The U.S. Bank of Kimberly is closed.

It only seems like eight million dollars ago that I admired my son as he rode his cheap little Hot Wheel down the walk. He was so small back then, so innocent, so easy to please, and so gosh darned inexpensive.

Well, pass the time and check the bank statements, Honey, cuz those days are gone. Nowadays it costs us a small fortune every time the kid walks in the door and it costs even more money to have him leave. Everything he does in between coming and going pertains to money, relates to expenses or is down right costly.

Rather than view his parents as the people who sustain him with our life-giving forces, he sees us as an institution that allows him to walk in and make cash withdrawals at any time of any given day. I’m not even sure that he has an account with us. Yet, I know that he sees me as his own personal ATM because I think he tried to enter a pin number on my forehead last night.

To think we thought that we had put the big expenses behind us once he was out of diapers and formula.

What was once a delightful child that would wave at me from the bus is now a 6’ tall money pit who costs more to maintain than a ‘57 Chevy with a rusted out chassis. Instead of happy comments and witty replies, our child has taken to responding to every inquiry with, "I need some money." And with maybe a few grunts and ever suffering sighs interjected of course.

"What, no greeting?" I asked as he came in the other night and ambled over to the fridge.

"Oh, yeah," he responded, indicating that he was grateful for the reminder. Naturally, I assumed he’d remembered that he’d not extended an obligatory hello. But rather than address me with a happy greeting he simply said, "I need some money."

No matter the day, no matter the hour, any time I ask him, "Are you hungry," "How’s your hair?" or the ever-loving, "How was your day honey?" he’ll say, "Oh, that reminds me, I need some money."

It’s gotten so that we can’t afford to ask him how his day went.

Any fool with a fraction of a brain would suggest that the kid get a job. And although my husband and I may not be known for our brilliance, we do have a clue. We’ve requested that he remain employed and requested that he finance his own extravagances. But demanding that he spend his own money on his own expenses only caused him to get more creative.

"Well," he explained to us the other night with visual aids including pie graphs and flow charts, "The dog was sick and cost $250. Since my health is stellar, don’t you feel I deserve adequate compensation? And let’s just take a minute to look over the statistics that I’ve compiled, shall we? The data clearly shows that I’ve not only saved you people money with my good health and great hygiene but that I’ve saved you time and travel expenses by not making you drive me to the emergency room. While we’re on the subject of expensives in our family – what, pray tell, did it cost to get Harpo fixed?"

I’ve become so conditioned to handing him money that I pass out $5 bills even when he doesn’t ask. In fact, the other night when he asked me to help him find his shoes, I asked him what size bills he preferred. And instead of inquiring as to what he would like for supper, I’ve taken to asking him how he would like his change.

As if that weren’t bad enough, he came in the other night and requested several dollars to take a friend to a movie. Being a woman of sound mind and financial ruins, I flatly refused.

"Come on Mom," he said, "you can’t just cut me out of your life like this. "

"I’m not cutting you out of my life, I’m just telling you that you’ve got to learn the value of a dollar."

"Can’t you see how important this is to me? Surely there is something you could do to help? "

"Well, you could do what I do when I’m low on funds and the cash cow has been milked of its last quart. "

"What’s that?"

"I dump the vacuum bag and rummage the lint trap."

"How about if you rummage it for me?"

"How about not?"

"Come on Mom, take one for the team."

"But I don’t wanna play."

Before I knew it, we were emptying my wallet and I was trying to fish a quarter out of the lining of my purse. He walked away with my last penny and a smile.

Which reminds me, I need some money.

Ahoy! Bring out the Harpoon!

I saw a commercial on TV one night that had me writhing in my chair. I’m here to tell you that there’s nothing worse than watching a skinny woman describe, in detail, how she reached her weight loss goal.

As I sat there in my fat cells, wearing a one-size-fits-all sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that the dryer had obviously shrunk two sizes, this woman bragged about how she lost pounds without so much as breaking into a sweat.

"I went from a size 10 to a size 4 in just two months," she said as she held up two of her bony fingers. She was smiling so happily, so joyfully, and I would have sent her a card expressing heart felt congratulations if it weren’t for one distinct point—I wanted to slap the crap out of her.

I think I speak for all of womankind when I ask, "Who wants to hear that a gal considered herself to be fat at a size 10?"

It’s enough to make a person consider taking the laundry off of the treadmill.

I may look like a before picture for a Weight Watchers commercial, but I’ll tell you this, it’s not for lack of trying. I exercise, I sacrifice and if it weren’t for food, I’d be toothpick thin by now.

Being overweight used to really bring me down. But I’ve learned to handle it with a new game that I like to call, "Beat the Scale." It’s so compelling that I’m thinking of writing the networks to see if they’d be interested in making it a reality series.

Before "Beat the Scale" was born, I used to actually eliminate as much clothing as possible before checking my weight in the mornings. I’d remove my eyeglasses, corn pads and nail polish. I’d eliminate all accessories, including wedding rings and gold fillings.

Then I’d close my eyes and hold on to the wall in an attempt to transfer some of the weight. I’d cock my head to the left, shift my hip forward and hope that with the right contortions, I’d come in at a quarter pound loss. I would stand there for what seemed like an eternity while I tried to drum up the courage to look down and actually read what the scale had come up with.

Despite my attempts and creativity, despite the fact that I’d removed everything possible and considered having any and all-unnecessary organs removed, the scale would show me numbers that were unimaginable. I’d throw an all out fit. I’d stomp up and down, kick the scale back into the closet for another 24 hours of isolation, put my jammies back on, replace my corn pads and head to the kitchen to comfort myself with a pot of coffee and a celery stalk.

Trust me when I say, it’s no way to live. That’s the reason that "Beat the Scale" was born. I decided, "What the hey! Why not keep the wedding rings in place and the corn pads intact? Better yet, why not keep the pajamas on and blame the extra pounds on the nightware?"

I’ve been happier every since. Why just last week the scale showed me numbers that I didn’t like, and rather than falling to my knees and flogging the scale with a makeup brush, I said, "Dang, remind me never to wear these satin pajamas to the weigh station again. Look at the extra five pounds that those bad boys added on!" Instead of throwing the scale, instead of banging it repeatedly with the linen closet door, I carefully slid the little appliance back into its little spot and walked away with a smile.

I think I’m a better person for it too. My mornings are brighter, my demeanor is much better and my bathroom scale no longer looks as if it just came out of a boxing match.

I can face the day with a smile. Walk the streets with confidence, knowing that although my scale showed me a weigh-in number that would rival that of Shamu, it’s not me. It’s my jammies. And if I ever see that woman on the street who transformed her figure from a size 10 to a size 4 overnight, I will walk up to her with confidence and grace, sporting a calm and happy face and take a minute of my time to actually slap the crap out of her.

If it's not one thing it's another!

Instructions for adding additional lighting to your home:

1. Decide that the dark space in your attic (or basement, or garage) could be better utilized with additional lighting.

2. Go to local discount store and, buy an easy-to-install -just-plug-it-in, florescent workshop light and two florescent light tubes.

3. Find pliers and put together the easy-to-assemble hanging apparatus for light fixture.

4. Put band-aid on finger that didn't know assembly was supposed to be easy.

5. Install the two light tubes and twist 90 degrees according to package instructions.

6. Plug in fixture. One light works and one doesn't. Curses!

7. Spend a minimum of one hour wiggling, switching, and turning light off and on.

8. Decide fixture is defective - cheap, inferior merchandise. Disassemble fixture and return to original carton.

9. Return fixture to store, get a refund, and purchase a deluxe, more expensive, less- likely-to-be-junk, model.

10. Take it home, and remove fixture from box. Do not assemble hanging apparatus until you are certain that it works this time.

11. Re-install light tubes and find that one works and one doesn't -- again. Curses! -- again. Find the wrapper in the trash and re wrap best you can, freely utilizing transparent tape.

12. Make a third trip to the stupid store to return the stupid lights. Who ever heard of a light bulb not working?

13. Purchase a replacement set of lights and return home. This is beginning to get old. Install the second set of stupid lights in the stupid, deluxe fixture.

14. One light works and one doesn't. That figures! Spend a minimum of one hour wiggling, switching, plugging and unplugging the light. There must be a surplus of defective light bulbs on the market this week.

15. Re wrap the lights in the wrapper that you cleverly saved this time. Return it to the store. Ignore appalled look of Customer Service clerk and ask for a refund.

16. Purchase a third set of stupid, inferior, no-good, lights. Why can't these stupid things be packaged separately instead of in stupid twin packs? That probably makes too much sense.

17. Return home and install third set of new lights in the new deluxe fixture. Three is a charm, isn't it?

18. Yes, an unlucky charm. This time neither light works. Spend only 15 minutes wiggling, switching, plugging and unplugging light fixture - not that it does any good.

19. Briefly obsess about how good it would feel to smash the stupid, idiotic, worthless, good-for-nothing, mess into smithereens. Unfortunately, the store will not return money on damaged merchandise.

20. Re wrap third set of demon-possessed lights and put the cursed-by-hell light fixture in the box.

21. Return to store for fifth time and drag the junk to the Customer Service counter. "Still doesn't work, huh?" says clerk. Lucky for her that you want your money back or you'd smack her over the head with a defective light tube.

22. Get money back and flee from the den of light-fixtures -made-in-hell before the store revises their return policy and refuses to return your money. Enough is enough.

23. Go home and find a handy-dandy, heavy-duty, 10-year-old extension cord that you had outside that's been sitting in the elements.

24. Throw the extension cord over nail on wall and screw in a plain, old-fashioned light bulb.

Voile! Let there be light! God is good!

Was that....? No....It couldn't be!?!

The other Saturday I was down at the local grocery store, rushing around on my normal Saturday grocery trip and trying to avoid bumping into other shoppers with my cart. As I turned a corner on two wheels, I looked up and what do I see but a guy that looks just like Caveman.

Now, I'm sure you know who Caveman is. In fact, is there a person alive that does not know who the Caveman is? Yes, I'm speaking about the one in the TV insurance commercials. He's become almost as famous as Mr. Whipple was back in the 60's - for a different product, of course.

I was smiling in my head and thinking that probably I was the only person in the entire world that would think that poor, harried guy looked just like Caveman. I really need to stop watching so much television, I thought.

However, about that time, I heard a tiny voice behind me coming from another cart being pushed by another shopper.

"Daddy, daddy," the voice squealed, "I saw Caveman!" Yes, he looked so much like Caveman that even a child could see it.

Now, had I been the ambitious sort of person that I should be, I would have made an immediate U-turn with my shopping cart and chased down the Caveman look-alike for an interview for this blog.

"Do people ever tell you that you look just like Caveman?" I could have asked.

"How does it make you feel to know that if it's easy enough, even a caveman can do it?"

"Do you enjoy being a caveman type?"

"By the way, what kind of car insurance do you have?"

However, in my wild pursuit for my favorite chocolate flavored yogurt from the refrigerated section, I blew it entirely and missed my lifetime opportunity. It's probably just as well, though. What if he had hit me over the head with his club?

Had I approached him, would he have been flattered? Would he have been annoyed? Would a Mrs. Caveman have told me to mind my own beeswax? I guess I'll never know.

The "real" Caveman, the one on TV, is thought by some ladies to be handsome. I can't see it myself, but maybe I just don't like caveman-types.

Probably it is his sweet and sensitive disposition which women find attractive instead of his hairy looks. It probably also helps that he doesn't go around in animal skins, and that he walks upright instead of on all fours.

Cavemen have done a lot for the world, you know. They discovered fire, invented the wheel, wrote the first language on the walls of their caves; and where would the Flintstones cartoons be if it were not for them? I know I would have been bored out of my mind with out the Flintstones to watch when I allegedly skipped school back in the day. The TV Caveman is insulted by comments that suggest he is somehow less than intelligent because of the way he looks.

Obviously, there is a message here about something more than insurance. Caveman represents a group of people that other people do not understand and treat in an insensitive, cruel or uncaring way. It makes you wonder who is really primitive and who has actually evolved to a higher intellectual level.

But, anyhow, I finished my grocery shopping and waited in line to checkout. I never did see the caveman again. Probably he went out through the self-checkout lane.

I really hate those self-checkout lanes and have never quite been able to figure them out. Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking.... so easy a caveman could do it.

When in crisis, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.

Today as I was sitting in the break room at work, I was distracted from my crossword puzzle by the following story; being told by a very animated and (shall I say irritated?) co-worker.

"How do you know when it's going to be a bad day? For starters, it might be a bad day if you wake up to the sound of the smoke alarm going off at 5 AM in the morning like I did this morning!"

"With the alarm screaming, I hit the floor and ran down the hall to see what was going on. I couldn't see anything because in the excitement I forgot all about putting on my glasses."

FIRE! FIRE!

(Yes, it was the smoke alarm. Apparently she didn't need glasses to confirm that.)

"I ran to the kitchen to see if I could find a source for the smoke, falling over the dog like a keystone cop."

"In the kitchen, I found that my husband had put the pot from the coffeemaker on the stove to warm up cold coffee. He forgot that it had a plastic handle. The pot was black and the handle gone, burned into a pile of ashes." (

I'm guessing the situation was under control by then -- if that sort of situation can be under control. I'm also thinking that she might of been wondering why she still couldn't see.)

"My husband was fanning the smoke alarm to get it to shut up."

"Open the doors and get rid of the smoke," she yelled, as he tried to take the smoke alarm apart to remove the battery. (

She finally realizes she still couldn't see at this point.)

"The cover was stuck on the alarm and we couldn't get it off. I took over the fanning of the smoke alarm, which came back on at full blast every time I quit fanning."

"Turn off the furnace, it's pulling the smoke back through the house!"

"How do you turn it off?"

"Put it on O-F-F!" she screamed.

"The cat was terrorized by all the noise and bolted out the open door to escape from the maniac people. We wouldn't see her again until hours later." she said while rolling her eyes.

"After the smoke finally cleared, and the alarm quit alarming, I found my glasses and restarted my heart. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, of course." (she says this like everyone should know how this feels...of course.)

"It was not until much later that I found out what really happened."

(How did she find this out? I still don't know.)

"Apparently, there were actual flames shooting from the pot. My husband threw water on it -- water on an electric stove! Can you believe it?"

(Actually I can. Coming from this particular person, I can only imagine her husband.)

"Somehow he miraculously managed to survive without getting electrocuted or burning down the entire house."

"I couldn't believe he actually had the nerve to pour me a cup of that burnt up coffee to drink. I decided I could wait until I got to work for my coffee."

(The nerve? Try; the balls? He should have been apologizing for being a dumb-ass.)

"On the way to work this morning, he mentioned that he needed to go buy a new coffeepot, knowing he was in trouble."

"May I ask why you threw water on an electric stove?" she asked, almost able to control her aggravation by then.

"What should I have done? Roast marshmallows?"

"Use baking soda! Smother it with flour! Use the fire extinguisher. Smother it out with a towel. Google it on the net. Call information. Write your Congressman. Anything but throwing water on an electrical fire!"

"Well, I turned off the stove first," he replied. "Besides, I didn't know where the baking soda was."

(That's male logic.)

There is a lesson to be learned from all of this. Probably you can figure it out for yourself so I won't belabor the point.

If there is one good thing about all of this, at least she knows the smoke alarm works.

If you see a fire engine parked in front of her house tomorrow morning, do not panic. It is just her honey making coffee or toast or something.

Ode to the Sequin Purple Gown

The other day while out shopping at the local thrift store, I was rummaging through the evening gowns in case there was something that I could wear for Halloween. That's when I saw it -- a purple sequin floor length gown that it would outshine an Elvis jumpsuit.

"Oh, that's pretty," I thought. I checked the price tag. $7? It must be a mistake. But that's what the tag said. The price marked is the price, isn't it?

"What would I do with a purple sequin evening gown?" I thought. I could not very well wear it on Saturday to Wal-Mart, and it would cause too much gossip at the Our Lady of Callused Knees & Holy Order Catholic Church. They might think I had been out all night partying. So, I passed it by and didn't try it on.

Why is it that the thing we didn't buy, is the thing that haunts us later? I had visions of me in the sequin gown going to the Satin Love Orchestra Valentine's Day Ball. I imagined going on a dinner cruise on the Love Boat, or to a fund-raising political dinner dance, or to a New Year's Eve party at the Hilton. It would also be perfect if I ever made it to Vegas.

Unfortunately, I never go to anything that formal, and if I ever was invited to go, through some sort of clerical error probably, I most likely wouldn't be able to go anyway due to work or something.

The purple sequin evening gown taunted my dreams. I fantasized about the gown and how great I would look in it, like Faith Hill or Princess Di. I was becoming obsessed.

I mentioned the fancy duds to my honey. "Why didn't you get it?" he asked.

"Well, I don't need it. I'm not going anywhere to wear it."

"You could get it and you would have it if you ever did need it."

Somehow his logic made sense. I should have bought it, especially for the price. Maybe I could go back and get it. But that never works with thrift shops. If you see something you like, better buy it right then as it will not be there when you go back. Or at least hide it in and amongst the ugly stuff no one even looks at, so you can go back for it later. Re-finding something you hid is like hitting a mini thrift store lottery. Woo hoo! Yes! It's still here!

I could run by there before work and check. But it's been more than a few days. It would certainly be gone. Maybe I could call and ask them to hold it for me? No, no, a thrift store will not do that. Besides, what if I get there, try it on, and it doesn't fit?

If I don't get it, it doesn't really matter. I have nowhere to wear it anyhow.

Wait a minute! What am I thinking? This is Oregon. I once went to The Nutcracker ballet and saw people wearing their fanciest tye-dye. Damned if I can't wear a purple sequin evening gown to sushi or Chili's. Look out skinny-college-student-waitress-chick; I'm sorry, is my shiny, purple sequins reflecting into your eye? Just put on your shades and bring me my baby back ribs. Too bad my man doesn't have a tux. Blue with sequins...um, sorry I digress.

Well, I went by the store before work. I stood staring at the empty space where the gown was hanging before. I looked through all the other dresses, thinking maybe someone had moved it from my hiding place. It was gone, gone, gone, just as I figured it would be. As many Purple Hat lady's in this town, one of them is probably wearing it to the next Sunday Champagne Brunch at the VR Inn.

Would whoever bought my purple sequin evening gown, please return it? I have a lot of places that I'm dreaming of going, and you probably didn't need it anyway. You probably just bought it so you would have it in case you ever needed it.

Adventures in Nutria Land

Last night, one of my dogs, Mazzy caught a nutria. Again. In case you are unaware of what exactly a nutria is check this out.

This time, it was I that was in the back yard with the dogs. Mazzy caught it trying to be sneaky and hide in the blackberry bushes, but she was having none of that. I don't know how she does it, when the other dogs just walk on by not realizing that there is a giant rat in the shrubbery, she just hones right in. She seems to just chomp down on it, breaking it's back then squeezes until it stops breathing.

This one was so huge that she had to drag it out of the blackberries to show me, instead of carrying it. Of course she dropped it before it was totally dead. I was unaware of that when I went to go look at it.

I had gone in the house to get a flashlight to "check it out", and after shining the light on it, it started hopping around but only moving the rear of it's body. Apparently Mazzy had given it injuries that paralyzed the front half of it's body and not the back, so it was jumping and trying to run using only it's hind feet. But sadly the resulting effect was just to continuously slam it's own face into the ground. I, uh went in the house after that. Shall I say, icky?

I called my husband at work to let him know that there was a half-dead-injured-possibly-paralyzed-giant nutria dragging itself around the back yard and could he please dispose of it when he gets home. (The usual "disposing" is picking it up with a shovel and catapulting it into the empty but blackberry over- grown lot behind our yard.) Of course he had to repeat back to me everything I said in his not so sneaky way of sharing with his co-workers the goings on of our house hold, so they can get a chuckle at our wild life.

So last night when he got home, he grabbed my son, the flashlight and the shovel to do the deed. With my son holding the flashlight, my husband examined the now dead body. He announced that "yup, it's in full rigor". What is this, CSI? Just fling it over the fence for shit's sake! I was half expecting him to whip out a thermometer thingee and take it's liver temp to determine time of death. Jeez.

Well, apparently things can't go smoothly in my household. Husband went to shovel it up and he realized he might want to get a bigger shovel. Perhaps a snow shovel if we owned one? Oh well, so with a third of the corpse hanging over on either side of the shovel, my big, strong husband flung with all his might. The body hit an almost solid wall of blackberries approximately ten feet up and rolled back down. EWWW! He makes another Herculean attempt, but to no avail, it rolled down once again. By then he was cussing and swearing that the thing weighed at least 50 lbs. (I don't know if you looked at the link above, but I think the max weight is 20 lbs. but what do I know?)

So here is something interesting that capped off the night. We have a fence that we put up to reinforce an old one. The old one and the new one are six inches from each other parallel and made out of wire. Some how on his third attempt, with my son laughing his head off, my dear sweet husband hurled the dead, giant rodent and it hit the slightly taller rear wire fence, rolled down and is now currently stuck between the the rear fence and the new fence. And it's not coming out. Its like a bug stuck between two microscope slides. But way more gross. I love my husband. Sigh.

So in the mean time I found something amusing. To me anyway. And this is only part one. More to come. If you like B movie flicks, I think you'll like this. And it was filmed in Oregon.

The Rules, Mom Style

I've been thinking about some things in the last few days off I've had before I start my new job today. It's funny how I started thinking that I wanted to be a stay at home mom again. But I have since realized it's easier on my sanity to work outside the home. So here are a few realism's:

*Mothers only offer advice on two occasions: when you want it and when you don’t..and when you think you don't, we will convince you that you do.

*A mother’s love is a better cure than chicken soup, but chicken soup is cheaper.

*Your mother is the only person that knows more about you than you know about yourself. And if you try to tell us different; you're wrong anyway.

*Any time you are unable to solve a problem, ask your mother. She probably won’t know either, but she will fake it. (One of my sharpest talents BTW)

*Maternal instinct is stronger than any force known except maybe an IRS collection agent.

*The more you try to stay on your mother’s good side the harder it will be to figure out which side this is. (Actually I think this applies to all women, not just mothers.)

*The motherly advice you ignore will always turn out to be the best advice she ever gave you.

*Just so you don't forget, mom will remind you of all your mistakes so you don’t repeat them.

*Anything you do can be criticized, eh, cough...um...evaluated by your mother - even doing nothing.

*Never criticize your mother’s cooking if you expect to get any more of it.

*If you think you have any secrets from your mother, remember who has changed your diapers.

*You can’t "out mom!" your mother. Don’t even try.

*Never lie to your mother. And if you do, never think you got away with it.

*The harder you try to hide something from your mother, the more she resembles a web cam.

*(The older you are, the more you feel like a child around your mother.

*All mother’s have a "How To" manual. That’s because they wrote the book.

*Mother’s way is best. If you don’t believe it, ask her.

*Everything is a good idea till you mother finds out and tells you why it isn’t.

*If you don’t have time to study the drivers’ manual, drive your mother somewhere and you will soon get a quick refresher course.

*When you are broke, ask mom for a loan. She will help you remember what you wasted all your money on.

*The more expensive the gift you give your mother, the longer she will "save" it before she uses it.

*No matter how wrong you are, your mother will not hold it against you. She may remind you a number of times, but she will not hold it against you.

*No matter how much you eat, you can never get so fat that mother will not offer you more food.

*If a mother does not have an item in the cupboard, she will have the recipe or the directions.

*The more times mother reminds you to take an umbrella, the greater the probability of rain. (Goes with jackets and cold weather, too)

*Accomplishments are made possible by your mother - failures on the other hand, are your own fault.

*Never forget who rocked you as a baby. That’s something else you will never be able to repay her for.

*Mother can always tell you a better way to do something after you’ve already done it.

*No matter how small your mom is, she will always be bigger than you are.

*The more you detest an item that belongs to your mother, the more likely it is that she will try to give it to you. (I think I have a lamp that fits that category.)

*If you do it yourself, mom could have done it better. If mom does it, you should have done it yourself.

*The only thing more accurate than a mother’s advice is her memory of the times you didn’t take it.

*The funnier the joke is, the more likely mom will think it is dirty.

*Never tell your mother you have nothing to do. She can always find something.

*There are always two sides to a story - the way it really happened and the way mother remembers it.

*Mothers always "know." We don’t know how - we just do.

NFL Sickness

A severe affliction is sweeping the nation. It manifests itself in the fall of the year in a mysterious syndrome which usually lasts until about February, although in a few especially vulnerable people, it has been known to continue in sporadic episodes throughout the year.

There is little or no hope for those individuals who contract the ailment. While women are not immune, it seems to strike the male gender more frequently and with greater severely. Often the sick individual fails to recognize the disorder and will insist that he or she is perfectly well and everyone else is sick.

While this syndrome has no agreed upon medical name, it is sometimes referred to as "NFL Fever". Here are the danger signs:

You have more than one big screen TV.

You record one game on the VCR while watching another.

You argue with instant replays.

You spend every vacation visiting NFL cities and checking out sports stadiums.

Your beer bill during football season exceeds the family grocery bill.

You need a day off work to recover if your team loses the game.

You have a tee shirt with a sports logo not only for your favorite team, but for every team in the league. (Yes, hats count too.)

If someone asks you a question, you do not answer until half time.

The remote control button for ESPN is worn down to a nub.

Your life ambition is to go for an entire season without missing a single game.

You want to paint your house in your team’s colors.

You bought a fridge for your den to keep the beer cool.

You channel surf; you watch the game both on TV and on the Internet, or you watch more than one TV set at the same time.

If someone says, How are you?" you say "Three points behind."

You would rather watch football than eat.

You think the Super Bowl is a national holiday.

You can’t carry on a conversation without bringing up sports.

You are offended when someone likes a different team and want to argue about which team is better.

Your dog is named Peyton Manning.

You only speak in sports lingo.

You think being called a "sports fanatic" is a compliment.

You hit the TV or yell at it when your team misses a play.

Your three favorite things are: sacks, blitzes, and red dogs

You can’t remember your spouse’s birthday or anniversary, but know the score of every game for the season and what teams played.

And worst of all, when you make love, you yell "touchdown!"

If you believe you or someone you love may be afflicted with this illness, call 1-800-TICKETS and go to a real game for immediate symptomatic relief. WARNING: This cure may be habit forming and should be used only with extreme caution. Long term effects have not been studied, and symptoms may actually increase or worsen with long term usage.

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With Halloween being so close, I am once again caught trying to think of what to be. Oh, and not only do I have to think what to be, but also of what to make my husband dress up as. He says anything is OK, as long as he doesn't have to wear tights. Gee, honey, thanks for narrowing it down a bit for me.

I can pretty much dress up as anything, but my hubby is a little harder to do. He has a long mustache that I try to incorporate into his costumes. So far he has been a disciple of Jesus, a werewolf, a magic lamp genie, a samurai, Yosemite Sam, and a few others I can't think of at the moment. And I try to make us match. Or at the very least be along the same theme as each other.

This year the actual Halloween night is on his night off, so I am really trying to make us match. It's just hard. Any ideas people?

Pine Cone Research

A bit off the subject people, but for those of you who are looking for that elusive Pine Cone Research link, try this one. It's right at the top of the page. Worked for me two minutes ago. And if the link doesn't work it's at WheresGeorge.com

This is my "I am not a deer" hat. That's what I usually say about my favorite orange hat that I wear when I hunt for wild mushrooms. I thought about wearing it on Saturday when Sonja and I went hunting at her place.

We didn't get anything but I learned a lot. I did not realize how much of an expert Sonja is on deer poop. For instance buck (boy deer) poop is usually localized, all in one spot; just piles on itself. Doe (girl deer) poop is spread out like dropping a handful of peas on the ground. Interesting, huh? Oh and I learned how to "whisper-yell". That's when you want to yell your head off, but can't so....you get it, I'm sure. It's a very useful ability.

I also discovered that I need to walk further behind Sonja when hunting because apparently she uses her own unique scent to attract a buck. I call it farting but what do I know, I'm just a beginner, a noob so to speak.

And who says that chicks don't know how to build a deer stand? Ours had a huge roof to keep the rain off and the seat swung back and forth for comfort, and the braces had a little bit of Martha Stewart touches ala hand painted side rails. I was impressed anyway.

It was an interesting day to say the least, but I have to say the most odd was trying to be sneaky sneaky through the woods, with her two cats following you like a couple of dogs. I'm not kidding. It's the strangest thing. We walk, they walk, we stop, they stop. They look up at us like, "OK, why exactly are we in the woods, in the rain?" Then I find my self whisper-yelling at them, "You guys followed us! Remember?" You know it's been a long day when you find your self having imaginary conversations in your head with a cat in the middle of the woods.

Sorry, I digress. The hunting was good. Didn't shoot anything, but saw potential. I'll keep you updated.

So I guess this has been an interesting day. Today, my son bought himself the Halo 3 Legendary Edition. I personally don't see the big whoop about it, but what do I know.

Oh wait, I'll tell you what I know, I know that Saturday I am going hunting. Well, kinda. I have a license to kill a deer. First, I have to go over to the Sonja's house. We will than watch the DVD of how to gut the dead thing. Then I will put highlights in her hair, put on our camo, go wander around the property and hopefully kill a deer. How fun is that?

Somehow I can see a sitcom of this day in my future. Who would play me? Hmmm....Sandra Bullock. Who would play the Sonja? Meg Ryan? Can't think. Anyone? Anyone?

So, I'll let you know how it goes. Later. Or sooner. I've been playing Buck Hunter all damn day. To bad I can't actually shoot anything with my space bar.

I am the techie, computer guru. Today at least.

I am the coolest mom ever! No really. I'm sure there are those of you who might think that you are the coolest, but no sorry. It's me.

For about three weeks now my husband and son have been bickering back and forth because they couldn't get on their favorite online game, World of Warcraft. Did anyone bother to ask the Mom? Moi? No.

So, I bided my time, waited until they were both practically frothing at the mouth with frustration. Then I sat down calmly, without saying a word, fixed it. I won't say how. I wouldn't want to let out all my secrets, but I am the "best est", coolest mom ever.

Why I love my husband. Entertainment value!

Because my husband's self-esteem is not tied to how our house looks, he sometimes doesn't get around to doing little chores as quickly as I would like. And he seems to think that my to-do list grows in the strangest ways.

One day not long ago, I noticed a crack in the ceiling, (never mind what I was doing, but I bet you can guess). It was caused by the worst ceiling/roof leak in the history of man kind. And all of a sudden, he had another entry on his home repair list that he has had a hard time getting to since we were married. It's more like a not-to-do list.

The repairmen have put tar, glue, cement, duck feathers, foam, and gunnysacks in the attic, under, on or around the leak, and the water still leaks through the roof when it rains and falls on the ceiling of our bedroom, which causes me to notice what my husband calls a "little, tiny, itsy-bitsy" spot. Since then he has practically lived in that attic looking for leaks.

Our house was built in 1930-something, so there are pipes, wires, and choking insulation, and he has to crawl over all that, plus beams and supports, while balancing a stupid flashlight whose batteries mysteriously fail as soon as he reaches the area that he thinks the leak might be. Then in the pitch blackness of the attic, he feels his way back through the obstacle course as he got called to the phone because someone chose this exact time to want to talk about his work schedule. So fun, huh?

The other day I asked him to get something out of the back "walk-in" closet. Fortunately there are no pipes or wires to worry about--just 7 or so years of togetherness accumulation, behind which was the object I asked him to retrieve. Hell, I'm not stupid. I thought maybe he would start to agree with me about having a garage sale.

Included in the accumulation are a set of snowboarding boots given to us by a friend, but they fit none of us. Boots size 8 women's. Me: 10, hubby: 8 1/2 men's, Man-child: freaking' size 15 men's. I have no idea why we are hanging on to these. I do not board. The guys try to once a year. But for some reason The husband wants to hang on to these "just in case". In case of what? I guess maybe I could have some sort of freak accident that leaves me with no toes, and amazing new snow boarding skills, but somehow I don't think so.

There's also the Edison's first blue canning kettle he used to can fruit and vegetables for the Civil War soldiers who came through town. (Kidding, duh.) We'd get the fruit and vegetables by going to the local farmers market and bring back 19 boxes of apples, corn, peaches, and apricots in the back of the car.

When we returned home, he would take the 19 boxes out of the car and stack them neatly next to the side door to the kitchen. Then he would get busy and try to get me to do something with all the produce. But six months later, he would put the fruit in the garbage can. He did this at some personal risk, because by then the green feelers on the peaches and apricots would be fully developed, and they would keep trying to choke him as he wrestled them into the garbage can. One time I suggested he take the boxes out of the car and put them directly into the garbage. Why all the storage? He still thinks he might get to them sometime, however, and he doesn't want to "waste" the fruit.

The reason why this is slightly stressful is because a true person of his family never makes two trips. He tries to bring all 19 boxes of fruit or 15 bags of groceries in from the car at the same time. This, too, has it's dangers because of all the stuff that is laying around from the man/child and or animals. I always wondered why during the course of the week, he doesn't take the stuff and put it away or something. And he claims he's not sure if I wanted it to be there or not. It's not obvious to him that just because his way is blocked, he should put some of it away. Of course sometimes his hands are already full with the 15 bags of groceries he's carrying to the kitchen, so as he has pointed out, it is impractical for me to suggest this.

Men are slobs. There is just nothing you can do about it. They have no idea how much work we do. Even the men that do things without having to be asked, still have no idea that they are just scratching the surface. Take it from a woman who lives with a thirty something eldest child and my own only child.

I wonder sometimes if the men in my life believe that there is a laundry doing, furniture dusting, floor vacuuming, animal feeding, toilet scrubbing, dog walking, car washing, grocery shopping, cat box cleaning, dish washing, shower scouring, dinner cooking, counter wiping, shoe finding, etc. fairy? Oh wait, that's me.

When Momma Goes A Bit Crazy...

OK, so I know this has been a while but I have lots of fun stuff. OK, maybe not so fun to you, but fun to.... well....maybe...whomever. Whatever.

So, um... the other day I went a little crazy. Crazy actually might be a mild term. Mildly hysterical might be a closer definition. Or maybe, just possibly, just sick of being overwhelmed with household shit and doing everything alone, by myself or whatever else definition you might have.

OK, so #1 you know you're husband has watched way too much South Park when he thinks it's funny when he says, "Bring me my cheesy poooooffs Bee-yatch.". And then laughs like that's funny. Whatever. Then he doesn't understand when I am so not amused.

#2 Just how much arborvitae can one person pull out of her bra and still be sane, and not itching herself looking like she was doing the chicken dance? Today I walked the green mile. The "Green Mile" is what I call a stretch of approximately 7/10 of a mile, of several shrubs, bushes (dare I say the word.?...long story sorry) Arborvitae approx. every ten feet. Easier to just walk on the wall with a gas powered hedger and top all the little tops off. Little freaky....about 15 feet up....um yeah kinda scary. My partner in crime, aka other gardener screams like a scary movie stabbing victim when a spider decides to "kick" her. My god. Sigh.....What I deal with. Oh wait, she deals with my abnormal small bird phobia...OK, um....never mind.

#3 Is Sharding a valid excuse? You know... shitting when you thought you were going to fart? I was just curious. If you were late to something, would you actually use the "sharding" excuse as a reason for being late? I would think that you wouldn't if it were true, but would as a last resort. Thoughts? Any one?

OK and last and foremost: I guess it takes a mommy going a little nutso, crazy or dare I say hysterical to get things done. For the last few days I have felt a little...um...shall we say overwhelmed? Apparently it takes three days for crazy momma to get the lawn mowed, the apple tree pruned, and some one ELSE TO FOLD THE GOSH DARNED LAUNDRY! OK, sorry I'm fine now. Now that the stuff got done...I'm perfectly sane now.

Please, will someone tell me why having a sixteen year old son is so much like banging your head repeatedly against a wall? ARGH!!!!

Have you ever watched a nature show or perhaps a movie at school that depicts a little baby bird first learning how to fly. Seems like a simple, yet cute little image. Right?

Most likely not. What it really is is the momma bird ruthlessly shoving her baby out of the nest over and over until the poor thing just keeps on flying away and doesn't come back.

Yesterday, my son passed his drivers test and received his license. This morning he will be driving to work during the busy Friday commute. I will probably be throwing up, sick with fear for my baby.

Will he remember how to get there? Will he remember to use his blinkers and watch his speed? How could he possible know what to do without me sitting beside him as my fists clench and unclench with every corner turned, and my foot stomping on the brake pedal that isn't there? What if? What if? What if?

Do you think he would notice if I secretly followed him on my scooter?

Hike Of The Week

If you only make one day-hike on the McKenzie River trail, go to Tamolitch Pool, probably the most bizarre segment of the entire trail.

Directions: Drive Hwy. 126 east from Springfield for approximately 55 miles. About 2 miles east of Olallie Campground, about 14 miles east of McKenzie Bridge, take a left at the upper end of Trailbridge Reservoir (one of the many fixtures of EWEB's effort to turn the wild McKenzie into a giant plumbing system). The turnoff used to be signed, but is now marked only by a bare signpost. In less than a hundred yards, you'll cross a bridge, and then bear right on FS Road 655, past a fenced compound. The McKenzie River trail crosses the 655 road in a little less than a half a mile. You will want to head upstream (the trailhead on your right). It's a little more than a four-mile hike to Tamolitch Pool and back.

The first mile of trail follows the fast and frothy McKenzie River through a fabulous old-growth forest. Then the trail climbs slightly through a rocky lava flow dotted with gnarled Douglas fir and incense cedar, with good views over the lip of a narrow ravine down to the river.

Two miles from the trailhead, you'll reach Tamolitch Pool, a breathtaking turquoise blue basin. When you reach the head of the pool, you'll be surprised to find … nothing, except a dry riverbed. A lava flow 1,500 years ago buried three miles of the river, leaving water to percolate through the porous volcanic material and flow underground until it erupts into Tamolitch Pool. Cool, huh?

Just something I thought was cool.

So true...

Do you know what you call those who use towels and never wash them, eat meals and never do the dishes, sit in rooms they never clean, and are entertained till they drop? If you have just answered, "A house guest," you're wrong because I have just described my kid.

I haven't trusted polls since I read that 62% of women had affairs during their lunch hour. I've never met a woman in my life who would give up lunch for sex.

I never leaf through a copy of National Geographic without realizing how lucky we are to live in a society where it is traditional to wear clothes.

One of the reasons I quite going to the gym was that I've exercised with women so thin that buzzards followed them to their cars.

My kid always perceived the bathroom as a place where you wait it out until all the groceries are unloaded from the car.

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?

No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.

Map? We don't need no stinkin' map!

The number one thing that I have found out this weekend, is that the best laid plans are not always the best plans.

My fellow partner in crime, Sonja has spent the better part of this weekend laughing at me. I have spent the better part of this weekend discovering (to my own horror) that I am quite possibly as neurotic as her; just in my own personal way.

Random pieces of human hair not connected to a head, hit an all time high on her EEEWW-o-meter. Does not bother me.

Poking a bait hook from a crab ring through a frozen fish's eyeball, shot my EEEWW-o-meter into the red zone. She almost fell off the dock laughing and wishing she hadn't forgotten her camera in the car.

Sometime things happen for a reason. I had in my own anal way, planned this weekend down to the last possible minute. I awoke on Saturday morning at six a.m. I was packed and ready to go by seven. I called Sonja.

She answered on the fourth ring, yawning. WHAT?!?! What do you mean you're not up yet? Oh, you had a late night call. (She's a volunteer fire fighter) Ok. I can give her that.

But eventually, 2.75 hours behind schedule, we hit the road. And it's been a crap shoot ever since. She likes to just go where the wind will take us. I like to vacation with a guidebook gripped in one hand and a map with itinerary viced in the other. But since she was driving, I had no choice but to go along for the ride. I didn't even have a map. I thought for a while there that I was going to develop nervous hives for lack of structure in our game plan.

But here I am. Writing this from a hotel room, even though we ( I ) planned on camping, and enjoying a cup of coffee out of a real coffee pot. My plans were not such as these.

But somehow I'm not as freaked out as I was yesterday. Dare I say I could be relaxing? Today, Sonja asked me what was on the agenda. What?! I get an agenda? I think she wasn't quite awake when she spoke. I'm sure she will let me know what the agenda will be....about 10 seconds before we plunge head first into some new crazy thing.

Hell, who knows? We have yet to come across any dead bodies, burning buildings, people with broken down cars, flat tires, sinking ships, or robberies; but the day is still young.

Nightmare on Alder Street

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there was a gardener. Her name was Kimberly. She was a beautiful gardener, almost stunningly so. (Hey, it's my story!) And she was having a rough start to her day.

After being told she looked tired and haggard, she still continues to do her work. The jealousy of some people is just a cross she often bears. She is starting to get used to it.

After pruning and dead-heading the rhododendrons in the front yard of the house on Alder street, the freakishly gorgeous gardener turned her attentions to the rear of the property.

She looked around the yard and decided to give her talents over to a sad looking rose in desperate need of a pruning.

She stretched out her long, lean, tan leg to step around another shrub to get to the rose hiding in the back. The tone muscles in her arm flexed as she set her debris bucket on the ground.

Suddenly she feels a painful prick on her elbow. Thinking it to be a rose thorn she prepares to continue her work. But she immediately realizes her mistake when she feels another prick and another and another. She had set her bucket down on a yellow jacket nest!

With almost super human strength and the agility of a gazelle she leaps through and over the remaining shrubbery to arrive on the front lawn with amazing speed.

Her fellow gardener, Sheri, has run to catch up and aid in anyway, but it was so hard to help through the windmill type flailing of Kimberly's tan and muscular arms.

When Kimberly became aware of the buzzing near her ears, she realized that the yellow jackets were entangled in her hair. She whipped off her cap, tore out the band that barely contains her waves upon waves of shiny, fiery locks, and shook it to dispel any insects that might of thought to hide in there. Several bystanders stopped to stare, apparently mesmerized by the site of such beauty.

There was an audible sound of air being sucked between teeth as Sheri saw the damage that had been done to Kimberly's ear. A yellow jacket had left it's giant stinger in the cartilage of her right ear. As she attempted to remove it, Kimberly suddenly flew across the lawn and whipped of her shirt, to the awe of the bystanders and the owner of the house. There had been two more of the terrible yellow jackets inside her shirt and they had stung her supremely muscular back in two places.

Only then, while standing in the driveway of this Alder street house, shirtless, hatless, tan muscular body being ogled by bystanders, red, shiny hair flowing in the breeze, was the ever faithful Sheri able to pull the last stinger out.

With tears streaming down a her beautiful face, she convinced Sheri and the owner of the house, that she would prevail. That she would continue her work. For it was a work she loved, and sometimes you have to put up with evil to do good in this world.

She just avoided the area of the yellow jackets that were now a solid mass swarm hovering around her now abandoned debris bucket.

*Although this story is true, some parts may have been slightly embellished for entertainment value. Thank you.

I have about 15 minutes left to get ready for work so I gotta make this quick. It's only Wednesday and I can't believe how tired I am. Partly because of 'shark week' I am sure, but also because of yesterday.

Ever cut sod in the rain? Removing sod is hard work anyway but when the approximately 610 lb. machine doesn't want to work...removing sod is really hard work. We did it the old fashioned way. With shovels and pick-axes. Way sucky.

Oh, and pushing the broken down machine up the hill to get to the driveway and then up the ramp...also sucky. Ugh.

Gosh, I love Shark week...blah

Lake Waldo

This past Independence Day, my husband, son and I went to Waldo Lake for two nights. Sounds rather mundane when I put it that way. Eh-hem...let me rephrase.

This last week, my husband was off for two days longer than I for the holiday, so he was entrusted with the responsibility of getting everything ready to camp up at Lake Waldo. He later commented that he didn't know how his parents ever did it.

I have to admit I'm glad that he decided to buy us a new air mattress, but after he left the store with about 50 more items than he planned on buying, we could have went to a hotel for the same amount of money. The whole idea of camping this year came about to save money on the cost of hotel. Um...we ended up spending about the same. But we got the added bonus of mosquito bites.

Camping was great. I was worried about it being crowded, but we were only joined by three other families in a campground with a 52 site capacity. It was wonderful. Waldo Lake is Oregon 's 2nd largest lake, and must be one of the cleanest. In some spots you can see 150 feet down. It's like a giant aquarium of sorts, too. since you can see the fish. Very cool.

The only bad thing was when I went to put jeans on the first morning to protect myself from the zillions of mosquitoes, and I had none. I mistakenly let my husband pack for me. Yeah, I know stupid. It's my own fault.

After rifling through the duffel bag that could have fit a small person in it, I noted that it looked like my husband had emptied the contents of his dresser into it. He had four pairs of jeans. I had zero. After questioning him, he said that he figured I could wear his. WHAT?! Since when do I fit into 32/30 jeans? Last time I looked my legs were about 5 inches longer that his. And my girlish figure has just enough curve to not allow the hip hugger man style of jeans to fit at a 32 inch waist band.

The man packed me one pair of workout Capri, a swimsuit that hasn't fit me since 2003, (I'm not sure where he even found it.) 15 pairs of socks, and one pair a granny panties. I really don't know why he packed those.

He packed him self: four pairs of jeans, five t-shirts, three swim trunks, a bunch of socks, three sweat shirts, and some other miscellaneous clothing items that do me no good. (He also packed a tube of toothpaste in each duffel bag, but forgot the toothbrushes.)

Here's the irony. The man didn't even change his t-shirt let alone his jeans for the whole two and a half days we were there. He didn't feel like swimming, either. Anyways....

He gets an A for effort, an A for trying to help, but his final grade is a C-. Sorry, babe.

Here's the photos of the lake. Oh and I think that one of them is an inland pond in the middle of the burned out forest we hiked through. It was very awe inspiring.

Dude

My son recently turned 16, and the last traces of that sweet little boy who thought I hung the moon seem to have vanished. In his place is a strange, slouching creature with a pencil-thin mustache and adolescent angst oozing from every pore. This extraterrestrial I once called flesh and blood, whose mood swings dwarf the Grand Canyon, seems intent on bungee jumping from that rickety bridge connecting a child with adulthood. And I think he plans on dragging his rapidly aging mother along for the ride.

A drastic language change was the first indication of alien infestation in my once cherished offspring. The rosy-cheeked cherub who used to run to me, eyes shining with adoration and shouting "Mommy!" began to address me (and everyone else) as "Dude." At 16 months, he was a sponge, joyfully soaking up new words, becoming more communicative every day. At 16 years, the hormones surging through his body have cut a swath through the speech center in his brain; his mouth, when it speaks at all, produces mere shrunken shreds of complete sentences apparently understood only by other members of his species.

"S'up" is a perfectly acceptable, all-purpose phrase in an adolescent's world. "Mom, I love you," on the other hand, would burn his monosyllabic lips like acid and permanently corrupt his coolness. Communication with this high-tech yet illiterate generation is fraught with frustration. My son, who can't seem to utter two intelligible sentences to me, airs his gripes through text messaging. Just the other day, a message flashed on my cell phone in fractured syntax designed to torture my English class loving soul.

"i no u h8 me. i try so hard 2 b good. y r u mad @ me?"

Cave men scribbling on walls were more eloquent.

Then there's the alteration in appearance. While I'm desperately trying to avoid bags and sags, this long-haired Neanderthal living in my house embraces them as fashion. Wearing gravity-defying pants slung low across his scrawny backside, he looks just like a baby with an overly full diaper. When I helpfully pointed this out, I got another overwrought, electronic missive that ended with several lines of the text message equivalent of a scream. Athough, when I think about it, this modern means of communication does keep the house quiet.

Adolescent males seem to lose all capacity for living like civilized human beings. This means that my boy constantly raids the refrigerator but can't manage to close a door, that he can take 30-minute showers but never hang up a wet towel, that he stuffs freshly laundered clothes into the back of his closet rather than putting them away. I find sticky cereal bowls under his bed because he was too lazy to return them to the kitchen, and the lunchbox he claimed he lost growing whole colonies of bacteria under his bed. I now understand why some animals eat their young.

The child who begged me to read to him daily now rolls his eyes in disgust when I suggest we turn off the video games and pick up a book. The angel who proudly showed me off to his kindergarten classmates now pretends not to know the deranged woman waving to him in the high school hallway. My fall from grace, seemingly overnight, has left me depressed, bewildered and prone to emotional excess.

"You could cut the apron strings without slicing through my heart, you know," I whimper in one of my calmer moments.

"Mom," he mumbles in that teenage tone of voice, "why can't you just act normal?"

Normal is, of course, a relative term. In about 10 years, I will magically return to normalcy as my pubescent boy turns into an adult. At least I hope I do. In the meantime, I'm going to hang on to those severed apron strings. I may need them to strangle him.

Counting the days...

I'll tell you something about traveling by yourself that my husband has recently learned; or so he tells me: It's ultimately very healthy for your relationship.

When you first learn that one of you has to go away, you're actually both looking forward to it, but neither of you wants to admit it. So you both pretend you are going to be miserable.

"I'm going to miss you."

"I'm really going to miss you."

Again, it's a competition.

"I'm the one unable to live without you."

"No, I'm totally unable to live without you, I swear."

The truth is, one of you is thrilled to be going somewhere, and the other can't wait to have the house to themselves. Then, you get to where you are going, and you find that you really do miss each other. If for no other reason, you forgot how to be alone.

Me: "Babe, where are my glasses? . . . Babe? . . . Oh, right you're in Muncie. . . I'll just. . . find them myself. That's what I used to do, sure. . . "

My husband was so excited to be going home, but now he's staying in a hotel in the town where the wedding is being held. He was more comfortable at his mom's I think.

"You wouldn't believe the hotel I'm stuck in. I wish you were here."

"To see the cheesy hotel?"

"Yes."

Or he just needs to hear a sane voice. Have you ever called from a family get together like the one he's at, that your partner weaseled out of? (weaseled: meaning "had to work" in this case)

"Hi--I'm going OUT OF MY MIND."

"It's only for four more days."

"I won't make it, you hear me? I WON'T."

Then he starts pining for home, like a child.

"How's the house?"

"What do you mean, "How's the house?' "

"What does everything look like?"

"Since you left?"

"Yeah."

"It's all different. I repainted again, knocked down the bathroom wall, your "man-room" is gone. No one really knows how that happened."

"How are the dogs?"

"Fine."

"Do they miss me?"

"Been crying since you left."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously? They have no idea you left. Thinks you are in the shower or sleeping. . . Would you like to know how I am?"

"Yes, yes, I was just going ask. I swear--that was my next question. How are you?"

Hotel vs Mom

My husband is going to his brother's wedding this week. He gets to stay at his parent's house but if it was up to me, I'd stay at a hotel.

I'll tell you what I love about hotels: They can't do enough for you. They want to make you feel at home, and then they give you things that nobody has at home. Shower caps, shoe horns. . . and sewing kits? My husband has never sewn in his life. What makes then think he's going to start at the Marriott in Muncie, Indiana? Has anybody ever made that call? "Honey, I'm in Indiana, and my buttons are flying off like crazy! What do I do? What? Yes, there's a sewing kit right here. OK, I have it. Talk me through."

And I love the little chocolates on the pillow. There's a clever snacking item, because personally, there's nothing I like better right before I go to bed than a nice diabetic seizure. A pound and a half of sugar before going to sleep, good idea.

I want to know how they selected chocolate as the appropriate treat. What were the other suggestions? "How about . . . scallops? Do you think scallops would be good on a pillow? Or maybe kiwi. Several kiwi, thinly sliced . . ."

Could I get any cooler?

I think not. Well, maybe. After selling the purple truck, I had other plans. Not just to have money for my son's (gulp) car, but to also buy a scooter. I've had my eye on a little Vespa knock-off (just couldn't see spending $6000 on a scooter) so I did it. And I put little pink flames on it too. I just had to have the flames. Anyway, I'm still just going to work and back; a five minute ride, but I'm getting used to it, and I think this is the best way to go. Someday, maybe in a year or two, I will graduate to a bigger ride. But for now I am totally satisfied with what I got. I worked hard for it. Any hoo... later.

I sold my truck this evening. I'm crying a little. Yes, it was purple and was painted with a paint brush. Yes, it had spray painted flames with hand drawn daisies. It had not one but two, "Honk if you are a Farmgirl!" bumper stickers on the rear tail gate that only opened if you knew the "trick to it". But this truck was a family heirloom practically.

I remember when my son was three or four, riding his two-wheeler with the training wheels on it, bashing his head on the tailgate. But it was OK, because he was wearing the big Styrofoam retard bike helmet that Sonja always laughed at but bought one for her own son years later.

I remember my son six years old or so, helping Grandma shovel compost out of the back of it. And a few years later watching him drive it through the orchard in the only gear he knew--first.

And I now think back on the last few months or so, teaching my son, now going on sixteen, how to drive all five speeds in it. I laugh when I think of the stories he can tell when he's older about how he learned how to drive a stick in his mom's Viking purple, 91 Nissan P/U with the white daisy flames.

But I sold it to have the cash for a down payment on his first car. We decided the truck, as wonderful as she was, just wasn't safe enough for him. I want him to drive something with lots of airbags, automatic seat belts, and possibly a condom dispenser just in case.

Well, I'll miss her. I'm glad I remembered to warn the guy that bought it, to not freak out too much if he gets stopped by someone wanting to know why he's driving Kimberly's truck. I've been driving it like that a long while in a not so big town.

By the way, just for the record; I think I might of made some kind of Craigslist record. I posted the ad, and received a call about five minutes later, they showed up ten minutes after that, and I closed the deal within a half hour. It took me longer to clean it out. Wow. Sniffle, sniffle.

Oh, and I have no car. Sigh