Bucket List

On  his last day as a first grader, littleb wrote a bucket list of things he wanted to do over the summer.  This is his list:

1.  Go into a pool
2.  Go to Block Island
3.  A Celebration
4.  Have a vacation
5   Buy flowers
6.  Go out with my family
7.  Go to Mystic  Aquarium
8.  Go Fishing
9.  Go to Camp Ok-wa-nesset
10.  Go Kayaking

Today he meets his second grade teacher and tomorrow is the first day of school.  Summer never lingers (unfortunately) but this summer has flown by so fast, I find myself a little bereft.  Looking back at littleb's list and recalling the moments when each mission on his list was accomplished makes me smile and helps bring the summer more into focus.   It may have gone by quickly, but we sure did enjoy it.  What did you do on your summer vacation?

Chicken out

Hiking the Megunticook Trail in Camden

No, I'm Good. You Go Ahead Though

I know a guy who is afraid of heights.  He's going to rappel down a 22 story building in a couple of weeks.  It's for a good cause.  I am also afraid of heights.  I'm  giving the other guy some money for the good cause.  I will not be rappelling from anywhere higher than my bed.  Why would I do that?

People say it's good to face your fears.  I say, "what's the point?"

If I have a fear and facing it results only in bragging rights, then I'm good.  I'll stay humble and fearful.  If I have a fear that, when faced, stands to improve my  life, then I'm all for it.

Littleb is afraid of the water.  He does not like water on his face,  never has.  This is a fear that his Dad and I will help him  overcome because knowing how to swim doesn't suck.  Last night, he jumped through the sprinkler several times and I almost cried.  It is not something he's ever been willing to do.  Real progress has been made this summer.

I am afraid  of  arachnids, heights and haggling.  I see no need to pet a tarantula or jump out of a plane.   Should I ever be in a position where I have no choice but to jump out of a plane into a rain forest full of bird tarantulas, then I guess I'll deal  with my fears  then.  It's sort of how Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) deals with his chores.  He procrastinates in hopes that they will cease to exist.  Sometimes it works.  I will exhaust all other options before exiting the plane.

The haggling, though, I'm not sure about that one.  Would a good haggle improve my  life?   It occurred to me this morning that I've never been through the car purchasing  process even though I've owned several cars over the years.  The first three were handled by my Dad.  He bought one when I got my license, helped me get another when that one stopped working, and then finally  did the haggling for me when I bought my first brand new vehicle.  He tried to teach me, he really did, but when he said,  "tell him you want _____ or you're leaving",  I handed the phone to the sales man and said, "Hey, my Dad wants to talk to you."

When that car wore out, I got married and my new husband purchased my next car.

I'm up in the air about the haggling.  There are other opportunities to purchase cars these days that circumvent the whole negotiation process so, really, it's not something I need to do.  Who decided, by the way, that we would all haggle over the price of a car?  Who made that rule?

What fear should you face to improve the quality of your life?

Chicken out

BigB's Breastfed Lawn

BigB believes in yard upkeep.  He's out there daily, enthusiastically tugging weeds, watering the grass, spraying things, cropping things, and so on.  BigB  thinks there is not enough  time in the day to get his lawn as pristine as he wants it.  This may be true, but still, BigB's work shows. We have beautiful  flowers, plants, shrubs, and a thick,  luxurious expanse of green with a sharp edge.   And don't get him started....admire one petite bloom and he will escort you around the house pointing out things  you never wanted to know, like, "these blah blah blahs are growing some kind of fungus but I'm spraying them with this organic bludie blupe and I think that will  get rid of it, but these blipety blips over here are attracting little black bugs.  See them?  See the little black  bugs?....

If I were in charge of the lawn, I would be more likely to point out (from a comfortable spot in the middle of my  hammock) a beautiful sea of dandelions waving in the wind and not requiring any upkeep.  My lack of enthusiasm for lawn care is not lost on BigB.  He toils away with little expectation of admiration or support from me.  On occasion, I have referred to our yard as "BigB's Breastfed Lawn".  

Yesterday, I got my comeuppance. 

Littleb and I were walking the neighborhood when we spotted the most beautiful lawn ever.  Even I couldn't help but notice it's thick carpet-like appearance.  It looked like an enchanted lawn from a Disney movie.  A lawn under a wicked spell that seduces you into lying down and stretching out just before it swallows you whole and spits you back out as a red, red rose.  It had perfectly straight lines where it had been recently mowed.  Or vacuumed, perhaps.  Littleb immediately plopped down and made him self comfortable.  In an effort to get him moving again, lest he be turned into a rose bush, I said, "Hey, let's go home and tell Dad we found a nicer lawn than his."

You would  think I had invited him to clean out BigB's savings account and hop a plane to Switzerland.  

"You can't do that!  That would hurt his feelings!  You don't want to hurt your husband's feelings, do you?  We are not telling him about this lawn."

He's a loyal son, that boy.  I'm so proud of him.  For now, we'll keep the enchanted lawn a secret, but it's nice to know it's there.....(twists ends of waxed  mustache and emits evil laugh).

Chicken out

My Dead Relative Went to Heaven and All I Got Was This Lousy Dime

I spotted a dime on my walk this morning and I stopped to pick it up because a.) I felt bendy enough to do so, b.) I was in a waste not/want not frame of mind and c.) I thought it might be a message from my dead father.  Or mother or, for that matter, dog.

I've read that those who once lived and once loved us can learn, once they get to the other side, to manipulate matter.  It's not easy, though, so mostly they leave small things in our paths to help us find them and to let us know they are watching over us.  Things like pennies and dimes and the odd ring or beads.

This makes total sense when you think about all the little things out there lying around, all the pennies and dimes and tiny rocks.  They didn't just get there by themselves.  They are gifts from heaven.  So when I see one, I pick it up and say thanks.  It usually sounds something like this:

Thanks Dad.  Or Mom,  if that was you.  Or Sam or Uncle Ken....Tony?  Anyway, thanks all youse guys.  Sure do miss you. 

It's just a dime, but that dime, it raises a lot of questions, assuming a dead person did just leave it there for me to find.  Questions like, is it really here for me?  I mean, I spotted it, but is that the way it's supposed to work?  Am I stealing someone else's dime?  And how am I supposed to know who it's from?   Do  dimes always mean it's from Dad?  I would  think he'd leave quarters because he was always collecting those new state quarters, but maybe he can only push around dimes right now.  Dad, if you are listening, can you send me a quarter?  Georgia would be nice.  I don't have that one.  But I'm not picky, you can choose.

My parents died a few months apart and for a long time afterwards I kept finding these little green beads everywhere.  Those things were worse than the barbie shoe infestation that we suffered when my girls were little, but not as bad as the lego infestation of TWLITB's youth.  That sounds ungrateful, I know.  It's not that I'm ungrateful, but dimes are a lot more useful so I'm happy they've exhausted their green bead supply.

After my father died, my youngest, who was three, spotted a black cat in our backyard and told me it was my father.  You can bet the hairs will raise on the back of your neck when your toddler announces the presence of your dead relative in casual conversation.  The cat kept showing up, so we named it Butter (after my father).  We started feeding Butter because we thought he was a stray.  Naturally, Butter started hanging out at our house a lot more often.  Then one day, my son kicked his ball over our fence and when he and his dad went to find it, they met Mike.  Mike and his  cat, Lucy.  Lucy looked a lot like Butter.  As it turns out, my father apparently inhabits the body of a cat named Lucy.  Now we call her Lucy Butter.

I feel really badly because I've lost that dime.  I can't find it anywhere.  I guess it wasn't mine, after all.  I was a vehicle for the dime, which  is kind of creepy.  If you are out and about today, and you spot me doing back flips down some stairs, please call the priest.

Chicken out

Conversations With Littleb: Father's Day

Chicken:  Littleb, what would you like to get Dad for Father's Day?

Littleb:  Jewels, clothes, and flowers?

Chicken:  Doesn't really seem like Dad's style....

Littleb:  Oh,  yeah, that's you!

Littleb:  (thinks hard for a few minutes, comes back)

Littleb:  A ring tone that sounds like a fart?

Chicken:  Perfect.

And it was.  And as for myself, I'll be looking forward to the jewels, clothes and flowers sure to arrive on my birthday.

Happy Father's Day  (or Farter's Day, as the case may be) to all my father friends out there.

Chicken out

You Can't Escape the Atelier

I need to write and run today.  Littleb has big plans for me. The other day, as we were leaving his after school enrichment program, we noticed a book fair going on in the Atelier. Littleb has been enrolled in this school since he was 6-months-old and during that entire time, I've intended to look up the word "atelier" but I still haven't done it.  As far as I know, an atelier is a room where educational institutions trap unsuspecting parents and make them buy things to raise money for said institution with the remaining two bucks they have in their wallet after paying tuition each month; the two bucks they were saving towards a weekend macchiato.   An atelier is a lot like a spider's web-you can't easily extract yourself from it and before you know what's happening, you've been sucked dry.  And what's especially heartbreaking about the atelier is its location right next to the one exit in the building that's not alarmed.

No, there's no escaping the atelier.  Just try it sometime.  Here you come, swooping around the corner, nearly homefree, when you see the brightly colored posters and all the books, and you curse to yourself because you were so close you could nearly smell the flame-broiled burgers from the Burger King across the street.  But not close enough, because now your kid is in the atelier eating free crackers and looking for the Captain Underpants section.  Free crackers.  That's how they they entice the kids who aren't moved by piles of things that need purchasing, like Littleb.  

Every once in a while, you'll see a parent trying to wrestle their kid past the atelier.  It's always the rookies.  You have to have a little sympathy for the rookies.  They'll soon realize that it's easier to wrestle a salmon from the teeth of a rabid grizzly than it is to maneuver an over-tired 3-year-old past the atelier during book fair week.  I know you really wanted that macchiato, friend, but get in here and fork over all your money like the rest of us.  Welcome to the Atelier.  Here's the list of books that the toddler class needs.  That's right.  Not only are you buying books for your kid, you're also buying books for the school.  It's quite a racket they're running in the atelier.  Entirely voluntary, though.  Here.  Have another free cracker.  

Littleb couldn't find any Captain Underpants books but he did find a kid's cook book which fired every creative neuron in his twitching, over active little boy body.  And that's what he has in mind for me today.  He's got a grocery list a mile long and plans to recreate such juvenile delicacies as ice cream bon bons and cheesy bacon popovers.  I'm no rookie.  You can bet your sweet patootie that I tried to buy that book for the class so that they'd have to cook with my kid and buy the 600 necessary ingredients, but they were too clever for me.  It wasn't on the list.  

So, if you need me, I'll be spending my 401K at the grocery store and spending the rest of the day explaining the difference between folding and mixing.  As if I know.  I don't even know what an atelier is. 

Chicken out

Yahtzee: Rules of Engagement...

Last year I taught littleb how to play Yahtzee.  He's since become a master Yahtzee strategist.  He has also developed some interesting rules.

1.  If you are just one die away from getting Yahtzee you may have an extra turn.

2.  When one of the dice rolls off the playing table, all the dice must be shaken again.

3.  Unless you had a pretty good roll going.  And then you can just shake the one die

4.  Unless, of course, the one that rolled on the floor lands on the number you needed.   Then it counts and  no further dice rolling is required.

5.  If you are shaking the dice and someone offers an alternative strategy, the proper response is to continue on your chosen course.  If the result is not the one you were seeking, you may take your turn over in pursuit of the suggested strategy.  This is because the speaker should have spoken up before you started shaking the dice, in which case you would most certainly have followed their advice.

5.5  If someone starts to offer an alternative strategy before you start shaking the dice, you should immediately pick up the cup and start shaking it vigorously, pretending you never heard anything.  If things don't work out, you should inquire, "Did you say something?  I couldn't hear you over the dice."  This auditory loop hole entitles you to one do over.

6.  If the new strategy also fails, you get an extra turn because the person advising you was obviously steering you in the wrong direction for his/her own benefit, which is cheating and very unattractive, not to mention disappointing.

7.  If you are shaking the dice and there is any interference at all from another player-a hand, a jostle, a sneeze-you may take another turn.  If necessary.

8.  Blowing on the dice helps you get the numbers you want and having everyone blow on your dice is extra good luck.

9.  Unless it is not, in which case you get an extra turn because it is not your fault that someone else's halitosis breath ruined your roll.

10.  The rules above only apply to one player per game who shall be the youngest player.

11.  Everyone must be a very good sport and not cheat!

Chicken out

borrowed from:  http://ghiblicon.blogspot.com/2012/02/ghibli-blog-comix-lets-play-yahtzee.html
 For the record, littleb does not condone eating anyone's dog

Mercy

Littleb and I were in the car again.  He was sitting in the back seat munching french-fries.  I was driving.

Yes, Nancy Drew, I was also munching french-fries.  I'm sort of a Francophile.  Littleb was telling me about a new game he learned called Mercy.  It is a game of strength over brains....


Littleb:  Dad could totally beat me at Mercy.

Chicken:  Are you saying I couldn't beat you?

Littleb:  Probably not.  I think I could beat you.  You're so skinny.

Chicken:  (raises eyebrows in surprise.  Sucks in stomach)  Well, that's true, you're probably right,  I am really skinny.

Littleb:  You're not THAT skinny.

Chicken:  Are you saying I'm fat.

Littleb:  (laughs)  No.  You're not fat.

Chicken:  That's right.  I'm skinny.

Littleb:  No women are fat.  That would be weird.

Chicken:  You are wise beyond  your years, Littleb

Littleb:  Dad's fat.

Chicken:  Strong, littleb.  Dad's strong and I'm skinny.

Littleb:  OK.  Did you remember to ask for barbecue sauce?

I think I could take John Stamos.  In a game of Mercy, I mean.

Littleb's To Do List

BigB and I are both list makers.  I'm a daily list keeper and BigB has one continuous list that he adds to and re-prioritizes as necessary.  If I do something that is not on my list, it gets added to the list and then crossed off.  BigB will never reach the bottom of his list.

It didn't come as any surprise to us when littleb turned out to be a list maker, as well.

This weekend, BigB told littleb that they could spend Saturday doing whatever he wanted.   Littleb promptly set about making a list of things for them to do.

Here it is:

littleb's list

Just in case you can't read his baby chicken scratch, here it is:

What to do with dad today
1. Golf
2. Free Birds (movie)
3. Target (window shopping)
4. Bike without training wheels
5. Play at the park
6. Go to battleground z (indoor play center)
7. Drive around the neighborhood
8. Go home
9. Eat while watching new t.v. shows
10. Play Trouble
11. Go to bed
12. Get up in the morning
13.  Make a new list for tomorrow

I can't be sure, but I believe he might take after me-a daily list maker.  Dad didn't get much crossed off his own list on Saturday.  Then again, what else are Saturdays for if not eating while watching new t.v. shows and driving around the neighborhood.

Happy Monday, Kids.  Feels like we were just here.

Chicken out

Skip this House....

If, while out tricking or treating this evening, you come across a house that looks like this...

Yikes!  Creepy! Is that a ghost?

You might want to skip it.
It's a documented fact that this house is haunted.
You really should think twice before ringing that doorbell.....

Sort of like Hotel California....just sayin'

Because if you do ring that doorbell, you might be greeted by THIS fearsome character...

The Tattooed Boy

He's even scarier than he looks!
Don't believe me?  Well just look at what happened to the last guy who stopped by unnanounced!

He's saying, "Man, I wish I hadn't run into that Tattooed Boy!" 

Happy  Halloween ghouls and ghosts. Stay safe out there!

Chicken out

Brotherly Love

One of the nice things that people often say about my husband, BigB, is that he is a humble man.

It's true.  He is.  It is one of the things I most like about him.

It seems that the trait is hereditary and has been passed down to littleb.

For fun, Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) often tries to get littleb to say complimentary things about himself.  It's a brother thing, I guess. For instance, the following conversation recently took place.

TWLITB:  Hi, littleb

Littleb:  Hi TWLITB

TWLITB:  What're you doing?

Littleb:  Drawing Spongebob

TWLITB:  Wow, that's really good.  You're a great artist.

Littleb:  Nooooo

TWLITB:  Yes you are.  Say it.  Say, "I'm an awesome artist."

Littleb:  blushes.  NOoooooo.

TWLITB:  C'mon, say it, littleb

Littleb:   Noooo.  I don't even know what that means..

A similar conversation takes place at least once a week; the one brother encouraging and teasing, the other brother bashful but pleased. It makes me smile.  I'm proud of my sons.

Little Brother Big Brother

The Art of Negotiation

Littleb and I were in the car again.  This time, we were on our way to the educational toy store to pick up a  gift for his friend, Adam's, birthday party.  Littleb doesn't like the educational store because...no power rangers.  This was my reason for going there.  I was in a hurry and power ranger window shopping was not on my agenda.

Littleb:  What store are we going to again?  Target?

Chicken:  No.  The other one, Lakeshore.

Littleb:  Where is that one?  Have I been there?

Chicken:  Yes, you've been there.  It's by Bob's.  It has a lot of art supplies.

Littleb:  Oh, yeah, I know that store.  I don't like that store.  That store doesn't have any good toys.  That store is for babies. I thought we were going to Target.

Chicken:  No, we're not going to Target.  We don't have time for Target today.

Littleb:  Yes we do.  I know just what I want to get him.  I'm getting him Monopoly, the electronic banking edition.

Chicken:  Are you sure that he likes Monopoly?  Just because you like Monopoly does not mean that Adam will like Monopoly.  (Crap!  Lakeshore doesn't sell Monopoly)

Littleb:  Well, he does like it.   He told me that's what he wants.  (This may or may not be true.  That's the problem with a lot of things littleb tells me.  Everything he says is based in truth without always being 100% true.  Like most of my blog posts, actually.)

Chicken:  (is thinking,  "OK, maybe if he knows exactly what he wants and we just run in and buy it....")

Littleb:  (READS MY MIND!!) Since I know exactly what I want, we totally have time to go to Target, right?

Chicken:  (......Totally?  Did he really just say totally??)

Chicken THE SUCKER:  Ok, but we do not have time to look at any toys or shop for you.  We just get the game and we're out of there.  A focused mission.  Agreed?

Littleb:  Yup, just get the game and we're out of there.

Thirty seconds later......

Littleb:  Except we could dash by the power ranger stuff, and I could  just look really quick.

Chicken:  What?  We're going to.....dash...??

Littleb:  Yes, we'll get the game, and then as we're leaving, we'll just dash by the power rangers.  We won't stop.

Chicken:  Laughing.  Ok, we'll dash by the power rangers.

Oh don't look at me that way.  You would have done the same thing. He's got a gap-toothed smile, a command of the language, and perfect timing. He's a pro.

I'm not buying anything, though.  Absolutely not.

Chicken out

BigB and littleb.  You think I'm a sucker?

A Rite of Passage

"Ok, littleb, are you ready?  We'll do it together.  3...2...1...and go!"

We each pop a piece of gum into our mouth.  

We'd just been to CVS to pick up a few supplies, and littleb's  attention was drawn to the gum, as it has been the last few times we've been to a store.  Usually, I steer him away from the gum, and towards the chocolate, his first true love, but today I call his bluff.  He surprises me by following through with the purchase.

Afterwards, in the car, we talk about the ritual of gum chewing.  Gum must never be swallowed, because it will stick to the sides of your intestines and stay there like spackle.  Where are the intestines?  What is spackle?  

I remind him that when he was five and I gave him gum, he swallowed it.  Immediately. Even after we had the conversation about not swallowing the gum.  But that was an accident.  An automatic  response to chewing something.  He is almost seven now.  It's time for another go.  We both agree that this time, we will not swallow the gum.

Ok, littleb, are you ready?  We'll do it together.  3..2...1...and go!

We each pop a piece of gum into our mouth.  

We smile at each other.  We are both chewing  and smiling. 

I turn toward the front and shift the car into drive.  I check the rear view mirror before pulling out, and there is littleb, waving his arms.  I put the car back in park, and hand him a piece of paper.  He spits his gum onto the paper.

"What's the matter, littleb?  Didn't you like the flavor?"

"I did.  It was good.  I was just done chewing it."

"Oh.  Wasn't there any flavor left?"

"There was still flavor."

"Well, you know you can chew it until the flavor is gone, right?"

"Oh.  Can I have another piece?"

He pops in another piece and I put the car in gear.  We drive down the street, bobbing our heads to the song on the radio,  chewing our gum.  The September sun streams in.  We smile at each other in the rear view mirror. He turns to look out the window, smiling to himself.

I watch him, my handsome little boy, who is old enough to chew gum.   I am going to miss these days.  

Chicken out

Almost 7

Which Came First, God or the Black Hole?

Hi World,


Littleb and I were in the car on our way to pick up Apple, my five-month old granddaughter. (Her name is not Apple. That's a nickname. I feel like I have to mention this thanks to Gwyneth Paltrow.). The conversation was all about babies.  After we exhausted the subject of what babies like to do, who owns all the  babies we know, how babies learn to talk, and about 3 million other details specific to babies, the talk segued into this conversation:

littleb:  Well,  everyone is a baby at first.

littleb:  Except God.  God is the only person  who was never a baby, right?

Chicken:  I guess so

littleb:  I can't figure out where he came from.

Chicken:  Nobody can.  Or at least nobody agrees.

littleb:  Well, maybe scientists, right?

Chicken:  Ummm.  Not sure about that kiddo.  Do you think so?

littleb:  Of course, scientists would know.

Chicken:  Maybe.  Hey, maybe God came from a black hole...

littleb:  No (laughs)

Chicken:  Why not?   He could have come from a black hole.

littleb:  Silly. Black  holes aren't even real!  (laughs)

Where did I go wrong?

Chicken out

Photo of a black hole.  Not full  dilated.  Note to self:  Show littleb

Bad Salsa and Vampires

Hi World,

Please listen closely.  This  is important.  If I should die tonight for no apparent reason,  I need  you to do me a favor.  Please write to the medical examiner's office in Rhode Island and let them know that I ate Salsa past the expiration date.  The evidence is still in my fridge.

What can I say, I've always been a rebel.  Assuming that, by rebel, we are talking about a person brave enough to eat tomato and vinegar products past the expired date, and not a person likely to, say, run a red  light in broad daylight, jump out of a plane, talk back  to cops, or express exactly what they are thinking at any given point in time. I used to be the latter form of rebel (rebela youtha stupidicous) but have become the former version through a natural process called growing a brain.  Or aging. Whichever.

Anyway, it's late. My family has gone to bed, and I could potentially soon die for my gastronomic escapades without anyone knowing why, because I just cleaned up the evidence.  Note to self:  If you are going to be a culinary rebel, leave the evidence. If I do die, the authority might start looking at my husband as a "Person of Interest", because most people my age do not just die in their sleep.  There's usually foul play involved, and it is a known fact that I annoy the hell out of BigB a lot of the time. BigB has little tolerance for fairy sightings, meandering thought process and made-up theories. He lacks the gene for imagination, but that is not his fault, any more than it is my fault I can't add three single-digit numbers in my head.  I'd hate for BigB to spend his retirement fighting off men in prison, who have bought him for 10 cigarettes, when his only crime was marrying me. Well, that didn't come out quite right, now, did it?  Luckiest day of his life, more like!

Plus, if BigB is sent to the Big House, littleb would then have to be raised by Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB), if only because he's not tame enough to be raised by  wolves. I'm not sure which son I would  feel more sorry for in this arrangement.  On the one hand, TWLITB might gain a stronger sense of responsibility, but he would probably be chatty chattered to death within 2 months. And littleb might turn out to be an Olympic medalist in the 100K, but that's only if he survives being TWLITB's snack mule for the next few years.

Oh my God. It's just occurred to me that I've provided BigB with the perfect opportunity to do away with me.  I eat my salsa, I go to sleep, BigB suffocates me with his pillow because he's had it with me coming to bed without brushing my teeth, and then you guys all start writing to the medical examiner yelling, "CHECK THE SALSA, CHECK THE SALSA, IT WAS EXPIRED!"  So then the medical examiner rules my murder as death by accidental salsa poisoning, and my littleb grows up to be a vampire.

Scrreeeeechhhhhh.

Oh yeah, that could happen.

So, let's say I'm gone.  Passed over.  Crossed the road.  You get the idea.  And here is BigB sitting pretty with my  millions in life insurance, and this adorable little kid.  Well, the first thing crossing BigB's mind, of course, is, "I've got to find me a new wife because if I have to play one more game of Monopoly with this 40 pound dictator,  I may have to turn myself in, and start selling hand jobs for cigarettes."  So BigB will dress littleb in a cute medly of mismatched clothes that looks so awful, it looks totally fresh, and then he will drive to the destination that he hates above all others; Anthropologie.  He'll troll the displays with a bit of a sad look on his face, as he exclaims, in a louder than conversational voice, "Oh look, littleb, Mommy would have liked that, wouldn't she?  Too bad she's dead."  And he'll make no attempt to keep littleb from examining every breakable, rippable, ruinable item in the store.  At some point, some young, gamine woman is going to be drawn into his web of deceit, if only because she works there and is obligated to protect the inventory, and BigB will offer to buy her an $87 yogurt sundae at Pinkberry.  He won't even notice when she doesn't eat it (because she only feeds on living things).  They will get married, and she'll be littleb's new Mommy.  His Vampire Mommy.

So, now that I've talked it through with you, internet friends, if I should disappear tonight, please write the medical examiner and say, "BAD SALSA IS JUST A PLOY.  BIGB DID IT AND NOW LITTLEB IS GOING TO BE A VAMPIRE IF YOU DON'T DO SOMETHING QUICK."

And also, BigB,  if you are reading this right now, just to clarify, there are no Life Insurance millions.  I totally made that up.  How stupid do you think I am?


Chicken out

This is not littleb.  This is the kid vampire from  Salem's Lot. He is much creepier than I remember.
If littleb shows up outside your window looking like this, DON'T OPEN YOUR WINDOW.
Wait.  What am I saying?  My baby has to eat, too,  just like everybody else.  Don't be a dick.  Open your window and share some blood.  You've got, what , 10 pints of it?  You can spare a cup for my littleb.

Every Fucking Day with Bernie

Hi  World,


When Teenager-who-lives-in-the-basement (TWLITB) was much younger, he begged me for a pet lizard. Many times over, I said no.  I was consistent about it.  I didn't say "maybe", I didn't say "When you are older", I didn't say "If you promise to take care of it".  I just said no. Reptiles creep me out.  I sure didn't want one living in my house.

One weekend, TWLITB went to visit his Dad.  He called me from the pet store.  "Guess what, Mom!  Dad said he'd buy me a lizard if you say it's ok and I found one I like, he's so cute, Mom.  Can I? CanIcanIcanIcanI?  Can I?"

Oy.  I  didn't see that one coming.  What do you DO in a situation like that?  Be the bad, mean Mom who never lets anyone do anything or have anything that makes them happy? Unlike Fun Dad (FD)? Or do I become the unfairly bamboozled and therefore bitter Mom who knows without a doubt she'll be taking care of this dumb lizard for the next however many years while FD plays golf in another state?

How long do lizards live, anyway?  Like two years?  Five years?  Oh.  Twenty years.

TWLITB  brought his new pets home and 30 seconds were spent admiring the tiny alligators in their new place of residence on top of TWLITB's bureau.  FD forgot to mention that he splurged on two lizards. Apparently, lizards need companions.  I was thinking the lizards could eat apples and table scraps.  I was not anticipating the bi-weekly purchase of live crickets.  I took TWLITB to the pet store to get some "food" for his new pets.  I was extra nice to the people in the pet store because I figured we'd be getting to know each other pretty well over the next twenty years.

"Now TWLITB", I said, "Feeding these lizards is going to be your responsibility.  And you'll need to change their water regularly, too.  You know that, right?"

"I love these  lizards, Mom. I'm going to take great care of them. Don't worry"

TWLITB fed them once, and after watching the lizards attack and gobble all the live crickets as they desperately looked for a place to hide, he immediately lost interest in  them. As foreseen in  the deck of Mother Tarot I carry in my head, lizard care was transferred into my incapable hands.

The first lizard died a couple months later.  We  saved the second lizard with an IV.  He barely made it. To say I was upset is an understatement.  My whole argument against having pets was that I had too many kids and plants that I was barely keeping alive.  The last thing I needed, in those years, was two more lives on my hands.  I resolved to take better care of the remaining lizard.  I also decided to give him  a new name because I could  not remember what TWLITB had originally named him.  I renamed him "Wizard".
Wizard the (Pinball) Lizard.  Catchy, right?

The (Pinball) Wizard and I meandered along for another few years.  I managed to keep him fed and watered and alive. He still existed in a tank in TWLITB's room.  I cringed when I thought about what his life must be like, but he kept growing, and shedding his skin, and growing.  I had to assume that I wasn't totally sucking, but I continued to put feelers out to the lizard adoption community to see if I could find him a new home.  In the meantime, I got chummy with the pet store folks.  We bonded over American Idol and cat memes.  Then littleb was born.

Littleb truly loves animals-both imaginary and real.  By the time littleb was three,  we had a menagerie of assorted pets, mostly invisible. As soon as he could talk, he re-named The Wizard, "Bernie", and the name stuck. Littleb enthusiastically participated in trips to the pet store, where he was soon offered a part-time position as a pet petter.  He helped feed Bernie and change his water.  He enjoyed watching Bernie consume his meals, which was, in truth, a little worrisome.  Eventually, littleb earned a goldfish he promptly named Goldie, and he found himself dividing his time between Bernie and Goldie. It was a lot for a four-year-old, and Bernie suffered for it.

In 2012, two things happened.  Goldie the Goldfish passed away and I took up yoga.  Littleb had more time and I developed a heightened gratefulness for all living things, not to mention increased flexibility.  Bernie's sad existence in TWLITB's room, long since abandoned by TWLITB in favor of the basement, began to weigh on my (enlightened) conscience.  I worried that Bernie was too isolated and, as a result, depressed.  We decided to make Bernie's senior years more enjoyable by moving him to a sunny new condo in our pantry.  Bernie's new digs had amazing views of our driveway, not to mention our smoking hot new Camry, and in the first several months he shed and grew three times.  Bernie developed a new lease on life.

Every day, when I got  home from work, Bernie was there to greet me and talk about my day.  Unlike BigB, who couldn't stop interjecting with a whiny,  "Let me tell you about MY day", Bernie was an excellent listener.  Also, Bernie provided moral support as I went about my daily chores.  He was there for me during the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry folding, etc.  It was more support than I typically got from the other males in the house.

It wasn't all fun and games with Bernie and I.  Bernie could be a little boring, for one thing.  He was so quiet, there were times when I wondered whether he was really listening.  Also, watching  him eat was painful.   And the skin shedding drove me up the wall.  Who needs a new skin every three months, puhleeze?  But Bernie was there for me and I was there for him.

Bernie passed away in March, 2013.

Bernie,  wherever you are (I suspect the ocean), I am sorry you never got to feel another warm spring sun.  I'm sorry your diet consisted of gross things but I hope you enjoyed them. Thank you for teaching me that reptiles are also God's creatures and thank you for your company all those lonely nights when my boys were off doing stupid boy things.  I'll always remember you fondly. And the next time FD offers to buy one of my kids a pet, I'll say, "YES!  What a marvelous idea.  As long as he lives at Dad's house."  That  wisdom is the legacy you left me, Bernie.  You will be missed.

Chicken out

R.I.P. Bernie  2002-2012

Don't try this at home, Kids...

Hi World,

Littleb became very attached to his bicycle helmet and wanted to wear it to school.

Because we are sensitive new age parents who never stifle our child's sense of self and creative expression regardless of how maladjusted it makes our entire family look, we let him. 

He is going through a super hero stage and we surmised that the helmet had something to do with making him super-hero-invincible.

We surmised this because he spent the morning before leaving for school hitting himself over the head with various objects and declaring, "Nope-that didn't hurt!".  Apparently this behavior continued at school throughout the rest of the morning.  I'm sure his teacher thought it was adorable.

Then another of the class super heros threw a block at him convinced that it wouldn't hurt him because he was, you know, invincible.  I think this other kid's super power must have been strength.  I know it wasn't aim because the block missed the helmet, hit littleb in the face and gave him a black eye.

Just in time for picture day.

He didn't cry.  Super heros don't cry.  Especially the invincible ones.

Our little black-eyed Pea-wee

I almost did, though.  I am not a super hero.  Just a wimpy mom.

Happy Easter,

Chicken out