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...

Spoiled Rotten

When Birdy and I first started dating and he learned I was an only child, he automatically assumed I was "spoiled rotten". We'll leave the brat part out.

I took offense to this comment. Having held down three jobs for the majority of my adult life (prior to birthing children), I didn't feel that I was spoiled. So, I'm an only child, what's that got to do with anything?

I wasn't the kid who got something everytime we went to the store. More the opposite, actually.

Sure, I got a horse in high school. I was also the one taking care of her in all types of inclement weather. Hauling warm water in the winter, mucking stalls, fly wipe-downs in the summer, mowing the barn lot...there's alot of work involved with horses.

I had a house of my own, but I kept it up. I kept it clean and I paid for most of the home-improvements that went along with it. With my three jobs...

Yes, I had a sports car, but I bought it and I paid for it. With my three jobs...

I like to have things my way, but show me one woman who doesn't want things her way??? Or a man, for that matter. I don't always win, but I do try...

That said, when Birdy & I first started dating, he was living in his Granny's old house. His Granny was living in Louisiana with his parents. Birdy & some buddies poured a concrete pad in the backyard for a kennel.

For Max. Birdy's black lab. Birdy's hunting dog.

Now, when we started dating, I had a dog, also. She was a Rottweiler and she had no idea she was a Rottweiler. We didn't tell her she was a Rottweiller, so Dago (she was named after a custom-cycle shop in San Diego), neglected to eat my children.

Dago had a kennel and a dog house in my backyard. She played daily with my boys. A good-natured girl.

Birdy wasn't too keen on my Rottweiler. He was pretty sure she was going to eat one of my kids. Or a neighbor kid. Or maybe even him. But, she didn't.

After we'd started dating, Birdy would stay at my house and Max would stay at Granny's. I found this to be a total waste. Max needed to come live with us.

"No. He's my hunting dog and I'm not going to have him chewed-up by your Rottweiler."

Are you kidding me? She didn't even chew shoes as a puppy.

Every morning when I got off work from my third-shift job, I stopped by Granny's and took care of Max. Every morning.

When the weather got hot, I found a tarp to put over his kennel so he didn't have to bake. Nevermind that my lush, green backyard was shaded by an enormous elm tree. Max couldn't come live with us. Dago would chew him up...

One morning, I decided I'd had enough. If I wasn't going to take care of Max on my way home from work, he wouldn't get taken care of until after Birdy got off work and that wasn't fair to a black dog in the hot summer.

So, I brought him home with me. I didn't ask anyone, I just did it. By this time, Max and I had our own thing going on...

Max and Dago became fast-friends. They fell in love. She hovered over him like her mother hovered over his dad.

Now, Max, having had many different homes over the years, probably wasn't too sure about his new "digs". I'm positive his dad wasn't too sure of his new "digs", either. But I was. At some point, that summer, I'd made up my mind..."I'm keeping it."

Meaning Birdy.

Which included the dog.

The most ill-mannered hound on the planet, until I met Chelsea, my golden retriever.

Every morning, when the alarm went off, I'd flip on the basement light to get the dog food ready. Downstairs, on the deep freeze, I'd pour food for two dogs, who had their noses pressed against the basement window, salivating in anticipation of a delicious breakfast, hand-prepared by their mother. And Purina...

Dago would stare.

Max, on the other hand, arfed.

At 0500 in the morning.

Arf! Arf! Arf ARF!

The neighbors loved us. I know it. They so loved us, they shared the love with Bartonville's finest in the form of reporting me for barking dogs. They loved loved loved me, but they loved loved loved my barking dogs more.

I felt they needed to move to a retirement community in Siberia. No outside dogs there....

I'd hustle up the steps with breakfast. Dago ate like a lady, Max didn't even taste his food. One quick inhale. Never a taste. Then, he'd hop up on the back steps and nudge me with his nose, wanting lovin'.

It was at this point, months into a relationship with Max's dad, I could identify with Max.

His dad, although a very good man, could be pretty difficult at times.

"I can do my own laundry..." well, then, go ahead...

"I can cook my own food..." please, be my guest...

"I need _____." "I need you to ______." "Hey, I need______."

There were nights I'd call Max's dad and ask, "Are you coming home???"

"Yes, after I finish this beer..." which meant he was definately ordering at least three more.

How many times, on the way home from hunting, had a black dog been stuffed inside a sky kennel waiting on that golden moment "after I finish this beer"?

At the cabin, my husband would turn Max loose and Max would just take off.

Away he would go, tail wagging happily, sniffing and pissing, totally oblivious to the bellows of his father, "Max! COME!"

You betcha, Daddy, right after I finish this beer....

Then the day came when Dago was diagnosed with cancer and we had to put her down. I was devastated. The kids were devastated, but my husband? Ah, my husband, so sure that my Rottweiler was going to devour every high-dollar hunting dog at the cabin, He Was Devastated.

Capital D.

Then, it was just me & Max in the mornings over the breakfast inhale. We'd sit on the steps, me being nudged, and chat. What a sweet dog, even if he is a little hard-headed.

Well, really hard-headed.

Pretty sure he gets that from his Daddy...

Every now and again, when Daddy wasn't looking, Mama would sneak in a little treat for Max.

Green beans. Max LOVES green beans...

Left over hot dogs.

Slice of cheese.

"What are you making for breakfast?" my husband would ask, "Eggs."

"That's an awful lot of eggs."

"Yep."

"How much of it do I get?"...well, not quite as much as that dog of yours...

Max was starting to learn that, although his Daddy was The Man, Buttered Bread comes directly from Mama...

And Max began to age. The gray in his beard travelled down to his chest. He started to lose his hearing...tiptoeing over and old black dog asleep on the back steps wasn't quite as difficult anymore. But we still had our moments on the back steps, snugglin' and a-lovin'...and Mama always made sure there was a treat somewhere for Max...

Daddy would take him hunting, Mommy made sure there was cheese and aspirin waiting for an old dog.

Daddy would take him to the Cabin where Max would "waller" in fish guts, Mommy would make sure there was a nice trip to the groomers on the agenda. Or perhaps a cut & curl in the backyard...

Daddy would take him hunting, Mommy would load him up in the Yukon to just go around the block. Or a BigDog TruckRide out to see Grammy & Papa. Just because. Just because he was the nicest boy.

Thoroughly annoying with his very demanding Arf! ARF! Hey, don't forget about me...like that's possible. Like Max would ever allow us to forget about him...

Then Max was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. And it scared me. Being Daddy, I automatically put him in charge of Max's medicine. But, being Daddy, he wasn't consistent with the medication. So, I took the bottle and read the directions. And I took over dispensing pharmaceuticals.

It has become my second-calling...

In the beginning, being the Treat Train, I could get Max to take an aspirin or his lasix plain...but as time wore on, he didn't like the taste of them pills...so I invested heavily in dog treats. One for each pill. There's alot of pills...

And that was splendid.

Then the esophagus began to calcify. That made eating for Max even more difficult...so I invested in canned dog food.

"Canned dog food is horrible for dogs!" Max's Daddy said.

"At this late stage in the game, I really don't think it matters much what he eats, so long as he eats."

And eat he did.

We were busted. We'd been holding out on this dog all his life. Canned dog food and nobody told Max about it.

Medicine three times a day, treats two times a day and canned dog food at dinner. Who cares about hearing? The food around here is awesome!!!

Every time I walk into the garage, Max is sure I'm fishing out a treat with his name on it. And I usually do.

Birthday? Steak for dinner.

New Year's Eve? Steak for dinner.

Imagine my surprise on Monday, when I loaded up Max's treats and laid them in front of him and he nudged them with his nose, looking away.

He didn't eat them.

I panicked. OMG. The calcification is getting worse! Oh, NO!!!!

I left the treats with Max and went to work. When I came home, the treats were still laying there. This isn't good. Max must have his pills. Must. Must. Must.

I had to figure out how to get him to eat his pills, he was already behind on the day for his medicine. I don't know if I can play catch-up and double-dose...

I decided to try a slice of cheese.

And he inhaled it.

Are you kidding me? Here I was worried about the cacification...

Next dose, filled treats.

Max eye-balled me, nudging treats around, pathetic ho-hum look on his face...

Huh uhhhh.

You rotten dog.

Spoiled.

Rotten.

Dog.

And his Dad thinks I'm spoiled rotten.

I hollered in the house at the boys,"Get me a slice of cheese, please!!!"

Game Over.

I cannot afford to stuff steak with medication. I can't. Max isn't covered under Daddy's prescription plan...

Max is a monster of my own creating, and I love love love spoiling him...

Analog, Digital & Parenting Success

When I was a child, prior to graduating to Barbies, my favorite toy was a doll named Timey Tell. She came outfitted with a watch. Set the time on Timey's watch and by pulling her string, she'd tell the time. I got a watch to go along with Timey's watch. I loved Timey Tell so much, by the time I hit kindergarten, I'm pretty sure I was on my second Timey Tell and well on my way to telling time.

Dustin requires bath time supervision. Length and duration are a problem, especially when no soap or shampoo is involved. The inability to dry off with a towel also comes into play. He'll stand with a towel wrapped around himself and drip dry. Or wander the house aimlessly, wrapped in a towel, drip-drying on my floor.

As I was assisting in the drying process last night, Dustin was handed an excellent opportunity to tattle on Dillon.

"Dillon got in the shower at the thirty-five and didn't get out until the zero-zero."

Holding back a smile, I asked, "So, how long was Dillon in the shower?"

"The eight is twenty so that would put him in the shower for thirty-five."

"Uh, no."

Peering over my shoulder at the analog clock hanging on the wall behind me, Dustin corrected himself, "Twenty-five."

"Yes, twenty-five minutes."

This exchange helped Dustin to further his time-telling abilities and side-tracked him from further tattling on Dillon. Too bad Timey Tell is a thing of the past, she might have made someone an excellent Christmas gift...

One of our Big Rules in the morning is no t.v. We don't have video games in the mornings, either. I have a hard enough time getting my children out the door in a timely fashion without the distraction of brain-sucking video games or ridiculous cartoons about who lives in a pineapple under the sea.

Dillon was given an excellent opportunity to tattle on Dustin this morning.

"You're not supposed to do the Wii before school, Dustin! Mom!!!"

I was en-route to the kids' end of the house anyway, so I witnessed the next exchange firsthand...

"I'm not doing Wii, Dillon," Dustin was quite serious, "I'm just doing deep breathes."

Deep breathes? Deep breathing or deep breath? Which one, Little Dickie?

How about yoga? Can we just say "yoga"?

I have yet to determine if Dillon's favorite past-time is hunting or pointing out how totally wrong Dustin is during his every-waking moment...

"Well, you aren't burning any calories, Dustin."

"I know, Dillon, I'm just doing deep breathes."

"Well, let's shut this thing off and finish getting ready," I suggested, since the morning was going very well: no biting, no fighting, no screaming, no running, no name-calling, and no 'rassling.

Prior to putting the house in Bartonville on the market, I'd read many a self-help magazine article about achieving success in the housing market. One suggestion was to paint the front door an eye-catching, complimentary color.

I can paint. I'll paint anything that stands still long enough. Absolutely anything.

This should frighten my husband.

I chose to paint our front door barn red. I love red.

At the time, Dillon asked why and I explained, "Well, I'm hoping it will help sell the house."

Our house was gray with black and white trim and the barn red door just made a statement. It looked great. Did it help sell the house? I doubt it, but it made me feel like I'd done something positive.

Last fall, my parents re-sided their house. They went from gray to tan with brown and white trim. It turned out great. However, Mom had a dilemma on her hands...what color to paint the front door.

She asked me if I had any suggestions. On any given day, I'm full of suggestions, among other things. This just happened to be one of the few instances I didn't have a good suggestion. Mom stumped me.

Driving the boys to school this morning, as I do every morning, I looked at my parent's house. I noticed that my mom had painted her front door.

Red.

Not barn red. Red with brown/tan undertones. A rusty-red. It looks awesome. Their house sits off the road quite a ways, and the door still pops from a distance. Great job!

"Look! Grammy & Papa painted their front door," I told the kids as we were driving past the house.

Everyone agreed that it looked nice.

"Are they going to sell their house?" Dillon asked.

Like an epiphany, it hit me. Something I'd said to my son stuck. My son heard me AND actually retained the information. I could hardly believe it.

Wow.

Parenting success.

Finally.

At thirteen.

I think this is the second time my son has heard and retained information I've spewed-forth. Nevermind that it's basically USELESS information in the big scheme of things. This information probably won't get him a good-paying job. I doubt he wins any awards for knowing that painting a door might help sell a house. This information isn't going to keep him out of jail. I don't know that he's retained any of the other informatiion I've tried to pass along: no drinking, no drugs, and no kissing girls until at least 35...

This might be the second time Dillon's actually retained something I've said. Maybe. Or maybe I'm mistaken and Dustin is the other instance of hearing and retention. Possibly.

None the less, it's a success in my book. They may not put their laundry away or pick up after themselves, but they've each heard me and retained.

Once. Each.

Cross your fingers they've heard and retained that bit about no drugs, no alcohol and no kissing girls until at least 35...at the very least...

Squirrel Karma October 2009

I've had my issues with squirrels over the years. Sure, they're cute in a rodent sort of way, I guess. But, not really. They're annoying, to say the least. Destructive, to be sure...

Several years ago, I decided to try my hand at growing oak trees from acorns. Does anyone know how hard it is to grow an oak tree from an acorn? Take a walk through hard timber sometime. Doesn't appear to be too difficult for Mother Nature. However, it's proven to be quite an ordeal for a mere mortal like myself.

I called the local nursery and inquired how to go about growing a mighty oak from a little nut. The first thing they asked me was, "Are your acorns viable?"

Huh? Viable, what the hell do you mean, "viable"? It would've taken me too long to look that up in the dictionary (not the DickTionary), and the guy on the other end would've known I was looking it up in the dictionary, so I just said, "What's viable?"

"Well, will they grow?"

I never thought to ask them...

"I don't know, will they?"

"You have to test them, have you tested them?"

I just wanted to know how long to freeze them. Someone told me they have to be frozen. Now, I'm grilling acorns with questions and tests...

"Uh, how do you test them?"

I can hear him smiling from the other end of the line...yeah, this is cute, isn't it? Fun for you doesn't always equal fun for me, thanks...

"Put them in a small bowl of water. If they float, they're viable. If they sink, they aren't. Pitch the sinkers."

That's simple. "How long do I freeze them for?"

"A month."

Barely cover them, blah blah blah. I kinda had the rest figured out.

So, I swam my acorns and pitched the fellers that couldn't swim, tossed them in a zippie with some damp black dirt and threw them in the freezer. Thirty days later I pulled them out and me and my boys made an enormous production of planting them in a pot in my front yard.

Two days later, a squirrel--who had access to the sixty foot PIN OAK across the street--proceeded to dig all three of my formerly frozen, once viable acorns out of my flower pot. I was livid. I'd have shot him on the spot, but unfortunately I still lived in town. Why my acorns? What was wrong with the ones the pin oak was providing? Afraid to cross the road??? Mine were acorns from the Burr Oaks at the School House & I wanted them to plant in my new yard at my new house...Hello?

I was no longer sitting on the fence when it came to squirrels. I didn't like them at all....

Not one bit.

Huh-uh.

Kill them all.

Coincidentally, about that time, my husband decided he hadn't been squirrel hunting since he was a kid & he was positive my children would absolutely love to go squirrel hunting.

Really? It's all that, huh?

Leave it to my husband to make sure squirrel hunting is an art-form alot like bow hunting or turkey hunting. Up before day break, line the boys up and cover them completely in camo. Drag them out the door and into the timber before gray light. I mean, really? Why all the fuss? The squirrels I've witnessed are busy ALLLLLLLLLLL day long and they don't seem the type of animal you can sneak up on...or sit in a tree and hide from...but, whatever.

That first morning I arrived at my parents house about the time my three boys had left the timber. Rob's truck was backed up to Dad's morton building and Dustin was standing on the tailgate, dimples deep, positively beaming, holding a half-dozen dead squirrels by the tail in each of his fat, little hands.

Gross. I may hunt, but I'm still a girl. Dead squirrels is gross. Yuk, go wash your hands, boy.

The boys were smaller at the time, so they were totally thrilled to share their experience with me. Now that I'm a lower life form than plankton they don't much care to discuss anything with me, but back then, wow! And boy had Birdy wow'ed them. They couldn't wait to go again. I think Rob might have been laid-off at the time, for maybe a week, so he was in charge of babysitting anyway...and what better way to entertain my masses then by all of them killing something. May as well be squirrels.

Later, I asked my husband, "Did they really enjoy it?" I just couldn't see my kids enjoying such a small animal being pulverized. Boy, was I wrong.

"They loved it."

"Really?" Disbelief written all over my face.

"You should've heard them. The first one I shot was eighty feet up a walnut tree...I put my scope on him and dropped him like a stone," Rob's grinning, "He hit the dirt, Dillon & Dustin just started laughing."

"That's sick." Rob frowned at me. I'm a mom, I'm a girl, isn't this what serial killers start out doing? Killing things for the sheer joy of killing? It kinda scared me.

It didn't scare me enough to tell any of the three they couldn't go squirrel hunting the very next morning. I hadn't forgotten about the little peckerhead that had taken my VIABLE acorns...

The next day, we took PICTURES with dead squirrels. Yeah, pretty sick.

I'm well-aware that we're a book full of sick tickets...

The kids went with Junior that weekend, so I said to my husband, "Take me squirrel hunting." I was probably planning to water my acorns that day or something and since I had nothing better to do, I figured I'd see what all the fuss was about...

Up in the middle of the night, dressed in full-camo (yes, a shower & make-up for Mother), we trucked into the timber while it was still dark outside. Rob & I found a tree trunk and made ourselves comfortable. About gray light, a doe and her fawns walked up on us and stood for nearly 15 minutes, eating (you guessed it, acorns) and trying to determine exactly what Rob & I were...that was neat. That was really neat. We didn't really have the time to mess with deer, though, we had squirrels to harvest...

The sun rose a little higher and gradually squirrel activity began..."Okay," Rob whispers (you've got to be kidding me...his rifle has a scope on it, I really don't think the squirrels will hear us), "the sun's just starting to rise, so the tops of the trees will have sunlight in them. That's where we're going to find our squirrels. They're in the tops of the walnut trees collecting walnuts..." We Elmer-Fudded our way towards an enormous walnut tree, Rob raised his rifle and looked through the scope. "There's one in the top of that walnut tree," he says softly. I look up high and yes--yes, I can see the little rodent moving branches around. "Okay, now, watch this."

Bang.

POP! Tink! Tink-tink--pop, thump, whoosh, THUD.

That squirrel smacked the ground doing Mach 3...

I GIGGLED WITH GLEE

...all I could think about was my viable acorns. I ain't killed nobody yet, so I think its safe to say the boys probably won't turn out to be serial axe-murderers or anything...

but who knows?

...I said to my husband, "Do it again!!!"

Rob did. We bagged squirrels until nearly 10 in the morning. Of course, since we didn't have Dustin with us, I was forced to "retrieve"...yuk. I'm not a labrador, I'm a girl.

Several days later, Rob & Dad decided it was time to clear gutted squirrels stored in the refrigerator and bag them for the freezer. I was upstairs on the computer at Mom's and was wandering down the steps when I heard my father and my husband bickering...

"I don't know. Do you?" I recognize my father's giggle.

"Well I know that's not how you spell it."

"How do you know?"

"I just do," Rob peeks around the corner, looks back at Dad and says, "Let's ask Dawn."

Walking into the kitchen I queried, "Let's ask Dawn what?"

The over-sized boys looked at one another and then at me, Dad beaming just like Lil and Rob who's smiling sheepishly asks, "How do you spell squirrel?"

Huh uh.

HUH UH.

You canNOT be serious.

I blinked hard.

"How do YOU spell squirrel?" I asked them both...

Dad responds proudly with: "S Q U A R E L."

I blinked hard a few more times but held my tongue...sometimes it just hurts, you know?

I looked to my husband who truly looks as though he is sure he will win the Spelling Bee, "S Q U I R R E L," he pauses a moment and then adds, "L".

They had a 50% chance of getting it right. And neither of them did. I pursed my lips (just like Lil) to keep from laughing out loud, pointed at Rob and said, "You're closest." I promptly walked out the door...

Of course, this sends them into a tither. Like labelling a bag "squarel" won't be good enough for the person who chooses the bag to thaw. I mean, my Mom MIGHT be the one sent to the freezer and since she's got the most seniority with my Dad, I'm pretty sure she could figure out that "Squarel" really means Squirrel. It's got a Q in it.

Not like she's going to mistake it for PORK or something....

The boys continued on bagging their squarels and marking them with the date & contents. When they completed this task, Dad proudly showed me a labelled bag. In black, Sharpie Fine Point Marker, Dad had written "Tree Rats".

That settles that.

So, today (yes, I told you those stories just to get to this story), I was sitting in my truck, driver's side door open, glancing thru a magazine while taking a short break from cleaning JimVs house.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark blur. Their dog, Smokey is black, I assumed it was Smokey...but it was kinda small...I looked up...catching the blur as it rounds the corner of JimVs fence...oh, a squirrel...he's not moving so fast that I cannot determine he is not only black, but also dark brown. All the squirrels I've watched bicker and bark over acorns from my tree stand, I've never seen one that's dark brown. I'm assuming it's quite possible, and here he comes whipping thru an opening in the gate, and he is headed--NO LIE--directly at my truck...my door is standing wide open and he's not even flinching...I"m sitting with my feet on the side boards, slightly spread apart and seriously, this little peckerhead could jump into my lap, scratching and clawing his way OVER my face and into my truck...and even though he's moving like a house on fire, I still have enough time to wonder, "What kind of damage is the little bastard going to do to the inside of my car before he figures out how the hell to get out???"

And

then

I

thought

of

alllllll

the

squirrels

we

had

killed
.
.
.
Woops.


This could be my Squirrel Karma...and my heart starts to beat a littttle faster....and here he comes, he's cookin', he barrels underneath the driver's side door, I can see his beady little eyes, his pointed, perky little ears....

Whoosh!

Under the truck he went.

I promptly threw the magazing on the passenger seat, slammed the door and went back into JimVs to finish what I'd started.

Have a good day!

Dicktionary Term 09.09

Yesterday, talking to my mom on the telephone, she told me that Dad's cell-phone-buddy, Dick B's son was in a motorcycle wreck on his way to work. She said that Dad was on the phone with Dick B when his other son, Dickie, beeped in and told Dick B about the wreck.

It's actually Dick Bertlesen, but we have always called him Dick B. Dick B. and Dad, Dick Rudloff, both worked together at PDC. Hence, Dick B. and Dad was Dick R. So there is no confusion in Mom's life, whenever Dad gets her a card, no matter the occassion, he never fails to sign it, "Love You, Dick R." I guess this distinguishes him from all the other Dicks in her life...like there are so many, anyway....

I called my Dad between jobs yesterday and inquired about Chad Bertlesen (man, I hope I got the boys' names straight). "Well, he was comin' around a curve and a truck pulling a trailer was in on-coming traffic and the trailer broke away and hit Chad head-on."

This doesn't sound very good. "How is he?"

"Well, Dick B said that Chad flipped his bike over the trailer and flew through the air. He's scraped-up, skinned-up, and he injured his aortitis."

I did my usual split-second rundown of what this injury could possibly be. I drew a blank. Blinking hard, I said, "Aortitis?"

"Yeah."

Itis=inflammation
Aorta=has to do with the heart, right? It's like a chamber in the heart, isn't it???

"He bruised his heart?"

"Noooooo...." long pause inserted here...."Maybe I screwed that up."

No, Dad, that's just not possible..."Well, that just doesn't sound like a motorcycle injury to me..."

"I'll ask Dick B again when he calls back. I'll ask him again" You can set your watch by Dick B calling back. These two talk on the phone for HOURS a day. Dick B drives over-the-road, and Dad helps map him out along the way, following along with his atlas. Surely there's some sort of GPS out there that Dick B can buy for his truck so Dad can follow along on his computer, thereby possibly freeing up both hands of one truck driver on the interstate...I mean, don't you think that's one vehicle you'd want BOTH hands on the wheel??? Yeah. Me, too.

Last night was Molly Kathlene's 21st birthday and we all met at Bar Louie to celebrate. We met early so there's a good chance Molly will remember who her guests were....

I sat down at the table and Dad blurts out, "Sternum!"

I leaned over to Mom and said, "Huh?"

"Sternum!" He repeats. "Chad hurt his sternum."

This isn't even close. Usually his new terms are at least remotely close. Almost decipherable. But, sternum? Aortitis????

Our "Little Dickie" Fall 2009

Tonight, as I was messing with PhotoShop, my husband and my youngest were laying in the bed watching the Hunting Channel. During commercials, they'd "rassle".

Rob immediately wrapped Dustin in a bear hug which prompts Dustin to bellow, "OH! I'm crippled! I'm crippled!!!!"

I didn't recall him getting hurt in baseball today...."You are not crippled," Rob yells.

"I am!!! I ammmm!!!! STOP! I can't breathe! I'm crippled!!!! AAAHHHH!"

Click.

Claustrophobic.

"Dustin!" I holler from my desk, "Are you claustrophobic?"

"AHHHAAAHHHH! Yeah! Yeah! That's it!!!! I don't like it when I can't breathe! The space is too smalllllll" he's still bellowing while Rob's tickling him.

The Hunting Channel comes back on and they settle down for ten minutes....

Here comes another commercial and Rob locks Dustin into another bear hug and begins giving him "horse bites".

"AHAHHAAAHHH!!!" Dustin wails, "AHHHAAAHHH I'm constipated!!!!"

Constipated? He hasn't complained lately.

"You mean you're still claustrophobic, Dusty????" Rob squeals.

"Yeahhhhaahhhhh!!!! Yeah!!! I couldn't think of the right word!!!! ARRGGHH!!!!"

The commercial ends...the boys settle down...until the next break...

Whereupon Dustin starts to squeal when Rob grabs him in a big bear hug and starts to tickle again.

"AAAHHH!!!! Don't poke my tire holes!!!!"

Rob pauses, I roll away from my desk to look at them both, "Huh?"

"You mean your spare tire, Little Dickiieeee?" Rob screeches.

"AAHHHAAAHHHRRRR!!! Yeah, don't mess with my spare tire!!!!"

Quirky-ness July 2009

When travelling, I must always travel with my own water. Water from home. This can present problems. Several years ago, when we went to Louisiana, Rob had to fill the big Igloo jug with the hose. I didn't drink it all, but it sure was nice knowing I had PLENTY of water for the trip. A few years back, when travelling to Tennessee for the reunion, I ran out of "home" water and was forced to choke down bottled. Yuk. Now, I'm planning a trip for next year, taking the kids--I'm planning on all three of them--to the Johnson Family Reunion in Tennessee, over to Gatlinburg, then north into Kentucky to touch on some of the Roberts Family history in the Daniel Boone State Forest. As I was thinking this trip through, it had already ocurred to me that I would need Rob to fill the Igloo.

Just the other day, Dustin & I were going to games and he asked if we had water. "I'm out right now, but I can buy you a bottle," I offered.

"No, that's okay, I only like water from home."

"Me, too, buddy." I thought nothing of this exchange.

So, today, we stopped by Mom & Dad's to give Dad his birthday presents...a box of Redman chew and a case of Milwakee's Best Light. He's thrilled....

He proceeds to start loading his cooler, and then walks out of the house with 4 gallon milk jugs that have been washed and filled with nothing other than "water from home." He sets his "water from home" jugs on his "desk" in the garage. Rob closes his eyes and shakes his head, "It's amazing just how exactly alike you two are..."

Dad and I smiled, said a non-verbal, "Uh hmm." Dustin sits down at the table.

"We're odd, aren't we?" I asked Rob.

"Yes. It's scary."

I thought that comment over for a moment and then remarked, "What's scary is YOU chose it." Rob asked for MY number. Whereupon Dad and I laughed loudly at Rob. Rob shook his head some more...and then I told him about the conversation Dustin and I had about "water from home".

"The kid doesn't have a chance, does he?"

"No, Dawn."

At least I can admit I'm odd. I have my quirks. It's okay....

UPS & Child Snatchers May 2009

We'd left the hair salon and were on our way to WalMart to pick up hose-repair parts, 800 feet of hose, and not a one without a leak...when a UPS truck passed in front of us...

From the back seat comes this conversation:

"Dillon, I know what UPS stands for!" Dustin proudly announced. I thoroughly doubted he possessed this information, only being nine and all. Before I could pop up and ask what UPS stands for, Dillon did.

"United States Appearances."

Dillon started to laugh, I reached for my daily list and flipped it over, writing furiosly.

"No, Dustin, I don't think so, Mom's writing down what you said..."

Since I'm always saying Dustin's just like my Dad, I'll have to make it a point to ask Dad what UPS stands for.

Dillon and I got out of the car, Dustin fell out of the car....

I headed for the garden center: hummingbird feeder, bird seed, hose-repair parts. Between the front door (the one closest to the garden center) and the first aisle I entered (bird seed), my kids were already in trouble. Unfortunately for me, WalMart has survellience cameras posted everywhere to catch people shop-lifting and abusing their children. Therefore, I was unable to beat the living tar out of them, so I was forced to twist Dustin's hair around my finger and then I stepped on Dillon's foot.

I've always said my children would be better behaved if I beat them, but this isn't entirely true, they were goofing around and bouncing off the shelves by the time I got to the next aisle: hose parts & hummingbird feeders. Literally three aisles away.

They got into trouble again, each being assigned a seperate floor tile. I couldn't do much worse, there was an associate helping me with hose parts.

From there we stopped off in the hair grooming section, picked up peroxide,and Motrin (I'm afraid to drug them with anything stronger than children's Motrin, although I've been sorely tested).

We proceeded to check-out, whereupon they were bouncing off those aisles. They were so busy impressing me, I could hardly tolerate it.

"How are you today?" the cashier inquired.

"Fine. I'm not sure why I'm ever concerned someone will snatch them, they're so well-behaved and all..."

Dustin overhears this exchange, "You think we were good?"

"Always buffing your halo, honey, always busy buffing your halo."

"What's a halo?" Dustin asks.

"Something angels wear."

"You think we were good?"

No. Not at all. At that moment in time, I'm thankful I couldn't ever get pregnant again....

Bless their little hearts. If there'd been three of them, as in Lil's case, I'd be out of my mind right now....

Dusty's Couth July 2009

Yesterday, when Luke Schmitt called to invite Dusty over and I couldn't say no to Luther. Dusty and I had some nice conversations en route. He fired so much material at me so fast, I could barely keep up or keep the truck between the ditches...I'd told him that I really didn't want him to ever leave me, promise you'll stay close to Mama...

"I don't know where I'm going to live when I grow up and it makes me scared. How will I know where I'm going to live, Mom?"

"Well, Dustin, you'll figure that out when you get there."

"I think I'm going to live in a hotel."

Please don't. Transients live in hotels and not much good is happening there: actual transients, rock stars, movie stars...

"Why a hotel, Dusty?"

"I won't have to pay the water bill."

"Because you take long showers?"

"Yep."

"And the water bill is the highest bill in the house?"

"I think so." Because he's listened to us complain for years about him & his brother runnin' up the water bill taking uselessly long showers. And here I never thought they listened to a THING I said...

Then the price of oil came into play. Something about how he'd rather buy oil for his car than gas. I'm assuming he's caught the news and they've been talking about the high price of crude oil again...like this makes no impact on the price of gasoline...

Then, I explained that Gramma Bonnie (Luke's Gramma) would be bringing him back towards our house when Dustin was done at Luke's.

"Why Bonnie?"

"Because Savanna is spending the night with her." Savanna is Luke's little sister and she's in LOOOVVVVEEEE with Dusty...

"Is Savanna going to be in the car?" On, no, Doll, her Gramma's gonna make her run alongside...

"Well, yes, honey...oh, no." Oh, dear.

"I'm going to have to ride in the backseat with her...."

"Can you handle that, buddy? I mean, it's a small price to pay to play with Luther..."

Small sigh..."Yeah."




As we pulled into Luke's driveway, Toni was in the garage on the phone dealing with baseball...Dustin popped out of my backseat. Standing next to his door, he mumbled this statement, "I better wait a minute."

Huh? Oooohhhh.

"Did you fart?" I aksed him.

Dustin grins all over himself..."Yeah."

"And Miss Toni will want a hug, won't she?"

"Yeah..." he's blushing now. He's already admitted to me that Miss Toni is pretty...so there's no problem hugging her...however, when there's gas involved....

"You don't want her to smell you?"

"Huh-uh."

Couth. My son is learning Couth and Socialization Skills....Women aren't attracted to the smell of ass...

I nearly laughed out loud when Bonnie pulled up and Dusty was in the front seat...far enough from Savanna he didn't have to worry about her rubbing his back or trying to hold his hand...

Dicktionary Term

Went to Mom & Dad's today for a delicious holiday meal, as usual.

We were discussing the local wildlife active in our yards while watching America's Funniest Videos. A racoon in a pet door taking the door mat started us in on discussing the racoons out back, the moles in our yards and the owls behind our houses.

I went out one evening last week with Chelsea and heard an owl in the ditch next to the kennels hooting. Katie was barking wildly at him. Good dog, protect the yard from the mean owl.

Tonight, Rob mentioned that when he left to go turkey searching, the owl was perched in our/Chelsea's soft maple.

I suggested he was hunting our moles.

Rob suggested the owl was hunting all the field mice that have been disturbed by his destruction of the timber behind the house.

Dad suggested that he was e-stink.

A) The owl was hooting because he stinks
B) The owl is contemplating his email
C) The owl is extinct
D) The owl is none of the above

e-stink: endangered

I laughed for five straight minutes and finally asked him, "How do you come up with this stuff?"

He grinned.

Mom asked him what species are and Dad answered, "Endangered."

Very good.

Any self-defense manual states that the strongest point on the human body is the elbow. If ever attacked, use the elbow as a "weapon" of defense.

Birdy has a very nice, perfectly straight, picture-perfect nose and he is absolutely terrified of my elbow.

In the evenings, while laying in bed watching t.v., if I make a sudden move to readjust my position, Birdy moves his head away.

"What are you doing?" I asked him the first time.

"Getting away from that elbow."

My big, strong, strapping husband is afraid of my bony little elbow.

Huh.

We all have our little quirks.

Birdy snores. Birdy snores worse than average, but not so severely that he requires a sleep study. Yet. He cannot sleep on his back or he will snore to beat the band. Like a buzz saw. On his back, Birdy can suck the curtains off the wall at the other end of the house.

I am a light sleeper. I don't like that I'm a light sleeper, but from a MomStandpoint, it's a good thing to be a light sleeper.

I also have some back issues. So, when we built the house, we got a new mattress. I made sure it was a Tempurpedic.

There is some truth in advertising. Until I became completely accustomed to the bed, which took just over the 90 day trial-period, I slept like the dead. Birdy would get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. He'd scare me half to death coming back to bed.

I'm used to my bed, now, and there are some nights I sleep like the dead and there are others that I sleep like a normal person. Would I still recommend that type of bed to people? You bet. I love that mattress. It beats sleeping on any other mattress I've ever had, or encountered on vacation or at The Cabin. I love that mattress so much that if Birdy is snoring to beat the band, I refuse to leave the bed.

I used to bail.

I don't anymore.

Instead, I just elbow him.

Not hard. Just a little nudge accompanied by a softly spoken, "Honey, you're snoring. Roll over, please." I'm polite. I use my manners.

A few minutes later, I will nudge him again, "Honey, you're still snoring. Roll over, please."

This is generally followed by a bellow of, "I HEARD YOU!"

Well, if you heard me, why in the hell didn't you roll over???

It's a very unpleasant middle-of-the-night exchange. I try my best to not take it personally.

There are instances where Birdy will carry on the better part of a conversation over the snoring. And not recall said conversation the next day.

We've had this conversation many nights.

Nudge, nudge, "Honey, you're snoring..."

"Alright, I heard you! You know, YOU SNORE, TOO!"

Really, really nice and heart-warming.

One night he made this crack, "I wish YOU snored so I could beat you up in the middle of the night."

Feel the love, people? Yeah, me, too.

I do not beat my husband up in the middle of the night. I nudge him.

We all have our little quirks. I have mine.

First thing in the morning, I do NOT like bright light. If the shades are up in the east windows & the sun is bright, I close my eyes, bobbing and weaving, until I get to the window. Then, I pull the shade. Same thing when I wake up at 0500 during the week while it's still dark outside. I stumble around in the dark for 20 minutes before I'll turn on a light. Birdy refers to me as Dracula. I don't argue.

Another odd little quirk is that I cannot stand to have someone breathe in my face. Be it asleep or awake, I don't want someone so close to my face that I can feel their breath. I thought this rather odd, until I talked to my Dad one day and he said, "I woke up last night and couldn't go back to sleep. I got up at 2."

"What woke you up?"

"Your Mom was breathing in my face." I thought nothing of this exchange.

My boys still share the same bed. I do not argue with them. I encourage this behavior. My father and his brothers shared a bed when they were younger. As adults, they were very close. I am sure there are other reasons for this closeness, but at this point, I attribute their closeness to having shared a bed.

One night, at bedtime, my oldest was complaining about sharing a bed with his brother, who is completely, painfully, terrified of the dark. "I don't like it, Mom! He breathes in my face!!!"

"Well, honey, roll over, then."

So, despite the Tempurpedic, there are times I feel Birdy turning over in the bed. If he is heading for his back, I can promise you he is about to put a foot on either side of the bed, thereby crossing The Center Line and invading my half of the queen- size bed. About ten minutes into that position, he will begin to snore like a buzz saw.

I like to stretch out as much as the next person.

Before we purchased the new mattress, Birdy suggested a king-size bed.

No.

Why not?

No.

Why not? Our bedroom is large enough for one.

Yes, if we don't have night stands. I must have a nightstand with a drawer for my hand lotion, my lip balm, tissues, magazines, remote controls...quirky, I know...

Let's get a king-size bed.

No.

Why not?

Bedding costs and absolute fortune and I like lots of sets of sheets. If we get a king-size bed, I can't afford 10 sets of sheets...I can't buy 4 different comforters and quilts and switch things out every few months...quirky, I know.

No.

A king-size bed would be great...let's get a king-size bed.

No.

Why not?

They're a total pain to make. Enormous.

I know, they're enormous. That's why we should get a king-size bed.

No.

Why not???

Because you'd sleep in the middle of that thing, too...

Last night, when he rolled onto his back, I happened to wake up. I could feel his foot moving rapidly in my direction. Being curled up, I just put my foot to the end of the bed. That was all. My foot didn't travel to the end of the bed at warp speed. My foot wasn't traveling at Mach3. I just stretched out. Just like my husband was doing.

"DON'T KICK ME!!!!"

Are you serious?

I did not kick him.

This morning, he was standing in our closet getting ready for work. I asked, "Is your foot bruised?"

Birdy looked slightly perplexed. I could see the revelation light up his face. I was surprised. Normally Birdy doesn't remember what he bellows in his sleep. "You kicked me."

It was almost a whine.

It was almost a pout.

I entertained getting his Mom on the phone so he could tell her all about the abuse her son had admirably suffered through the night before.

I held my tongue. "I did not kick you," I told him.

"You did, too."

Did not.