Carbs Make Me Cry

Lately I've been reading up on nutrition  in an effort to find a solution to Teenager Who Lives in the Basement's (TWLITB) health issues.  If I haven't mentioned it before,  TWLITB has Crohn's and arthritis, two inflammatory health concerns that go hand in hand.  The solutions to date have been pharmaceutical. His doctors are trying to find  the right combination that will calm both issues. The arthritis is under control but the Crohn's continues to be a problem.  It seems reasonable to assume that if  the issue is intestinal, there may be a dietary answer, which is why I've been doing all the reading.  There. Now you are all caught up on the boring back story.  We're talking about yucky intestinal stuff.  Welcome to my blog.

One of the more interesting things I've come across is the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, based on the idea that certain carbs are easily digested by the body while others help flora take over our intestines.  Flora sounds like a field of wild flowers in Hawaii, I know, but apparently it is more like Las Vegas-a little is good; a lot is bad for your health.

In addition, I've read some chapters from  Grain Brain, which claims gluten is the root of all evil and will rot your brain.   Not exactly what my mother told me, but she's not a doctor.  Then I picked up Wheat Belly, which also feels gluten is an asshole, but is more insulted by the muffin top it encourages than the brain rot issue. Both of these books claim that a gluten free diet will relieve intestinal issues and get rid of our national debt.  I'm lying about that last part.  Unless you consider sky high medical costs.  If you consider that and apply it to the national debt, there is the implication that debt would be relieved at a national level. 

Finally, I've been reading about the dreaded Nightshades.  The Nightshades sound like evil shadows from a Sci-Fi romance but are, in fact, vegetables, herbs, shrubs and trees containing alkaloids, which can affect nerve/muscle and digestive functions.  Some of the more common nightshades are eggplant, peppers, potatoes, and tomatoes.  

Needless to say,  all of these books, compared to one another, contain similarities and contradictions.  They all seem factual, well researched and, when you read them, perfectly reasonable.  They all seem worth a try. None are really in line with the good news that whole grains should be a main component of our diet according to the USDA, but then again, who can really trust the USDA after all those years of 6-11 recommended servings of breads/grains a day?  Not me.  I still resent them.

Anyway, this is why carbs make me cry. Teenage boys love a crappy carb diet more than they love SpongeBob reruns and League of Legends.  TWLITB is no exception and the idea that he needs to eat burgers without buns doesn't sit well, so there's a battle on the horizon.  A battle that, once fought, may prove fruitless after all.

(Get it?  Fruitless?  Fruits have carbs y'all!  But I'm not getting rid of fruit, don't worry.  Regardless of what the acupuncturist recommended, there will be no scurvy in the Chicken household.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, I remember.  It may be all for nothing.)  

However, TWLITB deserves a lifestyle that doesn't include a painful limp and anxiety over bathroom proximity,  not to mention a decent night's sleep. If that entails more care in our food choices around here, then the chicken family will suck it up for TWLITB.  It would just be nice if there was one clear answer. Are any of you living with inflammatory issues? Do you eat a special diet?  

Chicken out

The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells

This is a re-post from November 2011.  It flurried here today, which brought this post to mind, and I spent all day working on a new project, so didn't have time to post something new.  

I hope you are warm and cozy wherever you are.

For Christmas, I gave Teenager-who-lives-in-the-Basement (TWLITB) a new parka. And not just any parka, no. For TWLITB, because I love him so much, I sought out the warmest coat that Lands End claims to sell, and I bought it. This is what it looks like.

Nice, right?

But because his father and I are not the world's most effective communicators, he also received a coat from his Dad. Now, Dad's coat was nice-it was. I'll concede that. Sort of a fleece lined canvas army-inspired job. It was sharp. It wasn't the Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.


You can probably guess where this is going. He loved the coat his Dad gave him and refused to wear The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells. The hell? This was distressing to me. I need to know that my kids are warm. It is a deep-seated need. And this fashion over function bull, I'm just not buying it.

The coat sat around through a snow storm or two and I hoped that freezing temps would drive him to wear it. Well, that and repeatedly being sent out to shovel the driveway. But that did not happen.

It was time to return the coat.

First, just for kicks, I tried the coat on. And it fit. And it was the warmest. coat. ever.

I began to covet the coat. Like many Moms, I am reluctant to spend money on warm outerwear for myself. I admired the coat from afar, but still fully intended to return it. The coat and I exchanged meaningful glances over the next few days, but nothing happened.

Enter R, my youngest daughter. A couple days a week, R takes the public bus to her classes. To get there, she has to catch one bus from our neighborhood to downtown, where she waits outside for 20 minutes, and then catches another bus from there, back past our neighborhood, and to her school. The whole trip takes about an hour and half of that is spent outside. R is always cold. She complains non-stop about how cold she is. An idea began to take root. Maybe I couldn't keep TWLITB warm, but R clearly was in need of The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.

She wouldn't wear it either.

That's when I said to myself, "Screw you ungrateful ingrates, I'm wearing the warm coat. That's right. I'm keeping it, I'm wearing it, and I'm going to be warm. I'm in love with this coat.  I want to marry this coat and have warm coat babies.".

I enjoyed a few super cozy days with my new coat. We were inseparable. In an email exchange with my best friend, GG, during which I expressed my dismay that my children would rather freeze than wear the Warm Coat, and my delight in my new smoking hot relationship with the Warm Coat, GG suggested a song and dance routine I could use to taunt my children the next time they complained about winter and all its frosty coldness.

Sing it with me: (to the tune of Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me)

Dontcha wish your body was warm like mine?
Dontcha? Dontcha?
Dontcha wish you had a nice coat like mine?
Dontcha? Dontcha?

Can't you just picture the video?

So anyway, along about 10 pm a couple of nights later, I went to pick R up from her evening class. I was wearing my new coat. She climbed into the car and said, "Brrr. I'm freezing. I should have worn the coat. You were right."

Wait. Could you repeat that? I was right?

Cue the music.

Oh yes, I did. Right then and there, in my new coat, I did my best Beyonce' imitation. It was hot. And not just because of the coat.

Fast forward a week. Suddenly, whenever I go to the closet to grab MY Warm Coat, it is not there. We seem to have a loosely formed Society of the Warm Coat situation going on. I did not authorize this community of sharingness! I oppose this regime.  However, like Mubarek, I've been outnumbered. The Youth have revolted.

R decided that being warm trumps looking hot. Her interest in the coat caused TWLITB to see the Warm Coat in a new light. A cooler light. "Wait", I imagine TWLITB thinking, "maybe an expedition-style, fur lined hood IS cool...maybe it is just as cool as the Russian-style fur hat I ordered over the internet and spent all my Christmas money on and lost within two weeks." "Maybe", thinks TWLITB, "I'd like to wear that Warm Coat".

And just like that, I'm sharing my warm coat with my fickle children. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Other than cold.

Chicken out (in the cold)

Halloween Decorating

It was late. BigB and littlb had gone to bed.  Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) was shuffling around in the basement, as usual, and I was sitting in this very same spot just minding my own business.

TWLITB popped his head in the office door.  "Mom?"

"TWLITB?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing much.  What are you doing?"

"Nothing much."

*crickets*

TWLITB said, "Remember a couple days ago when I told you I thought there was a skunk in the window well?"

"Yesss"

"I think it's still there."

"Oh.  Wow.  O.k. we'll take a look in the morning."

Except I couldn't just leave the poor skunk there for another night, now, could I? Because it had already been a couple days since the first time TWLITB mentioned that he thought a skunk was trapped, and if it was the same skunk, then the poor thing had been down there without water or food for far too long.  I felt guilty for forgetting J.D.'s mention of the skunk when he first noticed it.

For those of you who might live someplace where foundations are not the norm, window wells are constructed when you have windows in your basement.  Ours are about three feet deep.  When an animal goes exploring and finds his way into one, it usually requires some help getting back out.

"Why are skunks so stupid?" my grumpy, guilty Chicken heart asked?  "Because they just are.  That's why God gave them such odorific super powers; to make up for their tiny brains.", my (equally tiny) Chicken brain answered.

I put on my coat, my gloves and my baseball hat (to protect against skunk odor and low-flying bats).  I hunted down a working flashlight and tore the garage apart looking for a long enough piece of wood to form a ramp.  Then I trudged out to the front of the house and flashed the beam into the well.

The good news was that there was no skunk in the well.

The bad news was that there was one very sorry looking possum down there.  He looked up at me and  I saw he was close to done.  He probably thought my flashlight beam was his ticket to the other side.  I slid the old shutter I had found into the window well to form a ramp.  This had worked quite well the last time a skunk had been stuck there.  The possum didn't look healthy enough to make the climb, however.

I went back inside and looked up possums on the internet. Finally, something useful to look up.  Not that the fang length of a baby vampire, or the relative amount of time it would take to walk to California aren't useful things to know, it is just that the need to know these things was not as immediate as the need to find out how sharp the teeth might be of the animal stuck in our window well.  Pretty sharp, as it turns out.  Also, I learned that possums like fruit.

By this time, TWLITB, alerted to my nocturnal ramblings, had emerged once again from the basement.  We discussed the situation and made a plan.  We gathered a bowl, a bottle of water, a banana and some strawberries and then we went back out to visit our new pet, Pat. We weren't sure whether we had a girl or boy possum but we are fond of alliteration and old SNL skits.

Our plan was to restore Pat's strength so that he/she would be able to climb out of the well.  First, we tossed in the bowl and then we poured water into it. Pat fell upon the bowl and shortly peered up at us as if to say, "May I 'ave some more, please"?  We laughed.  Then we noticed the neighbors were out on their porch watching us, so we  lowered our voices.  We filled the bowl again, then tossed down the strawberries and banana in case Pat wanted to make a smoothie later.  Then we went to bed.  I'm assuming the neighbors did, too.

Pat was still there in the morning.  I worried that the shutter was too short, making the angle too steep for Pat to climb.  I had to leave for work, but I left TWLITB with instructions to keep Pat watered throughout the day and scout out a longer length of wood.

When I returned from work I put off checking on Pat.  I had a glass of wine and waited for it to get dark. Mostly, I didn't want BigB to catch on to our possum problem because BigB is not a fan of urban wildlife.  I was afraid he would insist on calling animal control to remove Pat from the well and I didn't spend the previous night restoring Pat just to see him exterminated.  I also was a little worried that Pat didn't make it through the night, in which case my problem would have become one of removing a dead possum from a window well, and then dealing with my guilt.  I decided that if we had a dead possum,  I would consult BigB immediately.

Live adorable possums, my jurisdiction.  Gross dead possums, BigB's jurisdiction.  New rule.

I always get creative when  I drink wine and so it wasn't long before I had hatched another plan to free Pat (Get it?  Hatched?).  After dark I found a large basket with a handle, and some rope. I was trying to be very quiet so that BigB wouldn't ask questions.  I sneaked out through the front door with the basket, the rope and the flashlight.  TWLITB heard me rustling around outside the window and came to help. We were arguing over what kind of knot to tie on the basket handle when BigB suddenly appeared around the side of the house.

"What are you two doing?" he asked?

TWLITB and I looked at each other.

"Decorating for Halloween?",  I replied.

TWLITB snorted, BigB stared at me, and Littleb showed up in the doorway.

The neighbors were back on the porch.

"Decorating with Possums.  They are very Halloweeny, don't you think?"

"There's a possum in the window well, is that it?"

"Maybe"

"And you're trying to get it out?"

"Well.  You wouldn't want to have to drag a dead possum out of the window well, would you?  That's kind of the alternative."

LittleB said, "I want to see the possum!"

TWLITB shined the flashlight into the well.

The possum was gone.  Operation Free Pat was a success.

A cheer went up throughout the neighborhood.

In my mind.

BigB sighed heavily and went back in to watch the game.  TWLITB retired to the basement.  Littleb got on the computer to look up possums.  The neighbors retreated, relieved that Chicken had saved the neighborhood from a dead possum outbreak.

I poured another glass of wine and basked in the glow of a job well done.

Chicken out

Cute, right?  And Halloweeny?

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

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Clothes Medium

Intro:

I'm Chicken.  I like to think of myself as a typical Rhode Island Chicken.  But I have a very special gift.  I talk to your clothes. No matter where I go, clothes call out to me,  and I am compelled to help them.  This is not my job.  This is not even my life. This is my blog post.

Episode 1: Scene 1 

As a Chicken, I love shopping!  Today I'm at the Garden City Center with BigB. We're shopping for yoga clothes, but first we have to stop at Starbucks because I can hear a caramel soy sugar free extra extra macchiato calling my name.  I also hear food products sometimes.   I didn't mention that before.  

Delicious Latin American Voice:  1, 2,  cha cha cha, 1, 2 cha cha cha, ooohhh want to dance, dance, take me dancing, cha cha cha, let's dance cha cha cha, don't be an oaf, cha cha cha, oh why did you buy me if you weren't going to take...me...danc...ing cha cha cha

Me:  Big B. Do you hear latin music?

BigB:  No I don't.  Can we go home?

Me:  I hear tango music.  I think it is coming from that guy's pants over there.  See him?  Wow,  he's...kinda big....and scary looking... but I have to help these pants.  I'll be right back.  Don't forget the whipped cream on my macchiato!

BigB:  Shit, not again.  We can't go anywhere anymore.

Me:  Excuse me, Sir?  Sir, hi.  What's your name?

Chuck:  I'm Chuck.  Why?  Whaddaya want?  I'm not buyin'

Me:  Hi Chuck.   I'm Chicken!  I'm a Clothes Medium?  I can hear the thoughts of your clothes?  Chuck do you like to dance?

Chuck:  Whaddahya, a joker or something?  Ya flirtin' with me?   Sorry, Chicklet, I don't dance!

Chuck's Pants:  See?  See what I deal with? He never takes me out, never takes me dancing.  He sits at home with the potato chips and the porn.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't mind the porn.  But I was made to dance.

Me:  Chuck, did you like to dance as a little boy?  Did you...Chuck, did you take ballet?

Chuck:  How did you know that?  You been talkin' to my sister?  I'll kill her.  I. Will. Kill. Her. This is a joke, isn't it.  Kimberly?  Kimberly, get the BLEEEP out here.

Chuck's Pants:  Ohhhhhhhh!  Oooooh you touched a nerve.  Good!

Me:  Chuck, please know that this is your pant's way of stepping forward and validating your love of dance. Take a Salsa lesson already,  you big goof ball

Chuck to  BigB:  Hey you, over there, ya you.  This your wife?  You gonna get this crazy broad  outta here or we gonna take it outside?  Your choice.

BigB:  Sigh.  We're gonna take it outside, Chuck.  Nobody calls Chicken crazy except me!  (Scuffle,  xo#$%) punch, SLAM, Bang)

Me:  Mmmm.  God, I love Starbucks.

Two Hours Later with the film crew at Billy's Frosted Mug:  

Chuck:  Yeah, I gotta admit, I danced when I was a kid.  My mom signed me up. Secretly, I loved it, but guys in the neighbahood made fun of me, ya know, so I quit.  Been completely heterosexual all American ever since. That Chicken, give her credit, she tapped inta something. When I bought those pants, I was thinking they might be great for a night out,  ya know, but I don't really go nowhere but Billy's, here, so..not much dancing, ya know? I might havta check out Arthur Murray or somethin'.

Chuck's Pants:  Yes!  Thank you, Chicken!

BigB: Hey, Chuck, it's your round.

Episode 1 Scene 2:

Chicken:  I have a private reading today with Michele at her home in East Greenwich. Michele just moved into her home and has been experiencing loud voices, unsettling feelings, overwhelming discomfort, and a sense of suffocation.  She feels her house might be haunted.  I think Michele might have me confused with a different kind of medium. Let's see what happens. 

Chicken:   Hi Michele, I'm Chicken!  What a beautiful home you ha....

Dark Entity:   Arrrrrgggghhhhh Arrgggghhhhhhhh Geeetttt OUT!  No. I mean Get ME out.  Get me outta here or I will kill this BLEEP BLEEEP, I will. Let me loose.  I'm in helll.

Michele:  Hi Chicken.  So, what I've been experiencing here has made me really uncomfortable

Dark Entity:   Mwwaaahhhhhhh, BLEEEPPP....You're uncomfortable?  You're Uncomfortable???  Give me a break. Chicken person, help me out here.  I am begging you.

Chicken:  So Michele, you've been feeling this...aggression... since you moved in?

Michele:  Oh, before that.  I think it started a few weeks before that. The day after we put in the purchase offer, in fact.  I remember because we went out shopping to celebrate our new house, and after that, I just kept getting this uncomfortable feeling.   It's tied to this house, I know it is.

Chicken:  Oh you like shopping? I like shopping too!  Wait a second, I have to sage this place, whooo, I love the smell of sage, don't you?  So tell me, where did you go?  What did you buy?

Dark Entity:  Me! She bought ME...a size too small! Are you gonna help me or are we gonna burn sage leaves all night?  Focus, Chicken!

Michele:  Oh, the usual, you know  Macy's, Chico's, Victoria's Secret,  DSW...

Dark Entity:  Arrrrgggghhhh Worst BLEEEEEEPPP day of my life....

Chicken:  Did you buy a bra that day?   Black lace?

Michele:  Oh my God, I did.  I did buy a bra like that!!!

Chicken:  Oh,  look, see how I just wrote down Bra right here? Please know that this is your Bra's way of validating the connection.  Your bra is telling me, "Chicken , I can't breathe. She's got my straps pulled up to her ears.  And her implants are suffocating me!  That's what I am hearing.  Does this make sense to you?"

Michele:  Oh my God, it totally does!  My shoulders hurt.  I've been in such pain.  I thought it was the stress of the voices.

Dark Entity:  And here we go again, it's all about you, isn't it Princess? Are ya kiddin' me??? 

Michele:  But I look so hot, I've been ignoring it.  

Dark Entity:  Well, we do look hot.  Have to give us that.

Chicken:  Michele, did you also buy a pair of of shoes that day?  I'm getting...black....hmmm.  Black  pumps, slingbacks?  

Michele:  Oh my God (starts to cry).  I did. You're amzaing, Chicken.  I bought a beautiful pair of black sling backs and our new puppy ate one last week.  I miss them so much.

Chicken:  Your bra is bringing forth the shoes, now.  Your shoes want you to know they are fine and they would have given you plantar fasciitis eventually, anyway.  Please take what has been given to you today as a gift and allow your soles to heel.  This is your Bra's way of saying that, while you do look super hot, it might be time to loosen your straps a little and relax.  Maybe even get a back up bra with a generous cup and nice wide shoulder straps for extra support.  Give your girls and your bra a rest, you know?  You've had a beautiful reading today and your bra wants you to know it will  watch over your breasts and keep them supported and safe.  When you hear the song, 'Wind Beneath Your Wings', please know that this is your bra's way of validating its connection to your breasts.  

Later at Michele's House:

Michele:  I can't believe how quickly Chicken tuned into my discomfort.  I took off my bra as soon as she left, and I haven't felt anything but peace, and love, and just this general feeling of well-being ever since.  I think that sage thing she did really worked!

Dark Entity:  

Dark Entity?

Apparently Dark Entity has left the building.

Even Later at Billy's  Frosted Mug:

BigB and Chuck:  Yo, Dark Entity it's your round!!!

Episode 1 Scene 3:

Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) just got his permit.  Today, we are getting in some driving practice!  I' m so nervous!  Look at me.  I'm shakin' over here!

Me:  TWLITB, I'm trusting you with my life here, and I take my life very seriously.  I have important work to do.  So don't kill me.

TWLITB:  Chicken, relax, it's all good

TWLITB's pants:  hhhhhheeeelpppp meeeee.  I'm gonna diiieeeee.  h-h-h-h-elllpppp.  

Me:  TWLITB, your pants are very scared right now.  Have you talked to them about driving with you? What to expect?  How it's going to go down?

TWLITB:  What?  What are you talking about?  No, I don't talk to my pants.  It's bad enough YOU talk to my pants.  I prefer not to think of my pants as animate objects.

TWlITB's pants:  Screw you, TWLITB.  The only reason I'm inanimate is because you never wash me.  I'm so tired.  I don't think I can go on.

Me:  When's the last time you washed your pants?

TWLITB:  What do you mean, washed them?  Why would I wash them?  I just got them like a month ago.

Me:  Seriously, that's abuse. No wonder your pants are suicidal.  

TWLITB:  My pants are not suicidal.  Stop it.

Me:  They are.   I"m sorry, we can't drive today. I'm not going anywhere with suicidal pants.  

TWLITB:  Seriously?

Me:  Note to self:  Must call AAA about driving lessons.

TWLITB's pants:  So that's it then?  You're not going to make him change? You are just going to let me languish here?

Me:  I'll pray for you, pants.  

Later at Billy's Frosted Mug:

Chuck, Big B, Dark Entity:  Hey.  TWLITB.  It's your round.

TWLITB:  I'm not 21

Dark Entity:  Are your pants 21? Come to Mama, pants

Much cackling ensues.  

Tune in next week when Chicken talks to the shoes of a runway model in Milan

Chicken out

Chuck's Pants.  The fantasy.

, 

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

Fear and Loathing in my Shower

Hi World,


You know how sometimes your life falls into a simple, uncomplicated rhythm?  Go to work, come home, have dinner, etc?  And how sometimes that gets old and you wish something unexpected would happen?

If you are anything like me, when you send that thought out into the Universe, what you mean by "unexpected" is that you would be excited to win the lottery.  Even a small one, shared with a dozen other people.  Or that you would be gobsmacked to find yourself the first heir in line to the throne of Slovenia.  Or that it would rock your world if your kid brought home straight As and the good citizen award.

What you do not mean, and you assume this is obvious, is that the Universe is welcome to smack you up side the head with, say, a terminal illness, a tax audit, or a creepy unwelcome visitor in your home. 

One morning, awhile back, I got up at my usual time to shower. I was still partially asleep as I started  the water running, undressed,  and stepped  into the spray. I should mention now that the drain in this shower was very slow and in need of a good plumber. As a result of the slow drain, the floor had collected a two-inch deep pool of cold water.

I reached to the floor for the shampoo  bottle.  As I lifted it, I noticed a dark shape in the corner.  My very first thought was, "ARRGGHHHH SPIDER!", but I quickly dismissed that thought because my brain could not process my body being trapped in a small enclosed space with an over-sized spider.  My brain would have completely shut down, leaving me brain dead, if I forced it to compute something that traumatic.  Instead, my brain efficiently moved on to scenario number two:  A wash cloth? Beanie Baby? Something safely inanimate? My brain and I liked this scenario, but unfortunately this lump was moving.

Brain moved on to scenario number three:  "B-b...b...b...bat???  Batty-batty-batty-batty-bat?"  thought brain, wildly, disbelievingly.  Brain quickly decided we didn't need clean hair today and sent a message to my hands, arms and legs to calmly and slowly open the shower door, step outside, slam the shower door with Herculean force, and run, naked and wet, to the relative safety of the other side of the bathroom, where, Brain pragmatically decided, we should  hyperventilate for three minutes and try not to throw up.  I was completely with Brain up to that point.

But then Brain decided we should go back, open the shower door, and have another peek.

"Brain!  Are you fucking crazy?", I asked.  Nicely. 

"Chicken", Brain said, "BigB is sleeping and you know how he hates bats.  Do you really want to wake him up to come deal with this creepazoid?  Would you want him to wake you up with this delightful news?"

"Well. No.  I guess not, but it's really scary, Brain.  What are we gonna do?  What are we gonnadowhaddarewegonna..." 

Brain gave me a mental slap.  Bastard.

"Here's what we'll do.  The thing is practically drowned anyway. All we need is something to scoop him up and then we can dump him outside and BigB need never know."

"Ok.  Ok, Brain!  Let's do this."

We went downstairs where we located a dustpan and a plastic grocery bag. 

"Brain!", I said, "What if it tries to bite me or fly in my hair?"

"Good thinking" Brain said, "Let's get you some protection." 

I donned BigB's gloves, pulled on one of littleb's snow hats, and my parka.  I tip toed back up the stairs.

I eased open the shower stall door.  It was still there. It didn't look so good.

"Piece of cake", Brain declared.  "Now scoop it up and get rid of it!"

I lowered the dustpan to the bottom of the shower, maneuvering it slowly towards the bat lump.  Suddenly, the lump started swimming ferociously towards the dustpan.  Brain and Chicken quickly convened and decided to get the hell out of there.  "Save yourself", Brain screamed.  I ran.

I was crouched on the stair landing, breathing hard, half-dressed in a parka, snow mitts and littleb's snow hat, when BigB opened the bedroom door.

"What the hell are you doing?", he asked, reasonably enough.

"Um, there's a bat in the shower"

"What?  What did you say?  Did you say a bat?  Where? Awwwww shit... whatthefuck!"

BigB was suddenly very awake.  Did I mention he hates bats?  At least this time he didn't demand that I wake littleb and take him to a hotel until he had the premises secured.

With a heavy sigh, he went downstairs to find a weapon.  I sighed, too.  A sigh of relief.  I could now retire to the living room and be a girl.

BigB traipsed back up the stairs with a plastic container. I listened for his battle cry.  A scream of fear.  The agony of defeat?  I heard....nothing.  By this time, Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) was also awake.

"What's going on?", he asked, after noting my unusual morning attire.  Then, apparently thinking better of it, he said, "Never mind, I'm going to take a shower."

"Good idea", I said, "But you'll need to help BigB first."  And I quickly laid out the scenario.  "Are you fucking nuts?" TWLITB asked?  "I'm not going up there".

"Language, TWLITB!  It is your duty to help BigB take out that bat."

"What?  I'm a kid. That's abuse. You help him."

"No, TWLITB,  I am overseeing the situation, but from a distance, see?  My safety is paramount.  I'm the brains of this operation.  Plus I do all the cooking.  BigB is Chief of Security and you are his deputy.  Go be a man, TWLITB.  And then you can tell all the girls at school how you saved your mother from a bat.  A rabid bat".

"The bat is rabid???  I'm not going up there, Chicken!"

"TWLITB!  Get up stairs RIGHT  now. I mean it!" 

I checked on littleb who was, unusually, still sound asleep. By the time I came back, BigB had taken down the vicious intruder while TWLITB watched his back.  From the doorway. 

And that was how our morning started that day, with an unexpected buffet of shock, fear and loathing.  In my shower.  If that bat could blog, I'm sure his tale would be a story told to all little bats for years to come. The moral of that story would be stay the fuck out of Chicken's shower.


Chicken out

Conversations with TWLITB: Why is Jennifer Aniston So Hot?

Hi World,

How are things?  How is your family?

Me?  I'm good, thanks.

The other day, Teenager-Who-Lives-In-The-Basement and I were grocery shopping.

Naturally, we picked the longest checkout line because that is just what we do.  It is a family tradition.  A magazine caught TWLITB's eye.

"Mom", he said, "How old is Jennifer Aniston?"

"Well", I said, "As it so happens, she is the same age as me."

"What?"

"Yeah, she's my age."

"But Mom", said TWLITB, "How come she is so hot?"

"Dunno"

"She's really...like....hot....like in movies and everything...in bikinis...she's your age???"

"Yeah, she is", I agree.

"But...how?"

"I dunno, TWLITB.  Some people just are.  So you like Jennifer Aniston?"

"No,no, nothing like that, I'm just saying she's hot.  For her age...like in bikinis and stuff.  How come?"

"TWLITB, if I knew......????"

"Oh, yeah, right.  Well, she's never had kids right?"

"Yeah, or maybe she's an alien"

"Right.  I never thought of that."

"Well, that's why I'm here for you, TWLITB"

"Yeah, right.  How old is Angelina?  Is she your age, too?"

World.  Something Freudian this way comes.

Chicken out