Rudolph Really Blows

Thanks to the son, we had some new and, in my esteemed and highly biased opinion, much more appropriate lyrics in our house this year for that annoying ditty about that poor reindeer who didn't get to play any reindeer games but then came through at the last minute to help a bunch of ignorant brutes in the true spirit of Christmas. Obviously, the deer was Irish.

I mean, here's a reindeer who was ostracized and demeaned by his peers on a regular and continuing basis for either having either a wee bit of Irish rosecea on his nose or a great love of fine Irish whiskey. Now, the acne theory is the most probable given the deer's excellent and presumed sober driving ability and his residence at the North Pole which is generally not considered to be anywhere near Ireland and Irish whiskey. Well, except by those educated in America where the geographical theory seems to be, "We are in America. What else do you need to know?" As an aside, it is worth noting that Santa is clearly Irish as evidenced by his giving spirit, glowing cheeks and his ability to drive especially well in fog, the official weather of Ireland.

But, some credence could also be given to the red-nosed drinking theory as it is a known fact that Irish whiskey is good to cure all that ails you and these cures can start young. Teething? Rub some on. Kid gets a cut, pour some on. Kills the germs and fixes it right up. If nothing else, the treatment eliminates any further complaining about the grievous injury just in case someone in hearing range might think dumping another dose of the whiskey over said injury is necessary. Nope, one burning antiseptic shot generally does it.

In fact, this cure works almost as well as that old Mercurochrome did which arguably had its benefits over Irish whiskey. Not only did that stuff burn like hell, it dyed your skin red, gave you the appearance of blood poisoning, swelling and the emergence of gangrene and, if you had me as a sister, the belief that you would imminently lose the injured limb due to the gangrene. As a bonus, you also got a strong dose of poisonous mercury. Not many kids raised their hand for a second dose of that stuff, especially the ones who thought they were hiding their limbs from the butcher knife. Nope, the injured party would suddenly turn into the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail right after the Knight's arms were cut off by King Arthur and the Knight is informed that he has no arms left. His response, "Merely a flesh wound." Apparently, he knew there was Mercurochrome in the area.

But as usual, I digress. Back to our red-nosed pal. In addition to the teasing and exclusion he suffered, one also has to consider what happened to his parents. Although the song doesn't explicitly say so, it is well-known fact his last name was "Disney." This means, of course, that one of his parents was killed or kidnapped when red-nose was still young and impressionable. This is a fact of life and requirement for all Disney animals and it is most likely that this bulbous nosed deer had at least one, if not both parents shot by the same hunter that mowed down Bambi's mom. Yum, venison. Or kidnapped by the circus that took Dumbo's parents, killed by the guy who got Simba's dad or eaten by the shark that got Nemo's mom.

So, after all of this teasing and trauma, the guy comes through at the last moment to light the way without any resentment or hard feelings. Now, I would have expected him to tell all the other reindeer to go to Hades and back, a response this red-nosed Irish acne patient feels would have been most appropriate for the reindeer situation. But no, Rudy comes through the way all true Irishmen (well, with the exception of Charlie Weis...) do - winning spirit, forgiving nature, there in a time of crisis and leading a team.

So, all considered, the son's lyrics do seem to be an improvement over the original:

Rudolph the red-nose reindeer
Had a very shiny nose
And if you ever saw it,
You would even say it blows...

Yep, it blows all right.

Halloween Attire

Halloween was a good one at our house this year. It only required one costume change for the daughter which is approximately 5.5 fewer costume changes than a typical day. However, it must be pointed out that despite the frequent costume changes, the daughter is also quite thrifty. In fact, if she finds an outfit that screams to be worn three weeks straight, day and night, church, home and store to get the full investment value out of the purchase, then, by gosh, she will keep it on, apparently to help the family and country understand that you don't need a lot of stuff to be happy. Unless, of course, something better comes up and she changes her mind which takes place at roughly twice the speed of light.

So, accordingly, the Pumpkin Princess appeared right after Halloween when the princess garb was 90% off and I mistakenly thought it might be a cute dress up outfit. For a day. Or two. A week max, especially with the pumpkin headband that, from a distance, resembles an orange tick gorging himself on princess blood. Heck, had I known I was creating the Permanent Pumpkin Princess of Alpharetta, Georgia, I might have rethought the $2.49 purchase. A week and a half after her Permanent Pumpkin Princess coronation, which had occurred well before we hit the Target checkout line, I tried explaining that we had certainly gotten our full investment value out of the garment and she was going to freeze her butt and other parts off given the frigid weather if she insisted on continuing to wear the garment without any accommodations.

Some change in day wear was strongly being called for and was known not to violate her Pumpkin Princess oath which, as I informed her, I had carefully read on her behalf and would never let her violate. However, the princess clearly communicated in her very special and amazingly loud way that any outerwear or alterations in her garb would, in her opinion, not only invalidate her princess status but would also not be fair to her constituents and she just couldn't have that. Nope, not under any circumstances. Period and Amen. And, if she needed to demonstrate that she meant it by ripping off her tights and jacket to fulfill her duties, by gosh, she would. And did. In less than 30 seconds. All while strapped into her car seat. Have to admire the devotion to her cause. But I am sure hoping that the Houdini clothing skills disappear well before she is in her teens.

I Married a Clown

Really. Enough said.

He Put them in the Trunk?

So, this guy somewhere in America decided to lock his two children in the trunk of his car so that he could go shopping. Black Friday Specials from what I understand. When questioned by the authorities, he declared that "the kids liked to play in there." Now, I was shocked by this story, to say the least.

The glaringly obvious question - Who is this guy that apparently loves shopping? What gene did he get that the rest of the men on the planet do not share? Can this gene be shared?

Oh yeah, and the kids in the trunk thing. From the vantage point of the mother of a very opinionated and incredibly vocal three year old, I'm suprised I didn't think of that angle first. Just saying. Not like I would do it. My kids do not like to play in the trunk of the car.

The Great Biblical Tradition of David vs. Gloria

At dinner, the son let me know he was really excited about reading his bible tonight before bed because he was going to read his favorite story, that is, David vs. Gloria. Pretty sure I was playing hooky the day we went over that one at bible school. Sounds pretty Kramer vs. Kramer to me so I'm thinking this one should be interesting.

Odd that he would come up with that bit of confusion as I don't quite recall reading the story to him that way before he could make out the words on the page. It wouldn't have saved any time or otherwise amused me. Well, probably not a lot. And, if that did happen by some cosmic error, it certainly wasn't because someone interpreted the bible to me that way. Then again, my parents were the responsible type. I, on the other hand, have a plaster pope as my strongman. But, it works by gosh. I'm thinking of seeing if Buca de Bepo restaurant will sell him to me. Stealing him just seems wrong on so many levels.

"No Pope, No Pope"

So, my folks took my entire family to Buca de Beppo for dinner to celebrate my birthday which God also celebrated by sending 15.5 inches of rain to Atlanta in 24 hours. On our way to the restaurant, in addition to discussing which of us knew how big a cubit was should we need to start building, we also wondered aloud if there would be a lot of other waterlogged diners in the restaurant and, if so, how long would the wait be given the birthday Queen, otherwise known as the stellar mother of two outstanding children, is not know to be a terribly patient person when hungry. Or fully fed, take your pick. But, in fact, due to the rain gods, there were no other diners. Nada, Nessun, Keine. Now, I must assume that this was the result of most road transportation that day being via barge and not due to any advance warnings being posted that our party, to include the son and daughter,would not only be in the area but also in the building. However, I did not personally observe the traffic management signs on the freeway that day so who knows. Word could have gotten out.

So, we had the entire wait, cook, bar and valet staff at our disposal. And, we got a great table with great food. But one of us refused to cooperate as it is against some personal policy of hers to actually sit in a chair and/or booth to eat. Ever. Apparently, she subscribes to the belief that one must actually jump up to get food to go down versus just swallowing it. So, she was enthusiastically launching herself in the air repeatedly and rebounding off the booth while working on a spaghetti noodle. Despite my whispered threats of the dreaded "time out" she carried on. And on, and on and on. So, with my normal copious limit of patience worn out, I made the executive decision that it was time for time-out and since it was my birthday, and I still had food to eat, it wasn't appropriate for me to just disappear and take my time-out with a good book. Nope, had to take the human spring with me and in good parental fashion put her in a chair, explain the situation and what she needed to correct and so on. Yep, time out by the book. And that is what I started to do when opportunity presented itself and when opportunity knocks, by gosh, I answer.

Like a miracle, the Pope intervened. We had walked into his special room at Buca where they keep the Pope's head and torso in a box on a lazy Susan at a table designed to sit King Arthur's court. Have to love it. Now, my understanding is that it isn't the actual head and torso of the last great Pope as the chain obviously had a bit of drama with Rome trying to get the real one and went the easier route with a fake but it is a reasonably good facsimile in dim lighting, after drinking or if you are almost three and you haven't seen the real deal.

So, I pointed him out to Mia and told him that he was God's right hand man. And, if one had some behavioral issues, he could and would smite them if they didn't settle down. Now, I know this might not be theologically correct and I might have some explaining to do to the big guy upstairs but, what the heck, it is still quite effective, especially if one shakes the table back and forth to get the Pope to move a bit. Yep, looks pretty good. So, I explained to the daughter that she might want to apologize to the guy for jumping in his house and promise not to do it again given his smiting powers and all. But, the daughter isn't actually open to suggestions for improvement during those hours she is fully awake and/or half awake and continued to let me know how she disagreed with my proposition.

And then the miracle occurred. I could hear the harps and bells as the daughter stopped objecting and began looking at the Pope with what was clearly a sign of reverence. She gazed at the Pope with a look that I could best describe as awe tinged with slight wariness. I was congratulating myself on a job well done and a game well played when it happened and, no doubt about it, it was a sight to behold. The daughter slowly leaned down, lifted the tablecloth and looked under the table. Twice. Slowly. As she lifted her little face up to me for an explanation, I explained his legs were apparently in the next room but since he was Pope, he didn't really need them anyway given his ownership of the only Popemobile in the world. But, as she is only familiar with Barbiemobiles, she apparently didn't quite get the Popemobile reference. The disciplinary miracle continued as she quickly demonstrated to me that she no longer felt the need to jump and, in fact, wanted to return to the party with all due haste and did not, under any circumstances, want to invite the Pope along.

We returned from wence we came and continued our celebration. And, it was clearly a lesson learned as was demonstrated when I gave her a quizzical look when she was considering jumping to celebrate cake eating. She looked right back at me and then was quite clear and unambiguous in her declaration, "No Pope, no Pope, no Pope."

And, this good parenting lesson stuck. The next day, she told Cody, the mentally challenged cat, that he would "go to Pope, go to Pope" if he didn't get off the counter. He didn't. However, from what I can tell, he isn't Catholic and just didn't care.

The Cliff Notes of Our First Camping Trip Now That I'm Recovered from PTSD

All righty, I don’t have a Sunday bulletin yet because I was earning purgatory points last night boy scout camping without blankets in a flooded tent which was laid on top of a tree root. A big gnarly one. At the bottom of a hill. And this was selected with the typhoon forecast already known. Not by me, I must add.

For the record, I also did not do the calculating and/or packing of the sleeping bags or flashlights. Neither did my kids or cats. I'm just saying, you know.

Now, although my writing is generally based upon my application of some awesome parenting technique I have applied, based upon my most recent experience, I would be remiss if I didn't at least make a few helpful suggestions on camping. So, should you ever go camping, I would recommend at least one sleeping bag per person and no less than one flashlight per two people. Of course, that is pushing it should you flood or not want to be hooked to your camping partner like two convicts in chains at night who are trying to follow one little dot of bouncing light held by a 6 year old who is a little closer to the ground than you might be. Oh yeah, I’d also recommend pillows and an air mattress, some kind of pad or a huge amount of beer which can be either drunk or slept upon as beer bottles would most probably be more comfortable than my gnarly tree root.

Also, since I’m on the topic, I’d also like to formally thank the good cubs in den 5 and 13 who retrieved me from the woods and helped me back to the lightening shelter during my fine camping experience after I made the executive decision to go to the potty without three others in attendance.

So, if you do the math, you will see that we had one flashlight, four people, and one typhoon and, as the awesome mother I am, I sacrifically gave up the light. Or didn't want the screams of the daughter to disrupt the den meeting any further. Take your pick.

Can't wait to go again.

And it has come to talking to the cat..

So, you're just going on about your life which includes quite a bit of business travel when you realize it has come to this - you call home to talk to the two little people you are missing and end up having a one way conversation with Cody, the mentally challenged cat. And, you are tired enough that this seems like an okay and perfectly sane thing to you. Yep, sort of goes like, "So, Cody, how was your day? Did you do any fun cat things? Happen to kill any bugs today to earn your keep? How's the catnip hangover going?" And so forth and so on. Cody, most probably on some cat principle I haven't been made party to, refuses to speak. But that doesn't deter my excited questioning. I have his self esteem to worry about after all.

Of course, the slide down the slippery slope to cat talk always begins by getting the son on the phone first. As he is now used to me being out of town, he has found a way to get out of answering questions, which, he tells me are quite repetitive and which he clearly answered yesterday. Inquiries like, "How was your day?" "What did you talk about in school today?" etc. Yep, repetitive questions that apparently only need to be answered once in his world. So, upon answering the phone and saying hello, he first asks if he can give the phone to his sister and then reports she doesn't want to talk to me which isn't really much of a surprise given she doesn't really talk much yet, especially to Mommy trapped in a little box. He then asks if he can give his Daddy the phone. Yes, I say, after I talk to you. Nope, he says, have stuff to do but Cody the cat wants to speak to me, puts me on speaker and from what I can tell, walks away.

Yep, that is what it has come to. A one way conversation with a cat who tries to help out around the house by killing plastic bags. On a good day. If he isn't too stoned on his catnip which, from what I can tell, isn't often. Yep, the exotic world of business travel really is something.

Nope, not my DVD

So, I got this Microsoft benefit because I was working on a slide show for my brother’s wedding. At a hotel. In Alabama. Cute slides of him as a kid and then cuter slides of his wife as a kid and so on. Had driven close to 350 miles to work that day and was a bit tired. Slap-happy as we would say in Ohio. Or just stupid tired as they call it in Alabama.

Had checked in to a nice hotel for the evening and worked a bit on the slide production. Wanted to make sure it could play on another computer properly and show up in the right format at the wedding without incident so I burned it to my very own DVD. And then the fun began.

Given it was darn near 11 p.m., I was rightfully attired in pajama pants and a Holy Cross T-shirt given to me by my little brother. As I was rightfully and tastefully attired for the hour of the day, I saw no reason to locate and put on my shoes to venture out of the hotel room as that would have required more effort than I could muster or frankly cared to expend.

So, off I went to the business center with a huge Holy Cross emblazoned on my T-shirt and little doggies or cherries or who knows what on my jammies, clutching my DVD. Got into the business center and was greeted by a guy working on a computer. Fortunately, they had another one available right next to this guy who looked like a upstanding business man. I put my DVD in the machine and then went to launch it.

That’s when I was confounded by Vista, Microsoft’s latest and greatest operating system. The one that I don’t use, haven’t used and apparently, couldn’t use although I apparently saw that as no impediment to my actually doing so. I clicked around for the programs and commands I usually see and didn’t quite find what I was looking for. But, I do know how to “search” and search I did. For media files as that is what I had. And found some in media player as they should have been. I launched the files and sat back to enjoy my show. Sat back to just relax next to this unknown, upstanding guy in the business center who, I was sure, would love my slide show as well.

Then, I see a butt. Now, since this was a slide show about my little brother, I wasn’t immediately clued in to the fact that it wasn’t a visual of him. You know how those youngest children can be and it was getting on to midnight. He did like to show his birthmark off when he was younger. Not that I thought I had photos of that, but who knew so I figured that I had just inserted one of those pictures by mistake. After all, the parents had given me a very emphatic and strict prohibition on using any embarrassing photos without being specific. But nope, it wasn’t that as was revealed to me when said butt and other anatomical parts began moving.

Of course, my reaction was as one would expect from someone stupid tired or anyone who is me. I did the obvious which was to just sit there and wonder how the heck this got on my DVD and then about how glad I was that I had tested the DVD before the wedding as the showing of the same would probably get me disowned or without any cake, to say the least. Then, I had to ponder how the heck it got on my computer for me to put on the DVD as I sure as heck hadn’t put it there. So,how did it get there? And, then I had to consider the fact that I had seen the husband checking the so called “soccer news” lately on my computer and that he would be a dead man when I repatriated to Georgia.

Yep, just sat there in my Catholic T-shirt pondering these unanswerable questions for who knows how long. Then, the brain light came on and I realized that I wasn’t, in fact, watching my own DVD and that, perhaps, just perhaps, I should turn it off and close out of that window with all due haste and take my DVD upstairs to my room and check it’s contents so I ejected it and off I went.

So, for the upstanding guy in the room who I never acknowledged or spoke to while removing said DVD from the computer and taking my leave - yes – I know it looked like I go padding around hotels watching porn in my jammies in public places right ext to strangers for kicks and, yes, I know I probably should have made it somewhat obvious that wasn’t the case by saying something like “what the hell, that isn’t my DVD” and then turned it off before pondering the mystery of it all. But, I was tired and that would have required both effort and thought and I was out of both.

I think it was just the idea of how the viewing had to look from the outside that made me chuckle. Lady comes in, puts in porn, watches some, takes out porn, goes upstairs. And, does so in a Catholic t-shirt. Yep, for those who went to Holy Cross, I represented you well.

Best Compliment of the Day

Still haven't gotten any sleep. In fact, it appears that my two children are working in concert to thwart any reasonable attempts to get them to stay in their beds and/or bedrooms when I tell them to go. Having exhausted the usual threats, rewards, and a large supply of duct tape (okay, just wishful thinking on that one, at least so far) I've decided to add the "thin blue line" tommorrow as I've got some blue painter's tape that just needs using up. Should be visible to the both of them and if I tell them it is electrified, that may just work. It's a thought that Mia may be testing this evening if the verbal call outs don't stop soon. Can't lock the door after all - she pulled the damn strike plate off the wall.

But, just got the very best compliment from the son which makes it all worth it, calms the nerves and soothes the soul. He lovingly looked at me, hit me in the head without prior warning and stated "Mom, you have a big, strong head. That's a good thing. See, when I knock on it, (ouch again) it sounds just like a watermelon. A good watermelon. Not a bad one. Not everyone gets a big strong watermelon head. See, isn't this cool? (vigorous knocking).

Yeah, I guess it is.

Planet Krypton

I have determined that at least one and probably both of Mia's birth parents were from the planet Krypton. This knowledge is based upon Mia's successful alteration of a door lock by pulling the strike plate out of it's molding just by brute force while she maintained a rebel yell.

More on the new bedtime routine after I get some sleep.

Little Blue Bunnies

So, I’ve clearly explained to the kids that permanent tattoos of any kind anywhere on their bodies will lead to ruin and until they are ready, willing and able to support themselves in an environment that is accepting of body art, permanent tattoos are off limits.

I’ve also explained that if they choose to go the tattoo route , and they chose to ink on a very visible body part, they will have to work at Starbucks and accordingly will have to live off one free pound of coffee per week and an occasional piece of stale lemon pound cake that the manager will give them after closing as he takes pity on them. Of course, I made it through college on the same diet plan and did quite well, but at present, they haven’t figured out the magical allure of caffeine and sugar. Always make sure my threats are age appropriate as any good parent would do.

Now, the son hates coffee so he has been compliant so far. The daughter, not so much. In fact, she made the unilateral decision to get a sleeve of blue bunnies on her arm with permanent Sharpie ink. And, apparently, the son decided to remain a silent accomplice as he thought the tats would be a good experimental test on how far Mom’s blood pressure could go. He also relished the diversion of attention so he could launch his nefarious plans of staying up a whole hour late and not fully brushing his teeth before bed which he implemented successfully. Fortunately, he lost his first tooth several days later so I could point out to him the clear and obvious connection between not fully brushing one's teeth and them falling out. I did have to pay a little extra tooth fairy penalty for that one and did clarify a little bit later that I meant his permanent teeth, but I just could not initally let the opportunity pass. If life hands me a correlation on a platter, who am I to pass on the chance to use it for my own amusement?

So, the evening of the tats, Mia did not appear to be terribly thrilled about her choice after we again explained our position and the fact that we happen to like Starbuckis coffee and will try to mooch 1/2 a pound of it from her a week, leaving her with a 1/2 pound she will need to water down. And, apparently, she hates lemon flavored cake and wasn’t planning on it becoming her diet staple.

Oddly, she has been wearing her long sleeved princess dresses lately.

The Catholic Small Print at the Bottom....

So, for the benefit of all in the Roman Catholic Church, of which I am a member, I would suggest we add the following small print disclaimer to the bottom of any and all of our publications.

**Just in case anyone is confused, Mel Gibson who is divorcing his wife of 28 years and the mother of his 7-13 children is not one of us. Now, we recognize that he made an unbelievable movie called The Passion of the Christ and for that we absolutely applaud him, know he was given a gift, and would like to claim that part of him but that would be patently dishonest and we just can't go there. We just must give him the recognition he deserves for that. Mel, you did an awesome job.

But, we must still disclaim him. He is not one of us, the standard Roman Catholics. He is something called a Traditionalist which in layman's terms means he has his own church that apparently has some interesting beliefs and still says the mass in Latin. Latin, being a dead language, is generally not used in the Roman Catholic mass any longer as no one, except those who attended the good old fashioned schools that were led by ferocious nuns, understands it and they that did were probably often faking their understanding to avoid getting hit on the head with a stick anyway.

It also appears that Mel's love for Latin has also led him to other dead languages that no one understands as his movie Apocalypto demonstrated to the three people who saw it. Although, one must admit, if the language is dead and no one understands it, movie making gets a heck of a lot easier as you just tell the actors to make sounds up as they go and add your subtitles later when they come to you. Frankly, it is an admirable cost-cutting technique. Since there is no one on planet earth who could state that the dead Maya language is not correct, it is a pretty good plan. It is just really, really bad movies that are the issue.

Yes, we agree that perhaps, and just perhaps, Mel may have a wee bit of a drinking problem that is leading to his love of bar hopping with college age girls and his recent attempt to try to "counsel" Britney Spears alone and in person in some tropical local all of which, along with his performance at his arrest last year when we first had to disclaim him, might make sense when one hits about 12 on the Budweiser rating scale and, thankfully, not many of us can hit that number. And, for those who do not know of the Budweiser rating scale, it is a device that some Irish Catholics of the Roman type invented which is used for scurrilous purposes and neither it's use nor it's rankings are to be discussed or explained further. It is suggested that you contact a college kid for further explanation if necessary.

Now, we have had and of course still have our challenges which we claim and are fixing as fast as we can. And, we do know that Irish Catholic and Irish whiskey often appear in the same sentence and apparently, there is a reason for that. However, given that we didn't make Braveheart and have never seen a pot of money as big as that movie made, no one wants to put our brilliant thoughts of the week in People, Star and the National Enquirer over and over. It is also possible it is due to our thoughts generally being of the "I hope the kids have enough clean socks for school this week and if they don't is it possible that they can turn Thursday's pair inside out for Friday?" variety.

Nope, since we just can't get rise to offering "counseling" to Britney Spears, a disclaimer is still necessary. He isn't one of us but let's all hope he gets some help.

Three of our Four Isn't Bad

So, after months of testing, I have found out that it is not possible for our little group to take a picture with all four of us looking at the camera. My tests have revealed that 95% of the time, two of us will be just grand while the other two are either having a discussion of great importance or have other things to do. And, 4.9% of the time, three of us will be looking at the camera. So, the three of us will have to do. And really, who wants to see anyone other than the kids?
Easter, 2009

Southern Hospitality

So I'm driving between Montgomery and Mobile and need to stop for gas. As I find out, there aren't a heck of a lot of stops between Montgomery and Mobile for gas, food, or Diet Coke. Given my ability to find a gas station on every corner in Atlanta where I can not only get gas but can also get the oil drum size of my preferred carbonated beverage, I become a bit concerned. But, the professional that I am, I also know I can drive about 60 miles with the little yellow light on before, as life experience as taught me, the little light goes off in conjunction with the rest of the car when I take my keys out of the ignition for a wee bit of an unscheduled hike to the nearest gas station.

Fortunately, I find a town which shall remain nameless least they become overrun with folks moving in due to my positive publicity about their hospitality and service and just in case I need to stop there again. The town appears to have not only one but two gas stations in close proximity to the freeway. I try the first but my gas card doesn't work there. So, I mosey on over to the second. Now, it is a work day and I'm dressed to impress as I'm calling on customers and know that looking capable is part of the game even if one doesn't have a clue what they are doing, again, learned from life experience. In fact, I believe that I invented the phrase, "Wow, great question. No one has ever asked me that before - can I get back to you?"

But, gas pumps are apparently not responsive to the looking capable ploy and, I now know, work a bit of global karma. Now, I do want to make it quite clear that I did apologize profusely last year when I drove away from a gas pump with the poor thing's arm still in my gas tank, causing the arm to sever and drag from my car until I got to the next red light and extracted it. But apparently an apology along with avoiding that gas station like the plague, no matter how I was dressed, just wasn't enough payment to the gas pump gods.

So, I pull up to the second station in this town, and professionally stick my company issued credit card in the pump to do that swipe thing. It goes in but then, oddly, it doesn't come out. I attempt to pull it out again. Nope. I try at least ten more times while I look around to see if there are any cameras. But no yanking on it will do. Just not happening. And, I figure I can't just go get a Big Gulp and leave as both my name and the name of my company are on that card despite the attractiveness of that option.

I go into the gas station and tell the young man working there that I seem to be having a problem with the gas pump. He ambles over to the pump and attempts to extract the card while we discuss him not ever having seen anything like it before and isn't it odd and amazing and so forth. I suggest we locate some pliers and he goes back into the station. Not having any, he calls for assistance.

When the Sheriff pulls up, I figure the card has been reported stolen, the pump is set up to keep it just like an ATM card and I'm cooked, suit or not. I'm appealing to the pump gods at this point but then find out he is just there to respond to the crisis. He ambles over and gives the pump a look. He attempts to extract the card but no luck. All three of us spend some time discussing how we have never seen anything like it, isn't it just the darndest thing, wouldn't have thought you could get your card stuck in a gas pump, sure is amazing and so on. After a bit, he goes to radio someone who can help and I'm left standing there trying to figure out if he has called for backup and I'm cooked for damaging property given that seems to be the crisis of the day in this town which, I am sure, is the safest place to live in the world.

Then, a guy in a pickup arrives. He ambles across the parking lot, wearing cowboy boots, a tool holster and a cap and, least I draw the wrong picture, pants and a shirt. I begin imaging the theme song that is always played in the movies when the cowboy enters the town to shoot the bad guy. I figure he isn't there to shoot the pump as the Sheriff could have already accomplished that which, of course, would have been neat but would have also indebted me to the gas pump gods for life for killing one of their clan. And, that's not to mention the insurance company that would clearly be after me for the cost of one gas station, at minimum. But, the theme song plays in my head anyway as I see him pulling a pair of pliers from the belt as he walks toward us, silhouetted by the sun, like all good heroes must be. He joins us at the pump and gives it a look. Then, he gives me a glance which somehow suggests that perhaps, just maybe, I'm not all that professional looking at the moment and, nope, he hasn't seen anything like it before. He reaches up and heroically pulls the card out of the pump's mouth with his pliers, holsters the tool and then speaks to us for the first time as he hands me my card when he states, "Here you go darlin, those little bumpy numbers are supposed to go on the bottom". He then holsters the pliers and disappears into the sunlight as he walks back to his truck to return to his lunch break. Now, how is that for service?

I can only say that I continue to be deeply humbled by the knowledge of how I personally brought a community together one nice, sunny day as they responded in unison to the crisis in their midst. It was a honor.

AAA Batteries Anyone?

So I'm driving between Montgomery and Mobile and a truck passes me, clearly because I was obeying all posted speed limits as I always do and he was not. Granted the limit I observe may not be exactly posted on the section of the pavement that I am currently traveling but its like they say, it's always 70 somewhere. So I gaze over at the truck and see the name and motto of the business on the side - AAA Batteries - Delivered and Installed.

This makes me quite curious. The business has to pay for the nice truck, the gas and all and I just can't see how there can be that much demand for that type of a service, especially in this economy. Who calls them, I wonder? How many people are there in the greater Alabama area who either can't find the little screwdriver one needs to open the battery compartment on kid's toys or household appliances or just can't match up that little cross thing on the battery with the little cross thing on the powerless object? Really, even I can open up the camera, kid's toy, remote control and other appliance essentials without assistance and get those little buggers in them. And, if they don't work, I have enough smarts to dump them out and reverse them. And, don't most devices use the AA variety anyway?

I ponder what these same folks might do if their garbage disposal quits working like ours did the other evening thanks to the sacrificial offering of a Popsicle stick by a member of my family who is over 40 and is not me. I'm thinking panic at the disco type of breakdown for sure. Now I, of course, handled it like a parent who recognizes their duty to effectively and responsibily teach home maintenance to their children should.

First, I emphatically ordered the kids to stand far, far away from the grinding machine to watch a pro at work. I inserted my hand into a plastic Walmart bag, raised it above my head and announced, for great effect, "I'm going in. No one move" figuring I could always get my hand out of the grinder faster than either of them could even get near a power switch since they were standing plastered against the far wall "for their own safety." I extracted the somewhat ground up wood with the flourish of a surgeon, held the stick up like a trophy for the kids to see and then disengaged my hand from the bag, reset the machine with the little red button on the bottom and voila, after two attempts, it began to purr. The kids jumped up and down and cheered - Aidan because he was frankly quite impressed that I fixed the thing and Mia because she likes to jump up and down and yell just for the heck of it, no reason necessary. I then suggest that one of them consider a career as a plumber as I believe that will save me quite a bit of money down the road. Or a doctor. Or both.

But, as usual, I digress. After about 25 minutes of pondering what percentage of the population has battery issues, how many of them would then call a service and how that service has been impacted by the current state of the economy I then decide that the business must just be a cover for something else. Surveillance? Drug running? Who knows but it must be interesting. And then, the lightbulb goes on. Car batteries. They deliver and install car batteries and wanted to be listed first in the phone book.

Well, at least it occupied me for a good 40 minutes.

So, several weeks ago, I go to get my scarf out of the coat closet and I find my sweet little girl’s princess dress, still on the hanger, mashed up into a ball and shoved under the scarf, along with the princess shoes that her loving brother bought her for Christmas with my very own money. I stunned by the cruelty of this disappearing act, as my dear, sweet daughter just loves, loves, loves the dress as it has Dora on it and she currently believes that she is Princess Dora based upon her haircut and head shape. And perhaps her mother suggesting something to that effect. Often.

I stand there and try to catch my breath from the shock, trying to figure out what cruel person had done such a thing, knowing quite well it wasn’t me, the loving brother or either of the cats although the cats would have done so if they had opposable thumbs as they are getting a tad tired of hearing ‘Kitty cat, kitty cat” screamed at them while they are being chased through the house although the throwing of treats by the bouncing child does seem to go a long way to mitigate their concern, at least for very brief periods.

I then realize that I haven’t recently seen the other princess dress or tutu that she had been given by wonderful friends and family in the past and come to the only logical conclusion – game on. We wait until the loving husband goes to play soccer and the search begins. Oddly, the other princess dress had made its way into the plastic pumpkin the kids use to go trick or treating. Now, that normally would have worked quite well if the pumpkin was at the bottom of a big trash can but considering it was sitting on a shelf, illuminated by a light, the effort could only rate a “almost pathetic” on the hiding scale.

We then find the tutu which only rated a “really, truly pathetic attempt” on the hiding scale as it was merely stuffed under a blanket in her closet, and then proceeded to make a go forward plan. First, we go upstairs and find designated hangers for the dresses and hang them prominently in her room. We then discuss the need for princess pants on a going forward basis as the princess has made the choice in the past to freeze her parts off rather than spoil the aesthetics of her look leading to her father's objection of the daily wearing of the princess dresses. Apparently, he does want to get her married off some day and having not frozen off some of one's parts does up the odds of this occurring so I'd say the objection is valid but, heck, might not be a bad thing when she is a teenager.

So, convincing the princess to wear pants was necessary and fortunately, absolutely simple. First, I explained that only princesses can wear pants that have horizontal stripes and pointed out by a tour of my closet that I, having gracefully aged out of the princess stage, have no garments with horizontal stripes because they make one look a bit like a chubby Dowager Empress who wants to visit the Willie Wonka factor in the very worst way and is just sadly living in that past dream. No, as everyone knows, horizontally stripped pants are merely for princesses.

We then find two pairs of princess pants with the required horizontal stripes in her dresser and she readily agrees that they are a necessary addition to her finery. she then decides to top off her look with the footwear of her choice. Golf shoes. Notthe princess ones her loving brother bought her for Christmas as they do seem to have been put in a "safe place" that rates as "pretty damn good" on the hiding scale. Now, the golf shoes may be one size too big but an impressive choice nonetheless as it appears she may have a fall back plan of trophy wife, golf pro or marketing executive if this princess thing doesn't work out.

But, for the last 14 or so days, it has apparently been good to be the princess.

Joan's Translation

Given my amazing command of the Spanish language, I have decided to translate Robert's post into English for those whose command of the Spanish language is not as highly skilled as mine. Now, my skills would best be described as "I can't speak a word of it but somehow I can generally read it and translate single words. And curse occasionally quite effectively and loudly while gesticulating at the ceiling for special Latino effect." But, because he used easy words, this translation in not only easy, it is accurate.

So here goes the official translation -" usually my wife writes on this blog. She is unique. Fortunately, she is out of town somewhere in Alabama and I have gotten my hands on her password. So, I want to share some info with my compadres in Peru about my family and, of course, my amazing wife. My son and daughter have reached the ages of 6 and 2 respectively. They are kind, considerate, well-mannered, and nice to other small children and animals whether the animals want to be subjected to the "nice kitty" treatment or not. They just both know how important it is to the animals self-esteem to be loved and appreciated. Of course, these traits have been nurtured in them by their amazing mother who apparently has skin that only appears to be around 7 years old despite her chronological age of 45. Truly, the woman is amazing, especially in her thought processes and parenting skills. Of course, my children can also be stubborn and loud, traits they have learned from me. Fortunately, my awesome and beautiful wife really appreciates these characteristics. Of course, that is when she is in Alabama and the kids and I are not anywhere near the state.

That's it for now, but I would like to update my Spanish speaking family and friends occasionally. Of course, I will ask my wife to also post the official translation for the English only speakers amongst us. She seems to do that so very well.

Ciao.

Robert"

Para todo el Peru.

Usualmente es mi esposa la que escribe por no decir la unica que escribe todo el contenido de nuestro blog, Hace un tiempo un amigo en el Peru me comento haber entrado y poder apreciar todo lo relacionado con mi familia claro esta que todo lo escrito esta en ingles por tal razon pense tal vez pueda ver otra persona especialmente en el Peru que me conosca y seria excelente poder saber de ellos. Espero poder escribir de vez en cuando algo interesante cabe mencionar que no soy tan buen escritor y aceptar que mi esposa es la que tiene el talento siendo yo su fan que apenas termina de escribir empiezo a leerlo.
Algo acerca de mi.
Vivo en Gringolandia cerca de 15 A~os
Casado con dos ni~os, Mia Grace tiene 2 y Aidan 6 a~os
Mi esposa se llama Joan es natural de aqui y estamos casados cerca de 7 a~os.
Dios los bendiga.
Robert

Hyperbole as Feel-Good Food

So I just got back from a meeting in Chicago, a city well known for its regional deep dish pizza and its special St. Patrick's Day green beer. And, if one is willing to be charitable, you could even give them credit for ball-park hotdogs. But, as far as I knew before Wednesday of last week, that was pretty much the extent of Chicagoland’s regional culinary delights.

So, I was looking forward to having some of that deep dish pizza. Or at least a ball park frank. As it was a fancy hotel meeting, I was sure that nothing but the best would be served to us and I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist showcasing the foods that put the city on the map.

But, unbeknownst to me, another regional specialty existed and given the recession and all, our hotel apparently saved the pizza money to present us with it. And, just in case we might miss their efforts and feel slighted, they kindly printed a little sign to let us know that we were being served a “regional selection of breads.” And what a selection it was.

White, wheat and for the more adventurous in our group, rye. Imagine my surprise as I thought I had seen the same white bread in Ohio, Atlanta, and in any gas station I’ve stopped in, grungy or not, while on the road throughout this great country of ours. And in Mexico, China and Peru believe it or not. And, I don’t recall any credit being given to the city of Chicago in any of these places. And the wheat and rye breads. What a joy it was to be able to experience them. It seemed a bit like déjà vu, but perhaps I had only been dreaming when I thought I had seen them before all over the world.

So then I got up a couple of days ago to go to work. Bleary eyed, tired and in need of some mighty fine potassium. Went to get a banana for my breakfast and noticed that my darling husband had labeled it, apparently so I wouldn’t think that that I was going to eat any odd generic banana. Nope, he made sure I knew it was Del Monte quality which I thought was pretty interesting, considering I hadn’t discussed the regional origin of white bread with him and and my opinion that, maybe, just maybe, it was a bit of hyperbole on the hotel's part.

So now I must just assume that everyone but me got a memo on the proper presentation of recession era food. It’s all in the marketing after all, isn’t it?

But, as the week has gone on, I have recognized that I didn’t get the memo because I might have questioned it. Especially the Del Monte quality part. After all, Del Monte is the company that makes those cat treats that are made from animal digest and, as their customer service rep recently pointed out to me, is somehow extracted from the organs of healthy animals and made “palatable”. Sure hope this recession eating ends soon or next time I'm in Chicago they will be serving those cat treats relabled as beef jerky or something. Yum.

Ear Karma

So I went to the hairdresser to get my hair cut for a Valentines ball that we were going to. My express instructions were that after the cut these awesome, cubic zirconium earnings I own would be able to be well displayed. I had just repierced my ears a week earlier to show the kids just how cool it was and how tough Mommy really is. They especially liked the bleeding part where the bleeding wouldn't stop due to my aspirin intake earlier that day and were more than amused by the attempt to bandage one ear. After my son and I crafted the bandaging, I looked like Van Gogh on one of his slightly saner days and now suspect that I may end up with heavily pierced kids given their amazement of the whole process. I did do my share of screaming and moaning to discourage such acts in the future as any good parent would obviously do.

Now, my hair at its longest would be called "really short" so making sure the earnings were in plain view wasn't a stretch. Nonetheless, we cut off about half of my hair. And I went to the ball and hardly any blood came out of my ears and that which did was just a nod to what a woman will do for beauty. And, red was the color de jour.

Now, when I was a child, well before I morphed into the sensitive, caring, thoughtful, well-spoken, nice and unbelievably humble individual that I am today, I made a few life mistakes. Now, I could excuse them as I was probably around 11 at the time, but even if I did, the karma had already been set in motion. Although many will find this almost impossible to believe, I actually teased one of my brothers about his ears sticking out from his head when he was a child, leading him to wear a pageboy haircut for several years which made him look like that kid on some brand of paint while the other kids did not look like paint can models. This caused him great anguish as children do happen to be the meanest creatures on earth and his classmates were, of course, children. Of course, this teasing probably helped turn him into the successful man he is today although it is also possible that his higher education, JD degree and his working his butt off might have also had something to do with it but, hey, at least I planted the seed.

So, back to the hair and its consequences. I went from really short to "what were you thinking" which was, "hey, in this economy, if I cut it this short, I only have to show up three times a year."

And, I now apparently also have a haircut that is "elf like". Or so I thought I was lovingly being informed of by the son last night. He was so excited he was hollering, "MOMMY, FROM THE BACK YOU LOOK LIKE AN ELF!" I knew he was referring to those elves that have their hair painted on versus those that have that yarn stuff but who cares, he likes elves and he was lovingly comparing me to one of those great creatures. I mean, he wasn't telling me I look like a troll although I can do that look effortlessly in the morning. Nope, an elf it was. Of course, using my best Carl Rodgers reflecting skills to make sure he knows he was really, really heard I stated, "I look like an elf" which gave him the lead to add more information and he did. He informed me that " from the back YOUR EARS STICK OUT JUST LIKE AN ELF! I know I shouldn't have gone there, but awesome parent that I am, I know he needs to be really, really listened to so I stated, "from the back, my ears stick out just like an elf and that is good." Apparently, I didn't quite reflect the message accurately as he didn't quite agree with the good part as his assessment was, "Nope, not quite good". So now I'm making sure no one is standing behind me which is causing me to have to rotate in circles quite a bit. What the heck, it will grow back in three month or so. I sure hope I don't have any other karma teed up and heading my way but, even if so, I'm not going with the pageboy.

Zumba - Latin for torture

So, for the last year and a half, I’ve been in extensive physical fitness training. I’ve walked on the treadmill at the YMCA for 30 minutes three times a week darn near every week. Impressive schedule.

First, my goal was to be able to walk around China, breathing the grey air while carrying a baby for a period of 5 minutes. I accomplished that goal successfully. Next, my goal was to walk on the treadmill long enough to watch the “Ellen” show because I like it and if I am on the treadmill at the YMCA no one can interrupt me to ask me what is for dinner, why daddy did this or that or to complain about the color/shape/size or current availability of princess shoes. I have also met this goal although I modified it a bit. I don’t watch the second half of the show because too much TV will just rot your brain. Can’t have that as it would clearly be a health hazard.

So I’m at the gym, training, and I see a sign for Zumba class. Sign says it is a “fun and easy” way to get into shape that is set to Latin and contemporary music and, as it happens, the class is in 20 minutes. I figure, heck, I used to be a salsa dancer and Ellen is a rerun so what the heck why don’t I go check it out? So, after walking arduously for 15 minutes, off I go to Zumba, as it is “fun and easy.”

I get there and folks have big thermoses of water or humongous containers of water. One has a mini keg type. Most of the folks are dressed in these tight dance pants and sleeveless tops while I am in sweatpants a size too big for me and a non-matching baggy T-shirt. And, I don’t have a barrel or bottle or cup of water as my training on the treadmill just doesn’t reach that level of hydration need. But I continue to think, what the heck, I used to dance salsa, just how hard can this be? It’s posted as “fun” and the good folks at the YMCA wouldn’t, couldn’t lie, could they?

Next, in come the instructors wearing some type of hip-hop pants and tank tops and they appear to be in some pretty good shape. Scary good shape actually. And I notice that a handful of the participants appear to be about 18 and have a version of the tight pants that are painted on and mini tank tops which they also look pretty darn good in. This concerns me for a minute but the gal who is next to me tells me she is 50 years old and I notice her makeup is impeccable. Clearly, this class is a “fun and easy” way to get into shape as it wouldn’t make any sense for anyone to come in with great makeup that could be ruined should extraordinary exertion become necessary. I tell her that I’ve come for 30 minutes of the 60 minute class as my family expects me home for dinner, giving me an out should one become necessary.

And the class starts. Within seconds, I’m thanking the lords of the dance that I can get my feet to dance a mean salsa without tripping because, by gosh, if I hadn’t, I would have been toast. Splattered toast, butter down. And this is before I finished the warm up song.

Then it gets interesting. I’m supposed to be dancing like a maniac to cumbia and hip hop music, following the moves of the instructor all the while shaking my booty after the instructor shows the moves for each song to the “new folks” for 30 seconds before each song begins. Now, my booty shakes even when I walk so that doesn’t initially seem like it will present a problem. But no, they start and shake the booty like the women who walk around wearing the big feathers and not much else during Carnival in Rio De Janero after all have imbibed on mucho cervezas. We are talking shaking so fast you feel the breeze which implies that one has some control over the shaking which just isn’t happening for me considering I have the pendulous swing of the buttocks that comes from being 45 and having a shape that can best be described as “backloaded” but, by gosh, I continue to try.

Meanwhile, I’m keep watching the woman next to me. We are 15 minutes in and I suspect I might just fall out. Her makeup is still impeccable. I decide to continue, having no reasonable way to get out of the class now that pagers are obsolete. I pump it, I push it, I cumbia, I salsa, and I attempt to make a grimace appear to be a smile to show how much “fun” I am having. Thirty minutes goes by and I’m painfully getting the need for the water kegs as I run out of the class and into the bathroom to put my head under the sink facet to drink as much and as fast as I can while I “keep moving” as instructed.

And then I have a choice to make – go back in or leave and go home. I consider the fact that I am one shade redder than a tomato and feeling like I might collapse or puke. Logic tells me that perhaps I should call it a Zumba day given the particulars.

But, that would assume that I am willing to admit defeat as I’m falling out at 45 while a 50 year-old woman is still pumping, pushing, and dancing her happy self away in makeup that still hasn’t slipped off her face. I consider that thought untenable. So, I go back for 30 more minutes.

I somehow get home and the family is initially a bit concerned that I either got a sunburn or had red paint thrown at me accidentally. Nope, I tell them, Zumba. It’s “fun and easy”. I painfully change my clothes and somehow make it back down the stairs and decide to lie down on the hardwood floor to converse with my family. Figure it might give us all a new perspective. I quickly realize that I have no ability to rise again which doesn’t concern me as rising would mean I would have to walk somewhere and that isn’t happening. The cats and kids can just come visit me where I am. The daughter confuses my comment of “I think I may just die right here and now” to mean that I want to pay some version of “dead horsey” so I made a decision to self preserve.

I call the kids over and explain to them that their father and I had very carefully considered how big of a family to have and that there was a very strong reason we had decided on two of them. In fact, it was for this situation. I instructed each to take one of my legs and pull my big booty out of the living room and down the hallway so that I could crawl up the stairs into my bed. With effort, they succeeded.

Exorcism with Your Soda?

So, I started my day as usual, stopping at the BP for my fountain Diet Coke. And, today, I got some great advice from a somewhat regular there and someone I know from church and church activities. From what I can tell, she is a tad insane. Not fully yet, but working her way up the ladder. She is a Catholic convert to boot and those of us who are cradle Catholics are generally scared of the converts as they can make the rest of us look bad. Fortunately, they are easy to indentify because they can generally sing and do so in church. Being able to sing in tune or actually with the music seems to be a Catholic deficiency so if the signing sounds good, it is a good warning that a convert is near.

Now, it isn’t that we don’t want and love converts, we do and we evangelize, but they just seem to read all the material, attend all the classes, have a full understanding of all of the theology and catechism and make the rest of us look like idiots, especially at church trivia nights. Question – “who was the third pope?” Ding, ding, ding, “Anacletus”. “Yes, the correct answer from the Methodist convert in the back.” “What happened to the first five popes?” Ding, ding, ding, “martyred”. “Yes, the correct answer from the Espicopalian convert on the right” and so on which is the reason we actually don’t have church trivia nights. Bingo where state laws allow, yes. Trivia, no.

So, anyway, the gal gave me some paperwork for a retreat coming up soon. Told me that she saved the paperwork for me because I specifically needed to go and that the priest putting it on was a wonderful speaker but, more importantly, an exorcist. I asked about the priest – wanted to see if he is a Roman Catholic rogue but, alas, I found out from the registration material that he is legit and well respected. However, my self-appointed exorcism sponsor also told me that the priest has to be very, very careful since the masons are trying to assassinate him. I’m assuming she meant the Masonic Lodge Masons that drive those little red cars in parades versus the guys you see laying brick. Never have seem very dangerous to me and I don’t see them as being very successful in running down a priest with one of those little clown cars but what do I know? Maybe the priest can’t run very fast.

But, I checked the material. You have to pre-register and prepay a nonrefundable fee. Now, why in the heck would I do that? Maybe the Masons will get him by then and I’d be out of the dough. Sheesh.

Animal Digest???

During the Christmas holidays one of my brothers, who shall remain nameless at the present time, observed his nephew feeding the nephew’s kitten cat treats. And, perhaps feeling it was his moral duty to educate and inform or most probably just for the pure fun of it, he begins a conversation with the nephew about the composition of cat treats which, by all of my observations, is completely ignored by the nephew.

His monologue begins by discussing the main ingredient in the treats which is “beef-by-products.” Do you know what “beef-by-products” are he queries? He then helpfully provides the answer – the parts of the cow that we don’t eat, you know, like the udders. Now, it must be pointed out that this brother has not traveled to Guangzhou, China, or he would know that cow udders and many other “by-products” are happily served there with a side of rice and covered in sauce after chicken feet have been served as an appetizer. But, this is the U.S. The nephew continues to ignore him while he asks, “And, what do you think of that, do you think that you should be feeding that cute little kitty cow udders?” Of course, he does not care if the kitty eats cow udders but, after all, he is trying to educate and getting the student to engage is generally part of the educational process. The nephew continues to do whatever the heck he is doing and is apparently unaware that he is even being spoken to, despite the use of his name. Perhaps a defensive move against learning yet another weird but true fact from the visiting uncle.

But, I’m listening. And I start thinking what the heck is in those cat treats that I feed my darling little cat? After all, they have an odd odor about them and a strikingly bad color not found in nature which I suspect is from the use of all the red dye #5 that was banned in the U.S. years ago. Stuff has to be used up somewhere.

Now, although the treats I feed my cat may be full of weird and loathsome ingredients, they are cheap and I have no reason to succumb and buy the cat those highly priced, organic, green treats made from some sort of wheat and alfalfa. Really. Those treats must be on the market for the cat-owning vegetarians out there, although I suspect the vegetarians’ cats have a high mortality rate considering that cats are pure carnivores with the exception of their drug of choice, catnip. They aren’t going to make it long on wheat and alfalfa.

But, as usual, I digress. So, I go home, give the cat some treats and look at the ingredients. Number one is “chicken by-products” which must be what is left of the chicken after we eat the meat and the feet are shipped to China. The second is a puzzler though – animal digest - which just sounds really, really disgusting. I decide it would be a bit of fun to call the company and ask them what it is, figuring that there is just no good answer but it is their job to make it sound good and they would really, really try which would amuse me. I call but the office is closed. The voice mail helpfully gives me the option of being able to email the question and I do – “Hi, just noticed the second ingredient is animal digest. Could you tell me just what that is?”

Two days later, here is what I get:

Dear Joan,
Thanks for visiting our Pounce website and for your email. Animal digest is the organ meat selected from healthy animals and then emptied of its contents. This material is then subjected to a process which breaks the tissue into simple, more easily digestible sugars and proteins. The result is very palatable and rich in amino acids.I hope this information is helpful.
Jackie, Del Monte Foods Consumer Affairs

Huh? What organs? And does the second sentence make no sense on purpose? I also wonder how Jackie knows that the result is very palatable and who in my family can I get to verify this? I consider writing Jackie back and asking her, but figure that she might be a bit slow on the uptake as there is no way one could empty the organs of "healthy animals". Seems to me they would need to be quite dead which most people, Jackie excepted, do not describe as the picture of health.

So, I am now looking for someone to verify the palatableness of the treats. I am not about to do this test myself and, although asked, Aidan wouldn't do it for a buck and although I'm pretty sure Mia would go for it, I'm thinking informed consent should be a part of this experiment considering the ethics and all. Guess I'm just going to have to hope Robert goes out and gets good and drunk sometime in the near future.

A Sampling of Notable 2008 Accomplishments

Well, it is that time of year where the "lists" come out so I thought I'd better contribute one to stay off the "Top 10 Blogs that Suck for a lack of Top 10 Lists" list. So, here goes - some, but not all, notable accomplishments from 2008:

1. Saved myself from being eaten by bears by finding a Park Ranger with the use of sniffling and snuffling noises after I got lost in the woods when it was pitch black and I was without a flashlight or a clue. This occurred when I was staying with my family in the Curry Village Camping area during a great trip outside of the getting lost in the woods episode. This actually provided me with the opportunity to answer the question, “Can I help you” with a statement I don't believe I had made for 25 years at least - “I...can't....find...my....mom....or...my.....dad...”. This was, of course, accompanied with tears and, who knows, probably snot, that was running down my face. I then got to answer the follow up question, “where is the last place you saw them?” with “at the Curry Village pizza deck right before I left to go to the restroom that was alleged to be (and in fact was determined to be), approximately 50 feet away.” I then helpfully added that they were wearing some jeans and hiking boots and tee-shirts which quickly helped him to narrow the search down to all of the people at the pizza deck and in the park. Got a nice ride back on his golf cart from the wrong campground I had made it to and got some pizza as a reward. As evidence, see the path not taken as pictured above. Of course, this is with the benefit of daylight.

2. Summited Stone Mountain. An amazing accomplishment considering its elevation is a full 825 feet from the plateau below and at an altitude of 1686 feet from sea level. Continued to press on despite the misty and cool weather and the many small children who were carelessly running up and down the hill. I also completed the descent without a significant injury and brought my entire party back alive.

3. Finally figured out that Sarah Jessica Parker is not really dying her hair “pomegranate red” to be in the Garnier hair color ads. Wondered for many years how the models didn’t get their hair damaged when they bleached it back out after they did hair dye ads. Was always amazed by that. Then, learned this year about the magic of wigs and why the ads say, “So and so is wearing pomegranate red” versus “so and so has pomegranate red hair.” What a revelation. Who would have thought? Perhaps this solved mystery will now free up a couple of brain cells that will help me to not only stay on the beaten path but also carry a flashlight or, better yet, wear one of those hats with the halogen bulbs on the front of it, should the opportunity ever arise again where I need to traverse 50 feet in the dark. Here's hoping.

They All Come From the Same Place, Don't They?

Now, I normally wouldn't rat out my own mother. In fact, I don't think I ever have except for the one time when she parked our car in a mall parking place by rounding off the corners of the car next to us. After several tries. Now, that was just too darn neat to keep to myself, especially when she coolly picked up the molding that had been on the side of our car prior to parking, stated that clearly there was an obvious manufacturing defect that allowed silly molding to actually stick out from the car and then threw it in the back seat, brushed off her hands and calmly stated, "your Dad will take care of it, let's go get a sweater". Face it, when you're seven that is just too darn cool to keep to yourself.

But, for the sake of preserving any inheritance that might someday come my way, Sunday brunches, and a whole lot of current babysitting, I'm certainly smart enough not to rat her out now. Nope, would’t do that.

However, hypothetically speaking, let's say one's dear mother recently provided an explanation, in the tones appropriate for the Church she was in, as to why one's father was not with her as he is each and every week. And, that explanation came out as, "He's in the hospital". Now, let's add the conjecture that this was the church where one's father had managed to cause a little bit of a commotion at a prior service by having a massive heart attack. Of course, it is important to note that the Irish amongst us do consider the annual St. Patrick's Day dinner, drink and dance a "service" so it qualified. And, then two years later, one’s father again caused a tiny bit of commotion by leaving the weekly services in a shiny ambulance after partaking of a bit too much chemo. So, giving the "he's in the hospital" explanation followed by a chortle when he was indeed just delayed at the airport would, I believe, allow for at least one global karma ratting out exception if not more, again, not that I would do anything like that.

Now, as a matter of necessity and only as a matter of necessity, Magic Elves must enter this discussion. And if you don’t have one they are these little 12” elves that you order on-line and that come packed in a box with magic snow which is remarkably similar to the paper circles left over from a three-hole punch. And each elf costs, with shipping, $40. And I’m guessing that the inventor of these elves is getting some recycling credit for picking up left over paper circles from some big company so her profit margin is probably pretty good. And I didn’t think of it which really just ticks me off.

So, you order one of these cute little elves because you only have one child and don’t want him to miss out on the Elf Magic craze and because you clearly are an idiot. And, when you get the little critter, you also get a cute story which you read to the son which requires you to put out water and crackers for the elf each evening to remind the elf of snow and who knows what. And, you put some of those round "magic snowflakes" on him. And then somehow, he causes mischief during the night while also bringing a little gift to the son in a gift bag that comes with the elf. It’s all so very cute and you're still so deluded that you take 87 pictures of the kid with the elf to preserve the lovely elf experience for posterity.

Then you get the second child and another elf becomes necessary and as luck would have it, you can still get one on-line, with shipping, for $40. A girl elf this time for the daughter. And, now two little presents are needed each evening for the greedy elf-owners which thereby drives up the cost of the Christmas season to “stupid” as soon as the elf-owners catch on that the toothpicks in nifty containers, matchbox cars, melon baller, band aids, birthday candles, plastic silverware and other nifty neato items the elves are bringing are remarkably similar to those that were already in the house.

Then, the mischief ideas begin to pan out considering it’s been three years for the boy elf. That is, of course, with the exception of the one where the elves like to get on the ceiling fan at night and hook their feet on really well so we can turn that sucker on in the morning to see if we can launch them into the fireplace. The fireplace is unlit, of course, as we all know that burning up an elf has some Santa repercussions with associated nightmares and teeth gnashing and has an associated cost of at least $40 including shipping and handling for elf replacement. But, heck, a girl can always dream.

So, the hypothetical mother is in the house, having watched the little ones while us older folks were off doing who knows what and I’m picking up the elves to get them on the ceiling fan while fighting off the cat who has an issue with the elves getting a cup of water that he believes is his when the mother states that another family member got herself an elf this year as well. But, that elf wouldn’t fit on a ceiling fan because she was quite a bit bigger. Which doesn’t make sense to her, because, as she explains, don’t they all come from the same place?

I told her of course they do, it’s a magical place called the North Pole where this guy called Santa lives. Not going to be me that that ruins the magic of Christmas for her. Even if I do hear a comment about how a certain someone is somewhat of a smart ass which certainly is a trait that could only have come from my father. Nope, Virgina, all the elves come from the North Pole. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.