Life in Scribbletown

So, I was cleaning out my car the other day, sifting through empty and partially empty water bottles, used wipes, tissues with….I don’t know what on them…..when I discovered a drawing Dusty had done at some point with a pink highlighter.

I would have scanned it to share but the pink highlighter didn’t scan very well for some reason and the results lost something. So, let me describe it to you:

The title of the picture is How He Got Crazy. There is a series of drawings across the top, all labeled. Below is a drawing of an old man with an enormous head. He’s a mild-mannered fellow, with round glasses and obvious hair coming out of his ears and nose. His body is teeny but it appears he is holding a cane in one hand and a package of some sort in the other. He is smiling and doesn’t look in the least bit crazy. But let’s look further, shall we?

The pictures across the top are, I believe, the things that drove this man over the bend.

The first is a picture of a smiling piece of toast popping out of a toaster. There are squiggle marks around the lever illustrating that the toast is popping out. The label reads: TOSTE. So, toast is one of the things that drove this poor man (he might be a retired accountant) crazy.

Next, is a television set, equipped with a rabbit earred antenna (we’ve never owned such a tv in Dusty’s life; I think she may be getting her artist cues from Richard Scarry books). It is labeled: TV. Yes, it’s becoming clearer now. TV can certainly drive a person insane, depending on what they watch.

Thirdly, is a blob with multiple buttons. It is labeled: VIDEO GAMES. Ah, most assuredly. Depending on which games this poor man has been playing (are there porn games compatible with a DS?), that, coupled with too much bad tv and smiling toast could have sent him over the edge.

Lastly, is a drawing of a stick girl with a radiant smile and long luxurious hair, labeled: GIRLS. Whoa. Yes, girls, television, video games and toast. Is it any wonder this poor man has not been committed?

Or maybe he has……

Once again, I’m doing the blog chain at Absolute Write. This month, it’s unthemed and Auria Cortes got things started by talking about lies. Have you ever lied? I have. I used to tell people I was born in Ohio because it sounded more interesting than saying, “Oh I was born here and I’ll probably die here.” Snore. As a kid, we’d drive through Ohio on the way to Michigan to visit friends every summer, and it seemed more exotic than Virginia yet more believable than saying I was born in, oh I don’t know, New York City or Hilo, Hawaii. Nobody would have believed that! Plus, I’m not very good at lying. I have a non-existent poker face so I had to come up with a boring lie, something no one would ever want to confirm.

As I showered this morning, thinking about what in the hell I was going to write about, I thought about a person I once knew who is currently, annoyingly, top of mind. I don’t quite know how this fits in with the theme, exactly, but let’s see where this goes.

I had a friend once, or I thought she was my friend. Let’s call her Brenda. We were super close for a time. Brenda was dating a guy who was my future husband’s best friend. He was my roommate during college for a year which is how we met. Brenda worked in a record store with my future husband (we’ll call him Stan) in another city. Both Brenda and her boyfriend kept saying, “You’ve got to meet Stan. You all would be perfect for each other.”

And so I met Stan and they were right. Next month Stan and I will celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary.

But, it became clear that her enthusiasm was becoming strained. I am often dense so it took awhile to realize, after Stan and I started dating (and we lived 3 hours from each other which made it difficult), that she was jealous. She’d wanted Stan but he wasn’t in the least attracted to her. Eventually, she broke up with Stan’s best friend (who ended up being the best man in our wedding) and went off to earn an MFA in creative writing (yes, we also had writing in common) at a prestigious state university. She became the roommate of a friend of mine who was also at the same university getting a different graduate degree. Circles within circles.

Meanwhile, Stan and I wanted to live in the same town. How could this happen? I decided to move to his town which meant finding a job and dropping out of college (but not forever). Brenda, who was still styling herself as my BFF, offered to let me stay with her in the college town that was halfway between Stan and I. So, after some hemming and hawing, I took her up on it.

Do I need to tell you it ended badly? At first, things were great. She and I went to lunch one day to meet her writer friends, one of which had famous grandparents and who I knew from a summer writing camp years before and who is a really nice person. And very talented. We hit it off. That was the last time I ever met Brenda’s friends. She began to belittle me, reminding me daily that I was nothing, I didn’t even have a college degree yet, I didn’t have a job, I wasn’t even WRITING. I was nothing.

But Brenda, who I discovered alphabetized her book collection and filed her own journals under her last name (how pretentious can you get?), was at La-Dee-Da University getting an MFA surrounded by IMPORTANT writers and professors. Meanwhile, I was depressed and the job search went nowhere. I went back home and re-enrolled in college. Stan got accepted into grad school and things eventually worked out for us.

Brenda meanwhile began writing for music magazines. Pretty much everything she’d learned about music, she’d gotten from Stan and her ex-boyfriend while working in the record store. Brenda met a guy who now writes for one of the biggest music magazines in the country. They got married. Happy ending - they could revel in their music knowledge forever!

Then she died suddenly and a few years later her husband wrote a book about his wonderful, beautiful, talented former wife. It’s filled with the concerts they attended, the music they shared. Blah, blah, barf, barf, barf. I was tempted to write to him and say, “That’s not the Brenda I knew. She was mean and insecure and pretentious. A back-stabber. A poser. She filed her journals between Chaucer and Stephen Crane, for christ’s sake!” Everytime I see a mention of that book, or see her husband commenting on a musician on VH1 Classics, I want to hurl.

But, I wonder, what’s the truth and what’s not here? She could very well have showed him a different side of herself. She could have, I suppose, grown up a little and, having found her True Love, mellowed. I think we’re different with different people while essentially staying who we are at the core, and I’d seen a nasty little core in Brenda. Clearly, with her insecurity and jealousy (though why anyone would be jealous of me, I don’t know), we could never have been friends after that awful time sharing space, with all her little passive-agressive behavior and out-and-out hateful remarks. But, I suppose, for him, she was the best thing to happen to him. Perhaps they did share something special. I don’t know. I suppose it would have been odd if he’d written a book that wasn’t a hagiography.

I will admit that when I heard about her death, after the initial shock, I was a tiny bit pleased. I got the last laugh. Or did I?

Next up is Polyamory From The Inside Out!

Check out the rest of the chain bloggers:

Auria Cortes

Life in Scribbletown

Polyamory From the Inside Out

For the First Time

Family On Bikes

Writes in the City

Elf Killing and Other Hobbies

Rotating Bear

Fantastical Imagination

Asian Business

Spittin’ (Out Words) Like a Llama

As Yet Untitled

Mad Scientist Matt’s Lair

Peregrinas

Delirious

I had my first yoga class last night. I had been a little anxious beforehand, despite having a nice shiny new blue yoga mat of my very own, because I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, I’ve had good yoga classes and bad ones. So much depends on the teacher. No, everything depends on the teacher. I wondered who, out in the boondocks, would be taking this class. I was kind of hoping it would be me and a couple of older, fatter ladies. I figured most of the hardcore yoga people, you know, the ones who make their own soap (and, really, with the number of goats I pass everyday, that’s not too far fetched), would be taking classes in the city where the yoga studios are.

But, I was delightfully surprised. I was one of about 15 or so people. Of all ages. With a few men sprinkled in. I was behind one man and, if he hadn’t been so wobbly, I would have used his pony tail as my focal point during the tree pose. The teacher was exactly right: tall, broad hips, short dark pixie hair, gentle and kind. She was real and absolutely perfect. Like she was born to teach yoga.

The class moved at a slow pace, which I appreciated, and the only surprise was that we didn’t do the sun salutation which seems to almost be law in most classes I’ve taken before. But I didn’t really miss it. And, really, I have a yoga “cheat sheet” given to me by a long-ago teacher (who had the gall to move to Vermont!), with all the steps written and drawn. And you may wonder, if I own such a document, why haven’t I put it good use. Well, you are right to wonder. Let me just say, that it is impossible to do yoga at home with others around. Plus, it had been lost in a file drawer until recently.

All said, a wonderful class. We did a number of basic poses and then went into deep relaxation (which I think is my favorite part, I appreciate any opportunity to mix exercise with a nap). It wasn’t as hard to “remove all distractions” and be in the moment as it could have been. I focused on the music she was playing - something Japanese-ish and wooden flute-ish -and I saw the notes as colors. As the notes went low, I saw lines of purple and blue dipping down and then rising up to yellow and green on the higher notes. It was a very satisfying class. And now I have to wait a whole ‘nother week until the next one.

Dusty was very excited to hear all about the class and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t allowed to just go with me and watch. Or join in. So, I had to demonstrate a pose or two for her when I got back. I may need to find a yoga-for-kids class for her in the future. It’s so hard to keep up with her interests and capitalize on them. And afford them.

Before I left for class, she wanted to know how many hours she had to wait until Saturday, which is when friends will arrive for lunch and we will celebrate three grownup birthdays at once. I told her I didn’t know exactly but maybe she could figure it out for herself. She ran to get the calculator and then sat down, announcing with glee in her voice, “Okay, I’m in Math World now. Do not disturb.”

She did some fancy calculation which gave her an answer of 260 hours. Which, I don’t believe is correct because it shouldn’t have been more than 96 hours, tops. But, I didn’t have time to sit down and help her. And anyway, I don’t think she really cared whether the answer was correct. She’d gotten to use the calculator (which is usually HANDS OFF because it’s the only one in the house) and I think that’s all she was aiming for.

Well, you will be relieved to know that Dusty finally has a pet of her own. In fact, she has two. And she found one for Red as well. They are cute and furry. They fit in your hand. They don’t bite though they do poo.

We have secured them some appropriate shelter and keep them fed and they are quiet, law-abiding creatures. But, alas, they will soon undergo a change and need to be released back into the wild.

They are caterpillars. Dusty’s are both tent caterpillars, the kind that destroy everything green and lovely. One of them was captured on the apple tree and, ironically, we are feeding them apple leaves. The very leaves from the very tree that I didn’t really want to be eaten by caterpillars. But, what can you do? Red’s caterpillar was found at the school playground on Sunday. My husband had taken them there to play for awhile while I began the Big Planting (that’s like Boston’s Big Dig only less disruptive).

Red’s appears to be a different kind of caterpillar but we won’t know exactly what kind until it metamorphizes. Then again, we may never know. It wasn’t moving this morning when I shook the container. Maybe it was just resting.

***

So, the Big Planting. Yes, everything was planted. Tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, basil, globe artichokes, and seeds: nasturtiums, zinnias, parsley, dill, winter squash (butternut? I can’t remember), zucchini, yellow squash, beans, cucumbers, white pumpkins (”Lumina”), sunflowers, watermelons, canteloupe. There might have been more, I just don’t have the list in front of me. Geraniums went into a pot on the deck, verbena in the deck planters. Along with some more scarlet runner beans.

In the front yard, in the new end of the old front planter, we planted a variety of seeds, celosia, love-in-a-mist, batchelor buttons, amaranthus, and….what else? Something else. As if all that isn’t enough. Last year we found this odd square concrete…thing. I don’t know it’s original function, maybe it was a footing for something? Either way, Dusty and I dragged it to the front and incorporated it into our flower bed. It was filled with small field stones and had to be emptied so I could fill it with dirt.

I began the task, with my bare hand (because I am stupid) and suddenly felt a jab, a sting, a very unpleasant feeling in my finger that kept stinging, jabbing. I thought at first it was just a thorn but the stinging kept going. They I looked into the wagon in which we were putting the rocks and there was a huge-ass brown fuzzy spider, mad as hell. I’d been biten. By a spider. Fuck.

So, in my nerdy way, I calmly walked back inside to look it up in our not-so-handy insect book. I looked at the puncture wound on my ring finger wondering when the venom would begin to swell up my finger (I ripped off my rings), my hand, my arm, and reach my heart killing me right then and there. Was it a brown recluse? Was it?

Stupid book didn’t even have a picture of a brown recluse. But, strangely, the pain dissipated. There was no swelling. I did not die. And, after an hour, there was no sign at all that I’d been bitten. I went straight back outside, with Dusty in tow, put on my husband’s leather work gloves, and finished the task. We planted Monticello scarlet runner beans and I built a teepee (tipi?) with bamboo stakes. Here’s what it looks like:

And, here’s my favorite lavender plant. It’s got flowers that look just like purple bees:

GAHHH!

I seem to be having trouble loading photos into WP - I can’t get the entire box to show in my browser so I’ll just say that there are new pictures - of the garden and Red - on flickr. You can see it all there.

Have I ever told you about my Nemesis Neighbor? Ex-neighbor. The reason I moved to the country to begin with? No? Well, get you chin strap ready because you may experience some jaw dropping in the near future. Or maybe not. Either way, it might help you with that drooling. I’m saying that as a friend.

I mention it only because he was behind me this morning on MY road. The one I live on. In his big Ford Dickass truck (that’s an actual model name, in case you were wondering). You may also wonder why I fled to the country to get away from NN only to find him practically in my backyard. That, my friends, is what’s called irony.

Take yourself back to 2002. (And, yes, you can make waves with your hands like Wayne and Garth if it gets you in the mood: “Doodla-doodla.”) There’s an attractive young-ish couple with a toddler. They live in a cute arts and crafts cottage circa 1929 in an old established city neighborhood. It’s all good except they want another baby and their 1,000 sq house is on the teensy side. So, they decide to move. The market’s good, now might be the right time.

They secure themselves a realtor who turns out to be the most ADHD, annoying guy on the planet, but that’s a separate story. They need a four-bedroom house, they say. What with the music equipment needing its own damn room. They can’t afford one in the city, they say. They aren’t ready to move really far out, nor do they particularly want a septic system, well, etc. HA HA HA HA on them.

So, Mr. ADHD finds them a fixer-upper in another older neighborhood. Owned by a guy (we’ll call him Filthy Hippy Dumbass) who obviously hadn’t done a lick of maintenance in the ten years he’d owned the dump and his wife left him. I go to the inspection, meet the inspector. The guy next door (NN), who’d done a bit of crappy exterior painting to the house because he’s sort of a self-styled contractor, has the house key. Because he and FHD are buds. He does not hand over the key. No. He goes on the inspection with us, chatting all the time. Short guy with long shorts. Talks about all the work he’s done so far. The inspector’s not impressed and….is that a warning bell I hear? Or just a random ringing in my ear?

We buy FHD’s house for a very good price, considering. And then the hell begins. Nemesis Neighbor is having trouble getting his painting/contracting business up and running. Because he sucks at it, if the “repairs” on my house are any indication. So, he’s home all day. And growing frustrated, I guess. Short guys have a lot of personal problems, have you ever noticed?

My husband is home, too, when he’s not teaching. NN owns a leaf blower which he uses pretty much all day long every single day. He is also apparently paranoid and thinks that robbers are aiming for his particular house (which ain’t all that) so he must shine spotlights throughout his property at night. One of which shines through Dusty’s window. This means we have to find dark-as-midnight fabric for the curtains so my daughter can sleep. My husband goes insane from the leaf blower noise. He begins to take several different prescription medications.

These are The Lawn People. They were outside all the time, unless it was dark (robbers!) or raining (wetness!). They spent every waking hour mowing, raking, blowing. With their 3-year-old son. Who was given no ear protection around that stupid machine. And the arguments! God, you’d have thought we lived in a trailer park, what with all the yelling. They could never sit and relax, play with their kid, nothing. It was just rake, rake, rake, blow, blow, blow. I would bet the number of books in that house could be counted on one hand. A cartoon hand.

Our houses were surrounded by 100 year old oak trees. Which shed like a motherfucker in the fall. Dusty loved to jump and play in the piles of leaves. We raked them into piles but we had an entirely different Leaf Philosophy. Which went something like this: we are busy people who do not wish to be slaves to our yard. Leaves keep falling and falling and rather than wear blisters in our palms every weekend, why not wait til they’re done falling and THEN rake them to the curb. Our NNs had a slightly different philosophy, one that involved all-out war on the Evil Oak Leaves From Hell. Blowing must be done whenever ONE leaf falls to the ground. No single leaf must touch THE LAWN longer than 12 seconds or a hole will open up in their yard and suck them all down to flaming hell.

Needless to say, we didn’t get along very well. Every day, NN would make a passive-agressive pass with the leaf blower along our property line so that his half was pristeen and ours was…..full of leaves. That’ll show us! He probably even blew some of HIS onto OUR property! So there! Very Mature.

Then, there is one horribly long weekend in which the blowing never stopped. Our dearest cat, George, was put to sleep after his kidneys failed, and we came home unable to mourn because of the goddamn noise. Finally, that Sunday morning, around 11am, I’d finally had enough. I had to confront them. I walked over where he was blowing and she (still in her robe and slippers!!) was raking. The kid was wandering around them like a cat. You know how they like to weave in and out of your legs when you’re walking? Yeah, he was like that.

“Hi, I was wondering if maybe you could, um, cool it with the leaf blower for a little bit? It’s been on for days now and it’s Sunday morning and we justt lost our cat and we were just hoping for a little peace and quiet. For a couple hours, maybe.”

Buddy, you’d have thought I’d insulted their color, religion and combat-boot wearing mothers. They both stopped what they were doing, stood there a moment, their faces turning interesting shades of crimson and then Mrs. NN began to scream at me, “This is our property and we can do what we want! We didn’t pay $500 for that to not use it whenever we want to ! Maybe if you’d rake your leaves we wouldn’t have to use it so much!” Blah, blah, blah, on it went. I don’t even know what Mr. NN was yelling because I couldn’t hear him over his harpy.

We put the house on the market the following week. It was November. We’d moved in the previous June. We were out of there by the following June. In a house, far in the country, with a septic tank and a well.

And right before we put up the For Sale sign, we received an anonymous note in our mailbox: “Please rake your leaves.” Oh, buddy, here’s where Red inherited her temper. Do not tell me what to do because I will DO THE OPPOSITE. We did not touch a single leaf until that sign went up and we had an open house.

Interestingly, right about the same time, the neighbors on the other side of the NN’s put their house up for sale, too. They had a yard sale and we strolled over. We got to talking and it turned out that THEY were moving because of the NNs, too! They hated them just as much as we did!!

So, we sold our house and they sold their house. Turned out we were moving to the same county but opposite ends.

And the NN’s? They promptly sold their house. And bought a 10-acre lot right about 3 miles down the road from us. And built a shiny new house where they could use all their gas-powered tools all day long to their heart’s content. His kid goes to Dusty’s school. I’ve seen them at school functions. I once saw him driving his “contractor” truck. And then, one day, it was gone and he was driving a different Ford Dickass with his realtor magnetic sign on the side. God help us all, the idiot was a realtor now. And, with the market the way it is, I have to laugh. ‘Cause I’m sure he’s taking his current frustration out on those poor country leaves. Unless his new neighbors sneak over to the well-lit compound and strangle him in his sleep. One can dream.

I have spent the majority of the last 48 hours with one or both of my children. We have run errands, gardened (a LOT - more about that later; remind me to tell you about my spider bite), read books, yelled at each other, and soon we will make brownies. They had copious outdoor frolicking and sprinkler/mud time yesterday. And I think I’ve just been talked into not only going to the convenience store that serves “hand dipped” ice cream, but also to the Food Monger for popsicles.

My husband is currently on his way to Northern Virginia to do a two-hour live radio show at WEBR (3:00pm to 5:00pm EDT). This means that even though he took them to the playground this morning so I could start the big gardening process blissfully unencumbered, he is now gone and won’t be home until 8:00pm. At the earliest.

All to say, I’ve spent a lot of “quality” and “quantity” time with the children this weekend. And I’ve been thinking about an article I recently read in The Washington Post about how firstborn children get the most “quality” time from parents and how this might lead to better test scores, more education, and higher paying jobs.

This quality time included working together on homework, playing, reading, eating meals, sports, arts, conversation, etc. Interestingly, watching television together was not considered “quality” time. We don’t do much of that, period, so for us it’s a moot point.

One mother of three said she spent a lot of time with her first child but that by the third, she was “just trying to survive.” The report’s findings may be true but I think what’s going on is simply a change in dynamics. Sure, I spent a hell of a lot more time with Dusty when she was little because, well, she was the only kid in the house and she was at a very time-demanding age. She had few peers to play with outside daycare/preschool. The grownups were it.

I mean, all I had to do back then was work 40 hours a week and take care of one entire child. Not too big of a deal. There was even a little time left over for myself at the end of the day. Not much, but more than there is now. She spent three days a week home with my husband in those early days because he only taught two days a week. There wasn’t a lot of money either. The study mentions that second borns have the benefit of growing up in a slightly wealthier household. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to balance things out, esp if the firstborns are still getting better test scores and more education. I mean, once Dusty hit preschool she wanted to go every day, didn’t want to miss a thing, and so she did. Her peers became very important to her, as did the other caring adults in her life.

Once Red came along, things got trickier. Babies demand your attention in mostly physical ways, though mentally it’s a challenge as well. Dusty is a pretty easy-going kid but she also demanded attention and usually got it. My husband and I had to split the difference so I don’t think either of them has been short-shrifted. It’s just that things change when you go from three to four. Red is only home two days a week because, again, my husband’s job changed. She will probably stay home two days a week until kindergarten unless there’s another work change. So, I think it all kind of evens out.

Plus, for secondborns, they haven’t something the firstborn doesn’t: a sibling. There are more people to interact with, to play with, to keep them company. All Dusty had was mom and dad, which could be exhausting at times, to be a child’s sole playmate. Red’s got us and Dusty too, when Dusty’s in the mood to play with her. Red’s hard to play with on the best of days.

Will Dusty have higher test scores? I don’t know. They’re pretty high now, considering her intelligence and love of learning. Red’s a different kind of kid so I don’t really think birth order really enters into it. There are too many variables here. Will she get more education (which, I guess they mean more than one college degree)? If she’s willing to pay for it because neither one of them has a college savings plan. They stack up equally there. Better paying job? I’m not sure the study is looking at the important issue here. If siblings held similar jobs in similar occupations, and the firstborn made more? Then yeah, maybe. The firstborn will most likely be in the job market earlier than his/her siblings so at what point do you chart that graph? Where they each stand after 10 years working? What if one’s a self-employed artist and the other’s a stock broker? And, again, I think this says more about who they are - temperment- and personality-wise - then the order in which they were born.

I am a firstborn. It would be interesting to see how my test scores stack up to my sister’s. We had very different childhoods, went to different middle schools, had different school experiences. Divorce did a real number on both of us but in different ways. I have a master’s degree, she does not. I was paying my way and so was she (if you count grants and loans and workstudy). I did it because it made more sense, in the long term, to just tack it on there and move on. Not that I’ve done anything with it. Do I make more than her? Maybe, but I’ve also been working steadily in the same career since 1993. She has done things differently and has started her own jewelry business. She may actually make more than I do. I’m not really sure. And, does it matter? Again, we’re different people. Our childhoods were different though we both grew up with very little money in a faulty city school system. I think it more important that we enjoy each other’s company than that one makes more money than the other. It’s also more important that we’re doing what we want to do. I mean, I’d have a lot more disposable income if I hadn’t had children.

I’d like to be really mad about this article, and articles like them full of specious “research”, but I think they exist more to give the suburban middle class something else to fret over. Now, they’ll be ensuring that their other two kids get exactly the same number of karate, soccer and swimming classes and drive themselves (literally) insane. The only good that could come of articles like this is if parents sit and think about how they spend time with each kid and what they actually do during that time. And really, life is something just about chores. I think it’s good for kids to help around the house - it’s their house, too - cleaning up, going to the grocery store or the laundry mat, just being with mom or dad as they go about their lives.

And, it’s equally okay for parents to insist that kids make their own fun, learn to occupy themselves (video games and tv do not count) for stretches of time depending on their age. For Dusty, her peers are very important to her. Not more important than her parents quite yet, but it’s coming. Soon, she’ll want to spend more time with them and less with us. Which will give us more time with just Red. I really do think it all evens out in the end for the most part.

I’m not sure why “society” needs to give parents such a hard time. And it’s not so much the studies done but the spin put on the findings in the media. Is it that we’re all so nervous about women finally coming into their own, working full- or part-time alongside (or ahead of) men, putting their children in daycare and preschool programs because they must (and frankly my children have only benefitted from the experience)? Wouldn’t it be so much easier on us all, if the little woman would just snap out of it and get back home where she belongs? Ever seen Stepford Wives?

Maybe I’m wrong here, maybe it’s not to purposely make women feel they are never doing enough for their children, but it feels that way. I’m pretty immune to the whole stay-at-home/go-to-work argument because I wouldn’t change a thing about my life in that respect. I was not cut out to stay at home 24/7, not even if I was running my own business (which I would suck at). And I’m not just saying that because I was born first and got first dibs on everything and am now fabulously wealthy because of it.

I don’t know. What do you think? Hannah - what are your thoughts? I would imagine the dynamic would change each time a new child was thrown into the mix.

Hi! I was out of town yesterday and it feels like I was gone for a week. Why, I don’t know. Maybe it was the 75 e-mails and assorted unread blog postings I was confronted with last night when I turned on the computer.

First off, I want to acknowledge local boy, Noah Scalin and his Skull-A-Day website which has just been nominated for a Webby award. Noah rules. I’ve known him since he was a stinky diaper baby (he was cute then, too). He’s one of these people who actually DOES all the cool things he dreams up. An activist, an artist, etc. Go check out his cool site.

Second, my plants arrived on Wednesday evening. I may, once again, have gone overboard. I have nine - count ‘em, NINE -tomato plants, three different varieties; 3 eggplants; 6 peppers; three peppermint striped geraniums; and a gazzillion “peaches and cream” verbena. Oh, and a hundred and fifty million basil plants. So, I have a LOT of work to do this weekend. And, naturally, it’s supposed to be a thunderstorm-filled weekend. As if 3″ of rain last week and 1.5″ this week wasn’t enough.

Thirdly, and really this is my most exciting news: I am going to take a yoga class starting next Tuesday! An evening class but it’s close to the house. I only get to take 5 of the 8 weeks because the last three conflict with my husband’s stupid summer teaching schedule (I can’t leave the children alone in the house any more after CPS had that little “chat” with me about my Vegas trip last year…..). But, I am very happy about this turn of events. Now I need to go buy my very own yoga mat! Whee!

I had an dream this morning (sorry; buzz kill, I know, to throw in a dream there) that I was visiting an old friend. Which meant I was in Michigan, where she grew up. I did not have husband or children, I was just my only self. It was snowing and I realized, toward the end of the dream, that it was Christmas Eve. It would be my first C.E. not spent with family and that realization gave me a tiny thrill. I then went out in nothing but a short sleeved shirt - because at some point earlier in the dream it had been spring - to buy my sister a Christmas present. None of the rest of y’all mattered, I guess.

At some point I was put in charge of all the babies and little kids in the house (the house was filled with people - maybe they were all those poor Utah children), including this youngster named Ian. He was, at various times, an infant and a two-year-old. He spoke like a ten-year-old. I asked him if he’d like to nurse and he replied, “Yes, I would.” And so I did. I nursed his infant form. It was nice.

That’s all I got.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Well, it’s Wednesday. I’ve had ample time to digest the previous weekend and I might be ready to tell you what I’ve just now realized: Red is part ape. Vive la Evolution, no? Si. She has also become one of those very secretive children who create silent havoc and then sidle away leaving you to discover the horror at your leisure. Long after it’s too late for any real punishment. I mean, I could offer her up in the free section of cr@igslist, but that wouldn’t be right, would it?

So, Friday. Yes. It was just Red and me, me and Red on Friday night if you recall. We played, we ate (well, I did), we puttered around. Red had some naked time, some princess wear time, some Wear Dusty’s Skirts time. All very well and good. Red spent considerable time in the bathroom while I was on the computer. [Foreshadowing]

I eventually got Red ready for bed - pajamas on, teeth brushed, books read. Lights out. We laid on her bed in the dark and sung ABC’s and Itsy Bitsy Spider but like this, “Itsy Bitsy Blah Blah, Went blah-blah-blah-BLAH! Down came blah and blah blah blah blah OUT!” It was about 8:00pm.

Finally, she fell asleep at 9pm. I strode into the bathroom [ahem!] and thought, “Oh it’s nice to have the house to myself! I can pee with the door open and the light out [ding, ding, ding!].”

I got a beer, some chips and popped in the Elizabeth movie. The others came home at 10pm and so the movie was paused. Dammit. My husband went in to the bathroom, turned on the light, and swore under his breath. What now?

“Why is there…..shit…..all over the toilet seat? And the sink?”

Red had apparently had some kind of……bodily malfunction she didn’t bother to tell me about. There was poo smeared…..well, where my husband said it was. Goddamn that child. Monkey in the zoo slinging shit and laughing. And I know there’d been no poo on her body because I’d, just two hours ago, put her in a nighttime pull-up and pajamas.

And did you catch the part about me sitting IN THE DARK on the toilet WITHOUT REALIZING I WAS SITTING ON POO?!?! Because, yeah. Usually when I sit on someone else’s poo, I do it because I want to. I don’t think it stuck to me but I didn’t even bother to check. That’s jaded motherhood for you. “Oh, there’s vomit down the back of my shirt? Nah, just leave it there. I’ll change when I get home.” “Oh, that? On my shoe? I think that’s Junior’s poo. There was a bit of an explosion this morning. If I remember, I’ll wipe it off later. After I finish this sandwich.” Sigh.

After the hazmat crew left, I sat back down - after tucking Dusty in - and watched the rest of the movie. With another beer. And forgot, momentarily, that one of my children is a chimpanzee. Could be worse, I suppose. She could be a schnauzer.

Pop Quiz time. Match child to quote:

Child A sings: “I want you to be in my POO BUTT! I want you to be IN my poo butt! I want YOU to be IN my POO BUTT!”

Child B emerges from the bathroom and says, “Sometimes? When you’re in the bathroom on the toilet? It can help you find out things.” “Things such as what?” “Like what these do.” And Child B pulls at the strings at the bottom of her capri-length cargo-ish pants and - VOILA - her hems are cinched just below the knee. WHO KNEW?

****

Last night, or rather this morning, I dreamed about plane crashes. I dreamed I was on campus and witnessed three in a row. The last one came down so close, and the explosion was so massive, I ducked and covered my face against what I anticipated would be fire and flying debris. But, since it was a dream, it never happened. In the plane were one of the college’s trustees and his son, both alumni. It was a small plane though bigger and sturdier than an ultralite. I know nothing about planes.

I realized, later this morning, with the rain coming down (again) and my brain still stuck in dream mode, that I’d read a brief news alert yesterday afternoon about a small plane crashing down onto a house just across the river. So, the seed was planted but I’d forgotten about it. And, when the paper arrived this morning, the crash was headline news and I was scared for a minute because my dream was still fresh.

I’ve also been reading, slowly, a memoir written by someone I went to school with (it’s still in draft form; I’m doing for her what others are doing with my novel). She wrote about her experience as a disaster worker in NYC after 9/11. It’s depressing but, again, I’d also forgotten about it until all these planes started crashing.