Dear PETA,

My name is Flop Bean.  It was originally Flip Bean until the woman who adopted me—Crazy Jenny—decided that my coloring was unsuitable for the name “Flip,” so she changed it to “Flop,” and my brother, who was “Flop,” became “Flip”—Flip Wilson Bean to be exact.

Color discrimination was just the beginning of the indignities I have had to endure as a member of the Bean family.

Crazy Jenny, hereinafter called “CJ,” is the mother to two boys—a 6-year-old yammering soccer player and a 4-year-old demon child who likes to run around au naturel.  My chief complaint is with the demon child, hereinafter called “DC.”  Imagine my horror when he carried me up the ladder of the swingset and sent me flying down the slide.

I was so traumatized that I hid under the Club House for two hours.

Then just last weekend despite being CJ’s admonitions and despite the fact that he’d spent a lengthy interlude in time-out, the DC carried me up another ladder.  This ladder was to the loft of the Club House where I almost hopped out of a window to an untimely demise.

Fortunately, CJ sensed something was amiss and came charging in before I fell to my death.  I went into hiding again for another two hours.

The 6-year-old with the soccer balls that fly out of nowhere is also a danger to my existence.  I have just narrowly hopped out of the path of one of those missiles.

Other than that, life is pretty grand.  There’s an old blind dog who ignores us—I don’t even think she know we’re here.  She suffers from senility and often barks to herself.  CJ’s father lives with us too.  The Old Man, hereinafter called “OM,” is always slipping us treats like strawberry tops.  We lounge and graze in the backyard every afternoon unless it’s raining.  Our hutch is kept very tidy.  CJ has a poop fetish.  “Bunny poop,” she says, “is uber manure.”

CJ strikes me as one of those whack jobs who believes everything she reads because she runs around manically sprinkling poop on her tomatoes and flowers.  Other than that she’s pretty chilled out and didn’t even have fit when she caught Flop—I mean Flip—sitting in a pot of verbena pretty as you please munching on her flowers.

And every night, we go upstairs into the old man’s room with CJ and the OM.  CJ and the OM sit in easy chairs in front of the TV, each holding a folded beach towel and one of us.  The beach towel is because Flop—I mean Flip—and I have been known to demonstrate passive aggressive tendencies after encounters with the DC.  The OM is usually the recipient.  It’s quite a spectacle when it happens and sometimes we do it now just for kicks.  The OM is very theatrical, jumping up and down, like a big rabbit himself, while simultaneously yelling obscenities.  And CJ gets so tickled that she snorts wine and laughs hysterically.

Most of the time, things are chilled out and the OM rubs our ears.  He likes us so much that he read Dummies for Bunnies in an afternoon.  (I think he skipped all of the parts about why you shouldn’t get a rabbit.)

It’s not a dog’s life, but it’s not a bad life either.  My reason for writing is this:  Can you tell me if there’s some law that declares it inhumane to put chicken wire around the foundation of a Club House to prevent a poor, defenseless bunny from taking a nap—I mean hiding.   That’s what CJ is planning to do tomorrow.

Most respectfully,

Flip—I mean Flop—Bean

“When the universe tells you to do something that Bethany thinks is a bad idea, follow the universe.”

So said my witty colleague Miller.  Bethany is also a colleague, and bless her heart, she’s a glass-is-half-empty colleague.  I decided to take Miller’s advice.

It all started in January when I was innocently buying another blueberry bush to complement my new orchard and discovered the cutest bunny rabbits.  For sale.  And then my brain went into overdrive, and I had a vision of Jax and Moose hunting Easter eggs in the back yard and discovering bunnies.

But then I polled everyone and got especially vehement feedback from Papa who must have Googled “why you should never get pet rabbits,” because every day for almost two weeks he spammed me with articles that made it seem like an inhumane idea.

So life got busy and with no one in my court, the idea fell to the wayside.  But then the universe stepped in and sent an e-newsletter from the nursery with news of spring arrivals, including more bunnies.  Dwarf Holland Lops they were called.  And there were unbelievably cute pictures, which is what led me to poll my colleagues and make the bunny decision.

And this is why the universe had it in for me:

1) After I put a deposit on the bunnies and bought the fancy two-story hutch from Overstock.com, I ordered Dummies for Bunnies.

The first rule of Dummies for Bunnies is that you should never, ever under any circumstances buy bunnies because you think it’s a great Easter idea for small children.

Great.  The dummy book was starting to make believe that I actually was a dummy.

2)  The hutch arrived UNASSEMBLED, which meant I had to confess to Papa that the bunnies were coming.  I waited until he was in his cups before I told him, and I must have done a very good job because he agreed, and then he got all melodramatic on me started talking about COMMITMENTS TO THE BUNNIES.

I think he was in cahoots with Dummies for Bunnies.

3)  It rained the whole week before Easter, so Papa and Buzz had to assemble the hutch in Papa’s garret.  For the first time in his entire life, Papa sought out directions.

The directions were in GERMAN.

Neither Papa nor Buzz read German, so they broke open a bottle of rum and proceeded to jury-rig the fancy hutch.

Duct tape and bubble gum were involved.

4)  When Papa and I commenced to taking the hutch downstairs, Papa, slipped on an errant sock, grabbed onto the railing, let go of his end, and down tumbled the hutch into a heap on the floor  A leg was broken, a door was off its hinge and the roof was askew.

More jury-rigging ensued.

5)  Larry and Ernie—the bunnies—arrived on Good Friday afternoon.  They were staying on my neighbor’s porch, and within 24 hours, Larry managed to go AWOL, and Ernie, obviously short for “Ernestine,” became a mother to a litter of baby bunnies.

6)  By Saturday evening, my nerves were frayed, and I decided to end Lent a few hours early.  (Yes, I, Jenny Bean, had given up wine.)  After the wine was polished off, Papa fixed me a stiff Brandy Alexander, and we opened up the boys’ Easter candy.

7)  When Jax and Moose awakened Sunday morning, the only indication that the Easter Bunny had visited was a beat-up looking cabinet in the backyard and a bunch of empty candy wrappers in front of the television.

“The Easter Bunny’s stars were not aligned last night,” I told them as I began dishing out ice cream for breakfast.  “He’s taken the day off.  He’s coming tomorrow instead.”

And that, my friends, is the Poisson d’Avril (April Fools) version of Easter this year.

The real version is much happier.  First of all, I did not give up wine for Lent.  I did that a long time ago, and it will never happen again.   Papa and I put the hutch together, and it was Sissy, not Papa, who helped me take it down the stairs.  The bunnies stayed in Belle’s apartment for one night.  Their names are Flip and Flop.  Jax and Moose are over the moon, and all’s well that ends well.

Rooster Bean entered into eternal rest this morning.  It was his time, and Papa couldn’t take him, and I volunteered.  Before we left for the vet, I gave Rooster half a valium and I took a Xanax.  The vet was really compassionate, and despite the fact that I was wearing my old plaid pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt, he only looked at me funny when I asked if we should administer last rites.

“Is Rooster Catholic?” he asked.

“Nah.  I think he’s a heathen.  It just seems like something we should do.”

So then I asked Rooster if he had anything to confess, and Rooster looked at me pitifully and admitted that he used to take Hyacinth’s bone just to yank her chain, and that when I wasn’t home, he used to sit on my newly upholstered couch where the sun shone in the picture window.

I told him he was forgiven and then said a little prayer, and the kindly vet gave him a sedative, and when the sedative had taken effect, I left to get a cup of coffee, and when I returned Rooster was sealed up in makeshift cardboard coffin with his squeaky ball and his John Deere blanket.  Then I took him home and buried him in the hole that Papa had dug on Tuesday.  He’s out in the backyard behind the old oak tree and the garage, and I put a pot of pansies on his grave.

Rooster was born in a chicken coop with a passel of other puppies, and as the story goes, Papa looked at Rooster and thought that there was something about him that needed taking care of, so Papa picked him up and took him home and told him that he would always take care of him.

Rooster was born with only one brain cell, which we named Ping. Ping helped to keep Rooster very focused. Rooster’s first priority was always the ball. It was Rooster’s duty to see that the ball got its exercise, and your arm might be about to fall off and Rooster might be one step away from utter exhaustion, but that ball was gonna get its exercise. When we finally had enough, we would try to hide the ball somewhere like the top of the refrigerator and then Rooster would go bark at the refrigerator for hours.

Sometimes we wondered if Ping didn’t just wonder off somewhere for happy hour and leave Rooster on autopilot. In the early years when Papa first moved to Maison Bean, we used to make margaritas and invent stories about Ping’s secret life…. In 2006, when Bode Miller bombed in the Olympics, it was because Ping jumped on Bode and went on a bender.

Rooster’s second order of duty was to keep the neighborhood safe from elephants, and to that end, he was always willing to get in a car and go on patrol. As a puppy that even meant with people he didn’t know very well… the mailman, the UPS man, Jehovah’s witnesses…. At the time, Papa lived in the country—we’re talking the sticks… in a dry county in rural Alabama—and Rooster would just hop in the car and they wouldn’t even notice that he was in the car until they’d got halfway down that long country road and then they’d have to turn around and take Rooster back to Papa’s house.

And then Papa got a divorce and moved to Maison Bean with Rooster and a mutt called Little Man (who was later reunited with his mother), so it was Hyacinth and me with Papa and his two dogs, and you know, I never did see an elephant in the neighborhood after they moved in.

Rooster was very sensitive. Most people thought he was nervous, but he was actually busy sensing things. He sensed fire, hurricanes, seismic activity, and on one occasion, a refrigerator motor that was overheating because some little miscreant had left the door ajar. We have a gas oven, and you couldn’t turn it on without that dog having an attack of nerves. One year there was a hurricane out in the Atlantic and then an earthquake in the Southeast, and Rooster was such a wreck that Papa had to put him on valium.

Rooster was a very particular little dog. He liked to be in the sunshine, and if he wasn’t in the sunshine, he was wearing a sweater (he had an extensive wardrobe) or burrowed deep in a pile of blankets. He was like a cat, kind of finicky, about what he ate—Papa said he just had excellent table manners. He loved chasing squirrels, but it was all just for show—the squirrels just ran up the trees and laughed and kept reproducing. And Rooster liked to chase Moose because Moose never let go of the ball so it was the next best thing.

Rooster lived a very good life. He was happy and he was loved and he will be missed. And we know that while our hearts our heavy, he is in a very special place where the sun shines all the time and butterflies dance about and birds sing and Rooster’s very own guardian angel sits throwing a ball.

“It’s a communist plot.”

“No. It’s. Not.” I said.  “You’re just an old grump.”

“Because I lost an HOUR of sleep.”

“Papa, this happens every year, and, personally, I think it’s nice to come home to some daylight.  And besides, it’s not like you have anywhere you have to be.”

Geez.

We have this argument every time the time changes.  And every time I’m on the side of the communists.  When it gets cold and dark, I want to sleep in.  When the days are long, I want to get up early and make the most of the day.

Moose, on the other hand, is all fired up about it.  I accidentally hit “stop” this morning instead of “snooze,” so when I woke up, it was GO, GO, GO, and Moose was none too pleased.  In fact, the kid roared.  And then he tried to get back in bed.

I got out all the guns.

Yep, he and Jax had candy for breakfast.

We have two snakes in the house. Their names are Ichabod Crane and George Washington. The kindergartner named them. One is yellow and the other is blue.

They’re plastic. But I still scream when I see them and run through the house with Moose following behind me going, “Sssssssssssssssssssssssss.”

“No, please don’t get me. Go get Papa,” I plead.

And then Moose, being an obedient little boy, goes after Papa.

Papa jumps up in mock fright and Moose giggles and tries to sic the snake on him.

It’s a vicious cycle, but, hey, we’re burning a few calories.

We also have an anteater. The kindergartner—that would be Jax—drew the name of a Rain Forest animal out of a hat and was given instructions to learn about the animal, write down three facts about said animal, then construct a model (instructions specifically said no drawings), and prepare to give a presentation in class.

The one time I would have chosen for him to pick a snake, Jax chose a &#@! anteater.

So I asked Google how to make a clay model anteater. And Google said to construct a skeleton out of aluminum foil and wire and slap clay on the carcass.

It was a family affair, and when it was done, the Bean anteater looked like a cross between a weenie dog and a horse. The body was too long. We all agreed. So I took a small saw and cut an inch out of the anteater’s midsection, and then I used a wooden skewer reconnect his front and hind quarters and more clay, of course, to patch him up.

I made Jax practice his presentation several times.  The kid can’t be still, and I’m afraid he’s going to screw up my grade.

That’s about as exciting as it’s been at Maison Bean these days.

Me:  What is that?

Jax:  Elliuns

Me:  Huh?!

Jax:  ELL-EE-UNS

Me:  Oh, okay.

But, no, it wasn’t okay.  I still didn’t understand what he was saying.  It was actually Papa who interpreted for me.

Jax was saying aliens. I guess being a gink has its benefits.

In Bean news:

Jax has been tearing up the basketball court, and except for a couple of yellow lights for behavior (it’s that kindergarten sense of humor), he’s doing well in school.  This time when I opened his report card, I wasn’t shocked when I saw all C’s.  It turns out that C these days stands for consistently masters….

Whatever.

And, Moose, I don’t know about his report card.  I opened the envelope and found a report card belonging to some other kid I’d never heard of.  I still don’t know if Moose changed his name or he switched report cards with someone else.  At the beginning of the school year, he ran up a tab in the cafeteria for $35.

I was a cute coed with a fake ID before I ever ran a tab.

What is this world coming to?

It’s been a crazy December. My Christmas tree had scoliosis–Sissy and Buzz had to jury-rig it. Hyacinth has really started to get old. It’s like when old people who can’t hear talk loud, except Hyacinth barks loud.

Jax was named at Terrific Kid at school. He’s learning to read and burning up the basketball court. Moose is … well, he’s Moose, and often, he’s naked and far too comfortable that way

Papa went back for his one-year-after-being-diagnosed-with-cancer test. Two weeks before the test he was a wreck.

“I’ve got this strange swelling in my abdomen,” he said.

I ignored him. I knew Papa was okay. And I was right. Turns out the swelling was FAT.

Today, in the midst of my Christmas preparations, Papa interrupted, “Who am I talking to?”

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re talking to me.”

“Jenny?”

“Yeah, Jenny.”

“Jenny, do you want to ride the ElliptiGO today while I watch the little Beans?” (The ElliptiGO is Papa’s fancy bike. It’s so fancy there’s not even a seat on which to rest your derriere.)

“What the hell are you talking about? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

At which point, Papa put his phone to his ear and said, “Sissy, you were talking to wine last night.”

Tomorrow, a Furby will appear at Maison Bean. A gift from Mimi. Sissy introduced me to it. After the introductions, we locked it back it in my closet.  It continued to talk to itself.

I’m scared.

“Why would you do that to me?” I asked Mimi.

Things might get ugly…. Stay tuned. In the meantime, have a very merry Christmas.

xoxo, Jenny

UPDATE, Christmas evening:  Furby is dead.  He didn’t last a day with Moose

UPDATE ENCORE:  The world’s worst loser and the world’s most obnoxious winner–that would be Jax–just beat me three times in Uno.

Me:        Hello.

Papa:    There’s a rule that you gotta know the meaning of the word before you play it.

Me:        Who is this?!  What word?

Papa:    Fez.

Me:        It’s a hat.

Papa:    A shriners hat with a tassel.  Grandpa Bean had one.

Me:        It’s still a hat.

Papa:    What is a “gink”?

Me:        A watchamadoogie.

Papa:    A what?

Me:        Dr. Seuss.  A yottle in the bottle.  A gink in the sink.

Papa:    Oh.

We’ve been playing Scrabble against each other in the evenings on our iPads while we watch reruns of Monk and Frasier on Netflix.

Papa keeps losing.

After our conversation, I looked up the word “gink.”  The World English Dictionary says it’s “a man or boy, especially one considered to be odd.”

Me: How do you know if you’ve broken your toe?

Mimi: It’s excruciating. You. Know. If. You’ve. Broken. Your. Toe.

Me: It hurts, but I wouldn’t call it excruciating.

Mimi: You haven’t broken it then. Or either the couple of glasses of wine you’ve had have dulled the pain.

When Mimi makes digs about my wine consumption, I ignore her. She’s just jealous that her constitution isn’t as strong as mine.

We have a rule at Maison Bean. Before you come in the door, you must sign a waiver relinquishing your rights in the event of an injury or an illness incurred on the premises. This was a preemptive measure I instituted as a new mother when it dawned on me the unusual hazard my two young offspring presented.

By nature they spew contagions and leave little germy toys scattered about. Add to that two geriatric hounds whose naps constitute pedestrian obstacles, and, voila, you’ll find an ambulance-chasing TV lawyer drumming up his personal injury caseload on your doorstep.

After our guests have signed the waiver, we teach them the Bean Shuffle. The Bean Shuffle is a slow, but safe, means of walking whereby you walk without lifting your feet from the floor–you shuffle. It’s safe and prevents you from tripping…. It can be done in the dark, and it’s 100 percent foolproof.

The problem on Thursday night was that fortified by a mere glass of chardonnay and with no accidents to remind me to be careful, I got careless and went bounding through the living room in the dark where I encountered an errant ottoman. It was dark. I felt like I’d rammed my foot into a brick wall. I hopped up and down muttering obscenities.

It hurt, but it was far from giving birth. With no sympathy from Mimi and Papa (Papa was nursing his own wounds), I took a handful of ibuprofen, went to bed and forgot about it temporarily.

When Friday morning arrived, I began to think that there might actually be some merit to Mimi’s wine-dulling-the-pain barb. My toe hurt, and I was walking like Fred Sanford.

I took another handful of ibuprofen and called the orthopedic surgeon’s office at the university hospital. The orthopedic  surgeon’s office was not impressed with my emergency and advised me to go to Urgent Care.

Whilst I ruminated, I drove… not to Urgent Care… to the Nail Palace where I got a *gentle* pedicure.

Thus presentable, I drove myself to Urgent Care. Urgent Care took an x-ray, appropriately ooohed and ahhed over my poor–but pedicured–toe, gave me a hideous boot to wear and a lovely prescription for pain and sent me on my way home–all for $16.

Notwithstanding the garish boot, it was a pleasant experience. But it was actually back home at Maison Bean that I found unexpected sympathy.

On seeing my orthopedic boot, Moose, my little doctor in the making, crouched down, examined my foot carefully before proffering a tender little Moose kiss on top of my poor injured toe.

Because I’m still in the abyss… and then I drink chardonnay and watch my grass.  It’s not growing anymore and my zinnias are all gone, and sometimes I have to go to a soccer game.

xoxo, Jenny