Tits on a boar

Fox asked me why men have nipples. Naturally, he was in the tub at the time, soaping up, and as he says, "got to thinkin'".

They're pointless, as they do not feed babies, they sit there, under your clothes, and sometimes, on some people, grow hair.

Will mine grow hair?

I've no idea, to either of those queries.

One, I looked it up in the anatomy book for my classes: no one seems to have any idea why men have nipples - let's face it, it's not as though suddenly they are going to take over the growing of baby followed by actually feeding one. How do I know this? Most men (heaven forbid I include one with the constitution of a Viking) can hardly handle the Common Cold. A visit from Mother Nature herself, not just once, but monthly? Dear. God. Above. If the thought of momentary blue balls scares most men into finding out what internet porn is all about, cramps would send them straight to the gallows.

Perhaps, men have nipples so they don't feel left out. Left out of what, exactly, I'm not sure - but that was the only plausible answer I could come up with on such short notice. Perhaps, it's so we (read: women) have something to focus on other than a great, gaping, white belly at the beach; the hair part? I explained, was genetic. Some guys get hair, some guys don't. You know, Almond Joy's got nuts, Mound's don't.

Prepare yourself, for this one brought me to my knees: did my grapefruits have hair?

Uh........no. Ladies do not, as a general rule, grow hair on their nipples. They exist, on us, to provide a useful function, and growing hair would detract from that function. You don't drink out of a bottle covered in dog fur, do you? I thought not. So, again, I explained, genetically, ladies don't have hairy nipples. They are designed as a food source; a new baby would choke on hair. I gagged just thinking about it.

I was aiming for a matter of fact voice.

I think I was failing.

I did have the This Isn't Phasing Me In The Least Face on. I was beginning to reconsider the whole Let's Be Comfortable Discussing Our Bodies thing, telling him to wait until the 8th grade, when he could ask some health teacher all these questions, and perhaps, she'd have a more reasonable answer than I do. He won't wait until the 8th grade, and heaven help me if he suddenly starts inquiring in the middle of his third grade classroom. Since they've already been treated to the delightful discussion on how to perform a thoracotomy, I figure, I should spare them this conversation.

I struggled on for a bit longer...perhaps they provide a focal point for the muscles that house the mediasteinum, which hides your heart and lungs in the safety of your ribcage. Perhaps, they're used as a navigating tool when assessing nerve and muscle function. Or maybe, they're there so you and your friends can flick them when your being stupid.

Google, ps., is fabulous.

According to Google.com, (which then referenced the New England Journal Of Medicine) there is indeed a reason men have nipples: Darwin skipped deleting the nipples on men when selecting out the "unneeded" pieces of male anatomy. That's right. Darwin decided (or Mother Nature's version of evolution....could be She was going for faster maturity rates, thus leaving pointless chest accessories intact) there were bigger fish to fry.

It is also true, that the "male" parts of a zygote (fancy word for the pre-polywog state of gestation) form after the female parts - ie, the genetics to build the outside is carried by the smarter sex - the X chromosome, whereas, the "after thought" pieces come from the Y chromosome. Really, in technical terms, it would appear the only thing a Y chromosome does is add a penis, and delete a good section of impulse control.

Well.

I'm pretty sure that was the intention of the author; the article got rather boring rather quickly, so I skimmed over the boring parts, filled in some blanks, and voila'! I may now explain to Fox, why it is, exactly that guys have nipples.

He wanted a flashier reason.

He was less than impressed.

So if this guy Darwin, was supposed to delete nipples on men, because they don't do anything, and that's what happens when stuff evolves, then why do women have hair on their legs that they shave off?

Good question, Fox, good question.

'No pants.

Snow pants: dug out from closet. Both pairs.

That's right: I have two, nearly identical pairs of pink (gee, shocker, I know) snow pants. Technically, boarding pants, but why split hairs? Pay attention to the nearly identical portion of that last statement....one pair is for use on ski slopes, long walks with people, or those days when I'd like to masquerade as somewhat cutie, while staying warm, knowing in my heart that I resemble one of those colored marsh-mellows. The ones with no waist.

The other pair is Pucker's Pair. The no-no-no!!! pants. The I Tried To Stop Her From Ripping Them Open Pants, but wasn't quick enough.

Since she ate through one of the lower cargo pockets to get at something she deemed fabulously tasty (read: smashed up Tums, all three of them, along with the plastic bag - yes, all accounted for, we may breath a sigh of relief) I have this pair simply for walking Stupid. As I am still generally carrying around an open bag of poop, awaiting her latest prize before dumping, I highly doubt anyone even notices the tear in one leg of the pants. I'm not even sure eyes wander past the open, now steaming, plastic bag.

I thank the Big Guy upstairs that the bags, the sturdy ones are black. They tend to hide the "prizes" I still find.....it's one thing to carry around poop. It's quite another to carry around poop wrapped up in a Snickers wrapper. Or, the glittery ones - note to self: glitter on ornaments is lick-able, removable, and does not, I repeat, does not break down in the digestive tract.

It's certainly festive. I'll grant her that.

Nothing say It's The Holidays! like red and silver sparkly logs. Or the glitter in her teeth. I think Santa might be bringing her her own toothbrush, and awful smelling toothpaste. Now, I might not have been brave enough to take this on, but really, I simply cannot have her running around smiling at all and sundry with glitter stuck in her teeth. We'll all tell a stranger that they've spinach hanging from between their front teeth - unless we don't like them, in which case, we simply carry on, letting them show off their inability to detect foreign substances between their own teeth, waiting to see who will belly up to the table to tell them: Dude, they're's like, stuff, between your teeth. Here's a toothpick.

There is so much to take in when we walk these days - I would know - I caught a glimpse of the pair of us, ready for our Morning Constitutional: snow pants, mittens with snow flakes on them, Morning Hair on full display, ratty pink snow pants, Fattypants in her coat, glitter in her teeth. Quite akin to stumbling across a horrific traffic accident, or, someone trying out the new legging, long off the shoulder sweater cinched with a low belt look with ankle boots - you're not quite sure where to look first.....staring at all of it to take it in? Absolutely.

Other people in the neighborhood, Dog People, we know as the weather gets colder, we may only identify either by the pup on the lead, the pup in a coat we recognize on a lead, or, perhaps, maybe, the coat on the human. I have trouble identifying some folks I speak to regularly, (pre-poop stops, obviously) when dressed in winter gear.

I do not have this problem.

Everyone knows who I am.

Sadly, it's not by my dog, or even by the Slimming Coat she has, with the big black stripe down the back.....

No.

I'm the only one around, known by my 'No Pants.

Ex-Annoyance

You know those obnoxious Gabba Gabba, Yabba Dabba, whatever in hell they are called contraptions? The ones where your child, in a wholly annoying voice, tapes himself, only to replay it back to himself, as well as anyone in earshot.

I've heard that hate is a strong word, one should save for truly hateful things: ex-husbands leap to mind here. So I suppose, in the Grand Scheme Of Things, I don't hate this device.

I do, however, strongly loathe, detest, and abominate not only the damn thing itself, but the a-hole who invented it in the first place. I'm also not fond of the moron who marketed this particular contraption to single fathers who delight in finding, buying, and sending home one annoying toy after another. Simply to piss off the other parent. As if they've not already completed that task. With flying colors. For those of you on speaking terms with your ex? Mazle Tov. Or whatever. I am not that lucky. I am plagued by these kinds of "gifts".

So I wasn't fond of the gum ball machine.

It's not even the cavity part, or the it's an inappropriate gift, chosen by someone who clearly couldn't think of anything else. Since every child that has visited this house has put their sweaty, grubby hands in it, I suspect that machine alone is assisting in building immune systems stronger than that of a cockroach: the world will end, the only beings left alive the roach, and the kids that dug around in the top heavy ball pit. I stopped Fox from ripping off his pals by charging them quarters to partake in this time honored childhood ritual of germ transference. Hey, if you're going to contract something antibiotic worthy in my house, you get it for free.

I also wasn't terribly fond of the pseudo-musical instrumentation devices sent to this house - the ones that when played, (say, in the confines of an automobile) deafen everyone around them, sort of how those morons who blare rap music manage to rock four cars in each direction from them, at a red light. The Real Life Sounding Machine Gun. What child needs that? What parent needs to be scared shitless by that?

Not I.

I've overlooked the enormous amount of stocking candy sent home; honestly, he'll never be as creative and clever with the stocking as I am. So actually, looking at it that way, I'm kind of relieved he's unable to replicate my astounding talent at stuffing stockings with whimsical whatnots, cleverly chosen mind games, wee tidbits that always bring smiles when opened.

I do not need to resort to the damn Gabba Gabba.

I also know for a fact (paranoid, as it might seem) that his father enjoys this stupid ass toy not because Fox enjoys it, but because it annoys the living daylights out of ME. He sends one home, every year. Every year, I exile that toy (if one may even call it a toy - I think the PLO might spill their guts if they listened to my guy using this thing over and over and over and over and over - use this and Barney? We'd know exactly where Osama is) to various places in the house, assuming, (because I'm a moron) that I can outsmart, out-hide my little guy.

I'm not that clever.

He's found it in all my favorite hiding spots. The freezer. The baking pantry. The extra rolls of toilet paper that hang out in his own bathroom - please, he's a man-in-training. They do not, under any circumstances replace their own rolls. Any mother knows this. Any real man can admit to it. Last year, I went all Agatha Christie with it: best place to hide something? In plain sight.

Onto the (ahem) cluttered corner of the counter he usually refuses to go near, lest any of the girly things touch him. (The one standing tampon that lives in the pen jar, on the off chance a girlfriend finds herself requiring one while taking down a phone message, or brewing herself a cup of coffee)

I awoke to the Not At All Dulcet Tones Of The Truly Smitten With This Fucking Toy. Various variations on the Spongebob laugh (a real ball buster if ever there was one - that laugh goes up me one side, and right back down the other) get played over and over and over. Along with my personal favorite (do note the heavy sarcasm dripping here off every typed word) the grating sound of my exes voice. Over and over again. Since that already plays through the old noggin a time or two, generally saying something nasty and unkind, I needn't a refresher course. For damn sure not first thing on Christmas morning. Or any morning. But that one for sure.

The In Plain Sight Hiding Place?

Sucks. Not worth the effort. Actually, neither is trying to be clever enough to get rid of it, unnoticed; either way, he finds it, fills it with what I'll lovingly refer to as Voice Experimentation, and replays it. A. Lot.

He never tires of this. Finds it downright hysterical.

Like that drunk guy, in the bar, in college, that always tried to pick up chicks using the My Mom Told Me This Joke, You'll Love It........followed by removing his glass eye as a further attempt to get laid. Both? Supposed to be hysterically entertaining. Yes, I do know this from horrifying personal experience; it was the absolute last time I played wingman for Shannon. Fine. I'll admit, the roommate? Pretty yummy. The one-eyed wonder dud? I threw up in my mouth a little.......until I got to the ladies room, where I threw up in earnest. I do not often go to bars expecting to find some guy slam his hand into the side of his face to pop out an eyeball, show it off, and ask me to go home with him. I never went home with anyone, even the yummiest that asked; I for damn sure wasn't going home with that. I did wonder what else popped off him at a moments notice. I've decided wondering is far better than knowing.

However, now that that has occurred? Really, not much shocks me in bars anymore.

What does shock me, is that my son, five years in, still finds this toy one of the greatest inventions of mankind. Maybe he's practicing the fine art of "dating", as a way to simply hear his own voice (we've all been on dates with that - though, I should be honest: date. Not, dates.) while convincing himself he's fabulously amusing. If he were paying attention, the date, not necessarily my son - though perhaps he should get used to this face - he'd notice the I Hope He's Got His Gold Amex Ready. A, I'm ordering the most expensive thing on here, B, I'm getting it to go. C, I've already texted my girlfriend to get that famous Emergency From Home Call, signaling that as a dinner companion? You aren't even worth a peek at the coveted dessert menu. You'll be good fodder for the What The Fuck Was I Thinking game that occurs at the next girls night in, martini's optional.

I'm gearing up for this year's Battle Royale over this blasted thing. I've had some decent practice, since his cell phone does basically the same thing (God help me, please: give me the patience to not rip an expensive gifted device from his very hands and toss it out a window traveling at just shy the speed of sound) - I've relegated him to various spots in the house.

If only I'd soundproofed a room.

Any room.

Sending him into a freezing garage slows him down not a decibel: it increases, as now he needs to shout to stay toasty. The garage also has a nasty echo.

When you're out shopping this holiday season, and you see this cart, in the mall? With some weird Sort Of In College But Mostly Smoking Pot guy hawking these things as the Best Cheapest Entertainment Around! lurking over the miniature packaging? Take a good look around. Single fathers who hate (yes, I used that intentionally) their exes send these suckers home on a yearly basis. I saw one of these vendors, and I had this thought, for a brief moment - maybe, if I send him with one already, Fucktart can see just how irritating it truly is. He'd understand the pain.

Because it's me, it would totally backfire. Do you see how? Hmmm?

That's right.

Two of those bloody things would come back to this house.

I'd have double the annoyance I have now.

Quite frankly?

I'm all stocked up as it is. I needn't punish myself.

After all, that is what I have an ex for.

My Team

I've become one of ladies I used to make fun of. In a good way, mind you....but laugh at nonetheless.

As a gift, I received a year long, once a month cleaning service. Not Cleaning Lady, but Cleaning Ladies. Whom I adore. The same kind of adoration I reserve for special things, like The Capitol Grille, or, my child. Seriously, they're right up there with my child.

Whom clearly, I adore.

Now that we're all clear on just how I adore them, allow me to ruminate on the panic these lovely ladies ensue: they've a job to do. They've been hired to come and clean. Not just any old cleaning either, but this 25 point (or 22, or 27, I forget) point Healthy Home cleaning. (Quite needed now that Fox and I have been diagnosed with Strep. I could point fingers at the fact that I spoke to Mag's on the phone while she had it, so I could have contracted it that way, but more than likely, I got it the old fashioned way: off the handles of market carriages when The Stores run out of those handy dandy straight rubbing alcohol wipes - another item on the Adoration List) Right. My point. These ladies are arriving, tomorrow, to do this, for me.

And I, like every other woman with a Cleaning Lady I know, am cleaning the freaking house before they arrive. I tried to call Mag's, ask her to talk me down off the ledge of I Don't Really Need To Vacuum, since I'm so fond of the one lady that shows up with a vacuum strapped to her back - and it is, after all, what she's been hired to do. Paid handsomely, ps., to do so. So why do I feel the need to vacuum, or dust (well, let's not get carried away - I'm not tempted to dust in the least, ever, so that's a poor example) - I'll do the picking up part (which is really the part I detest) but I keep sending up fluffy clouds of Pucker fun, and I keep thinking:

They Will Judge Me By The Level To Which They Need To Clean. As though a quick pre-vac rates me higher on the List Of Houses They Enjoy Cleaning. I don't want to be up there with that lady, the one who has them change out her cat litter. Once. A Month. I don't even like cats and I pity that one. And. Geez. It's not like I'm asking them to Poop Police the Deck.

I whipped through the kitchen like a whirling dervish, only to find, I've not all that much energy to straighten (a term I'll use, uh, loosely - not more than an hour needed tops, but still) for the rest of the areas covered by The Team.

Oooohhhh. I like that. The Team. My Team. My Team Of Cleaning Ladies. My Team Of Cleaning Ladies Who Divide And Conquer faster than Napoleon ever did. (I just sort of plucked him randomly, by the way, so if it took him forever to do whatever he did in history, obviously, choose your own, better, more thought out conquerer) I stopped shy of cleaning the stove, or scrubbing out the sink; they even take all the stuff off the fridge doors, clean them, and hang the stuff back up. I know this. I watched them the last time.

But.........I have this, thing, some people call and obsession; how ugly does that sound? Yeah, that's what I thought too - about cleaning my floors. Floors so shiny they scare dogs. I'd love to have them so shiny sunlight blinds people when they arrive to visit. I own more products and electronic machinery I could go into business cleaning floors. I'm trying my best to leave them, all stored away, having even taken apart the ones that require water and fluids, in my attempt to keep my paws where they belong: putting away the last three loads of laundry, folding the sofa blankets - come to think of it, that's something else they do. Fold stuff.

If only they'd hang it up and put it away too. Perhaps iron.

I've been informed, that's an entirely different level of My Team than I currently have.

In fact, no one I know even knows of a Team like that, save for a dry cleaner, who does house calls.

Ps: none listed in the phone book.

Thus, to clean or not to clean?

Pucker looked at me as though I've nine heads, (sad, as I'm having an especially good hair day) answering me firmly, the same way I reprimand her when she eats my things:

NO MA'AM.

That's why you have The Team.

Never do today, what may be shoved until tomorrow.

Especially if someone else is going to do it for you.

Decorate with what's on hand....

My new table centerpiece for the seasons?

It's hip, it's timely, it's modern....it's downright frightening: a pillow case, striped, should you be interested, filled (and I mean filled) with candy. Sure, I did the Initial Purge: we removed everything to which I was allergic.

Four pieces: mounds, mounds, almond joy, mounds.

The freezer is well stocked with snickers, milky way bars, and even minty musketeers, should I feel the need to either break my teeth, or float one in some coffee on the one day I run out of creamer, whipped cream in a can, or ice cream. Seriously, in a pinch, any or all of the above works marvelously. One might assume, having made great strides to empty out the great walloping mound of poorly contained candies, I'd purged a good deal.

It's not good to lie so close to when Santa's coming.

Fox brought home damn near 400 HUNDRED pieces of candy, and that does not include the pieces that were left here after I stayed home to play Happy Door Opening Candy Pusher. I do wonder if it's escaped everyone else's notice that October is National Creepy Pedophile Month, you know, the one's we teach our children to not take candy from ever, and yet, we're quite happy to send them off, to gather gobs of the stuff from folks we may, or may not, know. There could very be a pedophile lurking among us, none of us the wiser, as we were so damn busy buying the freaking candy, two costumes (fucking dog ate the first one) and Exceedrin to get through the night we've totally neglected the most important aspect of Halloween: which creepy guy walking the streets with "kids" is The One?

Of course, since it's me, and I know won't rest until I know, I checked online: nearly fell off my Awaiting For Candy Grabbing Costumed Beings chair when I discovered that not only does one live nearish me?

He. Lives. Here.

Okay, right. Not physically in my house. Honestly, I may have dated a few suspects in the past, some with downright dubious histories....but Gosh, that's been years and an entire continent away at this point. To find out that one moved back in with his mother - and off on a tangent here, I totally understand the I Love My Child Unconditionally, but I draw the line at molesting anyone - then? You're dead to me, and on your own, bucko. So, a, I'm shocked, but sort of impressed, that she allowed him to move back in, and downright freaked out to realize he lives, like, within walking distance of me.

My child is adorable. People tell me that, unbidden, all the time. I needn't fish for compliments for him; myself, perhaps, but then, really, I've spent 35 years attempting to tame hair with the same personality as me: feisty, fabulous, and a wee touch fragile. My child's friends? Equally adorable. In fact, I'm hard pressed to come up with an unattractive child I know. So to let this guy saunter back into his mothers house, be pressed to her breast with maternal concern? Makes all the hair on my legs stand on end. (currently, that might frighten the hardiest of souls - it's been cold out!) He could have been in a costume himself, looming, lurking....I can't think of another scary word starting with l....right up close and personal with our children.

This, uh, doesn't really answer my questions about what on Earth to do with the candy that I may indeed, hang onto, and pass out again next year - I know for a fact one of the other mother's did this. Oh, I'm not judging, don't misunderstand, but the packaging had that slightly smashed, sort of well handled look to it that a tampon gets when left in a handbag too long. In my bag, sadly, the tampons no longer even sport the protective plastic coating - Pucker just adores the plastic. I don't ask why any longer. I try to recall to put my handbag up on the table.

Which is the LAST PLACE EVER it should be, as do you have any clue how many germs are on the bottom of a handbag? We put them on the floor of our cars, the floors of restaurants, cabs, the subway, a bus, in the uncleaned totally germ infested carts at the market. I've popped mine on the floor of a ladies room stall, the sink shortly thereafter; airline carpeting, diaper changing fold outs...places we'd never go without shoes, and yet, we don't think twice about swinging the old bag up onto the counter where we prep food.

Wait, I dry heaved. I think my bag is on the kitchen counter as I write.

I'm so going to have to move that.

Passing by the dining room table, I snuck another peek at the Bag o' Candies; perhaps, with a little strategic, artful presentation, I could pass it off as a holiday decoration all the way through Easter. Better yet, I'll host a martini party, forcing upon everyone a well presented goodie bag, they'll assume holds perhaps, fancy orange peel filled olives, or peppered baby onions; when they look inside?

That's right. They'll find malt balls and lolly's, candy bars out their ears, enough crappy mass produced and possibly year old chocolate to kill a larger than normal sized horse.

Now, if I can simply find candles to match that pillow case........

Run, dog, run.

Fucking Hell.

Yes, I know, most people do not find their Sunday afternoons marred by such horrific language, displaying not only an utter lack of articulate usage of more appropriate words, or consideration that perhaps, that isn't the best way to begin any sentence. Then again, those are the only fitting words today. Bore some resemblance to Dr. Suess books.....

See dog.

See dog run.

See skunk.

Run, dog, run!

See Mom.

She Mom run.

Run Mom Run!!

See dog bark at skunk. See Mom swear. See color drain from Mom's face. (insert: Fucking. Hell here.)

See several other dog owners backing away from scene, dragging their barking, howling, ruff raised dogs in the opposite direction, lest they too come one heart beat away from stroking out, visions of a smell permeating a home faster than they can gather the tools to suppress odor. How right now, we cannot bathe out of doors, as it's a mere 51 degrees, and while I firmly attest to the You're So Stupid You Deserve To Be Cold And Clean, I do not agree to drop gobs of money on a stupid dog that got pneumonia solely due to my intense irritation. Not to mention, the water's cold too, so, you know, I'm not all up for getting that cold and wet either.

And I can attest: there is indeed, a God. A Higher Power. Guardian Angel. Call Him/Her whatever you wish, they were on my side: Fucker Up I'm Going To Kill Her did not get sprayed. The skunk, either old and blind, delirious with fatigue (or fever - please no no no no) failed to even fully turn around to expose the, shall we say, Business End. The tail went up, that's for sure. Pucker stopped, trying to get at least one synapse to connect - I could smell the smoke she thought so hard - I'd like to say she backed up, but then, lying isn't my thing.

I just stood there.

I'm not good with wild life. Yes, I've healed the odd ailing chipmunk, releasing him back to his natural habitat with a belly full of acorns and a forepaw on the mend. I've pronounced more birds DOA than I care to admit, after they beat themselves senseless on the sliders facing the back deck. I've met bucks and does at the back deck stairs, seen bunnies up close and personal - all of these animals undoubtedly are more afraid of me, than I of them.

That is not the case here.

I like skunks. They have such panache, such showy, confident coloring.

I prefer them from a distance. Like strip bars. I know they exist, I don't need (or want) to see them. Both provide a service to certain aspects of nature I don't fully understand. Ignorance is bliss, you know. Usually, I'd not believe that - I do enjoy the odd tidbit of information, not only as they are usually interesting, but fabulous conversational openers, or, topic changers. Someone says something to which I cannot respond? Simple. I slip in the "Did you know.....?" How, for example, according to this study I read, Asian women do not go through menopause. Scientist attribute this fact to having a diet rich in sea food, rice, and very little processed flour products. Evidently, Japanese ladies also do not suffer from cramps.

Now, being Celiac, where I eat a large number of things not including flour, I can assure you, a diet rich in non-flour delicious products has no bearing whatsoever on cramps, or attitude. Ask anyone around me ...er...then...and they'll be happy to tell you not only am I a pain in the ass, who's also in pain, I generally haven't a clue as to why I'm being such a pain in the ass. Not until a few days later. Changing my diet has not changed that.

See? Something like that opens all sorts of doors conversationally. So many topics to choose from, most often followed by the remark that I know the strangest things...where did I get that...to which I calmly, truthfully answer: I read a lot.

The key to using that phrase though, is to drop it in such as way as to not make anyone standing near you feel undereducated or clueless - as though anyone literate would know these things, if only they picked up a newspaper, visited a waiting room for hours on end with nothing to do but read back outdated issues of weird magazines, or cruised the Weird News section on internet websites. Just because the first time I noticed one of these items - I recall it specifically - it was in the Wall Street Journal doesn't mean everyone who reads the Journal would have noticed it.

Hard to miss, it was on the front page, above the fold, with a rather bold headline reading:

Ice Berg Lettuce Making A Comeback

I was in California. I took a brief moment to ponder if that had anything to do with this article - but no, as it's called the Wall Street Journal, for a reason. I was waiting for my friend E at his place of work, (Boeing) where he was some kind of engineer. He told me what he did about a dozen or so times - I never fully got it. Then again, as for stimulating conversation, I needn't have: I had all the info I needed right at my fingertips, including a verifiable, trusted source. No one disputes the Journal. Everyone talks about lettuce. Er. Maybe not everyone. Everyone who knew me at that time did.

It wasn't fascinating just because I happen to be a fan of the Ice Berg Lettuce Wedge; but noteworthy as someone else at The Journal was interested in Lettuce too. And they liked Ice Berg - for so long a lettuce thrust into the center of a thorny debate over whether or not eating leaves to weeds remains a better choice than the crisp Ice Berg. If arugula or any other fancy multi-colored lettuce that comes in the same bag carries more nutritional value than Ice Berg. Ice Berg, the author pointed out (I firmly agree) isn't just lettuce, but the building block to a great salad, one with infinite combinations of color, texture, taste.

Weeds? Everyone puts a low-fat vinagrette on it. There's no surprise, no experimentation. Weeds. In a bowl. Covered in oil and vinegar.

Kind of ties me back to the skunk - a lot like fancy lettuce. It's pretty, it's natural, packs a wallop, but always comes with the same dressing. Sure, he has the element of surprise on his side, but really, that's it.

Yes, in case you're wondering, that is what I thought about as Pucker and I navigated our way out of the forresty section of our walk. I patted myself on the back - doing nothing essentially relayed to my fully trained, smart puppy that she would be wise to do nothing as well. So proud of ourselves I hardly paid any attention to where we were going, which is most likely why I didn't notice the that Pucker had led us right into the clawing distance of those ugly, nasty, ill-mannered Guinea Hens taking up residence up here too.

See hens.

See hens charge.

See Mom and Pucker run.

See us run home, throw open the door, slam it closed, eyes bugging out, chest heaving, mouth agape.

See Mom comment.

Fucking. Hell.

Fallen....

I've fallen, quite hard, may I just say. Several times, in fact, in the last few weeks alone....not in love, or like, or hate, or indifference.....

Out of my fucking twin size bed.

The first time, I chalked it up to being unused to the size of my new nest; but as with driving an unfamiliar car, you get used to where it begins and ends, adjusting automatically for any size differentiation. Not so, apparently, with a bed. Part of it perhaps, is that I'm still a lousy sleeper at best; one can stay in decent shape tossing and turning their way through a supposedly 8 hour night. There are nights I'd swear they stretch 18 hours. Oh, I've considered catching up on my email correspondence, finding something mindless on TV.....instead, I lay there, in the dark, eyes like pie plates, awaiting the blessed relief of sleeping.

That's not, by the way, when I fall out of bed.

Oh, no. My life could never be so simple. I fall out when I finally do fall asleep, much to my horror and great annoyance. I'm starting to wonder if Lois thinks I'm engaging in some sort of formal, tribal solo sex ritual; or simply raising a herd of unruly goats in my bedroom. Part of that is true: not the solo ride on the O train - that's not my thing....but the goat part. Yes, there are indeed nights I tumble out of this twin by my own hands, twisted into blankets that have formed nooses around a limb, my neck, the footboard. It's a talent, I guess; not one though that extends my resume any. More often than not, however, I've realized I don't so much fall out of bed as much as get shoved quite HARD in the back out of bed.

By. My. Fucking. Dog. (Cum. Goat.)

I've whacked my still sore face and head on both tables, on either side of the bed, somehow managing to nail the sharp corners each and every time. Quite the feat, since one of them is octagonal, and I keep turning it so a flat side faces the bed. So far, I've only knocked over the lamp once, thankfully not destroying the lightbulb. All this time, I kept thinking it was me. My fault.

It's not.

It's Fucker's fault.

On the one hand, I'm flattered she loves me so much she enjoys snuggling close; especially as I'm sleeping alone these days. Except. I'm not. I'm sleeping with her. She's a bed hog. She sleeps under the covers, steals the end of my favorite pillow, blows horrific gas in my face, drools on my legs, and then, just in case I might actually have moved after finally nodding off, the selfish bitch shoves me out of bed. She's not even apologetic. Nope. She stretches all the way out, once I've whacked my face, hit the floor, started swearing - making deep, satisfied groaning noises.

The first couple of times? I figured she fell asleep too, moved, and since the beds so tiny, I kind of fell off trying to groggily move away from her.

No ma'am.

This is premeditated, hard core, Alpha Bitch shoving going on. The whole I'm Still Sleeping, I'm Not Aware Of Your Flight To The Floor act is getting not only old, but downright dangerous on her part: I'm so exhausted I'm lethal. I've enough issues sleeping as it is, I do not need 20+ additional reasons clawing me in the back on my way into La La Land. Last night, for example, when she did it, thinking I was asleep and I wasn't?

Well.

Let's just say, she got the shock of her life. That's right. What goes around comes around: I had no compunction whatsoever shoving her too big for her fur ass right off the other side of the bed. Now, we're both on the floor, both of us pissy, but only one of us gets to growl: me. She made some pathetic I Cannot Believe You Just Did That noises; I was not impressed, nor moved. The clawing at the edge of the bed, testing the waters, if you will, on whether or not it was safe to return to the warm spot on the bed? Met with stern resistance.

She ate my retainer, two pairs of panties, and the new Ziploc freezer containers I bought to freeze the seventy gallons of chili I whipped up. They weren't even out of the box yet. This, after I bought her a long line so she could enjoy today's weather while I detailed the car! What kind of thanks is THAT?! Just who does she think she is?

I wanted to stand there, make a huge production of removing her toys, so she was essentially grounded - but I know what happens when I do that. She retaliates. On furniture. With shoes. Obviously panties, a habit she knows pisses me off to no end. I get it, she wants to sleep in bed too. Don't we all.

So I've fallen all right. I've been hurt. So this time, when I fall from grace?

I'm taking the bitch down with me.

Remember me?

Flowers awaited my arrival home from the hospital (nearly two weeks ago now...I've been a little under the weather) - stunningly beautiful flowers. Flowers so me I cried. Mostly, flowers make me all misty eyed; these?

Well.

Quite the flowers, shall I say.

The two sets of ribbons, tied in bows, over the green three inch satiny one? To die for. The flowers however, left me speechless. A lot of time, effort and thought went into those flowers; someone who knew me quite well sent them. Once in a lifetime flowers, sent by someone who was a once in a lifetime kind of guy - the kind of guy that we if each didn't get all mired down in our own ... stuff ... could have been, The One. I snapped a shot of those blooms, in full, dewy, fresh from the delivery truck glory; another, as they've slowly faded. Rest assured, they're still here. I refuse to let them go quite yet, as, perhaps, in lots of ways, I refuse to let him go. Not that he's aware of that - he's cut all contact, not that I blame him. I wonder though, if late late late at night, he thinks of me as I do him, wishes things were different; that I didn't expect him to be a mind reader, and he didn't drop the ball.

The roses, baby ones in vivid pink, full size in gorgeous, creamy, pale yellow snuggled up with oversize blue centered white hydrangea - some of my favorites. No. All of my favorites. Classy. Elegant. Fragrant. Pristine. Full of hope, healing, love, and best wishes. Heartbreakingly, perfect flowers. From a heartbreakingly not perfect guy....there are days I consider sending a letter, thoughtfully composed, hand written, on stationary so crisp it crackles; I find words fail me. How to tell someone, I forgive you, really I do. I expected too much. But you knew me, so I thought you knew what I needed, because, dammit, I didn't totally know what I needed. You knew, I knew. And, let's face it: I did know. I couldn't tell you, anymore than you could make yourself follow through.

I'd love to say I miss you, I think of you often, in fact, not a day passes when I don't think of something that reminds me of you - even little, stupid things: they moved where the bbq lives in the store. That annoys me. I imagine, it annoys you too. I know we would laugh. But I don't want to open a wound that may very well be on the rapid track to healing, I'm trying to respect your request to never contact you, let you erase me from you memory sticks of photos, even though I never got a copy of them, and I wanted one.

I'd love to tell you what I learned, out of this whole experience: that I'm important too. Needing someone to be there for me isn't a bad thing, it's a good one, as it means I've let you in that far. That you being by my side through something scary is important to me - that I didn't want anyone but you there. You made choices I wish you didn't; voiced it, softly, but gave you the out you seemed to want. You took it. Oh, I'll always be strong enough for other's, but I'm not always strong enough for me - I don't have to be. That's what loved ones are for....to pick up the heavy bag, carry - or hell, drag it along - for a while.

If someone loves you, they remember you.

Remember me, as I'd remembered him.

Other flowers arrived; just as beautiful, but different. Steaks were sent from family, in the hopes of indulging hopefully sooner, rather than later. Someone went so far as to send in The Maids, a four woman cleaning crew who did such a fabulous job I'm afraid to walk around! The floors, especially the kitchen one they did by hand, on their knees, as I used to do when I was young, in the house I grew up in. The same way I did over 600 square feet of tile in my Dream House, when I separated, and Fox wasn't home, as I'd no idea what to do with my time besides clean and bake.

I did a lot of cleaning and baking then. I did a lot of second guessing, third guessing myself then as well.

Walking away isn't easy, staying isn't hard; the hard part's come and gone, when I realized, deep down, he didn't remember me. I still adore my flowers, still think of him each and every time my eyes land on them - which is a lot, I'll be honest, as they're in a place I see first thing every morning, last thing every night- I miss loads of things about him, and about us together. Fear's a demanding, silent mistress; those flowers remind me of that as well, keeping me at further than arms length, untouchable, by the phone, off limits via email.

In case he ever wonders? He's unforgettable, a piece of my past, my history, I'll always cherish. He's helped to make me who I am, and for that? I'll always love him. Perhaps not the way he wishes, or in the manner that he'd choose; he may not see it for the compliment that it is.

I'll remember him, always.

Like I learned to remember me.

Twin

I've hit upon (okay, so it wasn't my idea, but I'm running with it) quite possibly the last idea of them all, to get Fox to sleep in his own room, his own bed, all by himself. Yes, I am well aware that several folks' kids still sleep with them; that there is that theory that all kids grow emotionally at their own pace....he'll sleep alone before college....but quite frankly? Since he damn near outweighs me, and is nearly my height, kicks like a mule and is a bed hog?

I've had it.

If anyone is going to hog the bed, the covers, the sheets, kick someone so hard they fall out of bed? It's going to be me. Thus, I've (I'm still in shock I'm shuddering) taken all temptation of my ultra fabulous so comfortable I can hardly get out of real live Temperpedic bed, placed it lovingly in the basement, only to install a (gasp) twin bed in my room.

The room, on the upside, looks a good deal more spacious than before.

The downside?

It's a twin bed. I've not slept in one of these since college, or perhaps on a stay somewhere with some family, who only had a twin for company; when this occurred yesterday, I took to aping that stupid Spongebob episode, where he stayed at work...at night.... you know the one:

Look at me, I'm laying.....in a twin bed.

This is me, reading...in a twin bed.

This is me not having sex....in a twin bed.

Look at me, recovering from jaw surgery....in a twin bed.

This is me bitching....in a twin bed.

I hit my head on the flipping headboard thing (I've not had a headboard in YEARS) last night; my feet hit the footboard, and regardless of how much Fucker Up and Shoot Me adores her own bed, when it's snuggled in her kennel, she absolutely refuses to sleep on the damn thing when it's next to my twin bed, deciding instead, there is plenty of room for us both.

There. Is. Not.

Fox came in three times last night, to be re-tucked in; he wanted to build a nest on the floor - all my fabulous nesting material now locked away, up high in a closet, forlornly sending me nasty looks when I go to get dressed. I feel its pain, really, I do. I don't enjoy sleeping under blankets meant for an 8 year old. There are dolphins staring at me on these sheets - while I may have been okay with fish staring at me in highschool? I find it downright creepy now. I'm so going to buy over the top girly sheets, with some ridiculously pink froth of a blanket, so that for the next year or so, I'll try to enjoy sleeping on a twin bed.

I'm finding imagining that a bit of a stretch too. Work with me here.

Sure, there's room for that cutie rug that didn't fit in here with my California King; and perhaps, another dresser, should I find a way to get the blasted heavy bitch downstairs - perhaps, I'll even figure out how to invest in cheap under the bed storage solutions. My bed, is after all, finally, off the floor.

But. It's. A. Twin.

I put a totally positive spin on it for Fox; he thinks it's a great idea. That whole No Room At The Inn thing, forces him to find alternate sleeping locales. Hell, at this point, he could sleep in the oversize tub for all I care. So long as he's no longer draped over me, with my 2:30am clenched teeth caterwaul Get OFF Me, I suppose, the ends do indeed justify the means.

Now I just need to deal with my twin sleeping issues: Fox, and Pucker Up. She will learn to sleep on the floor, on a bed of her own, with a blanket of her own, as her sleeping either between my legs, or, last night's unsuccessful sleeping attempt - on my back - are drawing to a rapid close.

I'm rather hoping the two of them sleep together upstairs - this is, after all, the vision I had when I got the damn dog: small child, small dog, nestled together in bed, snoring....I did not envision them nestled together, snoring, in my bed.

I hope to God, we're moving in the right direction. I'm praying for a long overdue bedtime miracle, Virginia Wolfe style....

A Bed of One's Own.

Even if the damn thing's a twin.

Siiiiigh

I'm having one of those days.

The no good really horrible everything that could go wrong has, days.

To start? I swapped the laundry out, and broke a nail. Not the tip off one, so I could file it down, no I ripped the damn thing right and proper across the nail bed. I'm pretty sure I fainted. Or I should have. I was going to give super glueing it a shot, but, well, the last incident with glue (and a hot glue gun) didn't go as well as planned, so I'm staying far away from something that could glue me to my steering wheel.

I need to leave, for an appointment.

Only, it's also raining, so hard I can barely make out my car, sitting there forlornly in the driveway. I threw Pucker out on the deck this morning; she huddled under the two inch gutter, trying to stay dry...only to bolt out the front door, to frolic in the rain. Frolic I tell you! What the hell is the matter with her? It's exactly the same rain, only this time? There's WET GRASS under her paws. Personally, I would totally have peed on the floor if I were her, instead of parading around, nose to the ground, getting soaked.

Wet beagle odor is overtaking the whiz odor. Seems she did go inside too. Sigh.

It is not beautiful.

I am not enjoying the cheese danish I bought, from one of those Big Chain stores, because it is not as the box clearly displays, cheese, but apple.

I am not in the mood for apple. I'm not even sure I care for apple danish. Come to think of it, no, I don't. Especially when I wanted cheese, and the box said cheese.

I'm supposed to be napping, eating healthy and all that stuff as surgery on the jaw is next week, and I'm barely squeaking by with the whole "Gee, I'd no idea I had pneumonia last week!" - for the record? Baby doctors at MGH do not, indeed, appreciate being asked if they read the x-rays correctly, or if the x-ray machine had been recently recalibrated, as I'd read online somewhere that there was an x-ray machine that made everyone look like they had a broken skull, only they didn't. The machine was working funky.

That didn't really fly as well as I'd planned.

I'm not sure questioning the baby doctors endears me to them, which might, come to think of it, be a good idea, since they'll all be standing around watching this surgeon dig in my face. I'd hate to think I'd pissed off the one he might choose to hold my head in place. Most likely mouthing off at them, using my Big Words from my anatomy class proves anything other than I was in the mood to be a complete and utter ass.

It's raining, so hard that I'm nervous to leave, as the last time it rained this hard, I blew up a car. I'm not in the mood to repeat that experience. Honestly, I'm starting to pick up the thread that I'm not in the mood to do much of anything, save for go back to bed, begin today all over again.

I don't see that happening.

Peace of a cello

My neighbor took up the cello.

At least, I think it's the cello. It's a bit hard to tell, honestly. Her forays into the delightful dulcet tones of a piano fell....how to put it nicely?......rather along the lines of cattle in the agonal stages of death. Perhaps after having been hit by a truck. Her rendition of America the Beautiful, a song that always gives me goosebumps of pride, eyes all misty, had my crying....for another reason entirely, so mangled was the piece.

Mag's had taken to loudly proclaiming "she's playing the fucking piano.....AGAIN?" near the open window; nary an effect. I'm pretty sure Lois decided to play louder. Longer. Much to my dismay.

Now that she's moved onto a stringed instrument? My non-barking, non-banging beagle, trained within an inch of her life, damn near covered her ears in protest, before trying to vocally outplay her.

It is not beautiful.

Either of them.

Certainly not alone, and definitely not together.

I am supposed to be working. Studying. Writing. Perhaps working harder on my floors, as a court date looms this Friday, and I'm nervous....my thoughts are preoccupied elsewhere, I'll give the pair of those two asses credit for that. Ability to focus on anything other than quieting the dog, or somehow ripping the strings off that blasted instrument? Nil.

Perhaps, this is payback: when dad visited earlier last week, he did put together the coolest (and I mean coolest) bookshelf for our upstairs library. (no, not the one with a sink in it, the one holding books, and Legos, thank you for asking) I've yet to paint it. My point? He banged away, hammer and nails (skip the quiet drill if at all possible) til nearly ten one night, beginning again at six-ish the next morning. We were under a deadline; he was leaving for the next stop on his driving trip through New England, wanted to leave around nine, once the traffic had cleared, so clearly we needed to get a jumpstart on our day. Finishing the bookcase? Rated way above making pancakes for breakfast.

I do so love my dad.

Since our library is in the loft, (read: upstairs) it shares a wall with her bedroom; whereas my bedroom, downstairs, shares a wall with her fuckingly loud obnoxious grandfather clock. I'm just spitballing here, but I'm thinking maybe, perhaps, you know, there's the off chance, it woke her.

Personally, while I applaud her desire to test drive various musical instruments, now that she has the time, and perhaps the cash flow to purchase her implements of torture - er- music, I do wish she'd built a hermetically sealed, totally soundproof room in her condo to conduct her experimentation into the world of classical music produced by her. I'm awaiting, rather feverishly, the little note, attached to my doorknob, after I've left to go regarding my "barking issue", a big no-no for the condo set. I'll put in a counterclaim, that had her attempts at becoming the latest virtuoso not clanged their way out her window, through mine, we'd not have had a barking issue, to start.

I have a feeling, a inkling, if you will, that the next condo association meeting?

Someone might want to attend. The comedic value alone puts this at a box-office sell out.

My arguments are quite clear, though the tend to fall along the lines of the Chicken Or The Egg, which comes first?

In this round, The Cello Or The Barking?

Prior to her taking up this newest monstrosity, my dog did not bark. She did not stand on the deck, banging away in horrific fashion. After the Cello Began? I had a barking, banging dog I could not tear off the deck. That's right. Pick up the cello? Complain not about barking in protest. Want peace with nary a peep from the deck next door?

Put down your cello. Walk away from the bow.

And while you're at it?

Move the damn clock too.

Resting, comfortably.....

It's raining...we so need the rain out here, so I'm thrilled. I'm double thrilled that it's raining, as I've pneumonia (how lovely to have some reason for being short of breath than Being Totally Out Of Shape!) and I'm supposed to be resting.

Resting comfortably, to be exact.

I was resting, I'll grant.

The comfortable piece? Less than ideal.

Pucker adores a good snooze as much as anyone does- under the covers, if you please, and thank you, for leaving a corner of the body pillow for me to put my nose on, right near your legs - she's all warm, toasty, throwing off lovely bits of heat.......waking me up when she sneezed. Right. On. My. Legs.

Not a gentle little sneeze either; a great whopping snot blowing sneeze. A sneeze so potent she broke wind at the same time.

That would be the part of her near my face.

It blew her tail up. I swear.

Thank God I can't smell anything (that would be the sinus infection I went for in the first place, totally annoyed they wouldn't simply send a z-pac script to the pharmacy - good thing I did go, the pneumonia thing would totally have screwed up the jaw surgical date if untreated) or I'd be resting, but Resting In Peace, Six Feet Under.

I did however, feel the breeze.

Not the cool one from the slightly open window.

The noxious hot one, the one so potent my eyeballs shrank. Before turning to stone.

I'm typing by rote, ps. Good thing they taught us that in the eighth grade. Otherwise, no one would know for sure that my idiot dog blinded me during the most luxurious morning I've allowed myself in years. (that could be weeks, but who's counting?!)

Since it's nearing two, I suppose it's quite bad form to pick up my son from the bus stop, seeing all the same parents this morning when I dropped him off, in the same jammies, only with slightly more fucked up hair.

And burn marks, from Fucker Up and Gas Me.

I must admit: I just adore the new Burberry glasses I picked out - I'd love to say they make me look intellectual in any given situation, allow me to pull off any outfit, at any time, with any hair - but.................they don't.

Not even Burberry is that talented.

However. In the good news department, they may well indeed be able to draw attention away from skin I'm sure is blistering right as I write, great welts amid bright red burn marks, I could be disfigured for life.

Hmmm. Upon closer inspection, now that the eyeballs are slowly returning to normal? I think those welts are pillow marks, that white stuff possibly drool (clearly not my own drool) so okay.

I can work with this.

I'll shower. Find Other Jammies That Look Like Real Clothing, let hair curl, slip on glasses -

better yet?

I'll drive down to the bus stop. Showered. I'll even get out to prove it, right as the bus pulls up, for maximum other parent notation that I'm not in the same jams as this am, and since it's raining, I will, finally, with the assistance of Burberry no less! rest comfortably until Fox's arrival.

Look at that. Me. The Ultimate Non-Compliant Patient. Being Compliant.

Resting. Comfortably.

Sunday.....

Sunday morning. 9:05am.

I should be at football.

Foxy's late night foray into the ER on Monday night however, resulting in essentially an obstructed lower intestine (something I'd expect, frankly, from our resident goat, not the one child that actually chews with his teeth) along with a possible hot appendix, has kept us off the football field entirely this week. He's blown hot and cold, literally - with a temp, without a temp, icky tummy, not icky tummy - so I've sort of okay with skipping out on a game where he takes the majority of the hits right in the abdomen.

If not at football?

Well.

There are a myriad of various tasks on the list, most of which fall under the Required heading; by that I mean, I've family coming, quite a bit of it, so all of it should fall under the Required heading. I left off the things I can do when they're here...like scare them senseless while cleaning out my microwave. Since I do still have a tendency to over-steam the innards, I've had several (ahem) more Microwave Bombing moments in this house. Could be fascinating for my step-mother to see; then again, I'm not totally sure her constitution is up for that sort of thing. Watching my father's eyebrows hit his hairline as the door popped open (or, um, off)? Priceless. He's a man of few words, my dad, so most likely he'd limit his response to Holy Shit, or OMG, eyebrows hitting his hairline, one sort of forced sounding laugh (which it's not, he has the best laugh) before asking me if this happens a lot.

I'd love to say, nope, it's a one-off....but I think my blase' attitude would give me away. Or, say, had he read the other entries I have on exploding things in my house. My guess is going to be that he's beyond thrilled I've left the dehumidifier in the basement he set up alone. In the sad news department, my drill has suddenly gone MIA....I swear, this house eats things like drills. Or socks. Not the important things I'm welcome to let it eat...dust, perhaps.

I've done the Big Cleaning already - the skid marks are indeed missing in all three bowls (at least for now, I'll check just before they arrive....I do have an eight year old multi-bowl enthusiast, as well as all his buddies) the downstairs floors are coming along nicely. The howling dog, accompanying any noise made by any machine to attack her fur snow storm? A tad overwhelming, especially this early in the morning, so perhaps I'll stick to lesser frightening things to face: the Sunday paper, perhaps.

I should read it before it goes in the recycling bin...the one in the new cleaned out garage, so I could perhaps, place my car in it again. One, it's great to not have to run through rain to get in the car, two, especially if I've left the windows down (.....again) so I'm not resting my backside in a lake while dropping (or is it dripping?) my little guy off at the bus stop. Also? It's a great way to hide out at home, with no one knowing I'm there. Sort of like sneaking off for the day....but more like a sneaky stay-cation.

I've yet to face the 3000 Lego's gracing the floor upstairs in the loft, and while I'm putting cleaning off the carpet with Karen's Little Green Floor Cleaner in the Plus category, I am SO putting the fucking Lego's in the OMG, Ive Got To Pick Those Up category. I thought briefly, about putting the train together, displaying it lovingly, up on the wall, on these shelves I bought...but I tried to hang one of the shelves yesterday, and I think I've figured out why they were at Home Goods, in the clearance aisle: they don't, no matter what you do, hang.

Disappointing in a shelf. I do expect them to, gee, I don't know, hang.

Either way, I'm sitting outside, on possibly one of the last truly gorgeous Sunday mornings we may have, as Fall air has begun nipping it's way in at night, dew sparkling on my flowers, still sort of alive, Pucker laying in the sun, for once not either attacking me for using machines she detests, or, attacking me to walk her; paper, at the ready.

Cleaning can hold off. For Pete's sake, they're family. If they can't handle a bit of dog fur and not judge you for it, who will?

Goose me

Pucker Up and I took a Few Minutes To Ourselves today, allowing J to handle his own kids without any silent backseat parenting from me; honestly, he's a good deal calmer with them than I would have been today. Pucker however? Yep, she's mine, and she's due for a Good Run with perhaps some Subversive Training thrown in for good measure.

High Five is firmly under our belt - rather, the spare tire she currently sports hanging over where her belt disappeared - so we've moved on: recall without a leash, from far far far away, as well as recall while ensniffed in something far more interesting than my voice.

Both times? Excellent.

I got bold. Really bold. Went for heeling. Off leash heeling.

Not our strong suit on leash, and certainly not off, but hell, I was taking a breathing moment, I'd love to come home triumphant. Broke out handfulls of treats from hell (seriously disgustingly fattening - and they smell horrific) - viola', she heels.

I'm soooo proud!!!

So yes, I'm at a middle school, while on vacation - it's raining for God's sake. Pouring, really. No one is out. No one at the playground. My car's the only one squatting in the parking lot. Just Pucker and I, having a chat with the Big Guy upstairs about the state of our lives, our relationships, what we'd like or hope for them to be, knowing that really, the best way to hear God laugh is tell Him your plans. I'm pretty sure I head a guffaw.

Either way? Spiritually, we left fufilled. Popped into the car, nipped home to show off our new prowess to J, in the living room, where he's laying on his back, covered with a beach towel. Kids? Strangely absent. We show off our newest acheivement. Jonathan croons the "good girl" routine at her, reaches over to pet her face, peels back his hand with this funny look on his face. His fingers are green.

Grass is green.

It's not sticky.

Goose poop however? Is both green and sticky.

Fuck.

She's standing on the bloody persian rug in the family owned beach house where we've "forgotten" to mention when we said we were taking the Whole Family along, we meant her too. I'm going to kill her. I watched her the whole, entire, I mean every second of the time we were there time, and she did not roll. Not one time. Nor did she make any motions toward rolling. I noticed once she had something in her mouth; I told her to drop it, it was MINE, so she did. Never occured to me to look for goose poop.

There were no geese. If no geese, why look for poop?

Am I stupid. Evidently in the four seconds it took for this frizzy haired desparate mother of three coming to exspend some of her wee progenies energy, she announced that there were no dogs allowed at this school, she rolled. Several times.

Okay, so the kids have been a bit of a trial, and honestly, I was kind of spoiling for a fight, so I gave her one: first off, the sign says nothing about animals. Alcohol? Yes. Skateboards? Yes. Roller blading? Yes. No to all of those things in this playground. Not once, not even in photo form, does it say no fucking dogs.

She got snotty. It's a school rule.

Oh hell no. She's picked on the wrong mom today, my friend. I would understand her being a complete bitch if my dog peed in the playground (next to it, not IN it - completely separate) or had she poop-walked her way under the slide, or in the tire jumping thing on the ground spread way too far apart for any pre-schooler I've ever seeen. But clearly, as an Outside, what do I know?

I know pets are allowed here. In fact, I carried on (hey, once on a roll, best to just let me finish) I could easily have trained a pony here, a goat, allowed a cow to graze, or meandered through with an entire family of freaking buffalo. I'm not drinking alcohol. My pets don't drink alcohol. I am not rollerskating, skate boarding, I'm not running with scissors, as well as most any other "school rule" I can think of. I'm simply enjoying a moment out with my pet, my well-behaved non-screaming pet, allowing her some time to roam, beagle around, practice her heeling, recall, high five, as well as some new idea I've had towards agility. (She totally sucks at jumping up on things, but it's early yet)

Meet Pucker, the Most Perfectly Behaved Dog On Earth. Who is sitting, ladylike, right at my left side. Just. Like. She's. Supposed. To.

Unlike, ps., those hellions you brought here.

Naturally, one should heed the old adage - be careful what you say, you may have to eat those words later - I didn't have to eat them, I had to bathe them. No douche at my disposal (trust me when I say J may like me a lot? but I don't think THAT much) so I asked for any vinegar.

What IS it with people owning the most unusual forms of vinegar on the planet? GRAPE FUCKING VINEGAR.

Fine. I'm desparate. I'll take it. I'm already in the freaking tub with Rolling In Poop On The Sly Ass Dog Of The Year, in brandy new underpinnings - both top and bottoms! Snakes and bastards. I washed her with shampoo (useless endeavor, I realize) til J found grape vinegar (I'm still stuck on who in the name of all that is holy owns GRAPE vinegar?!) to douse said beast. And me. Thank God I'd not shaved my legs this morning, as I'd thought about doing.

Rain= no shaving. Shaving + vinegar = Bad Idea.

Shucked all wet clothing, slipped into flirty skirted suit bottoms, tee and sweatshirt, as we were goinig Netting, at the end of the street. I caught several beautiful rocks. The kids and Jonathan? Found all sorts of fish, jelly fish and shit I won't even go near less touch. They got attacked by some unsuspecting underwater seaweed.

I got attacked by some very unhappy, overly aggressive geese.

Most likely the same fucking geese that shit about three blocks away on a field.

I digress. Two stunningly gorgeous swans (trust me here, flattery gets you absolutly no where with swans) and their three babies (HUGE babies - damn big babies if you ask me) - wings went up, honking came on, I threatened to stick my size eight pink thonged foot right up her ass if she got any closer to me (all this while backing hastily towards the stairs, while also screaming JONATHAN at the top of my lungs - unnecessary, really, he was say, 10 feet away) - I'm telling you, she was totally going for the flirty skirt of my suit bottoms. Jonathan says not. They were looking for bread.

Since they were eating other blowing foliage, it stands to good reason they were after my skirt.

I knew I should've worn the other one.

They left, I got braver, went in up to my knees, doing my usual - hunting down cutie rocks - bent over, flirty skirted backside out to all and sundy......fucking swans return. Honestly. If I didn't have food the first time, and I wasn't thrilled to see you? I'm certainly not going to pull a loaf of bread out of my brandy new (pink, if you're wondering) bra to feed you, especially as you've simply no manners.

We returned; rinsed off sandy feet, got settled on the couch for movie night.

Something smells funny.

yeah......................................that'd be Pucker.

Smelling of goose poop.

Just goes to show: for every good deed, I'll get shit on.

Packing it in

Do you see me packing? For the Cape? For myself?

Me neither.

Fox, on the other hand, I've packed, down to his toothbrush, extra socks, all I need do is find the other trainer he's using as water shoes (I dare you to find water shoes in for a wide foot - double dog dare you) get his beach smelling backside in the shower, and off to a fitting for his tux.

Now, for myself, it's not as though I'm traveling to a 5 star resort. I need (on paper) several pairs of short/skirty items I can either loll around in, or traipse through some high shopping centers (read: Christmas Tree Shops and the grocery store) a couple of suits (like a real woman only packs one, sheesh) some shoes, toiletries, and I should be golden. Things to remember?

Pink floppy sun hat.

Sunglasses.

Some form of Hair Taming Devices, as humidity and I? Not a good mix. You should know that by now, but whatever. This is not, say, the wedding trip, where I need to put some Serious Thought into what Fox and I are wearing. The best part of this whole endeavor? Fox will be in MAINE. Yes, that's right, 5 whopping hours from me, so the likelihood of my needing his clothes to match is not only slim? It's none.

One would peek into his bag, see that the outfits are mostly interchangeable - one Dressy Shorts with Collared Shirt to be worn IN PUBLIC - knowing my child? That's not what he'll do. He'll upend the entire bag, close his eyes, his hands grabbing the two most ill-suited items to wear together, not only flagging himself as a tourist, but one who clearly dresses in the dark.

Or, worse, he'll fit right in.

Oh man, I hadn't even though about that part.

Again. Focus. Why do I care? I won't be seen with him. It's an All Boy Vacation, involving things I either won't do, wouldn't be caught dead holding, or with so few Bathing Experiences my hair would curl.

I don't need help with that. My hair's a curly disaster right now on any given day as it is.

So really, all I've left to contend with? Myself, and Fattypants. Somehow, I doubt I need all five suits (one I don't even wear as the ass is worn through, but HELLO, it's Lilly, so obviously I need to keep it, everyone knows that) but which one do I leave at home? The one where the ass is so big it hangs like elephant legs? But it has a skirt that covers that. If I take the other one with the little flirty skirt, the skirt is shorter, showing off the left side that tends to travel northward, when I least expect it. Say, in front of company at my back. Or, God forbid, when I bend over to pet the dog, pick up trash, turn off a hose.....a plethora of opportunities really.

My goal is to tan, not tan my hide.

Either way, Fattypants is packed. (Not hard, but I'm counting it as an accomplishment nonetheless - I look far more productive that way)

Perhaps I should rely on my tried and true method: wait until the absolute last moment, throw things willy-nilly in a bag, and be surprised myself at my clothing choices. Worked quite well so far, in the past; no need to think it won't now. Right?

Right.

Excellent. I may not be packed yet, but now??

I have a plan. Good enough for me.

Blood.

On.

The.

Bed.

Hmmmm. Not. Good. News.

First, I suspected one of Foxy's numerous football related nicks, scratches, lacerations just shy of needing stitches popped open (or was picked, let's be real here, he's an 8 year old boy). Or, he got a bloody nose.

Is. Not. Fox.

I know for a fact it's not me. How do I know this? First, I just do, and secondly? If it was me, I certainly wouldn't be sharing it here. Hell. I don't even let J talk about it. It's one of Those Things Best Left Un-Spoken About. Okay?

Fucker Up and Shoot Me? I don't think so. I'd checked her over the first time I got on this merry-go-round of Blood Origination, found nothing. No bloody noses, no scratches, wrestling match marks from when the three of these idiots hung out together. Yes, I checked to make sure there wasn't some sort of horrible Not Completely Spayed Thing going on, and the bitch was in heat. She's not. (Oh, thank God thank God thank God). Not her teeth; she was happy to have me check once she saw there were no tooth brushing implements in my hands. Huh. I didn't really give her memory enough credit I suppose; she does indeed recall the Eating Of Bone Incident that ended with Minty Mouth Washing.

Checked Fox again, peeked at my ankles - yep, good shaving still generally involves blood shed - not me. Could have answered my own question; shaving is on list for tomorrow, so obviously, that which may wait until then? Does.

When all else fails: Back to Pucker.

Further inspection ensued. Broken nail? Would be enormously painful, I can so vouch for that. All nails intact. Actually, come to think of it, they need to be nipped. Not in the mood at the moment.....she doesn't find a paw-dicure as relaxing as I do, even when gets the whole massage thing going on. I don't find nipping my dog cum enraged octopus relaxing in the slightest.

Now, I'm totally stumped.

Pucker's sitting pretty on the bed, her back feet right next to each other, weight on one hip, so delicate, so regal. She honestly is quite stunning. Even if I weren't just the teensiest bit biased. Admiring her facial structure, her gorgeous oft complimented coloring, silkiness of her ears, she switched positions on the bed.

There was blood on the bed. Steeling myself with a good, fortifying deep breath, I lifted the tail. Did I mention how pretty her tail is? Seriously? I already did? Because honestly? When I peeked under there, I had a stroke, so I'm tying to focus on how sweet her sashaying wee bum looks prissing along. Nothing detracted from the cold, hard, hanging truth:

My. Dog. Has. 'Roids.

Tiny grapes are hanging out of her ass. All this time, I labored under the impression she was simply taking herself for a solo ride on the orgasm train...not so. She was grooming her newest anal accessories. Looking back? Yeah, I suppose I should have noticed she was straining a bit on the go, but not so much that she was grunting. I totally would have paid attention if there was detectable grunting. Hmm, come to think of it, she was rather dancing more about, walking further in the puckered and ready position prior to say, lift off, if you will - but she does have that nasty habit of teasing me it's time to go. Thinking back further? Two walks and nary a log. Highly concerning.

We immediately went outside. Walked. As in, Right This Very Moment. Not sure what walking will do to minimize 'roids. I thought about putting on the Poop Gloves, shoving them back from whence they came, but I'm not sure that's a vet recognized therapy. I suppose, (big gulp to keep from making horrendous gagging noises) I could go to CVS and get Preparation H, shrink them. I don't want to. More importantly, what on God's Great Green Earth has she jammed up in there?

Thankfully, she and I shared a cup of strong coffee (hey, sometimes you need a little encouragement to go The Library, you know?) this afternoon. Got the old pipes cranking. I expected some of the Usual Suspects........so when this cylindrical sort of clear plastic thing started to ease it's way out? Tampon applicator leapt to mind. She was passing the big end first - thank heavens - breech applicators are a real bitch to dislodge. She'll occasionally need assistance. I wouldn't really ask how I know that either. It's not a pretty story.

Not tampon applicator.

She got into my lower bathroom cabinets, evidently helped herself, taking the evidence of destruction with her. Four tail arced in the air moments later, a blasted douche applicator finally slid out. A bit mangled, but mostly intact. The plastic twist top dropped in another log roll a few feet later.

She's enormously, painfully swollen, but relieved.

There is NO WAY on Earth I'm going into any pharmacy around here, or in a 25 mile radius. First, I buy cases upon cases of douche. Now I'm purchasing Preparation-H. Can you imagine what these people will think?

Lonely sheets

New Year's Resolution?

Clean out house, clear out all unused items, ones that don't mean anything to me, are simply there to collect dust (especially given how often I enjoy indulging in that chore)- as well as the ones that mean too much to me, but in very unhealthy ways.

In a dresser upstairs, live sets (and I mean sets) of sheets, unmatched but very soft pillow cases, towels - essentially, extra's of things that I know would be better suited elsewhere - somewhere perhaps, they'd see the light of day. Oh, it's constantly on my list (rather nearest the bottom, right next to cleaning out the lint trap in the dryer - though thank the good Lord above I did that - I nearly burned my own house down it was so full) along with finishing organizing the storage room in the basement (yeah......right up there with dusting) - there's always More Important Chores to accomplish first.

Laundry and putting it away leaps to mind; I'm not feeling in the mood to leap currently. They're washed, fluffed even! folded, look especially lovely all divided up my human to whom they belong; they simply have no interest in hopping into their drawers, or worse, onto their hangers.

Ah, yes. My point. I knew I had one in here somewhere.

After a particularly long night, the other night, I realized that there's also a reason to hang onto things. Seriously, there is.

Phone rang, at 3am (ish) - I'm quite pleased I didn't answer with "are you missing a limb?" - as a friend was calling to ask to stay the night. With her hubby, son, two dogs, and one frog. The frog is still here, ps. I don't know what to feed a frog. Or if I have to change the water. Or if I (oh, please say no) have to allow crickets in my house. Her house caught on fire. (I immediately pictured my stupid overflowing lint trap) I didn't even hesitate before saying yes, of course, I'll leave the light on for you.

Who says that? Only the guy from Motel 66. Seriously.

I had beds made up with fresh linens, glasses for cold beverages at the ready, extra water put out for incoming puppies, (well, full grown dogs, really) skipped the bra thing - it was THREE AM. I do not need a bra at 3am. If it's that off-putting? Trust me, they'll go elsewhere. I highly doubt after their house and everything they own in it essentially goes down in flames, they're not going to notice the fact that my knees have nipples.

Gussie, the big dog - I hate to list his breed, for so many people are put off by the pit bull - the funny part is, he'd swear he's a Malta-poo. Or some other fluffy, lap dog breed. How would I know this? He climbed in my lap, regardless of where I sat. He didn't seem to mind the no bra thing. Jackie? He's been a bit intimidated by me (mostly as I'm soooo not intimidated by him - the whole Alpha thing) snugged up to my legs, leaving Pucker guarding her kennel as though either one of them could possibly fit in it.

She graciously allowed them to sniff it out; before prancing in her prissy fashion around the house, handing out the guided tour. Yep, we have Nervous Pee in the hallway, some more in the living room; a Nervous Dump in the downstairs Library. I give whomever it was credit: easy to flush, that one.

The house? Demolished. Nothing left. Shampoo. Conditioner. Ziploc baggies. Dog food. Dishes. Towels. Soap. Clothing. Shoes. Sheets, towels, pillow cases. Not sure why I'm hung up on the Ziploc baggies. But I am. No home is complete without snack size, lunch size, quart size baggies. I'm sure they'll get those.

Do you see my point yet?

That's right. While other mom's in town are securing take out gift certificates, or one to the grocery store, CVS, whatnot, I've enough linens for their entire house. That's why they were still in that drawer. Waiting. Shower curtain. I don't know if she'll need one of those in the trailer that's being delivered for them to live in while figuring out what to do with the house, or about it, or .....whatever.

I wasn't being lazy not popping them into a bin to go overseas somewhere; they had a Higher Purpose, those linens. Okay, so the pillow case that's so soft it's fabulous, in bright orange and green weird looking flowers? I'm gathering, they won't mind. It's so soft that yes, I've used it. I can vouch for it's softiness. Honestly, softiness trumps ugliness any day of the week.

So does Kindness.

Mag's called, we were chatting, and she says to me, quite possibly one of the greatest compliments ever - certainly one I'll always hold dear:

"You said yes, without a moment's hesitation, because that's who you are. It's not in your nature to turn people away, I suspect, even ones that weren't always the kindest to you: that's not who you are. "

I'm touched by her words; perhaps more than she'll know.

Plus also? (yes, K, I realize how much that phrase bugs you - but it's so.....me)

Those linens have a home. The right home.

There are moments, when you realize, that those things occupying space for no apparent reason, have a reason. You simply don't know what it is yet.

Now, if only I can find as fitting as reason to keep dust.

Failures

Does anyone else notice that their day sometimes passes by in a blur of failures?

Not necessarily huge failures; one massive failure hardly ruins an entire day.

No ma'am.

Ruining an entire day takes some serious talent; a talent evidently I possess in spades. I forgot to do something, I said the wrong thing; I spend too much time in Christmas Tree Shop in the Total Crap aisle - let's face it, it's hard to tell there which aisle that is - I stick my foot so far into my mouth I'm choking on my knees. Neither of us slept well, but I'm the one who fell asleep watching the news while the kids were swimming, so he had to be the parent that stayed up. (for the record: nap was delish)

I started helping with dinner; only I forgot, because I was writing, to restart the carrots, that'd been put on hold because he had to run and get milk for the Hamburger Helper we served, with Pigs in a Blanket, and my famous carrots. Ahem. The ones I forgot to finish cooking. Meant I'm not helping set the table, get the kids dished up, drinks - argh. Skipping the medal I won't be receiving for serving the Dinner of Champions.

I forget to tell J that Fox is showering at my house tomorrow before church; when originally I'd said he was bathing tonight; so he ran the tub anyway, when I went home to shave my legs, only to return, and have him say that "probably would have been a great idea if I told him I excused Fox from bathing tonight" - yep. Sure would. I'm impatient with the kids - yes, that's true: I prefer, GREATLY PREFER, children who listen the first time to me. That Mother of the Year award?

Nope. Not me.

I'm the one who fed the dog an entire ear of corn - FINE! YES! I should have realized she'd eat the fucking cob too - but I didn't stop to think about it. She threw it up one the rug. Every child had to tell me the dog threw up, where she threw it up, why she threw it up - all the while, I'm cringing, as it's in J's house, trying to grow smaller, smaller, smaller - only, you know, tall enough to reach paper towels to clean up the throw up on rug. The one I had three maps to, in case I didn't know. It. Was. On. The. Rug. The. Throw. Up. From. Pucker.

Perfectly good corn. On the cob. Sweet yellow and white kernels, lined up with military precision. It's not like I buttered it for her or anything. I'm not that bad. But I looked at it as food going to waste - I simply cannot do that. Instead, I need save it, knowing it will rot, in the hospice I call a fridge because then? THEN? At least someone had the opportunity to salvage a meal from the leftovers from my son's meal. I'm not outright limiting someone's ability to forage in my fridge for food. Or J and his kids meals.

Naturally, he totally doesn't get that. Nope. He can completely nonchalantly toss uneaten - TOTLLY UNTOUCHED FOOD - into a garbage can without a moments hesitation, as he knows no one wants it. He'll be gone next week, so who is going to eat it? I don't eat sausage, even when the casing is off it (omgomgomgomg I can't get past that it's a cat's intestine, or some other animals innards filled with the junk meat no one would even grill so they grind it up to stick in some other unusable body part) - even that? I tried to bag it up to save. Threw up the "perhaps you'll want it with eggs tomorrow for breakfast?"

The looks said it all.

My saving things in my fridge on the off chance that Brangelina will pop by on her way to another starving country to grab my leftovers? Highly unlikely.

Keeping food until it turns, so I feel like it's ready to be thrown away? How does that not clash with my germ issues? I'm......okay.....with keeping rotting food next to perfectly fresh, gorgeous fruit? Ummm.............duh. The aging leftovers have their own shelf. No one puts food like that next to anything you're going to eat.

Holy. Shit.

I'm hoarding the Soon To Die Leftovers.

Excellent.

At 9:29pm, I'm officially drawing a close to the hours of the day, marked by failures, big, small, only seen by kids, only seen by J, or only seen by that lady in the Crap Aisle who heard me say something was total crap, but she was holding it....

With my luck?

I'll fail to fall asleep, lying there, eyes like pie plates for hours.

Reliving every single failure of the day.

If I'm still up in an hour? You can find me, gloves on, head in hospice, cleaning out the leftovers I failed to reheat and serve, ones I've allowed to wither, die, and grow mold.

Then?

I'll have failed, with a purpose.

Going low

New low reached:

No longer baking for stress relief in my own real live ovens, I am now also baking (do you see the fire engine red face, extending to my collar bone? - or, clavicle, should anyone want to be sure I'm still studying) on FARMVILLE.

Yes.

It's mortifying enough to admit I'd addicted to Farmville.....I run to it when stressed out and overwhelmed the way some other people hit the bottle, snort cocaine, over eat...whatever their particular form of stress release is. I'd've possibly taken kick boxing back up; sadly, the jaw issues limit my ability to beat the ever living snot out of things (say, a punching bag, for example) or run the thirty miles a day I'd need to to work out some irritation. Honestly, I switched back to cleaning and organizing, only to find that sure, the house looked better, I feel better having company drop by unexpectedly (not that there's that much of that either) but it's not.....enough.

I'm back to baking.

I've done zucchini bread in copious amounts; thank goodness Football Moms enjoy it, or I'd have it coming out my nose. Cup cakes disappear to neighbors - cutie decorated ones? Not sure an irritated moment. Great whopping pile after pile of hand kneaded dog biscotti? Yeah......... more irritated in general.

Yesterday, I was at a meeting; it got particularly stressful, for everyone there, and what do I do?

Open to Farmville, start planting, working towards the new coffee cake recipe I've unlocked, the vegetable tart (that I might actually try to eat in "real" life) - yes, I can admit I hoard money on there; I'm nearly up to $2M. No, I don't need to be told I'm working out some of my current issues on Farmville: I plant, I harvest, I watch the time, so none of my crops wither and die; God forbid something else in my life withers or dies. Fox helps take care of the animals - because he wanted one, I allowed him to get a virtual dog - another foolish choice, I've got to make sure the damn thing gets fed everyday. All the other animals? They get little candy corn over their head to say they've been fed by the game, the dog? Demands dog biscuits, only friends may gift you.

Christ.

The whole point? Somewhere I wasn't pulled at, any responsibility on my shoulders!

Now however?

They gave me my very own Bakery. OMG. I have four ovens going at once; a multitude of recipes going I'd never be able to pull off in my own pint sized kitchen, miniature invisible sous chefs chopping, sorting, washing, hulling - that right there, having a series of servants - I mean helpers - quite relaxing. The fact that I get to tell them what to bake and when, how and for how long? (okay, some of that the game picks - but seriously, I get to tell them what to bake)

Soothing.

Everyone resorts to something in times of stress: death brings out the hams and sugar products, weddings bring out bitchy brides, sugary cakes and presents, mid-year stress?

Virtual sugar. Virtual hard labor digging in dirt. Planting. Weeding. Assisting other's farms (ahem, it pays me extra money and gas for my accumulation of vehicles -ones I picked out) plus also? There's shopping. Ran out of raspberries? No biggie. Hop into the market stall, and pick fresh, organic grown and loved raspberries. Coffee beans. Peanuts. I grow so many staples, so my invisible farmers won't starve, people are constantly stopping in to buy things from me. I'm not a walking pariah.

My pink rose garden? Soooo gorgeous. Gals opening spas? They come to me. They lust after my hand grown (uh.....kind of) pink roses, red tulips, bright yellow sun flowers.

Here?

I can't fail. I can make millions. I'm in charge.

Juvenile, I realize.

Though, I have admit: now that I've gone here?

It's quite possibly the lowest I can go.