Lessons from Daddy

I vividly remember a remarkable amount of stuff from the time I was about two and half to five years old.  People probably think I make most of it up, and I suppose it’s entirely possible that I did. But I think I would make it more interesting if I was inventing it all.  I remember the mundane, looking at a worm in a puddle, brushing my hair, biting a thermometer. Okay – that was pretty exciting, actually. If you ever wanna see your mom jump, make her think you’re ingesting mercury.

Among the memories are three specific and particular lessons from my dad. He taught me many things from philosophy to engine timing, how to figure the pitch of a roof to which berries are poisonous if you’re fly fishing and need a snack. There were many pieces of advice throughout my life that I’ve kept with me. But three statements he told me at that very young age have stuck with me and I’ve thought about each of them nearly every day for the last four decades.

1) It’s a lot easier to make sure one little girl is being good than three little girls.

I’d come to him for the tenth time probably in a day, tattling that one of my sisters was committing some offense of which he should not only be aware, but take action against. He was under the hood of a car, either tinkering or just hiding and he said the words first to the engine. I climbed up the bumper and leaned in, too. “Daddy, what? But she…”  And he looked right at my miniature face and repeated himself. “It’s a lot easier to just make sure one little girl is being good.”   

I love that he didn’t explain it, but rather turned back to what he was doing and left me to figure it out. After a few minutes of enjoying the shade of the car hood, I got it. Don’t tattle. Don’t rescue. Keep an eye on yourself.  Just make sure one little girl is being good.  

2) Don’t pretend to be anyone but yourself.

This one, like many of his rules, was most likely meant to keep us from squabbling and interrupting his book/magazine/nap.  We were playing outside and along with some friends, acting out a scene from a PBS show called New Zoo Revue.  There were actors in animal costumes with massive heads – and of course, they wore clothes – and then one normal human who for whatever reason hung out with them. Tensions were rising about who had to be Henrietta Hippo and Freddie Frog and who got to be the real live human character. Again, a man of few words, my dad said, “Don’t pretend to be anyone. Just be yourself.”  Looking back, I am quite sure he meant it as a solution to the problem right that minute – but it served me well for the next forty years, too.  

Knee socks. I love knee socks.

3) Little boys cannot hit little girls.

And big ones can’t either. I was armed with this information as I headed off to my first day of first grade. Too bad more daddies don’t tell more little girls this, and little boys, too. Unfortunately, he didn’t mention anything about little girls and pinching, so I was unprepared with the 6 year old in front of me in line turned around and declared, “I can pinch you so hard you bleed,” and then proceeded to do just that by latching on to the thin skin on the back of my hand.  I reminded her of it nine years later when her boyfriend took me to a concert instead of her.

I don’t know if I’ve left my children with indelible life lessons. Probably not. My advice to them has been more along the lines of  “don’t cry unless you’re bleeding,” “if you get a dog that sheds, buy matching clothes and furniture” and “never underestimate the power of white space.”   My husband is more the purveyor of wisdom. As all good daddies are, apparently.

A True Story.

I know of a man whose ashes reside

In a box

in a bag

in a car.

His earthly remains tombed in white polyethelene

instead of a staid earthen jar.

He was put there one day by his third wife, Joan

who just wasn’t sure what to do

when handed a box with her husband inside -

Sprinkle him, bury him? She must think this through.

So she covered the box with a grocery store sack

To contain any possible spills

And set him on the back seat of a Toyota Corolla

With a blanket in case he got chilled.

She phoned all his children (of which there were many)

Whose love he would quite often brag

But they all curtly balked at taking their father

Leaving her quite literally holding the bag.

The last seven years of his life he existed

Locked up in a room with no view

With others just like him,

Bright eyes trapped in bodies

Not moving like they used to.

Now he enjoys quiet evenings alone

In a parking lot covered with stars

And day time with Joan as she putters about

Riding ‘round in the back of her car.

There’s no final resting place when you have errands            

Must get groceries, the prescriptions, mail a letter.

He is certainly dead, the man in the box

But quite frankly, this life is better.

Neighbor Jane said if I didn't put up another post everyone was going to think I slit my wrists but I said I would never slit my wrists because it would get blood on my keyboard and I've seen what coffee with milk can do to a hard drive so there's no way I'd mess around with that.  Because I talk in run-on sentences with Neighbor Jane all the time.

Did I ever tell you that like half the people on my block are named Jane or some derivation of Jane? It's sort of hard to get used to but is way better than the cult-de-sac we used to live on where all the couples names rhymed. Brandy and Randy, Dawn and Ron, Nic and Rick. Although on that street there was also the coolest named couple ever, Harley and Twyla. I had to call the HOA about them once because the enormous flag they hung over their house was flapping so loud the babies couldn't sleep, but I've always hoped to use their names in a very Eudora Welty-esque short story about subdivisions.

Anyway, let me hereby report that I in no way shape or form have purposely cut any part of my body in recent months or ever including my wrists. I have fallen on my ass on ice at work like four times though, but I promise it was an accident almost all of the times.

And, not only am I not critically bleeding, I've actually found some things to not frown about.

Exhibit A.

The $100 tree I bought last summer to put in the dog run only because they said it could handle the heat of being surrounded by pea gravel has these on it. They smell like honeysuckle, lilac and gardenia all mixed up in a yummy bucket of spring.

 Exhibit B:

A 14-year old who not only goes on job interviews but looks damned good doing it.

A 12 year old with a school dance the same day as 14 year old's interview so I can take a picture of boys in suits. Even if they are Sears model shots.

Is there a market for watch models?

Look. At. The. Size. Of. His. Feet.

 Exhibit C:

It's front porch season. Finally.

Exhibit D:

Because the floors were too clean and I simply had too much time on my hands.

Lastly, in a brazen act of selfishness and irresponsibility, I bought me a puppy, you guys. Because much like scarves or kick ass boots, one can really never have too many bulldogs.  Her name is Chowder Prudence but we call her Betty Pearl.  Chowder because it's just an awesome name. Prudence because my father called my sisters and me "Patience, Prudence and Grace." Betty because when you tell someone in a loud bar that your name is Penne, they say "Betty?" "Your name is Betty?"  And you say, "What? Nobody in this bar is named Betty, you freak, we're all 22 years old. What is this, an Archie comic?" And Pearl because she was born on Pearl Harbor Day.  So there, Nazis.  (That doesn't make any sense. I realize that, but I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to talk mean about Japan anymore.)

Thanks for waiting out the shadows with me. Here's to smelly trees, silly boys, porch swings and puppies.

Storytime.

Last week I finally admitted that my wee little firstborn who is 6 inches taller than me and many pounds heavier (thankfully) is growing up. So I took the huge step of removing all the picture books from his bookcase.

I could get all sappy right now and tell you that picking up each one of them and remembering his fat little hands with their indented knuckles holding them was one of the hardest things I've ever done...y'know, cleaning-wise.  We read to him every night. Farmer Duck. Cows Can't Fly. Slug. THE CLASSICS.  So moving them into a box was more than just admitting he is closer to adulthood than babyhood. It was saying goodbye to some of the most awesome rhymes ever.

To wit...

"A small girl yelled out, 'Mommy! What's that creeping on our food?' 

She didn't know that Slug was just a hungry little dude."

Beat that, Bob Frost.

And it was heavy. Like really heavy, man. They're books, people. Not like when mommies of today just download Bennett Cerf onto their iPads.

Is Bennett Cerf even available on iPads?  Because it should be! Seriously, if your child doesn't know what is big and red and eats rocks, you are not really a very good parent. Just saying.

Anyway, I spent a couple of days being all nostalgic. I'd go look at his new teen-agery version of a bookcase with it's clever novels and dark comic books and middle school yearbooks and wish that just for a minute, I could have that boy that's shorter than me back.

Then, I got in my car. That smelled like three day old milk left in a sippy cup.

Turns out teenager snowboard boot has exactly the same chemical makeup as curdled dairy product in plastic.

And I longed for short people no more.

Is this heaven? No. It's Iowa.

If you read the post I wrote yesterday - I hope you remember it well, because I've taken it down. Although LGBG is often silly rants about things, I don't want it to be about people. Not cool. So, it was a limited edition collector's item post and it's no longer available. Maybe you can find it on eBay or something.

What I should've been ranting writing about was last weekend! Because it was nearly almostly as fun as I thought it was going to be. Most of the parts anyway.

It began at midnight Thursday.

I drove across town and put the gigantic middle schooler on a bus.

Please note dashboard clock. Midnight thirty. Yawn. I am such a good parent

Buh-bye gigantic middle schooler! Hope that's really your rowing coach and not that creepy guy from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who tricks kids with candy but they're really getting into a jail cell! On wheels! I hated that guy.

Then I came home and slept for a few minutes then got up and said goodbye to the future politician kid.

I didn't say "stick-em up" so not all together sure why he's doing that. It's a little Nixon-esque. Hmmm.

Then, I got on an airplane.

And I didn't get off that bitch until it landed in Iowa, baby. Then I found a shuttle where a guy who was going to his 55th class reunion completely ignored me because I'm a girl and totally monopolized the conversation of everyone in the van. So when we got off and he looked down his nose at me I made sure that I tipped the driver way more than he did right in front of him. So there, old dude.

And then I checked into a historic hotel in downtown Des Moines called the Savery. Have I told you I really like historic hotels? I do. Most of them aren't that nice room-wise, but the lobbies, lawdy. I highly recommend old hotel lobbies.

Then. I waited. And waited. And waited. Because my kid was still on the bus. And my sista-from-anotha-mista who is my best friend I've never actually met? Was working. Bored. Bored. Bored. Damn, I thought. Iowa sucks.

Then she finally texted me and I felt better. It went something like this:

Tracey: I could sure use a beer right now.
Penne: There's no minibar in my room. I should've had drinks on the plane.

Long wait. I'm bored again. Stupid Iowa. But I find a good movie on TV with that kid in it who used to be on Third Rock from the Sun but in this movie he's all grown up and he's an architect only he writes greeting cards for a living and  I start thinking...hmmm, it's kind of weird that I'm going out for dinner with someone I've never ever met ever, I think I should order room service and finish this very awesome movie with the Third Rock from the Sun kid in it. Only all grown up.

But then I get this text:
Tracey: We're five minutes away! Will pick you up in a white Explorer.
Penne: This feels like eHarmony a little bit.
Tracey: Nope. Match.com!
Penne: I just flashed a white Explorer. Totally wasn't you.

And then she pulled up and I actually met a real life person, not just a blog. She was funny and awesome and if she lived on my block she and Spanxy and I would be a FORCE, I tell you. All through dinner one of us would say "You should know this about me..." and then the other one would say, "OMG, me TOO" and we laughed so much our cheeks hurt. And then we said goodbye, but hopefully not forever. I love Iowa.

Me and the Sista. Lookit how awesomely our hair matches. Separated at birth, I tell you.

I shall report on the kid's regatta at another point - but you should know that Iowa in the morning is pretty lovely.

Photo courtesy of the gigantic middle schooler. I was totally asleep for this part.

2010 - 1960 = FIDDY GOLDEN YEARS.

(Spoiler Alert: If you're my Mom, don't read this until after the FedEx man comes.)

Today is the 50th Wedding Anniversary of my parents. Happy Anniversary Mommy and Daddy!

It doesn't seem entirely possible, for a number of reasons - probably first on the list is that they just don't seem that old. If you ask me, they're in their late 50s or early 60s...then I do the math and guess that must not be right. Secondly, people just don't stay married that long anymore - you don't hear about "Golden Anniversaries" that much. And we marry later...my parents were barely out of their teens when they tied the knot. But, I suppose they've been married as long as I've known them and that's forty-three twenty-eight years, so it must be true.

Last year, I wrote an abbreviated history of their marriage. This year, I commissioned a poster. Totally what everyone does right? Okay, so it's not typical. But I really love it and I hope they do, too.

My friend, the extremely talented Jonathan Scheele, is a master of travel posters and poster art. Since he is far and away the best illustrator I've ever met next to my Dad,  I asked him to create a retro-looking poster honoring my parents.  Now, I suppose that really it should be only about them, being all romantical or something - but some of the best memories of my childhood are my parents showing us the world around us on the open road.  We got dirty and saw the natural wonders of our country, close to home and far away. And I love them for that. We ate berries that were probably poisonous. We took ungodly long hikes. We drank mineral water as it bubbled from rocks. We read every. single. roadside. marker. My sisters and I are masters of peeing outside. We spent hours whittling sticks with little souvenir shop pocket knives and roasted countless marshmallows. We were a family. And that is the greatest testament to them, and their marriage I think.

So - here's the poster that will be showing up on their doorstep via FedEx today. ( Mom. I said not to read it yet. Go unload the dishwasher or something.)

Jonathan did a beautiful job of representing our 1968 Plymouth Satellite and adorable Cardinal Camper that took us on our adventures.





































I'm the one with ponytails. 

Happy Anniversary, Parents. You're an awesome example and funny, good people who I'm proud to be related to. Sorry I can't be there to help you celebrate. Now go eat some cake or something.

Love, Penne.

PS - the frame will be there next week.

Yo, Dian Fossey. You dropped something.

 I'm assuming it's because I was raised by a practical farmgirl and an automobile enthusiast, but the first thought I have when someone tells me they've been in a car accident is not, "Are you okay?" but "Holy crap, how's the car?" It could also be because I'm a heartless asshole.

In my defense, if they were really hurt or dead, they totally wouldn't be calling me, because that's the candystriper's job but whatever.

In either case - I noticed this at some point in young adulthood, right around about the same time I noticed I was the only one I knew that said "supper, couch and billfold" instead of "dinner, sofa and wallet" and I've taken great care to always ask people first, "Oh, are YOU okay?" before ever checking on the condition of their vehicle. It has served me well, and currently, several people I know actually think I am kind and considerate.

So, when Big Dude called me last week to tell me he'd nearly gotten in a big gigantic accident, I tempered my curiosity and said, "Whoa? You okay?" Which I knew he was because: please reference the first paragraph, dead people don't use cellphones.  As I suspected, both he and the car were fine, because of his bitchin' defensive driving skills that he learned at motorcycle racing school kicked in and he avoided injuring both his truck and his cute bald head by swerving around a huge 10'x10' dog kennel that had fallen off someone's truck. Without them noticing. I know, happens all the time, right?

After I showed appropriate wifely concern, and determined that he was not in fact calling from his grave, I asked if there were by any chance DOGS in the dog kennel in the road? Because, dude, that would be weird, right? And kind of mean to dogs.

But there weren't. And I'm pretty sure Big Dude thought that was a ridiculous question, but I thought it was a vital factoid to have and also it would've been super fun to call the news channels and tell them about it. But there weren't. Bo-ring.

Later that night, I overheard him talking to the gigantic middle-schooler about it.

Big Dude: So. I had a harrowing experience today.

Kid (without looking up from tv, cellphone and a science book all at once): You did?   Wait.    A what?

BD: A harrowing experience.

Kid (looking up, worried voice): Dad? Heroin? You had a heroin experience...? Wha?

BD: Har-row-wing. A HAIR. OH. ING. Experience. Harrowing.

Kid (eyes back on the tv and stuffing a pound and a half of bologna smeared with mustard down his piehole): Oh. What is that?

BD: You know, like a stressful experience.

Kid (texting twenty 7th graders an important message regarding meeting their true love tomorrow if only they forward this message to twenty other 7th graders):  OH! Harrowing. Yeah? Really. What was it?

BD: Well, I was driving down the highway and there was a huge cage in the middle of traffic, just sitting there and...

Kid: (dropping cellphone and coughing up a box of Girl Scout Thinmints):  Holy Crap! Was there an ape in there?

BD (wishing we didn't have the Cartoon Network and that he'd married someone nicer to pass genes along to his offspring):  No. No, there was NOT an ape in there.

Kid: Then why was the cage there?

BD: It just fell there. In the road. Someone left it.

Kid: Without the ape? 

BD: Don't you have homework or something?

Flashback Friday. If they'd had Facebook in 1922, this would totally be my Great Grandmother's profile picture.

I had the very awesome fortune to have the coolest great grandmother that ever walked the planet. I could go on for days and days with stories about her overall wonderfulness.

Like how she lived for 99-1/2 years flirting innocently with any male I'd seen her around for 90 of them, including my dad and husband. How she memorized sports statistics and the children's names of celebrities and newscasters. How she was a baseball fan and if she wasn't at a Denver Bears game, she was listening to it on the radio, how she played dominoes and Yahtzee to "keep her mind sharp" and it worked because she lived on her own in her own house until a few months before she died. How she was the stepmother to my grandmother, but accepted her as daughter - even though they were just 15 years apart. Never mind that she divorced my grandmother's father, she kept my grandmother as her daughter for the rest of her life. My mother held her so dear that I have her first name as my middle name, and if I'd had a female child, I would have named that child after her.  My parents were married at her house. The first New Year's Eve I stayed up until midnight was at her house and I wore her bathrobe the whole night. I was six. The robe was way too big.

In short, she rocked. And I know that she wasn't just a cool old lady, because I have this.

"To nightgowns!"

You'll notice she's the only one stylish enough for a floral nightgown. Look at all the losers in their boring white. And she's the only one laughing. She was always laughing. This was in a young ladies boarding house she lived in with what appears to be her sister and a bunch of lame girls who are apparently worried about Prohibition. Party on, Great Grandma!

Here she is at age 98, with her great-great-grandson, my oldest little dude.

Still laughing. And cracking up a 4 month old.

The day I took this picture, she told me, "Don't have any more kids. It'll kill ya." She meant it, but I didn't take her seriously, because when I was 15, she told me, "Never learn to drive!"  When I said, "but I want to, Great Grandma!"  She said slyly, "But if you don't learn to drive...the men will HAVE to take you with them..."

Interesting ploy. If only she'd said, "If you don't learn to drive, you'll never have to go to the grocery store."  Now that would've been some helpful advice.

Friday Flashback - Tandemonium.

Welcome to the first ever edition of LGBG's Friday Flashback! (applause) Which means two things. One...I stole the idea from my long-lost twin in Iowa that I've never met: Tracey, and two...I finally opened the scanner that I've owned for 10 months and have been using as a footrest under my desk.


Today's vintage circa 1967 Instamatic print features my daddy, an infant Little Girl Pre Glasses, (me) and the most bitchin' 1966 Rollfast Tandem bike EVER.

A few things to note:

• I can really rock a bonnet, no?

• Check out my dad's awesome Elvis hair and tortoise shell shades.

• And, see that basket? They used to put us kids in there. And ride around. Which was totally cool. Later, when my younger sister was born, she'd be up there in a baby seat, my parents would be on the bike seats, my older sister sat on the luggage rack, and I was somewhere... anyway, the whole fam damily could fit on this bike. It was like an eco-friendly open-air SUV before its time. Also it had a headlight. For night trips.

I have recently become obsessed with getting myself an exact replica of this bike. We live in a very bike-y neighborhood, all kinds of great places to go like taverns, parks, bars, taverns - all within biking distance on pretty tree-lined streets. And, didja know? The person on the back only has to pretend to pedal, so basically I could just ride around relaxing with a cool beverage and possibly even a book while Big Dude pedals me around and works out his thigh muscles. (Which are really fine the way the are but he seems to enjoy working out, so who am I to deny him?) A win-win, really.

So...I'm searching for a black and white 1966 Rollfast Tandem Bicycle which means, of course, they're rare. Apparently, they made a gazillion red ones, but not too many black ones.  I've found them on craigslist in other states, but no one will ship me a $200, 200 pound bike.

I also found this ridiculously cool painting of one.

Sweet, huh? The artist's name is Taliah Lempert and she paints all kinds of bikes...you can see them here. I emailed her while ago and asked her to buy her Rollfast and she said, "NOPE, it's too awesome!" Or something to that effect. So I just ordered a print of her painting instead which will no doubt be completely fantastic. But I still want the damned bike.

If any of you out there in webosphere have a dusty black Rollfast tandem bike in your garage/barn/grandma's basement/neighbor's toolshed, let me know...in the meantime, I'm trying to fit a 135 pound twelve year old on the handlebars of my mountain bike and it's just embarrassing.

UPDATE! I just got an email from Taliah (The bike artist. Try to keep up.) and she's going to paint a whole new version of the Rollfast Tandem in acrylics on paper, kind of like this painting and I'm so excited I could dance like Snoopy because honestly I was totally going to have to redecorate most of my house (or move to a loft) to match that red background. If you know someone who appreciates the bike form as art, please go to her website and get them some nifty notecards or a shirt or something. She's totally cool.

Look what I made.

On June 3, 1997, I lay in a hospital bed slurping orange popsicles, talking to my buddy Scott and Big Dude, my husband of exactly ten months. I had been given several large doses of something or other that would insure that before the day ended, I would have a baby boy. He was induced because my sister had just given birth to a toddler a few months prior, and I had whined to my doctor to not let me gestate another minute lest the creature inside outgrow me.

He was born exactly on his due date. Little did I know, he would continue to be that predictable and reliable for the next twelve years.

As most mothers, I could write for hours about this child, and I have elsewhere. Today though, I will just say that for all the dumb mistakes I've made in life, and all the silly things I have done...you, Calvin, are the best thing I have ever created or influenced. I give Daddy most of the credit, but you deserve the highest praise for consistently being an outstanding individual. You are a poet, an artist, an athlete, a friend. You are kind, thoughtful, genuine, creative, honest and funny as hell. Your big round head contains only the purest of thought, your heart is that of a lion. Today, at twelve years old, you are one inch shorter than me, and two pounds lighter. Your huge shoes dwarf mine - which really bugs me, because I was hoping to buy you a bunch of really cool boots while we wore the same size and I didn't because we were only the same size for about fifteen minutes.

I love that you're still scared of the dark. I love that you have the vocabulary of a college English professor, but you can't spell "when." I love that the day before the first day of middle school you spent the day playing in a big box like my little boy. I love that you'll learn Rick Springfield songs on your guitar just for me. I love that you are shaped like my Daddy so I get to be reminded of him everyday. I love that you cream kids on the football field, and then reach over and pick them up and make sure they're okay. I love that you are loved by so many people and that your best friend is 67 years old. I love that you don't need braces.

You are the best person I've ever met, and I hope someday to be just like you.

Love, Mom.

Breaking and Entering, only no Entering.

Late Wednesday night, or rather, very early Thursday morning, I was awakened from much needed slumber by the crashing of glass downstairs. I ignored it and rolled over, always happy to reintroduce a cheek to a cool spot on the pillow. Seconds later, I was whacked in the arm by a 6’1” person who hissed sleepily, “What whazzat?”

However. I knew full-well what it was. A burglar had crashed through our patio door and was banging around in the kitchen looking for money, keys, laptops, crack. So I said, “I dunno” and went back to sleep. More rummaging around downstairs. More hissing from the Dude. “It sounded like breaking glass!” I replied calmly so as not to alert him, “Sounded more like plastic to me.” Because that’s better.

The large person I share a bed with harrumphed and went to the bathroom. I considered all possible scenarios, and then decided that it was probably the pony-sized hunting dog scavenging countertops for a bite of something – anything – to eat. When you are 110 pounds of sniffing machine, you must constantly be on the prowl for crumbs. Apparently. I heard lots of labradork clickity clicking steps on the hardwood below which only confirmed my suspicions.

While generally I am not above grabbing a 9-iron and investigating strange noises, this particular night I reasoned that it was the boy’s turn for the following reasons.
1. He was already up.
2. I had to get up at very early the next morning.
3. It was probably the dumb dog anyway.
4. I was extremely comfortable.
So when he exited the restroom I asked him in my very sleepiest voice ever if he’d please go see what it was his dog was up to. There was more harrumphing, but he hiked up his boxers and made the trek downstairs.

Four seconds after he left, I realized that was perhaps not a good idea for the following reasons.
1. What if it wasn’t the dog?
2. He’s not holding a bat or a phone or a golf club or anything
3. How can he fight off a bad guy without his glasses?
4. Geez, woman, have you ever SEEN a horror movie? NEVER split up! NEVER send one member of the party off to the jaws of the monster.

Obviously, then, there was someone evil in our house. I heard the dog walking because the dog was following him around begging, because really? Labradors are not exactly guard dogs. This is when I heard MORE breaking glass. More doggy toenail clicking. And then, a sound that honestly sent ice water through my warm, sleepy veins.

Shoe steps.

Followed by the back door opening and closing.

And more shoe steps.

And the husband didn’t come back. And then he didn’t come back some more.

So. This is how it all ends, huh? Me, trapped on the second story with the kids while our protector and provider lays dying on the kitchen floor. I bet he struggled. I bet he tried to kick their asses. But a chloroform soaked dishtowel and a broken beer bottle splitting your jugular will take down any man, no matter how strong or determined. I think he said he wanted to be cremated, not buried…I guess I should sprinkle his ashes in his favorite hunting places? Or maybe take them to Alaska. He always wanted to go there and we hadn’t done it. Oh the boys, how will they turn out without a father? I’m going to be a shitty single mom – I have no patience and I really enjoy the quiet created by video games. They'll probably grow their hair too long and date cheap women all because their father was violently murdered in their kitchen. And how will I ever sell this house? It'll be on the news, you know. And everyone will drive by slowly saying, "that's the house where..."

But I didn’t have time to grieve, I had to think of the children. There would be plenty of time for sorrow while I (stood in line at the bank with the life insurance check) saved their lives. I began formulating a plan to quietly get the children out of their bedroom windows and onto the garage roof. Then, I would shimmer down a gutter, break into a basement window, pry open the gunsafe, load a .12 gauge and come back up the kitchen steps and show these mo-fo’s who’s boss. Or I could call the police. Either one. Yeah, actually, I could call the police from the phone by the bed, that’d be good, too.

But you know what? No. Dammit, I wasn’t going to let some hoodlum all jacked up on herion or Ritalin or Miller Lite mess up MY kitchen. Broken glass AND blood? That’s bullshit, man. The cleaning lady won’t be here for two days. I decided to defend my man and my turf. This bastard was going down before he got a chance to find my secret stash of Mexican vanilla.

I donned my glasses and grabbed a miniature World Series commemorative bat from the kid's room. I was going to show that clown what “Rocktober” really meant. I tippy-toed downstairs only to find all the lights on and the Big Dude wearing boxers and Birkenstock clogs and wielding a broom. The kitchen floor shimmered with bits of broken glass. From a drinking glass. That had been on the counter until the pony-sized dog decided there was something behind it that he wanted. Namely, a bowl of bulldog nuggets that we have to keep on the counter overnight for the sole reason that if we don't, labradorks gobble it up.

I put down the bat, put on flip flops and spent the next hour with wet paper towels covering every inch of the kitchen floor.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Which, of course, meant that I had Crystal Gayle stuck in my head, because it is impossible to be awake at three o’clock in the morning and not think to yourself, “…and it looks like it’s gonna be another sleepless night…” and then I was wondering if Crystal Gayle was on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor cleaning up glass shards, would she pile her five feet of hair on the top of her head and would it be hard to balance up there, or would she just let it drag all over, effectively assisting in picking up the glass? And then I decided I should just STAY up because, now it was FOUR o’clock in the morning, and why not.

Don't let the bedbugs bite.

In consideration of a leaning tower of deadlines at the job for which I actually get paid, I present you with a bedtime conversation I had this weekend with the 9-year-old.

Pete: Mom, what nicknames did you have when you were little?
Me: Besides "Wondergirl?" They called me Penne.
Pete: No, like “Sweetie” or something. Did anyone call you Sweetie? Or "Honey?"
Me: (Refraining from saying “Shitpot. They called me Shitpot.” Which, well, they really did.) Well, my grandma called us all “Babydoll.” She had a tiny little bit of southern softness in her voice, so it was very nice. And my mom called us Pumpkin when we were little.
Pete: Oh. Because I really like it when you call me “Buddy.”
Me: Well, then. Goodnight, Buddy.
Pete: Goodnight, Pumpkin.

Broad stature, massive head, short legs and unwavering loyalty.

We have two labradorks that the Big Dude Little Glasses uses for bird hunting although they believe their real purpose is to make sure that no one steals the furniture and they insure this by sprawling their ginormous bodies across it at all possible times. After several years of living with these two and their bald headed friend, I got used to the three of them so it seemed weird when they'd all leave to go hunting and I'd be home alone with nothing slobbering or panting near me. Also, he'd take the dogs.

I decided that what I needed was a house dog. But not some silly little floofy ball of fur...a sturdy dog with the highest levels of dignity and strength. But one that wouldn't hunt or jump on furniture, and preferably one that was too short to ever be fascinated with the crotches of houseguests.

I chose the English bulldog. I shopped for months until the perfect puppy was born, and then I paid for him to be flown here from another state. I named him Tater Tug Don't Hunt. (Tug for short). I took a week off of work to acclimate him. I trained him. I walked him. I made him MY dog. Only problem is - he made the Big Dude his person. He is IN LOVE with the Big Dude. And, the Big Dude loves him back.

They say that people look like their pets, so I really should've known better.

There's really only so much a person can take.

I remember watching a documentary on the Dust Bowl when I was a kid and thinking it must have been the most dismal awful boring time, mostly because you couldn't go outside and play and there didn't seem to be any toys in their houses, and worst of all, I was pretty sure the whole world was still in black in white which meant you couldn't even color.

They said that a lot of the families moved to California, which I figured was a really good idea, because even though they didn't have jobs or houses waiting for them in California, who cares? They could just hang out at the beach or Disneyland, right? Which was totally IN COLOR, so that'd be good. Then, they said that of the families who stayed, some died because THEIR MOMS WENT CRAZY AND KILLED THEM, something an 8 year old really wants to hear. I looked at my mom and said, "How could a mommy kill the whole family?"

Without really looking up from what she was doing, she said something to the effect of, "After months of cleaning and washing and trying to stuff wet rags under the doors to keep the dirt out just to have it come back in? Yeah. I can see how they'd just give up and kill everyone and themselves. Sure."

And today, as I face this, I totally understand too.
Twenty-three socks with no mates. TWENTY-THREE, people.

I'm moving to Disneyland.

Yo Mama.

Hello little blog. Sorry I’ve been away. I know that you’ve probably not missed me at all, or my liberal use of commas and made-up words. Anyway, I’m back.

Thought you should know that while I was away several things occurred which I PROMISE I’ll write more about this week. Probably. Maybe. I’ll try to. They included:

1. A person who weighs as much as I do vomited on me from above.
2. The delightful overnight attendant at Kinko’s took my “Call me if there’s anything you need” literally and rang me up at 4:15 am to see if it was okay that he processed my order one hour EARLIER than he originally promised.
3. I drove 160 miles for a meeting that had been cancelled. “Oh? Did you not get the email?” Um. Nope. Didn’t get the email.
4. Did I mention that someone my own size (not a cute little baby with tiny little cute throwups) MY OWN SIZE threw up, or rather, DOWN. On Me. From above.

After a long weird week it was Mother’s Day. And for all their faults (like for example, throwing up/down on me) I have some very cool children with a great daddy who always make sure I have really nice Mother’s Days. This year featured a lovely breakfast of cheese omelet, bacon, toast and mimosas. The nine-year old was waiter and server, the 11 y/o the chef, and daddy was bartender and sous. It pretty much rocked, although they were perhaps a bit overzealous in their grocery shopping – I found two gallons of OJ and three…THREE bottles of my very favorite proseco for the mimosas. What were they thinking? I can’t drink three bottles of proseco in one day unless it's Thanksgiving. Sillies.

My gift was a potted calla lily and this here digital picture frame which I loaded up with bulldog photos mixed cleverly with the preloaded photos of people I don’t know getting married and going to Hawaii. I like having strangers' photos popping up in the dining room so when company's over they can say, "Oh -who is that lovely couple?" And I can make up good stories about them and how they done me wrong and that's why you never see them around here no more...and then I can look kind of sideways at them, like Clint Eastwood, and say, "You know what I mean, don't you? I think you do." And then those people will be kind of scared of me but also totally impressed and want to hang out with me more since I'm mysterious.


I also received these lovely handmade notes from the boys:From the nine year old. I like that he uses proper proofreader's marks. It says:

Dear Mom Happy mothers day Thank you for helping out (deleted) doing everything Around the house and I feel Bad for you BECAUSE there is only one mothers day Every 365 days. And I think there should be At least 90 mothers days I (heart) MoM

And he didn't bother to sign it because he knows he doesn't have to since he's the only one around here besides me that uses proper proofreader's marks. Also I've inflicted more guilt on him, and that's obvious by the content.

From the 11 year old:

mosT peoplE would fold thE paper thE otheR waY, anD writeE oN thE “toP”, and only puT capitals aT thE beginning of sentenceS, anD spelL evrithin jusT righT. i brokE awaY from thaT jusT to shoW speciaL and rarE YOU are. You rock! (after reading this message, please begin taking dabs at your eyes. PS I hope you didn’t read this part out loud.)

He obviously gets his weird sense of humor from his father.

I was then treated to a performance by "Velvet Elvis" – a local performer who says he knows he doesn’t look like Elvis…he looks like a PAINTING of Elvis. And we took my mother in law because I try to instill in my children that you should be nice to your mommy even when she’s old and insane and won't get a job even though she's completely capable and has a nursing degree and she's not even all that nice to your wife even though your wife gave her two perfect grandsons. Because that's the right thing to do. Also I'm covering my own ass for the future. Call it insurance.

And that was my day. Around 11 pm Eastern time, I realized I'd not even gotten ahold of my own mother so I sent her an email. Which I am pretty sure is the equivalent of scribbling a note on printer paper. At least I didn't puke on her.

Sunday Morning Coming Down.

I’m not sure if it's due to zealous religious education as children, laziness, indecision or the fact that we’re pretty much hungover on Sundays, but the Big Dude and I never really been hip on formal religion. We aren't heathens; there are rules, there are morals. There are most certainly commandments. “Thou shall not drink Mommy’s Pepsi if it smells like aged oak barrels from Lynchburg, Tennessee” being a big one…but we’ve never really scrubbed the little dudes behind the ears and drug them off in stiff clothing to sit on uncomfortable seats and be told by other people how to act. I don’t feel too awfully bad about it, because they’re very good, respectful kids, and they’re pretty much scared enough of me that I don’t need to add a village, thanks anyway Hilary, but every once in awhile I wonder if they’ll run for the first cult that approaches them on a college campus just out of curiosity.

Son number two, the one known as “Pete” even though that totally is not his name, is the most religious one in the family – most likely due to an eight-month stint at an Episcopalian preschool. The school wasn’t that religious if you showed up late everyday and missed the mini-chapel time – however, his teacher was a nice southern Baptist woman who began every meal and snack time with a prayer of “Dear Jesus…” when you read that make sure “Jesus” has about nine syllables in it please. When he was three, he did enough prayin’ for all of us.

I also am Godmother to two beautiful 14 year olds and I probably should have tried a little harder to be some sort of influence on their religious education…besides holding them at a midnight Easter service 14 years ago, my biggest contribution has been that they read this blog and learn new and creative ways to use the F word without, you know, actually USING the F word. (Frick. Fahk. Friggin. Effing. And so on.) I’m thinking though, that their parents really did a very good job, and the Godmothering contract is only in case something would’ve happened to their parents, and then I would have needed to step in and drag them to church. Right? And so now they’re old enough that they don’t really need that from me anyway, and now I can just advise them about boys and buy them beer. Not really. Maybe. I can’t be sure. We’ll have to see how that one goes.

Anyway, all this rambling about our somewhat lackadaisical approach is really just to get the point that this morning, the 9 year old unofficially known as Pete was having a dramatic moment dreading state standardized testing and proclaimed, “I just prayed to Jesus that Zeus would strike me with a lightening bolt.” So, maybe we might just kinda have some work to do. Hopefully it's not too late to get him a Godmother.

I'm totally writing this while hiding in the garage so that I don't have to create my own wealth with an amazing opportunity.

I kind of hate to admit it, but I have a cleaning lady. Well, she’s not really a lady, she’s more like my husband’s step aunt. So she’s kind of a cleaning relative-by-late-in-life-second-marriage. In any case, I would love to brag about how I can do it all and keep the house clean whilst living with three males and three dogs, but DUDE. I totally can’t keep up. There's three people who pee standing up and only one of me. Not only do I work 50 hours or so a week, I also cook most nights, pack lunches, do laundry, and oh – write this high-larious blog you’re reading, which just sho happens to rake in tens of cents per month to help nourish my ginormous children. AND remain THIS hot. I’m justifying, of course, because I feel guilty that someone else cleans my house. Of course, I totally clean it FIRST… because, seriously? She’s family. What if she found something embarrassing like a PBJ under the couch and told her sister who told her husband who is my husband’s dad, and what if then they all thought less of me because holy crap she didn’t even know there was a sandwich under the couch? A frickin’ sandwich? Oh, poor Doug. He really should’ve married that girl from high school with the big bottom and skinny legs. SHE would’ve found that sandwich. Anyway. I figure as long as she makes less per hour than me, it’s a frickin’ value, because then I’m not stomping around completely hating and resenting the shit out of the three males and three dogs that live here. Well except the bulldog. I would never resent him. Because you are perfect, aren’t you bulldog? Yes you are! Yes you are! Who’s the good bully? You are!

However – after a year of cleaning lady bliss, things are starting to get weird. I’ve mentioned before that I like things straight. In squares. Not angles, not circles, not anything slightly damned curvilinear. STRAIGHT. Not a control issue or obsession at all, by the way, just the way that THINGS SHOULD BE DONE. Therefore, accent pillows sit flat (properly) on one side whether they are on a bed or sofa. Decorative crap on shelves sits parallel to the shelf. Because that is how it should be. Apparently, not so in Cleaning Ladyland. I return home every Friday to a home that smells lemony-fresh but everything in it is slightly askew. Pillows sit at jaunty angles on their tippy corners, rugs are turned diagonally in a room, little statue thingys and vases and books for Pete’s sake, are all turned on their corners. Two square green vases that sit next to each other on a square damned shelf are turned into diamonds. It makes my frickin’ head hurt. Now it’s like a game. I make it all straight, she dusts it and puts it back at a perfect angle. I imagine her thinking happily, "Oh, that poor dear. She can't decorate at all, can she? Here, let me fix it for her!" (But, yay! She dusted it!) I come home and sniff out all the imbalanced yin and set it carefully back to yang, holding my breath the entire time and trying to figure out if it’s all worth it. Yes, I decide. Of course it’s worth it because I haven’t touched the vacuum cleaner nor murdered any offspring for their slovenly ways.

In other news, though – she’s decided that she aspires to more, and has ventured into the dangerous world of multi-level marketing. For which I applaud her, because hey, it makes her happy. Generally, when folks I know are brave enough to approach me with these amazing opportunities, I am happy to oblige by buying whatever it is they’re representing, even though what they really want me to do is schlep more of the unusable stuff for them…so when she asked me I was all set to be nice, but then I thought, “WAIT! What if she gets so successful she doesn’t have to clean my house anymore?” So now I just hide from her. Because that’s what families do.

I should mention before anyone judges me that she doesn’t clean my kids' rooms. She vacuums them, but only because she happens to be standing near them with a vacuum. They are completely responsible for the overall tidiness, dust levels and piles of crap content of those spaces. Unless they wanna get jobs and pay a relative to clean their rooms, it ain’t happening. Because not that I’ve lived this or anything, but I’ve heard terrible tales of mommies keeping their boys’ rooms clean for them, and then the boys never learn to pick up after themselves and then they marry nice ladies who go insane and have to hire their in-laws to clean the house even though said in-laws turn everything crooked and stalk them selling stuff.

If you are employed by Child Protective Services just go on ahead to the next blog now, and have a nice day.

Actual conversation I just had with a certain eleven-year-old male person to whom I am parent and legal guardian.

Him: I hope I don't die.
Me: Yeah, me too, buddy.
Him: Because I ate gun powder yesterday.
Me: You should be fine, just don't eat any matches today.

Further proof that it's strictly their father's fault that they've made it this far.

Mother's Little Helper.

Generally, Big Dude Little Glasses and I discourage the boys spending quality time with electronics. We’re kinda “go play outside” people, so the Little Dudes don’t watch much TV, they don’t play on the computer, they own a completely outdated and somewhat embarrassing PS2 rather than a cool Wii…and, this next part is bordering on cruelty, so if you’re a social services officer, please hop over to one of those scrapbooking blogs now…THEY HAVE NEITHER GUITAR HERO OR ROCK BAND. I know. How will they get by in college? We’re sorta counting on their skills playing real instruments to carry them through, but I admit we are indeed taking a risk with their social success.

The only reason we even own the PS2 is so we can have “alone time” while they’re awake. Getting lucky during daylight hours involves first saying “Hey guys…wanna play video games?” (when they were little it was the only reason we purchased Blues’ Clues videos.) In our house offering permission for video gaming is akin to grabbing your spouse in the small of the back, pulling them towards you and whispering breathily in their ear, “Dang baby. You hot.”

However, I just walked through a perfectly silent room with children in it. They both had little white earbuds in their heads, and lovely, cult-induced trance-like stares. They didn’t even know I was there. I could have had a grownup conversation right next to them with zero interruption. They didn’t need me to get them anything to eat. They weren’t begging for an air soft gun. They weren’t whining for a sleepover. They had absolutely nothing to say to me and they didn’t need a thing from me. Which begs the question: Where the hell were these things when they were babies? I was supposed to be thankful for the advanced technology of a stupid diaper genie and somewhere in Steve Jobs head there was the iPod? I have seriously bad timing.

I suppose I should make them take them off and interact with their family, but why? It’s so damned….peaceful. I guess that’s why my parents always encouraged me going to my room and listening to my music. They even got me a super cool stereo with tape to tape recording capabilities AND a record player. I was lucky, because while my friends moms were saying “turn it down,” MY mom was surprising us with bigger speakers and new Rick Springfield records. It was really…EEWWWWW! Oh holy crap, I just realized they were doing it WHILE I WAS IN THE HOUSE. And enticing me with electronics to get me out of the way. How sick. It’s just wrong. And brilliant.

How to tell if you live next door to us.

1. You find golf practice balls in your shrubbery and on your roof.
2. You know all the riffs to Sweet Home Alabama as heard through a Stratocaster Jr.
3. You have woken to see naked children jumping on a trampoline over the fence.
4. You have been attacked by water balloons while relaxing on your patio.
5. You have heard polka music wafting over the sounds of a family reunion.
6. You have helped carry a keg up the steps for a family reunion.
7. You have seen a bulldog sleeping on the back of a sofa like a 50 pound cat.
8. You know that Labor Day weekend there will be a CSU Rams flag flying proudly even when the CSU Rams suck, because there’s just no reason to like the Buffs even if they're better.
9a. You can tell what hunting season it is by what type of camouflage is drying outside.
9b. You can tell it’s early bow hunting season if the lawn is being mowed by a girl.
10. You’ve had children offer to exterminate pesky pigeons /squirrels/ mice / racoons for you with a Red Ryder BB gun.
11. You have at least one window with a pockmark from a Red Ryder BB gun.