking a cake, and since I can set a watch to the reliability of me screwing it up halfway through, I will be telling him that it was made by our daughter to circumvent anything but affection at the ongoing reminder that when something is done half-assed, it’s adorably forgivable when done by a tiny person. Also, it will be entirely believable, as there’s no way in hell our particular cherub will ever feature on “MasterChef Junior.” Trust me; we’ve watched the show enough to know.

I should start by saying that I’m a transplant to northern California, but I was born and raised in Kansas. To say I was a square peg in the round (hell)hole that was Johnson County would be something of an understatement. I’m not the type to fit in much of anywhere, and that was especially true in the suffocating suburbs of Kansas City (Kansas, not Missouri; to recycle an old joke, you know a city has a lot to apologize for when no one state wants to claim it). Frankly, I blame a fair amount of this nonsense on the lingering cultural association of “The Wizard of Oz.”