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

Chicken and the Case of the Shoes that Tried Too Hard

Hi World,

I'm Chicken.  Sometimes I buy inappropriate footwear. 

Last winter, gripped by spring  fever and images of Orange County housewives cavorting in my head,  I bought platform wedge sandals.  I imagined wearing them with dresses, skirts, and  cute jeans throughout the summer.  I imagined the long, lean line they would give my legs.  I imagined  looking five inches taller and 20 pounds lighter.  I might have imagined being kidnapped by Eric Northman in full-on vampire mode, and not trying very hard to escape. It is not that easy to run in platform wedge sandals.

I should have imagined them sitting in my closet gathering dust.  

It's  not that I don't like them.  I try them on all the time.  I stand in front of the mirror, check out the front view, check out the back view, admire the longer leg line, then take them off and toss them back into the closet. 

Why can't I wear these shoes and feel Northman-worthy?

I suspect these shoes try too hard. These shoes are the spray-tanning, Pilates-practicing, lunch-doing, housewives of the shoe world.  These sandals say to the world, "Hey. World.  Look  at Chicken!  She's trying to look hot!  At her age!  Bwa ha ha ha ha ha."

Stupid, big-mouth shoes.  

You, Platform Wedge Sandals, are a liability I can't afford.  You might help me break my ankle or worse, make me look silly in public.  I'm  sending you away, Shoes.  It's for your own good. You may have a big mouth and youthful pretensions, but I've become fond of you.  You are too cute to spend the remainder of your trending years in a dark closet. 

Go on now.  Get out of here.  

Maybe you'll end up with a Lucky magazine guest blogger from Long Island known for her fresh take on old classics.  She'll pair you with denim on denim, a summer-weight scarf and a designer bag.  And that's just Monday's look!  Wait 'til you see what she comes up with for Dress Down Friday!  Ooh, you'll be so nonchalant and fabulous! 

Or maybe you'll catch the eye of a middle-aged bartender with a boob job, a dolphin tattoo and a Jimmy Buffet obsession. She'll wear you with big hoop earrings, a hot pink tank top, and white short shorts.  She'll still look pretty damn good for her age if she doesn't say so herself!  Which she will. After too many margaritas, she'll bust out with some impressive dance moves giving you work-outs you could only dream about, shut away in my closet with the other misfit shoes.

I 'm not telling you what to do, Shoes, but you'll have a better shot at running into Eric Northman with the bartender.

And if you see him, tell him "Hey" from  Chicken.  





Chicken out



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