measurements & chemicals

About two weeks ago, I decided we should start to gut the garage in anticipation of our rockin' Christmas celebration. The kids and I set about knocking down cobwebs, dusting ceiling fans and scrubbing dog crud and bug guts off the walls. My husband insisted on plastered walls in our garage. I'm not sure why, other than the fact it looks nice and that's about it. Plastered walls in a room with muddy Labradors and no screens is a total hassle.

I gave Dustin a full bottle of 409 and a scrub brush, he went to town. Bless the child's heart, he's a worker and he did all the walls where I located crud and that was almost all of them. Then, he decided to do the inside of the garage doors. Dillon and I helped him finish that, as he was practically gagging from the stench of 409.

I'm used to the smells of cleaning chemicals, however, I'm sure that down the road some oncologist is going to tell me I was in the wrong line of work.

The next morning, Dustin and I gave Miss Euphoric a bath and he helped me hose out the garage. As we were admiring our handiwork, Dustin says to me, "I wonder what this place would look like if just Birdy and Dillon lived here."

"Well, bud, I can guarantee you that the shoe rack would be empty and nobody would be able to park in the garage because there'd be hunting crap sitting everywhere."

Dusty agreed.

Last night, having the time and the manpower--manpower being the issue--we hosed-out the garage and put away all the hunting stuff that doesn't have legs. My legs. Hunting stuff gravitates to our garage but never gravitates back to where it came from. I wonder why that is? If it does gravitate back to it's high-dollar all-shades-of-green hunting room, it's because I loaded it onto the quad and let a child drive the quad to the patio, whereupon we all carry it to the Green Room. And then we leave it in a pile.

I practice and intricate, highly-sophisticated game of passive-aggressiveness. If I am forced to put your stuff away, you ain't gonna like the way I did it. Feel free to do it when I ask you to do it...

I love my husband.

He loves to procrastinate and he hates to pick up after himself. I have to admit, he's getting better. Especially since he's laid-off. He's even been known to operate the washing machine and the dryer. Of course, he had to hunt for those, since he's generally unfamiliar with their location in our house...

We were discussing length last night. Well, I wasn't. The men in my life were. We won't discuss the length of what they were discussing. Just length. And Dusty says, "Yeah, it's just a cillimeter."

Dillon, Birdy and I looked at one another.

Centimeter or millimeter, Dusty?

No sooner than he pops out with cillimeter he proceeds to blame the use of the incorrect word on the fact that he handled too much nitrogen the last time we cleaned the garage.

He's close. 409. It has a "ni" in it.

He's really close.

I love them all and I'm lucky to have them all. One of the luckiest girls in the world, I'd say. A husband that loves me, but more importantly, loves and adores my boys. I may complain about him til the cows come home, but he's mine and I'm keepin' him.

Forever and ever, amen.

Merry Christmas!

Pearls Of Wisdom

I have been experiencing a dry-period with my children recently. Neither of them have shared their pearls of wisdom with me. I wonder if it's because they are all out of pearls of wisdom or have I been too busy with my higher learning? I truly love their pearls of wisdom; however, I hate it when they come to me in the car. I'm driving and it's hard to write and drive.

One of their most insightful remarks is that school sucks. They are right, school does suck. I can't argue that point with them anymore. Going back to school sucks even more than when I had to go.

That said...

Yesterday afternoon, I was at the dining room table going through library books, determining which I was going to use for my Nightmare Research Paper and which library the books came from so I could get them returned. Dustin had walked into the kitchen when I heard a clammer. Surprised, I turned around to find Dustin laying on the kitchen floor. Obviously, he had fallen.

"Buddy, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I tripped." Having just cleaned the house, I knew there was nothing on the floor to trip over.

"What'd you trip on, Dusty?" I asked, stacking books.

"My foot." Bless his heart.

"Are you okay? Do you need a kiss?" I'm always looking for a reason to kiss them. They're at that age where there MUST be a reason for me to kiss them.

Moms Are Gross.

Mom Kisses Are Grosser.

This event required an instant-replay for me to show me how one foot ran right into the side of the other foot. I'd like to ask how this happens, but it's not really necessary. I'm a total clutz. Dusty comes by this genetic defect honestly.

In case you are wondering, I got it from my father. He happens to have an issue with wearing boots that he's worn the heel off. My father's inability to stay upright keeps my husband in stitches.

A couple hours later, I was driving Dustin to basketball practice. It was just the two of us in the car and, for a switch, my child was not complaining about his short-comings on the basketball court. I don't think he has alot of short-comings when it comes to academics or athletics, but Dusty is his biggest critic. We're just chatting along when Dustin makes this revelation:

"People who live in trailers get whatever they want."

"They do? How do you figure, Dustin?"

"They want a new car, they go get one. They want a new cell phone, they go get one. They want a new video game, they just go get it." I'm trying to follow his logic, which at times is a very meandering path, and I'm not getting it. Although, I am well-aware my child wants his own cell phone and would be happy buying video games at every little whip-stitch.

His reasoning? "They just do."

I decided to try another angle, "What experience do you have with people who live in trailers?" Now, I know that there are several trailer parks that feed into our school. I have been through these trailer parks and I'm not going to say they are horrible, but like every neighborhood, you have your good ones and you have your bad ones. My in-laws had a trailer in Louisiana, it was like a castle.

"I don't know." I'm assuming a kid in his class lives in a trailer and he gets whatever he wants. Or it at least it he makes it appear that way to Dustin.

Total silence for about 45 seconds, as I am trying to decipher his reasoning: because I have long-complained to my children that they cost me a small fortune in water everytime they step in the shower, Dustin has decided he wants to live in a hotel. You don't get a water bill if you live in a hotel. You just pay for the room. I'm assuming, since he doesn't know much about trailers, he could possibly believe they are like a pull-behind camper--which is trailered--and therefore they are small and don't cost alot to live in. Especially if you just pull them around. No yard to mow, so no mower necessary? I still haven't figured it out.

Apparently while my wheels have been churning, so, too, have Dustin's...

"I bet they won't be very good at being married."

I felt like I'd been side-swiped. Where in the hell did that come from???
"How do you figure, Dusty???" Enlighten me, child. I am on the edge of my seat.

"Well, when you're married, you can't have everything you want."

Huh-uh. You did not just say that, son.

"No, you can't, Dusty. Sometimes you have to sacrifice when you are married, don't you?"

"Yep."

"Like when Rob wanted to go to North Dakota this year and I had told him all along we didn't have the money. He kept saying he was going and I kept saying he wasn't. And we didn't have the money and he didn't go, huh?"

"Yeah."

We won't talk about Mom's I Wants List, sugar. We never talk about Mom's I Wants List. The only Wants we ever talk about are Rob's Wants...mine are rarely voiced.

Wish in one hand....

At this point, I realize my son is going to live in either a hotel, a trailer or quite possibly a pull-behind camper and he's never getting married.

We're getting a little closer to school when we happen upon a conversation about a teenager we know that has just gotten a new, very desirable video game. Dustin announces, "He acts like a nine-year old with those video games. He just plays and plays and plays them. He doesn't let anyone else play. It's just all for him. He's such a nine-year old. His girlfriend broke up with him because he's such a nine-year old with his video games. It's just alllll he wants to do, Mom, and it's just really annoying."

"What your saying is that nine-year olds are alot less mature as opposed to ten-year olds, Dusty???" If you haven't figured this out by now, Dusty is at that ripe-old, mature age of ten.

Dustin pipes up with a very self-righteous, "Well, yeah. He acts like a nine-year old."

"You're saying that one year makes all the difference?"

"Yep." He's sure.

I beg to differ.

Don't go getting too full of yourself, honey. Most of the men in my life have not passed the ripe old age of sixteen when it comes to mental maturity. As a matter of fact, your father told me your brother, at the tender age of thirteen, has surpassed him in mental maturity. It's one of the few times in our long and illustrious relationship that I can truly agree with your father...

Delightful

Last night I decided to take my children to the old warehouse district here in town and do their yearly portraits. A friend, Jill, brought her two boys along and we did all of them at the same time. It worked out really well.

Jill's boys have done a delightful job every time I've taken their pictures. Well-behaved, agreeable, poseable. Smile, click, smile, click. Tilt your head to the left just a smidge...click...perfect.

My children, on the other hand, are alot like trying to nail jell-o to a tree. They behave as if I've never let them out of their closets. They run, they jump, they throw rocks, they attempt to throw one another, Dillon picks apart every little thing Dustin is doing--the way he smiles, the way he stands, the way his hair isn't perfect...of course, Dillon's hair is always perfect. He hasn't even discovered hair spray yet, but when he does, I intend to buy stock in that manufacturer and then retire young. Very young.

They are just--well, their mine. Bless their little hearts.

They photograph beautifully, when they cooperate. The problem is, my boys don't like to cooperate when I'm trying to take their pictures.

Once a year.

One two-hour period during 52 weeks.

One two-hour period in 365 days.

I'm not doing the math on how many hours are in a year.

Two hours.

Once a year.

Last year, they made me cry. I was so upset with them, I got in my car and threatened to leave them alongside the road...okay, at the Coal Mine. It's not like I was going to just drive off and leave them alongside I74 or something.

Not that I haven't been tempted, mind you.

I don't understand. It's two hours out of a year.

We did family portraits last week and the boys did well for Chris, our photographer. Except for Dustin's HilterHair. He tends to part it right down the middle to get it out of his eyes. "No, you've got HitlerHair!" I'd fix it and no sooner than I'd sit down for the portrait, I'd see the little runt shake his head and then part his hair. "Come on, maaan! Don't move again!" All the while the photographer is laughing at us.

Funny.

I know, I could always just give them buzz hair-cuts.

But I don't want buzz hair-cuts. They have beautiful hair that frames their beautiful eyes: duck-poop green and glass green, respectively. I like their long hair.

So, last night, we head down to the warehouse district only to learn that although it's a very deserted area on a Sunday evening, we've stirred-up quite a fuss, two women, two cameras and four boys. A police cruiser drives past us...and Jill comments that the sign two warehouses back said no tresspassing.

It did, didn't it?

Fine time to think about that now. We weren't looking for a place to live or a place to spray paint grafitti, or a place to do drugs, we were just looking for a place to take neat pictures.

About the time we closed-up our little operation, here comes a big-wig property owner who shall remain nameless. I knew him, once upon a time, twenty-odd years ago, and I can guarantee you, he did not recognize me...he comes a-whipping through the parking lot doing 30+ mph, window down, cell phone to his ear, "Are you with a studio?"

"No."

And I don't recall what else he said. I was floored. We didn't hurt anything and I'd have asked for permission if only I'd known who to call, but his name and number weren't painted in the grafitti on the warehouse, three warehouses back, so we didn't think to call you.....looks like we're goin' straight to hell for this one--if not jail.

Call a paddy wagon. You're going to need it. Ever since CousinKevlarJimV got tased in his auxiliary police training course, Dillon's been dying to be tased. To lasso my children would probably require a taser.

If not some pepper spray...

Needless to say, he didn't call the law on us, nor did he send a paddy-wagon, but he did sit at the end of the parking lot waiting for us to leave.

Thankfully, we were finishing up when he made his SpeedyGonzalez trip through the parking lot. Saved the day and the warehouses from total rack and ruin.

Whew.

That was close.

I got some really good shots of Jill's boys.

And I got a few good shots of my own.

Most importantly, I captured for all of posterity, some of the more priceless shots of my children, horsing around and doing numerous other unimpressive acts.

I just thought I'd snap a photo of two boys sitting on a dock in the warehouse district.

Instead I got a shot of Dillon, my little angel, digging for gold. I blurred Jill's child out to protect his innocence. Was he thoroughly fascinated? More than likely, he was repulsed by the act of someone shoving their finger up their nose to the third knuckle for nothing other than shock-value.

My boys, hamming it up for the camera.

My darling children.

Clean.

Delightfully pleasant little boys.

Mannerly.

Sweet little angels, buffing their halos whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Well-behaved in any social setting.

Aren't they neat?

Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way...

Middle-Aged

I decided to try my hand at burning a CD for my truck. It went about the same route as everything I attempt to do on my computer: PhotoShop, DVDSlideshows, uploading pictures, you name it--takes some time. Several times, actually. And a few phone calls to The Family TechnoWizard, Bartonville's finest Auxilliary Police Officer, KevlarJimV.

He hates it. I know he does. It's got to be about the biggest pain in the backside. Challenged Me Calling Him.

Anyhow. My first attempt worked out great, if I was playing my freshly downloaded songs on my computer, but when I took my CD to my truck, the player went "Track 1"...and nothing.

I was totally bummed. I was driving to work in Elmwood the next day & wanted to listen to my own private jam-session.

Does anyone under the age of 25 experience a Jam-Session anymore?

Or is that unique to those of you in My Age Group?

So, after several calls and a couple emails to KevlarJimV, I was successful on my burn and had my new CD ready to roll today while running errands.

Having successfully completed most of my tasks for our "BaseBallParty" tomorrow night, I decided to have a beer in the garage with my husband.

We talked about everything.

And I had another beer.

Just one more.

The next thing I knew, I jumped up, ran to my TrailBlazer and hollered, "Come listen to what I did!"

I jumped behind the wheel, turned the key to "accessory", rolled down my window and began blaring Wild Cherry's "Play That Funky Music White Boy"...and then quickly flipped to the next song for my husband, who slid into the passenger's seat...both of us, beer in hand.

No DUIs for us tonight. No, Officer KevlarJimV, we ain't leavin' our drive...

And I pretty much sang the next song, word-for-word, "Musta Got Lost" by J. Geils Band.

"This was my very first concert!" I hollered over the stereo..telling him who I went to see J. Geils with...

And I'm not sure where, but at some point, beer in hand, jamming on my stereo out in God's country with nothing but stars above me, I began to feel about 17 again...cute guy in the passenger seat...and he could pass for 19...so's long as he leaves his hat on.

According to Van Morrison, you can do that.

You Can Leave Your Hat On...

When the next song I burned turned over...to be Black Sabbath's "War Pigs".

And then I really did feel 17 again...both of us singing along...well, yelling along. I mean, I really wasn't thru my 2nd beer--and at this point, it's all I really need to get me by...with the windows down and no smoke rolling out...

After belting along with Ozzy (it is the unedited, live version and we cackled thru the whole thing, when we weren't singing) and discussing the children's reaction to "War Pigs" we moved onto something from this decade...

"Rock Star" by Nickelback.

Halfway through me singing at the top of my lungs to the steering wheel, no less, my husband now reclined in the passenger's seat, my youngest pops out the garage door...

Poof.

Gone.

No longer 17.

No longer parking with a hot jock from high school jamming to Ozzy, drinking beers...

Nope, I'm a Mom.

I'm pretty much showing my age.

We motioned for Dustin to come to the truck, whereupon his eyes got big as saucers, he spoke not a word and ran in the other direction.

Were we scary?

Two minutes later, Dillon tripped out the back door...and he was equally unimpressed with us.

"Are you going to break this out at the BaseBall Party tomorrow night?" Birdy asks.

"On what? We don't have a CD player in the garage, what do you want me to do, open all the doors on the TBlazer and have everyone gather around?...like we did back in school???"

Then, I had to piddle and that was the end of our trip back in time...

But, it was fun.

Even if we are middle-aged.

I don't feel middle-aged.

I don't.

In my mind, I still feel about 17.

My husband? He IS still 17...always has...always will be...

BallPeen Hammers & Ether

This past weekend, my parents were in Tennessee for the Johnson Family Reunion, my husband needed to use some of Dad's equipment.

My father must've been on the same wave-length as Birdy, because Dad calls me early one morning after apparently having watched The Weather Channel.

"They're calling for rain all week. If Birdy wants to mow with the tractor, tell him to go get it. If he wants to back-drag that hillside, tell him to take the back hoe over, but watch it because the bucket makes it front-heavy."

"Thanks, I'll let him know," I told my dad, knowing full-well my husband would not fetch any of this equipment.

"If he has any problems starting the back hoe, Dustin can help him. Dustin knows how to start the back hoe." This last statement is made with pride.

Personally, I find it rather unsettling knowing that my ten-year old can start a back hoe.

I repeat this conversation to my husband who replies with, "I am NOT going after any of his equipment unless he's on-site to start it. Sure as I'm standing here, I'll break something."

I find this comical. My dad has individual starting instructions for every piece of equpiment on this farm--whether it's a lawn mower or a tractor, every piece is different. There is no such thing as climbing on any fuel-driven implement of destruction on this farm and turning the key.

Guess that's the redneck in him...

Such as the 1948 or 1949 Allis Chalmers endloader that's parked in back. It hadn't been started in years. My father's friend, Buck, suggested my father couldn't get that piece of equipment started. Only six or seven at the time, Dustin posessed enough wisdom to know Papa can start just about anything...

My father chuckled and made Buck a bet, if he started the endloader, Buck got to buy breakfast...of course, armed with a can of ether, the Allis turned over and Buck bought Dad & Dustin breakfast that morning.

I couldn't believe Buck made that bet. I asked him later what he was thinking...and Buck agreed, he should've known better. A can of ether and a ball-peen hammer will take my dad a long way around here, starting just about anything...

Of course, there's the time Dad won a busted-up lawn mower on a bet. My Grampa Lucius bet my Dad that he couldn't start a lawn mower. Grampa Lucius said the mower wouldn't run because it didn't have a blade. Dad told Grampa Lucius the mower didn't need a blade to run. Grampa told Dad if he could start the mower, Dad could have it.

Enter a ball-peen hammer...and a new-to-you mower...

When the stater went out in Birdy's quad, Dad managed to get it running again, if only temporarily, by tapping around with his--you guessed it--ball-peen hammer

I told my dad, on his way home from Tennessee, that Birdy wouldn't use the equipment without dad on-site. Dad chuckled, "That back hoe will fire right up for him."

Monday being the recognized holiday for the 4th of July, my dad called and said he'd bring the back hoe over and get the hillside taken care of before the rain came. Thankfully, he accomplished that since it's rained twice today alone...not sprinkles mind you, torrential downpours...Mother Nature has pulled out all the stops for us on rain this summer.

Dad rolls into the driveway on his back hoe, parks it and comes to the garage for a beverage. "It's a good thing Birdy didn't try to start that back hoe."

Lord. I rolled my eyes, "Why's that?"

"Clutch didn't want to work. Didn't start working until I got up by the house. Must've been the way I parked it, rain probably ran right into the clutch," he explained. "Runs great, now..."

Thankfully.

Birdy passed Dad intransit, on his way over to get the tractor. No sooner than Birdy returned with the tractor, the battery died and Dad had to give Birdy a jump...

Nothing says redneck quite like individual starting instructions for every implements of destruction you own.

Nothing.

Automotive Anxiety

My husband has long-said, "Our parents generation could do a little bit of anything. They could build a little, fix vehicles, do a little plumbing, do some electrical stuff. They could fix anything. It's not like that with our generation, why?"

Well, the reason why our generation has such a difficult time making vehicle repairs is because the automotive industry has totally run us out of vehicle repair. I'm assuming that every time someone is "certified" to work on a type of vehicle, the manufacturer gets some kind of kick-back. I'm just suspecting. I don't know if this is true. It is true, though, that alllllll vehicles today have computers in them. The part may not go bad, but the $2000 sensor just might...and then you have to be certified just to be able to find the sensor.

It was nothing, when I was a child, to climb onto the front fender of our 1968 Pontiac GTO and watch my Dad wrench on the engine. I'd fetch wrenches, sockets, screw drivers...and the occasional hammer. It went the same way with our 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo. And our 1981 Buick Skylark. Or my 1981 Ford Escort. Dad couldn't get his hands in the engine, but I could, and that's how I changed my timing belt. But, by the time we got to my Mom's Buick Century, times they were a-changing.

My ex-husband still found it possible to work on my Mazda MX-6, but the head cracked on that due to a faulty thermostat and I found it was just best to trade it off on my 1996 GMC Yukon.

It was computerized, but it could still be worked on by the Average Joe. And work on it, we did.

My father put 6 starters on that thing alone. The first one he put on it took him about an hour, the last one took about ten minutes. I mean, even replacement parts, whether after-market or not, last about as well as vehicles these days.

I can't tell you how many sets of U-Joints that Yukon had replaced. I recognized the sound. Knew it well. That job started out difficult, but hey, once you do it enough times, forty-five minutes later--VOILA! All new for a year.

It was nothing for the Yukon to break down. Nothing. But I loved that thing. It was a lifted, jacked-up bubba truck. I could take it through anything. Had a 350 V-8 under the hood & drove like a pooch. Pull a Sherman Tank out of the Kickapoo with it, though it had absolutely no punch. Didn't care, don't like to drive fast. I loved it. But, it needed work. And as my husband is forever telling me, "I'm a carpenter, not a mechanic." It was not an uncommon sight to drive past me while I was on the side of the road, hood up, standing on the tire, knees on the fender, balancing myself over the engine. Butt facing traffic. I'm sure it was quite the spectacle. Talking on my cell phone to my Dad, "I think it's still the distributor cap, Dad."

"We just replaced it."

"I know, but it's making the same sound. Please come get me, I'm in shorts, I'm cold and I'm stranded in a neighborhood at the foot of Western. Lydia I think. I don't feel too safe, please come get me...." And he would. And we'd go get parts. And I'd help him just like I did when I was a kid. And we'd get me back on the road again. It was a pain, to be sure, but it was nice to know--WE COULD FIX IT.

Radiator needed replacing, dash board lights were out, on it's 6th starter and possibly it's 4th set of U-Joints, the a/c filter was cracked, a rope tied onto the passenger seat to bring it forward and backward. Didn't care. It was my only Boy Truck I'd ever had and ever will have. I loved it.

One day I went out looking at vehicles and a few days later, I came home with a 2003 Chevy TrailBlazer.

I cried for two weeks and to this day, miss my Yukon. I even called the dealer to try to get it back. They'd already sold it. I even drove through their lot, but the Yukon was gone. I cried some more.

I'm not going to tell you that the TrailBlazer is a horrible vehicle (heaven forbid it overhear me), but what I am going to tell you is: IT'S IMPOSSIBLE FOR THE AVERAGE JOE TO WORK ON.
Case in point. Ever have a headlamp go out on the thing? You own a TrailBlazer? Ever have the headlamp go out on it? Go ahead, pop the hood and look around. Then, tell me, how do you change your headlamp? That's right, pull the book out. Check it out, see what it says. I know. I pulled it out on Saturday morning. Third time the headlamp has been out--same one EVERY TIME. Even the after-market bulbs work as well as the ones from Chevy. THEY BITE, TOO.

So, the first time the headlamp was replaced, a friend of ours who works on vehicles for a living, showed me and Dad how to get the headlamp replaced. The second time, one of Birdy's buddies figured it out after I told him what to do.

Needless to say, Dad says, "See what the book says."

Would you like for me to tell you what the book says? NOTHING.

Zip.

Nada.

ZE-ROOOOOO.

You know why? Chevy wants you to take your vehicle to a CERTIFIED individual for a kick-back, that's why. There you go, I figured it all out.

Know what the book says? It demonstrates how to change the TAIL LIGHTS. I looked up HEADLAMP and got TAIL LIGHT.

How does that work?

Explain That One.

Why don't they just give an entry for Headlamp and in the description say: Well, stupid, take it to a shop and have a certified technician change the light bulb because we don't even want you to do that.

Impressive. I think that type of impressive falls under Cutsomer Satisfaction, which happens to be at an all-time low with car manufacturers. Or maybe the reporters and news channels are just lying.

So, after a few pokes and prods, Dad and I had the FRONT BUMPER OFF, and he changed the light bulb. Of course, I couldn't send my husband over to do this at Dad's, although he's witnessed it once, he's a carpenter, not a mechanic.

Saturday morning, having been subjected to several hours of torrential downpours, Birdy and I were preparing to leave for the Quad Cities to attend Dustin's baseball tournaments.

I woke up at 0300, not in delighted anticipation of our trip, our weekend, or the tournament, but I woke up because my husband didn't follow the rules.

The Rules are as follows:

If you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, barf, or go hunting, and it's a weekend, PUT THAT YELLA DOG OUTTA THE ROOM.

Or, the yella dog will annoy me to no end. If it's past midnight, that spook thinks it's time for breakfast and will annoy me until I cave, get up and feed her.

Of course, she's happy. SHE'S ALWAYS HAPPY.

I fed her at 0400. That's what time I gave up on sleep and decided to plot my revenge against her and my husband.

Dustin was asleep on our floor, and being a product of my genetics, he, too, was now awake for the day.

Birdy? Snoring like a buzz-saw.

So, when the sun finally came up, I took my TrailBlazer to my Dad and we changed the headlamp.

I loaded the TrailBlazer while my husband made dirty dishes for me to clean up.

We got on the road about 4 hours before game-time and left for the Quad Cities anxious to get some ball in before the rain got that far north.

Dustin, having puked at 0515 that morning, was still complaining of a headache. He never had a fever, didn't really act sick, so I just assumed it was a sour stomach and proceeded with the day. He went to roll down his window, and I heard a funny noise.

It was a familiar funny noise, to be sure, and I said, "Roll it up and leave it alone. I will run it by O's on Monday. IT'S GOING TO COME OFF THE TRACK AND GET STUCK IN THE DOWN POSITION, DUSTIN, DON'T ROLL IT DOWN AGAIN. OKAY?"

I know this from experience. It happened with the other passenger side window. Same issue. Same kids.

Not the kids I buried in the backyard, but these kids. Dustin is one of These Kids.

"Okay, Mom."

That's settled.

So, can someone explain to me why, when he complained he was hot and I rolled MY window down for him, did the then feel compelled to ROLL HIS WINDOW DOWN???

Oh, yes. And then it went *thunk*.

"What did I say?" I asked. "Are you kidding me? Why? Why did you do that?"

I'm driving down the road with a crack-carpenter at the wheel--NOT A MECHANIC.

All my tools are in the garage in my work basket that I unloaded for the weekend. Are you kidding me? You just need to pop the panel off and put the window up. Tape it into place, pop the panel back on and ta-dah! All fixed. But I have no tools and I need tools.

We're 15 minutes from the Quad Cities. It's a Saturday, where am I gonna get that fixed? Who is going to help me at 1130 on a Saturday? .

Oh, no.

Not so simple.

We end up at a Chevy dealer. I could hear the ticker clicking...ching ching ching ching...

You guessed it: $140 for gloried fluorescent masking tape. Of course the tape is VISIBLE.And once again, here I am, driving down the road with TAPE on my window looking like--you guessed it--WHITE TRASH.

Going to a high-dollar tournament with pay-to-play independent teams, surrounded by Escalades, Hummers, half-a-million dollar Winnebago's, Excursions, Lexus, Four-Runners, Mercedes & BMWs...and I HAVE FLUORESCENT TAPE ON MY FREAKIN' WINDOW.

Let's not forget that the rain is a-comin'.

I was mortified. Not just because of the tape, but I was about to spend a buttload of cash on dinner. Another nice chunk of change on a motel room that I probably didn't need because--you guessed it--they called the tournament by 0630 Sunday morning due to RAIIINNNN!!!

Argh.

Not having had any sleep, my stress-level was slightly elevated over The Masking Tape Incident, and having been on a diet for a month and not consuming alcohol, waking up to a child I could never determine if he was ill or not, I managed to drink five or six too many at dinner. Yeah. I basically drank dinner.

BOOOOZER.

Woops.

I put myself and Dustin to bed around nine. I popped a couple aspirin and called it good. Stick a fork in me, darlin', I'm done.

Around midnight, Mr. Considerate stumbles into the room, promptly stubbing his toe on our cooler while simultaneously flipping on a light.

Of course, he woke me up.

Birdy could wake the dead.

I tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep, but it was so stinking hot in our room, the rain was pummelling the roof. I got up and cracked the window. I crawled back into bed and kicked off the covers. I tossed and turned some more, "Am I drunk? Why am I so hot? Why is the room spinning? Why do I feel THIS bad?" Seriously, if I'm drunk, surely I can't string lucid thoughts together this well...

I threw the window open wide and went back to bed, only to feel a nasty rumbling in my lower-intestine. And it said:

This ain't beer, Darlin'...

...and I took off like a shot for the bathroom.

A few moments later, feeling clammy, I crawled back into bed...and then It began. A wishy-washy low in my tummy, travelling to my esophagus at warp-speed. I suddenly had a mental image of Dustin leaning over the toilet, yakking his guts out.

My turn.

Nope, not beer.

Bug.

GREAAATT.

Just great.

I finally dozed off around 2 or 3, only to have my husband wake me up at 0500 and ask, "Did you set an alarm?"

Who needs an alarm with you around? I ask myself. Really? Who GETS sleep with you around, honey? What's the point in an alarm clock when I'm married to you?
He finally runs me out of the bed, once again, in total agitation. I tell him I was sick in the middle of the night and he tells me I was drunk.

I was not, ButtHead. A hang-over doesn't start with the lower intestine. It starts with a headache and puking. And I rarely barf over booze.

He's hounding me to get in the shower, I'm trying to get my stuff ready, when my phone starts playing a tune. "Tourney cancelled due to rain, have a safe trip home."

There you have it.

We begin to pack, I get ready, I get Dustin ready and we depart.

I'm exhausted.

We had breakfast with one of the coaches and his family and drove home.

I slept the whole way home, left the truck loaded and went back to bed. I stayed there for four hours. I still don't feel all that well and have hardly eaten today.

Birdy went mushroom hunting while I slept.

Dustin laid down because he still didn't feel all that well. While I was sleeping, he left me a note taped to the wall outside my bedroom that said:

Dear, Mom

I am going to Grammy's.

Love, Dustin

There were two attempts at smiley faces.

I finally get up, deciding I need to run a couple errands. Birdy had returned with mushrooms, cleaned them and put himself in the recliner so the tv had something to watch. While the tv was watching my husband, I ran off to do errands.

I like to back my truck in the garage, so upon my return, I pull the truck up in the white rock and back in.

SSSSSSsssssSSSSSSsssss.

Huh?

Are you kidding me?

Is there a puncture in the gas line?

Oh, no. Nothing so elaborate, Dawn...there's a piece of white rock STUCK in your tire. How fascinating, I'm thinking, as I observe this phenomenon. I didn't realize my tires were that bad. Really.

I call my Dad.

"What do I do?"

"Bring it over here," he sighs with exasperation.

Halfway there, I'm driving on a rim. No lie, my parents live two doors down.

"Where's the spare?" my Dad asks.

"Under the car."

He jacks my truck up and finds the spare and cannot get it off the truck frame. "Get the book out," my Dad tells me.

This isn't looking good.

He reads the information, "Where's your jack?"

"Beats me."

So, we begin the hunt for the jack. The jack, the book says, jacks up to the spare and hooks onto the post and unscrews the tire it holds in place.

Only problem is THE JACK DOESN'T REACH THE POST TO UNSCREW THE TIRE IT HOLDS IN PLACE.

Are you kidding me?

My girlfriend, Toni, then texts me and suggests taking the vehicle to Rocket Tire, a local business. I'd have to say by the name of the outfit, I shouldn't have to explain what they do there.

I text Toni that taking the vehicle to Rocket Tire would require a wrecker and at this point, my idea of a wrecker is NOT a tow, but a sledge hammer...

My father finally becomes frustrated enough to take the flat tire off and repair it himself.

Because he can still fix a flat. He's a member of the baby-boomer generation that can do a little of everything. Thank God. He can fix my flat or he can lay in the recliner and let the tv watch him.

My Dad is multi-talented.

As he's messing with my tire, he's having difficulty getting the hose to his air compressor off the hydraulic can-smasher his friend made for him as a retirement gift.

Only my Dad would have a hydraulic can-smasher.

Now, he's found something else that needs fixing. Lord.

With the air compressor hose in hand, zip gun in place, he takes my tire off and we locate the leak.

We spend ten more minutes discussing the pros and cons of a patch versus a plug.

Finally I say to him, "Plug the bitch. If it goes flat, you'll just have to come get me is all."

Yay.

We get the tire plugged, can't find any leaks, and as he's sharpening his knife to cut the extra plug material off, it occurs to me, "What the hell am I going to do without him? What? There is so much information in that head I won't get it out in the rest of this lifetime. What am I ever going to do without him?"

I thank him profusely, collect my child, and return home to my husband who is still in the recliner, hunting channel watching him.

So, now I get to call O's on Monday and see if he can help me locate this part to get my window fixed without having to buy from Chevy. I'll see if O's outfit can actually fix said window. Then I need to see about tires for the TrailBlazer. Not to mention that I have to find an evening next week so I can help my Dad change my brakes because they are squeaking to beat the band, and the fan we had put in the TrailBlazer a year & a half ago to the tune of $800 is acting-up. But, a certified technician did that work, so SURELY it should have lasted...but it's not. Not to mention that the Service Engine Soon light works great...and that tells me there's probably a bad O2 sensor going on my truck...and then there's the Service 4wheel Drive light that I have no idea what THAT means. Nevermind that the book doesn't tell me, either. It actually says, "See a certified technician." Woo.

I'm well-aware that I probably need a new vehicle, but that's not in the budget at this time. My husband needs a new vehicle and it's not in our budget for at least a year. And of course, he's going to want the VERY BEST, because he'll be taking it hunting and he only has the VERY BEST when it comes to hunting...

I just thought I'd share my weekend dilemma with everyone. I mean, really, who gives a rat's ass?

Nobody.

And I'm good with that.

I'm aware it could have been worse. Thankfully it wasn't. But, just the same...they don't make 'em like the used to.

I guess it's just a better way to keep the economy chugging along...certified technicians...as opposed to making a piece of equipment that actually LASTS and RUNS like it should when you pay that much for said equipment.

And Washington cannot figure out why customer satisfaction is at an all-time low with the vehicle manufacturers in this country.

Hello?

I'm just your average housewife, and I'm pretty sure I have that answer.

Birdy's Bird

It has long been a well-known fact that my husband hates to have his picture taken. HATES IT.

I paid through the nose to have Jill Sanders come out here several years ago to do family portraits. The kids and I were fine with it. Birdy threw a huge fit.

"I hate to have my picture taken. My Aunt Peggy used to herd us all together when we were kids and shove a camera in our faces. I hate to have my picture taken."

Really? Well, sugar plum, suck it up because not only are you going to have your picture made by Jill with us, you're going to LIKE it, too.

That was five years ago. We're long overdue, to say the least. I'm hoping that the Chris & Kris Team will be able to rectify that problem later this summer. Which means I have until later this summer to lose the extra ass I'm carting around. And just to be sure I'm minus the extra ass I'm carting around, I've already started The Diet.

Although I'm pretty sure I can afford to live off the fat of the land for quite some time, as I type, my stomach is growling.

That said, I have finally, after 9 years together, I figured out how to get my husband to stand still for a photograph.

Birdy arrived home from his Big Turkey Hunt this morning and as usual, insisted I bring my camera outside and make his picture with his kill.

Little does he know I've signed myself up for yet another photography class and I have an assignment to complete: Portrait from the waist up.

Great, now which individual is this house is going to want their portrait made from the waist up? None of them. I'm sure of it.

I instruct him on where to sit, what I want in the background, and what I'm doing with my camera:

"I'm in this photography class and she showed me something ELSE I don't know about this camera. I bracket my F-Stops automatically. So, I'm going to bracket my F-Stops and it's going to give me a different exposure each time I take the picture. I will take three pictures in a row. So, please be patient."

"Okay." He's all about this.

So, I pose Birdy with his kill. He's happy. He's content.

Then, it hits me...why can't I use BIRDY as my subject?

"Alright, I have an assignment," I explain. "I need my subject from the waist up. Pick that there bird up and throw him over your shoulder. I'll do the moving, just stand there and look remotely happy."

I start to click away.

"Smile."

"I am smiling."

No, that's a grimace, Birdy. But, whatever, I can see your teeth.

After about ten minutes he starts to complain. But that doesn't matter. My homework is done.

So, later this summer (perhaps in the fall if The Diet is any indication) I can get my husband to sit still for family portraits if I let him hold something dead. He may sit still most of the afternoon. At least until his critter starts to smell...

Personally, I think the shirt makes the photograph, don't you agree?

Grunt. "Me Og. Me bring home dinner." Grunt.

That's my man. Ain't nobody 'rasslin' me for that...

AlphaFemale

"Did she have her own plate at that house?" Birdy asked me one evening as he was spooning his dinner into his mouth. Chelsea was happily seated in the kitchen doorway, tail thumping the carpet, anticipating the possibility of a crumb landing on the floor.

My husband doesn't leave crumbs.

My kids do.

Sometimes I think that's why Chelsea loves my children so much. They leave a trail of crumbs a mile wide in their wake.

My father-in-law thinks differently. He was "rasslin'" the boys awake one morning while he was in town hunting. Chelsea was helping. Until she thought Bob got too rough and firmly took his forearm in her mouth. She didn't' bite. She just made her intentions known. My babies, be careful.

I brought Chelsea home from my cousin's house. They have five children, the youngest developed allergies. Chelsea had to go.

I felt compelled to bring Chelsea home.

I'm pretty sure, with five kids, these people didn't have time to discipline a dog. I'd be willing to bet the farm. Chelsea had the run of their subdivision.

Chelsea loves to chase rodents. She chases rodents until she believes they disappear into a downspout. Chelsea then rips the downspout off the side of the house. Any house. Chelsea's not proud. She has a single-minded purpose that amazes me.

Chelsea loves to run. Chelsea will give any greyhound, worth it's salt, a run for the money. My money is on Chelsea.

Chelsea managed to slip out of the garage one day, totally unnoticed by my father or my husband. Twenty minutes later, I saw her across the valley from our house.

"Chelsea!!!" I hollered happily hoping that would work...for a switch.

Chelsea looked at me, one paw poised mid-air.

"Chelsea!!!!"

Chelsea looked over her shoulder, as if to ask, "Anyone back there named Chelsea?" Giving me but a glance before tearing off at break-neck speed into the creek running through the valley.

The same dog that dances around standing water in the yard.

Chelsea is bursting with euphoria. She's so happy, there are days I wonder if she'll explode with happiness. She's so happy, it's almost annoying.

Chelsea

is

so

flippin'

happy

.

When the garbage starts to get full, I pull it from the can, prop it in the corner and continue to cram it full of crap.

"Chelsea, NO!" Dillon yelled.

I went back into the kitchen, "Is she in the garbage?"

"She sat at the door and waited for you to leave. You walked around the corner and she hit the garbage. She's rotten, Mom."

You think?

I think she's the smartest one in the house.

I had the kitchen counters completely covered with ingredients this afternoon.

I have thumbs. This makes me The Alpha Female.

I walk upright. This, too, makes me The Alpha Female.

I know this.

Chelsea is forever proving to me that thumbs don't matter.

Four feet are better than two feet.

I was peeling and slicing potatoes. I had cheese to be sliced, ham to be diced. I had baking mix poured, sugar divided, eggs separated, apples soaking in lemon juice and sugar...I had a mess on my hands.

I diced the ham and headed for the laundry room, only to backtrack--I thought it a good idea to push the ham as far back on the counter as it would go...I was amazed when I re-entered the room only to find all my ingredients just as I had left them, dog lounging on the kitchen floor.

I mixed all my divided ingredients, whipped my meringue, and lined my cast iron skillet with apples. I was really excited about my upside down caramelized apple cake.

I don't know that I've ever caramelized anything.

I know I've never whipped egg whites and sugar.

I knew I could do this and I knew I could do it without having to call my Mom.

When the timer sounded, I pulled my cake from the oven, loosened the edges from the skillet, and let the cake cool on a wire rack. Because I had no platter, I flipped my cake onto a pizza pan. That's the upside down part. I left it on the counter to finish cooling.

I couldn't wait.

I

love

dessert

.

I won't argue, I'm an addict.

I know I have to quit.

But, I'm not quitting until I try this one last recipe.

I say that every week.

Just this one.

It'll be different this time, I swear.

I refuse to troll for recipes again this weekend.

I grab my camera and take pictures. I might just blog about this cake.

And how.

Really, who knew?

While waiting for the cake to cool, I play on the computer, toss laundry around, chat with my husband in the garage.

I came into the kitchen as Birdy was warming his dinner.

"Couldn't you wait?" I asked. There were two apples missing from the side of the cake.

"I haven't touched that yet."

Yeah, right.

I looked closer. The pecans around the apples were different.

I know, I have the pictures to prove it.

There are pecans on the counter. They weren't there before.

I know, I have the pictures to prove it.

I let Birdy finish his meal in peace, knowing there was something wrong.

I spin the pan around and cut myself a piece of cake from the other side...and Chelsea leaps to her feet.

Huh uh.

You did not.

"Wow, this is good. You want a piece now or after your shower?" I ask.

"After my shower."

"Okay..."

That rotten dog put her paws on my counter and helped herself to my cake. I could choke her.

See for yourself. I have posted the evidence for all the world to see.

Marley wasn't the world's worst dog. Chelsea is.

If I cut the cake in half, my husband will suspect I ate half of the cake by myself. This is no stretch, mind you, but it's not true. I'm just not sure I want him to know the dog got the first piece.

I'd like to think my upside down caramelized apple cake really is that good. Although I don't trust Chelsea's judgment. She's just as happy with the garbage; however, thumbs might help with opening the door...

Beating the Rap

The countryside was blanketed with a thick layer of snow one February morning, not too long ago.

I had prematurely cleared my calendar that frosty Monday morning, anticipating a Snow Day for my children. Unfortunately, the local bus company that transports the children in our public school system, decided the roads were clear enough for school. Personally, I thought it was a big mistake.

Big, big mistake.

My children were still bemoaning this fact when I dropped them off for school that day.

As I pulled out of the school parking lot, I was faced with a decision...turn back towards home and work on laundry, or head in the other direction with my camera.

I chose The Other Direction.

Sitting at an intersection, three cars back from the stop light, I felt my truck bounce sideways. Great, I just got hit...

I looked out the passenger side window, only to find it completely filled by a white vehicle. Was it a semi? It felt like a semi...

The other driver, beaming happily, rolled down his window and asked if I was okay. I was okay and the smile on your face isn't going to make me any happier about this situation, so lose the stupid grin, buddy.

Since the light was still red, I called County to report the accident. The dispatcher informed me there was a county-wide Collision Alert. We could exchange information and leave the scene, so long as the accident was reported within 24 hours.

Since the accident occurred just in front of the County Jail, we decided to take our accident to the police.

I pulled my TrailBlazer, with it's now pulverized rear quarter-panel, into the jail parking lot, and the gentleman that hit me, parked alongside. I could clearly see the emblem on his vehicle. Although it felt like I'd been hit by a Sherman Tank, he was only driving a Ford F350...with a minor scrape above his rear wheel well. Figures. I may have four-wheel drive, but my TrailBlazer is your basic FluffVehicle.

After spending 45 minutes trying to track down a cop--hard to believe, a building full of cops, can't find one to help you--the other driver and myself sat down with an officer and told him our story.

Because the officer wasn't able to witness the Scene of the Crime, he chose not to issue the other driver any citations. Essentially, I felt that was wrong. I was sitting still, he tried to blow through plowed snow in a futile attempt to turn right where there was no turn lane. Of course, this gentleman was unaware there was no turn lane because there was so much snoooowwwww....duh. If you can't see the road, perhaps you should slow down...

So, as JohnnyLaw was dismissing The Offender, he glances at my driver's license and asks, "Did you realize your license is expired?"

I immediately began to sweat. I knew someone, a long time ago, who had nothing but nightmare problems with our esteemed Secretary of State. There were revocations, citations, suspensions, expirations, you name it, this someone had a buttload of problems with their driver's license.

"It did???" I asked.

It was ugly.

"Well, on your birthday," VeryPolite JohnnyLaw informs me.

It was expensive.

"Oh, dear. I never use my license for anything, I hadn't noticed."

That person's problems obviously haunt me to this day...I've had 2 tickets for speeding, back in the '80's (which now is a very long time ago) and two citations for minor traffic accidents. Basically, my driving record gleams so brightly, it can be seen with the naked eye, from the surface of the moon...

As I'm seated across from VeryPolite JohnnyLaw who is busily writing up my ticket, I'm trying to contain myself from entering Full PanicMode. OMG. Is he going to cuff me? Am I getting arrested? Who's going to bail me? Oh, man, how do I explain this to my husband? What will the kids think? And my truck, how am I going to get repairs on my truck if I can't legally DRIVE??? My heart is rat-a-tat-tatting in my chest, the temperature in the room has become nearly unbearable. Nevermind that it was a cold and snowy February morning. My big plans for the day were to take pictures in inclement weather; therefore, I was dressed in my beautiful orange jumpsuit. Oh, man, they don't even have to issue me prison-garb, I'm already dressed. Just give me a pair of deck shoes and I'm good to go...OH, Nooooo!!

As this paranoid chatter is racing through my mind, VeryPolite JohnnyLaw informs me that so long as I get my driver's license renewed, I can bring the ticket back to the counter "over there" and I won't have to go to court. I have 72 hours.

Did I mention it was Monday and the Secretary of State is closed on Monday? Yeah. So, I had to wait until Tuesday. I got to sleep on my anxiety.

I spent the remainder of my calendar-cleared day dealing with my insurance company, my local autobody shop, visqueen and duct tape.

It may not be worth a whole lot, but man, I do NOT want to drive around with visqueen and duct tape on my vehicle. It just makes me feel like I look like a loser...not to mention the thoughts that continually chase around inside my head already make me question my ability on a good day.

Basically, Mr. Impatient had just bumped my stress-level up a notch or two. Now I was going to be coping with car rentals, car rotation, insurance companies, just your basic headache. Which, I understand, is better than the alternative of being killed or having one of the kids maimed, but just the same...I was just sitting in traffic minding my own business.

Tuesday morning, I was the first cow in the herd of cattle lined-up outside the door at the Secretary of State's local office. I just wanted my new license, get my workday done, and clear things up regarding this ticket. I don't think the folks at the Secretary of State's Office really appreciate the waiting herd outside their door because they waited a whole five minutes past eight to unlock the door. Perhaps their boss in Springfield would like that information...

About halfway through my day, the visqueen blew off my back window as I was toodling down the interstate. Neat. Totally humiliating. Just your basic white trash...colder than a well-digger's a-s.

I finally make it to the County Jail to present my ticket to the incredibly charming, built-like-a-linebacker, delightful woman behind three inches of bullet-proof, chicken-wire lined glass. I politely tell the lady (and I use that term loosely) what has brought me to her fair counter.

"What??? I can't hear you!!" That's a new one, it's a rare instance instance in my life that someone cannot hear me.

I repeat myself.

"Let me see the ticket," she barks.

Already feeling like something she scraped off her shoe, I slide my ticket under the opening, beginning to understand why she's behind bullet-proof glass. That personality could get her shot.

Personality Plus disappears into the maze of office cubbies with my ticket clutched tightly in her beefy paw. I shuffle from foot-to-foot, rapidly becoming aware that I'm beginning to sweat--again. Although I'm dressed in my orange jumpsuit, I really don't believe that is the cause of my perspiration. I totally understand why she lacks personality, this woman more than likely deals with her fair share of the dregs of society. Despite my outerwear, I am not a dreg of society. She should be nicer to me.

I continue to perspire.

Personality Plus finally reappears, slides my ticket across the counter, under the glass and barks, "You'll have to appear in court."

"What??? The officer said--"

"I don't care what the officer said, he was wrong. You'll have to appear in court. The Captain said."

Captain, Seargent, Corporal, Hitler, hell if I know who said, but it was someone with more authority than Personality Plus.

"I don't get it, why did the officer say--"

"Just a minute!" She has obviously had her fill of me.

This time Personality Plus is gone for eons. I know it's eons, I'm dehydrating from rapid perspiration.

I take a seat at one of the tables, pondering my dilemma and trying my best not to cry. I call my Dad and ask him to pick Dillon up from school. "I'm waiting for some commander to discuss my ticket with me."

"What ticket?"

Oh, yeah, I neglected to tell anyone I'd been ticketed for driving on an expired license. I quickly explain to my Dad that I was driving on an expired...

"Why didn't you get it renewed??? They send you a notification in the mail!!! Why didn't you get it renewed???" Having driven a truck for his entire life, this situation is beyond my father's comprehension. However, at this point in time, I cannot discuss the pros & cons of getting my license renewed because the Seargent, Corporal, Captain, Leuitenant, General is heading my way with back-up. Apparently, Personality Plus has informed them I might be a littttttle unstable..."I gotta go, please get Dillon." Love you, Dad. Visiting days are on Tuesdays, but you have to have a week "in" before they allow you visitors. Have Mom make sure the kids get something green with their evening meal...my mother-in-law will have to dispense Max's meds---

"I'm Captain Blah-Blah and this is Leuitenant Such & Such, is there something we can help you with?"

I'm forced to explain, once again, what VeryPolite JohnnyLaw had told me on the day prior.

"Unfortunately, that does apply to your type of ticket. Had you left your license on your dresser yesterday morning, this would be applicable. You'll have to appear in court on March 24."

My eyes begin to well up. I know my face is beet red. Oh, dear. I'm wringing wet.

"What are they going to do to me?" I whisper.

"Well, ma'am, I can't say what the judge will do nor can I give you legal advice," I've hear that a MILLION times, "but since it's been expired less than 6 months and you took care of the issue immediately, I'm assuming you'll be fined--"

"What's the fine?"

"I believe it's $75.00," he explains, adding, "If you're this upset, perhaps you should call the Circuit Clerk's office and see if they can move your court appearance up on the docket. Perhaps resolving this as soon as possible will help you feel better."

They were really nice even though nobody offered me a tissue.

I arrive home...nightmare thoughts dogging my every step: suspension, revocation, jail time, high-dollar fines, increased insurance rates...and call the Circuit Clerk's office.

"Yes, can I move my court date up on the docket?" I inquire, mortified that I, owner of the star-light, star-bright, gleaming driving record am forced to discuss a traffic court date.

"When's your court date?"

"March 24th."

Pause.

"When was the ticket issued?" the gal on the other end asks.

"Yesterday," I responded, to which the woman on the phone bursts out laughing.

"Honey, we haven't even gotten those tickets delivered from County yet, it's going to take at least a week or more. Call back then."

"Thank you," I squeak, as if I couldn't feel worse. Her laughter having intensified my utter mortification.

I burst into tears, knowing I'll have to quit my job and inconvenience my parents and in-laws with child transportation. We'll lose our house. Who's going to take the kids to baseball this summer? Oh, wow. This is terrible!!!

At that very moment, my husband walks in..."Why are you crying?"

And I blurt fifty sentences out in ten seconds, sobbing the entire time.

He closes his eyes and gives a quick head shake, "Huh?"

I blurt another twenty sentences out in ten more seconds, continuing to sob.

Shaking his head some more, Birdy says, "I wouldn't worry about it, Dawn, it's a minor traffic issue. It'll be fine. You're over-reacting."

Those are flat-out the worst words in the world to use when I'm over-reacting.

I

am

not

.

Birdy collects his chain saw and heads into the timber to cut us some heat.

I call my friend, Becky, who works for the city at the courthouse. She has nothing to do with County, the Circuit Clerk's office, Traffic Court, Probation, VeryPolite JohnnyLaw or his Commanding Officers. Nothing. She just works for the City. And, unfortunately for her, happens to be my friend.

I explain to Becky what a mess I've made of my life by allowing my license to expire and she tries her best to placate me. "It's minor, Dawn, it's okay. They are NOT going to arrest you, you might--might--get fined, but that's it. There are bigger criminals out there for Traffic Court to deal with, you aren't one of them."

I thank her and we hang up. I still don't feel any better. I cannot get the nightmare problems that person I know had with their driver's license out of my head.

I call an attorney I know. I run my situation by him and he says, "The worst they're gonna do to you is make you pay a fine."

"You're sure?" I ask Jeff.

"Well, no. But, I really, really doubt they're going to do anything more than give you a fine."

"Will they suspend my license?"

Pause.

Oh, boy.

"As long as you caught it before six months, I'd say it's just a fine."

So, it's a possibility...

I decide I might need just a few beers to calm my nerves before proceeding with what small amount of time I have left with my family prior to my incarceration...

Ever notice how it seems like forever until vacation and then all of a sudden, boom! you're packing and getting things ready and hey! vacation is tomorrow! WooHOOOO!

Well, that's how I felt about my date with Traffic Court, minus the boom!, hey!, and WooHOOOO!.

All of a sudden, it's upon me. My date with Traffic Court.

I left early, in the hopes that I'd be one of the first cows outside the doors to Traffic Court. I was, it wasn't quite a herd when I got there. Just me and three other cows. Of course, the cow that arrived after me, she thought she was going to cut in line in front of me and I wouldn't have any part of that. I stepped on her hoof and proceeded through the door, nail file tucked safely in my purse...

I put my name on the sign-in sheet, the bailiff checked the docket for my name and told me to take a seat.

I did.

Sweating.

Here we go.

Crunch Time.

This Is It.

Do Or Die.

I had already made arrangements for my children, and I knew I could call Tommy and Birdy if I needed them to post bail, but just the same...The Moment Had Arrived.

I wanted to puke.

The State's Attorney called my name first. Huh. Here it was totally unnecessary that I stepped on that other heifer's hoof...I'm first.

Is that Good or is that Bad?

I stood at my pew. Okay, they have pews in church. This isn't church. But, it's not a bench, either. That's where the Judge sits and his chair is empty. Where's the Judge?

I timidly moved to the little swinging gate that separates The Dregs from The Officers of the Court.

I stepped into The Court.

The State's Attorney leaned against the empty jury box and asked, "You didn't have your license?"

Didn't he get the memo? The ticket is right in front of him...

Honesty being the best policy I admitted, "Oh, I had it alright, it was expired." I tried hard to keep my voice down, I didn't want to draw attention to my infraction.

"Oh, okay." He smiles. "Can I see it?"

I pull my shiny new driver's license out of my pocket.

Mr. State's Attorney looks it over, hands it back to me, makes a note on my ticket and says, "Okay, you're free to go."

"What?" I can hardly believe what he's just said.

"You can go, now."

"That's it?"

"Yep," Mr. State's Attorney is scribbling information on my ticket.

"No fine?" I ask.

"No fine?" he smiles.

"You're not arresting me?"

Mr. State's Attorney bursts out laughing at me, "No."

"Will you initial my copy of the ticket just in case they change their minds and someone ambushes me at the door?"

Still laughing, Mr. State's Attorney initials my ticket.

I thank him, rapidly heading for the exit, sweating profusely.

I beat the rap. Better make a clean getaway before anyone changes their mind.

Whew.

I picked Dillon up from school, feeling completely relaxed, safe in the knowledge that my driving record is still star-light, star-bright, gleaming, and visible from the surface of the moon with the naked eye.

"Do you have my track suit?" Dillon pounces on me the minute he shuts the car door.

Not ready to relinquish my new-found relaxtion, I tell him that his track suit is ready to go, folded neatly on his bed.

"Good, because that bus leaves in 45 minutes. I have to be on it. I have to be back here in 40 minutes because I don't want them waiting on me."

How nice for "them". Too bad you don't feel that way about me in the mornings.

Obviously, I am not driving fast enough for my son. "Could you hurry?"

"Look, I just beat the rap in Traffic Court and I have no desire to be ticketed for speeding through the subdivision because you have your britches in a bunch over the bus. I have learned the life of crime is not the life for me. I intend to walk the straight and narrow from here on out."

Okay, so that's a slightly dramatic...maybe I did over-react. Just a little. Don't tell my husband, though, okay???

Legs

Last night was the season opener for my favorite show, Dancing With The Stars.

The men in my house complain long and loud over the fact that my show trumps their two million re-runs of hunting or cartoons. I don't care. I never get to watch television, so when I find something I like, they can work around me for a switch.

It's not like I'm making them watch shows about sewing, scrapbooking or making jewelry. The women are usually knock-outs and they're always half-dressed...

Four of us were crammed into a queen-size bed last night, commenting on whether so-and-so had any rhytym. You can stick that word "musicality" in your ear. Rhythym, folks, beat.

Not that I'm an expert, mind you. It's a safe bet that the person holding all the rhythym in this house is my husband.

About a quarter of the way into the show, this tall, top-heavy blonde heads onto the dance floor. She's a sportscaster for football or something...and my husband comments, "Wow. Her legs gotta be ten-feet long."

Grrr.

Whereupon my youngest pipes in with, "Yyyyeaaaaahhhhh."

Birdy and I exchanged looks of surprise over Dustin's head. Perhaps this really isn't family television after all...maybe we should be watching the hunting channel...or Disney...or a ShamWow infomercial.

Further into the show, one of the professional dancers appeared wearing a white fringe dress with a flesh-toned body-hugging liner. As she moved, it appeared her bosom was poking out.

I did a double-take. "Wow, there for a second, I thought that was her actual b___ showing."

Dustin blurts out, "YYYYYyyyyeeeeaaaaahhhh, me tooooooooooo."

Rob burst out laughing, as did Dillon. "Dustin!" I exclaimed, "You really don't need to be looking for those things."

"Whatever, Mom."

Needless to say when Pam Anderson strutted onto the dance floor wearing a sequinned cotton-candy-pink, barely-there outfit, blonde hair teased nearly as high as the mirrored ball, all three of the men in my house held their breath.

I'm sure the littlest one was hoping the straps would give way on that get-up...

It might be comical now, but that kid's going to be hitting high school in a few years...I'm not looking forward to that.

Luck

I've been thinking about luck alot lately, so I decided to look it up in the dictionary. Merriam Webster's Online Dictionary shows luck as a noun, a verb and a transitive verb.

As a transitive verb, luck means to prosper or succeed, especially through chance or good fortune; to come upon something desirable by chance.

Luck is many things to many people. Luck can be a lady tonight, there's the luck of the draw, stars are lucky, luck can be on your side or luck can be fleeting....do you feel lucky to be able to make your mortgage this month? Do you feel lucky some days, to have a job when so many other's don't? Are you lucky because you have healthy children? Do lottery winners really feel that lucky two or three years into their winnings, when every Tom, Dick and Harry has come out of the woodwork? How lucky did that actress feel after having won so many awards for her work, only to learn, possibly days later, that her husband had been cheating on her...consistently...for nearly a year?

Really, what is luck?

"I bought a strip of tickets and B bought the strip of tickets behind me," Birdy announced to me, at the youth baseball benefit a couple years ago.

"Yes?"

"B won the the 50-50. That's my luck, Baby, that's my luck."

"You've got great luck," I laughed.

"How do you figure?" he asked.

"You got me..." I told him, big cheezy smile on my face.

"So, I burned all my luck on you???"

"Yep."

Birdy got the last puppy in the litter. He let his best friend, Mark, choose between the two remaining pups. Was it luck?

I didn't know Max as a puppy. I met him in the prime of his life. He was six. Thinking about it now, I thought he was older. Perhaps the beginnings of his white beard made him seem older at the time.

Max was a nice boy, I just couldn't put my finger on what made him a nice boy.

It certainly wasn't his annoying arf. He arfed his brains out for years. Literally.

Birdy would pull in the driveway when we lived in town and Max would Arf! Arf! Arf!

Lord.

Max would Arf! every morning for breakfast.

Max would Arf! when the kids & I pulled into the driveway.

At the Cabin, there were a handful of dogs and they Arfed their brains out. On big weekends, tents scattered about the yard, bodies scattered about the house, all beds full, at daybreak, the Arf!ing began. It always seemed to be Max. Being just outside the bedroom windows, the kennel was in a horrid location. Either Birdy or Mark would get up, stomp to the bathroom window, whip it open and bellow, "MAX! SHUT UP."

Say good-bye to shut eye.

It never failed. One person would turn over in a tent half an acre away and Max and his brother, Lightning, were pretty sure there was something in it for them.

Angie, Mark's wife, and I always knew when the guys were back from: the goose pit, the duck blind, the tree stand, or town. The Arfing was phenomenal. Lightning barked, but Max? It was a distinct Arf!. Perfectly timed: Arf! pause. Arf! pause. Arf!Arf! pregnant pause...and the whole cycle began anew. Lord, let that dog out of that kennel! Do something with that hound...

Some days those dogs were exhausting, just like their Dads.

When Birdy finally got our house closed-in, and we'd sold the house in town too early, Max, SissyCat-Chloe, and Birdy moved into the new basement. I took the boys and Chelsea to live in one room at my parent's house.

Max was in heaven. He got to sleep in the bed with his Dad and there was even a cat to pester when nobody was looking.

Our bed sucked. It sucked terribly. I hated that bed. It was like sleeping in a hole, so being lucky to get shut-eye at my parents, with two kids and a golden retriever in that bed, my husband was hard-pressed to get me to sleep in a 50 degree basement, on a bed that was nothing but a glorified divet. With him.

I gave it a whirl, one time, and one time only, before our new mattress was delivered.

One time.

I woke up in the middle of the night, looking down the business end of a nose. It was wet. It was black. It was backed-up by two orbs giving me evil stink-eye.

Max.

Obviously, I had his spot.

It wasn't easy, but I was lucky to fall back asleep.

I woke up later, to his fat ass walking across me, trying to squeeze between me and his Dad. Are you kidding me? You want to be in this bed?

I guess he felt lucky to be off the hard floor and even luckier to be able to sleep next to his Daddy.

When we got here, Max still had a tendency to disappear into the timber for hours on end. Since he was stone-deaf, it was really difficult to locate Max. I'd put Max's collar on him and attach the leash. That was that. Max wouldn't move. Couldn't go anywhere. He would drop his head, drop his tail and lay down, positive I'd hobbled him for life. All this over a leash. Are you kidding me? That dog wouldn't take off if his ass was on fire.

I can remember when Birdy was doing the trim work in the house. One window, one door, one wall, one board at a time. Time-consuming, exactly measured, precisely cut, I didn't realize it until now, but I never heard him cuss and I can't recall him ever having screwed a piece up. He loved it.

But Max? He loved it more. It was alot of work for Max. Following his Daddy from room to room, while Daddy measured, back to the saw, while Daddy cut, only to get up and go with Daddy while he nailed the piece of trim in place. There was no rest for Max, but he didn't care. He knew he was just lucky to be helping his Daddy.

I was standing in the garage one day, Birdy & Max were working in the house, we still had the paper down over the hardwood floor in the hallway. I heard Birdy yelling, "No! Get outside! NO! NO! Dammit, Max!"...out the door comes Max, tail wagging, Birdy running behind him with paper towels.

"What's wrong? What'd he do?"

"He's pissing his way down the hall!!!!" woops. Lucky he didn't poop.

About the time we got settled in this new house, Dustin began a love affair with baseball. Never having been a jock myself--I rode horses instead--me and my three boys would head out to the front yard to play catch.

Max had to be in the kennel. He could not be in the yard with us while we played catch. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I would miss a throw and Max would take off with the ball. I always miss the ball, but Max would not miss his opportunity at the ball...

Max would Arf! his brains out at us. It was rude, to be sure, to play ball without a black dog, but it was necessary or there was no catch for the people.

I don't know if Birdy ever really had to discipline Max. I'm not sure. I wasn't around when Max was a puppy. The only thing I ever knew Birdy to do was to take his hat off and shake it at Max.

Max hated that hat.

Hated, hated, hated Daddy's hat. Hated it.

It was the only thing that made the Arf!ing stop.

Birdy would take the hat off, make a face, shake the hat, point that hat...and Max would drop his head, drop his tail, and sulk off to the corner of his kennel. I know this sounds awful, but it was so funny. That mean ol' hat.

Here me and my kids are trying to play catch and Max was Arf!ing to beat the band. Much to Coach Ryan's dismay, nobody was wearing a hat. And that dog would NOT stop Arf!ing at us. Refused.

After about ten minutes of constant Arf!ing, I had an epiphany. I said to the boys, "Watch this."

I took my glove off, put it on my head, and stomped towards Max's kennel. When I got close enough, I bellowed, "No!", whipped the glove off my head, pointed it, shook it and Max dropped his head, dropped his tail and sulked off to the corner.

I could not believe it. If that didn't look totally stupid. But, it worked.

I'd pull into the driveway after work, and Max would start to Arf!. God, in heaven, shut the hell up, please. You're on a long list of people who want something from me and I don't want to hear it. God, stop. Stop the infernal Arf!ing. Please.

One day, it hit me.

No, don't stop Arf!ing. "Dillon, run let Max out, please. Shoot hoops and keep an eye on him, okay?"

I've always hated dog hair. Love dogs, hate the hair. As time wore on, I accepted the hair that flew about the garage while Max laid in front of the fan, sleeping peacefully, waiting for Daddy to come home.

He was always waiting for Daddy. I might be the Treat Train, but Max was his Daddy's dog.

"Are you taking him to the Cabin with you this weekend?" I'd ask Birdy.

"I don't have to. Why, you want him here?"

"Yeah, he can help me work in my flowers." And he always did. I'd pull weeds and Max would sniff and piss his way through the yard, eventually coming to rest about ten feet away. He'd lay down, cross his front legs, and wait for me to finish my flower bed. Then, he'd sniff and piss our way to the next flower bed.

I never had to look up to know if Max was there, I could smell him.

He smelled like poop.

Literally. Just like poop.

No matter how strong the breeze, Max always had company in the summer. There was a constant gnat-pack swarming around his butt. All summer long.

He loved to help me water the flowers. Max came right up to the hose to get a drink, just like kids. I'd hold the hose out and Max would try to lap the water, in the air. It was the funniest thing to see, this dog lapping at the stream of water, smelling like poop.

Of course, being a water dog, Max loved water in any form. He wasn't too proud to waller in a big puddle, fish guts, the creek, the hose. Water was water. "He found mud," Dillon would say. Runs a close second to water, sugar.

"Get him a pool," I said to my husband one day.

So Birdy stopped at Lowe's or WalMart and picked up two plastic kiddie pools. One for Max, one for Katie. How sweet was that? Explain the concept to the dogs, honey...like they care...Max loved his pool. Every spring, we'd drag out the pools, fill them with water and have wet dog hair stuck to everything in the garage.

Two years ago, on opening weekend of dove season, it was really, really blisteringly hot. It was awful. Birdy and Dillon took Katie to the sunflower patch out front to dove hunt. Max? Max got stuck in the sky kennel in the garage, in front of the fan.

"Put him in the sky kennel in the basement. It's much cooler down there with the air on," I suggested.

"He'll be fine right here," Birdy said.

"But the gate on the sky kennel is broke."

Birdy shoved a bar stool in front of the door, "That'll hold him."

That wouldn't hold a strong breeze, bonehead..."I don't think that's going to work," I told him, heading back into the house to can my jam.

I took a break on the porch swing, watching my husband, my son, and Katie hunt doves...with Max.

Birdy walked up to the porch, "Well, he's not totally deaf."

"What's he doing out there???" That's my baby. He's old. He doesn't need to be out in that horrid heat digging dead doves out of the weeds for you!

"He heard the shotgun, comes sulking out to the patch, head down, tail between his legs, scared to death. I let him hunt. He's doing well," and before I could say anything else, "I have a bucket of water out there for him, too."

You'd better.

I could go on and on and on about Max. The most demanding, annoying hound I'd ever met, until Chelsea.

Or perhaps, by the time Chelsea became demanding and annoying, Max had mellowed? I don't know.

There was always something reassuring about borrowing a book from Rupp Library and knowing, as I sat in the garage reading that book, an old black dog would come lay next to me so I could love him.

Or watching Max wander aimlessly about the yard, tail-wagging, happily sniffing and pissing his way through my flowers.

"He's so happy you finally found him a good woman," I'd tell Birdy.

Or sitting in the garage, putting my make-up on, old white-faced black dog laying at my feet, needing me to pet him with one hand while I put my eyeliner on with the other hand.

He'd happily greet anyone who pulled in the driveway, the old white-faced black dog. Tail wagging, almost smiling, gnats swarming, as he cheerfullly shared his smell with company. Never once, in all the years I'd known him, did I ever think Max would bite someone. He'd take an arm off at the shoulder for a treat, but I don't know that he ever considered biting a soul.

The last puppy in the litter became the last puppy in the litter. Cajun, Chad's pup, Max's brother, died of cancer about three years ago. Lightning, Mark's pup, Max's other brother, had congestive heart failure, too, and they lost him a little over a year ago.

Max fought his battle with congestive heart failure, tough as nails, his Dad would say.

And he was.

But his kidneys weren't as tough as nails.

One dog, positive he was going to die of neglect, was going to die from kidney failure.

The vet offered us dialysis, but Max's Dad finally said no. Enough is enough for a good dog. When you start doing things for yourself and not for the pet, it's time to stop.

Our luck had finally run out.

Were we lucky to have those family portraits taken by Jill Sanders? Not to hear my husband tell. He bitched and moaned and groaned and complained for days. That was before he found out how much I paid for those portraits. Those beautiful family portraits taken on the beautiful family farm surrounded by the beautiful ancient oak trees that are no more, with our beautiful children and wonderful dogs. I'm pretty sure my husband feels very lucky to have had a wife who insisted on a family portrait with the dogs, or we wouldn't have the beautiful portrait of a man and his dog, who is now a memory, at the top of this post.

Are we lucky to live in a new house out in the country? Yes, we are.

Are we lucky to have healthy children? Without a doubt, we're lucky.

Are we lucky to have healthy parents? Very lucky.

Are we lucky to have jobs? Yep, that's luck in this economy.

Let's face it, we're never going to win seven-digits-in-front-of-the-decimal-point- please-Lord-lottery, and that's okay. We've got our luck in other places, wouldn't you agree?

Birdy got the last puppy in the litter, and he was the last puppy in the litter.

We're pretty lucky.

Environmental vs. Hereditary

I have long-believed that some issues are inherited and other issues come from environmental exposure.

Take alcoholism. I have always believed the tendency towards alcholism is partly inherited, and should a person with those genetic tendencies be raised in an environment where alcoholism is prevalent, the individual with the genetic tendencies is pretty much screwed.

This past Sunday, Birdy and I were busy in the garage, completing our last-minute winter projects.

Birdy's project was preparing his turkey decoy. Birdy took one turkey from last season, "caped" it out and froze it. Saturday, he thawed the "outside" of the turkey to use over a decoy. This should make Birdy's decoy more realistic. He hopes. He thinks. We'll see.

When Dillon shot his first bow-kill, I decided to keep part of the hide to tan.

Tannning an entire hide is a total pain. It's a great idea in the beginning, but it turns out to be a whole load of work.

This yearling was so soft, the fur so thick, I couldn't resist. What a neat way to keep a piece of my son's first bow kill? I decided to take a small section and make a throw for the back of a chair or maybe a fur "doilie".

I realized Sunday that the pelt was still in the fridge, still salted, from this past fall. Since my husband had his turkey shell scattered all about the garage, I may as well join him.

I found my tanning directions and sat down with the hide and a sharp knife. I made a pathetic attempt to scrape the fat off the hide. This is the worst part. After a few lame scrapes, my husband came over and scraped for me. I kept telling him, "Hey, I can get this..."

I tried not to protest too loudly, though.

Once the fat was gone, I had to rinse the hide and then re-salt it with non-iodized salt (pickling salt) and put it back in the refrigerator until I can run down some citric acid.

Birdy, having cleaned up his turkey hide, was busy sprinkling Borax all over it. I made a comment about Dillon's turkey butt that had been sitting on top of the garage 'fridge for over a year, "Kid's been asking about it."

"Oh, well, I can work on that, too!"

Great idea! Yeah! Let's clear all the dead critters out of the corners! There's several deer skulls on the back patio, decomposing, along with a coyote hide in the freezer.

"How you gonna get all that Borax off that hide?" I asked.

"I guess I scrape it."

"Why don't you wash it?"

Birdy frowned at me, "Can't wash it, it'll ruin the feathers."

"How do you figure? Turkeys get rained on all the time."

"Yes, but this turkey can't prune itself."

My forehead immediately screwed into a frown and I began mumbling....prune. Prune? Prune. Prune is a fruit. You prune a tree. An old woman is a shriveled up old prune....prune...Prune.

Birdy peers at me and asks, "What are you doing???" Like he didn't already know what was coming.

"Prune."

"Yes, prune."

"Prune is a fruit...what's the word I'm looking for??? PREEN! Birds preen!"

"Who cares??? I mean, you knew what I meant! You knew," long pause, "I was close."

Then, we both fell-out laughing.

"You think it's hereditary! You think it's genetic! It's NOT! It's environmental, too! I know it is! He's always close!" I laughed.

He being my father.

Birdy laughs some more...and I commented, "I wouldn't be surprised if it's not something in the water out here...."

After a delicious dinner of corned beef and cabbage prepared by my mother, Birdy and I were nursing our over-stuffed midsections watching something I'd found on the History Channel.

I love history and my brain is filled with useless information regarding history, social studies, and geography. My husband's brain isn't filled with this useless information. He has his own special brand of useless information...

He climbs into the bed next to me and after a few minutes, asks, "Where did they find this Shroud?"

We were watching a show about the Shroud of Turin and how it might actually be real and the radio-carbon dating done on it might really be wrong.

Having already explained most of the show to him, he stumped me. I couldn't answer that history question. That bothered me so I had to hit the internet on the next commercial.

I googled, get this, The Shroud of Turpin.

Turpin is the hunting buddy of Rob's that just passed away.

Oh, Lord. It IS a mixture of hereditary and environment. And I bet it's in the water, too. Oh, man.

Just so you know, the Shroud of Turin was located in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist in Turin, Italy. It just turned-up. No one is sure where it came from...

Today, I was taking the kids and myself to the dentist. I hate going to the dentist. By the time I get there, I'm exhausted. They have you recline in the most comfortable chair and then begin grinding away on your teeth and gums. Meanwhile, my boys are shredding the office...

As we pulled into the parking lot, Dustin spurts forth with, "Oh, Reb Lodster! No, Reb Lodster. I mean, Reb Lobster...aw, man."

Dillon and I are cackling.

"Red Lobster, Dustin?" I asked.

"Yeah, that."

After our cleanings, we piled back in the TrailBlazer whereupon Dustin announces, "There's Duckin' Donuts."

Are you kidding me?

"Dunkin', Dustin, Dunkin'."

"Oooohhhhh!!!"

Maybe I should invest in bottled water...