We have crabs.

Allow me to begin by stating: I appreciate wildlife. I appreciate nature, in fact, all things Mother Nature has chosen to bestow upon us (save for perhaps that ugly monthly "gift") beautify our world. Inspire us to be better humans, better citizens, take better care of ourselves, our loved ones, our planet.

(please wait, while I climb down off soapbox here)

However.

I also firmly believe that nature should live with, in, near, beside, or on top of other nature. Frogs for the most part? Don't come home. (I'm totally skipping that episode when Fox was twoish and some change, running naked in his wellies, bringing in frogs that sent our three huge dogs lunging across countertops..but I digress) Foxes hardly even wander into the house, make themselves at home, requesting a fresh kill be dressed in the kitchen. I'm not boarding any wandering skunks, beavers, nor am I inviting huge trout to move in. I have those sorts of rules: that which usually (read: damn near always) live outdoors? Belong living outdoors.

Permanently. Like, say, for the rest of their natural lives.

Granted, I'm beyond thrilled that Fox received an invitation to hit Scusset Beach with some pals, that they picked up rocks, shells, bits of agate, bringing home more sand in his suit that perhaps he left on the beach itself. Since he didn't go with me, and I do also firmly back the When In Rome, Do As The Romans Do Philosophy, I swallowed my initial reaction to what exactly he brought back from the beach.

Thank the good Lord above it at the very least had a lid.

In a cup, (lidded, obviously - I just said so - I'm in shock, so bear with me here) were (or is it are, as they're still alive?) a dozen HERMIT CRABS.

He'd built them quite the condo. Seaweed for nibbling; sand for wandering amongst, enough seawater that when some of C's seawater spilled out of her un-lidded bucket, Fox generously shared some of his, so her crabs wouldn't die - leaving just about enough for "our" family of hermit crabs.

Our?

Have I mentioned I know less than nothing about hermit crabs? How long they live leaps to mind as an obvious querie; as does what in hell they eat. Especially as it's not as though I keep seaweed on hand. I suppose I could hit up Trader Joe's, as I'm sure they have some weird dried out seaweed to whip up homemade sushi - then again, what if they dine on alga? or some form of microscopic protozoan only found in natural seawater; not the fake seawater I'm going to have to steal from Jonathan's seawater salt pool thing? Apparently, no chlorine. Better for skin. Can smell like low tide, but why should that bother me now?

Low fucking tide is living on my goddamn countertop!

Coming full circle, I'm now left with hoping seawater from a salt based pool regulator is close enough to the real thing: otherwise, I'll totally lose my standing as Mom Of The Year.

That's right. I'll become That Murdering Mom That I Used To Listen To, But Don't Now Because She Killed My New "Pets".

The few things I do know about hermit crabs? They outgrow their shells, needing new ones. (Hello!!! This would be why we LEAVE THEM AT THE BEACH! where they'll find all the new shells they'll ever need!) They're rather territorial. Can be aggressive with each other - only the boys ones, Fox assured me.

Um, anyone have any clue whatsoever on how to tell a "girl" hermit crab from the "boy" ones?

Yeah, me neither.

The purply-pink one Fox brought home for me? Which of course I "would adore, mama, it's your colors, with strips and a little polka dot in the middle! Isn't she cute? " Somehow, I couldn't very well break into the let's send these little guys down the toilet as All Drains Lead To The Sea - I'm not sure a Nemo reference assists me here.

Those big brown eyes, telling me all about how he had to be sneaky to catch 'em, they're elusive, you know (yeah, so people leave them at the beach...perhaps I'm belaboring that point a wee tad) and since all good things come in twelves, that's what I brought home.

I realize, I shouldn't have bothered asking, but I couldn't resist: what comes in twelves?

Eggs.

Donuts.

Juice boxes.

Fruit snacks.

Bless Mother Nature for making little boys so inquisitive, so adventurous as to charge into a perfectly Inland Not By Sea Dwelling with one of Her creations. Or a dozen of them. Bless Her for igniting a new interest, some new things about which to read, study, count - oh. dear. God. Do they multiply? Quickly? Or eat their young?

The more I dwell on this, the sweatier I get, wondering if they're going to manage to climb the sides of the tupperware container housing them now.

I suppose, the long and short of it?

I like nature.

Just not, you know, in a house. I'm of the opinion that if the house didn't come with hermit crabs?

Most likely, they're not meant to live with us.

Especially when Foxy's going to run around announcing to all and sundry that we do, indeed, have crabs.

Imagine the looks that statement will get.

Backchat...and the moon

Well no wonder. The full moon has arrived, done it's work, and is (boy I hope so) waning it's way to normalcy.

I'll admit: I've been a tad snarky. A wee bit touchy. Perhaps, maybe (though I highly doubt it) a bit on the bitchy side. I suppose I could use the jaw as an excuse, but after nearly 6 months, even that excuse wears thin.

Fox?

OMG.

The snotty attitude, the backchat, for lack of a better word, the sheer sass and disrespect out of that child's mouth may lead him to missing out on his 9th birthday. Hell. He may even miss school.

I've had it up to here with the never ending I need to repeat the following sentences:

"Stop touching EVERY THING. You are not a baby, you are not three."

"Get your hands off the grocery store shelves...end cap cans....the produce."

"Get your hands out of your mouth, off your feet (God help me here) the back of the chairs, sofa, kitchen counters"

'Do not leave your bike or scooter BLOCKING THE GARAGE DOOR SO IT WON'T CLOSE - how old ARE you anyway?"

"Why do I need to repeat this EVERY FREAKING DAY?!?!?"

"Do NOT sit on top of me in bed. I am not your personal pillow."

'STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING."

Really, I'm tired of hearing it - hell, I'm tired of saying it! - and yet it continues. I've never once slapped my child - but wow, this past week? My palms have itched to land him into the following week like we were raised. Remember that? Our parent's gave us That Look, all disgusting behavior ceased. Immediately.

I'd think it was just my mother; nope. Pretty universal, That Look.

Now? That Look brings out the absolute beast in him. A taunt, really. As though I've thrown down the gauntlet, my leather gloves having slapped against my breeches, a duel on Main Street High Noon a-comin'. Here I'd thought we'd finally settled into the New Sheriff In Town mentality - for a while there, he was so polite I'd oft wondered if he been replaced with a robot. Though his inflection, empathy for others, good nature and all around fun guy again was fabulous to see.

Yeah...............in case you were wondering?

That's so not on display today.

He'd love to go to the beach: I asked him to help put away groceries. It's. Not. Hard.

Open fridge. Put in all items that remain cold.

A monkey can do it. We've all seen a monkey do it.

He left out three quarters of the cold items, only to tell me he wasn't sure if they went in the fridge. Really? How often do you find BACON IN THE PANTRY?!

What, I keep frozen waffles on the counter?

Part of me (a BIG part, I'll be honest) wants to take him to the beach, so he may go - as in - out of my hair. The other part, the Mom part, would rather find some detestable chores for him to do, with his mouth closed.

That way, he can not only touch things with my permission, but do something positive with all that need to feel things.

With my luck?

He'd clean out the toilet, touching every smarmy, germ-covered bit of it, only to then feel up his feet, and stick his hands in his mouth.

Jesus.

The beach is looking better all the time.

Fly

I am annoyed.

There is a fly.

In my room.

Buzzing.

LOUDLY.

Quite annoying. More annoying? Stupid dog that should be chasing said fly, sleeping through annoying buzzing fly.

She's a hunting dog.

So go hunt the damn fly. Stop hunting on your Circus Dog Hind Legs the damn hamster; Cookie is not going to be your friend. He's not Declan. He doesn't even like you. I'd go so far as to say he loathes you. Frankly, I would too if each time I went to peek over the precipice at the edge of my home I ran into the nostril of some beast nine million times larger than I am.

Go hunt something important -

For the record? Ripping my arm off at the shoulder while simultaneously wrenching my elbow out of it's socket to chase baby bunnies does not count as hunting....that's seriously deranged behavior on both your parts! First, the bunnies do not move. They. Sit. There. Frozen....I had a dog that did that; if I'm not looking directly at you, pretending you're not there? You're not there. Am thinking bunnies are really stupid. Secondly? You're no smarter for not realizing you've a five foot lead strapped to your neck, so yes, every time you bolt after bunny, once ya'all touch noses, you are indeed going to choke yourself.

It is not I choking you.

That's you choking you.

Tonight, however, it could very well be me choking you, as fly noise ramping up my already snarky attitude, further fueled by watching you lay there. Snoring.

You've the gall, the absolute audacity to snore, when you've clearly a job to do!

There are no free lunches my girl, it's about time you earned your keep. Go. Hunt. Fucking. Fly.

In fact, I'll trade you: you get fly, I'll let you pee on the rug in the basement. How's that for a fair trade?

Bitch didn't even bat an eye.

I've snoring fighting with buzzing.

Know what that means?

Now I'm doubly annoyed.

And away we go!

Pucker Up took her very first long car trip this past weekend.

We did great! With the windows down, the humidity high, nary a sharp, eye-popping, gag-inducing fart permeated the front seat. Not a clue as to whether Fox noticed it or not - am going with not, as his nose, (poor baby) is still soooo stuffed up, I'd be surprised if he could smell ammonia if it were right under his nose.

Hmmm. I could profit, selling whiffs of Pucker's Intestinal Slippage to capsule companies, for use in bringing around the newly fainted. Or, for use as a violent stalker deterrent - one you'd not need an FID card for in this state. (Yeah, I checked, anything marked Bear Spray is off the list of Hand-bag Worthy Defense Items) Not entirely sure what to call it....Butt Out?

She enjoyed the open window thing quite immensely, looked forward to our many stops, meeting some of the other totally ill-mannered-if-she-ever-behaved-that-way-monster-dogs at long, lushly green water holes (not of the drinking kind, just in case anyone got confused) I'd have skinned her and worn her as a stole.

I swear. What is it with people and their pets? If your pet takes on the characteristics of it's owners (let's face it, they do...my hips spread....Pucker's spread...neither of us enjoys being openly rude....we both detest stinging bugs) I can only imagine what kind of human being (and I use that loosely) you are. Should your animal be improperly socialized, bark up and tell us. We won't hold it against you! (not in front of you at least; we'll wait til you turn tail) I'd much prefer to know up front that you appear all friendly, playful even, using that as a ruse to get close enough to sample the inner-workings of my jugular.

Yes, my pup pulled, hard, to go visit the Wrong Side Of The Kennel Set, as they did indeed look friendly enough to have an exercise filled romp with on the lawn designated specifically for that purpose. Perhaps, being cooped up in a car (Australian Shepards, I gather, do not, indeed, enjoy long car rides) led to dealing with frustration in rather poorly made social decisions: aka biting. Teeth baring (after the biting - not a good sign), snarling with wagging tails led me to think that perhaps we were a few kibble shy a 20 pound bag.

Pucker and I awaited swift action on the part of the owner.

A long wait would have followed.

In unison, our noses rose, our backsides turned, talks erect, and walked the other direction, leaving the snarling twins and their yelling owner behind us.

Pucker Up and I had some time to kill; potty breaks all around; naturally, because it's us the line for the potties went round the exterior septic tank. I would have to pick the one rest stop with four busses unloading. Next time? Check rear-view mirror for bus on ramp behind. Then high-tail to potty immediately. Do not walk dog. Risk having whiz in backseat to dancing around like loon, 4000 people between you and semi-private voiding facility.

Instead, I allowed the boys to go first (says A LOT when there is a line for the BOYS room) wandering around with Pucker Up in the lead. Sigh. Yes. IN the lead, not really ON the lead. I'd shoved her in the car, the very least I could do was allow her to sniff wherever her nose led us.

Just not into the swamp land below. First, I swore - bugs, disease, frogs, snakes, bacteria grew in that - however, it did make clean up a veritable breeze. Forget the baggie I'd have to tote, knees locked together on my own way to the Human Pissing Ground, I'd add her particular brand into the viscous hardly moving cesspool on our right. Is excellent plan.

As traveling leads to dehydration, kicking completely solid waste products around amounted to calorie burning work out.

She showed off her perfect manners: we waited until after the Wrong Side Of The Kennel departed, then, and only then, did she pee.

Right where they did.

Just goes to show you, no matter what your species or breed? Wait long enough, and you can piss on someone else's spot.

Hat Trick: Game Over

Can't deicide to laugh, cry, or vomit.

I'm going with all of the above.

We've spent literally years prepping for the Trial of The Century, (at least in my life) thousands of dollars in lawyers fees, court costs, delivery fees, appearance fees, time, energy, tears, blood, and sweat - culminating in today's appearance.

Yesterday, B tried to overturn the RO I have in place, guarding both Fox and I, from him for at least 100 yards. 300 feet isn't really enough for me, but beggars can't be choosers. He tried to cite statements from people he didn't know, documents he obtained, shall we saw, on the shady side, all in an attempt to make me look bad.

To a certain extent he succeeded: I left feeling bruised, battered, exposed and vulnerable - triumphant, as the new judge did not overturn the original finding of an RO extending until October 1st of this year; but he'd managed his intent: make everyone else look at me as though I'd totally lost my mind, never to be found again. Unfit. Pathetic. That all of the things he did while we were married, he didn't do - all were a figment of my imagination. FYI: they're not. He prefers them to be "unrecalled". Honestly, how do you admit to trying to kill your wife, the person you love the most repeatedly? Or that you shook your son? Threatened a dog with a handgun, as she peed on the rug, but he was convinced she did it on purpose. All those moments flash through my mind, every single time I see him. Give Fox to him. Pick up Fox, thankful he's still in one piece.

Naturally, the question as to why he only had visitation for 30 hours a month came up; a visitation schedule he requested, mind, to which he had no answer - he cited financial restraints. If he was so concerned about his son, how did he not seek custody prior to now? He cited financial constraints again. Um-huh. I'm not sure any amount of money could keep me from my child. Maybe, that's just me.

Today dawned slightly cloudy, with brilliant sun floating through, dancing on the blinds, as I showered, dressed, dithered over hair placement, where H was going, if he was packed up enough, did the dog have a long walk - anything really, to put off the inevitable: being in the same space as him. He still sends every hair on my body into orbit; my goose bumps get goose bumps. I can tell you where he is in a room, based on where the hair starts to rise.

I didn't arrive at the court house alone; didn't walk into the courtroom alone, but I was alone, my attorney and I, at the table. I feared the worst - not, mind you, that I could articulate what that was - but preparing for this nebulous "worst" anyway. We'd asked for the grand slam: termination of visitation, upping child support, sole legal custody. We got that, and more - neither one of us may put in another motion to modify our "agreement" without court approval.

I could've taken pleasure in her not allowing him to speak, or telling the three of us at the tables she wasn't interested in hearing the long, drawn out process of a trial; not at all concerned with He Said She Said testimony. Didn't want to see his illegally obtained documents from DSS, or hear about his supposed "witness"; she allowed my attorney to run through the pertinent facts, looked at our outlined exhibits, commented on his ability to swear at me, name call and degrade me while demanding what he wanted via email - only to then hand down the judgement:

I. Won. It. All.

My knees shook behind the table in my gorgeous black Anne Klein pumps, with the flattened bow -to match the suit I had on, complete with my I'm Going To Win red shell - not that I really believed that. I've lost for so many years to him, I'm still in shock that I won.

Could explain the tears. A big part of me still wonders why I and Fox and weren't enough for him to get his life together; why he couldn't be the father to him he is to Riley; why, why, why. I feel guilty that he won't see H, even though I know that's for the best, because really? At the end of the day? I still wonder if any of it is my fault. Maybe if I'd been better at somethings, or not as good at others, I could've avoided this moment: the one where his son is gone to him. That emotional hell of how could I do that to him? warring with the intellectual truly, this is the best, for everyone. I still feel like hell. I still question. Wonder. Wish that he'd gotten his life together, that he'd proved he was capable, willing, and able! to be there, as a father - a dad - should be for his child. Be there for me. RIght some of the wrongs he's committed; fix some of the things he's broken.

I know that's not the case.

It's beyond repair.

I have to face Fox, tell him, his big brown eyes, long lashes playing against his cheeks as he blinked in the sunlight that he and Daddy wouldn't be hanging out, or chatting anytime soon; he was okay with that. He didn't want to see daddy for a long long time, not until he felt safe with him again. Until daddy stopped lying, threatening me, scaring him that at some point, I just wouldn't show up to get him, I'd move out of the country without him, I'd never wanted him in the first place.

Everyone thought it was a joke that I'd rather leave my child with a stranger in an airpot while I nipped into the ladies rather than leave him with his father for a weekend. It's not.

Expecting a less than enthusiastic response, one of anger that I'd stolen daddy away, or .. whatever...he visibly relaxed. Told me he was relieved. Broke. My. Heart. How many kids are okay, even happy? about not seeing a parent? I'd be beyond devastated. I'd - I can't even fathom that possibility. Perhaps that's where the guilt stems from - right there: the fact that I cannot imagine my life without him. Without his smile, his sarcastic sense of humor, how he wakes up raring to go in the morning, while I rather idle along, until hitting second gear - the cards he makes, the flowers (mostly weeds) he picks me, as he knows I love love love flowers; I literally don't know how I'd get through the rest of my life without him.

I took that away. Me. I went to court, laid out the facts, got what I wanted.

Having a hard time delineating between what he did to put me in this position, versus what I'm doing to get out of it.

Don't misunderstand: its very clear what he did. Repeatedly. Violently. Relentlessly. Consequences don't apply to him; they never have. He's always been above the law. He'll tell you that himself, you needn't only listen to me - he's part of The Superior Race.

I'm not good at standing up for myself; never have been. Hello! That's what I've been working on nearly a year now - I stood up for both of us. It should feel good. It doesn't. Goes against everything in me, to not bow down to someone bigger, stronger, meaner, more powerful - even if they only have power because I never knew any other way of being.

Leaving the courtroom, stunned, literally stunned, we went to have a cocktail and some lunch - finding me in tears, that I can't fix this, I can't fix him. I don't love him anymore, I've not for a long long time; hell, I don't even like him. I don't respect him. If I'm totally honest?

I don't even know him.

But I knew who I thought he was, the kind of parent's we'd be, those moments, etched in time and on film, of holidays, birthdays, Just Because I Had The Camera days; the kind of family I didn't really have growing up.

We always want more for our children than we had for ourselves: today, I took the first HUGE step in securing a better future for Fox. I saved him for being raised in fear.

For the first time ever, I saved us both.

One day, I'm sure, it'll feel great.

Until then?

I'll try on this new found freedom the same way kids play dress-up: put all the proper pieces on, totter around in high heels seven sizes too big, give wearing a big girl bra a whirl. Maybe I'll go to dinner, with someone - anyone - without having to sit with my back to the wall, knowing where all the exits are, planning an escape, should he appear.

Maybe he'll slowly shrink down to the size he really is; he'll be less Monster, more, Ex-Husband.

I no longer count the days until I lose; I count the days that pass since I won.

It's a new feeling.

But not a bad one.

Packing Peanuts.

Patterns equal reliability: I adore patterns. I don't do limbo. I prefer to know just where I stand, when I stand there, and, well, to be quite honest, what I'm picking up once I'm done standing there.

We have a pattern. I know where we stop, why we stop, how long we stop there, and when we stop there? What we're doing.

Recently?

There. Is. No. Pattern.

First, I worried about the copious amounts of loggage Pucker Up created.

Now, I'm worried about the lack of logs.

Length, and girth - just so we're all clear.

Her fiber intake remains high. Some of it intended: diet dog food contains quite a bit. Some of it unintended: rolls of toilet paper, wads of used tissue (Fox has a cold), hair bows, rubber bands, fluff, bits of cardboard filched out of the recycling bin....either way? Fiber aplenty to keep things a-truckin' along.

Imagine my surprise to notice I'm no longer staring at her backside to see how much she's pooped, but to see if she did. That Mom Instinct thing kicked in something fierce: no longer am I laughing at tracer elements, or the multi-hued doo she excreted snarfing the brightest colored, worst smelling dog treats on the planet (the shitty thing? do pardon the pun, is that she loves them...does anything for them....like coming when she's called) - those treats, akin to watching a magician pull flag after colored flag after colored flag out of his pocket entertained even the staunchest, most stalwart of dog walkers. Those for whom excrement never crosses into entertainment found the array of vibrant hues amusing.

No more colors. No more volume. Nearly nary a log to scoop of. Scary.

I've sunk to new lows.

Ground level in fact. Not that at this point, I could get much lower.

Now?

I'm searching our Daily Discharge for possible suspects in our Lack Of Movement Issues.

I'm used to finding bits of paper, all sorts of things - but then? Things were really moving along. I wasn't kept in suspense to see if that wad of newspaper would resurface; I'd still be able to read the title pages it went through so fast. I didn't step on legos; I stooped to scooping them off not the living room floor, but the deck, lest they look interesting enough for a second go round. Really, eating our own recycling is bad enough without encouraging additional foraging. Legos apparently tempt the taste buds enough to enjoy them twice.

I can't quite put my finger on why I'm nervous we went from three whopping great droppings back down to one - you'd think I'd be ecstatic! I may very well no longer need to wander round the neighborhood toting open bags of poop, attracting flies and biting bugs of all kinds in a cloud around me...instead, I find myself palpating her tummy.

No blockage, or obvious signs of discomfort; licking me endlessly somehow doesn't convey deep seated agony. Those groans? yeah......more orgasmic, less....ouch don't do that.

Granted, she's begun whining at the end of the bed, convinced she'll no longer make it atop the covers; nope, no clue what that's all about. I'm not sure if she's worried her backside will smart again, as she got stung in the bum by a wasp (ps: they do not appreciate being chased and bitten at) or if her back's bothering her, or there's an overwhelmingly large mass blocking her lower intestinal tract I can't feel or see.....I've watched her eat; nothing really slows her down. Read: she eschewed dog food for a few days, as the Real People Food in the offing far exceeded quality and taste of the hard, circular tasteless things in her bowl.

Fair enough.

I'd most likely tend to agree. Either way, she ate. Always.

Worry became concern when she helped herself to a caramel latte (my caramel latte, very daring of her - she's lucky she still has a head) still no movement.

Not even a whimper at the door suggesting in any way that logs might be rumbling along.

Where is all the food going?

When a Dunkin Donuts coffee doesn't loosen things up (be it either human, or canine) there is something clearly, seriously wrong.

Finding the problem was great news! Finding the source? Baffling.

She. Ate. A. Freaking. Packing. Peanut.

I've no idea where she found one. Our house, rid of packing peanuts for months now, including the ones that fluffed up under the sofa (recall that horrendous purple smoothie spill of 2010? The last ones found their way to the inside of a vacuum pdq), no boxes have arrived using packing peanuts.

Packing peanuts do one hell of a job on the inner workings of a beagle - yes, they too come out just as they went in, most likely scrubbing her intestinal tract so thoroughly I'd be hard pressed to find any residue at all - but it's downright frightening to watch one exit.

Knowing my luck?

This won't be a one-off. I'll be watching her strain her way through a ten minute push for rabbit pebbles separated by long, cheese doodle size packing peanuts until a source reveals itself.

Sigh.

I suppose in a way, I can't complain: I do indeed know what to look for.

I should be thrill. After all: We have a new pattern.

Crap.

Lashing out

Watching tv the other night (something other than Phineas and Pherb - are you using your shocked face? Me too!) an advertisement caught my attention:

Physician proscribed Mascara.

Are. You. Serious.

I'll freely admit, I've used up my share of my health insurance benefits (maybe some of someone else's too, but I'll bet, they didn't even need them, whereas I've been essentially not eating since March, thus I'm totally entitled to stuff they didn't need anyway - sort of like the Free page on Craigslist, don't you think?) quite honestly, I'm simply gobsmacked.

I would have that this only cosmetic desire for longer, healthier, lusher lashes falls into the Pay For It Yourself Category of "health care" - in this particular instance, a term I use quite loosely. Extra boobies for the sadly passed over by God set? Buy them yourself. It is not a medical requirement to lug around a size C. (take it from me? most days, it's simply not worth the effort or energy) Want to lessen the Cellulite Tract Homes making inroads on your thighs? Rid yourself of those hard to reach Bra Rolls? Fine. Knock yourself - and your own bank account - out. Insurance companies aren't shelling out for teeth whitening, nose jobs, acid peels to peel off years of horrendous acne, hair color: That's on us.

Nope. It's a proscription. Health insurance picks up the tab.

I'd love to have the abs I had in college; or find enough of an ass that my pants no longer hang off me like the back of an elephant; medically, I'm hard pressed to find any Earthly required reason for any of that.

In fact, for most of the above? God made Spanx. If you buy the ones that extend up your midsection? It pushes excess fat - er - tissue right into your bra. Instant boob job! All for a mere $26.

(ps. Steinmart has a whole host of these beauties currently on sale)

However.

I ask you, what medical necessity is growing ridiculously long lashes? The ones you came with obviously have worked well for years, keeping bits of dust and assorted nasty crap from invading the delicate surface of your eyeball. However short they may be, they are indeed the only ones you need, so this sudden American fascination in proscriptively growing longer lashes confuses me to no end.

We've come so far in some places, and gone so far backwards in others. Our children, for the most part, are hard pressed to make adequate conversation with an adult if their life depended upon it. Our American values have taken a backseat (or trunk space) to our obsession with being Perfectly Groomed. Boob jobs started the fads, teeth whitening snapping along behind, butt lifts, face lifts, all in an effort to not show our real age.

Sadly, it also hides the wisdom we've gained, the laugh lines we got naturally - laughing with new babies learning to crawl, finding out that the word our little guys thought was so funny turned out to be "douche-bag" and they'd no clue what it meant!, inside jokes with our girlfriends, our spouses, cards in an aisle that caught our funny bone. The crows feet marching across our eyes document the number of smiles we've generated in a life time; the number of times we've squinted in bright sunlight to see if our babies (who may be quite big at this point) aren't drowning at the local beach, made the big catch during a football game, to pick them out at the many graduations we attend. From tearing up when they bring us freshly picked flowers....only to discover they're of the We Never Die Ragweed variety.

Those white hairs I've been covering up? Most likely, there is one for every time my son stopped my heart while doing something incredibly life-threatening and stupid; or just dangerous. Climbing the outside of a 12 foot staircase over tile at the age of four comes to mind. I'm willing to bet good money that a couple of them popped up during his first febrile seizure when he was two; the ride he gave himself down the stairs in a stroller, whacking his head on concrete at 15 months old, that heart stopping moment during a football game when his windpipe got squished, he wasn't moving on the field, and I leapt off the bleachers, to get to the field in time to find out he was just fine. Knocked the wind out of him; scared the dickens out of all of us - about six new ones showed up the next day.

Yes, I too fall victim to the latest hair coloring method - I don't believe that my white hair at this point means wisdom, I think it means I have a child who's never met a risk he didn't take.

Those new crows feet that have just shown up? I'll lay claim to those. I've laughed, I've cried; they are evidence that my little guy and I have come a long way - we're both still alive to see our next birthdays; we've had quite a ride getting here.

What, I wonder, would longer lashes say?

Thanks, Ruth.

Today, someone asked me what on Earth I've done with my Theatre degree.

I looked her dead in the eye, and told her that being nice to others, when one really doesn't want to be, is an acquired skill.

It is, I kid you not, one of the first major lessons in acting they teach you. You HAVE to get along with your partners; you WILL someday be paired with someone you don't like; with your luck, he'll be a major love interest in the show you're in. You will have to work in an office, a store front, whatever, with folks that aren't whom you'd choose to work - but decorum trumps pickiness ever time.

I act like I like people all the time. We all do. Some of us are just better at it than others. How manners, for example, are to make others feel comfortable; not to bludgeon them over the head, when they don't use the correct fork. (for the record? not using an adverb correctly drives me up the wall, I don't care how comfortable I'm supposed to make others feel - adverbs deserve the -ly. It's what make them an adverb. Eat your salad with your desert fork if you must, but for heaven's sake use the -ly))

My least favorite professor, worked me harder than anyone else; she had me so doubting I had any talent at all, I nearly dropped out of theatre school, and stuck with pre-vet. (Failing O-Chem clearly also tipped the scales in remaining in my other major) Ruth, her name was - nothing I ever did, seem to please her: my monologues were funny when they weren't supposed to be, or moved someone to tears, when that wasn't the intention, or I raced through them like a train reeling off it's tracks (slowing down has been a consistent direction from every director)...most students, have a different professor each term. Not I. I had Ruth for three semesters. Through monologues, scenes, full shows; I felt like I'd never gotten it right. I left her class in tears, any ego I had shattered, because Ruth wasn't satisfied. There was always always always something I missed.

Graduation day she pulled me aside to tell me she worked me harder, because I had talent. I was going somewhere. Most of the others?

Not so much.

I've not followed the careers of those I went to college with; my hands have been full with babies and dogs, loves found and loves lost, personal tragedy, getting a bunch of things wrong, and enough laughing with enough really close friends to pee a little. I've loved every minute of it. I wouldn't trade those moments for all the tea in China - but, after college, out here, on stage?

I always got it right.

Reviewers adored me, even the toughest one in town, gave me not only an entire paragraph (unheard of!) but compared me to Emma Thompson. Perhaps, one of my proudest moments. Yes, I framed it - my wall of pride is in my office, in the basement - no one else needs to see it, really. Anyone who really knows me has seen it - the two reviews, the magazine cover I did....

There's an old saying that people work out their issues onstage; the really talented folks are the ones that bring such a wealth of experience to a role - because acting isn't about lying, it's about finding the truth. In the script, your partner, in a role.

I've acted my way through quite possibly the longest divorce in recent history (I could be wrong, but since I don't listen to other's divorce stories, I can honestly say, mine is the longest I know of) slapped a Game Face on when things didn't go the way I'd planned, when life threw some curve balls I wasn't expecting.

Ask my son, he'll tell you my batting is atrocious.

I've stumbled, hell, I've fallen...and I got back up. My theatre degree, I wanted to tell this woman, is doing something: I'm finding the truth in being a mom, a friend, a partner, a role model, a citizen - you're only as good as what you bring to the role. You cannot pretend to be this character, this woman, or child, mother, sibling - you have to be it.

I would know. I pretended to be all these roles: estranged wife, mother, sibling, daughter. If everything remained compartmentalized, none of it needed to be dealt with; no one would ever know that under the well-made up face, great hair and glossy smile was a woman paddling with everything she had just to stay above water.

Ruth always told me to dig deeper, find more of the truth in every character I've played; characters leap off the stage because they come with a life of their own. A history, that brought each character to where they are; it's why no two performances of the same show is identical. Write your characters history, live it - usually, it resembles in some fashion, your history - that's why you got the role in the first place. Directors cast someone because they fit the role.

The show I'm so proud of? Wasn't because I'd gotten the lead; but who the lead was. A woman disgruntled with her life, needing a breath of fresh air, of change, a moment in which to consider who she was, and whom she wanted to be. I can totally relate. I adored playing Lotte, because she went from being rather bullied by her inconsiderate husband, to finding this warm, carefree voice, falling in love with her husband - and he with her - all over again.

Rebirth, I suppose. Renewal. She also had 9 costume changes and some fabulous comedic timing - but I needn't blow my own horn. I've a framed review for that.

What I took away after the lights dimmed, the curtain fell, the theatre dark?

That role was the honest me. The one not afraid of what other's thought; I knew at the end of the show, I'd love me.

Ruth was absolutely right: life is all about finding the truth.

One day, I'll look her back up, send her a note, and thank her.

two u's?

I've vacuumed, (I've always wondered why there are two u's in there...you don't see two u's in consumed, which sounds the same...consuumed...see? sounds as though that consuumed garnered a higher score on the scale) prepped for using my favorite floor cleaning machine, even found out where to buy the cleaner I swore they no longer made - only to discover that while J was leaving this morning? In his haste to get to his house and move mulch around? I knocked it over, and now? (take a wild guess)

It doesn't work.

First, I'd like to point out that you'll never find me running to spread mulch. Truth be told, you won't find me running for the fun of it to start (I run so as having something to bitch about, while trying to locate my missing abs; it also perfects my standing as Actively Participating In Fatty-pant's Diet Plan) and I for damn sure do not find heaving around great heaping shovels full of smelly cedar bark exciting.

In fact, I detest the scent of cedar. Yes, I realize, those of us with cashmere tendencies usually adore the stuff.....I HATE it. Cedar closets. Cedar hangers. Cedar chests. I particularly detest it as mulch: freshly delivered, in an enormous pile, mocking the owners in it's exacting announcement that You've Not Spread The Mulch Yet.

Hmm. Seem to have left the thread I had going.

Right.

The next appliance I do believe has seen it's final end here at My House, The Great Hospice For All Things Electronic. What kills me? I knocked it over as J was in such a hurry to get his mulch groove on before a predicted storm...which then never came. Oh, I'm sure he's freaking thrilled with his work; the garden shall indeed look splendid, simply splendid, with it's fresh coverings...but I won't see that.

No ma'am.

I'll see the forlorn no longer drooling out it's water appropriately floor cleaner that I've had so long they no longer make them; or at least, you must special order them. I checked. I can get a new one; quite pricey now though. Not at all the great whopping steal I got mine for, years ago. So what if I ran out of cleaner, could find no one that carried it, and switched to white vinegar?

Pucker Up most likely prefers the vinegar anyway. Ten years ago, no one really gave any thought to what Fido, Baxter, or whatever ridiculously named animal might think of the noxious odors wafting off shiny floors. Perhaps that's why ten years ago people's dogs were so much calmer. They were high.

Either way?

I've floors lacking my standard of shininess - as Angus isn't due to visit for a bit, this is the perfect time to spiff up the flooring. He does loathe perfectly finished shiny floors. Big baby. I considered dragging back out the equally old, equally On It's Last Legs Swiffer Wet Jet; but then, really? It kind of smears the Landing Dog Fur around, it doesn't suck it off the floor so I can flush it down the toilet.

ps: RJ at True Value told me to flush it. Otherwise, it clogs up sinks, in particular a garbage disposal.

Now may not be the best time to ask me how I know that.

I'm trying to stay focused on one appliance at a time. Equality, and all that jazz. Plus also? I own a back up garbage disposal, aka: Puck Up. She'll eat anything, has proven it, so certainly a few extra table droppings won't hurt her....although I did just spend quite a few months dragging us further than usual, longer than usual, and at greater speeds than usual so as to locate her waist.

I really hate to lose all that progress, because I've destroyed - ahem - challenged - my disposal to a feat it's incapable of. Again, not dwelling on that.

Dwelling instead of conversation with J, that went along the lines of, does it make a specific noise when the water comes out, and is it not doing it now?

No, it sounds just the same.

Are you sure?

Yes, dammit, I sure.

Really? If something broke, maybe the water line interiorly, there should perhaps be an alternate noise; even a really subtle one?

I'd grit my teeth, but since my jaw's hurting already (thus limiting my ability to bark) I thought I'd keep it simple: if fell. It's broken. Get over here and fix it before I lose my head.

No need to swear, darling; I can look at it. No promises (which means he may not even know how the thing works, but he'll give it the Good Old College Try - the kind where he looks exactly as though he knows what he's doing - the last time I tried that? One of my boobs got smacked so hard it came out my back)

To top off the evening, as we're having that conversation, I unplugged my phone charger from the wall (I suppose that was unnecessary; where else does one find a plug?) only to discover upon inspection?

One of the metal tines is still in the socket.

I mention this casually to J, still on the phone debating the possible issues with the floor cleaner; he actually told me to leave it alone. Something about it still conducting electricity, blah blah blah, no, you may not, under any circumstances use your fancy pants rubber gloves as shock absorbing properties to dig out metal thing from plug; no, do not use the toast tongs like you just suggested. Wood still conducts electricity - not as well as metal, or water; but you could get zapped. Best to simply ignore the tine sticking out of the wall, push in the sofa to ensure everyones safety - like I'm some sort of complete idiot.

Honestly.

I wonder if he realizes that while he's carrying on with his Safety First....something about turning off a breaker (does he not realize my laptop was dying? that all my books, my water, my ...everything ...was right next to me, so obviously I'm going to plug in right there?) ...I gave my Actively Listening Face a whirl on the phone, while I donned rubber gloves, grabbed toast tongs, and pried that sucker right out of the socket.

I'm thrilled beyond measure I didn't get zapped. (God, how humiliating would that have been? Gee, honey, could you come get me? I just charred my arm off while totally ignoring you, I think perhaps the ER might want to take a look at this, and could you get my stylist on the phone? My hair's looking especially freakish...)

I left it alone, on the floor, just in case, you know, it's still all electrically charged or something; the toast tongs are away, the rubber gloves back dressing up the sink where they belong... I figure when he asks, tool belt at the ready, one of those electric measuring gadgets in his hand (I think he said the good tools were black? or yellow? Christ. I really ought to pay more attention to some of these details) why it's lying on the floor, I can come up with something really clever.

Clearly, quite far from the I Donned Rubber Gloves and Used Toast Tongs at the same time you were lecturing - er - filling me in on why that could be exceptionally dangerous.

In case you were wondering?

Even though you had to pull string, wads of whatnot out of the brushes that were clogging the vacuum?

It works just fine.

Though I'm still just as confused as to why it has two u's in it.

You give me NOTHING?!

For all the time I spend covered in bug spray, wandering to and fro, late at night, when it's hot, humid, and all around disgusting out, one might think Pucker Up would at the very least reward me with something to take home.

Not tonight.

We sniffed rabbit trails, bird habitats, where deer have been spotted, and we've been chased by particularly unfriendly big, fat, hens (thankfully, not tonight - I wasn't in the correct shoes for that kind of "flight" pardon the un-intended pun) - yes, I enjoy wandering our neighborhood with either Fox, or more often than not, Jonathan.....but dammit, after she's pooped on my office rug AGAIN, a habit I not only detest but had thought we'd completely outgrown - leave a frigging dump for me to pick up outside.

I swear, if she does the pawing at the front door crying routine tonight, at some ungodly hour, I might just get her stuffed. She wouldn't eat the dog food, instead preferring to peruse the table in circus dog fashion, as she's not tall enough to totally reach the table top, even on hind legs.

Thank God.

Yes, I realize, many of you may think - look! a night off! no toting around smelly bags of feces through the complex, awaiting the last of the three load drops - and I am...I suppose.

However, now I'll spend a good portion of the night wondering when I'll be awakened by a scent so ugly it defies description. Undoubtedly, if she does the In Home Drop? It'll be behind the dining room table.

Especially as shitting on the deck is beneath her.

Again, I do indeed realize that this habit, put into place this winter, when it was too damn cold to walk her nine million times a day to potty train her (thus assisting her Festive Holiday Weight Gain) is one I both love and loathe. Love it, as it's easy to deal with - no leashing, walking, bug spray, baggage - but the deck smells like, well, shit. It is also how we learned several very handy lessons - for instance, don't ever flush frozen dog poop. Big no-no.

Now that she's insisting on shitting on the grass?

I'm highly annoyed with that as well.

All this telling me she has to go out with the pawing at the front door, bringing me piles of things (items that are distinctly NOT hers) so I'll know for sure we need to go potty; yes, I admit, I could do with the exercise too - but that is sooooo beside the point.

The point?

After all that hooting and hollering that she needed to go, eschewing the deck for shitting, only to drag me hither and yon tonight to do NOTHING?

Not. Acceptable.

If I thought it would've helped?

I'd have kicked the shit out of her.

At least then, I'd feel as though I accomplished something.

hot hot hot

It's hot.

Really hot.

Off the charts, don't give me a number (I don't need one) simply tell me on the weather report that it's FUCKING HOT, don't bother to get dressed, go outside, or anything, other than crawl into my fridge and stay there.

Especially if I'm going to lose power (thus, my much coveted, dearly beloved central air - it's good to be spoiled) in the middle of the night, only to wake to drenched sheets.

They didn't get drenched the fun way either.

I'd have thought that the stupid bag of freaking fur who blows heat like furnace would be too hot herself to snug up next to me.

Yeah, I wasn't that lucky.

Add in my Man In Training (ie, gives off heat like a bear) and I'm pretty sure I could serve my liver with onions. I've taken to eating (smashing in my case) popsicles up for breakfast, forcing seltzer, soda, juice, water and iced tea on everyone I've passed - including the old bat I really don't care for.

I was SHOCKED to discover our neighborhood lush? Wore jeans, long sleeves and those ridiculous high heeled black boots to the liquor store and back. I'd've offered her a ride, but I was going the other way. Plus I've heard it's not nice to startle the totally loaded with kindness. They tend not to know what to do with it.

Either way?

I'm spending the remainder of my day/evening anything cold straight from the fridge/freezer, lying around so as to not exert any effort whatsoever - in fact, it's so damn hot out?

I'm really going to go all out.

I don't care if the dog pees in the house.

Shoot, I'll encourage it.

Snactch Surfing

My son has fallen asleep, tv on; the puppy, wedged up against me, while I'm studying (as you can see, quite ...uh....studiously) - except wedged doesn't cover it.

Sort of, on top of me. While next to me. Pressed into the ribcage so that perhaps, I'm being smothered from the side by a very small dog.

Embarrassing newspaper title: Local Woman Smothered By Bitch.

I've nudge, pushed, shifted positions, all in an effort to dislodge 25+ pounds of fur - apparently, Stubborness adds about 50 pounds to her backside. Add in the dug in nails, and I might as well give her the whole damn bed... Holy Christ, she's licking her Ooh-Whoo using my ribcage as a leaning post!!

ARRGGGHHHHHHH!!!

At this very moment in time?

I'd be totally okay to go back to where she was simply smothering me.

Knowing that she was cleaning out her pink parts while snuggled into me?

Wait a sec - I think I just threw up in my mouth.

Soooo not okay. You have a kennel; that's the kind of thing you do in private, unless you're having a spa day - even then? It's just you and the lovely spa lady. It's not, say, your family all hovering around waiting for the big moment when the cuff gets a trim to match the collar, if you get my drift.

Quite unladylike.

Indeed.

I'm your owner, who's expressed things from your backside (only in a tub, wearing gloves, while watching how to on youtube.com - fyi? the part about don't do this at home if you're not sure what you're doing? yeah, I ignored that part again - did manage it, but...leave to professionals if you can afford to do so), gone to dinner, with one of your friends, where I had to give you two - not one, TWO! baths on the back deck because you didn't learn the first time to not roll in coyote poopies.

I owe AM an entire bottle of rice wine vinegar. And, expensive smoothing shampoo. Not that Pucker needs smoothing; it makes it less likely I can pass off some of the bulges as her being "fluffy".

While I suffer most of the indignities afforded to pet owners? With as much grace and aplomb as I can muster (tough, I admit, while carrying around palmfuls of poop in an open bag) in all kinds of weather. I'm the friggin' postman, with a lot less exciting packages. I'll trim nails, trying to carefully snip, wrestling your entire writhing body to the ground so as to get to one paw (it's quite a workout, I think, like, 3400 calories come off me every time I trim her nails) without actually punching you in the head to quiet the never ending whining. I've swept, vacuumed, once, twice, sometimes more times a day, as you blow fur like no dog I've ever met; you prefer to leave it everywhere you go. Sofa. Bed. Floors. Chairs in the kitchen. In clothing.

I'll tolerate a lot from you in this bed - you're horked up pieces of gunk I can (and sometimes cannot) identify, blown into Jonathan's ear to the point he thought it was me, leaked some horrendous bio-agent type gas -

However.

Snatch-surfing, isn't one of them.

For some reason, it seems more acceptable for a male dog to be all up in his, uh, stuff; but girls? Should have far more pride. Yes, I understand cleanliness being right up there with Godliness - but since you greet others by smelling their asses, don't you want yours to reflect something other than your tongue?

Even if you don't?

I do.

Don't think now you're staying up here with me, my books and laptop - you can totally take you, your fur, and your well-licked can back to whence it came.

Only one bitch gets that kind of treatment in bed - I hate to break it to you?

It's not you.