*(&*(^%$&^

 Seamus is distributing his winter coat throughout the house like its his job, company moved over the weekend and we are in unpacking hell this week, Kid # 1 is in a foreign country that ranks farm animals above women & doesn't understand why I can't Skype at 730 am, Kid # 2 thinks he lives in a frat house, kid # 3 is being force fed school, kid # 4 feels rules aren't really his thing anymore, & apparently our house is the red headed step child because it doesn't have a garage. 

Blogs are going to be put on hold for a few days due to the fact I can only speak in fragmented profanity laden sentences. 

just another night

We here at the Dibble’s household have a fondness for nature.  Ok I like to look at nature from several feet away, and then drag any kid who happens to be in the area, over to look at it.  This has led the children to have a marginal interest in the world around them, and they can now be counted on to appear interested the first time, I point out a new creature.

Last night, a new call of the wild was heard in the back yard.  My adventuresome spirit, independent nature, and willingness to face danger, led me 3 steps out the back door into the dark.  Armed with a flashlight that contained 7 year old double a batteries at 40%, I ventured down a few steps towards the back yard, and then made husband come into the dark abyss with me.

The sound seemed to be coming from a small tree in our yard, but repeated attempts with my octogenarian flashlight, uncovered nothing.  Husband squirted the tree with the hose, as I stood at a safe distance away expecting a horned, winged creature to explode from the tree in a rage, but the noise just stopped…. And then started again. 

Husband, losing interest, decided beating the tree with a pool brush would help.  I protested vehemently and with a brief minute of compassion, he put the pool brush down and turned on the spot light in the back yard.  Kid #1 joined the backyard excursion and together we slowly inched towards the tree and the noise.

She & I decided the best idea would be to plug in a light, into the outlet that was just past the tree, in the darkest corner of the yard, thus illuminating the tree, and identifying the noise making creature.  As I entered into a mature intelligent debate with my “Mini Me”, over who would venture past the tree to go plug in the light, “you go”, “no you go”, “I’m not going”, “I don’t want to go”, husband, decided to pursue his “I’ll just beat the tree senseless with a pool brush” option.

Kid #2 enters the back yard to see what’s going on.  Kid # 1 & I simultaneously say “We need you to plug in this light back here”.  Husband, whose momentary interest in unidentifiable noise making creatures is now completely gone, and realizing his “I’ll just beat the tree with a pool brush” plan will not be implemented, drops the pool brush and says “I’m going in the house”. 

Me, Kid # 1 & 2, are all standing in the semi lit back corner staring into the tree, in the exact spot the noise is intermittently coming from, yet see absolutely nothing.  We keep inching closer to the tree, and then taking one chicken step back, every time we hear the noise again.  With the grace of the God who ends stupid things, I looked in the exact spot the creature was in, as it made its noise, and the movement of its body, caught my eye.

It was an adorable little tree frog, sitting on a rose brush right underneath the tree.  We all ooohed and ahhhed over the new addition to our yard for 2 seconds, and then, mystery solved, went back inside.

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Rule # 301

Rule # 301

You may not post your brother's cell phone number on Craig's List, in an ad that says;
  Looking to sell my used auto parts business.

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Grass annoys me

Do you have any idea how many obstacles stand between the teen and the dreaded lawn mower. 

First you have to dodge the dog poop that another teen, is supposed to be picking up. Everyone knows, 25 elephant steps in a serpentine fashion is almost too much to bear, so you are going to need to take it slow. Next, overcome with an unstoppable parental urge, you have to call for your little brother, repeatedly, until he drags himself to the back porch.   Upon his arrival, you must threaten him with bodily harm and certain death, using as many profane words and adjectives describing his death and dismemberment as possible, should he ever, leave his bike in the middle of the yard again.  Extra points will be awarded if you cause the kind and gentle, quiet Christian next door neighbor to have a heart attack.

The suffering continues upon your arrival at the 8 X 10 shed.  In true “Where’s Waldo” fashion, you will need to locate the lawn mower.  This is going to be a real challenge, as the shed holds, 3 rakes, a shovel, a hose and a lawn mower.  It is important this step is not rushed, so you will get to stand by the open door, with your hand in your pants, while you “look” for the lawn mower for up to twenty minutes.  Choose wisely, and be careful not to play the “I can’t find it card” too early here, as many of your predecessors have.

After spotting the lawn mower, you may move onto the “in my spare time I have become a lawn mower expert and can tell this unit has no gas” story.  Don’t be too discouraged when the voice from the house says “the gas can is right next to you idiot”, you get half a point for trying.   

Next you need to start the lawn mower.  Using the “I can’t start it” method is an option, but history has shown it may be painful, so it may be in your best interest to utilize that a bit later.  Once the mower is started, you will be required to cut all of the grass.  This means the front, the side, and the space between the sidewalk and the curb.  We realize our 7 square feet of lawn, is an overwhelming amount, but take it slow; we believe in you, and know you are up for the task. 

While it is very kind of you to not cut the entire side yard, because you are trying to make sure you don’t run over what looks like a dead weed stalk, the dogs spent last summer peeing on, I want you throw caution to the wind, and take the chance. 

A few extra notes;  stopping the lawn mower, talking to a friend, then walking away, will not make us forget the grass is only halfway cut.  We have received special training that help us locate patches of grass that have not been cut, so you will be required to “play again” when we spot them.  We have a weed whacker, and aren’t afraid to make you use it.  

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Curse you Fireman Bob

Apparently there have been quite a lot of advances in air production technology, since I last bought a hair dryer in 1968.  (Yes I was only 2 and bald then, but never you mind).

As we all know from a previous blog, husband, acting on behalf of Fireman Bob, threw out my very old, but more or less working, tried and true, hairdryer.  When multiple attempts to towel dry my bangs failed and I could no longer wear a winter hat during work, I faced the inevitable, and bought a new one. 

I am not afraid of change, it’s just Mr. New & Shiny, with its instantaneous off / on switch, has not yet, won me over.  The new plug does not jiggle in the outlet, causing the breaker to blow like the old one, (hey GFI outlets need monthly testing you know), the new one, has no “delayed start” as it slowly builds up speed and noise, giving you the “on your mark, get set, go” count down, so highly desired on a Monday morning – you just turn on the switch and are immediately in “hurricane mode”, causing makeup, dog hair, and small children, to blow across the room without warning. 

Gone is the final step of the procedure, where I would poof my bangs with a gentle blast of air, thus completing the good hair process for the day.  With my new Tornado 4000, an attempted “poofing” leaves me looking like a cartoon character, after watching a horror movie. 

What used to be a 5 minute, respectful, give and take conversation, between a hairdryer and bangs, has been replaced with a 20 minute attack from a drill sergeant with an inferiority complex, acting on behalf of forced hot air, everywhere.  

We are still in the “adjustment phase” of this relationship.    

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Happy Mothers Day from #4

For Mothers Day, I asked each kid to write a letter why they liked being a "Dibbles".
Here is # 4's response:

Dear Mama Dibbles

Since ancient times the Dibbles’ have had many rituals. Now today the rituals include the youngest dressing up like a leprechaun and asking drunk people to take a picture for $2 . (A reason why I like to be a Dibbles) 

Usually young children around 8-12 aren’t a loud to watch rated R movies or play video games that have a lot of blood in them. In the Dibbles house they’re fine with you playing any game. (A reason I love to be a Dibbles)

My last reason I like to be a Dibbles is because we’re not babied. This is why I love to be a Dibbles.   

        LOVE your son #4

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Shot score !

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Hockey is a four letter word. Well at least too me, and in this house, I stand alone.

#1, 2 & 3, played so much hockey growing up. Field, Street, Roller, Ice, Mini, Pick up, … it was an epidemic. We spent way too much money, and time traveling to smelly ice rinks all across America.

I think the trip to Ottawa for a tournament over Christmas break is what finally put me over the edge. I’m not a big winter fan, nor apparently a fan of Ottawa. We spent entirely too many hours in the car to get there, on roads that offer hours of nothingness to look at, and arrived in a dirty city full of snow, slush, and other hockey loving morons such as ourselves. Due to the temperature decrease, barometric pressure change, 47 hour car ride, or just general dislike of my life at that moment, the migraine started shortly after crossing the border into Canada, and stayed for the next 4 days.

We stayed in a high rise hotel, which also housed a homeless shelter. Somehow Canadian homeless people are a little scarier than American homeless people, and the last place you want to be, is stuffed into an elevator with them.

At one point, I let all 4 of the kids ride down the elevator by themselves, with strict instructions to stay together, not to let go of #4 (who was 3 at the time), not to talk to any homeless people, not to touch anything, and then go sit in the lobby until we met them. Husband and I arrive in the lobby, and the 4 kids are nowhere to be found. I initiate "Panic Plan A; the scary elevator people took my kids", as husband grunts a reassuring "I’m sure they’re somewhere" statement. Suddenly an alarm starts going off, and the people at the front desk pick up their phones. Ok initiate "Panic Plan B; the hotel is burning down and the scary elevator people took my kids."

The alarm, going strong, seems to be coming from the elevators, and a crowd begins to gather. Someone is stuck in the elevator. After several minutes of chaos, the alarm stops, the doors open, and my 4 children appear. The crowd shrugs "oh it was the Dibbles Kids" and disperses. The 4 children, now safe from death by homeless Canadians, begin talking all at once. #1 repeats "I told them not to touch anything", # 2 & #3 bicker about who should have done what, and # 4 with a worried look keeps saying "no touch button".

The next day, hour 52 of non stop migraine, I was lying in bed while the rest of the troops ran amuck in the hotel with husband’s supervision, during a break between games. Suddenly I hear the dreaded words … "who’s got #4". I can’t even lift my head off the bed, but just start ordering kids where to go to look, while making a mental note to throw husband and his superior kid watching skills, off the balcony if I ever get rid of this headache. I hear the frantic sounds of everyone calling him, and the hotel has 18 floors, ….oh my head. Finally husband opens the door to the fire escape stairs and calls #4’s name. From 5 floors away we here "yea dad" - 3 year old # 4 was walking up the fire escape stairs with no clue where he was going.

On the last day, when I could not take wearing snow boots, one more minute, I put on my dress boots, slopped thru the snow and slush, packed up the car, while Husband was coaching the team, and the second the buzzer sounded, stormed out of the rink, in my high heels, threw all children in the car and it was Good bye Ottawa !! I could not leave Canada fast enough.

　

college ugh

We all drove up to college yesterday after work, to pick up #1 & bring her, and her belongings home.  # 2 received a bye, after presenting the “free ticket to the Phillies Game” card.  #3 slept on the drive, so it was just an hour of #4 telling us every … single … detail about the house he is building in his Minecraft game. 

Upon arrival it turned out #1 had fallen asleep, and was not standing by the curb with her possessions, as we had clearly directed.  Husband, who thought we should be halfway home by now, and had checked off the “pick up #1” box 2.5 seconds after putting the car in park, was walking around grumbling and glaring at me.  # 3, as is every teenage boy who is not sitting in front of the Xbox, touching himself, was annoyed, and sure he was dying from malnutrition.  #1 is standing in the front lawn, half asleep, with her head in her butt, and # 4 is just happy to be out of the car.

Husband, since #3, his mini me, had mentioned it, is also convinced he is on the death by hunger path, so the two of them walk to find something to eat.  # 1 goes in to pack and #4 stays to help her.  His “help” consists of picking up every item that belongs to # 1’s roommate, and asking important questions about it.  “Is this yours?”, “Can I have it?”, “Do you think if the world were taken over by aliens and you only had this and a giant stick, you would be able to get back to your apartment?”, “do you want me to build you a house in Minecraft?”.  I had something to take care of for work, so I sat in the quiet car all by myself. 

As always, utopia is short lived, and 15 minutes later, husband and #3 were back, with food for the rest of us.  # 3, no longer dying from hunger, notices there are college girls all around him, and pushes the “Hello Ladies, I am #3” button, which deepens the voice and inflates the chest.  Our favorite peacock starts strutting around as he now, with new found patients, awaits his sister’s arrival.  Husband, now pissed that once again, he has not found #1 and her belonging waiting at the curb, stomps past peacock boy, into the apartment to “handle things”.  I stay in the once again quiet car, and eat my burger. 

5 minutes into husbands “handle things” session, I get a text;  HELP ME.  I go into the apartment and drag peacock boy with me.  # 1 has 85% of her stuff packed and ready to go, and is walking in circles, as #4, with renewed energy from eating, is still asking questions; “did anyone ever break in to your apartment?”, “have you ever seen people having sex in the hallway?”, “is your roommate ugly?”, “if someone blew up the school would they be arrested by the campus police or the ones that work for the town?”, “when I build you a house in Minecraft, do you want it to have a pool?”

I hand something to husband and send him out to the car, I start handing things to #3 & #4, to take to the car.  #1 says as I pick up every item “Oh wait I want that to be on top of everything so it doesn’t get messed up”.  I nod, make the “I’ll take care it” face, and shove it into a frowning siblings hands.  I drag things from the apartment up the steps to the door, and direct the boys to take it to the car, fully appreciating the fact that this time, it is only 5 steps. 

10 minutes in, I’m sweaty, repulsed by the level of filth, afraid to touch anything, and just throwing #1’s last few items in any bag I can find.  I head back to the car, past peacock boy, leaving # 1 to grab the last things, wondering what exactly made me think 4 kids would be a great idea. 

As I sit there, I see a small little compact car pull up.  A dad gets out and goes into the building.  He comes out carrying some clothes on hangers, his son rolls out a suitcase and a backpack, then goes back in, and comes out with a box, as he says to his dad “yea that’s it”.    I hate them.

Thank goodness we only have one daughter.  I pity the family with multiple girls that will have to help move them in and out of college each year.

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Sarcasm on the family crest

Genetics is a funny thing.  Mating 4 times with the same person, really gives one the opportunity to see every single facet of both the mother and fathers personality, whether they like it or not.

# 1 got a double dose of first born attributes, and will probably invent a treatment to cure ADHD, # 2 got all the well hidden empathy and artistic characteristics, and could change the world with song, # 3 inherited every last head strong, stubborn, never say die mannerism we ever had, and may one day save the world with a plethora of weapons,  # 4 …. Well … upon being born and realizing most of the traits had been claimed by previous siblings, #4 decided to take the only trait left and rise it to a higher level than anyone thought possible.  # 4 is sarcastic.

From the time he was 3 and went through his front lawn naked phase, the boy has had a superior talent for delivering perfectly timed, well delivered, ruthless and frequently profanity ridden comments to his siblings and unsuspecting individuals who have the misfortune of getting on his nerves. 

While, as parents, we never condoned or encouraged this behavior, we realized several things very early on; 1) It is hard to regain composure and yell at a 3 year old who has just told his 15 year old sister to “Kiss his ***”, because she wanted to turn “The Backyardigans” off,  2)  Two parents were grossly outnumbered by the parade of pubescent males that regularly haunted our home spewing their vileness on our child, and 3)  Most of the time, the people who # 4 annihilated with his words, actually did deserve it. 

There were signs impending doom was coming.  At age 22 months when #4 decided he was no longer interested in sitting in the high chair, he would start yelling “get out, get out, Get The Baby Out, GET THE BABY OUT” repeatedly until one of his well trained monkeys would hop too, and unbuckle him from his prison. Later at age 2 ½ during his thankfully, brief, Teletubbies phase, we heard him playing in his crib during nap time saying “Shut up Tinkie Winkie, &^%*&^% Shut up Tinkie Winkie”.  It probably did not help the fact that # 4 was drug to multiple travel ice hockey games to watch his brothers.  At age 3 he was happy to cheer for his brother “Get the Puck – Get The PUCK – GET THE *&$^# PUCK”.  We encouraged playing in the snack bar, after that. 

Lest you think it was an entirely profanity based childhood, # 4 was taught religion as well:
 “# 4 go tell your sister to turn down her God forsaken music”.  #4 trots off and yells the message to # 1’s closed door and comes back.  “#4 she did NOT hear you.  Go knock on her door and when she opens the door, then tell her”.  # 4 trots off again.  Knock, Knock, Knock. 

#1 opens door, scowling.  #4 pauses, “Um …. Um … GOD IS GOOD …. TURN DOWN YOUR MUSIC”. 

Due to space constraints - we will cover age 4 & up another day.

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Indian questions for 100 please

One time in the car going somewhere, Kid #4 was making us crazy.  In a last ditch effort to avoid throwing him out the window, I tried the distraction Hail Mary pass.  We were driving by the Colestown Cemetery at the time, so that was the topic.

“Hey kid #4, do you know there are Indians buried in that cemetery?”

Kid #4 pauses from his full body, “I have ADD and cannot sit still for another minute” episode, and asks the question on everybody’s mind      “How many?”

I, having already exhausted my knowledge of Indians buried in cemeteries, but unwilling to halt the respite of inactivity in the back seat, suggest that I am sure Pop Pop knows, and we should probably ask him.  #4 shrugs and goes back to sitting quietly in his seat.  Ah the blissful feeling of driving in a quiet car.

A few days later #4 says he wants to call Pop Pop.  My father, who is very chatty and pleasant on the phone, provided it is the 2^nd Tuesday of the month and there is nothing on TV, answers the phone is his distinct “hello I am happy to talk to you but I am 75% sure I don’t want to hear what you have to say” voice.

#4 doesn’t waste time with pleasantries, “Pop pop, how many Indians?”

You got to feel a bit sorry for Pop Pop at this minute, the guy is willing to do his grandfather part, but keeping up with #4’s fast moving ADD mind can leave a person befuddled.

Dear sweet nurturing Pop Pop with no reference whatsoever for the question replies “Huh ?”

#4, getting annoyed at Pop Pop for clearly wasting his valuable time, says “How many Indians are in the Seminary?”  (Hey it’s close to Cemetery). 

Despite the obviously question of an, at the time 7 year old, Pop Pop still has no clue what #4 is talking about.  My father, having now been on the phone for 6.4 seconds longer than he actually wanted to be, and missing his show about a bear peeing in the woods, yet still trying to fulfill his grandfatherly duties, answers;       “Um I don’t know Hun.” 

#4, now having lost all patients for Pop Pop’s extreme lack of knowledge sighs loudly, and says
   “well could you find out” and hangs up on him. 

I give #4 the talk on “polite phone behavior” and the “You just can’t hang up on your grandfather” speech, and then call my dad to explain what the heck the cryptic phone call was all about. 

A few days later, #4 wants to call Pop Pop again. 

Pop Pop – “Hello”

#4 – “Ok pop pop, I’ll give you one more chance.  How many Indians are buried in the 
         Colestown Cemetery?”

Pop Pop – “ 15 hun “ 
#4 “ OK Bye”  click.

The man can’t catch a break 

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we got a old friend down

Today is not going to be pretty.

First off we ran out of conditioner.  Not a drop of conditioner anywhere in the house.

Second, Husband, channeling his Fireman Bob alter ego, threw out my hair dryer.  Yes my one lunged, 1908 hair dryer, was on its last leg, but it did the job.  I only use it to tame my bangs, and show them whose boss. 

Ole one lung ran for approximately 1 minute a day.  Yes he coughs and sputters to life, making peculiar buzzing noises as he decides to produce air, and yes he gave off a consistent burning hair smell that permeated the bathroom – but we all have our idiosyncrasies. 

For that one most important minute of the morning, the one that determines your fate for the day; that puts you on a path towards good or evil; the moment that holds the power to establish a coveted “good hair day”, my 1908 leopard print hair dryer and I, are a team.  Now, Fireman Bob, with no respect whatsoever for the significance of tamed bangs, has tossed my teammate out the window, and into the trash. 

Good bye old friend, it will not be a pretty day without you.

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2,4,6,8 who do we appreciate

Yesterday morning as I was sitting at the computer, at some ridiculously early hour of the morning, writing my blog, I hear what I think is 11 year old, kid #4, following his routine, and shuffling half asleep to the bathroom upstairs.

I wait for the urination to end, pause, then yell up the steps "FLUSH please", because as many of us are sadly aware, this step of the process is often, overlooked.

A very sleepy baffled voice mumbles:

"Really ? .... I've been doing this for 19 years now."

Oops sorry #2.  He did not find it nearly as funny as I did.

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Poor teddy

Once upon a time, in a time long ago, lived a family of 6 who, along with one now "old significant other," decided to take a vacation to a far off distant land.  This far off distant land was called the Outer Banks of North Carolina; and it took 7 very long and painful hours to get to there. 

Editors note: OMG I think I just found my next book.  Not exactly sure when the heck I am supposed to write these books, I don’t really see any chunks of extra time, lying around, she says as she types this at 5:25 am.  The other night it took 3 ½ hours to write the blog, because child after child after child kept “visiting” me with very important issues like;  he’s so annoying –I’m going to kill him, a 20 minute discussion on what pizza topping to get, and multiple other vital events.  Unless the future new house has a “panic room” that I can move into, I see writing a book as a bit of a challenge, (although I like the possibilities with the whole panic room idea.)

Back to our tale.  On this particular very long trip, Kid #1’s significant other joined us.  Shout out to old significant other, who fit in very well, and we all liked, except kid #4.  Yes there is a story floating around out there, about how, old significant other, gave kid #4 a haircut on the back porch, and tried to cut his ear off.  There is truth to the incident, and while it was not intentional, unfortunately, kid #4 had a hard time letting go of this, and still to this day carries a grudge towards old significant other.  My Dr. Phil view was, that it had more to do with the fact that, #4 was 6 at the time, and this was #1’s, who was 17, first significant other.   Regardless, very little good could come out of putting these two, together in a car for 7 hours.    

More or less, any time old significant other spoke, any word, to anyone, Kid # 4 replied “shut up old significant other”.  I continually reprimanded #4 from the front seat, which as is the case when you deal with children who are aware, that the chances of you unbuckling, climbing over 3 people in the back seat, to get to him in the way back seat, to kill him; are in his favor, had very little effect. 

An hour into the trip, I did not care who said what to who, as long as they would shut up, so I put kid #4 on ignore.  The other kids put kid #4 on ignore, days after he was born, so that left one glaringly obvious target, for #4 to annoy. 

Bless, old significant others’, heart, he traveled many miles as the victim of #4’s vengeance, without retaliating.  However, all good things must come to an end, and old significant other, started fighting back.  It his highly intelligent, sluggish, sarcastic way, old significant other, would just say just a few mocking words to #4, which would in turn, infuriate # 4 beyond belief.

The car was pulled over and seats were changed right after #4 yelled:

 “Old significant other, just suck my teddy’s dick”

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Way # 74

I don’t know about you, but sometimes the perks of being a parent, are hard to find.  You spend most of your time, listening to smelly little creatures tell you what they don’t want to do.  So whenever the opportunity arises, husband & I like to play a little game with our kids, we call “torture”. 

Now almost all parents “torture” their kids by making them do something around the house to help;  take out the trash, load or unload the dishwasher, or cut the grass, to name a few tasks frequently dispensed to offspring.  While, these are dependable ways to produce whimpers and protesting, we here at the Dibbles household like to kick it up a notch.  Today we introduce you to way number 74 of how to torture your child. 

In order to encourage family bonding; we have “Backyard Weeding Time”.  Most Saturday mornings, start out with the bellowing cries of children from every floor, who when awakened, are oddly struck with a sudden case of Big Ben syndrome.  This condition causes young adults to repeatedly ask “Don’t you know what time it is?”, while being unable to comprehend the actual answer to the question.   

Despite the limited distance, the process from bed to backyard can be a long one.  Once it starts to dawn on the offspring that maybe you do actually know what time it is, they will begin to face the inevitable.  Next up will be the “I have to get dressed” cry – do not fall for this one - there is not a dress code for weeding.  Some seasoned veterans, may try the “I have to shower” ploy, and standard protocol is to say “Later” and continue guiding them from their room. 

As you direct your family members to the great outdoors, you will inevitably have to pass the kitchen.  This is where the boys are separated from the men …. “But I HAVE TO EAT” will be shouted, with anger, conviction and attitude.  It is best to make direct eye contact, do not engage and respond with short sentences, such as “when done outside”.  If you are prone to grunting, this would be an appropriate time to add a brief one.   Be prepared for a small uprising.  Several members will join forces to protest and cite fair labor practices, and again, seasoned veterans may cause further distress, by adding chants or encouraging sit ins.  This mutiny will be unorganized and short lived, so stay focused on the plan, and keep steering the pack towards the goal.

When everyone has completed the journey to the final destination, each family member will need to be assigned, their own personal section of the garden to tend.  It is critical you assure the square footage of each weed filled section, is exactly the same as the others.  Keep the plot plan on hand, to subdue sporadic turmoil, and save for use during testimony in the class action lawsuit that will be brought against you, for cruel and unusual treatment of offspring.

If you are fortunate, between defending your chosen weed filled garden section boundaries, and shutting down all complaints of uneven weed to dirt ratios, child #1 will entertain you with a lovely little song she wrote, called the “I hate vegetation” song/ 

I encourage you to utilize this idea as a springboard, and adapt it to fit your own family’s needs. 

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I'm sorry Moon Dog

Oh God, I am pretty sure I killed Moon Dog on face book last night.

I didn’t plan it – so it wasn’t first degree, more like a crime of passion in a sudden outburst, of pent up, tired of being calm, cool and collected, exploding fit of rage, kind of thing. 

I sat down at the computer after dinner and was scrolling through the news feed, catching up on people’s comings and goings.  One of the status updates was from my face book friend; dear, sweet, kind, upstanding citizen,“ Moon dog”.  Yes most of the town we grew up in called him that in high school, and many still do, to this day. 

Moon Dog, who has got to be up for Knighthood in like 4 nearby countries, is this great neighbor that picks up trash and puts change in meters about to expire, who is always doing random acts of kindness for perfect strangers, and not only follows the rules on the quiet train car, but enforces them.  Not to mention he is a great family man with a wife and 2 adorable little girls, I mean what kind of woman attacks Moon Dog, future saint, and treasured small town hero. 

I mean yes a few years after high school, at husbands brother’s keg party, I charged Moon Dog, $ 5 bucks admission to the party, knowing full well the keg was beat, and the party was over.  But we had worked through that.  He forgave me.  He accepted my friend request.  I wished him happy birthday, more than once, and, I congratulated him on the birth of EACH of his daughters, I mean we had a history together.  Sure face book friends come and go, but I was a Moon Dog follower, I didn’t just skim his status's, I read them, and really tried hard to be a good of a person like he is. 

I should have followed the 24 hour rule or even the 24 minute rule, but no.  I hit reply to his status, and started typing.  I didn’t stop typing, I didn't even pause, I kept typing and typing, and never looked back.  When it was over I hit reply, and wiped the blood from my hands. 

It reminds me of the time when I was pregnant with # 1 and placed an order at the McDonald's counter.  The girls pushed 2 sodas in front of me, and I asked which one was Diet Coke.  She shrugged her shoulders and said “I don’t know”, and with that simple gesture, I turned from mild mannered happy customer, into a Hormone Crazed female Ninja. Suddenly I was Angry Girl, who had been deprived the right to a clear pathway to her diet coke, and channeling my inner Leona Helmsly, demanded to know how she could not have any idea, as to which of the two cups of soda, she had poured only seconds ago, was diet coke.  As the manager rushed over to go pour me a new, clearly marked, diet coke, I can still remember the wide eyed, absolutely stunned look on my best friend since 6^th grades, face. Which reminds me, there may have been a similar incident with another well known, Moorestownian who used to cut our grass, while I was pregnant with #4.  I should probably apologize to him too…every woman has had those angry violent pregnant outburst right???

Well, I Drea Dibbles, Herby beg, Moon Dog, to please forgive me for slaughtering him in a public forum. 
It probably will not happen again.  XOXOXO

This was Moon Dogs status:      I am convinced that there is no honest contractor in North America. Probably none in any other continent either.   

And here, in its entirety, is my reply: 

There are honest contractors out there ... 

they are the ones that have Liability Insurance & workers comp
insurance, Hire legal employees & don't pay under the table,
have appropriate state licenses, file for permits, & get their worked inspected, 

they come out and listen while the customer says they want
gold lined bidets & granite, then try to politely guide the customer 
to materials that may be better suited to their budget, but will end
up just trying to convince the customer to call him back to re-adjust 
the quote,  if  , (but we know it will be; when) they decided they want to look 

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at less expensive options. 

then they go home at night and put the price together,
doing their best crystal ball act to figure out exactly how long
the job will take, and make provisions for the fact that siding may 
be attached to the house with 3 foot long nails or not at all.
Then they add their profit into the job - maybe 10-15 % 
or 100-150 a day 

Then they mail the customer the price, and call two days later to 
follow up, and listen while the customer says....

NO WAY .... your price was WAY high - Cousin Vinnie & Sons can do 

it for like half that and he'll take a hundred off the price if I pay cash and 

let him dump the trash in my neighbors yard. 

I married an honest contractor & run his business for him .