Mondays are weak

I would like to make a funny sexual innuendo catch phrase here about how I frequently wake up with strangers in my bed, that would hook readers, and encouraging them to read on, but it is Monday, and well enough said.

My bed is like a revolving door.  Most of time husband and I go to bed at the same time, or, if I can no longer keep my eyes open, I’ll command Seamus to get up on the bed, and snuggle with me.   Lest any member of my family thinks I won’t share this information; yes I do talk to Seamus.  I mean he is really cute, and everyone knows when you see a really cute creature, you are required to tell them they are cute, (as if those manipulative demon imps don’t already know it), and when you tell a demon imp it is cute, you run the risk of saying it, in a way that indicates, you are an idiot.  When it comes to Seamus, on occasion, I talk nonsensically to him, in a high pitch voice, with lots of made up words, telling him how adorable he is, and, I call this: “speaking Japan to him”.  (I actually do it now, just to annoy Husband, and embarrass my kids, while sending the message; “Be careful mom could become certifiable, at any moment”.)  You may find it surprising, that Seamus shows no appreciation or gratitude, when I speak Japan to him. (He’s so stuck up) 

What starts out as 2 mild mannered humans and one canine going to sleep, often morphs into “yet another night from hell”.  Doot doot dooo.  You never know when, or what, you are going to wake up to, and, to up the ante; you have 2.4 seconds to identify the foreign creature by the correct name, or risk certain admonishment (that will carry forth to daylight) from the insulted child, aghast that you called them the wrong name, at 3 in the morning.    

On any given night, any, and or all, of the following situations could occur.  #4 will crawl into bed with us if he wakes up to go to the bathroom, #2 will sometimes by pass his room and fall asleep on our bed, #1 will come in to let us know she’s home safely and pass out in our bed, #3 is currently way to cool to be caught dead if our bed, so if I see him, I know he doesn’t feel good, #1 & #2’s significant others have also been included as well.  Last week #1, 22 freaking year old #1, woke me up to tell me her tummy hurt.  If Husband gets up to use the bathroom, Spike will jump in his spot immediately,  and Seamus, who starts the night curled up in a ball trying to get away from me, ends up a100 lbs of sprawling furry mess, taking up ¼ of the bed. 

Thank goodness for a king size bed – but sometimes it is just easier to sleep in the chair of death.  

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Americans favorite past time - ugh

My father is a genetic athlete.  He was an athlete as a child, played many sports, excelled at them, played them in college and continued playing several as an adult.  At 70+ he knows many of the coaches and still travels to the local high schools to watch the more competitive teams play.  When it comes to watching sports on TV, he has always been, and continues to be, what could be described as a very passionate and extremely vocal fan. I however, and I say this with love; prefer to call him a psycho wackjob in front of a TV set. 

Weather the final game of the World Series, Stanley cup, Super bowl or a ping pong, badminton or some other random match TV programmers air, during the off season, as they scrape the bottom of the barrel, for competitive events, Dad is on the couch, glued to the game, coaching, critiquing and God forbid someone makes a mistake, languishing in the injustice that has just been committed.  One tiny flick of the remote control, takes him from a peaceful National Geographic Wolf reporting special, to the front line of a sporting war, as my dad wipes the players sweat, from his brow.  Unfortunately, however, any one in the house, or neighborhood for that matter, is drug into battle with him.   

In my dad’s defense, I will say, it is highly probable his “extreme TV sport watching” has been exacerbated by the sheer torture the man must have faced, as the father of 3 girls without an athletic bone or desire, in their body.  I assume, long ago, he must have given up the ghost, and faced facts his vision of coaching an offspring was never …. Ever …EVER…. Going to be. 

One of Dad’s favorite sports to watch on TV is baseball.  The good ole Philadelphia Phillies. I am probably the only person in the world, who when they heard Harry Kalas’s voice, had a shiver go down their spine.  As a child, baseball meant 3 hours of not talking to dad, avoiding the living room like the plague, and being continuously startled by the unpredictable profanity laden outbursts, in which strangers on TV, were chastised, and proclaimed to have less talent than my great grandmother.    (My great grandmother, whom I sadly never met, must have been an incredibly talented woman, as she is reputed to have more athletic ability then 75% of all sports players, even to this day.)

Perhaps due to strong subliminal messages, or my deep seeded loathing for the game, a passion for baseball never really took hold in our house, past T-Ball.  T-ball, aka the most painful game in the entire world, created only to punish parents while giving them hints of who the “overzealous” parents / future crazy coaches of youth sports will be.  One hour is more than enough time for 5 & 6 year olds, to stand in the outfield, in their adorable little uniforms, picking their nose, but nooo, there is always some parent who is “going to teach his kid the right way” and insist all 9 painful, Godforsaken, innings are played.   

#1 played T-ball, and it was tolerable, because everything your first born does comes with an air of promise and excitement (albeit a very small air of promise and excitement).  #2 played T-ball and the pain was hard to deal with.  I suffered through the season in silence, but it was a personal challenge.  #3 played T-ball and by then, the sport was dead to me.  Each time #3 had a game, I would sit him down, and very carefully explain to him that; we could either go to his T-ball game, or we could skip the game and go get ice cream.  The T-ball flyer was ripped from #4’s hands and recycled, before he even had a chance to read it. 

If my children’s children end up playing baseball, or God help me T-ball, I’m letting you all know now; Grandmom will be in the car, in the parking lot, reading a book.  Come let me know how you did as soon as the games over.  

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What a cute puppy

I’d like to introduce Thor, God of Thunder. 

Thor is one of our dogs that now lives’ on “the squirrel farm”.    The squirrel farm is a lovely retirement community for our previous dogs that, for whatever reason, can no longer continue to live with us.  It is located in Maryland, on a huge farm with lots of trees.  Our old dogs get to spend all day chasing squirrels in the sunshine, and lead a perfect life, where any need you could possibly imagine, is promptly met.  A really nice friend of a friend will come and pick up the dog, and take it to the farm, but they are very busy and can only come during school time.  We can visit the farm and our past dogs whenever we want, but it takes a long time to get there, so we probably won’t go anytime soon. 

And that is how, for the first 18 years of my life as a parent, we got rid of dogs.  Hey – it’s not my fault it took #1 so many years to do the math and realize that it was impossible for Brandon, one of the first dogs in her life, to still be chasing squirrels at age 23.

Thor was one of our more notable dogs. The ad said “English Mastiff” for sale, and after all 6 of us had fallen in love with the pudgy little adorable tyke, wrote the check and were buckling into the car, the lady says “You know he’s a Brazilian Mastiff right”.  English, Brazilian, Irish mastiff, I mean how much of a difference can there be.  Uh oh. 

Brazilian Mastiffs, also known as FILAS, look like tigers, can behave like tigers, are fiercely protective, and pretty much want to kill all strangers.  This could be an issue.  I read everything I could on our potential killing machine, as he burrowed his way into our hearts.  We established our alpha male pack leader position, took him everywhere to socialize him, and made him part of the family. He was fine with us; he just took a while to feel comfortable with strangers, which is apparently something the human race cannot comprehend about a dog.

I tried every combination of words possible to make it clear; he was a dog you need to approach slowly or not at all.  “He is leery of strangers”, “he is an attack dog”, “he will let you know if he wants you to pet him”, “HE BITES”, nine out of ten times, the person would ignore me, say “oh I’m good with dogs” and step into Thors space and start rubbing his head.  Thor would give him “the one second eyeball”, which is code for; which body part do I want to take home, and then snap.  I got very good at identifying the “one second eyeball” and could separate Thor from an unsuspecting victim in half a second. 

When the kids friends would come over, I would explain to them that Thor takes a while to get to know people, and would keep him out back.  He would sit by the door, watching, and I cannot tell you the number of times, I would find some idiot kid banging on the door, thinking it’s funny to watch the 160 pound dog hurling himself against the glass with teeth bared. 

The doorbell ringing was an immediate call to action.  Thor would race to the door to see what was for dinner, the kids would run to the door to see who it was, I would drop everything and sprint to the door, to make sure, it didn’t get opened, and our potential visitor remained uneaten.  You may be surprised to discover, this plan was not always fool proof, and several times the sequence did not work out, as practiced, in the family emergency preparedness drills.

One time, Thor made it to the door first, pushed through the screen, and chased an older man on a bicycle riding by our house.  We raced out the door after him, and caught him but he had nipped at the old man.  The dog trainers response was: “this is good your training worked, he didn’t attack” … ok valid point, however it really means very little if you are the person the 160 pound tiger like looking creature, was chasing down for a taste. 

The next day, the older gentleman came back to our house. He stood on the front porch and told me Thor bit him.  I asked him if he had required medical attention and offered to pay, he said he didn’t.  I apologized, explained a kid left the front door open, we will be more careful, but for some unknown reason our conversation wasn’t ending.  The old man wanted to tell me exactly what happened. (Clearly he forgot I was leading the pack of people chasing the dog that was chasing him).  The next thing you know, the old man, standing on my porch, refusing to leave, and continually telling me how my dog bit him, pulls down his pants.  So now I am standing on my porch looking at, honest to God, old man butt.  Truth be told, there was a decent size bruise on the old man butt, but no scratch or cuts were visible, not that I had any intention of going in for a closer look.  So I stood there in one of those surreal moments, I have way to frequently in my life, saying “pull up your pants sir”, “just please pull up your pants”, “I’m not sure what you are looking for, but you need to pull up your pants”.    The conversation was going nowhere, nor were the pants going up, so I left the man on the front porch, with his pants down around his ankles, went inside and shut the door. 

As the kids followed me down the hall asking “mommy why is there a man on the front porch with his pants down?” I called the squirrel farm to see when their next opening would be available.  

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There are no words ....

So I come home yesterday from work, drag myself up the stairs, working hard to ignore the chewed up, unidentified object, strewn throughout the hallway, while simultaneously giving attention to the 175 collective pounds of demanding, tail wagging beasts, flanking me.  I put my purse down on the table, willing my body to take the final step to succumb to the chair of death (once I sit there, I do nothing else – hence forth, Husband has named it the chair of death).  Alas, my destiny is not to be.

The dogs have abandoned me, and have become fascinated with the heating vent in the bedroom.  Regrettably, the heating vent is located behind a table, on which a lamp, several magazines, and a small plant sit.  Evidently, the law of physics states, that it is not possible for 2 fairly large dogs, and a table to occupy the same space.  The lamp tips over, displacing the magazines, which slip to the floor, one heat vent studying, fanatical dog, steps on them, losing his footing, bumping into the table, which starts to tilt, thus causing the plant to fall to the floor.  I run to the table, while yelling at the dogs, still digging at the heating vent cover, like they are trying to unearth the golden bone.  I put one foot on the vent, side stepping the magazines, while putting the other foot in front of the lamp, on the floor, in an effort to spare the lampshade from certain death. (Picture a very unfortunate game of twister.)  While keeping my feet firmly planted, I pick up the magazines, lamp, plant, and move the table back a bit, while glaring at the dogs, who are invading my space in a big way. 

I move my foot off the vent, and I hear it.  The dreaded sound, anyone living in an old house, knows all too well. The sound of something, not human, in a location, where nothing live should ever be.  I yell Husbands name, in the way that lets him know he is in trouble.  Hey - it clearly says in the rule book, that any time something none human enters, any area of the home, it is the husbands fault.   

Husband looks in the room, and I say, while standing on top of the heating vent, with the 2 dogs standing on top of me, “there is something in the heat duct”.  Husband, in true husband like fashion, in a manner that infers that I frequently make up stories about creatures in heat ducts, says “no there isn’t”.  I say, becoming even more annoyed, as I beat the dogs back off of my feet, “yes, there is and I think it’s a bird.”  Husband, who has surveyed the situation from the doorway, 15 feet away and decided I am clearly delusional, says in his best you’re an idiot voice, “there is no way there is a bird in the heat duct.”  All I wanted was the chair of death, and had no interest in playing the Mother Nature game today, “FINE, it’s a *#$^&* rat then”, and I step off the vent and walk away, allowing the dogs to once again, start their obsessive digging and foraging behavior on the helpless heat vent cover. 

Husband struts over to the heat vent, and the noise stops.  The dogs tear into the next room over and start digging, raping & pillaging the heat vent there.  In a professionally trained, don’t try this at home move, husband taps on the heat vent cover, to assess the situation.  The noise stops, as the dogs’ race back into the bedroom and starting attacking that vent again.  Husband gets a flashlight, and, along with 2 canine sidekicks glued to his side, peer into the heat vent.  “Oh it’s bird”.  And this, my fellow blog readers, is a perfect example of why marriages of 26 years end in divorce or dismemberment. 

We shut the bathroom door, opened a window, took the heat vent cover off, and the giant black bird flew away to freedom.  The house is on the market, and we have an open house this Saturday and Sunday, so let’s just keep this bird incident between us.  

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Head for the light

In case anyone is wondering, the Gas & Electric Company does not really have a sense of humor, and are actually rather narrow minded individuals, when it comes to collecting money that is owed to them.  I mean who knew they actually meant it, when they said they would shut off the service, if we didn’t pay what they wanted, by the due date.  I thought that was just an advertising gimmick like “call before you dig” or a way they chose to network with customers …. and honestly, that lovely little postscript is on every bill.  I was going to pay them …geesh it’s just there were a few more impatient organizations in front of them. 

#2, who was home at the time, alerted by the dogs doing their best Cujo 1 & 2 impression, in response to the strange man, on our back porch, dismantling the electric meter at 10:00 in the morning, made eye contact with the technician, but didn’t feel it was necessary to inquire why some random dude was on our porch messing with the side of our house.  #2 was however, kind enough to promptly notify us that the Xbox no longer worked, as the truck drove from the scene of the crime. 

I can assure you that after waiting on hold for 74 fantastic, fun filled, muzak minutes, the good people at the Electric Company will be happy to give you several inner city locations, miles away from your happy little home, where you can bring cash to pay your bill, provided you aren’t grabbed off the streets and mugged in transit. Upon paying them  9/10’s of your outstanding balance, which um hello, if I could have paid that much to begin with, it would be done, thus avoiding today’s forced call to Peggy; the fine electricity Gods will reconnect your service.  There will be, what they describe, as a small window of time; 12 to 24 hours, before they can guarantee your service will be back, so dig out those candles gentlemen– we are going to play Pioneerville. 

I confess…. budding beginning blogger, and apparent squid, Drea Dibbles, wrote last night’s blog in the dark.  Lest you think I’m going all Mrs. Shakespeare on you… we have a construction company.  Husband fired up the generator, gathered enough extension cords to hang an army, and forward we marched (ok slowly we felt our way around – but you get the point).  We had the refrigerator running, hot water, a hockey game on, a computer and a few select lights on …. just… not simultaneously.  We were each assigned our own extension cord to take with us, and could plug it in, to any one thing, as we saw fit.  We supplemented with a few candles, but come on, doesn’t the idea of fire and my ADHD boys frighten you, as well.     

The real suffering came the following morning, as I walked on the ice cold bathroom tile floor, then bundled in my winter jacket, scarf and gloves, unplugged the alarm clock, drug my extension cord a few rooms over, plugged in the computer, and then posted my blog with numb fingers.  Fortunately team work prevailed as husband plugged his extension cord into the hot water heater, and I plugged mine into the very fancy, alas at this point completely dysfunctional, electric temperature controlled shower, so we were able to start the day not smelling like day old yesterday.  It was a huge challenge to get dressed in a pitch black closet, while holding a flashlight in your mouth, and no one, had an ample amount of appreciation for the fact that I had a presentable outfit on, AND was wearing matching brown shoes. 

All is right with the Gas & Electric world now, and my feet were not forced to walk on ice cold tiles, which I am calling my positive for the rest of the week. 

The moral of today’s story is  - if you are going to rob Peter to pay Paul, an eventual back alley beat down is probably in your future….

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working for the man

As some of you may know, the economy has us, in its’ crosshairs.  Our profitable little carpentry business, for which I have handled the accounting for, during the past 22 years, while being a stay at home mom, finally took a direct hit.  Our large profitable jobs, slowly dwindled down to small, thank God we have any of them, jobs.  The diminished income combined, with 2 of the brood in college, left me no choice but, to pick out a refrigerator box for 6, or leave the pack unattended, and get a job. 

I could not believe anyone would hire me …. I hadn’t earned a paycheck in over 22 years … let alone begin to remember the name of any prior boss.  My resume was a desolate place – I mean, was there really any point to listing how many words per minute I could chisel into a stone tablet, or that I knew how to use a telex machine. [tel-eks] - [ Noun: A two-way teletypewriter service, channeled through a public telecommunication system, for instantaneous direct communication between cavemen]. Additionally, any person capable of providing a reference for me, or verifying a pay rate, was surely incommunicado at the Golden Age Retirement home now.

I could not bring myself to apply for anything that involved me asking “do you want fries with that”, so I sent out a few resumes to companies that did not call for a graduate degree in bio physics, a reference from the Pope, or firsthand knowledge of heart transplants.  I expected nothing in return and tried to convince myself minimum wage was my destiny.

I took the first job offered, at the local home improvement center, facing the fact that, I was doomed to spend life as a happy cashier, on an eternal quest to ring up purchases for weird, smelly people.  While working that job during Holiday time, kept me very busy, I would not call dealing with the public or "people skills", my strongest suit. Once January began, and the steady mad rush of customers with entertaining neurosis, had dwindled, to just your average mean people, my employment outlook was grim. 

Imagine my surprise, when several weeks later, I was called in for an interview, for the position of administrative assistant to the president, at a decent sized company, in a neighboring town.

I navigated the interview, successfully answered the president's enigmatic “special interview question”, got the job, and started my 9-5 career!  Suddenly it dawned on me; running a carpentry business, and raising 4 kids for the past 22 years, had given me incredible organizational skills, a high tolerance for idiocy, and the skills to take on any task the company needs done.  (Sans Bio Physics, dealing with the Pope, and / or transplanting hearts).  I think I am going to hit the boss man up for a raise soon.    

The following is the actual resume I sent out, that landed me an interview, and ultimately a job, for a pretty great company:

Drea Dibbles

1 Smith Lane

Small Town,  PA  19105

xxx-xxx-xxxx

mailto:Atcc4@comcast.net

EDUCATION:    1984 Graduate

                             Small Town High School

                             Small Town,  PA  19105

EXPERIENCE:  

1988- Present:  Co owner and administrator of  -------- Carpentry

I handle all administrative phases of running ------ Carpentry, a carpentry company of 1-8 employees, that installs interior trim and custom millwork, including; payroll, state and federal taxes and returns, bank reconciliations, customer service, collections, data entry, phones, appointment scheduling and lead follow up. I have extensive experience with QuickBooks, QuickBooks Pro, Microsoft Word, Excel and iphone app. known to man. I am familiar with social networking and would be your neighbor in Farmville.

I orchestrate, run and rule a large home with 4 very intelligent ADHD children, ages 22, 18, 15 & 11, an ADHD husband, a Great Dane, 2 Akita / Mastiff mixes, a cat, and an ever changing collection of miscellaneous town children, who come and go and eat my food. 

I have a good attention to detail, and have managed to thus far keep all family members out of jail and continual visits to the principal’s office (this is impressive if you know #3).   I create order out of continual chaos.  I am unflappable and some people are afraid of me.

  ~  ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~  

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I wanna drink the Kool-Aid

Suspended.  Third kids get suspended. 

While you were sitting at your desk, having your coffee; taking a break from playing Angry Birds, and reading this blog yesterday … my third kid was getting suspended… from school… again. 

If I am counting correctly this would make time number 4.

The first time he was sent home from school during the day, for a half day suspension in 6^th grade.  Yes, 6^th grade.  He was sitting at the lunch table with classmates, and said to the kid across from him, with an attempted Russian accent “do you know any prostitutes?”  Another kid went up and told the lunch aide “he said a bad word”. 

We don’t drink the “my kid is an angel kool-aid”, and I will be the first one to tell you my kids are jerks … but I had a hard time freaking out over this one.  Suspending a 6^th grader for saying the word Prostitutes?   He didn’t tell the other kid his mom was a prostitute … he didn’t bring one to the lunch room with him …nor did he beat anyone up with a prostitute ...he quoted a line from a movie.  I’m thinking the fact that #3 used a Russian accent when he spoke, combined with the high probability factor, that the other 6^th grader, did not actually know any prostitutes, would have led anyone in their right mind, to see this as a nonsense comment made between 6^th grade boys.   

Mr. Whomever, the assistant principal, did not see it that way, and opted to, in his words, “set #3 straight”.  I couldn’t even tell you his name now. There have been an absurd number of Principals and Vice Principals at that school in the 12 years since it opened, who only pause briefly, on their quest to climb the ladder, to go, wherever people with a teaching degree go, to make it big in the education industry, despite having very little experience with children at all. 

The second time he was suspended in 8^th grade for peeing in the soap dispensers in the school bathroom.  Ok this is something I can sink my teeth into and get upset about. There were no witnesses and # 3 vigorously proclaimed his innocence, but the jury didn’t buy it.  # 3 was sentenced to a stiff punishment, unbeknownst to him, made more severe, because I suspected his father was secretly laughing at his son.

The third time, freshman year, was for giving a teacher a note with a penis drawn on it.  #3 admitted he found the penis note with the teachers name on it, and took it to her, but did not draw the penis in question.  The penis note was compared to # 3’s prior penis drawings, and the authorities agreed that the penis note could not be credited, as a one of #3’s works.  Despite this ruling, #3 was suspended for passing a penis note.    I’m sorry guys – you kind of lost my enthusiasm on this one.  I mean if the worst thing my high schooler does is pass a penis note, I think I’m ok with it. 

The fourth time, and if he values life, will be the last time, # 3 has been suspended for sexual harassment.  # 3 was walking with his friend, who we shall call “Beak Jr.”, and teasing him that he was going to hook up with his cousin.  Beak Jr. challenged # 3 that he didn’t have the guts to talk to her.  Obviously Beak Jrs’ father, who grew up with # 3’s father, failed to tell Beak Jr. that daring #3 to do something, was probably not a good idea.  # 3 yelled down the hall, “Beak Jr’s cousin, I plan on having sex with you.”   A teacher traveling the hall at the same time heard # 3 and informed him, he was going to write him up.

Our scene now switches to one of #3 classes, which, as luck would have it, is taught by the one and only teacher, who was the recipient of last year’s “penis note”.  (We can talk later about how no one thought, hey maybe this might not be the best idea?).  In this class, when another friend stood up at the penis note teacher’s instruction, to go write on the board, # 3 said, as reported in the disciplinary note the penis note teacher sent, to the vice principal “and he said in a voice loud enough for most of the class to here, “Nice butt Joe.” 

So now, Mr. Vice Principal, with 2 disciplinary notes on his desk for #3, decides its’ suspension time, and gives him 2 days.  Ok informing Beak Jr.’s cousin he planned to have sex with her, breaches all guidelines of gentlemanly behavior.  # 3 deserves a kick in the pants & fine throw in the suspension, but giving him an additional day for “Nice butt Joe” … submitted by the penis note teacher …come on.  I hope this means that; the class cutters have all been caught & escorted back to class; the lunch thieves have all been apprehended & fed; and that all the kids with red eyes that smell funny have been enrolled in 12 step programs.

So the moral of today's story is ..... # 3 should become a mute for the remainder of his school years, and everyone stay clear of the penis note teacher.  

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And after two comes three

There is always one in every pack that somehow manages to get to the head of the line.  You know the type, doesn’t cause a scene or draw attention, you just turn around and there he is, not only doing something out of the ordinary in a very nonchalant way, but almost leading and directing the remainder of the pack, and you just roll your eyes, and breathe a sigh of relief that you don’t have to deal with whatever situation he is in, or about to find himself in. Except I do.

As luck would have it, I not only married one of those guys, the third time around, I gave birth to one as well. <Cue fear-provoking music>

I should have known.  I had heard whisperings from other mothers about “the third child”, but like every parent, I had an underdeveloped “MY kid surely won’t be like THAT” section of the brain, and was confident, a third child would be no different – more or less – from one & two. 

I should have known when I went to the hospital to be induced, not dilated or showing a signal sign of pending labor  ~  I should have known when I went to the put the hospital gown on, and felt, what I was sure was all vital organs dropping to my toes  ~  I should have known when the nurse checked me minutes later, and said I was 8 centimeters and ran out of the room  ~  I should have known when the anesthesiologist didn’t answer the page, and I had to carry on without him  ~ I should have known when a doctor I didn’t know, who they probably pulled off the street, ran into the room with no time to spare  ~  I should have known when they laid the healthy 7lb 8 oz baby boy on my stomach, which at that point could have been a giant Tuna for all I knew, and the Dr. took the time to introduce himself and shake my hand   ~  I should have known then ~  But I didn’t. 

10 minutes after the truck drove through me, I was sitting absolutely still, unwilling to move, staring straight ahead, like I was waiting for a bus.  While Howard & the nurses fawned over the new baby, my sister bent down, leaned her face into mine, and in the voice you save for half dead penguins, said “Can .. I ... get… you.. something”?  I remember the concerned “are you going to explode” look she had on her face, as I answered in my “back from the war” voice; “chocolate milk”.  The first words my third child, or giant tuna, as may have been the case, heard from his mother’s mouth were “chocolate milk”. 

It was at that moment, it dawned on me; the game had changed

Kid # 3 … anyone who has one knows all about the street smart little brother, who is drug to every sibling event from the second they leave the hospital.  They learn words, symbols, gestures and ways of life, way earlier than anyone else their age.  They get hand me downs, disposable diapers, stained receiving blankets, and pacifiers that have been wiped on pant legs, after falling in the mud.  They are the kids’, moms who only have two children politely, stay away from at playgrounds’, and the kids, mom’s with only one perfect little child - RUN from, without looking back.

They are constantly dirty and battle scarred from keeping up with the big kids, they have Mohawks, the strength of Bam-Bam, and spent a good portion of their preschool years naked.  They are attentive and adept with the ways of the world around them, they curse accurately and when needed, and can pin point a sibling’s weakness and exploit it as if it were a paying job.

They will be one of the only kids at the elementary school who knows the rules to beer pong, and who is taking who to the prom. They are funny, and lovable, but have the ability to leave without looking back, or as in our case, make a plausible case for why he should be able to attend a Military boarding school in Hawaii for 4^th grade. Their friends with “the cool seniors” on face book and have more numbers in their cell phone, than both parents combined. 

Nothing good can come of puberty hitting a 3^rd child, nothing at all.  Their teenage years are spent either laughing hysterically with them or wanting to kill them, and if we make past them, I will let you know what adult 3^rd children are like.  

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Get your posse ready

Like every family we have skeletons in the closet.  We handle annoying skeletons by yanking their lifeless bodies from the closet, then we pick off each bone, dissect it, wave it around the house, show it to some friends, then toss it to the curb. I would love to say this is because of my uber Zen lifestyle or I’m bro’s with Deepak Chopra, but it comes down to; I’m a realist who likes self reflection and just has no time for BS - I mean come on how productive can someone with a husband, 4 kids, a business, 3 dogs, a 9-5 job, and nonstop action going on, be, if you have to keep one hand holding the closet door shut at all times.  

Several years ago, our great, mature, self confident, smart daughter, had back to back to back tragedies in her young life.  One alone would have set anyone back, 3 plus, in a 5 month time period was too much for an 18 year old, and she crumbled.  She is our first kid, and not knowing any better we sent her off to college thinking, it will pull her back on track.  Eh… apparently the last place a broken hearted, middle class kid should be, is away from their parents, with a rigorous academic schedule, at a very wealthy school, where classmates have islands and helicopters. 

As seen in every ABC Afterschool special, girls with turmoil, find boys that are trouble.  Our trouble’s name was Gordon (of course the name has been changed).  Gordon was an only child from a wealthy NY family.  Gordon was a lovely polished young man whose face would pale when the boys would fart at a restaurant.  The boys would perform their normal, “let’s see what the new guy is made of” routine, and crack jokes, tell embarrassing sister stories (blogs to come later J ) and general immature 7 – 15 year old boy behavior, while sizing him up.  Lovely, polished, only child, Gordon was not familiar, or comfortable with this type of introduction, and would make feeble attempts at hiding his displeasure. 

From November to April, as our daughters grades fell, partying increased, the “we are paying money for this” speeches amplified, and the mother daughter bond snapped.  Gordon and his mother, who according to our daughter “really understood her”, and whom graciously called to offer parenting advice,  with her house in the burbs, apartment in the city, vacation home at the beach, and beautiful white furniture that their one perfect little dog who always listened, became the bane of my existence. 

Gordon was not a strong women’s right supporter, in our humble opinion, and was more than willing to guide our daughter in separating from her tyrannical family.  In order to have any chance at saving the relationship with my daughter, I would listen and respond politely when 19 year old Gordon would call, and tell me, what I was doing wrong as a mother.  (Yes you read that correctly).  As you can imagine, Husband, with the vein in his forehead bulging, thinking a face to face meeting with Gordon would be beneficial, was always ready to jump in the car. 

Things came to a head one morning when our daughter called scared and crying.  After a night of partying, she and Gordon had gotten into a fight; he grabbed her, shoved her against a wall, and screamed in her face.  It was all I could do to keep husband & 3 boys from racing to school to “inform” Gordon this type of behavior was unacceptable.  As I tried to convince our daughter that it was time for the relationship to end, the boys huddled by the table making a list of people to include in a posse to go beat Gordon up. I promptly gave them the “No we are not taking a posse to go beat up Gordon, and that will not solve anything speech”, but I do have to admit, there is something heartwarming about listening to your sons, list names of people they are going to enlist to help, in their opinion, “save” their sister.  Not to be left out, however, kid # 4 also submitted names to the growing list:   Mr. Joe, (our 56 year old pudgy gentle poky puppy of a neighbor) and The Muffin Man –“people are going to need to eat mom”. 

Ending relationships is never a smooth thing, and the fact that my sons had Gordon’s cell phone number, in retrospect, may have caused additional complications to the situation.  Several weeks after the shoving incident, Gordon called to tell me, he was considering pressing charges against kid # 4, who was 7 at the time, for threatening him.  I assured him that would not be necessary, reminded him that 7 year olds do not always make the best decisions, and that I was certain he would have no additional communication from my sons.  I sat the boys down, gave them the “words can be threatening and you can get into trouble for texting mean things to people” speech, and told them there were absolutely NOT allowed to text Gordon anymore no matter what.  I took #4's cell phone to see if he had texted Gordon, (He only had one because at the time because there was some special buy one line get a free line deal), and this is what I read: 

Hey  F**k Tart, get your posse ready, we are coming for you to kick you’re a$$.  Don’t ever talk to my sister again and go jump off a bridge. 

I went downstairs, called the phone company, had Gordon’s number blocked from our account, and we bid Gordon farewell.  

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Anyone for bacon ??

Good Morning World …. Or is it Good Evening.  Unless you are dragging your body to bed with a pink boa & a tiara on, 2:30 am for a 45 year old, is not a pleasant time to be awake. 

The husband’s 2:15 am bladder break and border patrol report, acknowledged one little angel sleeping peacefully, snuggled in his bed.  Regretfully, preliminary data, showed 2 individuals, had been documented at the 12 am bed check.  We were a spawn down.

1 little piggy was at her boyfriends, 1 little piggy was at the Poconos, 1 little piggy was tucked in his bed fast asleep, and that left 1 little piggy who need to run all the way home.  STAT

Happily for my sanity, and his prolonged existence, my little AWOL piggy from hell, answered his cell phone on the 3^rd or 4^th call.  Fortunately, he was not lying in a ditch on the side of the road, as one assumes all 2 am piggy’s missing in action are.   Our swine was gallivanting in the barnyard, doing male teenage piggy type things. 

While waiting for the “run all the way home” part of our story to take place, I loaded the dishwasher and folded laundry, using my free time to list the many ways to make use of a slain piggy’s body. 

I am pleased to state the 3:30 am border patrol report shows, the AWOL little piggy, has returned, is safe and sound, has relinquished his cell phone, all ties to the outside world have been severed, and a sentry has been posted at his door…… Going back to bed now



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Storytime with Kid # 4

Happy Friday! Another morning where I have to get all children present, out the door and the house looking like no one lives here, for a showing this afternoon – but showings are good & the house is still in good shape so I drag this into the positive category.

Back to tales of driving through hell to get to heaven ….   So 2 adults, 4 children, & 3 dogs are traveling 2.5 hours in a Suburban to the Poconos.  After the previously mentioned pure chaos that takes place during the first 20 minutes of the car ride, everyone is quiet and life is fine. 

1 hour & 45 minutes into the trip is never good.

This is the time, mandated by some evil secret force, for the need to attempt, a game of musical chairs, without stopping the car.  The dogs decide they are tired of playing the license plate game, get up and start poking each other.  One inevitably does not want to share in the reindeer games, and makes a break for it.  As we all know, this leads to the dreaded “oh my penis I’m dying” event, but now, we are also now joined by our favorite women’s suffragist, as she whips out her soap box to screech of the oppression of traveling with 3 boys and hot dog breath.  The escaped canine is shoved back into his rightful spot and then it’s time for the much loved game; “I’m bored so I will tease my sibling”.  Lucky for me, with 4 kids, there are multiple players, so the game is always energetic. 

On the trip we speak of today, our players of mention are kid #2 & kid #4.  #4 is flipping through the pages of #2's new Sports Illustrated magazine.  He is clearly not following # 2's rules of “careful magazine reading” and is accused of “trashing” the periodical.  # 4 starts flipping the pages with malicious intent, and an all out cat fight starts between the 8 and 16 year old, with the 8 year old, bless his little very street wise soul, giving much better than he’s getting.  I grab the magazine, to stop the 16 year old regression any farther, but sadly it is too late.  The 8 year old keeps up with the verbal pokes and it is apparent the 16 year old is going to blow.  I dig through my emergency bag (it takes a while because it’s a big bag) and hand back a pad of paper and a pencil.  " #4, here, I want you to write on this."  He looks at me blankly and says “write what”.  I say, I don’t know write a story.  He says ok, and takes the pad of paper.  The car is quiet, all children and dogs are in their rightful locations, the disaster is averted, and I breathe a sigh of relief.  And then # 4 speaks ....

 
    “Once upon a time, there was a faggot named Tyler”



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Spawn induced writers block

I was trying to decide should I write about why there was an old black man on my front porch pulling down his pants, or if I should write about a drive to the Poconos when Kid #2 & Kid #4 were fighting, but instead …. I have discovered it is physically impossible to write anything while your  22 year old is telling you …all …. about …. her…. roommate, and your 11 year old is listening to this song on the computer behind you (which proudly boasts being the only 50 hour long video on you tube)....      I’ll try again tomorrow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uePrvf0chdM

Put your shoe on NOW

We have a vacation home in the Poconos, which Husband built. It is a great place to escape to and we are very fortunate to have it. Getting to the great escape, is always a hurdle, and with 4 ADHD kids, 3 XLARGE dogs & 2 adults parents, in a Suburban for 2.5 hours, a few issues tend to present themselves.

"OK get in the car" is equivalent to pressing the detonation button. All large dogs who have spent the last 2 hours standing directly in front of us so we don’t "forget them" now race to the door, sending any poor soul who may be in their way, flying. The children pick up their multiple "can’t live without items" and start the great seat debate. For the next 10 minutes all children will speak of nothing but how oppressed, tortured, and unloved they are, based on where they have to sit.

Once we leave the driveway, it is time to make the Osborne’s look like a perfectly well adjusted family. The three 75 – 100 pound dogs do not want to stay in the way back of the car and attempt to make their way to a better spot, stepping on human body parts as they go. History shows the groin is in imminent danger, and there will be at least one victim. The injured party will respond with genuine pain, exaggerated flailing of arms and legs, hitting the dog and the yelling "oh my penis" and/or 435 additional names for it, continuously. Remaining family members with one hand covering their no no special place, divide into two camps - some scream as many commands as they can think of - as loud as they can, at the giant dogs standing over them, dumbfounded, and others vehemently defend the dog who was yelled at and hit by the injured "step & run" victim. The dogs are somewhat convinced to return to the back seat, thus triggering another "step & run" incident, thus repeating the above mentioned process, although if the first victim is smart, he is not injured again. Sadly this is not always the case.

This continues non stop until one of the dogs makes a break for the front seat, or until Husband can no longer take it. Either way, he makes a hard right turn for the shoulder on 295 and slams on the breaks. This sends dogs, children, and all "can’t live without items flying" injuring additional people and body parts in the process. The kids scream, Husband screams at the kids, I scream at Husband, Husband drags 300 collective pounds of frozen scared stiff dogs into the way back seat; everyone shuts up, collects their belongings, and nestles into their assigned seat for the remainder of the 2 hour and 15 minute trip.

No one notices if anything falls out of the car, and THAT my friend is how one sneaker ends up on the side of Route 295.

Brains Matter

Wake 3 comatose boys up
Run to wawa for bagged lunch for school "zoo" trip
Spot clean house for showing at 10
Vacuum entire house
Obsess over trying to figure out which couple from the open house(s) this
  weekend is supposed to make an offer & which is coming
  back for a 2nd look & who is the "very interested" buyer coming today
  from out of town
Travel a safe distance behind dogs outback waiting for them to take care
  of business, so I can remove all traces of business
Yell multiple last minute "before showing things to do" at Kid #2.
Watch them vaporize into thin air, never to be acted upon.
Get out the door, looking human, by 745 for work.
This house is going to be sold with brain matter on the walls.

This is for the birds

So after all the cleaning this weekend, as I’m walking out the door before the open house on Sunday, doing a final spot check, I see something out of the corner of my eye.

A little piece of string is stuck to the window screen.  I climb behind the chair to check it out, and discover that the section of roof outside the window is covered with debris.

Evidently the Trump towers 2012 Bird Nest Condominiums are being built under the roof, behind the gutter.   Sanford & Son, have been hired as project managers, and the roof is covered with miscellaneous pieces of junk that obviously did not pass quality control. 

Ground Zero is covered in dead plant stalks, palm branches ripped from Christian’s hands, twigs, several pieces of misc pieces of twine and scraps of paper.  There is even a 3 foot branch on the roof – how the heck did I not see the crane backing in the driveway or at least an Owl with a tow strap ….

I lift up the screen to get a closer look at the ongoing venture, thus breaching security parameters.  Clearly their “emergency preparedness drill” has been updated.  Alarms are sounded, the twilight bark for birds is implemented, Pterodactyls start dive bombing my head, and I am cursed at in multiple bird tongues. 

Under the roof is overflowing with “building materials” that trail down wall, and while providing a directly pathway to the structure, it frankly does not meet the OSHA job site cleanliness standards. 

One can only image the square footage these units have to offer, and I’m surprised the builders haven’t broken through the wall and set up an office in Cole’s bedroom. 

I am going to need a SWAT team or at least the National Guard to deal with this.  Maybe prospective buyers will like the idea of buy a home that can be sub divided into an income property??

Weekend Highlights

Here are some of the Dibbles weekend highlights

All traces of dog poop, weeds & debris have been eliminated and replaced with mulch, thus removing the back yard from the “dangerous travel” list. 

Spike the pole vaulting dog, discovered the joys of flying over the pond & 4 ft fence, in his eternal quest for freedom, and was chased throughout the neighborhood several times.

Repugnant signs of man, woman & beast were removed from 3 floors, 32 windows, 4 bathrooms, 3 sets of stupid stairs & entire too many lineal feet of custom interior molding by Dibbles Carpentry, and are now sparkling clean.  All property will remain unsoiled, provided I walk behind the children, dogs & spouse, with the vacuum running.

During Saturday’s open house, Husband, Seamus, Spike & I, spent entirely too much time together in the car in family bonding hell, however, someone Husband coached in ice hockey came thru the house, and apparently he & his wife were interested.  He is a great kid and I would LOVE for them to buy it. 

On Sunday afternoon, Spike & Seamus visited Mom Mom & Pop Pop, and I am pleased to report, no chatchka was harmed. 

Another couple, who had been through the house for a showing, came back through during Sunday’s open house, and told the realtor, they haven’t purchased and keep comparing every home to ours …. That could be promising. 

Regrettably there are casualties to report, as in the case in every battle.  We are a few goldfish down, lost to a beautiful blue heron, and in a skirmish with the kitchen sink, & scuffle with a window screen, we lost 2 fingernails soldiers.  Sadly, the respective confrontations left several more in grave condition as well.  They fought a brave fight and will be sorely missed.

With a creak in my step, back pain that I’m coming to terms with, & muscles I never knew existed, cursing me, I leave my picture perfect homeland, and limp to work willingly, anxious to sit still for 8 hours. 

The end is near

So we are now the proud owners of a bird who hates our guts, and not one but 2 replacements cats.

While driving home from Pet Smart, my phone rings. "Oh Mrs. Dibbles, we forgot to give you the medicine for Bonkers" 

It seems Bonkers has a sinus infection and needs antibiotics along with drops in his eyes.  I take the remaining 5 minutes of the trip home to feel very sorry for myself. We arrive home with Bonkers and his evil sidekick.  Bonkers, whom we shall now call Morris, gets out of the carrier, struts up to the dogs, swats Clyde on the nose when his greeting becomes to overzealous, and the saunters away.  Welcome to the family Morris,

The other cat .... obviously hates us more than the bird, and we didn't even think that was possible.  We call the cat Guinness.  We take Guinness up to the 3rd floor dog free zone, so he can adjust slowly, and give him his own food and litter box there. Kid #3 lets him out of the carrier, he hisses and darts away.  I explain to Kid #3 it takes time yadda yadda yadda. Guinness hides from us - so well we wonder if he got outside somehow.  In our defense let me just say it is very hard to try to bond with an invisible cat.  So for 2 weeks we try to find evil cat and try to be nice to him. Bonkers aka Morris doesn’t give a crap about evil cat and it is obvious now we've been had.  The old "they have to stay together story" was just a way to get some schmuck to take an evil unadoptable cat home.  So on the 14th night of our life with evil cat, he comes into the hallway on the 3rd floor,  and lays down.  I’m baffled but sit next to him and pet him.  He dies.  OK THIS CYCLE ENDS RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!!!  

I poke the cat a few times to see if he is really dead (oh come on how attached can you get to a cat that hated you the entire 2 weeks you had him).  I go and wake up Husband who does not care at all that there is a dead cat in the hallway.  I call Kid #1 who is downstairs with a prospective new suitor, who is about to leave. "Can he just toss the dead cat in a dumpster on the way home?"  Mr. Tightywhitey is horrified and says no (he clearly will not ever fit in to this family) and I move on to plan B.  I wake up Husband again.  Few people can comprehend the depth of Husband’s anger when you wake him up.  

I finally get him up and tell him he has to get up, get dressed, go out in the freezing cold, at midnight, and take a dead cat he didn't want, but paid for, go find a dumpster to throw him in, so we can then lie to the boys in the morning and tell them we buried the cat after a lovely moonlit funeral.  Ok so maybe the man was entitled to a little anger.  By 12:45 the deed is done and we call it a night.

In the morning I tell the boys.  #3 starts to look sad "Don't even start - you saw the cat like 3 times in the 2 weeks we had him - go find Morris"

So Morris is a great cat.  Turns out "sinus infection" is not an accurate diagnosis.  He has emphysema or some other chronic old cat ailment that causes him to frequently sneeze cat snot all over the world while occasionally making "I’m dying - the end is near" noises.  We rename him "one lung" and praise him for being a good sitter. Aside from the addition of cat snot to the house, Morris does all the appropriate good cat things.  Sits in sunny windows, is friendly, lets our little niece chase him throughout the house, until we fear his one good lung will give out & put him in a bedroom for safety.  He is not an outside cat, but will go out and sit on the back porch in the sun but never leave the porch.  

Old One Lung was with us for 4 years, and was the best sitter we ever had.  He could sit like no other, and he could sit all day.  One day after sitting in the sun on the porch, he walked away and we never saw him again.  We gave it a very poetic spin, that he knew he was going to die, and spared us the mental anguish, but every time we make the boys clean up the back yard, and again when we took down the hot tub, we always wonder if we will find him.  

We've since had 2 cats that kid #3 rescued after someone left 6 kittens and adult cat in our neighborhood.  Blackey Chan (I don't even get involved in naming cats anymore as I realize the right name for the cat appears as time goes on) was so sweet and friendly and would walk right into neighbors houses - she also was lacking a few necessary brain cells and would sit in the middle of the street.  She never came home one day, and we are going with someone claimed her as their own.  The other cat was almost feral.  He was called Gordito which is Spanish for short & fat.  He is a beautiful black cat with green eyes and the most miserable grumpy creature you will ever meet.  I worked a lot with him and he did well even sitting on my lap a few times.  Then we said yes to taking Seamus's twin brother, Spike whose owners were giving him up.  Perhaps it has something to do with his incredible pole vaulting & 6 foot fence jumping skills.  Spike saw Gordon (we changed his name because he was so miserable we thought it would piss him off more) as a toy to pounce on.  Gordon frowned upon being pounced on and resorted to spending more time outside.  At the same time the next door neighbor’s dog died and Gordon started being nice to her.  So now Gordon lives with them AND sleeps on their bed.  I get to see him sitting in the window, he is in a Spike free zone, and the neighbors have a new pet to replace their dead dog.  It’s a win win for everybody!!

We are currently cat free and will remain so until after the move.    

THE END !

Here Kitty Kitty

So the Dibbles family has a new bird...

We all settle into the weekend, and while the kids fight…nonstop… over what to name the bird, the newest member of our family conveys her hatred, loathing, malice and general ill will to any man, woman or beast who comes near her cage.  When not refereeing the unending “name that bird” battle, I sneak away to see exactly how much slightly used Cockatiels sell for on EBay.  After the 27^th million time saying “No we are not naming the bird "Penis” I close the discussion, and name the bird Callie, although there are several other 4 letter words I would prefer to call the creature who wants nothing more than to peck, each & everyone of us to death.

Sunday afternoon we realize Callie, aka the spawn of satan, dances when the kids are playing Guitar Hero on play station.  This trick earns her a small window of time before I consider shoving her into a federal express box. 

Sunday night a dreaded call comes …. The cat police have approved our application.  I tell Kid #3, but follow up with, in my best June Cleaver voice, “oh honey, we already have a pet bird now”.  He drops it and goes back to seeing how long he can hold “Callie” without bleeding on her. 

We morph into Tuesday, and #3 wakes up with a stomach ache, as the news reports the recall of the day.  After a check of the pantry, we realize the jar of peanut butter he opened and put on his bagel last night, was one recalled due to Salmonella contamination.  I feel a little guilty for trying to poison my son with deadly peanut butter, so I keep him home from school. 

At lunchtime he brings in the mail for me.  The next thing I know he is sobbing giant tears … apparently the sympathy card the vet has sent us saying sorry Oreo died, is not comforting #3 in this time of loss. 

So I put my salmonella poisoned, best friendless, son into the car, and off we go to Pet Smart to adopt a new best friend.  (Come on, I thought he was dying from salmonella poisoning and you know he never cries).

As I trail behind the 11 year old who is racing to the cat section, I call out …."Remember no kitten”.  There are several cute older cats to choose from, and #3 takes a liking to an orange tabby named “Bonkers”.  (Picture Garfield or Morris the cat)  “Bonkers” starts his “Pick Me” performance; #3 taps on the glass, then bonkers taps on the glass, #3 puts his head against the glass, then Bonkers does the same thing.  As the angels sing in the background and a golden aura forms around #3 & Bonkers, he says “Mom, I really like Bonkers”.  The relief over finding a suitable old cat to make my 3^rd child happy is very short lived. 

The blood drains from my body and I fight for composure as I read the “small print” on the tag that’s stuck to the cage.  “Oh #3 …<gasp>… the sign says… <gasp>   
  <gulp>… Bonkers has to be adopted …. <Breathe in the good air> with that other
cat in the cage with him.  Focus switches to the hissing miserable pile of fur in the corner that I swear is giving us the paw.  Oblivious to my mental anguish, pain and suffering, #3 says “Oh boy that means we can get them both?

“LOOK AT THIS CUTE ONE” I say (ok perhaps scream), as I drag his body 2 cages down and shove him to the floor, so he can bond with a single cat who comes with no excess baggage or strings attached.  #3, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, says “eh I think I like Bonkers better”.  Not ready to admit defeat, I drag him to another cage, “LOOK AT THIS BLACK & GREY ONE …. HE REALLY LOVES YOU!!  LOOK AT HOW HE IS JUST LYING THERE…. WOW HE REALY REALLY WANTS TO COME HOME WITH US.”  #3 is unimpressed and damn if Bonkers isn’t pulling out all the “I LOVE YOU #3 STOPS”.  (Picture the cat tap dancing, singing and writing #3 a poem).  I admit defeat… what’s one more old cat thrown into the mix of 2 great Danes, 4 kids & a house full of friends.  Maybe Husband won’t even notice. 

Yes there is more .....

Goodbye Oreo – part 2

Everyone is bummed that Oreo has gone to heaven, as he was tolerable as far as cats go.  Kid #3, however, being Oreo’s best buddy in the world sobbed and was devastated.  (For the sake of not having to listen to the 16 year yell at me for the next 24 hours, and to keep his image in tact – I will note - he was 11 when this took place)

Here is where a mistake may have been made.  I tell #3 we can get another cat.  (Oh come on - they were best friends and you know #3 never cries).  I believe I have the upper hand by saying, firmly, “No Kitten, they just trash the furniture; we can get an older cat”.

Friday evening we go to Pet Smart.  There has to be like 4 million youthfully challenged, just wanna lie in the sun, I’ll let you pet me - but never poop in your plant- cats; that need homes right??  The very happy volunteer, gushes that he would love to help us, but, we have to fill out an application, then wait to see if we are approved.  OK … so I am trying to keep some flea carrying, clawed shedding machine, that doesn’t care if I live or die, from the electric chair, and they need to decide if I am approved??  The way I see it is, as long as I don’t use Kitty for science experiments, they should be pretty darn happy I’m taking a cat off their hands. 

I fill out the application mumbling quietly to myself.  I get to the line that says social security and driver’s license number.  OK THAT’S IT!?!?!?!   There is NO way you can judge my ability to take care of some middle aged cat by my tax records, or the number of parking tickets I may have.  I tell Mr. Happy, that I have no intention of giving out this information.  He assures me this is not a problem and takes the opportunity to share with me, far too many details of his life in the mortgage industry.  After the CIA grilling buy the Cat police is complete, we hand in the application, and wait to hear if we are approved.

As we leave we walk by the birds.  #3 says “can we can we can we?”  I do my best Oh darn it to pieces impression, and say “I am sure you need to fill out an application for a bird too, honey”.  “Can I just ask, can I can I can I?”  From high on my horse I nod, smile and say “ok go ask”.   #3 finds the 16 year old pimply face bird helper and asks “excuse me what do I have to do to get a bird?”  Sir Pimpleface, with all the poise and grace a teenage boy can muster, says “Uh … which one you want.”   BAD WORD, BAD WORD, VERY BAD WORD, BAD WORD, & BAD WORD

Oh how badly a plan can backfire sometimes. 

So, #3, Sir Pimpleface, and I, squeeze into the tiny little area inside of the bird cages.  “How about the small little blue parakeet” I whisper, trying to catch my breath, and still the throbbing pain in my head.  Sir Pimpleface, who should be shot, says “don’t you want a bird that talks?”  (remind me to have the school bully beat this kid up).  Well OF COURSE #3 wants a bird that can talk and sit on his shoulder.  “But …the little blue parakeet is so cute… and…so um birdlike sitting on that …bird perch there – what about him?”  I plead. 

Sir Pimpleface gets the $$$ bird out of the cage.  (Priced blanked out to protect the holy matrimonially union).  The million dollar bird obviously knows when to perform, and cutely steps onto Carson’s finger, then cocks her adorable little bird brained head.  “But that parakeet there is so BLUE” I stammer, as Sir Pimpleface spouts all the fantastic things that THIS bird will do.  (He neglects to mention how the bird will hate everything and bite the living crap out of anything that comes near it until it adjusts to family life)

As Carson and Sir Pimpleface extol the virtues of this bird and dance with delight, I implore a final time “#3 …are you sure you don’t want the cute little blue parakeet …look ~ he looks so friendly …just sitting there…. ignoring you … and pooping on that stick ~ what about him?” #3, now unwaveringly in love with the creature he’s know for all of 4 minutes says “Can we mom please …just get this one?” 

As the oxygen level in the inner bowels of the bird sanctuary has been depleted, I’m sure I’m dying of Bird flu, and that stupid Parakeet keeps eyeballing me, I say yes.  But of course, the million dollar bird needs also need food,  and treats,  and a cage,  and toys – but not just one toy.  Noooooo Sir Pimpleface insists Cockatiels get bored and need their toys changed frequently.  (Oh one can only image the sorrows of having a bored cockatiel).  So after spending and extremely private amount of money that shall never be spoken of again, on …a …. Bird, we leave Pet Smart. 

So now to inform Mr-Till-Death-Do-Us-Part, who was SURE we did not need a replacement cat, that I have spent a small fortune on a replacement bird instead.  On the drive home I call him.  “Hi Honey!   I love you soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much !!!

Believe it or not …. There is a part 3 to this story … tune in tomorrow  

Saying goodbye to Oreo

Editors note:  Lest you think I am not tender hearted …..although I did write this at the time, the actual event occurred in February  2007.

On Monday night, the day after we got back from Disney, Oreo, our cat, started drooling.  It was weird – but we assumed he ate bad mouse or something.  Tuesday morning he wasn’t any better & the vet said to bring him in.  It was a snow day, and we had an entire houseful of kids and friends, and no one could find the cat anywhere.  (In retrospect had I known where the cat was hiding, I would have joined him).  Tuesday night the cat reappeared and was not any better.  We gave the dog a free pass & put Oreo in the crate, so we would not lose him. 

Wednesday morning arrived, and my less than please furry friend and I, head to the vet.  I had done some research and figured it was tongue cancer, common in cats, (she says all Dr. Doolittle like), and the end was near.  The vet said he suspected cancer, but for $ 45 bucks he would sedate him, clean his mouth, make 100% sure it was cancer, & if it was, put him down while he was sedated.  I say ok.  So that is $ 35 for the office visit and $ 45 for the sedation, and we figure the cat is on his way to greener pastures. 

The vet calls that afternoon … it’s not tongue cancer; he thinks it’s a bad mouth infection due to either biting an extension cord or ingesting poison.  If it’s a slight poisoning, he just needs a few days of antibiotics, and he will be fine.  If it’s a bad poisoning, he is in kidney failure and he’s on his way to meet his maker.   

The vet asks if I would like to pay $ 75 for blood work to see if it’s kidney failure, or, just put him down now.  Ok well how can I kill the cat without a blood test, when all he might need is $ 20 worth of antibiotics?  Fine … so now it’s $ 35 for the office visit, $ 45 for the sedation, $ 75 for the blood test, & of course you can’t have a blood test without $ 20 worth of fluids to hydrate the cat.  So it looks like the cat I wrote off Wednesday morning might actually be ok.

Thursday morning arrives and the cat’s back on death row.  The blood tests shows kidney failure, but they can’t guess from what.  Great.  I’d rather draw a cat chalk line in the hallway then have to answer the eternal kid questions “what do I think happened”.  So now it’s $ 45 bucks to put the almost dead cat down.  We can have the dead cat for free, or, for $ 35 they will do a mass cremation.  I figure since it is 20 below, Howard, not really a big cat person to begin with, probably won’t want to pick axe through the frozen tundra to bury the very expensive , very dead cat. 

So for those of you playing along at home, that’s $ 35 for the office visit, $ 45 for the sedation, $ 75 for the blood test, $ 20 worth of cat hydration (isn’t water free), $ 45 to kill the cat, and $ 35 to gather his kitty friends for a cremation party.  So after 3 days of playing “dead cat, live cat, dead cat, really dead cat”, and,  $ 255.00 later, we are officially a pet down. 

In the immortal words of Billy Mays …. But wait there’s more … come back tomorrow.

Celebrating Easter

Celebrating Easter

With much arguing, name calling, & general un-Christian like behavior, we all pile into the car to go to Mom-Moms for Easter brunch.  Husband, already in a bad mood for a plethora of other reasons, looses it when I ask the wildly inappropriate question “did you remember the chips for the dip?”  He rants from the driveway to New Albany Road & then shuts up.  I, being the best “me” I can be, & unable to suppress the urge to point out his assanineisms, say things, ever so nicely in my best sweet little old lady voice, like:  “I don’t know why that was a bad question to ask”, “I don’t see the chips anywhere in the front seat”, & “maybe you need to do yoga.”  Luckily for him, Mom Mom lives in the same town.

Later, I am in the kitchen, helping Mom & my sister, get the food ready. 

Me;  “Oh if for any reason Husband starts to choke on anything today at brunch, DO NOT perform the Heimlich, just turn & walk away – I put a big old  DNR on his forehead today”

Sister A; “Oh can I get one of them for my husband as well?”

Mom; “Well please resuscitate your father, I like him”

Kid #2 passing thru the kitchen; “Well this is going to get confusing.  How am I going to
   remember who to save & who not to save?”

Me; “Huh, good point….. Pause for thinking……”We can use POST IT NOTES! Yes that will work”

Kid #2; shrugs …“OK” …& leaves to go get something from the basement.

Sister A's husband enters the kitchen.  “Can I take my jacket off?”

Sister A; “sure”

Me; “make sure your post it note doesn’t fall off”

Sister A's Husband; “Huh?”

I explain today’s plan, and he leaves looking a bit baffled & afraid. 
He then says to my Husband “um I think your wife is trying to kill you”

Husband; “Ok” & carries on with talking to Dad.

No resuscitations were needed this year at the Easter gathering, but feel free to implement this system at your next family event. 

Spring wardrobe

Child 1, home for Easter, was trying on spring clothes Friday night.  Apparently it
wasn't going well, thus triggering a meltdown.  She comes into the office where
Husband & I are sitting, wearing capri pants (that look fine ….just saying) and a
bra top.  She starts the conversation modestly and keeps her arms folded across
her chest.  But … it seems that a lack of proper spring wear will trigger the need
the need to expound on the many injustices in your life.  (I’m pretty sure that
"and you took my pacifier away when I was 3" was included)  As she continues
to “share” with us, Husband & I sit quietly, trying to look concerned, caring &
attentive; awaiting for the intake of breath we are praying is right around
the corner. 

Child # 4 comes up the back stairs, singing a song more or less to himself.  He
walks thru the conversation, squeezes in front of Howard, searches through
the pen / pencil mug, finds an appropriate writing implement and goes back
through the conversation, towards the front steps, all the while still singing his
happy little song.  As he passes Child 1, who is now using her arms to demonstrate
how much she has been wronged, Child #4 says “I can see your nipples”
and keeps on walking. 

Husband & I start that parental body shaking silent laughter thing you do,
when you probably shouldn’t be  laughing. Several seconds later, Kid #1
stops the homily, drops her shoulders, rolls her eyes, scrunches her face
and sighs.  She fights back a frustrated teeny laugh as she bows her head,
and says …. “this is going to end up on Facebook isn’t it”   

I LOVE MY FAMILY !!!