It's the Little Things...

This morning I was flipping through an old Ladies Home Journal that I heisted from somewhere because yes, as a matter of fact, I do want to know how Miranda Lambert got that smoking hot new body.   I flipped to a page celebrating married couples and the sweet traditions they develop over the years to help each other and show their love.

One couple, married for 50 years, stated that she's bad at directions so he always drives her to a new place the day before her appointment so that she can find it, and she is good at grammar and spelling so she always checks his emails and FB posts.  Another couple reported that she makes little baggies of homemade muesli every Sunday for him to take to work and he...well...I forget what he does  But anyway, you get the point.

I started thinking about BigB and our sweet traditions, but then I was interrupted by BigB, who is on vacation this week and was upstairs lying in bed, calling out to littleb to come snuggle with him.  And this annoyed me and redirected my train of thought towards all the little ways we annoy each other.  He is on vacation, for God's sake...it's annoying enough that he has about 10 weeks of vacation a year....can't he just vacation quietly in the comfort of our bed without waking up the energizer bunny a half hour early?

No, he can't.  He can't because if BigB is awake, everyone needs to be awake, or he gets lonely.  He will try to engage a person in conversation and if that doesn't work, he'll resort to physical means such as hugging, tickling, anything for attention.

And Lord knows, I am not perfect.   BigB gets annoyed that I'm not friendlier in the morning.   I'm not a morning person.  I'm  not playful, I'm not chatty.....I get up earlier than everyone else for the sole purpose of being by myself.  If someone gets up early and joins me, well, it just bloody pisses me off.

BigB and I have a million little ways to annoy each other.  For instance, he eats his poached eggs whole.  That's one whole egg, yolk and all, just breaking in his mouth, coating his tongue, sliding down his throat.  I'm getting a little queasy thinking about it.  I, on the other hand, do not care about malware or internet security and this is not only irresponsible, but it drives BigB insane.  Have I set up the security feature on my phone?  I don't know.  Would I like to learn how?  Must I?  Deep sigh.

And don't get me started on the air conditioning/heating.  I do not care for air conditioning.  If I wanted to live in air conditioning, I would move to Arizona.  I want my windows and doors open to the fresh air.  I want to walk in from  outside  without experiencing  a 20  degree temperature  drop that sends me running for my snorkel parka.  BigB, on the other hand, would prefer to not walk into a bread oven every day between September  and  April.

Yup, we've got a million little ways to annoy each other without even trying.  But we've learned to compromise, and that's how we show our love for each other.   He gives a  little, I give a little....plus  I  make him little  yogurt sundaes every morning for breakfast.  He always grills my burger a little more on the well done  side.  Sometimes  I pretend to be friendly in the morning.  Sometimes he eats his eggs like a normal person.

It really is the little things.

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

Vacation

In a few weeks we'll be heading to Maine for vacation .  We've rented a house in the Camden area.   I know the area a little, having grown up just a couple of hours away, but if anyone out there has a favorite memory of the place or a suggestion for an activity, we would love to hear it.

The house we are renting is big-big enough that several extended family members and friends are planning on cycling through during the week.  It's an experiment for us.  If it goes well, we are hoping to do it once a year.  If it doesn't, we'll do our own thing from now on.  We are not anti-social, by any means,  but my husband and I are alike in that we both require a moderate amount of alone time.   I get mine by  getting up earlier in the morning.   He gets his by  staying up later at night.  I'm  wondering how the chaos of people coming and going will jive with our expectation of  a relaxing week on the coast.

On the one hand, we've co-imagined clam bakes on the beach, early morning kayak trips, and hanging out on the porch with our friends and family.  My imagination has added the sound track from Big Chill and midnight margarita parties.

On the other hand, it's occurred to me that there's a good amount of work that goes into entertaining people. Now, switch out the people on a regular basis, and haven't you just multiplied the work load?  This is not something that would occur to BigB because, as a traditionalist in his mid-fifties, his expectation is that the women will get together and figure it all out and tell him what needs to go on the grill.  Planning, shopping, and cleaning don't figure in his day-to-day plans.  On the odd occasion where they do, it goes something like this:

I'm hungry.  Is anybody else hungry?  I think I'll order a pizza.  Does anybody else want pizza?

BigB keeps it real.  I think I'll take a page out of his book this year and just go with the flow.  We'll see what happens.

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

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?

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.

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