Untitled

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me
I am a rock
I am an island
And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries.

Paul Simon

Guess it's obvious that I need a blogging break.

See you when the black dogs go home.

A better way

I need to move up and around from this feeling of the creeps settling in around me. Time to think of something more lighthearted.

Ok...how about this? What are you thankful for? Besides your family. Besides your children. Besides the usual fare. Tell me something off the cuff that you are thankful for.

I'll start.

I'm thankful for 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

They make sleeping a gift. Sinking down into that softness is unspeakably wonderful.

I'm thankful for Canus' L'il Petite Chevre Shampoo and Body Wash.

This is made from goat's milk and it is divine. It is like applying sheer silk to your skin and hair. We all use it in our family and it isn't that expensive, considering we use it as both a shampoo and a body wash. I love the way it makes us smell. My friend, Nirand, introduced it to us years ago and it is now a family staple.

I'm thankful for my heated mattress pad.

I used to use an electric blanket. And then I noticed that my butt was still cold. So, I bought the electric mattress pad and it now keeps my butt nice and toasty. And my feet.

I'm thankful for Turkey Leftover Pie.

This is what my mother used to make every year. You take leftover turkey, gravy, stuffin' with raisins, mashers, black olives, and corn. Put them all together in a pie shell. Bake for an hour at 350 degrees. It is HEAVEN. Plus two.

I'm thankful for sleeping in for four days in a row.

I have not set my foot out of bed one day before nine a.m. And it is heaven. There is a certain joy in waking up at 4 a.m. and realizing that YES! you get to sleep in as long as you wish!

I'm thankful for hall lights.

Last night, I went to bed early because I was sleepy. Liv was already asleep. As I started dozing off, I looked at the goldish hue of the hall light seeping softly up the stairs. I could hear the faint drone of the ten o'clock news and knew that Bing was stretched out in the reclining chair, watching it.

And I felt so tender and safe and good and warm and sleepy. It's nice to drift off to sleep and feel the sweetness of family around you.

I'm thankful for good books.

I have a pile of them next to my bed. Always. At least five all the time, just waiting to be read. And I love knowing that there will always be a good book just waiting for my hand to pick it up. I love knowing that Anne Tyler, Elizabeth Berg, and Jill McCorkle still have words inside them that are bursting to get out.

I'm thankful for an unseasonably warm November.

The air is still a bit balmy mixed with brisk. Not all cold slices slipping up your nose yet. Still sweater weather. No parkas needed yet. Good dog walking weather.

And last, but not least, I am thankful for mouse catching dogs named Socks.

YES. He caught a MOUSE. Outside, thankfully. He was rushing around chasing something in the back yard and we weren't sure what it was, maybe a mole? No. Moles are blind and don't zip. He caught something...ran swiftly to my side, dropped it at my feet and then made this hilarious spitting sound with his mouth as if he was totally disgusted with the taste of mouse, but wanted SO badly to let us know that he could catch a mouse if he wanted to. Good dog. My bad ass Socksie.

So, tell me...what are you thankful for? Besides the mushhead stuff, guys...

Expectations

It was too much to hope for.

A great Thanksgiving. Most of the time, I am able to love my family as is.

Yesterday was not that day.

The older I get, the harder it is for me to endure racism at the dinner table.

I think I have mentioned about two million and three (or is it four) times how much I really dislike my bil, Dan.

Or Tom. I can't remember what I usually call him. Sometimes it is Tom, sometimes Dan. His real name is neither. I use pseudonyms.

Let's call him Tom today.

Or douche bag brains. Or Archie Bunker without the ha ha. Or the-man-who-gets-WAY-too-much-of-a-kick-out-of-himself.

This is a man who is wealthy. He is wealthy because his wife's mother, MY mother, left his family a butt load of dough. So, now he struts around his big house, a big man with big opinions. And he adores the sound of his own voice.

He laughs with his mouth stuffed full of turkey and it is not just disgusting, but can put you off food for long periods of time.

He calls black men "Rastus." He thinks this is incredibly clever. He calls hispanic men, "Tostito." He gets such a kick out of this that he lifts up his leg and farts.

He has a dog that is so insanely crazy for him that it tries to bite anyone who comes near her master. We had to eat dinner with the dog sitting in Tom's lap. It got cold during dinner and slipped under his sweatshirt, poking his head out of the neck. This was so adorable that someone had to take a picture of it.

Gag me.

I generally keep my mouth shut. I figure it is his home and I am his guest. And there are never children at the table. They have their own table on the other side of the room and they're kids. They don't bother listening to the adult conversations.

Maybe I should sit with them next time.

Bing handles him better than I do. She completely ignores him. If he starts talking inappropriately, she literally gets up and moves away from him, refusing to join in the conversation. If he says anything to her, she smiles and says that sorry, she is suddenly feeling sick to her stomach and needs to move away.

He loves to bait me. Loves to start in with his loud mouthed declarations about how dimwitted our president is. Oh, and yeah, Obama has big ears. Isn't that just hilarious? Let's all slap our legs and laugh with our mouths open and food spilling out of our slippery, greasy lips. Let's let some of that food fall out of our mouths and land on the tablecloth and then let our vicious little dog dart for it and snap it up.

Time for me to avert my eyes because frankly, yes, you are about as cute as a cock roach.

Time for your wife to jump up and find something that needs doing in the kitchen, because even she is disgusted by you, but she knows better than to say anything a'gin you.

I glance around at the table. There is Jessie, who I know is uncomfortable too, she tells me privately that Tom makes her feel a little sick sometimes. But, she doesn't say anything even though her three daughters, aged 18, 15, and 13 are at the adult table now. Her husband, Dwayne, is a small town guy, who has never in his entire life known a black person. And he guffaws along with Tom, just a couple of good old boys having a hoot.

I swallow once. Twice. Tom keeps it up, keeps glancing at me to see if I am going to attack. He worries about this just a little bit. He has a misplaced sense of his own intelligence, though, and that is always his downfall. I decide that I have had enough when he asks my niece, Lyndsay, who is a freshman in college, if she has ever tried "dark meat."

I am so appalled that he would have the audacity to talk like this to her in this manner that I finally say something. But, I am pleased to say, I do not shout at him. I look at him and say in my quietest voice, "Tom, I can see that you aren't getting enough attention since you need to act out. Tell you what. Why don't you tell us a "rastus" joke. C'mon, little guy. It will make you feel better to have our attention. Isn't that what you really want?"

I cup my chin with my hand and give him my total attention.

I am happy to see that it unnerves him. He sputters something about me not being any fun at all today and does it make me feel better to treat him as if he isn't as smart as a picnic basket?

I sigh. He has fallen for this before and it really is just too easy.

I make my eyes go wide.

"Why, Tom," I say, my voice dripping with innocence. "I have never believed it when they tell me that you aren't as smart as a picnic basket. For the record, I think you might be even smarter than a picnic basket!"

A long cold stare. No one is really listening to me. They all went on to talk about a recent news story a few minutes ago. Tom's ego is not nearly as shredded as it could have been.

I pick up a piece of skin off my plate and throw it next to Tom's plate.

"Here, girl," I say prettily. "Doggie want a treat?"

Lyndsay, who is sitting next to me, gives me one startled look and then resumes eating, looking down.

I am not being good company. I am not showing good company manners.

I know this. I suppose I should care more.

I pick up my empty plate and head towards the kitchen where I start helping to clean the pots and pans. When we are finished, I go stand and look out the window into the back yard at the covered palatial swimming pool, at the garage with the brand new car inside of it.

Not our best Thanksgiving.

But, truly, what can I do? How can I, in good conscience, sit there and listen to him speak that way? He is my sister's husband. Just that alone makes him worthy of respect. Sometimes I look at her, though, and wonder why she loves this man. Is there some tender, sweet side to him that I am ignorant of?

Why is it that people who are ignorant assholes have loud, grating voices? Why do they hee haw instead of laugh? Tom reminds me so much of Rush Limbaugh. He has this pleased sound around his voice, as if he is just so impressed with himself that he can hardly contain it. He likes to talk about how much money he makes, how he picks his stocks with such intelligence. And then he does this sort of giggly thing that is just repulsive in a man and he will ask a grandchild or his wife to "pull my finger" as if he is so entertaining and hilarious that we will all talk about him in admiration on the car ride home.

I honestly think that he sees himself this way. I don't think he has any idea that he is so pathetic, so gross, that no one wants to sit by him.

My three teenaged nieces are sitting on the sofa and he plops down there with them and they smile uncomfortably and the youngest tries to jump up but he grabs her arm and pulls her down, tickling her.

She laughs but it is not a good laugh. There is a helpless look in her eyes.

Tom looks at my sister, Jessie, and says, "Well, your two oldest are convent material, Jessie. But, hey...this young one here (he pinches her waist lasciviously), well, she is....is...a real woman, now...."

Jessie gets up and pulls Brigitta up, her youngest at age 13 and says evenly, "Well, Tom, you have sort of gone into some creepy territory here..."

Tom does his campy what is wrong with yous peoples? can't ya take a joke? leer.

I have to get up and go find Liv, who is playing ping pong in the basement with the other kids. I tell Bing that we need to start looking for our coats. It's time to go. Bing has been in the kitchen, discussing school fundraisers with another teacher and hasn't heard anything. But she takes one look at my face and she cuts off the conversation and gets our coats.

Tom, totally oblivious to his filthy-old-geezer status, is watching a dog show on television now, petting his loyal little dog, calling her "my princess."

If I don't leave now, I will vomit.

We say our goodbyes. Jessie and I hug each other long and hard. We didn't get much of a chance to visit this time, but...well...maybe next time. If I don't leave this house right this second, I feel like I might start crying.

I don't say much on the way home. Bing is noticeably relieved to be out of there. She does not much like spending any time with my family. Liv is quiet. She asks once if we are still planning on all going to see New Moon.

I'd forgotten.

We get home and after an hour, I feel less creeped out. I call Jessie to see if she and her girls still want to go to see the movie. They do. We arrange to meet there.

I am putting on makeup in the bathroom when Bing comes in and sits on the edge of the bathtub to talk.

"You know what your trouble is," she begins.

I turn sharply to look at her.

Raise my eyebrow.

"You expect too much," she finally says. "You keep hoping that he won't act like himself. You need to go in there expecting him to act like a buffoon and knowing that you will ignore him and enjoy the rest of your family."

I soften, think about this. She's right. She usually is.

I slowly nod and turn back to put on mascara.

"Well," she goes on, gently, "at least I didn't have to watch you turn into a cut throat when it came time to play family games....."

This makes me laugh.

It also makes me realize that maybe, just maybe, I am not perfect either.

I put my arms around her waist, feel her arms go around me.

"I love you," I tell her.

She grins at me. "So....," she begins, "If you really, truly love me....you won't expect me to go see the teenage vampire movie..."

I shake my head, let her off the hook. Tell her to stay home.

Liv and I get our coats on and head out to the car.

I stop and take a deep cool breath of the November air. It feels clean and slices deeply into my lungs. I won't think of him anymore today.

So...was your Thanksgiving better or worse than you thought it would be and why?

And have you seen New Moon?

Was anyone else as deeply disappointed in it as I was?

What is Thanksgiving like for you?

I have this crazy idea. I want to know how everyone celebrates Thanksgiving...(well, I do realize that this is confined to the states...but maybe you can tell us how you celebrate Christmas or some other holiday instead, if you live outside of the states.)

Is there something different that your family does? Who shows up that you really, really like? Really, really dislike? What time do you eat? Is your fare traditional? I really would like to know and I bet my readers would too.

As for me, well...it is usually pretty much the same. My sister, Patrice does Thanksgiving. She has the biggest house, the most money and since she is retired...the most time on her hands.

My sister, Jessie and her husband and daughters come every year. They live in small town Iowa, about five hours away. They come in on Wednesday evening and leave on Sunday. My other sister, Celia, is the only sister who isn't at the table. She has a small family dinner with her grown children and their families in Iowa.

Dinner is always early, at noon. Bing brings three pies of her choosing. It varies each year, but there is always pumpkin and always pecan. The third one has been apple, cherry, lime cheesecake, chocolate fudge pie and once...a raisin pie that I am pretty sure I was the only one who had a slice. It was divine, but well....what can I say? People like pumpkin.

I bring wine and usually a fancy bottle of Amaretto or some Grey Goose vodka to make vodka tonics.

There are a lot of us. Patrice invites her husband's family too and they are...well...okay...the hardest part for me to take. One family, in particular, drives me insane. They have a great dane and yes, they bring him everywhere. What the fuck is it about people and their dogs? I would never think it was okay to bring Socks to Thanksgiving dinner and frankly, I would worry. He does not like loud atmospheres and I suspect that he would be pretty cranky if there were marauding toddlers about. And there always are. The great dane has some incredibly cheesy name that escapes me now. Something like...wait....it's on the tip of my typing finger...YES...his name is Earl Grey. And he is excitable and drooly. He once snitched a pie off of the sideboard and gulped it down before anyone could stop him. I have often wanted to pour wine into his water bowl and watch him really have a good time, but no...Bing puts the kibosh on it.

My sister's children and their families come. Her mentally retarded (yes I wrote that and I am NOT changing it...we are FINE with the term and so is she) daughter is bringing her mentally retarded boyfriend this year and she is nervous, worried that everyone won't like him. I told her to relax. We like him already and so will everyone else.

Dinner is at two big tables in her huge dining room. There is something for everyone.

Turkey
Stuffin (with RAISINS...yes...RAISINS and try it, it is perfect!)
Mashers
Gravy
A dish called cheesy corn that tastes exactly like you would expect cheesy corn to taste like.
Spaghetti and meatballs. This is a nod to Patrice's daughter in law who had a grandmother who served that on Thanksgiving, so by God...she brings it every year and no one eats it but her...but, what can I say? We brought raisin pie that no one ate. You just deal with it.
Yams
A relish tray with black olives (YUM!), green olives (ICK!),celery stuffed with cheese, three kinds of pickles and radish hearts.
Rolls
The obligatory green bean casserole with french fried onions on top. Made with mushroom soup. I only eat it once a year and that is plenty for me.
Many jello molds. I always say that I don't like jello but I scoop some out and yes, I eat it and enjoy it.
Everyone drinks whatever they like. Mostly sodas. Her husband, Dan, drinks chocolate milk and I once called him a Pee Wee because when he wanted a refill, he kept tapping his glass on the table to get his wife's attention. I told him to get it himself and to stop acting like a freaking Pee Wee. He didn't talk to me for the rest of the visit. I was thrilled. Of course, Patrice had to ruin everything by jumping up to get him milk, as if she was his maid. Well, fuck. She is.

Dinner conversation is a combination of politics (with Bing and I the only Democrats at the table...this gets dicey...especially when Dan mouths off about how we have to guard against health care reform because it is a big government program and we don't need that. This is where I ask him if he is going to refuse his medicare because hey....he is one year away from it and it is a government program and all that....), television shows that are interesting and stories that are only interesting to you and your family. This means that Earl Grey's master will go on and on about how he spent months looking for the perfect doggy sweater for Earl Grey and he finally found it...at GUESS WHERE? Yup. A military supply store.

This is generally when I start looking around for the Amaretto bottle.

We all have to go around and say what we are thankful for. This sounds sweet and precious and it sort of is. I once suggested that we had to think of something original that we were thankful for...like good toenail clippers or heated car seats. I said that listening to all the women say that they were thankful for their wonderful children or husbands saying that they were thankful for Bo Pelini....well....it was getting old.

Everyone looked at me like I just slapped Earl Grey. So, I shut up. When it was my turn, I said that I was thankful for 1500 thread count sheets. WELL? I AM!

After dinner, we all pig out on pie. Patrice's daughter in law (the one who brings the spaghetti and meatballs that no one eats) opens her pan of rice krispie squares...another dessert that no one likes...because c'mon...rice krispie squares are everyday but lime cheesecake? Not so much. Apparently, you guessed it, her grandmother used to make those for Thanksgiving dinner as well. One of these days, when it is my turn to say what I am thankful for, I will say that I am thankful that I don't have to eat a Thanksgiving dinner of spaghetti and meatballs and rice krispie squares.

Kidding. Really. Sort of.

After dinner, the men will mosey out to the living room to watch sports and the women will be expected to clean up. This is so freaking unfair that it irks me every time. But, I don't say anything because I really, really like it when Dan, my brother in law is not in the same room, tapping his chocolate milk glass on the table.

After clean up...it's game o rama.

We play all kinds of games. We play charades. We play every game that you can think of where you have to think of words in twenty seconds or give one word clues for things. Any game with a loud buzzing timer is right up our alley. And I am ruthless. I am a sore loser and if I am on your team, you will WIN. I guarantee it. Because I am very, very good at these games. So is my sister, Jessie, so she and I can never be on the same team because we will fight to the death to be the best.

And I will win, people. Seriously. Bing once told me that she would never have moved in with me if she had seen me play Catch Phrase even once.

"You are MEAN!" she told me. "You get MAD when someone can't think of the best term in Buzz Word or Taboo!"

I beg to differ. I am not mean. But, I want my team to win and if you aren't fast on your feet, go have another piece of pie, just don't be on my team, okay? Because I am the woman. I am the queen bee.

Uh huh. That right. I be bad.

Later, we all break into groups to talk. I carefully avoid any of Dan's family since they are inclined to encourage one to give Earl Grey kisses.

No way, dudes. I don't kiss any canines except Socks. And never on the lips.

My sister, Jessie, and I usually end up sliding into one of the spare rooms and kicking off our shoes, unzipping our now tight waisted jeans and we lay on the bed to talk. Some of my best conversations have been our after Thanksgiving dinner conversations. Once, we fell asleep holding hands and a stray nephew came and took our photo and it is now on my piano because hey, we looked adorable.

This Thanksgiving, I have promised to take all my teenaged nieces to go see New Moon. I want to be able to scream just a little in deep Edward love when Robert Pattinson comes onscreen and since my nieces will be with me, I won't look like some old bag who is not acting her age.

When Thanksgiving is over, when all the relatives are gone and I am left with my dirty house (my sister's daughters stay with us...they are 18. 15 and 13...they eat like pigs, I swear and they tend to squeal an awful lot...but Liv loves the company and so do I...Bing just tries to work out in the yard a lot...), I will be satiated for the year. Done. Full up to the brim. Ready to be alone again with my books and not have to worry about the hot water running out or how late those girls can stay up. (LATE.)

So, I am curious. What is yourThanksgiving like? Think how interesting it would be if you all commented. All the different answers there would be!

Let's try it, shall we have a go?

C'mon, don't be shy. Tell us about your Thanksgiving.....

The right answer

I woke up this morning at 5 a.m. and discovered that my rheumatoid arthritis was acting up. It does this occasionally. It's never a good time.

I laid on my back and gingerly reached down to feel my left knee, where the pain was originating. Yup. Swollen. About the size of a cantaloupe.

Shit. I swung my legs carefully over the side of the bed and tried to stand on it, holding tight to the side of my bedside table. I found that I could put weight on it, but not much and not for long.

Shit again. Well, not the worst it has been. I limped to the bathroom and peed and then shut the door and turned on the light to see the damage.

My knee was red and swollen, sensitive to the touch. The good news was that it was a Saturday and I didn't have to go to work. The bad news was that it was a Saturday and there was a Cornhusker game that evening. I would not be going. When I get joint swelling like this, I have to stay in bed and keep it elevated. If I'm lucky, it will go down in 24 hours.

I shut off the light and started the long limp back to the bed. Bing was awake. She's been through this many times with me. I didn't have to ask, she grabbed her pillow and headed for the guest room, giving me a quick kiss for luck. If she had stayed in the bed, every little move she made would jostle me and it would hurt.

Better this way. I took a deep breath and turned up the electric blanket and fell back asleep.

I woke up again around nine and smelled bacon. And there was Liv, perched precariously next to the bed with a breakfast tray. I peeked at the dishes. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. A small fancy glass of cherry juice....miracle juice for joint pain, people. Bing came bustling in behind her and set a chair next to the bed. She smiled at me. She knows that I really, truly hate to eat in bed but she also knows that I would never in a million years tell Liv that.

I ate my breakfast. Tried to sound upbeat for Liv. She, Bing and I sat together while I ate and discussed the game plan today. I wouldn't be going to the Husker game tonight. Even if the swelling went down, I would need to take it easy. I asked Bing if she wanted to invite a friend to take instead of me. She said no but that she thought that maybe if Liv wanted to, she could invite her bff, Constance, to come to the game with them in my place and then spend the night with us. We decided that this was an excellent idea. Liv made the call and plans were finalized.

Bing spent the day working in the yard. VERY warm weather for November. Liv tackled her weekend homework, sprawled in a chair by my bed. I slept off and on, waking for pain pills mostly. I woke up again in the early afternoon with my knee still swollen, but not aching as badly.

Liv was sitting in the chair by my bed going through her baby book.

I smiled. Asked her if she wanted to come share it with me. I opened the covers and she crawled in, her ice cold feet shocking my toasty ones. She was careful not to jostle my leg. We looked at photos for a while; I pointed out my favorites.

"Mama? I have a question," she said, her voice tentative.

"Hmm?"

"How come my Father isn't in any of my pictures until I am about three?"

I was taken aback. That question was one that I had hoped I would never have to answer. I hesitated. She noticed. Her expression was worried.

I didn't know whether to tell the truth or make up a lie.

I looked at her little heart shaped face and decided to tell a truth, but like Emily Dickinson, maybe tell it a little slant.

I told her that her Father was only 23 when she was born, way too young to really be a Father. I told her that he and I were not even really together, that we were just friends.

How the FUCK do you tell a child that she was the product of a one night stand?

I told her that her Father just couldn't deal with being a parent right away, that he had just started work on his master's degree and was going to school in New Mexico. And well, we lived in our city, a long ways away. I told her that he visited, but that he didn't really know how to even hold a baby. That he had decided that maybe it would be better if he didn't try to be a Father just yet.

I didn't tell her about how his brown Native American face went nearly white when he realized that he was going to be somebody's Father.

I didn't tell her that when he first laid eyes on her, he looked terrified out of his skull and that when I asked if he wanted to hold her, he had looked at me as if I had asked him if he wanted to hold a rabid dog.

I didn't tell her that he saw her a total of three times in four months and that on the last day that he came over, he told me that he wanted to give up all his parental rights, that he just didn't want to do this. He went back to school and I didn't hear a single word from him until just after Liv's third birthday. Then he had called to say he was in town and he wanted to come visit her. Could he do that? Would I let him?

I didn't tell her that I almost said no.

"So," I told her. "He came over one hot summer day and you were three years old and you just knocked his socks off because you were so smart and so sweet and so..so...you. He knew immediately that he had made a huge mistake."

I told her how he tried to play peekaboo with her and she was totally insulted at him trying to play a baby game with her. She was a big girl! She didn't play PEEKABOO!

Liv's grave expression was lightening up. My heart was hurting for her because, really, how hard it must be to hear that your Father, the man you idealize and adore, didn't want anything to do with you until you were three years old.

I told her about how I had put her down for her nap that afternoon that her Father had visited and how he and I sat in the adirondack chairs in the back yard and how he had hung his head and cried because he had missed so much.

Liv's eyes were huge.

"He cried? Seriously?"

"Seriously," I told her. "He was just sick at heart that he had missed your first steps, your first tooth, your first word..."

"What WAS my first word? I can't remember," Liv said.

I found the place in the baby book and pointed. We both laughed.

"PIZZA was one of my first words?"

Yes, I told her. Pizza, light and water. Actually, it was more like Pissa, Lye and WaWa.

"Your Father missed ALL those important things and he told me that very day that he wanted to make it all up to you," I told her.

I didn't tell her that he had nervously pleaded with me to let him have a place in her life, any place, on my terms absolutely, just please let him try to be a Father.

I didn't tell her that I almost said no. I almost said no because I worried that he would become bored with her after the novelty wore off. Spending a few hours with a child is one thing, being in her life, with all the responsibility, the weariness, (yes, the weariness...whoever tells you that they are never tired of their children is a liar) and the sheer hard work of parenting? Well, that is quite another.

"So," she said slowly, "Was he up to snuff?"

I smiled at her use of slang and nodded. Oh, yes, I said. I think he is a good Father now, don't you?

Liv smiled back. Nodded affirmatively.

I didn't tell her that I'm still not 100% sure that he can handle parenthood. I mean, he sees her every few months and takes her for two weeks every summer. That is hardly a parenting test. But, he does text her daily, even if it is just to tell her about a pretty rock he discovered or to ask her how that science test went down. Privately, I wonder how he would do if placed in my parental shoes. But, I try to be optimistic.

When he is with her, he is an incredibly good parent.

Liv settled against me for a snuggle and we were quiet for a while. I thought of those long first few months when she had colic and I would have LOVED to have a parenting partner to hand her off to now and then. But, I wouldn't trade that time for anything. It was in those moments of desperation and depression that I got my parenting sea legs. I learned more about myself in those days then I ever did on the days that were effortless. And I was proud of myself.

The moment ended and Liv went to go change into her Husker sweatshirt to get ready to pick up Constance. Bing came in to kiss me goodbye and check to make sure I was comfortable. Liv came in for her goodbye kiss. I told her that I would watch the game and try to find her in the crowd of what? 80 thousand?

Liv curled her arms around my neck before she left.

"Do you ever wish that you didn't have to be a mother?" she asked me.

NEVER, I told her. "Absolutely never. I have been mad for you from the second I laid eyes on you, lambkin."

She smiled. "I have another question for you to think about while I'm at the game," she told me.

"Bring it on," I told her.

"What's it like to be a lesbian?" she asked. "You think about it and maybe we can talk soon?"

I smiled in what I hoped was a relaxed, comfortable way.

Because inside, those alarms were going off crazily.

And according to my friends, this is only the beginning. The questions will just keep getting harder and harder the older that she gets.

I leaned back against the pillows and closed my eyes.

Boy howdy. And I thought the question about why is the sky blue was hard....

So, tell me...what is the hardest question that a child has ever asked you?

Maria and another terrible, horrible, very bad day.

What is the most embarrassing thing that has happened to you at work? Or school. Or home. Well, in public.

I had two things happen in one day. TWO. Embarrassing things. That I NEVER do. Which I did yesterday.

I had gone into work after a morning argument with Bing. So...yeah...the mood was not ideal. She had informed me that she had taken a gig for this weekend to play in a show, filling in for someone who was on vacation. I was pissed. Mainly because she had promised me that she would leave this weekend open so that we could clean house since my three nieces are staying with me over Thanksgiving.

So, Bing and I had....words. Many words. I believe that I may have referred to her as a selfish toad. I think she told me that I was neurotic about having the house spotless when my family was visiting. It was not pleasant. We managed to kiss goodbye, but it was what I call a Queen Elizabeth kiss. A cold, barely a touch of lips kiss.

I went to work without breakfast and ended up buying a bagel with cream cheese at the coffee place that I stopped at. I ate it quickly in the car and snarfed the last bite up as I got out of the car to go into work.

When I arrived, Marisol, one of the secretaries was there. Alone. She informed me that she and I were the only ones at work today in an office that usually holds eight of us. Everyone else was sick. I was momentarily stunned but had to recover quickly as we had to keep the ship afloat. Marisol told me that my co-worker, Julie, had asked if I could meet the tax guy at 11 and do a very short presentation at a ladies luncheon on autism. I checked my schedule, had her move a few appointments around and we were good to go.

I was wearing a brown pantsuit that I don't like. I seldom wear it because it scratches. I looked down at my chocolate brown shell and realized that I had spilled a big blob of cream cheese on it. Great. I went to the bathroom and dabbed. It didn't come out completely and there was no time to go home and change. Oh, well...I'd try later.

I spent the morning seeing appointments and then it was time to meet with Lee, our tax guy. I don't handle the taxes at my office, Julie does. But, I sat down with Lee and tried to look interested.

As I was leaning over, looking over a page on tax annuities, I quite suddenly and completely unexpectedly burped.

How embarrassing. I apologized and tried to act like nothing had really happened but I could feel myself blushing. Worse, Lee blushed right along with me. We gamely went on.

And then it happened again. Burping once is not great, but you can recover. Burping TWICE is just....inexcusable. I could feel myself blushing to my hair roots and apologized again. I had the sour after taste of sour cream in my mouth. My breath must have been nauseating. I tried hard to keep my lips sealed unless I absolutely had to speak. Lee very nonchalantly tried to unobtrusively slide his chair just a bit away from me.

And then I felt my bra pop open. It is a front closing bra. Very sexy, very Victoria's Secret. Now, I remembered why I had hesitated putting it on this morning.

Oh, yeah...(slamming hand to head) THAT'S the bra that pops open all of the time!

I realized that I could do nothing about it, so I pulled my suit jacket tightly around me and just prayed that I was done belching. I wondered if Lee thought I was a secret morning drinker...

That meeting was finally over and I had Marisol run across the street to the bakery to get me a danish since, yes, I had forgotten my lunch again. She came back with a sack and a latte.

"I'm sorry, Maria," she said. "They only had prune danishes left..."

My punishment for forgetting to pack my lunch. I ate it quickly and finished off my latte. I ran into the bathroom to quickly check my makeup before I left to give the presentation. Marisol produced a tide stick and we both tried to get the sour cream stain out of my brown shell. It worked, we thought, but since I had a big wet stain over my left breast now, I stood under the air dryer, pillowing out my shell to dry. Marisol left to finish up some work and I checked my makeup.

I only had a lipstick with me, my Plum Brandy from Clinique. I carefully applied it, smacking my lips together to blend it. My cheeks looked pale, I looked pretty peaked, I thought, so I made a quick slash of lipstick on my cheeks to blend and maybe put some color back in them.

Marisol knocked urgently at the bathroom door. "Um, Maria? Don't you think you should be going?"

I looked at my watch. Told her that I had 40 minutes since the presentation was at 1:30.

"No," she said. "I told you it was 1:00!"

Good hell. I had ten minutes to get ten blocks. I would have to fly.

I grabbed my purse and raced out the door.

I barely made it to the hotel where the luncheon was being held. I was led to a small boardroom where I would make my presentation. An oblong table was inside. There were less than 20 women, so I figured this would be easy. I only had to give a 15 minute presentation.

I walked down the hall with the organizer, a woman who looked like she was about 14. She introduced herself as Rebecca and told me that she had just finished her master's in community business. I still say she looked like a freshman in high school. Rebecca kept giving me curious sidewise glances, but I ignored her, hoping that she wasn't looking at my still damp left breast.

I began my presentation. I thought it was going okay. And then...well....oh,dear.

I was leaning over my open brief case to take out some handouts that Marisol had printed out for me.

And out of nowhere...

Well....

Okay, I farted.

And not a dainty, child sized fart. (My family calls them "protes" but I will stick to the general term here.) It was one of those loud triple pops followed by an ominous hiiiisssssss.

I was mortified. I could feel myself blushing again and I broke out in a hard sweat as my stomach clenched as I tried to keep the other farts that were just dying to come out, inside.

Not one titter. Not one sidewise look. These women were all very well mannered. I took a deep breath, considered apologizing and then figured that it would just add to the horror of the situation, so I decided to go on as if nothing had happened.

But, it had. And there was a telltale odor of well....shit. Because, yes, my shit does, indeed, stink.

We were all trapped in a small boardroom with the odor of a noxious fart wafting around our noses. MY noxious fart.

I will never eat a prune danish again. Never. As god as my witness. Never.

And then just when I thought it would be okay, my stomach REALLY clenched and cramped up on me painfully. I knew that if I did not sit down RIGHT THAT SECOND, I was going to send another prote out into the room.

I sat down hard in the nearest chair and tried to keep on going.

The women were obviously bewildered. Why did she sit down so suddenly? And why was she sweating like a pig? And what was that funny stain on her left breast?

And then, the icing on the cake: I felt my bra snaps fly open. Well, why not? I mean, might as well, huh?

It was not my finest moment.

I managed to finish up and Rebecca sweetly led everyone in light applause and then the second it was polite to do so, the room emptied.

Rebecca and I shook hands, neither one of us really looking at each other, and I escaped to my car, where ladies and gents....

I let 'er rip.

Those protes came out of me in a fierce machine gun staccato.

NO MORE PRUNE DANISHES. EVER.

When I got back to the office, Marisol gave me a curious look as I walked by the front desk.

"What did you do to your face?" she asked me.

I said that I didn't know but that I needed to run to the bathroom and then I would be ready for my next appointment.

I raced to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.

Well, boy howdy.

I had forgotten to blend in the lipstick smears on my face.

Those women must have thought I was an insane clown woman. An insane, stinky, clown women.

I bowed my head.

And laughed. It was either that or cry.

Later, I would call Julie and we would laugh about it. I would tell Liv and Bing what happened later that night as we sat at the dinner table eating peanut butter chicken and rice. And we would laugh about it. One day, it will actually be funny to me, I think.

Just not yet.

So, can any of you beat that? Please say yes. And tell me an embarrassing moment that was worse than this, if you can. I need to feel like this shit doesn't just happen to me.....

Two Sleepy People

It wasn't even nine o'clock at night.

Bing and I had dropped off Liv at a friend's house to spend the night, after a dinner of pizza. We'd driven home, a Saturday night at hand, alone until the next morning when we would pick her up at 9:30 to go see This Is It.

So, you're thinking that we barely made it through the front door before clothes went flying off of us....

Think again.

We both took a shower. Separately. I curled up in a corner of the sofa with my book: 21 Short Plays by Lanford Wilson. Bing stretched out in the recliner and absentmindedly watched The Matrix for about the twentieth time.

I yawned. She yawned. We smiled at each other. I checked my watch. It was 9:10.

Good hell. Not even time for the evening news yet and we were both nodding off.

I smiled wickedly at her.

"Care for a roll in the hay? Wanna make some eggs?" I asked, teasing.

She laughed and smiled back, ruefully.

"Honey pie, I am SPENT. I'm ready to sleep," she answered, yawning hugely again.

I shook my head.

"I don't even think I can stay awake for the opening monologue of SNL," I admitted.

She agreed. Neither one of us wanted to go to bed at 9:15 at night, but finally we decided that this was stupid, to fight to stay awake to watch...what?...a show for people who were in their twenties, to begin with? We went around hushing the lights, let Socks out for one last romp in the back yard and then, arm in arm, went up to bed.

I brushed my teeth and leaned back, toothbrush in mouth, to see her pulling back the covers of our bed. She was in her warm, white long johns. She kicked out of her slippers and slid under the sheets, groaning happily as her legs felt the electric blanket, which had been turned on medium high. I finished my teeth, got in beside her and she leaned over me to shut out the light.

We lay in the darkness for a few moments, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the moonlight slivering in through the plantation blinds.

We turned on our sides to face each other.

"It's 9:25," I told her. "We're officially old bats now, you know. Going to bed before ten."

"No," she corrected me. "We're two sleepy people who deserve our rest. I worked in the yard today, you did a flu clinic." She yawned again and pulled me in for a sweet goodnight kiss.

Afterwards, she turned on her side, her back to me and I slung my arm carelessly around her waist, spooning into her. She took my hand in hers, squeezing once gently before she let it go.

"Maria?"

"Yes?"

"I'm really glad you got that flu shot. Thank you."

"Sure thing. Goodnight, Bing."

""Goodnight, darlin'."

I smiled in the darkness. This is love at 51, I thought. At 25, we would have been fucking like rabbits. At 32, we would have still made some pretty good eggs, with maybe a nice long conversation before and after. At 44, the lovemaking would have been quieter, but still there.

At 51, we know that there is always tomorrow and the lure of sleep is strong.

I turned to lay on my back, feeling my shoulders relax, my toes pointing outward once, twice and then relaxing as well. I heard a small moan next to the bed and reached down to pet Sock's head. I patted next to me, inviting him up and he jumped up and squirmed in between Bing and I, settling into a small round ball near our feet. He loves that electric blanket, too. And he misses Liv when she is gone. He would stay until Bing's restless leg syndrome began and my snoring became annoying. Then, he would jump down and retreat to Liv's bed to curl up with his head on her pillow, waiting for morning. For now, he wanted some company.

There is comfort in two sleepy people on a Saturday night at 9:30.

The news would come on at ten. SNL would begin but Bing and I would be in REM state by then. Right next door to our dreams.

The floor boards in our old house would groan and settle. The radiators would steam and hiss a bit throughout the night.

And Bing and I would dream the sweet dreams of two sleepy people who know each other perfectly. During the night, we would both move and settle. We would wake up the next morning butt to butt.

The moonlight would change to sunlight.

And it would be a good Sunday to make pancakes.

The flu shot clinic.

Well, yippee. I am all protected against H1N1 now. I volunteered to help with the flu clinic downtown this morning, in exchange for a shot of the liquid gold. This was in spite of a horrendous dream I had where it turned out that that the shots actually had some sort of cancer in them and those who got them were all gonna die.

I arrived at the volunteer station at the butt crack of dawn. The tables were already set up for the most part and the visiting nurses were all set in place to administer shots. My job, along with about 50 other medical staff, was to go out into the masses and make sure that everyone had their paperwork done and weed out those who were "fakers."

Of course, this was silly. We were told that if an adult said that they had any health condition that warranted a shot, we were to take their word. So, I'm fairly sure that many people got in who were not at risk, but that is best left alone, I think. Let them battle with their conscience, if they need to.

I felt a surge of panic when the door opened and a mob of people came spilling in. They looked like they meant business. The nurse in my office, Gina, was there with me and she and I looked at each other and grinned.

"Just think of it as a really crazy day at work," she advised. I nodded and set to work.

I headed to my appointed place and began working the crowd. First, I was to ask them if they had their paperwork. A surprising number of people did not. This gave me pause. The forms were easily downloadable from the internet but only a handful of people had seemed to do that. There were just as many adults as children and I told myself to put myself in their shoes. I mean, I am an adult at risk, so I was one of them.

I went up to my first person, an older woman with a shock of gray hair and a kind smile. That smile disappeared the SECOND I asked her if she was at risk.

"Bloody right I am!" she told me, "There are tons of kids in my neighborhood and I don't want to give them anything if I get sick."

I looked at her. Give me a break. She was a healthy adult with no risk factors. But...we were told that when in doubt, let them get the vaccine. Since she was one of the few who had her paperwork ready, I just glanced at it, asked the obligatory questions about allergies and then told her that she was eligible for the mist.

She looked as though she might deck me. "I AIN'T gettin' no mist, lady," she said. "Gimme the shot."

I sighed and circled the shot on her sheet.

I went on to a woman who was pregnant who was with 3 children under the age of 8. No question. She and her family needed the flu shots. One of her children, though, a little girl about the age of five, was coughing violently and kept swiping her nose with the back of her hand. I pointed her out to the mother. Said that since her daughter was quite obviously ill, she should not be vaccinated at this time.

The mother looked me dead in the eye. "She has allergies," she said, her face reddening slightly.

Her 8 year old son spoke up.

"Grandma told you that Emma shouldn't go because she's sick, Mom. She got to stay home from kindergarten yesterday and she wasn't faking!"

The mother smiled dangerously at him. "Paulson, shut the hell up," she said. He shut up. I reminded her that it was very dangerous to get a flu shot when one was ill. She repeated that her daughter had allergies.

I gave her a long look. She wasn't going to back down. I shook my head and handed her back her paperwork.

Good lord.

Dumb as a fuckin' doorknob....

A huge woman came lumbering up to me. "I wanna lodge a complaint," she squawked. I raised my eyebrow at her. "Them thar people up thar? The ones who're actin' like god damn monkeys? Well, they just let about ten people cut in front of everyone to stand wid dem. They're all black and I think it's a race thang."

I looked over at the group she was pointing at. Two of the children were in a death grip wrestling match. One of the kid's faces was almost blue black. His eyes looked ready to pop out of his head. I went over and broke them up. The mother gave me a push. "You leave your white ass hands OFF my kids!" she warned me.

The huge tattletaling woman came up behind me. She jutted her chin out. "Y'all just let a bunch of people cut in line," she yelped. Her voice was high and shrill.

The black woman shrugged. "They was parkin' the fuckin' car," she answered.

The huge woman looked at me. "You buyin' that shit?" she asked.

I said I was. Told her to please get back in her place in line.

"Chicken," she muttered at me as she slunk back.

I took a deep breath. Well, this was more than I bargained for. I glanced at my watch. Only two more hours to go. Great.

I did my best to get everyone ready for their shots and mists. But, it seemed as if everyone had gotten up on the crabby ass side of the bed today. And why did I seem to get all the people with no teeth and poor grammar? People from every race, every size and shape and I get the crazy ones.

Finally, I was told to keep order in the front of the line. That job was much easier. People were close to getting their shots and they just wanted to get the hell through the line. If I had asked them to stand on one foot and stick out their tongues, they would have complied.

I saw a small little girl all dressed in yellow sitting quietly on the floor with her mother, waiting. The mother was reading a book to her. I stood behind them and looked down and smiled as I saw a familiar picture in the book.

It showed a rag doll laying in a half frozen mud puddle with a little girl in pioneer garb standing over her.

My smile broadened. The mother looked up at me.

I pointed to the book.

"One of the Little House books?" I asked.

She nodded. The little girl smiled up at me. "Laura found Charlotte!" she told me, exultant.

I nodded. "My little girl loved that part," I told her. "Those are wonderful books!"

It was their turn, so I pointed them to the next table, they got up, grabbing the book and went off to get vaccinated.

I thought about that book, that drawing. Nobody illustrates quite like Garth Brooks. Liv was never a huge fan of The Little House books and that had stung. I had purchased the entire set when she was an infant and had greatly looked forward to reading them to her, but when it came time, she mostly humored me.

I had ADORED the story of Laura and Pa and Ma and Mary and Jack and the big woods, the banks of plum creek....

Liv yawned her way through them.

It was one of those mother times when I felt as if my own child had sucker punched me. How DARE she not love those books as much as I did when I was little? And it went on, Liv was not even marginally interested in Betsy, Tacy and Tib either.

OW!

But, I had remembered the part in the book where Ma gives Charlotte, Laura's rag doll, to the ever naughty Anna, a bratty toddler and next door neighbor. She figured that Laura was too old for dolls. Well, she wasn't. She pined for Charlotte, wept for her. And then when you thought that all hope was lost, she had found her, in a half frozen mud puddle, unceremoniously dumped by the heartless Anna.

It was one of the few parts of the book that Liv had responded to. She had been aghast that Ma would do that to Laura. Wept along with Laura as she pined for her doll baby. And then, did a somersault of joy on her bed when Laura saved her from an untimely death in a mud puddle.

I remembered sitting in the rocker and watching Liv do her clumsy four year old somersaults, always leaning slightly to the left. And smiling.

A good memory.

I thought back to those Laura Ingalls Wilder books, still grouped in our book shelves in order. I wondered if I should give them to the local library, let some other little girl discover Laura and Charlotte. I'd have to check with Liv first, of course. Because I didn't want to be like Ma and do something and then realize that it was done hastily and with no heart.

I shook my head, pushing the memory back into the back of my head and continued working.

It was finally over. On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up almond extract, maraschino cherries, and white vanilla chips. I called home. Bing answered. She and Liv had just finished breakfast. I asked her to put Liv on. She did.

"Yes, Mama?"

"Hi, honey lamb."

"Did you get your shot?"

"Yes. Hey, I'm on the way home with some baking ingredients to make some Cherry vanilla chip cookies to send to Sven. Want to help me bake?"

I was hopeful, but braced myself. At age ten, Liv is no longer my baking sidekick. She sometimes wants to help, sometimes not. I needed her to want to help today.

She squealed. Good sign.

She said yes, happily. I took a deep breath.

"Livvy, do you remember when Laura lost Charlotte, the rag doll in The Little House books?"

She said that oh, yes, she sure did. Hey, did I want to read together out of them today? Maybe just a chapter or two while the cookies were baking, before the Huskers game?

I felt my smile cracking my face.

YES! All was well. My flu shot was inside of me, I was away from all those idiotic people and now I got to go home and bake cookies with Liv and read all about Charlotte and Nellie Oleson and plum creek and playing in the hay and Jack the bull dog.

And then, the Husker game.

I rubbed my aching back at a stop light.

Life is sweet on this stray Saturday in November. Things would get crazy soon. Thanksgiving was coming. My sister's family is coming and her daughters, my nieces, will be staying at my house for the holiday. So much cleaning to do...but, leave that for another day. Today was a day for cookie baking and being with Liv. Maybe I would talk Bing into taking us out for pizza tonight at Zios.

Time to head home. At last.

Friday the 13th

My dear sainted Irish Mother would have told you this:

ON FRIDAY THE 13TH, IN ORDER TO REVERSE THE CURSE OF THE DAY, YOU MUST DO A SILENT GOOD DEED.

She believed it and because I am, in general, quite superstitious, I do too.

So, today you must do a good deed and don't tell a soul.

Hold a door open for someone even if you are in a hurry and it means waiting until they reach the door from the sidewalk.

Buy the person in front of you coffee.

And it is even better if you do a good deed for someone you dislike.

Tell that boss that you dislike that he looks wonderful today. And not in a sucky up way.

That woman in your office who won't stop talking? Sit down and ask her what her family does for Thanksgiving and listen.

Instead of two goodnight books, read your kid three.

Bring doughnuts to work.

Call your sister and tell her that she is the best in the world. Even if, hey, you privately think she is sort of a slacker in that department.

I already did mine and it is only seven a.m!

But my lips are sealed.

Cardamom and Caledonia

I was supposed to get my h1n1 flu shot today.

I left work at noon with that intention anyway. The flu clinics have been packed but Bing had talked me into going. I take meds that have pretty much sliced my immune system to bits and she worries that I will catch it and not be able to fight it off.

So, I promised her that I would go. I drove to the school and saw the line snaking around the building and knew that it would be a several hours wait.

I looked around at the faces surrounding me. They all looked grim and frightened.

Basically, I sort of think that we should be giving those flu shots to children first. Get all the children taken care of and then what is left can be for the rest of us.

So, I turned around and went home.

And I had an incredible afternoon. All by myself. I baked. Yes. Me.

Baked.

And I had a grand time of it. I am not a half bad when I set my mind to it. As long as I don't get caught up in a book, I'm okay.

This time, I turned on a Leon Jackson cd and decided to make pepper cookies. That is what Sven, our neighbor, and Liv call them. Actually they are cardamom pepper cookies. They are spicy and fragrant and since Bing only buys organic flour, sugar, everything...well, I knew that they would be good.

I lost myself in the mixing. That is something that I rarely do, but when it happens, well...it is fantastic.

I whisked the flour and spices together, taking deep breaths, feeling the scents settle into my nose. How lovely it was.

I creamed the butter and sugars, added the eggs and vanilla and then the flour. I stirred and listened, closed my eyes now and then and lost myself in music.

I thought of my childhood, my life now, where I want to be in ten years.

Pretty simple. I want to be with Bing and Liv. In our nest. And then I realized that in ten years, Liv would be 20 years old and long gone. I looked out the kitchen into the back yard, wiping my hands on a towel, sticky from forming balls of cookies. The oaks in the back yard were finally on their last legs, just a few small leaves hanging on, toughing it out. It made me shiver, made me feel so melancholy and even weepish.

I love Autumn but hate Winter.

All those reds and golds all over the grass in spite of repeated rakings. We had put up the lawn furniture last weekend. The grill, the adirondack chairs, the picnic table. All in the shed. The patio looked so lonely.

The sun was bright, so I went out on the back porch and let myself sit while the cookies baked.

When I came in, I checked the cookies, took them out and put another batch in and then I listened to a song that Leon was singing. His voice was plaintive and yearning. I eased into the buttery brown leather chair and listened. It was a song that I hadn't heard in years, an old Scottish love song about missing home.

I thought of Bing, of how I went for years without her until one day it suddenly hit me that she was my home, what I had been aching for all those years. And I finally came back to her. I listened and choked up and was so full of love and pain and yearning and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to just talk to her, hear her voice.

But, she was teaching. And I had cookies to finish. So. I completed my task.

The phone rang soon after. I checked caller id. It was Bing. I picked it up quickly.

"Are you back already?" she asked.

I had to think for a moment. Oh. Yeah. That.

I hesitated and then told her that no, I had decided not to go. That I had decided to go home and bake.

Silence.

Finally, she said one word.

"Bake?"

Yes, I said. Sometimes, I need to just be by myself and bake.

"But, you...you..." her voice broke.

"You promised. You promised me that you would get that shot, Maria."

I know. I told her that. I tried to explain, about how I just couldn't bear to stand there in that sad, scared line. About how going home and baking had been just what my soul needed today.

She wasn't buying it. Wasn't happy with me either.

"Do you know what it was like for me," she finally started. "Do you know what it was like for me to watch you caring for Liv when she was sick, refusing to wear a mask or gloves? Maria, you don't have a working immune system! If you catch this flu, you could die."

But, I didn't catch it, I told her. I laid down in Liv's bed with her and I DIDN'T CATCH IT. I figured I must be immune.

"Do you EVER think of me?" she sputtered. "Do you ever think about what it would be like for me if something happened to you? I would not only lose you, I would lose Liv too. She would go live with Tinton. You know that. My life would pretty much be over, losing you both," she said, her voice quiet now.

I tried to explain, realized that I couldn't. I didn't know how to explain about how that line just felt...wrong and being home just felt....right.

I wish sometimes that I could share with Bing about how I feel sometimes. How the smell of cardamom and the feel of shaping cookies and looking out the window and listening to a song that tears out my heart just takes me away somewhere. She loves music but she is a very pragmatic person. I asked her once if music moved her and she said that of course it did, but that she rarely listened to lyrics, that it was the music that she centered in on, not the lyrics.

She would never understand how I could look out the window, see the empty patio and the leaves on the ground and then hear a song that made me want to double over with emotion. With love and pain and warmth and freezing cold and softness and toughness and birdsong and chipped paint and all of it sliding together to pull me down on the leather chair and make the tears suddenly roar out of me.

I went up to her later, when she had cooled off a little bit and told her that I wanted to play a song for her. She nodded. I pushed her into the leather chair and put Leon on.

"This is how I felt when I finally decided to come back to you," I told her. "You are my Caledonia."

She listened without commenting and when it was over, she let me curl up in her lap.

"I will never in a hundred years get you," she said. "But, we belong together. Just....please...the next clinic??...."

I said I would go. Promise.



What moves you?

Attack of the giant SPIDER.

Saturday is my day to change sheets.

I was briskly stripping our bed, taking off the baby blue sheets and replacing them with the mahogany ones. I love my brown sheets. They are Egyptian cotton, 1000 thread count and they are soft as butter. I have no qualms about spending big bucks on sheets. It is my SLEEP, people. It matters to me. A lot.

So, there I was, sliding on the new sheets. I sheepishly admit that yes, I did fall down on top of the sheet and smell it and rub my face in it's softness. Because I just fucking roll that way, okay? I am a tactile sort of person. So, while I am laying on the bed, rubbing my face in that softness, I see something move out of the corner of my eye.

Abrupt change to sit up position.

It was a SPIDER.

A large black spider. And it was big. Bigger than the usual spiders around here. I will say that it was about as big as a quarter including it's legs. Now, I can see some of you out there making smarmy faces at me, suggesting perhaps that I may be a bit of a cream puff.

I am. I do not like spiders. My Mother actually liked spiders. She was Irish and as you know, the Irish have many superstitions. One of her deep beliefs was that a spider will not take residence in a home that is dirty or unhappy.

Which explains why you see so many spiders in dank, dark basements and smelly attics.

My Mother never killed a spider in her life. She would scoop them up in her hands and put them in her relocation program. She relocated them out to the flower garden. Even in the Winter. In Iowa. Where it is fucking freezing and they died of exposure within minutes.

Oh well.

I do not like spiders for the same reason that I do not like cats.

They are fast, they are shifty and I strongly suspect that they are smarter than I am.

Spiders....dart.

I HATE THAT.

They are faster than a 16 year old boy's hands in the back seat of a car.

I sat very still and stared at that spider in horror.

It was taunting me. I could feel it. It was not one bit scared of me.

I thought to call Bing as she is the house spider slayer, but remembered that she was outside raking leaves. She would not be pleased if I called her to come in and slay a spider. Even if it WAS a menacing, sneaky, Jack Nicholson in The Shining type of spider. ("Heeeeeeerrrrrrreee's Johhhhhhhhhhnnnyy!")

I decided that I would not grab it. It might bite me and I well remember the last time a spider bit me.

It was when Liv was an infant. With colic. I was sitting, barefoot, in the rocker with her and she was FINALLY asleep. And she was a very light sleeper. I kid you not, if the phone rang when she was napping, she would wake up and be mad as hell about it. I used to turn the phones off when she napped and then forget to turn them back on, resulting in friends and family thinking that I had decided that this motherhood thing was just not for me, folks and offed myself. So, anyhoo...I was sitting quietly in the chair when I felt this sort of...tickle...on the bottom of my foot followed by a sharp STINGGGGGGG. I was so well trained not to jostle Liv by that time that I never even flinched although something inside of me was screaming JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ON A SESAME SEED BUN THAT FUCKING HURT! And then I saw a rather large brown house spider traipsing away from my foot and I knew I had been a smelly foot snack for a spider.

It took MONTHS for that spider bite to heal. It swelled up right on the arch of my foot, leaving me hobbling around within minutes of the bite. And then, well....I stupidly lanced it and pus came spurting all over.

Yellow pus, folks. Yup. You betcha.

I ended up making a doctor friend stop at my house on his way home from the hospital. He agreed with me that it was a spider bite all right. We agreed on a treatment and I STILL had to lance that thing several times before it healed. It took MONTHS.

So, I do not especially like spiders.

Okay....returning to my beautiful mahogany sheeted bed, where I was so happy and carefree once and was now held hostage by a spider. A wicked, chortling spider.

Neither one of us moved, although he was daring me to.

I finally decided that I was going to get up v e r y s l o w l y. I did this. The spider stayed put. I whispered, "You stay put now, you nasty arachnid!"

He chuckled.

I raced to the bathroom for toilet paper to pick him up and squish him.

And yes, bright angels, you guessed it.

He was gone when I returned ten seconds later.

I tore that bed apart. No sign of him.

The dog came in and I enlisted his help in locating the spider. I berated him for not psychically knowing that I needed help a few minutes earlier.

"Aren't dogs supposed to be psychic? Couldn't you SENSE my fear and come rescue me, Socks?"

To which he replied, "Alpha woman, I don't like spiders either. They are worse than squirrels, dude."

We didn't find the spider.

Eventually, I sighed and gave up. Went downstairs to start the sheets in the washer. I hoped that the spider had decided to go take a swim in the toilet or maybe slide down the bathtub drain for a nap after his happy time of scaring an innocent woman. Maybe he wanted to rush home to his family to brag about his feat: "Fuck, dudes! You should have seen that human's face. She was scared out of her mind! It was priceless. Better than that time that we scared the dog!" I pictured all of the spider's family sitting around tossing back spider beers, one in each leg and having a good hoot.

I forgot about the spider.

We watched the game. (GO HUSKERS. SUH, YOU ARE DA MAN! I WANT TO KISS YOUR FACE OFF, MR. SUH! AND CRICK, I LOVE YOU, TOO, BIG GUY! HELO, YOU ARE ONE FAST FUCKER! WE WON. WE WON!!! WE WON!!!)

Okay, sorry for that. It just comes over me and I can't stop it...

We went to bed after the game.

I woke up this morning and in the soft morning light, I sleepily looked over at Bing, who had her back to me. I noticed the hair on the back of her neck moving.

UM...WHAT THE FUCK?

I NOTICED THE HAIR ON THE BACK OF HER NECK MOVING?????

At just that second, I heard her say, "OUCH!"

She reached back with her BARE HAND and grasped....yes....you know it.

THE BIG SPIDER!

She leaped out of bed and after saying some choice naughty words, yes, Bing swears. Even worse than me sometimes. Who'da thunk it?......

She stalked off to the bathroom, pissed off at being so rudely awakened and flushed that sucker down the toilet.

No more funny stories for you to tell, big nasty spider!

She washed her hands and came back to bed. By that time, I had leaped out of bed and flung the covers around looking for spider friends. Perhaps they had decided to have an early morning picnic on those delicious 1000 thread count mahogany sheets.

Nope. Just the one. Well, I think so anyway.

Bing has a rather large bite on her neck, it looks a bit vampirish, except that it is in the wrong place for Edward Cullen fang marks.

And I must have one spanking clean, happy bed, according to my dear sainted Irish mother's belief.

I almost wished that we had kept the dead spider. We could have maybe strung it up on the wall as a warning to his friends and family. DON'T MESS WITH BING AND MARIA!

It's a sweet Autumn Sunday. Liv has a basketball game this afternoon (and she is turning into quite the little athlete...at her last game, parents kept yelling, "Get the ball to LIV!" because she has a knack for making baskets.)

No one has the flu in this house anymore!

The HUSKERS WON!!

And best of all, that nasty spider is DEAD!

The House Story

Well, Liv is pretty much back to normal. But then, she was never all that ill, to be honest. When I heard the words She's tested positive for H1N1, I blanched. But, seriously, she was only really down for about two days. I kept her home all week, but by Thursday she was chomping at the bit. Today, she is pouting a little as I have told her that no, we will not be going to the Husker game tonight. Bing and I thought it best not to risk a relapse by dragging her to a football game, so we will be watching it on ABC tonight. We gave our tickets to Harry, the guy who trims our trees every year. He is taking his two brothers and is very happy to be going.

Liv was mostly sick on Monday and Tuesday. Bing had purchased latex gloves and a box of masks for me to wear. I am on drugs that pretty much leave me with no immune system and our city had not had a flu clinic yet, so she wanted me to be safe. She left the box on the kitchen table before she left for work. I looked at the boxes, sighed and put the gloves and the mask on and then I stood silently for a few moments, looking out the window and thinking.

And took them off.

I just couldn't wear them. I felt that Liv needed to feel my hand on her forehead, my lips on her cheek. I didn't want to wear them. So, I didn't. I made an executive decision and stuck with it. Bing was not happy, but then...she often thinks that I behave in a foolhardy way, so this was not a huge surprise.

The boxes went into the closet. And so far, so good. I am symptom free.

I did all the mama things that I am supposed to. I made her tomato soup. I baked snicker doodles. I tried the sprite and orange juice mix, Leah, and it was a huge success. So, thanks!

One afternoon, I brought in Liv's lunch on a tray: chicken noodle soup with rye melba toast smeared with cream cheese. The soup was in her favorite bowl from babyhood, a simple white bowl with a rendering of a dish running away with a spoon on the bottom. A mix of sprite and orange juice in one of my best wine glasses. And a pink lady apple cut into several sections. I read to her as she ate, a book that her Father had recently sent to her: Sir Cumference and the First Round Table: A Math Adventure by Cindy Neuschwander.

If it had been up to me, I would have read The Secret Garden. But, no. It wasn't up to me. I wasn't the sick one, she was. And my little girl is about as different from me in her reading choices as night from day. She likes MATH. Ugh.

After she ate as much as she could, I put the tray on her dresser and leaned down to kiss her cheeks, to tell her that I hoped she felt better soon and was there anything at all I could bring her? I nuzzled my nose into her pink cheek, something that I have loved to do since she was tiny.

She wrapped her skinny arms around my neck.

"Come lay next to me and tell me a story," she said.

I crawled in with her, taking off my jeans first. She slung her hot bare leg over mine and cuddled into my shoulder. I inhaled her sweaty head and pressed my lips against her forehead, thinking to myself that no, she wasn't nearly as hot as she was yesterday. I wrapped my arms around her and thought for a moment. And then I asked her if she had any requests.

"Tell me about our house," she said.

So I did. Well, what I knew. Which isn't all that much. Mostly just clues, but enough clues to piece together a small story.

The Story of Liv's House.

Once upon a time there was a man who was pretty rich. He was a successful banker. But he was a little sad too because while he had plenty of money, he didn't have anyone to share his life with. He had lived like this for a long time, he was nearly 35 years old, pretty old in those days to be without a wife. And then he met her. Maybe it was at a party, maybe she came into his bank. We just don't know. But, we do know that she was only 20 years old.

They fell in love. It was 1915 and our city was still very young. The man decided that he was going to build a big, beautiful home for his wife and that it would have room for a large family, for they wanted children. He did just that.

When the home was finished, they moved right in. She was pregnant with their first child, so it was in the nick of time! They settled into their happy home and had seven children. Yes. Seven. Children.

Liv stops me here. She wants to know where all of those children slept since we don't have seven bedrooms.

Well, think about it. Our basement rec room could have been a bedroom. We have one bedroom on the first floor and three upstairs. Yes, three. The office used to be a bedroom. And back then, people shared bedrooms. Even when I was a girl, it was uncommon for anyone to have their own bedroom. I shared a bedroom with my sister for my entire life until I graduated from high school and moved out. I bet they just cuddled up together. And the attic bedroom used to be what was called a servant's quarters. It has it's own little bathroom and a hired girl slept up there.

What I don't tell Liv is that I have often thought that the hired girl must have been a little lonely. I picture a plump, red cheeked Irish girl. Whenever I go up there to get the room ready for company, I often stop to look out the window that looks out into the street from the attic. And a feeling of isolation and loneliness comes over me. I believe that rooms hold the feelings of their previous tenants and I always feel a little lonely up there. My friend, Nirand, has stayed in that room many times and he tells me that while he loves the pointed alcoves and the tiny bathtub with the claw feet, that there is a feeling of an almost tender loneliness up in that room, as if someone were aching just a little bit, maybe just a bit homesick for some place far away. I think there is a touch of her left in that room.

And we do know that at one time that a hired girl did sleep there because when you were about 4 years old, a man came to the door and he said that his mother had told him that before she married his father, she had lived in this house and the family she worked for had been a jolly family with seven children. He asked if maybe he could see the attic bedroom and I let him. You were at pre-school that day. He and I went upstairs to the attic, he was an older gentleman, but pretty sprightly. When he looked around at the room he told me that it was exactly as his mother had described it. I asked him if she was Irish and he said that yes, she was. That she had came from Ireland to this job and it was her first and only job. That she married the man who delivered coal to the house and they had their own little home. I asked him if she had pined for her family back in Ireland and he had given me a sort of strange look and said he did not know.

But, the family must have been happy. You know that button under our dining room table that looks like a doorbell on the floor and the button by my bed that also looks like a doorbell on the wall? Well, when we first moved in, those buttons made a ringing sound when you pushed them and I think they were buttons to call the maid or the hired girl. Bing disconnected them when you were little because you were driving me crazy by pressing that button all the time. But, at one time, they worked.

Liv is big eyed and smiling now. She remembers that button on the floor under the dining room table. It is covered up by a rug now.

And since the husband of the house was a big banker, I am guessing that they probably had at least one maid. All those porcelain doorknobs alone would have taken a lot of work to polish. And think about it, all our floors are wooden and with seven children, they probably took a lot of wear and tear.

Anyway, the last little girl born in the family was born in 1928 and her name was Magdalen. They called her Madge for short.

Liv's smile is huge now because she knows Madge. Madge is our ghost. Yes, I said Madge is our GHOST. She appeared to me within the first few months after we moved in and we have all seen her, even Liv. Liv is not afraid of her because I am not afraid of her. And it isn't as if she howls or wails or tries to scare us. On the contrary. She is careful not to scare us, only appears now and then and she is always smiling sweetly when she sees us. She wears a kelly green gown of some sort, hard to tell since she is pretty diaphanous and looking at her is like seeing a watercolor in bleary motion. My sisters find this fact to be terrifying and when they visit, they often look fearfully around and they NEVER stay after dark. One sister has told me that she thinks it is "unnatural" for Liv to be so calm about a ghost. I think she is silly. Madge would never deliberately scare us. In fact, when I asked Liv about her feelings about Madge once she told me that she saw her as "just another lady who loves me." Madge really only scared Bing at first. And I think this was because Bing had spent years NOT seeing her and saying that my imagination was working overtime until that one night when she wandered downstairs naked to get a glass of milk and Madge decided to appear to her in the kitchen. I have never seen Bing move so fast in my life. She came tearing up the stairs two at a time and flew into bed, jabbering at me that I SAW HER! I SAW HER! I would find the overturned milk glass on the counter the next morning. We are all believers now, but we don't much talk about it to strangers who just don't understand.

Madge was the youngest and she ended up living in this house until she died. She may have cared for her parents in their old age (and neither lived very long, records show that her mother died at age 53 and her father at age 68, and they died within months of each other.) She married her husband, George, in 1953 and they lived in our house. Alone. They never had children. We don't know if they chose not to or if they wanted a family and it just never happened. Ghosts don't talk about things like that. What we know is that they lived in our house for their whole marriage. George died in 1992. After George died, our neighbors who have been here for awhile say that Madge got a little...well....a little...nutty. There is speculation. One neighbor said that Madge was always a drinker. That she and George had lots and lots of parties and that Madge had a very distinctive laugh that was very loud and a little unladylike. She sat outside in the back yard a lot and drank whiskey from a tumbler. She supposedly did that even before George died. George was a co-owner of a steak house. Madge used to help out and hostess at the restaurant from time to time. The neighbors also say that she used to smoke nearly constantly and we know this is true because when I had the curtains in the front room cleaned right after we moved in, I thought they were yellow and they came back white. It was cigarette smoke, the cleaner told me. George and Madge also had a cat and a dog at one time. We know this because we found their bowls in a box in a basement. One said Felix the Cat. The other said Fido the Dog. Not very original, huh?

Liv stops me again. Why did people think that she was nutty?

I tell her that Hal and Nora, her babysitters, knew Madge pretty well. Well, as well as you can know someone like Madge. I guess she was reclusive after George died. And they told me that she wandered around the yard in the dark hours of the night in her white nightgown, smoking and drinking her whiskey and laying down in the yard and scaring them, that they worried that she had died one day when they saw her out laying in the yard. She had slept there all night on a hot summer night because she said it was too hot in the house and she didn't want to spend the money on air conditioning.

"Maybe she liked to sing to her flowers, like we sing to ours," Liv interjects.

Maybe so, I tell her. But, it was George who planted all of our beautiful flowers in the back yard. And Madge's mother. Madge's mother belonged to a ladies' group called "The Rose Tenders." I saw that when I did research on their family when I was trying to figure out who our ghost was. You know how we have those gorgeous rose bushes in our back yard? I think Madge's mother started them. And all the rest? The bleeding hearts and bachelor's buttons, the lilies and poppies. I think George planted them. The older neighbors say that he was always in the yard working.

Anyway, Madge was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1994 and the neighbors worried that she would burn down the house because she used to lug around her oxygen tank and smoke at the same time!

"Not very smart," Liv comments.

No, I say. Not very. But, then...an addiction is a very hard thing to stop and maybe by that time she figured that she was dying anyway and she might as well enjoy her cigarettes. But, yes. It was not too bright for her to do that. Anyway, she died alone in our house, in my bedroom. That makes me kind of sad. The mail man called the police when he noticed that her mail hadn't been picked up in a few days.

Liv looks somber. "I feel bad that she died alone. Do you think that is why she is staying around? That she is lonely and just doesn't know that she is supposed to go to heaven?"

Maybe, I tell her. Maybe not. Maybe she just likes us. Or maybe she feels attached to our house. But, I've decided that when I die, I am going to try to coax her to come to the other side with me.

Liv smiles. She cuddles into me, her hot little self as relaxed as a Raggedy Ann. She says that she is getting sleepy but she is remembering something and wants to know if I remember it too.

What? I ask her.

"Do you remember when I was little, that we used to sing THE BATTY BAT together and dance too?"

I laughed and nodded. Oh yes. I do.

I got out of the bed and just to show her how much I remembered, I not only did the dance and sang the song, but even remembered the hand movements that we had done with it. Liv beamed.

"YOU REMEMBER!"

Oh, sweetie. As if I could ever forget. When you are a grown up lady, I will still dance THE BATTY BAT with you whenever you wish.

Liv wants to know if I think that all of our happy memories will join the memories of the family that lived here before us. I tell her absolutely. Our happiness is embedded in the walls just as theirs is. And our sad times too. This house has so many stories, and some of them are ours. When a new family moves into this house after we are old and gone, maybe one day they will walk outside into the back yard and think, This must have been where the garden was and suddenly they will have an urge to lay down in the grass and sing or maybe they will be sitting quietly in the parlor and suddenly they will hear strains of:

One two three, spread out the cape
One two three, twirl round the floor
One two three, left foot you swing
One two three, then start to sing....

It will be us, memories of us, dancing to this:



It's the story of our house, of us, of Madge and all those brothers and sisters. All of us.

I bet your house has one two. Care to share?

Some good wishes, please.

Ugh. Liv was diagnosed with H1N1 yesterday. Compliments of the boy she sits next to in school who is her study partner. She detests him and came home from school on Friday complaining that he kept coughing into his hands instead of his elbow.

Jeez Louise. It is EASY to train your children to cough in their elbow instead of their hands or worse...just out for all to breathe in.

Now, he is home from school with it too. And passed it on to my baby.

She is not terribly sick, folks. Well, she is...but not in danger. Just feels awful. We are so very lucky that she is a healthy child to begin with, so I feel confident that she will mend quickly. Fingers crossed. Right now, the worst part seems to be a headache and the chills.

I will be back when she is doing better. Time to put my nursing cap on since I can't ask our elderly neighbors to babysit her now.

I have tomato soup on the menu for tomorrow. Yes. Tomato. She likes it. Also I may bake a batch of cardamom cookies for our neighbor, Sven, and make an extra batch to tempt Liv into healing faster.

And remember, if your child is sick...KEEP THEM HOME. And teach them to cough properly. Lots of clear fluids.

I'll be sitting in the rocker reading the green fairy book to my girl. And baking. Well, trying to....

Send us lots of good wishes, yes?

Socks gets high

I swear I had nothing to do with it.

I was innocently out raking leaves in the back yard. Our neighbors came over to show us their little granddaughter who was all dressed up like a poodle for Halloween. She loves Socks and since he was inside napping, I told her that she could go inside and show him her costume and bring him out to play in the leaves.

And then we sort of forgot about her for five minutes. We talked as we listened to the Husker game on the radio and then someone mentioned that little Mindy hadn't come out of the house yet. I went in and well.....it wasn't pretty.

Mindy had decided that Socks was thirsty and seeing a half pot of cold coffee sitting on our drain board, she decided to fill his water bowl with coffee for a "treat." She is six years old and not the most accurate at pouring. She not only filled his bowl, but spilled all over our kitchen floor.

Socks, was in heaven.

"He really loves the coffee!" Mindy told me, happily, her pink poodled feet brown from stepping in it herself. Socks was busy lapping the floor and paying no attention to me. He was in love and if Juan Valdez had come in at that moment, he would have left me without a backward glance to end out his days in coffee bean heaven.

I lifted Mindy out of the way and told her to go out to her grandparents while I cleaned up. I yelled for Bing, who had been down in the basement turning off the water valves to our outside sprinkler system. She came up and we both set to cleaning the floor and getting rid of the coffee from Sock's water bowl.

Well, he was not pleased. He had been given a taste of nirvana and now we were just going to take it away?

NOOOOOOO!!!!!!

He began galloping around, frantically trying to lick up what he could. He actually tried to crawl up my leg as I took his brimful water bowl, now filled with coffee, to the sink.

I was taking away his fix, dude.

You would have thought that he had ingested LSD.

The kitchen was clean, the neighbors gone and we let him outside.

He looked like a dog from the set of Reefer Madness.

He stopped for a moment, his black eyes glittering in the sun. He looked up at the sky, at the trees, the piles of leaves. He looked back at me looking almost spellbound, his delirious caffeine soaked veins thrumming happily.

And then he went berserk.

He raced into the leaves, saw a squirrel and raced after it, nearly careening into the bird bath. The squirrel ran up the tree and chittered nervously at him. He didn't care for suddenly....YES....he was convinced that he could speak squirrel fluently. He chittered back and then decided that hey, this was boring and took off after Liv, catching her red sweater in his teeth and pulling. She scolded him. He knows better than to do that.

Well, not today. Today, he was mad with glee. He ran around in circles, he leaped joyously into the leaf piles as if he were a pup. Every once in a while, he stopped to smell the air in rapturous bliss. He ran to me and leaped into my lap and then leaped off before I could sputter. He defecated in the yard and then sniffed it with sheer delight, as if it were some sweet nectar of the gods.

This went on for most of the day. Bing and I kept looking at each other and saying in comforting tones that surely the caffeine would wear off soon.

It did. Right before it was time to go trick or treating. He was running around the house, stopping to look adoringly at everyday objects: the bathroom scale, the magazine rack, our coat tree.

I could almost see the psychodelic colors blazing across his corneas.

I hesitated to put on his zorro cape, the one that we had so lovingly purchased for his Halloween costume. I sincerely doubted that he would slow down enough for me to snap it around his neck and then, I worried that he would think it was a giant bat or something and try to kill it.

He didn't. As I snapped the cape around his neck, his eyes began to lose their manic glee. They looked....sleepy.

His day was catching up to him. He managed to go a few blocks with us before he stubbornly sat down and refused to take another step.

He was spent. Done. I let Liv go along with her friends and told them I would catch up and carried him home. I must have looked appropriately ghoulish, a woman in a black mourning gown and veil, carrying what appeared to be a dead dog. I went to our front door and rang the bell. Bing answered, wearing her cowboy hat.

"Happy Hallowwwweee...," she started and then stopped, realizing it was me.

She looked gingerly at Socks.

"Did he faint or something?" she asked. No, I told her. He was coming down from his high. She smiled and nodded, taking his limp form from me. He smiled gratefully up at her, his eyes exhausted.

I turned my lantern on high and went back to find Liv. We came back about an hour or so later. Liv went immediately to Socks.

She bent over him, still in costume, with her bald head with the crazy gray hair on the sides, the big round glasses perched on her nose. He looked up at her sleepily, as if to say, "Who the hell is this weird dude? Oh, well. I don't care. Just don't rob the house, okay? I need to sleepppppppppp>"

He was fine this morning. Back to normal.

But, no more java for Socks. No more joe for this pup. We will make sure that the caffeine monkey doesn't climb on his back again.

When he laid his foot down on my slipper this morning while I drank my morning cup of my fix coffee, he reminded me of old Sally in Reefer Madness:

"What a night! I was in more laps than a napkin."

No more for you, Socks. We are nipping this monkey in the bud.