On the Front Porch

How You Know a Girl Likes You

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 14:01:00 +0000

I picked up Tristan at daycare. We sat in the car a moment waiting for a dad to move out of the way of our car so I didn't plow over him and his adorable baby daughter.

Tristan says, "Dat's Candy. I wike her and she wikes me."

"Yeah? That's nice."

"She wikes me and she wikes Twevor."

I always try to make conversation with Tristan because he likes to talk and for a long time didn't really have anything much to say. It's been fun lately because we can actually have a two-way conversation. Good times.

"So, she is your friend then?"

"Yes, she wikes me cause she wicked my hand."

This is a new thing, I guess. When I was a kid you know a girl liked you when she punched you. But now it's looking like a girl likes you if she licks your hand.

"She licked your hand? And that's how you know she likes you?" (It's always good to clarify.)

"Uh huh. She wikes me. She wicked my hand. Das how she wikes me."

It's Exciting Driving the Getaway Car (Until You Get Caught)

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 20:35:00 +0000

It's been raining. And raining. Oh, and then on top of that rain we got some more rain. These are the times when you realize size is a relative thing. Some people think 3-5 inches is small and complain about it. But when it comes to rain it's not that small, especially when you get that much several times in a week.

I'm intrepid when it comes to my job. I'll drive through the mud. I'll walk over snakes, through spider webs. I've climbed down cliffs, up over boulders. I've walked into dark caves, meth houses, dank basements with standing water. I've driven in cars with people who turned out to be thieves, sex offenders and murder victims. (Okay, that last part I didn't know in advance and wouldn't have gone anywhere near them had I known.) I've driven in cars with people who wouldn't even speak much beyond a yes or no when asked. (The dark caves were less unsettling than those people.) I've utilized first aid advice. I've walked three miles to get to a house in the woods where my car wouldn't go. Sometimes I have to wear orange so people don't shoot me.

Country real estate is a daring adventure. Sometimes great, sometimes horrible, but almost always memorable.

Last week a client of mine drove in from way up north of here. He came in on one of the days it was raining. Not just drizzling, but the kind of rain that pummels you when you walk in it. The kind where you have to turn the wipers on high and hope nothing runs out in front of you or that the road doesn't twist in a way in which you least expect it.

He arrived smelling of wet dog. He'd been living out of his van for several days, he and Princess the golden retriever. He was raring to go and I was pleased to see that he was leaving Princess behind to rest because "the rain is freaking her out". I don't much care for dogs and I like wet dogs even less.

The first house we went to had a gate at the end of the driveway. In gentlemanly form, Mr. Granger hopped out of the car and opened the gate (with great difficulty and while standing in a puddle) and held it aside while I drove through. When he got back in the car he volleyed forth with a stream of obscenities about the horrible way the gate fastener was hooked up and how he'd just put on his last pair of dry shoes and now look at him. I sighed. I'm not keen on the potty mouth. However, I made some sympathetic noises and kept on driving.

We looked at several houses that day for many, many hours. The county in which I live is about 42 miles across at its broadest. So, that means if I'm showing property on both sides of the county I'm in the car with total strangers for a good deal of the day driving back and forth. You learn a lot about people during that time. Fortunately for me, Mr. Granger was a talker so I didn't have to do much to entertain him.

Talk turned to alcohol, although I can't for the life of me remember how we got on that subject. We live in a dry county and Mr. Granger seemed definitely dismayed when he learned that one cannot buy alcohol nearby. I told him it was only about 15 miles from my office to the liquor store. That revelation didn't seem to make him feel any better. Once he discovered the distance to alcohol he seemed to dwell on the fact that we had a serious lack of it.

At the second-to-last house we stomped around in the water all around the perimeter of this cabin and couldn't get inside. The keybox that was supposed to be there was not there and we settled on peering into the windows like naughty little children who have been forbidden to go inside. He heaved a big sigh.

"Will this rain never stop?"

I nodded. "This is not really typical weather for us. We've been getting a lot of rain lately."

"It's really starting to get to me. It's been raining ever since I left home."

As intrepid as I am, I hate showing real estate in the rain. It's not because I don't like getting wet and cold. It's not because I have to drive around with people who smell like wet dogs. It's simply because looking at houses in the rain makes people sad and sad people don't buy houses. They go home and pull the covers over their heads, don't answer the phone and watch a lot of daytime talk shows.

At the last house, we were able to get inside and we roamed through the half-empty weekend house of strangers. I was in one room and I heard him open the fridge.

"Hey, the fridge is stocked! They've got good beer, too!"

From the other room I cringe and say, "Really? How about that."

"Boy, I'd sure like a cold one right about now."

Trying to change the subject I yell back, "Hey, I found the back porch. This is really nice. You should see this."

The fridge door slams shut and Mr. Granger appears by my side. We stand at the porch railing looking out at the trees loaded with fall color. Moments later we walk back into the house. Mr. Granger is smacking his lips.

"I'm sure tempted to just leave a couple of bucks in the fridge for them and take a beer..."

I responded with a witty and effective, "Uhhh...."

"Then they'd probably be all mad because they'd think they were stocked up and then the beer would be gone."

"Yeah, that wouldn't be too good."

Eventually, to my relief, we were back in the car and weaving our way out of the hills through creek beds and over muddy dirt roads. We hit pavement and I drove as fast as the weather would allow.

About seven miles from town Mr. Granger yells, "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" I slammed the brakes on and started slowing down. "I know that's not a grapefruit tree, but that's the first thing I thought of when I saw it. What WAS that??"

"Um..."

"I bet that was a pear tree. If it was it was the biggest goddamn pear tree I've ever seen in my life. I just can't believe it!"

"Do you want me to go back?" I am a tour guide as well as a Realtor.

"If it's not any trouble, yes. I'd love to get a picture of that."

I said, "No problem at all," then swung around in a nearby driveway. I dropped him off at the pear tree with the most ginormous pieces of fruit you've ever seen in your life. I told Mr. Granger I would turn around and pick him up in a moment when I was headed in the right direction. He ambled off toward the tree, camera in hand.

I turned the car around then pulled up again next to the tree in time to see Mr. Granger loading his coat up with pears off the ground. I looked over at the house to see if anyone was looking out the window. I sat there for a moment doing the internal "why me" whine that I do when things don't go as smoothly as I like. Then I contemplated the pros and cons of having a big logo with my name and phone number on the side of my car. I mentally added "conspicuous while committing crimes" to the con side of the list.

After a final glance to see if anyone was coming out of the house with a shotgun I see Mr. Granger stand up and start running full speed toward my vehicle, his hands full of fruit. He gets to the door and yanks on the handle only to find the door locked. (My doors lock automatically when the car is in drive.) He looks alarmed and I had to stifle a laugh. I unlocked the door and managed to squeak out an "oh, sorry" without giggling nervously.

I slam on the gas and speed off away from the scene of Mr. Granger's fruit thievery and was thanking my lucky stars that at least he only took fruit off the ground and not from the tree. I ruminated a while about how that would play out in court for me. Would that be a lesser charge? Could I just get probation and maybe some community service?

I sighed and then heard Mr. Granger moan an ecstatic, "Mmmm ohhhh!" I nearly whipped the car onto the shoulder accidentally as I looked over to see what he was doing. One ginormous pear was at his mouth. His eyes were closed and he started chewing. "Mmm ummmm, this takes me back to my childhood! Wow, what memories."

Yeah, for you and me both, Mr. Granger. For you and me both.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt, Episode Three

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 21:21:00 +0000

You can call off the search and rescue teams, I'm still here. Thanks, Sproglet, for checking in on me. I have no particular excuses other than life in general has been keeping me from writing -- the writing that I love to do and would do all day long if I was master of my own time and space.

Today was my first day back at work in quite a few days. I've been sick and have had in-laws visiting. Since we are short-handed at work and Rob was out much of the week before I had moved to the front office where I could see the door. Now I'm in the habit of working here and my own desk is a mess and so here I sit.

The last few days Rob has been complaining that I'm no longer working in the same office he's in. This is what we've done for the last ~~800~~ 9 years for better or for worse. We like it in addition to it being a habit. We wear the habit like a nice pair of broken slippers, slippers that sometimes end up with an annoying rock inside it that has to be shaken out.

For example, a little bit of shaking has to occur when your husband accuses you of being "one of those embarrassing moms". Pshaw, yeah, seriously. Me? Surely not.

I like to crochet and knit. I will be the first to admit that sometimes crocheted things can be really cheesy if not done well. I know this first hand because when I was 8 or 9 years old I had a vest and matching hat made out of yarn and beer cans that my grandmother made for me. Being that young I thought they were really cool and wore them all the time. I had one of those mothers who apparently didn't care what her daughter was dressed in. (Or worse, maybe she thought they were cool, too. Now that I think about it, that wouldn't surprise me.)

I recently ran across a tiny little crochet doo-dad that would make a really fun gift for Halloween. My brilliant idea was to make 20 or so of these for the kids in Julius's class. Because what kid doesn't want a crocheted fake candy corn, right? According to my husband, the answer to that rhetorical question is, "None of them."

And so right after I went skipping like an excited spring lamb into his office (which is usually OUR office) and asking him to check his email right away because I had something to show him, we had the following conversation.

Me: Go check your email right away. This is so cool.

Him: What is that?

Me: It's candy corn! Isn't it cute?

Him: Why are you sending this to me?

Me: Don't you read my email? I said at the top why I am sending it to you.

Him: You're standing right next to me.

Me: Okay, well anyway, I thought I'd make some of those for J's class for Halloween. What do you think?

Him: Um, no. If you want to be one of those really embarrassing moms, yeah.

Me: What do you mean?

Him: Crocheted candy corn? Nobody wants crocheted candy corn. Why don't you make them something really cool like the ghost?

Me: I don't want to make a ghost. I like the candy corn. It's cute. How can you not think this is cute?

Him: It's really easy. Look, I'm just trying to help you be one of the COOL moms. Do the ghost. Or the pumpkin. The candy corn is a triangle. The kids are going to say, "Why is this lady giving me a crocheted triangle?"

Me: It's not a triangle, it's candy corn.

Him: Kids are not nostalgic. They're six. Do the ghost. Or the pumpkin.

About 10 minutes later I walk past the door to the office and see him waving me in. He's got a funny look on his face. It turns out he has my mother on the speaker phone. He explains to her the situation and insists in a smug kind of way that she tell us her opinion. He does this because he is certain she will agree with him.

My mother, because of her religious convictions doesn't want me to do the ghost. I asked her, ghost aside, which is more cool, the pumpkin or the candy corn?

She says, "Honey, I'm afraid I have to agree with your husband. The pumpkin does sound cuter."

I said, "I knew you would agree with him. You two are just alike. That's why you don't get along, because you're just exactly alike."

Both of them were yukking it up mightily. Ironic since they never agree on anything unless it's to disagree with me. Mom mentioned it takes the two of them to gang up on me to keep me in line.

I said, "Well, fine then. Just remember the next time you two are fighting and want me to referee -- just remember I think you both deserve each other."

And now it's time for an opinion poll. Let me put you on the speaker phone with my mom and Rob. Here you go:

Against My Better Judgement I Drove On

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 15:47:00 +0000

After the Fleisingheimer Fiasco I went back to my office and sat working quietly and diligently trying to catch up on all the stuff I have to do now that it's just the two of us in the office. I frequently work with the lights off. I don't know why, it's just what I do. So I'm sitting in the dim light at my computer when the door bursts open and a large man with rolled up pants and rubber boots emerges into the foyer and turns to look at me.

I glance over the top of my monitor and raise my eyebrows at him and am about to greet him when he bellows, "Wanna go 4-wheelin???"

My first thought was, "Oh hell no." A 6'5" man wearing rubber boots who is at least halfway to 300 pounds and fills up my entire doorway blocking what little light is left coming into the room is not who I'm going to jump on the back of at ATV with, especially without a hello first. Well, maybe if it were Brad Pitt.

My alarmed look said more than I really needed to say and he started laughing and said, "I'm Doyle."

Doyle turns out to be a fella I've been talking to on the phone for about three months. He has a whole heap of land to sell up on a nearby mountain. He's been promising to meet me up there for a look-see and we've just not been able to hook up. And there, suddenly he is, rubber boots and all.

He explains that he and the family are on the way up to the land and while he realizes it's short notice he thinks it would be awesome if we could meet up there today. We made the arrangements, I got directions and as he started to walk out the door he turned and said, "Oh, I almost forgot. There's a big mud hole up there in the road. It looks really bad, but it looks worse than it is. I got stuck up there about a week ago but I made the mistake of slowing down. If you just keep driving and hit it steady and push on through you'll be okay." And with that he was out the door.

I called my husband to do a little marital negotiating. I explained to him how I didn't want to drive through a big mud hole based on what had happened the last time I drove through a mud hole on River Road. That time I eased into a giant puddle that was in a built-up railroad bed that had been converted to a road. What looked like a shallow puddle ended up turning into a bottomless pit of tire-sucking mud and only by the grace of God am I here to tell about it. Muddy water ended up over the top of my side mirrors, and this is no exaggeration. I was certain I would die there and that one day, thousands of years from now, students of archaeology would be theorizing about me and the subsequent extinction of mankind. They'd call me Lucy of the Arkansas Mud Pits and forensic artists would do a rendering of me for the Smithsonian.

We agreed to go up as a family after Julius got out of school. It would be a fun and fabulous time and give the boys a chance to get out into the woods and explore nature. Best of all I wouldn't have to drive.

About 15 minutes later I remembered I had a city council meeting that night and had to leave right away or I'd never make it back. I had to go solo.

One of the reasons I drive the behemoth vehicle that I drive is that I'm frequently called to negotiate some rough Ozark territory. After a $2200 repair on the last car we had due to hitting a rock because our clearance was too low on the Trailblazer, we decided our next vehicle would have the highest clearance possible and settled on a baby Hummer (H3). While I occasionally dabble in political correctness and green-living, I don't fool around when it comes to what I drive. Where I go is not where you want to get stranded with no cell service.

I send Doyle a text message telling him I was coming up early and to watch for me. I found all the little turn offs, many unmarked. I drove and drove and drove and finally the road narrowed down to a single-lane grassy track through the woods. I drove and drove some more and finally I made it to the mud hole.

This is when I realize the term "mud hole" is relative. A mud hole can be a little wet spot in the yard big enough for one kid to stomp his feet in. Or it can look like a giant tarpit that stretches the entire width of the road and extend for about four car lengths. If I was looking at the first one there wouldn't be a story to write here.

I idled in the road for a while looking at the pit before me. I heard Doyle's words echo in my mind, "If you just drive through and don't slow down you'll be okay." I step out of the car and walk to the pit to get a closer look. I can tell where the last vehicle made its path and since Doyle seems like he knows what he's talking about that seemed the most sensible way to go. The ruts were at least two feet deep.

I tried to call Rob to describe what I was looking at and to get some last minute advice. I have always considered driving in the mud to be a manly pursuit and an art form that one can perfect over time with the help of testosterone and some hard-coding in the male DNA. I have no interest in getting better at it and would prefer to let my husband do this bit of dirty work.

And yet there I was with no cell service. With the prospect of a juicy listing ahead of me, and against my better judgement and screaming intuition, I drove on. About a car length in I bogged down a bit and my tail end boogied back and forth and the car complained vehemently but finally I got to the other side. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, sacrifice a goat to God and then kept on going. Doyle said there were three of these to maneuver through.

The second one was more manageable. I decided I was born for this and asked myself, "Who needs a guy when you're this much of a stud?"

The answer came moments later when I tried to traverse the third pit and got stuck. I spent a few minutes trying to get unstuck. There are two magic buttons on the dashboard that are supposed to be some kind of help when you're in a bad spot. However, I couldn't remember what the buttons do. They either slow the wheels down or speed them up or maybe they turn the wheels sideways and the vehicle turns into a hovercar. I'm not sure. Despite not knowing what they do I pressed them and tried again. The first one seemed to do nothing. The second one made a big grinding noise.

I took off my sandals and pulled on my massive steel-toed work boots with the neon pink bootlaces. Out the door I went with the car still running. Mosquitoes buzzed around my head. The car was into the mud about 1/2 of the way up the tire. The treads were completely filled with mud. I looked around for stuff to put under the tires. The place was remarkably free of stuff I could carry. I tossed one small log into the pit and it disappeared ineffectually. I went back to the car, which was still running, and pulled on the door handle which was locked. Because being stuck in 2 feet of mud, alone, with no cell signal is not nearly challenging enough. Fortunately, the back door was open, so my panic and bitterness was short-lived.

I got my useless phone, turned off the car and started walking toward where I knew Doyle would be. It wasn't far. Fifteen seconds later I heard what sounded like a lawnmower coming toward me and around the corner zipped what looked like a redneck golf cart filled with Doyle, his wife and five children. They raced into the mud, fishtailed through and shot out the other side coming right at me.

Doyle slamed on the brakes right in front of me. He grinned, "I'm a little disappointed in your car. I thought surely you could make it in that." I explained that perhaps a better driver could. I relayed the whole story to him including the part about the two mysterious buttons and he laughed heartily about that. He said, "I guess you better learn what those buttons do after this." He told me to get in and he'd give me the tour and then he'd help me get the car out of the mud. He said if nothing else the Polaris could pull me out. I doubted it sincerely as he slammed on the gas and we dove into the pit.

The Polaris has no windshield or sides. It has a rollbar which I clung to for dear life as we tipped at a 45 degree angle in the mud puddle. I was certain Doyle would dump me out the side. Over the screaming engine he yells, "I'm sorry if I spray you with mud. I'll try hard not to." I wanted to say, "Just try not to kill me and that will be just fine." (I didn't.)

I have to pause for a moment to tell you about the wonders of the Polaris. We drove through mud holes that came up to the bottom of the vehicle. We drove across creek beds, fallen trees, up near-vertical embankments, down gravity-defying mountain slopes. Not once did the Polaris fail to measure up. The only complaint I have at all was the lack of windshield. I had to wipe spiders, inchworms and a few other unidentifiable creepy-crawlies off me about every 6 feet. That part was maddening, but beyond that I was impressed and have now moved the unaffordable Polaris to the top of my wish list where it will sit until the day I die because I'm too busy paying for my children's college educations.

Doyle drove me all over the gazillion acres. Three adults and five children in one little all-terrain vehicle. I didn't think it was possible. We had a grand time, except for the snake I nearly stepped on and the one time Doyle drove all the way up to the edge of the creek embankment and I was certain he'd send us tumbling ass-over-teakettle into the canyon below.

Over hill and dale we made our way back to the awaiting, entrenched, bundle of disappointment I call my ride. I surmised to Doyle that he could probably get the vehicle out of the pit since I'm not a very good driver when it comes to mud. He managed to agree with me without making me feel too bad about it. It's good to know your strengths and weaknesses so that when you're faced with one and someone else agrees with you that it really is a weakness, you don't feel too bad about it. It saves wasting a lot of time feeling sorry for yourself.

I lurked in the woods out of way in case Doyle came sliding out of the mud pit toward me. I strategically placed a few trees in the way to avoid mishap. He slipped, he slid, he revved, he rocked, he rolled and in reverse he finally extracted my car from the pit. I applauded. My vehicle had redeemed itself. I had blamed it for my shortcomings and would have to make amends.

Doyle and family promised to follow me in the Polaris until I'd gotten through the other two mud pits. Again, number 2 was no match for even my pathetic skills. Back to the first one I made it through only halfway again and got stuck. I sat for a moment, stressed and angry. I growled at the steering wheel in frustration as if that would help. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see Doyle round the corner in the Polaris. He slowed down and stopped, waiting to see what I would do.

"I'll be damned if I'm gonna ask him to help me again when I know this car can get out of here." I recalled what I'd seen him do and put aside my fear that I'd break Rob's car if I pushed it too hard. I would not be defeated by 864 cubic feet of mud.

I drove forward, I rocked backward. Back and forth, forth and back. I could feel progress being made and then suddenly I shot forward straight for a tree. At the last moment I swerved and the car bunny-hopped out of the mud onto the grass. Diagonal, but out. I jumped out of the car and looked back at Doyle and his family sitting in the Polaris. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "Sorry, but I have to do a victory dance now!" and proceeded to an embarrassing rendition of something that looks similar to the Bruins mascot victory dance.

I hopped back into the car and sped off for my meeting which I would barely make. The windows were down and as my heartbeat calmed to its normal pace I glanced around the car realizing it was full of splattered mud. As soon as I got into signal range I called home.

"I owe you five dollars, honey."

Suspicious, he asked what for.

"To wash the car. It's... a little muddy."

"I don't think so. You better just go wash it yourself. What did you do to my car??"

"Well, I got a little bit stuck, but it's okay, Doyle got me out."

Big pause. "Who's Doyle?"

I laughed. "That's a long story. I'll tell you when you get home."

I drove on, scratched my itchy ear and realized there was even mud there. Mud in my ear. Imagine!

I Didn't Think I Could Fit Both Feet Into My Mouth, and Yet There They Were

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 13:49:00 +0000

In my line of work I am frequently called to get into people's private financial affairs whether I want to or not. Some days I compare it to being a proctologist -- it can be interesting and fascinating, it's rewarding to be helpful, but some days it's also just a dark and uncomfortable place to be. But, you know, somebody's gotta do it.

So there I am sitting at Mr. and Mrs. Fleisingheimer's dining room table which looks a lot like my dining room table with its bits of paint and dried glue from the kids, except their dining room table was remarkably free of half-folded laundry.

Mr. and Mrs. F were perusing the docs laid out before them and there I was poised with my notary stamp ready to seal the deal for them. My stamp glinted in the sunlight streaming through the fabulous floor-to-ceiling windows.

Mrs. F broke the silence by saying, "My name isn't on this application." This small but astute observation sent us down a twisting and turning path through a forest of pointy brambles and spiderwebs across the face.

Mr. F's response was, "Don't worry about it because your name is on the mortgage." Without going into a lot of personal details, I can just say that this was not the best answer. The best answer would have been, "Yes, dear." An equally good answer would have been, "How can we modify these documents to your satisfaction?" Another good response would have been, "Can I get you a martini, sweetheart?"

But, no, that's not really how it all went down and I sat there for 15 minutes unable to avoid witnessing an uncomfortable marital negotiation from my ringside seat. I stared at my glinting self-inking stamp and wished I had something to stamp. Or that I was someplace else.

After a lengthy phone call to various financial wizards it was determined there were reasons why Mrs. F wasn't on the loan application. All of the reasons were normal, nothing heinous or terrible, just the facts of financial life when one spouse makes most of the money. And in my job I am also frequently called to help educate people about financial matters related to credit, loans and home-buying and this tendency to advise and educate is also, apparently, my Achilles heel. At least that day.

I say to Mrs. F as we are about the resume signing paperwork, "Do you work?" I know when the words go out of my mouth that this was the wrong way to word the question to a stay-at-home-mom.

I was immensely relieved when she didn't go reactionary on me and set me straight about the definition of work. She simply glanced over at me and said, "No." I heaved a heavy internal sigh of relief.

Too soon, of course. She set down her pen and looked over at me with pursed lips and said, "Of course I work. I work very hard."

Fully-prepared to engage in some frantic backpedaling, I apologized and said, "I should have worded that better. Of course you work. What I meant to say was, 'Do you have a quantifiable income other than the obvious value you provide your family by working inside the home?'"

She said, "No, I don't have a job that makes money."

Like a blind, nervous cow who can't see the quicksand in front of her, I plowed ahead knowing that surely soon I would be out of this mess and could get on with the business at hand. I thought it would help to lighten up with a little joking. I said, "Well, see now, you just need to allot Mrs. F an allowance for all that hard work she does."

Mr. F straightened up in his seat and squinted at me, saying, "What do you mean an allowance? She has control of all the money."

Mrs. F, if possible to look more irritated, looked more irritated and said, "We don't like that word 'allowance'."

"Mm. Well then, yeah. Okay."

We sat looking awkwardly at each other for about 5 seconds which seemed more like about 5 hours and then I shoved more papers at them to sign. Note to self: No more joking. Ever.

Finally we came to the end and surprisingly they were cordial, enthusiastically thanked me for my time and all those niceties you do when you're saying your goodbyes. Handshaking, small talk, smiling, offers to do more business in the future. A small miracle in the opinion of one who is frequently a big social bungler.

As I pulled out of the driveway, the gravel crunched beneath the tires of my vehicle. I stopped at the end of the drive and looked both ways up and down the highway. All clear. I turned east and headed back toward the office to see what other adventures I could get into. Little did I know one was coming just three hours in my future.

Pancakes in the Nude

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 20:20:00 +0000

The following conversation took place between my mom and Tristan while we were on a short road trip over the weekend. I can't remember exactly how the conversation got started but we were talking about cooking or food or life or who knows what.

Mom: Tristan, you have to learn how to cook.

Tristan: No!

Mom: Well, then you will have to get married so your wife can cook for you.

Tristan: I not getting married.

Mom: If you can't cook and you're not married how will you feed yourself?

Tristan: I no know.

Mom: You really need to learn to cook.

Tristan: No.

Mom: If you don't know how to cook you will have to take your pajamas off and go out to a restaurant to get pancakes for your breakfast.

Tristan: I not going restaurant naked!!

Can You Hear Me Now?

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 16:15:00 +0000

Tristan's speech is improving so much these days. It's really delightful to be able to have some almost-regular conversations with him. The other day he woke up and found me sitting on the couch, settled into my arms and we chatted about various important topics of life such as Spiderman's webs being sticky, Julius going to school and, once again, how my bra is constructed.

He is becoming increasingly aware of all the things around him and what they mean and what relevance they have on his life. This is one of my favorite times of the boys' lives when conversations start to happen and you can really TALK and communicate on a get-to-know-you level. I love it.

Well, I mostly love it.

When I don't love it is when we are in a crowded Wal-Mart and we pass a big toilet paper display and Tristan says in his very loud, high-pitched voice, "DAT TOILET PAPER. YOU WIPE YOU BOTTOM, MOMMY, WIT DAT TOILET PAPER?"

I veer off quickly around the corner with the basket as he's waving his hands at the TP display and hiss under my breath, "Yes, toilet paper is for wiping bottoms. Very good, very good. Uh huh. Let's use a quiet voice now."

"WHY COME YOU USE A QUIET VOICE MOMMY?"

Oh, for the love of Pete. I'm not sure why I bother. Maybe because I don't want to talk about wiping my bottom with a whole bunch of other strangers standing next to the dairy aisle. Am I silly for thinking that's wrong?

The other time it becomes a problem is when the child likes to repeat the things you say. This is something I've already been aware of because I have one older child, but as I'm creeping up on middle age I sometimes forget things.

In the toy section I wanted an excuse to hasten the process of selecting a toy. We had it narrowed down to 2-3 toys to choose from but he just kept insisting he needed all of them. Finally I said, "Look, you need to just pick one or we're leaving because Mommy has to go potty." That seemed like a reasonable excuse for urgency.

"YOU NEED GO POTTY MOMMY????"

A man passing by with his basket glanced over at me to see if I was mortified. Resigned was really the word I would have chosen, so he had the decency to be completely embarrassed on my behalf. He scurried quickly away and disappeared as I waved to his retreating back.

"Yeah, okay, Tristan. You don't have to yell about Mom needing to go potty."

"WHY COME?"

"Because it's private."

"YOU GO POTTY IN PRIVATE?"

"Okay, we're really going now. Pick a toy, pick, pick, pick or I will pick for you or better yet we'll just leave with NO toy. I recommend you pick something right now."

And, smartly, he picked one and off I raced with one hand on the basket, the other waving around trying to distract him from looking around in case he saw more toilet paper or any other products that could somehow be turned into a loud conversation about my personal care habits.

The Abuse Continues

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 17:44:00 +0000

My boys are going to the dark side. More and more they act like their father, talk like their father, throw temper tantrums like their father, and want to do things with their dad more often than me.

The other night I was tucking our youngest to bed, smoothing his hair with tickly mommy fingers, straightening the covers and that sort of usual nite-nite stuff.

Frequently he will hug my arm to his chest and nuzzle my hand with his face and say, "Stay, Mommy." It's so cute and heartmelting.

But this latest night was different. He looked up and me and said, "Daddy read me story."

"You want Daddy to read you a story?"

He nodded, "You go get him."

"Oh. Okay, sure. Will you love me forever then?"

He nodded and said, "Yes, just go."

"Oh, you want Daddy right now?"

"You just go. Get me Daddy. Him read me story right now."

His dad doesn't actually read him books. He tells really cute stories about various super heroes knocking on our front door and asking if Tristan can come out and do good deeds to save the world. It's very entertaining and they only last a few minutes long and Tristan will make him tell about eight of them in a row and then cries like the world is ending when he stops.

* * *

However, while Dad is fun, mom is the one they generally come to when they are upset or want some snuggling and loving up.

Last night I had a dream that a big race horse was in bed with me trying to eat my chicken noodle soup. When I woke up at 4:44AM I realized what I thought was a large soup-slurping thoroughbred was actually two boys -- one at my side pushing me to the edge of the bed, one at the end of the bed knocking my feet off so that I was only touching the bed from the knees up and with one arm dangling over the side.

As I lay there trying to figure out if I should kick them all out, move to the couch or just get up and do something productive I realized that Tristan had managed to wet the bed through his overnight pants. All over me. Not his DAD who is the fun one, but all over his mom and mom's side of the bed. And then after I cleaned everything up had the nerve to ask me for a drink before going back to bed.

My response was, "I don't think so." And then I realized being only two he probably doesn't really get the art of snarkiness. Although, I'm in no big hurry because once they figure it out then they start using it on you in retaliation.

I'm rethinking my mom's whole fly swatter thing.

Some Firsts

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 14:50:00 +0000

Julius lost his first tooth this week. It's been a long and grotesque week with him showing me the progress of the wiggling tooth each morning and night. "Look how loose it is, Mom!" He'd hop around me, then open his mouth and waggle the tooth around with his tongue until I felt a little queasy around the edges and beg him to please stop. He'd race away yelling, "Look at my tooth, Dad!"

He finally lost it on Tuesday after getting punched in the mouth on the bus by a scrappy little Kindergarten kid who is obviously well-versed on the story of David and Goliath, that inspiring tale of a small but lion-hearted man going against a foe umpteen times his size despite that being a really insane decision.

Unfortunately, my son's modern day version of that bible tale turned out pretty much like the traditional version only in our case, David got suspended from the bus for a few days and Goliath lost his first baby tooth and still sports a big bite mark on his thigh several days later.

I've been trying to focus on the really important things about this learning experience like how proud I am of my son for not just beating the little guy to a pulp when he could have, how he showed Ghandi-like tolerance, restraint and buoyant good-nature despite David's repeated attempts to pick a fight. All of these things are fabulous qualities I admire about my son and have complimented him on when I'm not being distracted by the unfortunate, nagging thought that my son got his ass kicked by a Kindergarten kid half his size.

Yeah, I'm shallow.

So, we've been struggling with these many issues -- how to handle someone trying to pick a fight, what are good and bad choices in those cases. We've talked about self-defense, self-esteem, consequences of action and non-action. This is something we've assumed was going to happen eventually because Julius is a little different. He is generally well-liked and charming, but he still talks different because of his respiratory condition. He's the big, quiet boy who whispers. In the world of rough and tumble boys, that's a defect, a weakness, a testing ground. No matter how much I don't like it, in the world we live in this is the reality of life.

The realization I'm coming to is that the proving ground for all of us is not how we handle ourselves in this fight. The real proving ground is how we handle ourselves outside the fight. How do we react during what comes after? Do we learn anything from it? Do we let it change us for the better or worse? Does it rule us? How is our self-esteem? How is our outlook on life? Are we afraid? Are we bitter?

I can tell you that Julius did well. His parents, however, could have done far better.

The day after the bus fight I walked to the stop to meet Julius so the driver could see he had an engaged and concerned mom. It turns out I know him and went to school with his son who was a popular basketball player. His wife is my mom's hairdresser. He waved to me as he pulled away. I phoned Mom that night to tell her Mr. Stemple is Julius's bus driver.

"He hates redheads," she said.

"Uh, okay. Why? How can you hate a redhead?"

"I don't know. He does though. Always has. For years Donelda has been wanting to put a red rinse on her hair and he absolutely forbids her to. She's the one who told me he hates redheads."

"Well, that's unfortunate since Julius and I both have red hair."

"Isn't it though." I could sense her working on her latest conspiracy that somehow it was all orchestrated by the bus driver -- a big plot to get the redheaded kids beat up at school.

Supposedly that day the kids were supposed to be separated to avoid further incident. Julius got off the bus, head hanging low. I put my arm around him and tried to bend down to see the expression on his face. To my surprise he had a funny smirk there like he was trying to keep from grinning or laughing.

"What?" I demanded.

From his pocket he whipped out a plastic baggie containing a tiny little tooth and showed me his big toothless grin.

"Wow! It's out already??"

He nodded, "It just fell out today!"

"Maybe getting punched in the mouth helped." (I'm shallow AND insensitive. I look at it like seeing the glass half full.)

"Maybe so." He gave me another gappy-toothed grin.

Later in the day there was some speculation on the true identity of the Tooth Fairy. After last year's long and agonizing debate about Santa Claus, I wasn't looking forward to the eventual murder of another fake cultural icon. Julius said he thought his dad was really the Tooth Fairy. I walked in about that time and said, "That's silly. Can you imagine how preposterous your dad would look in a tutu?"

Julius laughed.

I went on. "In fact, if anyone in this household would be wearing a tutu, it would be me." I did the spokesmodel motion down the sides of my body and executed a snappy turn so they could see all sides of me.

Julius laughed again and said, "You're too fat to wear a tutu."

I gasped in mock horror (while hiding that I was truly slightly horrified) and said, "Get out. I could totally wear a tutu."

He rolled his eyes and said, "Mom, seriously, where would you find a tutu that big?"

He's so grounded. I hope the Tooth Fairy brings him a big ole hunk of coal.

Why Some Mommys Get Tired

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 23:39:00 +0000

My son, the toddler vegetarian will currently only eat rice, broccoli and yogurt but only if the yogurt doesn't have chunks of fruit in it. Occasionally he will share some lettuce with the guinea pigs by yanking it out of their mouths and stuffing it into his own. Otherwise, on his own salad he likes Greek vinaigrette dressing. As time goes by his eating habits begin to look more and more like mine and my husband is starting to blame me for that.

As I write this he serenades me with an electronic piano that Grandma got the boys. He plays it with his feet.

Over the past week or so he has been very forthcoming with the fashion and personal care advice. He started by offering suggestions about the size of my bust. He's also has some very keen advice about the condition of my skin. He insists on having long conversations about what I'm wearing and why, in addition to make-up tips.

His current fixation is on the underwires in my bra (which he refers to as a "brav"). Every morning he says, "Dat you brav? Why you wear dat?"

"Because girls wear bras when they go out of the house."

"Why come?"

"Uh... well, because... uh, that's what they do."

"Why come?"

"It's a common practice in our Western culture that women wear bras because it's more socially appropriate although some feminists feel that it represses women." I paused and glanced carefully over at him hoping that would be a conversation stopper.

"You take it off."

"No, definitely not."

"Why come?"

"Well, sometimes women also wear bras for the safety and welfare of their community. It's just better this way. Trust me."

"Okay."

I rarely wear dresses. Last Sunday I was invited to attend church by a friend and broke out the one trusty dress I feel comfortable wearing. This sent Tristan into a tailspin. He followed me around the house quizzing me.

"Wass dat?"

"It's a dress."

"Dat dress?"

"Mmmhmm."

"You wear dat dress?"

"Mmmhmm."

He then proceeds to crawl under the dress and look around and just generally hang out there like he's in a tent at the side of Walden Pond contemplating whatever it is that breast-fixated toddler vegetarians contemplate.

After an exhausting conversation about why I suddenly need to wear a dress when all his life I've only been wearing pants, we move on to the subject of makeup which I also rarely wear.

"Wass dat on you eyes?"

"It's mascara."

"Why you put dat on you eyes?"

"Because it makes Mommy's eyes look pretty. Does it make my eyes look pretty?"

"No."

"Oh. Well... I think it does. It makes my lashes looking longer and fuller. Most people think longer, fuller lashes are attractive."

"Why come?"

"Because television tells them it's better. Except even if I didn't watch TV I would think it looked better."

"You put dat on you eyewashes?"

"Yes."

"Dat make you eyes look pretty?"

"Yeah, that's the whole idea."

"Why come?"

"Oh Tristan. Just because. Just, well, just because. Why don't you go see Daddy for a minute?"

"Why come?"

"Because Mommy's brain is tired."

"Oh. Why come you brain is tired?"

That went on for about another half hour with me hinting at various compelling reasons why he should go somewhere else in the house and talk to someone else for a while. Finally he went off to see Julius and they promptly got into a shoving and screaming match and came running to me crying about how unfairly they both are treated by the other.

I pointed to something over their heads and yelled, "OH MY GOSH!" and when they turned I shut the bathroom door and locked it, slid down the wall and pulled my knees up to my chest and contemplated how much I need a pedicure while the two of them threw themselves at the door screaming, "MOM LET US IN, LET US IN!" Two brothers united in a common cause.

On the other side of the bathroom I spied a magazine I hadn't yet read and scooted over to it, thumbing leisurely through the pages. The door bowed ominously. The door latch rattled angrily. I could sense a 37-pound toddler hanging off of it like the monkey bars. I wondered how long it would hold and if it would come apart before their dad realized that I was trapped in the castle with raging Attila the Hun and Mini-Hun threatening to break through the stronghold.

I flipped passed an article about how I should walk more (because who needs to be reminded of that when the barbarians are at the gate?) and settled on an article about how I could have dazzling eyes like the movie stars.

Suddenly on the other side of the door I hear their father bellow at them to stop hanging on the door and wait for me to get out. They whine, but scatter to various corners of the house and I hear him walk up to the door and say, "You okay in there?"

"Just fine," I say, peering closer to see how in the world they do that eyeliner magic.

I grin and turn another page.

STSS: Up for Adoption

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 15:53:00 +0000

Due to current (and long standing) time constraints, I'm not able to keep up with my beloved Small Town Snapshot Sunday meme. I would love to find a good home for it if there is someone out there who would be dedicated to it weekly.

Leave comments here if you'd like to adopt it and give it a great home.

While I love that meme, I'm also trying to get more realistic about what I can actually accomplish so the main part of this blog (and my other blogs) don't suffer. Quality, not quantity, right??

A Thoughtful Offer

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 14:57:00 +0000

I was down at the Chamber of Commerce office dropping off some marketing material and other goodies for the nice lady there to give out in the packets she sends to people who make inquiries.

I sat in there for a while and we chatted about goings-on in town. Just as we were about to wrap things up an older gentleman (not OLD, just older than me) came swooping into the room. The door flew wide open nearly hitting the wall and he paused dramatically in the doorway and surveyed all that was in the room before he fianlly entered.

Donna, the Chamber of Commerce lady, seemed to know him. I could tell by looking at him that he was "from off" (i.e. not from here, not a native of the area). His hair was grayish and a little wild. He was smartly dressed and had boatloads of charisma at his disposal. He started immediately disposing of it all around the room. Some of it got on me.

After a short time, Donna introduced me and when he discovered I was a Realtor he immediately launched into a story about this piece of property in Kansas City that would make us all rich if only I could find an investor to purchase it. And then he spun the tale about various ways we could turn all this into our advantage, most of which sounded suspicious and not entirely legal.

Talking to him was a bit like wallowing around in quicksand, but a quicksand that is a really lovely shade of lavendar or delicate rose pink and perhaps smells a little like warm apples with cinnamon. I could sense the danger, but didn't really care. I could see, though, that if I were ever going to get out of there I'd have to come up with some dire excuse like "Oh, I forgot my house is on fire..." or maybe "oops, I'm incontinent!"

Eventually I extracted myself and headed to my car. To my dismay he was behind me and seemed to be not just leaving at the same time as me, but actually following me. I stopped before I got to the car and turned around. He started talking about parties he goes to and muckety-muck politicians and celebrities who sometimes attend. He mentioned one party in which he was the escort of a very rich and classy woman. And when he said "escort" I assumed he meant "date" because I'm a silly, naive sort of girl.

He continued, "I do that sometimes, act as an escort to these woman who need someone to attend parties or dinners or whatever with them. Upscale endeavors where looks are important and discretion is required."

I thought about this for a moment wondering why he was telling me all this since I'm about the last person in the world who attends any upscale endeavor where looks are important and discretion is required.

And then he added, "I'd offer these services to you, of course, if you ever had need of them."

"Oh," I said, it suddenly all becoming clear to me. "Er, well, thank you. That's a very thoughtful offer, but no, definitely not. I'm sure my husband would not be too keen on that."

"You're married then."

"Oh yes, quite married, thank you."

"Well, please do keep considering the other offer of selling that property. I hope you can find someone for it. And tune in to my radio show. There's the number on my van..."

He waved his arm to a hand-painted hippie wagon that made me forget his creepy offer and made me smile at his eccentric ways, his free spirit, his energy and his determination to be himself in a community where that sort of behavior frequently goes unrewarded.

I waved and watch him go, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

Things That Make You Go "Uhhh...."

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 11:10:00 +0000

If you liked my post about the tea incident at the McDonald's drive thru, you'll probably enjoy Stephen Parrish's post about some equally crazy incidents of his own.

* * *

Last night over dinner my son and I entered into negotiations over a suitable reward for him completing the 8-mile "Fall Classic" bike ride taking place this month. We're doing it as a family. They have several versions and I'm hoping I can manage that much. Before I became a mom, back when I was living in the Land of the Beautiful People (Southern California) I'd routinely ride 40-50 miles on my bike. Now I have to rest after checking the mail. It's embarrassing. Well, we're doing it anyway.

So, back to the negotiations. I think it's important in life that people learn to negotiate well. I'm not saying I'm great at it but I have a lot of practice at it in my work. Six years old is not too young to start, and already he has some mad skills, so much so that I'm starting to regret giving him such an early start.

His opening bid for finishing the 8-mile trip was $100. In exchange for that he would give up a year of his allowance. It was a great line of thinking in some ways. Get all the money up front and you gain control of the funds to create your own yield at your own pace. You are the master of your destiny and can do what you want, good or bad.

The big problem is he can't do the math yet and his offer meant he'd actually lose $104 over the year which is a terrible business decision. Just as I was about to agree to it (because I'm a heartless and terrible mother) his dad stepped in to save him. I slapped my hand to my forehead and groaned in agony. Success was within my grasp!

Rob explained his near catastrophic financial mistake and I volleyed back with an offer of $80 in exchange for six months worth of allowance. He rolled his eyes with a nice mixture of disgust and condescension. He said he'd be satisfied with $204 to which I responded, "No, definitely not."

At his dad's suggestion he added, "AND a raise to $6 per week." I'm sure now he's going to be really disappointed when it turns out to just be whatever he wants from the ice cream shop.

In any case, at that point the negotiations pretty much declined when we looked down to discover that Tristan had been under the table the whole time with a black JUMBO permanent marker drawing on the white linoleum what he claims was a horse.

In case you ever need to remove permanent marker from your white lino, get to it fast with a green scrubby and some Lysol 4-in-1 spray cleaner. And big biceps. (Thanks, Rob.)

* * *

The same night, when I was tucking Julius in to bed he complained that our television system was messed up. For the second time the living room satellite box is possessed by the devil and keeps turning itself on and off. So we had to move the bedroom stuff to the living room so Julius can't watch TV at night anymore.

I suggested that perhaps we should get rid of all the electronics in our house and then all we would do is just read all the time. He looked quite alarmed, then I could see the light bulb go on with one of his schemes. "I know... we could sell everything for like $230 at a yard sale and then buy all new stuff. And then it would all work."

"I don't think $230 would be enough to do what you're trying to do."

He thought about that for a moment and then said, "Okay, then $350. Would that be enough?"

All I can say is that it's hard to be the mother of a budding capitalist.

* * *

For some reason Tristan decided he'd clean the table after dinner. He picked up all plastic plates, silverware and stuff for the garbage. Without asking. So, I guess the satellite dish isn't the only thing in our house that's possessed. For all this he got a dime from his dad and later was found polishing the front of the stove and then in the bath I saw him scrubbing down the sides of the tub. When I asked him what he was doing he said, "Me skwub da baff wiff soap."

None of this is behavior he learned from me. He is his dad through and through.

Reduce, Refuse, Relax

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 20:27:00 +0000

A slight "blogcation" was forced upon me due to my chaotic lifestyle and also that I refuse to face the fact that I can't actually do everything. Despite obvious proof otherwise, I am still CERTAIN I can indeed do everything I want to do.

So, in order to continue living in my well-constructed fantasy world I am pretending I didn't really want to do Small Town Snapshot Sunday yesterday. I'm also pretending I didn't really want to do a post this morning as is my usual custom.

I'm not pretending very well. No, honestly, I would rather have been doing my small town snapshots yesterday instead of buying 96 rolls of toilet paper. I would rather have been describing my fabulous small town life instead of fighting Chuckwagon Race traffic on a highway that has all but two lanes closed due to construction. I would rather have been writing a post this morning instead of doing loads of dishes and making a very bad surprise omelet for my husband that turned out to be really wet in the middle followed up by driving a Realtor around in the woods and being in the car with the kids for three hours straight.

However, not one to be a total complainer, I can never consider the time wasted. Because if I hadn't been trapped in the car with the boys for three hours I would possibly not have heard this conversation:

T: You poo poo chicken.
J: You're a fat poop chicken.
T: You poo poo chicken!
J: You're a fat poopy chicken!
T: You poo poo chicken!
J: You're a fat poo poo chicken butt!
T: You penis head!

Please remember, this is not language we use in our home, rather this is just a string of naughty boy words attached to regular English words in a combination that the boys find hilarious.

* * *

After we left the lost and confused Realtor, I was driving on to our next destination. I was wearing a tank top with a flowery overblouse and I hadn't noticed that one side of the shirt had slipped down off my shoulder. Tristan, his usual helpful self, said "Mom, you shirt fall off."

I looked down and said, "Oh, it sure is." I pulled my shirt back up onto my shoulder and kept on driving.

Tristan continued on with his sage observations and advice, "You need smaller bips. You bips too big, Mommy. You shirt fall off. You bips too big."

"Um, are you saying my breasts are too large?"

"Uh huh, you bips big. You shirt fall off."

I immediately phoned home to relay his recommendation to his dad who said, "Tell Tristan to mind his own damn business."

* * *

And so, after the toil of the morning, lunch is done, one boy is having a nap, one boy is sweeping the kitchen floor without asking (must be up to something!) and I'm about to relax and put my feet up with an ice cold "uncola" with a squeeze of fresh lime.

I hope you're having an unlaborious Labor Day, wherever you are.

The Chicken

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 11:01:00 +0000

On the phone Rob is telling me, "The weirdest thing just happened to me. I don't mean regular weird, I'm mean the weirdest thing ever."

"What." I know what he means by "weirdest thing ever". He means, "weird even for US."

He launches into the following story. All of it's true. Really.

While I'm at daycare picking up the kids he gets a knock on the door. On our front porch is a 6'7" (or so) humongous fella we know slightly. His name is Darren and he's the least known of the three siblings who come from a well-known family in town.

He greets Rob and then says, "Sheryl Sweeney told me three years ago I could have that chicken that's in your yard, so I was wondering if it's okay if I go ahead and take it."

Rob said exactly what I would have said which was, "Um... what?"

"Sheryl Sweeney. She said I could have the chicken. About three years ago."

The chicken in question is actually a large metal rooster (about as tall as me) that's hanging out in a forsythia bush in our side yard. To me it doesn't seem to stand out, but for some reason it's well-known in the neighborhood. When I bought it a few years ago it was gorgeous, brightly colored and I was madly in love with it. Unfortunately, the man who sold it to me didn't tell me it was an indoor chicken so I put it outside to liven up the yard and it promptly faded to a dull yellow color and is now rusty. Still charming but not nearly as cool as when I bought it.

Sheryl Sweeney used to live in my house. She was a terrible renter and destroyed the place. We had to completely redo everything inside. The walls were punched out and the blown insulation poured out of the walls. Graffiti, trash, broken windows. I had to take her to court for damages and, unfortunately, garnish her wages because she refused to pay after the court ordered her to. It was not a happy time for anyone.

And now Sheryl Sweeney was somehow at the root of the near-abduction of my chicken.

Patiently, Rob explained that we've lived in the house way longer than the last three years. The chicken was purchased around six years ago, long after Sheryl Sweeney had come and gone. She never owned the chicken, the chicken was never here when she was here and I paid for the chicken myself and painstakingly creatively anchored it down because the wind kept blowing it over.

He ended by saying, "It's my wife's chicken, not Sheryl Sweeney's." And speaking man to man, Darren should know that you don't mess with a woman's poultry yard sculpture.

And yet, Darren was insistent that Sheryl Sweeney had the right to give away my chicken. He knows this because she told him when he was in the hospital. With a Stroke. "So maybe it was four years ago, not three," he added, as if that made more sense. And he already has someone to paint it and everything. He had big plans for my chicken.

And that is how Sheryl Sweeney planned The Great Chicken Heist of 2009. She sent a stroke-adled rube who is swayed by tacky yard art to haul off my chicken.

But score one for the home team thanks to my vigilant husband. Take THAT Sheryl Sweeney!

Living and Non-living Things

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 11:27:00 +0000

My oldest son, who is 6, is in 1st grade this year. I'm discovering that 1st grade is really nothing like Kindergarten and I find getting back into the swing of the school year is difficult for me. All of a sudden on a daily basis there are things coming home in the folder, weird things that make me pause and wonder about how strange the world is sometimes.

Take last night, for example. I pull out his folder to see if he has any homework, check his conduct report and all the papers he worked on at school that day. In the folder were two papers I had missed filling out in his original enrollment packet. I'm sure the administration staff were saying to themselves, "Make a mental note, Julius's mom can't follow directions."

Along with the papers was a sheet entitled... Chapter 1 Study Guide: Living and Non-living Things

The study guide explained the basics of how to tell if something is alive or not. I thought this was something you sort of understood on a primal level. Did they teach this in school when I was a kid? I have no idea. Doesn't it seem like if you're in 1st grade you should know this already? I just don't know.

But anyway, the basic jist is you're alive if you need food, water, air and space. Also, if you grow and change. The first line of the study guide begins with, "Non-living things were never alive." I decided I was going to read this short study guide to Julius as he's hanging out in the bathtub splashing water around liberally to hasten the inevitable decay in our bathroom floor.

I read a few sentences to him and then decide to quiz him about what I've read. I point to a wooden foot stool nearby and ask if it's living or non-living. Dr. Frankenstein declares it to be alive.

"Are you kidding me?" He has an interesting sense of humor and sometimes it's hard to tell when he's kidding.

"No, I'm serious."

"Well, does it grow?"

"Yes. If you add longer legs to it it gets taller."

"Well, true, but that's US changing it, not it changing on its own. Does it need food and water?"

"No."

"So, do you think it's alive then?"

"It was when it was a tree, so it used to be alive." Which, of course, refutes the first tenet of the study guide which stated that non-living things were never alive.

At that point, because I'm a human who is easily amused I couldn't resist writing the teacher to explain the quandary this study guide has caused in our house (and also to warn her what Mr. Smart Pantalones might try to pull on her). Her response, which arrived in the dreaded/anticipated purple folder that afternoon, was "I didn't think of that one!" Yeah, me either.

Lady, it's gonna be a long year.

Familiarity Breeds Contempt, Episode 2

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 15:01:00 +0000

It was one of those mornings when my husband was lying in bed trying to go back to sleep while I was getting ready to go. The laundry was piled up and I was having trouble finding a shirt I liked because all my favorites were dirty and the ones that were left were either not comfy or Rob hates them. He frequently hates my clothes. I'm the worst dressed person in the universe. And, honestly, I'm not saying that because I have poor self-esteem. I really do dress dress badly. Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you the same thing.

So I remark to him as he's lying there with his eyes closed pretending to be asleep, "Well, I'm sorry honey, but I'm going to wear this shirt you hate because I don't have anything else to wear."

He opens one eye and looks at the baggy orange shirt I'm waving around and mumbles, "Oh, how bout you just go au naturale?"

"Oh yeah, that'll be great for business. They'll be lined up out the door to see that. Good for the AMBULANCE business when everyone dies of fright and they have to come get them."

"Aw, sweetie, that's not true at all..."

Doesn't he do it just right? He understands how it works... the woman makes a disparaging remark about herself, then the man heaps compliments on her illustrating just how wrong she is and enumerating all the ways she is fabulous, wonderful and the only woman in the world worth having (for him).

I beamed. "Okay, well, you're right. I'm too hard on myself. They wouldn't die, but maybe just fall into a coma."

He nestled himself further under the covers, snuggling his fluffy pillow. "No, I meant, it wouldn't be busy because we have such a crappy ambulance service they would never get here."

"Oh, that's what you meant??"

He rubbed his face around in the pillow beaming with snuggle-satisfaction and emitted a muffled, "mmhmmmf."

"Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome," he said as he drifted off to sleep.

So, tomorrow the re-training begins!

Small Town Snapshot Sunday #24

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 07:45:00 +0000

Also, I'm making a change to the cutoff for the size of the small town. I was in a town the other day that I always think of as a small town and it was about 6,500 people. So, I think we'll try out 10,000 as our limit and see how that works out. The real rule of thumb is... does it FEEL like a small town? If so, don't feel weird about the number. Just join up!

This weekend our local Rotary club put on a fund-raiser PBR Discovery Tour bullride. In our area bullrides and rodeos are always well-received. People love them. Many times they dress up in their cowboy and cowgirl finery and whoop it up around the arena. It's good times!

The arena was all dressed up in many flags around the chutes and also in long banners over the arena. It was a warm night with a cool breeze. Very pleasant! The cowboys wait for the bullride to start.

Tristan watches and waits. He kept trying to climb the gate and I was terrified he'd come crashing to the ground.

Nearby, in contrast, was a tidy little man with his cowboy duds!

A lady with her festive crocheted cowgirl hat!

This lovely cowgirl rides the arena during the Star Spangled Banner sung by a local girl with an awesome voice.

One of the clowns is chased by an angry bull.

The head clown passes out rocks to little children. He was weird and fun.

The best part of the bullride are the long rides.

This was the angriest bull of the night. The few times he was out he chased everyone in the arena and even tried to gore people outside the arena. Here he is trying to face off one of the clowns.

A cowboy is dumped off and the mad bull tries to hit him when he's down. The clowns rush in to save him!

I hope you're having a great Sunday no matter where you are!

An Evolution of Values

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 11:42:00 +0000

It was the day we went back to the plastic surgeon to have my mom's stitches removed. I was supposed to leave the house around 7:15AM and pick Mom up at my office and drive her down to The Big City.

At 7:17AM I heard my phone ringing. I leaped out of bed, heart pounding. "Oh s@#t!" I rarely use curse words, a habit we broke ourselves of several years ago when we started our family. And yet, when the pressure is on and I realize I was supposed to leave to pick up MY MOTHER two minutes ago it's hard not to slip up. Also, it's hard not to want to slam your head in the freezer door about eight times because it will hopefully deaden you for what's coming up when she finally gets you to answer the phone.

"Hello," I said cheerfully as if I'd been up for hours and just hoping she'd call.

"Are you up?" I can hear the doubt in her voice. The motors and gears are winding up for her to call me by both my first and middle names.

"Pshaw, of course I am. I'm just running a little behind. I'm about to walk out of the house." In my pajamas, without brushing my hair or teeth.

"Okay, see you in a few. I'm already at the office."

I drop the phone onto the counter and run through the house yelling for Rob. "I'm LAAAAAATE. I overSLEPT. HELP MEEEEEEEEE!" He sits straight up in a panic, assuming the house is on fire or that I've whacked my hand off with the butcher knife.

"What? What is it? What?"

"I was supposed to be on the road. I have to go! You have to deal with the kids. I have to go! I have to take a shower and go!"

"What are you saying? That you're going?"

I dashed out of the room and into the shower where I took an amazing 2-minute shower then threw on my clothes without drying off. (Not recommended.) I ran a brush through my still dripping hair, slipped on some shoes and ran out the door, slamming it. Then I realized I had just run past Julius who was sitting on the couch rubbing his eyes. I opened the door a crack and said, "Bye, honey, sorry. I love you. Sorry."

At 7:31 I pulled into the office parking lot. My mom got into the car.

"Sorry I'm running a little bit behind."

She got into the car and said, "You look like a drowned rat."

"I know. It's okay, my hair will be dry by the time we get there."

Then she looked at horror down at my legs. "You're wearing SHORTS? Why are you wearing SHORTS?"

I looked down. "Um... because it's summer and I can?" I wasn't sure what she was getting at. Were my legs that horrifically bad?

"You're wearing SHORTS? To LITTLE ROCK?"

I still didn't really get what she was saying. "Mom, I'm taking the day off. Why wouldn't I wear shorts?"

"To the DOCTOR? In LITTLE ROCK?"

I couldn't stand it anymore. "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU! It's a doctor's office. I'm not going there to try to get a date, I'm driving you to the doctor. What is your deal?"

"Oh for heaven's sake. You're wearing SHORTS. That's like going to the doctor in your BATHING SUIT!"

"What? Oh, it's is so NOT like going to the doctor in my bathing suit. Going to the doctor in my bathing suit is like going to the doctor in my bathing suit. These shorts go down to my KNEES."

She still looked disgusted by the whole thing. "Well, I just can't believe it. I really can't. I'm just going to tell them I don't know you." (And she would, honestly.)

"Yeah, let's just tell them I picked you up hitchhiking. Never mind that we look exactly like one another."

The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful. When we got to the doc's building we sat quietly waiting for our turn. She didn't deny knowing me to the receptionist, but then the receptionist couldn't see the bottom half of me from where she was sitting. I looked around to see if anyone else was in shorts. Nobody. Later a man came in wearing shorts. I will admit I did feel slightly underdressed in the fancy plastic surgeon's office. My mother has a knack of making me spastic. It comes from many years of practice.

Turns out we didn't even see the doctor so she didn't have to deny knowing me. The stitches were removed by the nurse who seemed great at her job. They discussed a second surgery and how that would be scheduled. I sat looking at my mother talking cheerfully about a second surgery. She hadn't yet seen her face and when the nurse said she looked good I know she meant "you're healing great" not that she looked perfectly normal. Far from it.

She looked at me for my reaction and I put on my poker face. I told her I thought he did a good job, but I was sad. He DID do a good job, but his good job wasn't nearly good enough and I just sat there hoping that somehow in the weeks to come it would look better because my mom deserves better than what she had at that moment.

And oddly, she was calm and pleasant, not her typical fighting Irish. She told me a few weeks ago she'd given it over to God. Indeed she did seem serene more often than not and I was glad for it.

In three weeks they will revisit the situation to see how her skin graft is healing and then talk about a new surgery. The nurse said he would reshape her nose and basically give her a new one. The nurse pointed at me and said, "How about hers? She has a great nose."

And we laughed and Mom said that's what she brought me here for as the "sample nose". We laughed and as we laughed the nurse handed her the mirror and I stopped laughing because I was afraid of what would happen when she looked.

And then she looked, and looked hard, turning this way and that, casting a critical eye, totally void of emotion, then nodded and handed back the mirror. "Looks good," she said and turned her eyes to me. I nodded and said, "Yep, looks good."

And out we marched, stopping at the front desk to leave the paperwork. As we trudged back to the car she wanted to know what we should do for lunch. I recommended a Japanese steakhouse. She launched into all the reasons that was a horrible idea and then suggested Denny's because she had a 2-for-1 coupon. I then agreed with her.

Her nose may change, but so many other things are always the same.

The Years are Passing By. Do something, quick!

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 11:29:00 +0000

I love people's creativity. Check this out...!

Found via Daisy Janie.

about the video:
"A beautiful stop-motion ad celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Olympus PEN camera series. 60,000 pictures shot, 9,600 prints developed, and more than 1,800 pictures shot again. No post production!"

What are you doing to celebrate life today?

Seven Days Makes One Weak

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 11:50:00 +0000

It was a long week.

As if the red biohazard incident were not enough fun, I also caught a summer cold or some sort of respiratory difficulty that may or may not be H1N1 that could possibly kill me.

The peak of said respiratory difficulty coincided with my monthly city council meeting (and I mean that literally... not as a euphemism for something else) during which I had a coughing episode that had people: 1) getting me water, 2) giving me cough drops, 3) giving me gum, 4) asking if I were going to be okay and 5) made me wonder if I was going to have to ask for them to stop the meeting for five minutes while I ran to the hospital and asked for a little green oxygen bottle.

Fortunately, the gum an old guy gave me was what did the trick. I'm sure the Clerk is going to have a nightmare time trying to type up the minutes of that meeting since I was sitting only one chair down from the tape recorder.

I also didn't eat for five days. Not eating is highly underrated. About Day Three or Four the euphoria sets in and for a couple of days the world looks like a whole new light and airy kind of place. Then the pizza cravings start. Can't. Resist. Pizza.

* * *

During the week of poor health my mother had surgery to remove some skin cancer. So extensive was the event that she also had to have reconstructive surgery on her face including a skin graft and a strange moving around of parts that I didn't even think was possible. Remarkably she looks great. The surgeon was brilliant, skilled and looked really good in scrubs. All good vibes for her speedy healing will be graciously accepted. I dare not tell her I spilled the cancer beans or she will be angry with me for talking about her personal business.

But when has that ever stopped me, right?

* * *

My mother informed me this week that my brother will no longer eat food prepared by other people. If it hasn't been cooked in his house or by him personally he will not eat it. Apparently, his many years of working in the food service industry has finally pushed him over the edge. He insists that if any of us eat in a restaurant we have a death wish and it's only a matter of time before something horrible happens to us.

* * *

My oldest son came running up to me yelling, "Mom, there are men attacking our trees!" He was alarmed and nearly in a panic.

I ran to the window and, indeed, there were quite a few men in our yard attacking our trees. They were from the electric company and they were here for the periodic butchering of the foliage. We have four trees in our front yard, three of which are "volunteer" (meaning a bird pooped out a seed and a tree grew where it landed) and not particularly attractive. Especially the way the electric company keeps hacking away at it. The fourth is a very pretty Rose of Sharon.

I assured Julius not to be alarmed... that it was all perfectly normal. I realize later that the puzzled look on his face was him wondering what kind of world he lived in that it was perfectly fine that a whole bunch of men with orange hard hats would swarm over our front yard and start grinding our trees up in a big, noisy machine.

Three days later the three volunteers were hacked down by my husband because we could no longer stand to see the evidence of the massacre. The yard looks naked, but nicer.

Strangely, a house I have listed has a tree growing up through the floor of the porch. It's a gorgeous country farmhouse that's listed around $500K and yet the owner will not pay to have someone cut the tree out of the middle of his porch.

I keep trying to turn all this tree babble into some metaphor on life, but I'm just not smart enough. Feel free to take up my slack and offer your own philosophical musings.

* * *

We own two guinea pigs now. I think this might have been a big mistake.

* * *

Driving to day care the other day, Tristan sat very quietly in the back sipping a yogurt smoothie. When he finishes a drink, he has lately formed the habit of chucking it with all his might across the room, usually AT someone. That day was no exception and I felt something hit me in the back of the head, bounce off and fly end over end flinging yogurt around in the car, bounce off the steering wheel and land somewhere at Julius's feet.

My hair, my face and my shirt were spattered with yogurt smoothie. My first thought was it looked like something else completely inappropriate. My second thought was all this might be good for my complexion if it weren't so embarrassing.

My third thought was "Welcome to Motherhood."

How was your last seven days?

Small Town Snapshot Sunday #23

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 23:59:00 +0000

It's Small Town Snapshot Sunday! Read the rules and get the banners here. Be sure you include the link to your post at the bottom of this entry and also, tag your post "stss" or "small town snapshot sunday" so people can search for it and find you! THE LINKING MECHANISM IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS POST. PLEASE LINK TO YOUR ENTRY TODAY, NOT YOUR MAIN PAGE! Be sure to use the code snippet on your own page so people can just hop from page to page doing their "small town tour". If you can't get yours done exactly on Sunday, you can always backdate it! (Sometimes I'm late myself!)

My post this week has no pictures. Due to time constraints and other various hubbubs in my life I wasn't able to get out and shoot anything. So, I'm getting creative and making a "word snapshot" instead.

This is life on a street in my 'hood.

Imagine a hill in town, a large bump in a valley landscape. It's carved on one side by a river that winds beneath craggy bluffs and is frequently overgrown by privet and other native growth.

At the base of the hill is a tiny little town, struggling to survive. The last industries gone a year ago, swept away by a tornado (literally), an ailing economy, outsourcing to Mexico. And yet it still maintains a gentle repose in the shadow of the hill where we now travel.

Up the hill we walk. On the right a historic house with a red tin roof. An Englishman lives there. He likes to take afternoon tea. He also lost his house to the tornado and moved to this one and refurbished it. The children of the neighborhood use trash can lids to slide down his hill when it snows.

Behind the Englishman's house used to be a big garden owned by an old woman who owned the house before she died. Now it's an ugly brick fourplex. This is change, this is progress.

Down the street a little house that used to be blue, but now it's yellow and looks much better. Ten years ago the house was overgrown by the landscaping and slowly it's reclaimed. And today as we walk by, indeed, there's a man on a red riding mower driving in circles with a determined look on his face. He will defeat this nature that never rests. And so he never rests. On the screen porch a woman sits typing on her laptop. She looks at us thoughtfully as we walk past.

And then there is The Whorehouse. Not really one, but that's what all the fellas down at the fire department call it because it's a two story building with porches all along the front, upstairs and down. Young women sit on the railing or stand leaning looking down as we go by. It reminds the guys at the firehouse of those Saturday afternoon Westerns they watched as a kid. It looks like a saloon adorned by Women of Ill-Repute.

Eventually we pass a school looking quiet and lazy on a Sunday. Forgotten yesterday, dreaded today as Monday looms just around the corner. Off to the right is a side street that has a lush flower garden where birds love to sit in the trees and sing. We turn there because we can't resist.

And as we walk we look in the ditch for frogs and find instead a used pregnancy test that's negative. We speculate on whether this is good news or bad news for those concerned.

Around the corner are two churches and a museum, all with ample parking but nobody is there. Church is long over and they've all gone home to stuff themselves on roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and flaky buttermilk biscuits. We imagine them loosening their belts or even their pants and exclaiming to Maw or Grandmaw how good the meal was. And then on to Sunday afternoon movies brought to you by people who want to sell you storm windows or aluminum siding. Clint Eastwood or John Wayne a Sunday fixture in the post-lunch drowsiness in front of the TV.

All along the streets are houses old and new, quiet and happy homes for the most part. At least they look like it from the outside. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors.

But as we walk we speculate and daydream and invent stories to amuse ourselves until we come full circle, back down the hill, past the man who is finished mowing and covers his mower lovingly with a blue plastic tarp, past the laptop lady who closes the lid and moves inside to start dinner for her children. Or something.

I hope you have a great Sunday no matter where you are!

How I Lost My Mother-of-the-Year Nomination

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 11:33:00 +0000

From Sunday to Sunday it was a very bad week.

It started out exciting. On Saturday I decided I would make a bold move and take Julius with me to do the weekly grocery shopping on Sunday. We'd have a great time just the two of us and he could help me with the coupons. I envisioned fun scavenger hunts for grocery items and races to get things in the basket. Sugar plum faeries. Shooting stars. Swelling music montages and the two of us linking arms and skipping down the aisles like Dorothy and her sidekicks off to see The Wizard.

You know, the usual stuff that makes up my daily life.

It didn't really end up the way I had it all planned.

I thought a treat really must be in order so we went out to lunch. Over the menu Julius said he didn't really feel like eating and he just wanted some tea.

"Don't be silly," I said. "You have to eat something."

"I'm not hungry," he insisted.

I insisted back. "You MUST be hungry. You ate hardly any breakfast."

We ordered. He had Jello and part of a sandwich and off we went to the stores.

After a couple of stops he started misbehaving. First he started complaining his legs were hurting and he couldn't walk. "I need a wheelchair," he moaned.

I rolled my eyes. At Walgreen's they have little tiny baskets that kids can't sit in, so periodically he'd fall to the ground and exclaim how he couldn't go on anymore.

Filled with compassion (not), I hissed, "What is WITH you? GET UP!" Finally we made it out with one stop left to go... the big grocery store.

I helped him heave his ginormous body into the basket (at 6 he's over 60 pounds and only a foot and a half shorter than me) and he complained he was cold. Not realizing that my mother-of-the-year nomination was in dire peril I simply dismissed his complaint as low stamina for shopping and proceeded to bury him in cereal, canned goods, bread, corn on the cob and toilet paper.

A woman wheeled past me and glanced at Julius neck deep in groceries, lying his head on a big 30 pack of Charmin looking miserable and said, "Oh my, your child is certainly surrounded by groceries!" I wanted to say, "Lady, don't even start on me about it because this is better than the alternative where he falls to the ground like he's posing for an Andrew Wyeth painting..." But instead I smiled and said, "Isn't he, though?"

About every minute and a half he said, "Mom, I really want to go home. Are we done yet?"

"I'm trying to hurry, Jules, I really, really am."

At the checkout I unearthed the child and told him to go sit on the bench by customer service while I paid for all the groceries. After an agonizing wait for all the grocery scanning and coupon scanning I wheeled the basket toward the exit and saw a lady pointing over at Julius. She had a strange look on her face.

And there he was... my lonely-looking youngster surrounded by a big explosion of red Jello and sandwich spew. And when I say "big", I mean it spread out for about two feet around him and the customer service bench. And everyone was staring at him. And when they were done staring at him they turned to stare at me.

Imagine, if you will, how crummy I felt about giving him a hard time, how insensitive I felt for making him eat when he didn't want to, how inept I felt that I didn't realize he really WAS sick and I should have skipped shopping. So much for mother's intuition, right?

And then along came a fellow with a large box on a dolly. He pulled on some rubber gloves. I started to bend down to clean up barf with a big wad of paper towels someone had brought over. The guy says, "No, no... let me get that." I kept saying, "I'm so sorry, so sorry... so sorry about this... blah blah blah sorry blah blah babble babble..."

He smiled, "No, it's fine. It happens. Check this out!" He scoops a big cup of powder out of the magical box and dumps it onto the red biohazard covering the floor and it somehow mysteriously changes its physical properties and turns into something that can be swept up with a push broom. I wanted to buy that box of stuff from him, whatever it was. I've never seen a guy so happy to clean up gross stuff.

Turns out that was the beginning of our adventures in biohazard for the week. Julius was Patient Zero followed by me, then by Rob. Then it swept through the family a second time. The only one who didn't get sick was Tristan who frequently builds up his immune system by doing bicep curls with earthworms and pectoral flexing by cricket catching. Oh, and eating stuff off the ground.

Okay, maybe there's actually more than one reason I lost my nomination.

Watch Out for Women Who Like Snakes

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 11:51:00 +0000

Recently Julius was given a small book from the Game and Fish Commission that shows all the snakes that are native to our area. He loves that thing. We look through it frequently and talk about all the different kind of snakes, which ones are poisonous, which ones I've seen, etc.

My mom was in the office the other day just sitting around with us and chatting. I told Julius to show her the book and have her point out the snakes she's seen because she's been roaming the woods for close to a hundred thousand years.

And she didn't disappoint with the stories. She told him of the time she had a big showdown with a black racer that chased her. She was out with a client and stepped over a log and the client said, "Isn't that a snake?" And she said, "Where?" And he said, "On that log between your legs..."

She looked down and sure enough there was the racer and, as she described it, she leaped about four feet straight up into the air. I picture this like in those cartoons where the characters jump straight up and their legs are moving like they're running for a few seconds before they get any forward motion.

The snake, obviously perturbed, began chasing her and she ran at top speed away from it until she couldn't run anymore. Finally she turned, breathless, and said, "I can't go on... if you're gonna get me, just bring it on, snake!" Apparently calling his bluff she scared the snake back and he turned and fled the other direction to find a new log without some crazy redheaded lady jumping around on it.

Rob asked, "Racers aren't poisonous, though, are they?"

She admitted they were not. He asked, "Then why were you running from it?"

"Because it was chasing me."

I thought that sounded completely logical.

* * *

She also told of the time when she and I were living in a temporary home after the place we lived in had burned. It was an old, charming home, and had been long-empty and now was full of tiny little mice -- "popcorn mice" as my mom refers to them. They were so very small, smaller than half my thumb and they'd wander around in scurrying packs. You'd open drawers and they'd be hanging out in there having little parties in the soup ladles and dish towels. At night when we'd watch TV we had to keep our feet up on the coffee table so they didn't run up our pajama legs.

Invariably in the country where there are mice there are also snakes. One day I was walking through the kitchen and heard some kind of strange sputtering noise and was sure my mom had left something in the toaster oven. I glanced into the glass door and didn't see anything and the noise stopped. I walked by again later and heard it again and couldn't get over that there had to be some sort of short in the cord and it was sparking or something. So, I decided to unplug it. I pulled the toaster oven forward on the counter and started to follow the cord back to where the plug was. It was then I saw the noise was was not an electrical short but the biggest black snake I'd ever seen in my life. It was stretched across the back of the counter behind the toaster, toaster oven, coffee maker and cannisters I couldn't see its head or tail, but could see in between the stuff on counter that it stretched a long, long, long way.

My life passed before my eyes and I ran screaming out the back door, "MAAAAAAAAHHHMM!"

Valiant warrior that she is, she ran in, brandished a large kitchen knife and waved it menacingly at the snake who decided to take cover inside the cabinet. Except for its head which it poked up through a crack in the cabinet and eyeballed my maniacal, knife-wielding mother. I'm not sure if that was self-preservation or if he was trying to decide if he could take her.

I stood on the arm of the couch in the next room being completely cowardly. But, to my credit, I was 12 or so and hadn't yet inherited the whole knife-brandishing thing yet. That would come later.

At this point, Julius interjects into the story, "Did you chop his head off, Grandma?" I cringed. He sounded way too excited about the head-chopping. She admitted that was what her intention was but he kept going back down into the cabinet and eventually we lost track of where he was.

He said, "Did you know that if you chop a snake's head off his body keeps moving? Alex told me that and it's true you know."

She said, "Yes, it is true. Dead snakes keep moving. Even if you cut them up into little pieces all the pieces keep moving around for a whole day afterward. You really need to cut them into small pieces."

I glanced over at her. "Mom..."

She looked at me and shrugged. "Women hate snakes. They hate them because of the story of Adam and Eve. Eve was deceived by a snake and that's why women hate them."

I froze in the middle of typing and looked over at Julius who was looking at me for some indication of whether or not this was the truth. I rolled my eyes. He looked at Grandma and then back at me. I started typing again.

My mom continued, "In fact, there's something wrong with a woman who likes snakes. Watch out for those women."

I scrunched down in my seat, getting closer and far more interested in what I was typing. I'm wondering what kind of strange ideas my oldest son will have about women and families by the time he is old enough to start dating.

At least I hope he doesn't fall in love with a snake lover, because if he does he'll have a lot of explaining to do with his grandmother.

The Epiphany of Materialism

wendy@wendy.com (Wendy) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 10:59:00 +0000

My youngest son, who is two, has very strong ideas about the way things should be and when they don't go exactly the way they are supposed to go in his orderly little universe, his train derails and the whole world comes crashing in.

Once when I passed one of the roads we turn down to get to our house he started screaming, "WRONG WAY! WRONG WAY! WRONG WAY!"

I said, "Tristan, I just want to go look at something real quick and then we'll go home."

"ME GO HOME NOW!"

"Look, it's right here... this is where the fishing derby will be. I wanted to see how the new pond is coming along. See it there? With the big tractors?" Divert, divert, divert!

"Uh huh..." He sounded calmer. My brilliant plan was working. I am a master Toddler Whisperer. I could have my own TV show! I can rule the world!

"Okay, we'll go home now..." I drove on to take the next road that would loop around to take us to our house. No sense in backtracking, right?

"WRONG WAY! WRONG WAY! WRONG WAY!"

"Tristan, we're going to the house right now. We can go to the house this way."

He starts pointing back to the road we passed that we have always taken pretty much every day for his entire life. "DAT WAY! ME GO HOME NOW! WRONG WAY WRONG WAY!"

He screamed the entire way home and when we pulled into the driveway he started crying because he realized I wasn't going back to the other road to drive home the "correct" way.

So, this morning when I was standing in the driveway buckling him into his carseat and he said, "Daddy not in car" I was certain we were headed for another episode.

"You're riding with me today. Daddy's going in his car."

"ME SEE DADDY!!!! WHERE DADDY GOING?????"

I sighed. "Daddy's going to work."

"Why come?"

"Daddy has to go to work and make some money. If we don't work then we don't get money and we can't buy food and toys." This is bound to bring him around to his senses. The sheer logic of it was stunning. How could he not immediately improve his attitude if he just thinks it through? (By now it should be obvious why I'm parent of the year.)

"Daddy get money buy toys?!"

He's brilliant like his mother. We're connecting. He completely understands me! "Yes, so Daddy must go to work."

"Daddy get money! Buy me toys?"

Doubt sets in. "Um, well, yeah, that's overly simplistic, but kind of, yeah." I shut the door hoping that would end the conversation. I walked around to my side, opened the door.

Tristan yelled from the back, "We need buy more stuff!"

Julius pipes up. "YEAH! Let's go to Wal-Mart and look for toys!"

I growl under my breath, "Don't get him started!"

From the back, "Toys, Wahmaht, buy toys!"

I looked over at Julius, irritated. He shrugged and muttered an apology.

We pulled out of the driveway and did our best to change the subject. Periodically when it sounded like we said something remotely related to Daddy working, toys or making money Tristan would yell, "WE NEED BUY MORE STUFF!"

Sometimes randomly when we weren't talking about anything at all we'd hear him remark, "We need buy more STUFF!"

In a ten minute drive to daycare he suggested buying more stuff at least twelve times. I dread when he starts getting an allowance.

[For those who are environmentally inclined, you might want to check out The Story of Stuff.]