Natural Bug Killer for Un-Natural Bugs

What better time of the year to go green than summer? The days are slow and lazy. The trees are leafy and shady. The garden is growing tomatoes like crazy. And the bugs are bigger and badder than ever. Mosquitoes, gnats, wasps, roaches, beetles, and mosquitoes, mosquitoes, mosquitoes. In the south, these critters are twice the size of normal. They are un-natural.

But that doesn't mean we've got to use un-natural (chemical) solutions to eliminate them from our yards, our homes, our porches, and our skin. Summer is simple and our pest control should be as well.

EcoSMART is what we've all been needing this summer. It kills bugs without harsh chemicals. It's safe to use around children and animals. And what I really, really love about it is that smells nice. This is a particularly desirable feature (in addition to being "natural") of the mosquito repellent, since it is sprayed directly on the skin.

Take care of your self this summer, and your home and your yard, and take care of the earth while you're at it, with pest control for the home and natural bug spray. How about if I help you out with that?

EcoSMART is giving away one value bundle to a lucky reader of this blog. The winner will be chosen by random drawing. You can enter your name in this drawing up to three times:

1. Leave a comment and tell me why you would like to receive the value bundle for your first entry.
2. Friend me on FaceBook (include a message that references this blog post) for your second entry.
3. E-mail your friends a link to this blog and copy me on it (lucybgoosey(at)aol.com) for your third entry.

Here's wishing you a green, bug free summer.

True Love

My husband sees me through the eyes of a blind man. To him, my figure is the same as when we first met, way back when we were 21. The body of a woman who carried four babies to term, and then carried four babies on the hip for years, doesn't register on his retina.


A friend told me that his vision difficulty is a sign of true love. Perhaps it is, but true love is no reason to go out and buy a string bikini and wear it onto the beach in front of God and everyone. Just because my spouse's eyeballs are cataracted by cupid certainly doesn't justify me exposing my saggy belly skin to everybody else on the beach. They aren't blinded by true love, but they might be blinded by me in my near birthday suit.


And here's the thing. If all the other matronly mamas' husbands are also blinded by love, then they are looking at me as I walk by and whispering to their wives, "You'd look better than her in a bikini." Love is blind but the neighbors see in high definition.

A Kid's Imagination

You never know what might be in a kid's imagination, until you give him the opportunity to release it. My 10 year-old son and two of his 4th grade classmates produced this video. After watching it, I still don't quite understand his imagination, but I was definitely entertained.

Skim Board vs. the Whiteboard

Yesterday I faced a conundrum. Someone forced me to take a hard look at what I'm teaching my children to value and to make a difficult decision.

The public schools in my county are out for summer. The private school my children currently attend, however, is still in session for another week. And therein lies my problem. Two of my 12 year-old son's friends, who are liberated to revel in summer's bliss, invited my child to revel with them. They asked if he could go to the beach with them for the day, today, a Friday, a school day for my 12 year-old.

There I found myself caught between the importance of education and what I know to be fleeting opportunities for youthful abandon. In an effort to put the decision on the shoulders of others, I told my son he could not go if he had any tests or quizzes scheduled for today. He smiled broadly at me. He didn't have any obligations of that nature.

I explained to him my concern over the message I would send him, and his siblings, for that matter, if I allowed him to skim board all day instead of stare at a whiteboard for eight hours. He assured me, however, that he understands the importance of studying hard and doing well in school. "Sometimes, Mama," he argued, "a boy just needs a mental health day." And he cartoonishly convulsed to emphasize his point.

Sending him out of the kitchen, I insisted that he leave me to ponder it for awhile. I thought about the last time I did anything spontaneous or slightly irresponsible. Nothing registered. Apparently, without my constant attention to all the details and serious commitment to the to-do list, nothing will get done and all will fall apart or come to a screeching halt.

Then I considered all the people who have died without notice; up and keeled over without warning. I pictured their to-do lists scribbled on paper on their kitchen tables with nothing crossed off. Friends and relatives mourn their absence. They cry. But no one says, "How will the grass ever get cut now that Gerald is gone?" or "Who will service those accounts Jane's been in charge of?" No, Gerald and Jane are six feet under having never unchained themselves from their to-do lists and life marches right on. The grass gets cut, the accounts get managed, and their to-do lists get thrown away, unnecessary remnants of lives concluded.

While I don't want my son to be 32 years-old, sitting on my sofa, watching reality TV, wearing a wife-beater shirt, with his right hand shoved in his unbuttoned trousers, and his left hand transporting a PBR from the end table to his lips, I don't want him to take himself too seriously either. Although I may regret it and find myself kicking his 32 year-old arse out the front door someday . . .

I landed on the side of youthful abandon and sent my son and his skim board to the beach with his friends. The whiteboard can wait until Monday.

Word Rodeo

So we're driving through one of those dark, narrow parking decks with small arrow signs pointing us in directions that they don't appear quite committed to. Those signs reserve the right to change their mind when a car comes through the maze in the opposite direction.

Out loud, I say to myself, "It's hard to maneuver a car in here," to which my young daughter responds, "What does maneuver mean?"

Her brother, only slightly older than her but adamant about exerting his intellectual dominance, replies, before I can, because I'm winding my way up the tower of Babel in the wrong direction, "It means poop."

Now, while he desires to crush his sister like a brainless bug under the sole of his intelligence, he also loves to fit in potty talk whenever he can. "No it doesn't," I correct, still peering through the dark for a parking space.

"Uh-huh," he insists, "I've heard you and Daddy talk about cow maneuver; how y'all are going to put cow maneuver on the garden."

"Honey, you mean manure. Cow manure."

"I do?" he asks, surprised. "Then what is cow maneuver."

"It's what they do at rodeos."

Twisted Minds

If my mother gives me advice, I think she's judgemental. If my mother gives my friends advice, they think she's wise (and that she is very, very cool).

While at every turn I fight being like my mother (a fight I'm losing), my friends all say they want to be just like my mother when they are her age (but they'll be just like their own mothers).

My 8 year-old daughter says she wants to be just like me when she grows up. She always seeks my approval. But ultimately it will be her friends who treat me like a rock star.

The whole cycle is just so twisted.

We're not Immortal After All

Dixie Carter died.

I didn't think things like that happened to people like us, Southern Ladies. I've been so naive. Now this. It changes everything. If something so unmentionable can happen to Dixie Carter then it can probably happen to me, too.

Am I ready? Have I hostessed enough garden parties, attended enough UDC meetings, baked enough casseroles, been to enough football games, grown enough tomatoes, eaten enough cucumber finger sandwiches, taught enough Bible School, mulched enough magnolias to enter through the pearly gates and recline in my heavenly home along the banks of the Suwannee River?

Miss Dixie, I hope that sweet chariot swings low for you and carries you on home, where the angels sit you down to a fine meal of fried chicken, okra, butterbeans, summer squash, sweet iced tea, and Mama's homemade mashed potatoes. And I hope all your kinfolk, who went on before you, are gathered around that table, too, talking and laughing and telling stories and generally welcoming you. What a wonderful celebration it must be when a Southern Lady gets to the other side.

Rest in peace, Miss Dixie. All us girls down here, now that we know the Lord will send for us as someday, as well, have got a whole lot of silver to polish so we can be ready.

You hear that, Lord! A whole, heap of a lot of silver to polish, so please don't show up for the party before I'm expecting you.