electric mist

conversation with my son

Jake walked in and we chatted a bit about this and that (girls, work, book), and as he was going to bed, something (hell if I know what) compelled me to say, "You know, I don't remember if I ever told you this... I told your brother, but not you... but if anything ever happens to me and your dad at the same time, you need to call Pam."

"Pam?"

"Yes, Pam A. (the amazing organizational friend who filed stuff for me)... she knows where the life insurance policies are."

::: odd look from son ::::

"Seriously. If something happens to us, if there's an accident, there's some money. But this policy expires in a couple of years, so after that, you get nothing."

"You're not giving me much time here to form a plan, mom."

this is why I have nightmares

So, my sister-in-law e-mailed me yesterday with an oh-so-innocent subject line:

"For Carl and Luke and Jake"

Right away, I know to be afraid. I opened the e-mail and she said:

"For next year’s New Year’s party:"

And then she included a link:

How To Build a Toilet Paper Air Cannon

It was complete with photos and instructions, not only of how to build the damned thing, but how to make it a semi-automatic air cannon. It's not bad enough that my husband and sons build a 'tater gun every year and generally wreck havoc in our back yard. Noooooooooooooo, not quite good enough.

My reply to her:

"Can I tell you how much it scares me to know you're putting your evil genius to work to help the mad scientists in my family? Stop that."

And her response?

:::::snicker::::::

I think I am on the losing end of this battle.

things I would never do, no matter what you paid me

You know, beyond the obvious illegal, totally immoral stuff. I'd totally do all of that.

So, the other stuff:

1) Sky diving. I don't care how much you tell me it's perfectly safe and easy to pull that little pull tab that makes the parachute expand and that only a teeny tiny percentage of people ever go splat. It's only a teeny tiny percentage of people who get pregnant while using two types of birth control, and I have two kids, so I'm thinking I'm not really good with the odds here.

2) Eat live bugs, even for a million dollars. Look, I didn't even venture into eating Chinese food until after I was married and still it took my husband years to convince me I would like it. I only tried sushi a couple of years ago. (i.e., bait. It's pretty good bait, but it's still bait.) But live things? Not even with a gun to my head.

3) Stand in a box on national TV, looking like hell so that I could have a makeover to make me look better / younger. I am just not that much of a masochist. You know damn good and well those people in the box are forced to wear their ugliest stuff and wear no make up just so they look their worst, and then, big surprise, make up, clothes and style make them look better. Well, duh. As I said on Ally's blog, the whole fashion industry was really sweating that one, baby.

4) Make a video of a really intimate moment. Anyone who makes one should just go ahead and make copies for the general public because someone, somewhere is either going to get pissed off and show it or is going to steal it and blackmail you with it. You might as well just go ahead and pick the best images and make stills from them. You can't pretend to be all coquettish if you're hanging your hootchie out on film. Suck it up and show it off or shut up.

5) Live for a year month day five minutes with TV cameras in my home to document all of the ways I can be crazy and stupid. We do crazy really well over here. I'd really rather there not be proof the kids could use later to put us away with the little snug white jackets.

6) Expose all of my innermost thoughts and feelings to the world at... er, oops. Move along, nothing to see here.

So... what would you NOT do for the money? If you say it a blog, come back here and let me know and I'll link back to you.

random acts of violence

Over on Backspace, we were talking about blogs, then got randomly off topic and somehow the act of typing came up, wherein a few people admitted to being peckers (as in, hunt and peck). I asked why they didn't use voice recognition software. Heather cracked me up with what she suspected would happen if she tried speaking her prose into a microphone:

"Vlad stepped into the hall, minding the lack of sound around him. Ahead, there was the shape of a man, but it couldn't be...no honey, mommy's writing. I'll get you chocolate milk in a minute. Where was I? Oh yeah, that shadowy hall thing. Hmmm...okay, but it couldn't be a man--Vlad was alone. He'd check the entire house over and locked the door himself. He...what? WHAT?! I CAN'T HEAR YOU FROM IN HERE! Yeah, chocolate milk. I don't know, give her a cookie until I can thaw the chicken."

Seeing that, I suddenly realized exactly what my prose would look like:

"Bobbie Faye wasn't going to panic. There would be no panicking in the Sumrall househald. Which was when she noticed the WHAT? I don't know where it is. No, I didn't move it. No. What? No, the last time I saw it, it was in the where the hell did he go? Where are you? Will you quit moving around the house? It was in your closet. No, your closet. okay, where was I? Right. She noticed the trailer starting to NO. I did NOT MOVE IT. I don't know where you put it, it wasn't my day to watch it. Okay, and lessee... she noticed the trailer starting to. What? Holy freaking geez.

::::::stomp stomp stomp:::::
:::::: commit murder:::::::::::
::::::return to computer::::::::

Okay. Thank God. Quiet. I wonder if they have laptops in solitary?"

Check out Heather's blog... she's got a cool YA vampire novel coming out soon.

that memory thing

I don't know what's going on around here, but lately our conversations have been like:

"Do you know where that thing is?"

"What thing?"

"You know, the thing. That, what's it called, thing? I was holding it a few minutes ago and now I can't find it."

"You were holding it recently, and now you can't name it or find it?"

"Yeah. It's somewhere around here. I was walking to the back, I had it in my hands, I set it down to pick up something else. Oh, right, the phone. Someone called and then I..."

"Who called?"

"Uh. Wait," checks caller ID. "Your mom."

"You need caller ID to remember that?"

"I was preoccupied. I think I need those pills."

"What pills?"

"You know, the ones that help your memory. I can't remember the name of them."

"Well, they probably have them over at the health food store. I bet the clerk could tell you what they are."

"Hey, you're right. I'm going to go on over there now."

:::::: little while later, spouse returns :::::::

"So, did you get the pills?"

"What? Oh, no. I forgot. I got there, saw the video store, went in and got distracted. Totally forgot about the pills."

"And the thing?"

"What thing?"

"The thing you were carrying around that started all of this?"

"When?"

"Just a couple of hours ago."

"Oh. Yeah. I think I'm going to go get those pills."

"Wait. I want to put a name tag on you. With your home address. Just in case."

"Smartass."

We are young, damnit. Young. Apparently very tired and desperately needing a vacation.

when in doubt, throw hard candy (aka, The Santa from Hell)

(I've been asked, as a Christmas tradition, to re-post this story.)

When the kids were little -- I think Jake was three and Luke was seven -- Christmas felt like it was going to be slim. Make that downright anorexic. So I was looking for a way to bring a little fun into the season, something that wouldn't cost much.

I had a brilliant idea. (I should come with a warning label: If brilliant idea occurs, step way-the-hell back for your own safety.)

Anyway. The idea was to have someone play Santa at our house for a pre-Christmas visit. We'd invite all the neighbor kids and their parents and each family would bring a gift for their child ahead of time. I'd hide the gifts away and squirrel them to our Santa, who would come in the house with lots of Ho Ho Hos and joy and jovial warmth and after regaling the kids with whatever it is Santas regale kids with, he'd give out the presents. There would be hot chocolate and apple cider, a beautifully lit Christmas tree in the background. Maybe even singing, if the kids wanted to sing. We woud be so sappy, Hallmark would sue. Or throw up, but whatever, it was going to be great.

When I write it out like that, it sounds like a very nice day, doesn't it? It really does seem normal and sane and I should have known that in my world, "normal" and "sane" do not apply.

It progressed innocently enough... I invited all of the neighbors, who loved the idea, especially since it was a fairly tight season for everyone. The "gifts" to the kids were held to a very low budget, so everything was fair and equal. There was a tree, decorations, lights, apple cider and hot chocolate, brownies, cookies, you name it for a sugar fix, someone was going to bring it. All I needed was a Santa.

Finding someone with a Santa suit wasn't quite as easy as I had expected; most of the people who have them are booked for all of December, and it was two weeks before Christmas and looking a little bleak. And forget getting one of those guys for free. Like I was crazy for thinking this was the season of giving or something. Of course, the kids already knew that Santa was going to come to our house for our party, the specific date was set, so there was no going back at that point. (Could you look a bunch of 3 to 7 year olds in the face and tell them Santa wasn't showing up? If so, here's your application to Mercenaries-R-Us and Osama's on line two.) So. Had to find a Santa. Was getting a little scared as the day approached and there was no Santa to be had.

Then a member of our family, who we still speak to even after this event, suggested a certain older friend-of-the-family. I had met this FOtF several times, and he's a little... erm... warped. He is very very sweet, but also sort of odd, disjointed, but in a quasi-live-in-a-fog sort of way. Jovial, though, he had down pat. He had the rotund belly, the jolly round cheeks, the perfect Santa nose. The thing that worried me was that he was incredibly bashful. And when he did speak, he was extremely quiet. I couldn't remember him putting together two whole sentences in a row, unless you call smiling and nodding a lot "sentences," but at this point, I figured, what could it hurt?

Now, in retrospect, I understand why the heroine always goes down into the dark basement when she's heard a noise, there's a serial killer known to be in her neighborhood, someone who'd been stalking her and had keys made to her house, and yet she goes anyway, armed with only a pony-tail clasp and Malibu Barbie lipstick. She was thinking what could it hurt?

Our house was tiny, so the plan was for me to hide the bag of toys at our back door for Santa to grab, then he'd go around and come in the front door, where everyone was gathered in the living / dining room area. Tree lit? Check. Apple cider? Check. Hot chocolate? Check. Sugar high toddlers on the ceiling? Check. So many people packed in there, we were going to need pregnancy tests soon? Check.

But no Santa.

An hour goes by. The kids get higher and rowdier and the adults get fidgety and gossipy and God only knows how many families we managed to break up on that one night. Meanwhile, Jake (three) wandered off to the kitchen. I could see him (very very tiny house) from the dining room, when we heard a noise outside. A distinctive 'HO HO HO" noise. At last.

Everyone turned expectantly toward the front door. I don't want Jake to miss this, so I run into the kitchen to scoop him up, when suddenly, the back door BURST open with Jake not a foot away from it, and in bound Santa, HO HO HOing at the TOP OF HIS LUNGS, and RUNNING, people. RUNNING. There was NO ROOM TO RUN so Jake turned away from this screaming giant red monster and beelined it back to the living room, which meant he went OVER me, over a few other people standing in the way and did Santa stop? No, no he did not. Santa ran smack over me, over a few other innocent bystanders, and to top it off, the whole running time? He was throwring candy. Hard candy. And I don't mean "lightly tossing it to the cute little four-year-old standing there with her jaw open in abject fear...." No. I mean hurling it, 95mph over the plate there, Babe, pinging parents, knocking out a couple of random elementary kids and everyone started dodging and diving for cover and did he STOP? No. No he did not. He kept whizzing that candy and HO HO HOing and running (now in circles in the living room) and kids were screaming, Jake was crying, Luke was hiding, I was still on the floor in total shock, and when he did stop, finally (I think Carl tripped him), he started with the presents. Not a single jolly word did this man speak. He pulled out presents, asked the kid's name, and the really smart kids hid behind their parents, because he HURLED the gifts at their heads. Hurled. I'm not kidding you.

By this point, there was hot chocolate and apple cider everywhere, there were a couple of wet spots on the sofa I didn't want to identify, most of the kids were wailing and trying to climb their nearest parent and on top of everything else, Santa had managed to drop one of the kid's presents outside... though I had the presence of mind to realize what had happened and I had a stand-by gift ready (in case one of the parents forgot) and so that was solved. When he finished slinging the last present, did he SIT DOWN and calmly tell lovely stories to the kids to keep them from growing up to be SERIAL KILLERS?

No. No he did not.

He started up again with the running and HO HO HOing and throwing even MORE CANDY. You'd think the man was on a float and we were thirty feet away, and when he finally finished careening over a couple of kids who hadn't been trampled on the first go-round, he sprinted to the back door and ran out into the night.

The back door slammed and the whole house hushed for a moment in stunned silence. Parents looked at me like I should be locked up, and those were the nice polite expressions, comparitively speaking. Then the shrieking began, and the confusion (toys had been dropped and stomped on by Santa on his way out) and there was just no way to rescue it. I've never seen a bunch of people leave a party faster in my life.

But I tell you what. Whenever someone would say to those kids, even years later, that they "better be good because Santa was watching"... man, they'd straighten right the hell up. And I don't think a single one of them touched hard candy for years.

(Just to wrap up... I thought the Santa would have realized how badly things had gone, but the next time we saw him and his wife, he was back in bashful, quiet mode and his wife told us that he'd reportedly had an aboslutely delightful time, that it had been one of the best Santa/parties he'd ever attended. And he sat there and smiled and nodded.)

don't pay the ransom...

I got free. See, there was this guy, yeah. Um, a guy. And a mask. And a gun. Yeah, that's it. A gun. And they were gonna hold me hostage, and demand money. Right, that's it. 'Til they forgot to gag me, and man, can I apparently annoy people. They paid to send me back. I shouldda held out for a cruise.

(That's code for I am deep in editing mode hell on the book.)

think maybe he'll remember next time?

Jake (19) recently got accepted into LSU's Fireman Training Progam -- a very tough, thorough rookie training class. It's run very well (firefighters from all over the state and all of the chemical plants train there), and it's tough to get accepted into the program, but he did it. It's also run very much like a military organization, with rules, etc., and there seems to be great respect from the trainees for their teachers / Chief. There's a motto on a large sign when you're driving into or out of the barracks, which says, "Your job is walking into HELL. Our job is to make sure you walk back out."

I'm really proud of Jake, and I only had one slight concern about him in this program, and it's probably not what you're thinking (fire). (Well, okay, scared of that, too, but his brother constantly sets himself on fire by accident, so I'll be glad at least one of them knows how to put him out.) Anyway, my biggest concern for Jake was: will he wake up every morning on time? Because these people don't fool around, you have to be up and dressed in complete uniform and ready to go exactly when they say. Unfortunately, Jake could sleep through a freight train running down the middle of his bedroom. He has slept through hurricanes, his brother throwing things at him, his dad pouring ice water on him, various people stepping over and / or on him. My only hope was that, hey, this is at a firehouse and they have a loud alarm, right? Surely that would wake him up.

Every so often I'll see him for a few minutes and get a status report. The majority of the time, they're super positive and he's all lit up, excited. Happy. It's amazing to see him happy. Tonight, though, when he stopped by here for a few minutes, we were talking and he started to reach for something and said, "Ow," just for extending his arm too fast.

I said, "What's wrong?"

"I, um, had to do a bunch of push ups."

(The Chief will give them 80 push ups if they step foot over the threshold of the barracks without one piece of their gear on properly. It's important that they learn they absolutely must do everything in order, consistently, especially when putting on their safety equipment.)

"How many push ups did you have to do?"

He lowered his head, looking a little sheepish. "600."

"Good grief! What did you forget to put on this morning?"

"Well, I forgot my cap.... and my helmet... and my shoes... and I'm not entirely sure I had my pants on."

I cracked up. "What happened?"

"I just couldn't fall asleep last night, and by the time I did, I had one hour's sleep before having to get up. I just sort of stumbled out the door and stood in formation. I'm hoping I had my boxers on. My friend told me later that he kept trying to stop me and that I was talking to him and responding, but I don't remember a thing. I asked him how bad was I, and all he could do was laugh and say, 'Let's just say you weren't anywhere near regulation.'"

(The thing that keeps this story funny and not sad is that this child has passed many a drug tests -- the thorough kind -- to get into the plants and stuff where we have jobs. Thank goodness he's always walked away from that temptation. He just severed two friendships because they'd started getting into drugs and he knows he couldn't have a career as a firefighter if he even has one thin on his record, so he's put himself out of harm's way. An impressive thing for a 19 year-old to do when there's usually so much peer pressure to do otherwise.)

The Chief made him go lie back down for a couple of hours, and then after that, made him get up and do 350 of the original 600 push ups. Which Jake did, to his credit.

But I'll bet you he'll remember his gear a lot better next time.

Assuming he wakes up.

Too Stupid To Live (TSTL)

Yesterday I had to fax something to the General Contractor (GC) at the business location where we were doing some work. He read the business' fax number to me off their letterhead.

I go to fax this. This is a no brainer, right?

The fax rings, and a woman answers the fax line, and I can hear her say (over my fax machine) "a company name" different than the one I thought I was faxing. She hangs up the phone as soon as she hears the fax tone and, of course, the fax doesn't go through.

I call the GC back to make sure I wrote the number down correctly. I certainly didn't want to keep faxing someone's regular line and driving them nuts. But nope, he assures me the number I'm reading back to him is the correct number.

So, I try again, being careful to double and then triple check what I've dialed. Same woman answsers, the company name she's saying is still not the company I'm supposed to be faxing.

By this time, I've spent ten minutes on something that should have taken two.

I call the fax number (since she's answering it) and sure enough, she answers again with the wrong company name. I explain to her who I am and who I'm trying to reach, and she says, "Oh, that's us. This is the fax line."

I comment that she was answering the phone with a different company name.

"That's where I used to work," she says. "I sometimes forget and answer wrong. But the fax line should be working. Maybe my boss is on the DSL and it's keeping the fax from going through."

"The fax line is working because we're talking on it."

"Oh," she says. "Then I don't understand why you're having a problem."

"Because you answered it and hung up."

Now, there are some places where they'll answer the phone and hear the fax tone and then they'll hang up and the fax will take over. I don't know if that's the kind of set up she has or not, so I ask, and she says, "No, usually the fax just goes through. Maybe you dialed the wrong number."

We are, still, talking ON the fax line. I point this out to her. Her next response was, "Oh, well then maybe you should just dial the number part without the area code."

"No," I say, "aside from the fact that it's long distance and I have to dial the area code, remember -- we're talking on the line right now."

"Well maybe that's why your fax won't go through, then."

:::::: toni contemplates a mercy killing :::::::

"I'm going to hang up with you," I say, "and dial the fax again, okay?"

"Okay."

I do. Right then. She answers the fax line again, then hangs up and doesn't forward it.

I find her regular number and call it, and say, "I'm the one who just tried to fax you (again), and you answered the fax line (again)."

"Yeah," she says, "I wanted to make sure it was working. Did your fax go through?"

"Um, no, because you answered the line and then hung up."

"Maybe you dialed the wrong number."

"I'm sure it's the right number, since you answered it."

"You're sure it was me?"

"Yes. It was you. Quit answering the fax line."

"Oh. But how will I know if it's working?"

"The fax will go through."

"Okay. If you say so," she says, very suspicious.

We hang up and I dial again, and then she says, "Hello (wrong company name again)." Then I hear, "Oops! I guess I wasn't supposed to answer that this time."

And she hangs up. And doesn't forward the fax.

I try again. She answers the fax line again.

I call her back on the other line. (She still answers the wrong company name.) I remind her who I am (because at this point, I'm not holding out any hope that anything is registering), and say, "If you answer that fax line again? I'm going to drive over there and rip your arms off your body. Leave the freaking fax line alone."

She says, (I swear), "I still don't think you're dialing the right number. It's not my fault if you're dialing the wrong number."

I read the fax number off to her to demonstrate that I am, indeed, faxing the right number. She agrees that's the fax number, then says, "So, that was you trying to fax just then?"

::::::::: toni's head explodes :::::::::::::

"Yes. Stay on this phone with me. I'm going to dial the fax line. It's going to ring. DON'T TOUCH IT."

So I dial the fax while she's on the phone, and we hear the phone ringing, and she says, "Just a minute, my other line's ringing," and she sets that phone down (doesn't put me on hold) and now I can hear in stereo (through that phone AND the fax machine) how she answers the fax line again with the wrong company name.

She came back to my line and said, "I don't know why that line keeps ringing and then nothing happens."

I ask to speak to her boss, and when he answers, I explain, "She keeps answering the fax line. Are y'all supposed to answer the fax line and then forward it?"

"Nope," he says. "Are you sure you're dialing the right number?"

How the employees there haven't gone postal is a complete mystery to me.

Ten minutes later, I finally manage to fax them once I've convinced him I'm dialing the right number. This entire process took forty-five minutes. I could have damned near driven there and hand delivered the paperwork.

Makes me wish there was a way to sort of pre-qualify people... you know, like you can call someone and by popular vote, a recording comes on their line as a warning, "Please be advised that the person you are calling has been voted Too Stupid To Live by 98% of the people who have called this number. Please continue the call at your own risk or dial 9 to vote for a mercy killing."

I have no clue what to call this one

The street which leads to our neighborhood has gotten exponentially busy due to (1) massive overbuilding of new condos and (2) all thirty-thousand LSU students returning to live in said condos. And apparently, when you move into a new area and there is only ONE STREET in and out of said area, the way you drive on that street is to accelerate three thousand miles per hour in the TWO FEET of space between you and the next car and then slam on your brakes to see if you can give the guy a coronary or until every driver in the lane has a full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder melt-down and takes out the oncoming lane of traffic. It's the Russian Roulette school of driving.

And it's confusing the hell out of the squirrels.

There are approximately three billion squirrels who live in our neighborhood. One billion of them are in our back yard while another billion are homesteading in our attic, but that's another story. Right now, the squirrels don't know when to cross the street without being squished, and it's starting to freak me out. The last thing I want to do is hit a squirrel, and they're so dazed from the 114 degree heat index and confused from the traffic and the trees are near enough to the road that they just randomly drop onto the hot pavement and RUN LIKE HELL, and then CHANGE THEIR MIND and then they are like frogger, trying to get across between cars and I end up shouting instructions to them because we all know squirrels can understand batshit crazy southern women.

Yesterday, Carl and I were going out to eat, with me driving. A baby squirrel dropped onto the road right in front of me and ran toward the other side of the street, then changed its mind and ran back, nearly running under my car and the whole time I was screaming, "STOP IT STOP IT, TURN AROUND, NO NO NO NO, NOT THAT DIRECTION, WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR MOTHER TEACHING YOU?"

And Carl's direct and immediate response to this was to look at me and say, "You know, they really ought to make it mandatory for the squirrels to watch that movie."

"What? What movie?"

"You know, Alcatraz."

"They need to watch a Clint Eastwood movie?"

"No, not that one, the one with the green ball thing in it."

Looooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggg silence, while I mentally race through movies with green things.

"Oh. You mean The Rock?"

"Yeah! That one."

"Why in the hell do squirrels need to watch The Rock?"

"So they can learn how to go through that choppy thing. They can see Sean Connery and get all inspired before crossing the street."

He looks at me as if this is a perfectly valid suggestion. (Sometimes, with Carl, I never really know for sure.) It's then I remembered that he's been outside every day, working in the 114 degree heat index. I fully expect him to start playing frogger any moment with the traffic. But maybe he can teach the squirrels a thing or two.

overheard

I really loathe grocery shopping, but every once-in-a-while, there is a reward... like overhearing the following conversation between a couple. To understand this, you must know they were in their late thirties (my guess) and dressed in jeans, t-shirts, nothing odd or attention-grabbing. She was, however, on the D-cup side of the divide.

GUY (looking a little too michievous): I hate that bra you're wearing.
WOMAN: What? Why?
GUY: The material's too thick. I can't see where your nipples are.
WOMAN: That's sort of the point.
GUY: We need to go stand in the freezer section. That way you wouldn't have limp nipples. Limp nipples. Hey, isn't that the name of a band?
WOMAN: Maybe they have a baseball bat section.

I can only guess that they'd either been married a while or dating a while since she didn't deck him right there.

recycling

Luke glanced into the pantry and noticed that the recycling bin was nearly overflowing with diet coke cans.

"Mom! You could build a small airplane from those cans."

"And your point is?"

"You've really got to quit drinking so many diet cokes. They're not good for you."

"Kid, step away from my diet coke habit. It's my blankie, because right now I am eating low carbs, which deprives me of all the things I love: pasta, cheetos, fritos, brownies, cake, cookies, chocolate, m&ms, pizza, and pie. "

"Wait a minute. You don't like pie."

"I MIGHT have LOVED pie, and now I'll never know, because I can't eat it and I can't eat any of those other things and I'm living on that ragged edge of insanity and the diet coke is the only thing keeping me from crossing the line into the machete-killing-spree zone."

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Did you know that your head sort of spun around and your eyes got really bulgey there for a minute."

"You threatened the diet coke."

"Here's a glass of ice. Should I pop the top for you?"

"Survival instincts?"

"You betcha."

"Don't say I never taught you anything."

on cheesy food...

Me to oldest son, Luke: So I hear you called your grandmother, your aunt and your dad to find out how to cook the roast in your new crockpot.

Luke: Yeah. They were a big help.

Me: But you never called me!

Luke: So?

Me: So, I cook!

Luke: Yeah, and if I ever want to cook something with cheese on it, I'll call you.

(I would have smacked him, but he had a point.)

Carl took a pan of excellent baked potato casserole he'd made out of the refrigerator; he and Luke were going to eat the left-overs. I was sitting in my office, which has a door open to the kitchen so I can see what they're doing.

Luke pulled off the lid and they both looked at it with a little shock.

Carl: I see your mom has been eating the potatoes. She ate all the tops where the cheese was.

Luke sees me giving Carl the death-glare.

Luke, to me: What? Why are you annoyed he said that?

Me: Well it's not like I did it on purpose.

(Luke cracks up. I realized what I've said and I'm not sure if I can come up with a rational justification for why the cheesy tops are gone since I have been the only one home, so I opt for shutting up.)

Carl: That's okay. We'll just put more cheese on them.

Me: Um, we're out of cheese.

Luke: Imagine that.

best title for a TV show, ever

No, not the title of the blog or the entry, but the one she ought to use as described in the actual entry.

Very funny blog -- y'all check it out.

apparently, English isn't spoken here

Every once-in-a-while, I'll get questions from my kids that makes me wonder if they ever actually heard anything while growing up here. They know I was an English major, and they'll call out-of-the-blue with the weirdest word questions. Now, I was always a bookworm and routinely, I'll know what a word means (sensing it out in a sentence), but not necessarily how to pronounce it, and since I don't talk to that many other bookworms on a regular basis, I'm perfectly capable of mangling the pronunciation of the less-than-prosaic words. So if my kids were asking me how to pronounce something, I wouldn't worry. But no, they call me to see what a word means. (Ah, the use of cell phones while driving and without access to a dictionary. Finally, I have a use in life.)

Luke called during finals last semester. Luke is 22 and has a very good GPA in political science. The kid is gifted. And yet, he called me and said, "Mom? What does 'exasperating' mean?" I'm wondering if he found his photo in the dictionary or something. So I ask "why?" first. "Because ____ (his major professor) told me today that I was exasperating. It didn't sound like a good thing." I'm nodding, thinking, yes, intuitive professor. Not a good thing to say, though, so I ask him, "Um, just how did the professor use the word?" "Oh," Luke said, "he said that the whole time he read my paper, he thought I was on the verge of something brilliant and instead, I just ended up exasperating."

Does a mother proud.

To give him credit (and I'm stretching for it here), I think he was so surprised by the comment and the way in which is was delivered, it sounded like a compliment, which was so at odds with the topic they were discussing, that Luke wondered if he was confused. Like Inigo Montoya... "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

Then the youngest son (18) called tonight and said, "Mom? What does it mean when someone is 'implicated' in something?" And yes, I did get very quiet in that moment and listened intently to see if there were sirens or cops in the background of his phone call. I was almost afraid of answering that one, and more afraid to ask why he wanted to know. Turned out, someone had used it incorrectly and he was trying to settle a bet. (And no dictionary present, of course. That would just be wrong.)

You'll have to excuse me while I go write out things like my own obituary. I'm not leaving anything to chance or I might end up being "exasperating." However, I have decided that any important, top secret documents I might ever need to hide are going in the dictionary. The kids will never look there.

'tater launch

They kept forecasting for rain, and probably somewhere around fifty people after all was said and done. Because I was busy visiting with everyone, I nearly forgot to take photos, but managed to get a couple of the tater launching:

That's Luke (left) and Jake (right) prepping to shoot. Luke made that 'tater gun just a couple of hours prior to the party.

Here's a close-up of Luke spraying in the propellant:

And of course, our fancy schmancy target:

There were kids running around, hence the spacewalk:

Tons of food, lots of fun and great company. We only had one minor injury. My neice (16) saw her cousins about to launch taters and decided to go stand near the target. I don't know why. A 'tater part riccocheted off and smacked her on the thigh, but no bruising.

(Someone asked last post about the emergency trip. That would be for Luke, a couple of years ago. The first year, Luke singed his hair on one side when looking into the barrel (from the side, near the flint). Next year, he singed his eyebrows. The emergency room year, he got a piece of flint in his eye. All of this while trying to make it safe for the other people to handle it. I pointed out to him that perhaps "safe" didn't mean what he thought it meant, since he was the only one getting injured, and that if he got injured again, we would be cancelling the 'tater launch. He's managed to be injury-free for two years.)

'tater launch prep day

Tomorrow will be our 5th Annual 'Tater Launch party, where we gather everyone we can (whoever is sober enough after a big NY's night out) and they come to our house for lunch and sometime during the afternoon, they will all go outside to the backyard where they will put a potato into a PVC pipe "gun" and will -- through various mechanical means, some hair-spray as propellant, and a flint -- ignite said 'tater and shoot it out of the gun.

Yes, we are all about class 'round here, let me tell you.

The first year started innocently enough, I suppose. Friends were visiting from D.C., and they'd never been here. I wanted to minimize their perception of southerners as "hicks" and so had planned a couple of minor events to showcase Louisiana and our culture. The very first night, though, Carl and the wife of my friend started riffing at the restaurant on potatoes and ways to serve them. They hadn't even been drinking, and somehow, launching 'taters at people in a drive-through was suggested and before I knew what had happened, Carl was explaining shooting 'taters from a 'tater gun. The wife said she'd never heard or seen such a thing and Carl promised her that she'd get to shoot a 'tater before she left. So much for not being hicks. I don't know what I was expecting.

Anyway, the next day or so went well, and I thought everyone had forgotten about the 'tater gun, but then on the first, when our families and a few friends came over for lunch and to meet my visiting friends, the next thing I knew is that Carl and Luke and Jake had broken out the 'tater gun and were outside with my visiting friends and they were shooting 'taters. We live in a nice neighborhood, people. And my family was outside, shooting 'taters over the neighbor's yards at first, until they realized that maybe that wasn't such a bright idea. I was fairly mortified until I looked out there and realized the wife had ahold of the 'tater gun and was so excited about shooting one, she was jumping with glee.

So that's how it began. And everyone leaving there that day said, "See you next year for the next 'tater launch" and the tradition was born.

Now we have lots and lots of food, I get a spacewalk for the little kids (which just arrived as I write this) and there are TVs on everywhere with whatever big game is on. Meanwhile, everyone pigs out and shoots 'taters (now we build a big target so we don't littler the neighbors' yards) and general silliness prevails.

(There has been only one emergency room visit. I am strangely proud of that.)

Photos tomorrow...

conversations with the dead

Well, it felt like it was with the dead, for all the interaction I was getting.

Me: Hi. I called in yesterday for the refill on the prescription for my husband. They said your office had to call it in, and no one's called in yet.

Dr.'s Office Woman (DOW): Well, you should have left a message.

Me: I did. Three of them. I spoke to you, first. And then left two on the voice mail when you forwarded me when you told me you were going to get me a nurse.

DOW: Oh. Let me get the nurse for you now.

Me: Oh, no you don't. I know that trick. I want to talk to you. When is your office going to call in the refill?

DOW: I don't do that, Ma'am. So I don't know. You'll have to talk to the nurse.

Me: Is she there?

DOW: Certainly, if you'll leave her a message, she'll call you right--

Me: No, I mean, is she standing right there next to your elbow?

DOW: Um, no....

Me: Well, then nope, I don't want to talk to her, I want to talk to you. I want you to shout to her -- I've seen your office, I know her little desk is in a corner three feet away from you. So you just shout on over to her and find out when she's going to call in that refill, because I'm not buying this whole "gonna call ya back" scheme.

DOW: (haughtily) This is not a scheme, Ma'am. We have certain procedures we must follow and--

Me: Okay, see. I have a procedure, too. Here's how my procedure works. I start off nice and polite and I try to follow the rules, but then you people don't do what you're supposed to do. So then I get creative. Really very very creative. And you want to know how creative I can get? I figured out that instead of waiting here by the phone to find out when you've refilled the prescription so that I can go run my errands and pick it up, especially after you've toyed with me for the whole day yesterday and teased me that somebody over there was actually going to refill the damned thing, I realized I would have PLENTY of time to drive on over to your office and stand in front of your desk. That way, as soon as you saw the nurse, you could grab her and get her to sit her scrawny little ass down and make the phone call to the pharmacy. Or you could fax them from the fax machine that is two inches to your left. See, if I'm going to spend ALL THAT TIME WAITING, I'm going to do it where I can at least get some entertainment. And if you think I'm chatty right now, just IMAGINE me standing in your office, not two feet in front of you, striking up conversations with everyone all of those hours and you know what? I've got a WHOLE LOT OF ENERGY right now, seeing how I have all this built-up-- what's that? Oh, there's the nurse. Really. And she's what?

(she holds the phone so I can hear the nurse telling the pharmacy to refill the presecription... then she returns to the line)

DOW: Ma'am? Your refill's going to be ready in about five minutes.

Me: Thank you. And you might want to put a note down next to my name that says "Crazy stalker person" so that the next time I call, we don't have to do this, okay?

DOW: Um, yes ma'am.

Me: Good. Now you have a nice day.

hmph.

top cluck

Christmas morning, and gift carnage, and so much strewn wrapping paper, we may never find the cat again, and all is good. And you know how it is that the majority of the time, the kids like the boxes as much as the gifts, or they'll like the cheapest thing you get much much more than the big deal present? Well, to continue that tradition, both the boys loved, coveted, and drooled over their brand spanking new "super balls" -- the mega bouncy take-out-every-knick-knack ball for a dollar at the dollar store that I bought at the last minute to put in their stockings. Which Luke, 22, managed to bounce into the fire in the fireplace after I repeatedly told him NOT TO BOUNCE IT IN THE HOUSE, TO WAIT 'TIL HE GOT TO HIS OWN HOUSE. He snatched it out of the fire, and it's now got little flame-ish swoopy changes in the color. Or their favorite may have been the toy (plastic, 1 foot long) bow and arrows their dad gave them WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE OR PERMISSION, PEOPLE. The package in which Carl had placed: cotton balls, vaseline and a lighter. To make flaming arrows, you see. Which, of course, they did immediately but at least shot them out onto the patio area so they couldn't catch the house on fire. (The vaseline makes the cotton balls burn longer.)(Oh, the joy.)

And Carl's favorite? Well, it's probably a tie between the DVD of all of the Road Runner and other Looney Tunes or the:

Rubber chickens. Five, because he must have asked me a million times for the last two years if anyone was getting him one. (The little ones are key chains, because everyone really needs a rubber chicken key chain. Right?)

Carl had loaned his original rubber chicken to his sister (he's 45, she's 43, I do not make these things up, people), and she wouldn't give it back. She also has one of those invisible dog walking leash things that belongs to him, the kind you get from Disney? That she's strapped his chicken into so it looks like she's walking the rubber chicken. So I figured after hearing about that chicken for two years, I would get him FIVE, because really, that would be WAY MORE THAN NECESSARY to shut him up about the chicken. And did that work? Of course not. He immediately got a kick out of them and then decided, wow, he really wants FIFTY of them now because he wants to make a RUBBER CHICKEN CHANDELIER. And dress them all up in little aviator caps and goggles and parachutes. And maybe even wire them and hook up the mechanics so that they could dance to music. Or fly in some sort of synchronized pattern. He's going to have them all be "Top Cluck" fliers, the top 10% recruited to fly for their country. Or something.

I'd call the men with the funny little white coats, but he'd probably recruit them into making the damned thing.

puddy-the-red-nosed-cat

So, I wake up on Christmas Eve, groggy as all hell because I'd stayed up until three a.m. to wrap the rest of the presents. (And because my dad was having to hide my mom's presents at our house, I was wrapping those, too.) I stumble semi-blindly into the office and plop in front of the computer to check e-mail, and the cat rises up out of her basket to greet me and something seemed odd... and I squinted, and then I realized it wasn't bad enough that Carl had tried to wrap the cat, now he had given her a bright red nose:

That's red ink. (It's washing off.) Thank God I got there before he had figured out how to wire little antlers on her head.

(And she's so dumb, if given a choice, she'll go love on him first. She has no idea of the amount of times I have saved her so far.)

overheard at the mall

One of the crazy-but-fun things about a crowded mall is that people just stop thinking about the fact that other people are inches away (as in a very crowded food court) and can hear everything being said (particularly when it's not exactly being whispered.)

We went around the mall the rest of the evening saying "Vortex of impossibility" for everything we didn't like. And giggling like kids. To that older couple.... thank you.

hurdling the reindeer

Just so I'm not only abusing the oldest son...

When Jake was three (and Luke, seven), it was time for the Christmas shopping expedition. There really is nothing more pleasant than bundling up two little kids, doubling their size with the warm outfits (which takes two hours and several bathroom breaks and there will be parts of the outfits which they will shed in various places and you'll never ever ever see the match to that sock so don't even hope for it), buckling them into the car seats (which takes another two hours and they've already grown by that point, so you have to re-dress them again) and then finally making your way to the mall which is so crowded, you have to park in the next state and walk three billion miles with two little kids, (one in the stroller) and then fight a mass of people just to get inisde. Luckily on that outing, I was meeting my mom (or else everyone would have had IOU notes for Christmas at that point)(just call me Grinch).

The part that had me nervous was that Jake was sort of decently potty trained... as long as we were home. But he was the world's worst about waiting until the very last minute to tell us he had to go to the bathroom. Put him in front of a crowd, and he'd clam up and we wouldn't realize the problem until the problem had already happened. He insisted on wearing his new underwear (and was absolutely heart-broken and destroyed that I might not let him because he was a BIG BOY). So I emphasized for the entire ride to the mall that he MUST tell me when he needed to go to the bathroom and as soon as he knew. Not to wait. I'd say, "You're going to tell Mama, right?" to which he'd say, "Nope." "Oh, sure you are, you're going to tell Mama early enough, right?" "Nope." He'd laugh, but I wasn't entirely sure if he was joking (I mean, he was three. Did three year olds know blackmail that early? Or was he just joking?)

When we were in the mall, I must have asked him a trillion times if he needed to go, and he kept saying no. All I was praying for was at least a little tug on my sleeve or a pained expression -- any small clue, but he was laughing and happy and busy toppling displays whenever I'd so much as look for a micro-second in another direction....

[an aside... when he was the same age, about a month earlier, we were at the park watching Luke play t-ball. Jake ran up to me and said, "Mama, I go push tree down?" I looked over where he was pointing at these -- and I'm not exaggerating -- thirty-foot trees about ten feet behind me and I said, "Sure." Because hey, it would keep him busy and what could he hurt? Well, a little while later, one of the other kids tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Ms. Toni? I think you better look." And I turned around and the child had pushed one of those staked trees to a 45 degree angle. Blew my mind. I still don't know how he did it and the other kids swear they didn't help.]

So, anyway, Jake was mutilating Christmas displays, Mom and I were trying to watch both Jake and Luke (who probably was over somewhere conning some man out of his wristwatch). We had finally made all of our selections and had been waiting in a very long line at the check-out. Very long line. I had two birthdays while I was waiting and I filled out retirement forms. Long. Line.

Finally, I was up next to be checked out, when I suddenly realized Jake wasn't right by my side. I looked over and there he was in the aisle and he was squatting down with a big grin on his face. And he shouted, "Mommy, I HAVE TO POOO POOOOOOOOO." The kid I couldn't get to whisper the word "bathroom" was shouting "Poooo Poooooh." Over. And. Over. I swear, he was so loud, LSU called and he'd registered on the Richter scale in the geology department. And then he started turning red-faced with the effort.

I looked down at my three thousand selections that I was just about to purchase and the VERY long line that had taken me now six years to navigate just to get up to the cash register and then over at that kid turning bright red and I swear, for this brief moment, I wondered which level of hell I'd be sent to if I checked out first.

The entire store froze with horror and every single person there looked at me like they were personally going to write to God and have me thrown out of the human race because I hadn't planned better and my child was about to poo in the middle of the department store with his little Christmas gift. I caved and threw down my purchases and grabbed the diaper bag from my mom and scooped him up. People were parting like the Red Sea and clerks were guiding me through the masses in the store like I was a 747 landing with toxic wastes. I ran, people. Ran. Took out customers, knocked a display of Christmas ornaments all over the floor and slid through a display of gloves. At some point, I hurdled a reindeer display to get to the bathroom and the whole way there, I'm begging him to wait just one more second, we'll be there! We'll make it! And we rushed into the bathroom and just in the nick of time...

For him to giggle. And say, "I no have to poo pooo, Mama."

Somewhere between my wheezing for breath and my tears, I said, "Kid. You are going to poo or else we're never leaving this room. Ever."

Of course, he giggled again.

To be had, by a three-year-old. He was perfectly fine the entire rest of the trip. No poo, no potty, no nothing but giggles. I probably should have frisked him for wallets or watches or deeds to old people's houses.

(And one day, when he has a kid of his own? I am so teaching that kid all sorts of bad tricks.)

sneaky

When the boys were dropping in last night, I knew at least one of them would "wander" into our master bedroom and casually sneak a peek to see if there were any presents unwrapped. I hoped that since they were, you know, actually GROWN MEN now, they would refrain from such silliness, but on the off chance that either of them was tempted, I hid the presents and set a little trap.

Luke walked back into the kitchen, and looked at me with such disappointment.

"Way to lose your edge there, Mom."

"What do you mean?"

"What'd you do, think, 'Oh, I'll hide these presents. I'll throw a sheet over them, no one will suspect a thing!' Man, that's not even a challenge! You used to be so creative. Remember the duct taped closet door and the secret patterns so you'd know when we moved anything? Or the time you put the voice-activated tape recorder in your bedroom so you'd know if we went in there? Or the time you booby-trapped the whole attic?"

"But I set a trap! I would know if you went in if you tripped it."

"Kinda defeats the purpose if I've already found the presents."

"YOU'RE 22! Do you know this?"

Toni asked in the comments just how my throwing the sheet over them was a trap (well, that's paraphrased, she asked it better). I had put pennies on the tops of the closet doors because what the boys usually did was go try to look for something and then DENY DENY DENY that they ever even had an impure thought about finding their Christmas presents. So the only way I thought I'd know if they peeked was if the pennies fell from the exact location I'd placed them. (I learned long ago not to use tape or anything they could see because they'd put it back in the right spot. But they can't see exactly where the pennies are and once they've fallen, they have to guess where to put them back and it's rare that they're right. So then I know they've been in the closet.) They've gotten so good at denying and playing "innocent" that I figured the dropped pennies would rat them out. I didn't bargain for the fact that he would brazenly open the door and make fun of me for only putting sheets over the presents. I think he's right -- I'm definitely losing my edge.

(He says he didn't look -- that the challenge just wasn't there. Man, if that was the secret all along? Damn.)

leading cause of penguin death

This totally cracked me up.

smack me with the stupid stick

My oldest son was here a little while ago with his girlfriend. He'd been waiting until after finals to do his Christmas shopping and now that they're over and he's survived (sort of), he was going to go pick out her present tonight. He wanted to ask my advice, so he made an excuse to go to the back of the house and a few minutes later, I followed. (I have yet to actually see him "fold some clothes to bring back to [his] house" so I knew that was complete bollocks and an obvious ruse.) His plan was to drop her off at a friend's house and pick up her present, then meet them out.

In the process of talking about the gift, which type to purchase, what accessories he was going to need, he mentioned which store he was going to. A few minutes later, and right before we went back into the other room where his girldfriend was, he said, "Now, don't mention the store. Whatever you do, she's already suspicious."

I could not believe he had the nerve to warn me. ME. Who is such an old pro at hiding what people have for Christmas, I could give lessons. The person who was so convincing when not letting someone figure out what they'd had for a present, they went and bought another damned one of them for themselves, which meant me returning the original. The person who sat with someone for THREE HOURS and fixed some things on their old computer, even though I knew they had a new one about to show up in two days, but I knew that they knew I would know what they were getting and I didn't want them to figure it out, so I fixed a junk computer for THREE HOURS that I'll never get back because they ended up not ever using that old computer again. I am a PRO at this, baby. A pro. The CIA should hire me. I am that good.

So what did I do when I walked back out there where my son was now standing not far from his girlfriend? Did I strike up the witty, diverting banter? Did I talk about the weather, the holiday lights, the traffic, the way that my neighbor's 16-year-old son had shown up at my back door clad only in his boxers because he'd gotten his car stuck in the mud when he wasn't where he was supposed to be and he was trying to keep his clothes clean so his mom wouldn't find out and wanted my youngest son to help him get out of the mud? (Didn't work.) No, of all of the three quibillion things I could have said right then, what did I, the professional present-hiderer, supreme secret keeper do?

I looked at the shirt he had on, noticed a hole in the front and said, "You're not really going to wear that to Best Buy, are you?"

Yes, just smack me with the stupid stick. Man.

He turned (where she couldn't see him) and gave me that long, slow death glare he's perfected (I don't know where he could have possibly learned that one from). And I tried to cover.

"Well, I mean, seriously, it's a crap shirt and you've got to pick up that present for your dad for me and you'll have my check to pay them. I don't want them to think you're some sort of bum who mugged me in the parking lot."

"Gee, Mom. Thanks."

"Hey, I'm just here to help." (If looks could kill, I'd be sizzling right now.)

Something tells me the CIA isn't going to be calling anytime soon.

and then there's always the bow

Carl (husband) decided to wrap a few presents. Whenver Carl has possession of anything like scissors and tape, certain animals in our house should know to be afraid. Unfortunately, the cat is as dumb as a bag of sticks, and I think that's probably an insult to sticks everywhere. So a little while later, I find Carl, by himself, in the living room, chuckling. Not a good sign.

Me: What are you doing?
Carl (a little too innocently): Wrapping.
Me: Where are the presents you've wrapped?
Carl: Um, over there.

He points to a sort of oblong present which is wiggling and has a cat paw sticking out of it.

Me: You wrapped the cat?
Carl: She kept sitting in the middle of the paper. So I figured she wanted to participate.
Me: And exactly how did she seem to take it?
Carl: Well, she rolled off the table, and she's got two paws out, so I'm thinking she's not entirely in the Christmas spirit.

A half hour later, she was out of the paper and attacking it, running away and then sneaking up on it again. Now he wants to tape a bow to her head. I'm not sure we're going to survive Christmas. She already hides in the tree and leaps out and pounces on anyone walking past. Which makes the tree wobble. I just know one day I'm going to walk in there and the entire tree is going to be on the floor with one very happy cat sitting to the side. All she'll need are the little bubble words over her head, saying, "Wrap that, you sucker."

overheard at the party

A husband and wife were talking about their sons at the party last night.

Wife: Yeah, the oldest is kinda an old soul. I think he was born an old man and he'll always be an old man.

Guest: That must be nice. He probably doesn't do all of the impetuous things other kids his age do.

Husband: No, but just so you know, we have raised the perfect child because apparently, he knows everything.

Second guest: And the second son?

Wife: Oh, he's a brand spanking new soul. Still has the sticker on him.

Husband: And after his last wreck, we're in sticker shock.

Guest: Ow.

barbie's dream skirt

I loathe shopping. I know that one sentence bans me from all of the girly traditions and the cooing over beautiful clothes or designer nail polishes or whatever it is that some grown women coo over (and they do). I love beautiful clothes, I just hate to shop. When I was a teenager, I was worse. Much worse. I would walk to the entrance of a store, scan it, and know immediately that there was nothing in there I wanted. Drove my mother completely around the bend. And she would insist I couldn't possibly know everything in the store from the displays / close racks, so she'd drag me in there and force me to go through each and every possibility. Which never worked, and not just because I was being stubborn. She'd never find anything in those stores, either. Of course, what really burned her cookies was when I would stand in a doorway, scan a room, see exactly what I wanted, walk over to it, check the size and that was it, I was ready to go. There were no such a thing as bonding over shopping for us. It was combat warfare from the moment we entered the mall until I agreed to buy something, damnit, and I don't think we generally spoke to each other on the trip home.

So you can imagine my delight in online shopping. I would buy everything online, if I could. Unfortunately, there is a party I must attend, and I very literally had nothing appropriate to wear and was having no luck last week with the online gig, so I thought I'd brave the mall.

There are not enough numbers in the heavens to count the ways I hate the mall.

I expected complete disaster. I cannot remember, and I'm searching all of the way back to pre-giving-birth days, when I went into a store and found something on the first try and it fit and worked for the occasion and didn't require me selling my first born to purchase it. But it happened today, which fried my brain. Totally fried it, which is the only explanation I can find for my deciding that, "Hey, that was cool, I wonder what's in the next store?"

I plead insanity.

I wandered through the mall and came to the conclusion that most of the rest of the stores had stocked their shelves and hangers according to this general breakdown:

1) Cheap slut
2) Expensive slut
3) Matronly crone

Why is there nothing fun, sexy, that isn't all about being see-through (hello, it's going to be in the 30s, I don't believe I'll be wearing see-through to a group party where my mom and dad will be, thank you). I am all about wearing stuff that looks sexy, but I really don't want to look like I charge by the hour, especially not a cheap hour. (Hey, I have standards.)

I did, however, wander into a larger store that had gorgeous things. And I found a flirty leather skirt there with a ruffle, and when I touched the leather, it was buttery soft and flouncy in just the right way and I was already imagining the cute little top I could pair with it and then I looked at the price and it was $350.00. For a skirt. And even though we make decent money, my brain instantly parsed that into a car payment and I didn't even think about taking it back to the dressing room.

That is just more depressing than not finding anything. I think I liked shopping better back when I hated it and refused to go. Because now, I keep thinking about that Barbie dream skirt.

time traveling again...

Carl's been invited to exhibit his Time Machine with a traveling Smithsonian exhibit. It's for kids (who tend to love the crazy thing he made) and the "installation" is in January. I'm not sure how long the exhibit runs, but woo! Smithsonian. He's over the moon.

Carl's Time Travel Machine was featured again a few weeks ago at a local Gallery, which ended up having several hundred people moving through the art exhibition that night. The first night he'd been invited last may, we took these photos. I've got a bunch more from that night and from this new night that I need to get up on that site in thumbnails, but if you haven't seen them, they're funny.

some things you just don't want to know

My husband came into the bedroom early this morning when my alarm went off. (As usual, he'd gotten up a couple of hours before me and let me sleep in.) I could instantly smell the wonderful, rich aroma of shrimp and corn soup, one of my favorites. But he looked a little... orange. I rubbed my eyes, squinting (I wear contacts), trying to focus on his blurry form and decide just why he looked so... yeah, orange... and he said, "Um. You're not going to be going into the kitchen any time soon, right?" Usually I'm already groggily stumbling towards the refrigerator to get that first diet Coke of the day to start trying to put consonants and vowels together. "Because it's a little messy, and I didn't want it to scare you."

Now those are words you want to wake up to on a Sunday morning.

"Are you... covered in carrots?"

"Um, maybe. How well can you see?"

"I see shredded carrots all over your shirt."

"Oh. Yeah. Well. I decided to make a double batch of the soup, you know, so we could freeze some, and wrap some up for Christmas presents (which I would have interrupted to find out just how in the hell did he think he was going to do that, but he's scary in that he probably would have had some sort of idea, but he kept talking)... and so I needed more shredded carrots for the soup. And the food processor and I had a little struggle. There was this mound of carrot parts that wouldn't come out and I didn't realize they weren't coming out because there were already a bunch of them in the bowl and the processor was sort of shooting them over the bowl and over the island and I was holding my hand over there to keep it from shooting them too far and the next thing I know, a bunch of the carrots I was shoving in with the other hand had gone in, but they hadn't come out and it turns out that if you put in way more than what's coming out, good things do not happen. It also turns out that if carrots stay in a processor too long while it's going that you get carrot juice. And I was sticking my fingers in the one end thinking I'd nudge the wad of shredded carrots stuck in there on out, and I realized that was sort of stupid, because hey, food processor, and the next thing I know, it sort of exploded. I've cleaned up a bunch of it, but I'm not really finished. So don't come in the kitchen for a little while, okay?"

And that, folks, is when you say, "Okay," and quit asking questions. Because I saw a lot of green on that shirt and really, I didn't want to know.

does workman's comp cover this?

So. I'm trying to figure out exactly how to fill out the workman's comp claim. You know, where it says, "Explain incident." (True story.)

1) Client, who we shall describe as "colorful" and "eccentric" had a pet squirrel.

2) Please notice the past tense above.

3) Said squirrel, named Lucy, is a very lively, rambunctious "rescue" pet.

4) Lucy lived in a large bird cage with lots of things to do, but Lucy is a very clever, smart squirrel.

5) Lucy could open the cage at will, when Client wasn't looking.

6) Client didn't know and therefore couldn't explain this to our employees.

7) Lucy, being a squirrel, likes to climb. And is rather playful.

8) Lucy luuuuuuuuuuvvvvvvvvvves our carpenter, Brian. Luuuuuuuuuuuuuves him because he gave her treats.

9) When Brian was on the other side of the house, Lucy decided to go visit Brian.

10) Lucy opened her cage, sped through the house, climbed up a wall behind Brian and landed on Brian's head.

11) We think she may have been trying to kiss him. Or dig in his cheeks for treats. We're not sure.

12) Brian was a little surprised.

13) We're replacing the broken mirror, the broken sink, and the large hole in the wall is being repaired.

14) Lucy can apparently jump quite far when whatever she's standing on moves abruptly.

15) She jumped more than six feet across the room and landed on the next best target.

16) Our other employee's face.

17) Who hadn't seen any of this unfold because he'd just walked into the room to see what the commotion was about.

18) The stitches to the employee's face, tetanus shot, and follow-up doctor's visit are responsible for this claim.

19) Does workman's comp cover therapy? Both employees are a little twitchy now.

20) (Lucy, however, is currently happily living in the trees in the back yard. She's the one wearing the blue bandana. No, I don't know how she ended up with it on either.)

you may all cease to shop now, because

I have single handedly killed Christmas, according to my oldest son. I know, I know, it's early yet, but just think of all the time and trouble I've saved you.

I would like to say in my own self-defense that it was an innocent offense which caused the entire demise of Christmas, but I would be lying. It was premeditated, planned and executed with all the stealth of James Bond in his latest BMW. The offense? We didn't buy a real tree this year.

Every single year of their lives, the kids have had a real tree. I was adamant that only a real tree truly meant "Christmas" was here, so I only have myself to blame, because I was never going to have a fake one. Never. Ever. And not just a real tree, but as big a tree as we could possibly afford. The smallest I think we ever had was seven feet tall, and since we've been in this house with the higher ceilings in the living room, they've been as much as ten feet tall. Except the one year a couple of years ago when we couldn't agree on any single tree anywhere on any lot in the entire city and then I turned around and spied the most perfect Christmas tree... which was fourteen feet tall. I didn't believe them that it was really fourteen feet though my husband kept assuring me I had lost my mind and there was no way that tree was ever going to fit into the door, much less be able to stand up in the living room, but I was so exhausted and we had all fought so much by that point, he bought the damned tree just to get it over with so we could quit and go home. When they started loading it into the back of my oldest son's pick-up truck, I suddenly had some perspective as to just how big that stupid tree was... more than half of it hung off the back of the truck. Not a good sign. When we got it home, Carl stood the tree up near the back door so that I could see the problem and it was higher than the roofline. Er. Oops. He had to cut four feet off the bottom of that tree just so it could stand up in the living room, and it was such a huge tree, we almost had to move everything out just to fit it inside. I'm not kidding, it had a nine foot diameter. Yes. Nine. No, that is not an exaggeration. It took me three days on a scaffold and my kids' entire college tuition for more ornaments to decorate that damned tree, but by God, I was going to decorate it because I wasn't about to admit that maybe, possibly, Carl had been right and it was a little too big.

Somewhere along the way in my childhood, I had this sort of Hallmark image of families who tra-la-la'd out to the real tree lot and cut their own tree, all smiles and hand-holding and hot chocolate when they got home, whereupon they would begin the decorating process with great joy and laughter and create wonderful memories of the holiday. Please, if anyone knows a family like this, point them out to me so I can beat them to death. This has never, ever, been our experience.

Oh, we tried. We'd always ...

...go the day after Thanksgiving, we'd pile into the truck and we'd head out to the various tree farms and the bickering started the moment we got there. Invariably, the kids would run off in different directions and choose completely different looking trees and start lobbying hard for the tree of their choice and man, I know how Sophie felt, because if I dared choose one child's pick over the other child? That meant I didn't love the non-pickee. At all. Might as well ship them off to an orphanage, for the drama we'd have. Even when we'd all talk about this ahead of time and come to an agreement (when they got old enough for things like that work), and it looked like it might be smooth sailing? Nope. It was genetically impossible for them to pick the same tree or agree that the other's choice might be better suited, and God forbid I find a third choice that might be a good compromise because then they each had to go find another choice to try to out-do my choice and it just would never end. I'd be standing in the middle of the Christmas tree farm wondering if anyone would notice if I just offed myself by the flocking station while they were running to and fro, and Carl was seriously off to the side of the place, sneezing already, because he's allergic.

Yes, the man is allergic to Christmas trees and yet he loves us so much, he insisted we have a real one every year because it meant so much to the kids.

So every year, I'd end up having to choose one and whichever child's wasn't selected, said child generally pouted and stewed and frowned and sighed heavily for the rest of the night. Or stomped off in a huff.

This was just so much fun, we did it every. single. year.

When the kids were little, they'd help with decorating the tree... for about fifteen minutes. They wanted to help. They planned to help. But a tree that size takes a little while and they'd get bored and wander off. I didn't mind so much because one of the few things I enjoyed was decorating the tree. I put hundreds of things on the tree, and not all traditional types of things. There are lacy white crocheted snowflakes my grandmother made me. Tiny red and white roses to represent my other grandmother. Bows for Carl's grandmother. Tiny white doves -- dozens -- on the tips of the limbs about to take flight to represent my Paw Paw (my mom's dad). (He fed doves every morning of his adult life -- he'd take a bit of feed outside and toss it to two or three pair of doves. The day before he died, he went outside to feed the doves and there were so many, probably more than a hundred. It filled him with such joy that he chuckled most of the day and planned on getting more feed in case they all came back. He died in his sleep the next morning, and I've always felt that the doves had come to say goodbye and thanks.) There are little wooden ornaments for my dad's dad, and several things representing the kids (teddy bears, drums, toys, etc.) All told, I put close to 700 ornaments on the tree, which can take as much as two days. It's always a beautiful tree, and I know that's why the boys kept insisting on the real tree -- they loved the meaning.

But I hated the way it would die by Christmas. (They hated waiting and we'd always end up with a lot of family functions every weekend in December, so the day after Thanksgiving became the default day, since everyone was home and generally off work.) (The trick to making a real one last is not only to water it daily, but to put about 20 aspirin in the water every day. The aspirin helps the tree wick the water up into the limbs and will keep it fresher, longer.) Still. We'd get it the day after Thanksgiving and by Christmas Day, the tree would always be dropping its needles and looking a bit grim. In addition, we throw a huge party on New Year's Day, and I couldn't leave the tree up for that -- no way would it make it -- so I had to take all 700 ornaments down and then all the lights (while completely identifying with the Little Red Hen), and then get the house ready for 100 guests. Not easy.

So, I wanted a good fake tree. Something that I could leave up. Something that I could leave the smaller ornaments which tie onto the limbs on... just the dangly ones would have to be removed. But every year I mentioned it, both boys had heart attacks, and I'd relent and we'd go back through the real tree process once again.

This year, though, I saw the tree I wanted. Pre-lit with 1200 lights, gorgeous, ten feet tall and when I stood in front of it in the store, I could not tell it wasn't a real tree. Seriously, could not tell. It was on sale. It came home with me. (I wish I had a picture of me and the sales guy trying to wedge that ten foot tree which was in a six foot box into the back seat of my very little car. I was determined not to have to go back.)

My youngest son, on hearing I'd bought a fake tree, said, "Awww, mom, don't do that!" And I said, "Too late, already did," and he said, "Bummer." That was the extent of his frustration. I did not tell the oldest son. The tree sat here for four weeks, in the box, waiting for today, but I didn't say anything. Neither son lives with us anymore, and the oldest is 22, and you'd think a 22-year-old would be able to let things go, but not this kid. He actually walked by the box a couple of times and didn't ask what was inside, so I neglected to mention it. Hey, I'm not a masochist.

But last night, while I was putting the tree together, he called. And his dad told him about the fake tree. He made his dad hand me the phone, and he said, "MOM! You're not serious! You didn't really buy a fake tree, did you?" To which I said, "Yes, Luke I really did."

He couldn't believe it. He so couldn't believe it that he kept asking me over and over again, as if the billionth time was going to get him the answer he wanted, and when I finally convinced him that yes, I had actually done the dastardly deed of buying a fake tree, he said, "You've KILLED CHRISTMAS!" He said it in the same tone a kid would say about discovering there's no Santa or Easter Bunny. And when he's that upset, he's hysterical. I end up cracking up at him because of the increduality in a twenty-two year-old at something like that is just damned funny. But he kept saying I'd killed Christmas, which kinda broke my heart.

I'm sure the real problem is that he has a new girlfriend and he was looking forward to including her in the family outing and that just got sliced away from him when he least expected it. And, too, he lives on his own now in a house and he hadn't (until now) put up his own tree, so our going to get one was the only Christmas tradition he had, which I did really feel terrible about. (I hadn't thought of that prior to getting the tree.) He and his girlfriend came over last night and saw the tree, which looks completely real, and he glared at it and wouldn't hardly acknowledge its presence. I pointed out that Christmas was about us and family and we could all get together and squabble over this tree as we go outside to "pick it out" of the storage shed and haul it in, but I don't think he liked my teasing.

I decorated it today, and it's gorgeous. It's one of the best trees I've ever done, and ultimately, neither of the boys live here... they'll come through here from time to time, but not terribly often, and they're old enough to start their own traditions... but I still feel conflicted. I love this tree -- it's beautiful, and next year, will be way easier since I won't have to put on all the little ornaments again (they're staying on). But I'm sad I've abruptly brought a tradition to an end (well, if "abruptly" can be described as discussing it for five years and then finally doing it). I know he's really bothered by it and I can't change it now. Of course, I console myself with the memory that he felt the exact same way about the Tooth Fairy, and he survived that knowledge, so he'll survive this one.

I think.

Here's the culprit:

and a close-up of my teddy bear "star"...

It's much prettier than the photos... the flash sort of undoes the magic of the lights, and it's difficult to get the detail in the photo. Anyway, I love it.

only at my house...

Sometimes, you answer the door, and there are people there. And sometimes, you go to the back door because you simply need to walk outside and get something, and everything is quite normal and fine. But if you live in my house, you will go to the back door, minding your own business, la la la, all is well with the world, and when you open the door, two... not one because that would be too easy, but two stray black dogs will come barrelling into your home with a frenzy that most evangelists would envy. And they will be so grateful to have finally found someone and so excited to have finally been allowed inside somewhere that they will run in circles, many many many circles, and you will curse the fact that it is a perfect circle going from your living room to your kitchen to your office and back to the living room, and they will suddenly discover your cat, who has never really seen any other dog than her own friendly housemate who has the energy of a snail, and said cat will climb down off her normal perch on your desk because she is a stupid, curious cat, and then you will stand there in complete and total shock at the lightning speed with which said cat will run in that same circle with two extremely excited stray dogs chasing after her and part of you knows you really have to catch them and the evil part of you notes it's the most exercise the cat has had all year, but you really absolutely must somehow tackle at least one of the dogs and try to read its collar. Which you will eventually do, although you have now taken out a couple of lamps, a sidetable, a few plants and various little niceties and when you finally tackle the dog (which smells a touch more like sweaty dog than you'd prefer) and call the owners, you will sound like you've been running a marathon and they will almost hang up on you because you're scaring them.

They will also think you're on crack because they just saw their dogs an hour or so ago and those dogs don't know how to get out of the fence. But they will start to believe you when they hear their pets barking at the poor (and now exhausted) cat in the background, who has taken to hiding behind an armoire.

When they finally get to your house and you open the door, they are so worried you're about to sue them for their dogs, they keep making you repeat that no, you won't sue, all you want is for them to take the little dynamos home.

And when they're gone (and you've febreezed the whole damned house) you make a mental note to turn on the outside light from now on, because at least it was two friendly puppies and not one of the neighborhood racoons living in the creek in the back of the house or one of the skunks we've smelled from time to time.

It's not your traditional way to get your exercise, but it'll do.

sooo

In my pursuit of breaking all things computery, my new computer froze up this morning and once I re-booted, it refused to recognize the mouse. They weren't speaking to each other. (I'm not sure , maybe they were arguing over who flirted with the keyboard last.) I pull out the troubleshooting guide....

(okay, my friend Cor, who usually gets these frantic computer-woes e-mails, knows that means I frantically freaked out, went through about three dozen places where I thought I might have left said troubleshooting guide, contemplated sacrificing small appliances if it would just appear, found it, [those small appliances have a real survival instinct, I'm telling ya], tried everything in it, improvised a bit, and then threw said trouble-shooting guide across the room for all the good it does me)...

So I break down and call the Dell help line. Wherein, after all the typical intro, what is your problem sort of stuff, the conversation went like this:

Dell Guy (DG): Is this a Dell mouse, or another brand?
Me: Another brand. Logitech.
DG: Did you purchase this one from Dell?
Me: Nope, I already had it.
DG: Okay. (he walks me through several trouble-shooting things... none work)
DG: I believe the problem is your mouse. Since you're under warranty, we can have one shipped out to you in 24 hours.
Me: But I didn't buy the mouse from you.
DG: Yes, in 24 hours, we will ship it.
Me: Even if I didn't buy it from you?
DG: It will be there in about two days.
Me: Wow, that's some warranty. My car isn't working so great. I didn't get that from Dell either. Can I have one of those, too?
DG: 24 hours ma'am... just a moment, let me check on your address.
...........
DG: Ah. Okay, I need a moment to put in all your information for the order.
Me: But you don't know what kind of car I want.
DG: What color would you like?
Me: Is it fast? Because if it's fast, I want a red one.
DG: Yes it's the normal mouse speed.
Me: That's not very fast. I'd have to go at least Jaguar speed. Something XL would do.
DG: Just a moment ma'am. Oh. I see here that you didn't buy your mouse from Dell.
Me: Damn. You're quick.
DG: I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can ship you another Dell mouse only.
Me: So does this mean I'm not getting the car?

I'll let you know if a Jag shows up in the driveway. Meanwhile, I got a new mouse from the local Office Depot and it works. (Well, until it flirts with the keyboard, I suspect.)

two t-shirts...

I really must get. Or better, I'll put the first saying on the front and the second on the back:

"Crap. You're going to try to cheer me up, aren't you?"

"I like you. When I rule the world, your death will be quick and painless."

overheard

Her: I think I'm going to go take a nap now.
Him: A nap? But you slept late this morning.
Her: I hear it's easier to die when you're horizontal. A lot less of that pesky falling over.

sweet nothings

Earlier tonight, I was sound asleep, as was Carl, when:

Carl: That thing. You got that thing?
Me: hmph? Wha... huh?
Carl: That thing. With the engine. And the parts?
Me: The whadahuh?
Carl: The one you got on e-Bay.
Me: Oh. You're talking in your sleep.
Carl: It's gonna look good on you. With the engine. And those things. You know.
Me: Engine? Things?
Carl: ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Me: !!!!

Usually I can decipher what he's dreaming and talking about, and it's no big deal. But then I was just awake enough to start wondering what thing with an engine he could be thinking about that I might wear. Which just woke me right-the-hell up. Now I can't fall back to sleep. And the worst part is, he'll never remember what it was all about in the morning. grrrrrrrrrr.

D

So, we were in the mall last night. We're so rarely in the mall, I feel like I'm visiting some other planet, and I'm worried that they're secretly emitting some kind of "shop-til-you-drop" ray that will fry my brains and make me veer into the Bebe store and start buying frilly half-shirts and jeans so low, I'm not entirely sure I'd have to remove them to pee. Our original mission was to replace the treadmill which had given up the ghost about a month ago, and we'd kept saying every night, "You know, we'd really use that treadmill right now because it's just too hot to walk outside," and so of course we waited until the first cool snap of the year to go buy it. We're logical like that.

Selecting the treadmill was fairly simple... it has a built-in fan which probably won't last three days, but otherwise, it's pretty basic. There was minor discussion about how to get it home because in our brilliance, we went to the mall in our small car, not the truck. Carl suggested strapping it to the top of the car, which gave me the immediate mental image of a mouse crawling home with a piano on its head, which I flat refused to do. He opted to go get his truck (it's pathologically impossible for a man in the south to allow someone else to deliver something if they have their own truck), which meant I had to roam the mall. For 45 whole minutes. By myself.

Just five minutes in a mall can bring on images of wandering for years in the desert, and I did that thing that I had avoided for years... I wandered into Victoria's Secrets.

That is one scary place.

The woman came up to me and asked if she could help, and I told her I thought so, that I needed a new bra. She asked my size, and I said I couldn't really remember. I thought maybe a 36B or maybe it was a C cup. She appraised my boobage, and said, "No... no honey, I think you're probably a D cup."

I said, "No way. I have never ever had big breasts. And Ds are big. They're a B or a C, tops." (When I was 18, I was so flat-chested, if you'd have told me that sacrificing chickens would have made them grow? I'd have been raiding the local farms. I don't know what happened, but somewhere between 18 and 19, boobs showed up. Not big ones, but hey, beggars can't be choosey, you know? I was just grateful I wasn't going to keep being mistaken for a ten-year-old boy.)

The clerk said, "Nope, I'm pretty sure you're a D. Raise your arms." Which I did. (It's weird... how often have strangers walked up to you and proclaimed you had a bigger breasts / penis and asked you to raise your arms so they can see exactly how big, just like that, no first date or anything, and you just do it, right there. I felt so cheap and easy.) Anyway, she measured and said, "Yes, you're definitely a D. A 34 D."

Since I patently did not believe her, she gave me one of each size, and I went to the dressing room, trying on the C first, because of course it would fit. I know my last bras were never a D. And I've lost weight recently. So I put the C on and the damned thing was so tight, my boobs were resting on my chin. Then I tried the D on and looked in the mirror and said, "Holy FUCK, it FITS!"

So much for being couth in Victoria's Secrets.

(Yes, I bought several. I have lived for this day. There should be a national celebration or something.)

(I wonder if I go back to the mall to buy a home gym, will I find out I'm several inches taller, too?)

(pretty please?)

on heredity and saw disasters...

My dad called me yesterday when I was in line at the bank. He was working on putting up crown molding in his kitchen and had hit a snag. For reasons beyond his understanding, when he cut a piece which had to butt up against the first piece he'd installed, the angle didn't match and it wasn't working. He had made one cut and he hadn't wanted to screw up that long stick of molding (because he wanted the piece along that prominent wall to be without a splice), and so he'd come to the quick solution that he would use one of the smaller "drops" or "leftover" pieces, hold it up to the place where the crown had to butt up against the other crown and draw a pattern. Once he was able to match that angle, he would transfer the pattern onto the longer piece and cut it.

Now, this was a good idea, and logical, except that it didn't work. And he couldn't figure out why, so he kept trying over and over and over. He wanted Carl to come out there right then and figure out what he was doing wrong. (We're all about the patience, my family.)

Me: Well, it should be easy enough to do it with a pattern, right?
Dad: When I started, this damned molding was four feet long.
Me: And?
Dad: It's now six damned inches long. I'm about to throw that damned miter saw through the window.
Me: I'll call Carl. Right now. Step away from the saw.
Dad: Why are you laughing?

I am my father's daughter.

What he had forgotten about was my own little run-in with a saw and measuring fiasco.

When I was twenty and pregnant with Luke and we moved into the haunted house (see the ghost story below), the kitchen was shockingly antiquated. There were only two cupboards, no drawers at all, (no pantry), and no place to keep things like cutlery. Nor was there free wall space for a piece of furniture. The sink was one of those humongous cast iron jobs that have a long, shallow bowl section flanked by draining areas on each side. There were no cabinents below, where perfectly functional space went to waste.

This bugged the living crap out of me.

Carl went to his dad's antique store, rummaged around, came home and proudly showed me a little chest sort of thing he'd discovered. It looked like a piano stool with pretensions. Slightly taller than that sort of stool, it was too low to comfortably use as a work surface (and I'm only 5'3", so you know that had to be short), but too tall to sit on. Its only saving grace was that there were two drawers side-by-side which Carl had surmised would solve all of the kitchen's problems. (I'm going with "optimist" here.)(Bonus points if you know what I was really thinkikng.)

Anyway.

He placed it in the center of the kitchen as an island. As I was growing gargantuan in size with the pregnancy, I would move into the kitchen and forget the damned little table thing was there and impale my thigh on the sharp corners, multiple times a day. You'd think I'd remember it was there, but no, my hormone addled brain refused to accept the existance of such an awkward piece of furniture in the middle of the room.

And then I had a brilliant idea. I'm telling you, the genius of it made me feel like there should be announcements in the paper the next day, saying "GENIUS WOMAN SOLVES KITCHEN PROBLEM, WINS NOBEL PEACE PRIZE."

The kitchen sink had empty space beneath it. The table thingy was kinda short. Why not shove table thingy under the kitchen sink, therefore keeping usable drawer space and getting rid of nasty stabby table corners (which I was starting to suspect were leaping out and doing the stabby thing on purpose after the table heard me call it ugly.) See? Brilliant.

Only, table thingy didn't ~quite~ fit. It hit the outer rim of the cast-iron sink and needed to be about 1/4th of an inch shorter. No problemo. I figured that since Carl was a contractor, he must have construction-type tools outside somewhere, and I would just go find something that looked saw-like. So I marched (waddled) my pregnant self out to the garage and started rummaging around and found only one thing that sort of looked like a saw, though it was bow-shaped across the back of the saw with a large-toothed saw blade that wiggled. I wasn't sure what it was a saw for, but hey, it was a saw, it would do.

(I later learned it was the kind of saw that you use to cut small limbs from trees. It never got to live long enough to have that joy, I am sorry to say.)

So. Had saw. Had table. Had space. Easy peasy. Lay the table on its side, oops, remove drawers which are now completely jumbled. Start cutting about 1/4th of an inch off one of the legs.

The saw was hard to control in a straight line -- the blade quivered and jumped out of the groove more times than not. I felt like the table was putting up a fight. No problemo, just keep sawing. 1/4th of an inch is easy right?

Um, no. Not so much. Finish cutting all four legs, stand the table up and it wobbled. Badly. I must've cut a little more off one leg than the three others. I figure no one will notice, so I try to push it under the sink... and it hits something. I bend down to see that the "shallow" bowl part of the sink is ever-so-slightly lower than the lip, so now I have to cut all of the legs again so that the table will fit under the sink bowl part.

Lay the table on its side, saw about 1/2 inch off each leg, eye-balling it, because really, how much of a fluke was it that I didn't get it right the first time, and I'm sure I'm doing it about the same each time now, so no worries. Hand is hurting like hell, baby is kicking full-out, table keeps scootching on the kitchen floor, sawdust is in eyes, face, hair, nose and mouth, but this is NO problem, because am almost done and will have table thingy under sink and no more stabby corners.

Stand table up. Table wobbles like a motherfucker. Am seriously not happy. Figure fuck it, doesn't matter, just going to go under the sink, so start to shove it under.

Doesn't fit. Don't know what happened, but the lowest portion of the shallow bowl was not so fucking shallow after all.

Table is laughing at me.

Lay table on its side. Saw table legs. Blister on hand bursts. Sawdust now in everything, including uterus. Baby punting it back out. Stand table up. Wobbles way worse than before. Now it's really noticeable, and even though it now fits under the sink, it's extremely lopsided, so much so that anything inside will all roll to the right. Looks like a drunk built it.

Lay motherfucking table on its motherfucking side. Get the saw from hell. Try measuring. Hands hurt so much when sawing, realize that I can't hold it steady on a straight line. Realize it's already crooked, even with the measuring.

Decide that no stupid stabby table is going to beat me. Nosirreebob. Take saw, cut all the motherfucking legs completely off. Table now sits flat on kitchen floor. Drawers are one inch above floor, too low for big ass pregnant self to bend down to open to get anything out of them anyway. Kick table half-ass under the sink, throw the saw down in the middle of the pile of leg parts and saw dust and storm off to the other room to see what other furniture I can mangle before Carl gets home.

Carl walks in the door. Takes one look at the table (now on floor), the parts and the sawdust and said, "Would you like to go out and get some ice cream?"

I married a very very smart man.

brilliant ideas

Every once-in-a-while, I surpass even myself with my brilliance, at which point the world really does stop on its axis and pay tribute. (What? You didn't get the memo?) Ahem.

One of the more clear and shining moments of this brilliance occurred right after I had given birth to my youngest son and the oldest, Luke, was almost four. The event in question was Halloween Trick-or-Treat, something I dreaded every year. I didn't so much mind the Treating (there was never any tricking from our household), nor did I so much mind the sugar high for the next couple of days, partially because I was busy filching the best of the chocolates anyway and barely noticed if I had to pull the child off the ceiling.

I dreaded the costume decision.

I had no idea a four-year-old could be as grumpy and bossy as an 80-year-old CEO, but he managed it, and became particularly difficult when having to decide upon a costume.

He was creative. His ideas changed daily. And given that we really had zero extra money for purchasing anything he might have wanted, it really boiled down to my non-sewing imagination to pull off something resembling whatever it was he wanted to be.

The year before, I had managed to con him into being a Karate guy (my brother teaches Karate, so it was easy), and he was quite pleased. I sensed from the daily ponderings that I was not going to have a nice repeat.

The entire time I was giving birth and then recuperating at home, Luke was plotting what he would be that year, and none of it sounded easy. I tried to convince him of several more "do-able" things (why don't kids want to be ghosts anymore? why? Cut two holes in a ratty white sheet and voila, done. But noooooooo.)

The day loomed, my post partem recuperation was inching along, thankfully Jake slept enough so that I wasn't entirely homicidal, and Luke still hadn't made up his mind. Then he decided the day before that he didn't want to go trick-or-treating. He wanted to stay home and give out the candy.

I knew there was no way in hell that kid was going to let me off that easily.

I kept suggesting other costume ideas that he might like... cowboy... a puppy (we had ears from a school costume)... a fisherman (hey, I was desperate and we had rods and tackle). Nada.

The day of trick-or-treat loomed, and we went to my mother-in-law's house to help her give out the candy. And about ten minutes before the actual trick-or-treating started, Luke was completely broken-hearted. He wanted to go. Of course, we had no costume and we weren't even at our house where I knew what resources we had to make something.

It was then that I had my most brilliant idea.

He could go as the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. I found a funnel and wrapped it in aluminum foil and then turned to Luke and started wrapping him.

Yes, I wrapped my child in aluminum foil.

I plead post partem hormones.

Once I had him wrapped, thoroughly (with Carl in the background trying to say ever-so-diplomatically that maybe that wasn't such a great idea, only to freeze immediately when I gave him the death glare because that kid was going to have a costume, by god, if I had to kill people to do it)(I may have not been feeling well)... and then we realized, as tightly as I had wrapped him... he couldn't walk.

Do you know how much fun it is to take a four-year-old trick-or-treating when he can't walk and can't move because every time he moved, the aluminum foil... tore. Yes, I was brilliant. I forgot how easily the damned foil ripped from the tube. So every time Luke bent, lifted a leg, anything, he ripped. And what did I do? Did I say to myself, "Self, maybe this isn't such a wonderful idea. Maybe if we'd have had silver spray paint and old clothes, that might have worked, but this? Not so much. Think of something else."

No. No I did not. I discovered that my mother-in-law had a couple of brand-spanking-new tubes of aluminum foil in her kitchen and I grabbed them and shoved Luke out of the front door, Carl followed carrying the baby, and I made him go up to every door and trick-or-treat. When he looked like he was going to start crying, I reminded him that the Tin Man rusted and he dried right up. Every time he came back with the candy, I wrapped and patched that damned aluminum foil (without taking the previous layer off) until Luke was this five-foot-square block of silver walking to the doors. Half of the people couldn't hear the "trick-or-treat" from the rustle of the aluminum foil.

At some point, Carl realized I was eyeing the last of the first tube and about to open the second one when he simply picked Luke up and started carrying him to the door. We maybe did a few more houses at that point and went home.

I thought it was quite successful. (Post partem delusions.)(That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

To this day, Luke will not use aluminum foil for anything. He was here rummaging around in the cabinets looking for something to cover some left-over birthday cake and I suggested the aluminum foil and he started shaking, kinda scary, and said, "NO!" rather loudly and I think he may have even started twitching.

Other than that, he's quite normal.

(Well, except that if you tiptoe up behind him and crinkle aluminum foil and say "Boo!" he will hit the ceiling and stay there.)

(Not that I've ever done that.)

Every year afterward? He picked out a costume waaaaaaaaaaay ahead of time and it was always something we could easily pull together. Imagine that.

perhaps not

Just a suggestion, for an employee of a firm I know...

If your employer/company has to have current drug tests on file in order to get into a high security chemical plant to do a big job and you know this and it's a condition of your employment that you can pass random tests, it's probably not such a hot idea to tell your boss that you probably can't pass it. Especially when you've been driving a company truck that day.

But let me add that to then suggest you can get a copy of the drug tests taken during your recent probation from when you were arrested and convicted on (unknown-to-him) drug, alcohol and theft charges? Probably not a terrific solution. (Especiallyy since the lesson didn't seem to take.)

new stress test

Carl, (husband, who has always been a half-bubble off center) talking to a young waiter at one of our local hangouts... They had been chatting a minute or so (yes, it's our fault your food's getting cold):

Carl looks at him a moment. (I think wanting to tell him the truth about what it's like owning your own business and essentially being in guerilla warfare every single day.) Looks at me. Looks back at the waiter.

The waiter double-takes, looks at me to see if he's serious. I have no clue.

(And people wonder where I get fodder for the stuff I write.)

sweet talk overheard

him: You know, when we're really close like this?
her: Yes?
him: You kinda look like an alien. Your eyes are all fuzzy-mushed together.
her: Wow. What every woman wants to hear.
him: But a really sexy alien!
her: You're lucky we're already married.
him: Hot alien sex!
her: Of course, you may not live through the night.

overheard (this one's for Jette)

Out at dinner the other night, a conversation overheard at the next table:

WOMAN: It's fine. One day, he's going to get his comeuppance.
MAN: (startled, spitting his drink)... His... what?
WOMAN: Comeuppance.
MAN: (relieved) Oh. Okay. Good.
WOMAN: What did you think I said?
MAN: That he was going to get Cum Muppets. And I was thinking, damn, Sesame Street sure has changed a lot since I was a kid.

At which point, we spewed our drinks.

the anatomy of getting feedback

There's this awful truth about writing that writers have to face, which is that at some point, they really do have to turn over what they've written for someone else to read it. Writers want to get feedback, of course, to learn exactly how the piece is being received so that they know whether or not it is working. The only problem is that the writer will probably hear the truth. They do not really want to hear the truth. Or, rather, they want to hear it, but they want it to be, "This is absolute perfection! Don't change a word! Why aren't you rich and famous yet?" Sadly, this is not the common reaction.

Have you ever seen people walking around kinda twitchy, their heads cocked a little sideways when they look at you as if they're expecting you to clout them at any moment, and they're mumbling inchoherently? Don't be worried, they're just writers waiting for feedback. One time when I gave a script to a friend of mine, I dropped it off at her apartment, hol