If only changing his name would've fixed the problem...

Last night, Dillon popped popcorn. Besides all other food groups human, popcorn tends to be one of Chelsea's favorite foods. Dillon decided he'd see how far he could throw the popcorn kernel and Chelsea could still catch it in her mouth.

I'm thinking at least half a mile, but who am I?

While backing up & throwing, Dustin decides he wants in on this act. So, he kneels down next to Chelsea to see if Dillon can throw popcorn in his mouth. It's at that precise moment, my "I'm-excellent-with-kids" dog reaches out and snatches the popcorn not an inch from Dustin's face.

She's such a gooooooood dog...

Chelsea one, Dusty none. She's forever taking food from that child...

This morning, while Chelsea was in bolted in the garage eating her breakfast, Dusty and I were having toasted peanut-butter sandwiches for breakfast while watching "Good Morning America."

Big news, Rod Blagojevich was sentenced to fourteen years. I think he should've gotten an even twenty in a maximum security lock-up just for breathing, he's such a crooked politician, but nobody asked me...

Dusty is quietly munching on his peanut butter sandwich, watching the news when he blurts out--

"That's not his name!!! His name is Keith Lyons!!!!"

I look at the tv for confirmation.

Yep, still watching Rod admit he was wrong while his wife, Patty, who I am sure is about to sue for divorce and take back her maiden name, stands faithfully at his side, crying softly.

Puuuuhhhhyyyyuuuuuke.

But, back to the name change.

"Who are you talking about???" I ask, glancing back at the tv.

Rod's bad hair is still filling the television screen.

"That guy!"

"What'd you say his name really is?"

"Keith Lyons." Dusty's sure of it.

I'm doing my mental run-down of who in the world this kid is referring to, when it hits me...

"The guy from Peoria?"

"Yeah, I think he is."

"Seen him on tv? The news?"

"Yeah."

"How's this name sound, 'Kevin Lyons'?"

Dusty chews on this thought and his breakfast, and says, "Well, maybe."

"Okay, buddy...Kevin Lyons used to be our State Attorney. He took a position that I believe required votes from the public, or maybe he required them to be State Attorney. Either way, he's not our State Attorney anymore. I know him, Dusty, I used to work in his office (pre-dinosaur days, I could get a job). That man on the tv, going to prison, is not Kevin Lyons. That man is our former governor and he's going to prison and I'm not getting into that conversation."

"Oh. Okay."

"However, you are on the money. They do bear a resemblance. Especially with allllll the hair they sport.

I'm pretty sure it would've taken more of a name change for Rod to beat the rap and go out on the lam. Perhaps a new hair cut...

Michael Jackson & a loaf of bread

The day after Thanksgiving, I program the Christmas radio station onto my car radio and I don't change the channel until December 26th. My children are forced to listen to Christmas music in my vehicle. Dillon hates it. Of course, he's a teenager and it's rare when I do something he likes.

Dustin rarely complains about it, but did comment that a song by Harry Connick Jr. was depressing. I guess because it was slow. Not being a big fan of Harry's, I was good with his remark.

After leaving hitting practice tonight, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" came on the radio. I thought for sure, Dustin will like this one.

About the second verse, Dustin blabs, "This chick cannot sing."

"What??? It's not a chick, Dustin. It's Michael Jackson from when he was with the Jackson Five!"

I gotta quit talking to this kid while I'm driving. He drops one of these comments on me and I nearly put my truck into oncoming traffic.

Dustin looks at me in disbelief.

"Yes. It is. He used to sing lead in front of his brothers when he was a little boy, Dustin. He probably wasn't nine years old when this song was recorded."

Stunned, "That's Michael Jackson?"

"Yep. Actually, it's the only time I liked him. When he was little. He was so stinkin' cute."

...Goin' back to Indiana, Indiana here I come....

After the song ends, Dustin does his best imitation of Michael Jackson singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and he sounds pretty darn close to the real thing...perhaps a perm...

We travel a little farther along Creek Road, when Dustin lays this question out:

"How can a trailer with bread or potatoes or rolls weigh so much?"

Obviously, he's started speaking mid-thought. This happens alot. Sometimes Dusty doesn't realize I can't hear him think...

"Let's start over. What's the question?"

"Okay. A semi with a trailer filled with bread. How come it weighs eight tons? It's bread."

Oh, boy.

"Well, you have to take into account how much the semi weighs, how much the engine weighs, the tires, the trailer and then you add in the weight of the bread. Just because it's bread doesn't mean it's light. When you ship bread, it's usually stored on stackable plastic trays, so the trays add to the weight. If you stack a loaf of bread on top of a loaf of bread and keep going, you smash the bread. Now, just because one loaf of bread doesn't weigh very much, it doesn't mean 5,000 loaves of bread are light because one loaf is light. It all adds up," I'm hoping I explained shipping bread well enough for him to understand. We won't discuss weight or balance...

I was interested in a position with a major manufacturer in the area that pertained to shipping, although I have 12 years of experience in the shipping industry with one of the biggest shipping companies in the world, my experience is from ten years ago; therefore, I am a dinosaur and I don't really know shit.

"How much is a ton?"

Come on, kid, ask me something simple. Like, how many feet are in a mile.

"A thousand pounds?"

"So, an eight ton truck weighs eight thousand pounds? No, an eight ton truck weighs sixteen thousand pounds."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, there's two thousand pounds in a ton, so an eight ton truck weighs sixteen thousand pounds."

"Really? Well, then, what the hell did you ask me for???"

He laughs at me, "I don't know."

"Words cannot express the depth of my love for you, child."

Just a Girl

My laundry room sink was leaking back in September. Early September. I asked Birdy to take a look at it.

I know, I know, he's "a carpenter not a plumber." I get this. But, the last time I attempted to mess with plumbing was to fetch a diamond earring. I got the earring, but Birdy spent the entire evening working on pipes while I ran back and forth to the hardware store.

I am no longer allowed to go near the pipes.

I mopped up the water mess in the bottom of my cabinet and went about waiting for my husband to check out the situation.

A few days later, I came up with a "gentle reminder." I have to give "gentle reminders" or I get the "I'm a carpenter, not a plumber lecture."

"Honey, did you figure out where my leak is in the laundry room?"

"I didn't find a leak," Birdy responded.

"Really? I could've sworn there was water in the bottom of the cabinet."

"I didn't find any water."

It was then that I knew. He is a carpenter not a plumber. "Bird, did you turn on the faucet?"

"No."

Really???

"Well, honey, it's in the pipes, not the faucet, so when you look at it again(gentle suggestion), turn the water on & it will probably leak for you, too."

I went back in the house to give him a chance to ponder that statement.

He pondered it all right. He pondered it until yesterday--October 23--when I said, "Honey, my laundry roon sink still leaks."

Normally, this leak would've lasted until March, when all things huntable are no longer huntable. However, as luck would have it for my husband, he wasn't sitting in a tree. Mother Nature is ruining Birdy's hunting season with hot weather.

I was further astounded when Birdy immediately got up, grabbed a flashlight, and proceeded into the laundry room.

I can count on one hand how many times he has been in the laundry room since he hooked up my appliances five years ago...

After a few moments, Birdy announces he has found the issue and needs some "pipe dope." Not weed. Some sticky stuff that's water tight. It gives a tight seal and doesn't leak.

I dig around, unable to locate anything. I suggest he call my father who has EVERYTHING.

Except "pipe dope."

Tonight, after my class and The Family Homework Session, I ask Birdy:

"Is the sink ready or does it need to set-up for 24 hours?"

"It's ready."

Wow.

I wander into my laundry room and notice one of my favorite Fall Dish Towels is wadded up on the counter. I pull it apart and look at it. It's wet and it's covered with Pipe Dope.

Really?

I just went through all my holiday decorations a few weeks ago, and I decided to keep those towels for a reason--I liked them. Alot. Yes, I've had them for seven years, but they're cute. They had corduroy pumpkins on them. It was one towel of a matched set.

With Pipe Dope on one corduroy pumpkin towel.

No longer part of a matched set.

I holler out to the garage and ask, "Is this pipe dope on my towel?"

"Probably." Heaven forbid he commit with his response..."Why????"

"Does it come out????"

"I don't know! But, hey, YOUR LEAK IS FIXED."

I shake my head and go back to laundry. I love him but he's such a mess. I'm a cleaning lady, we don't lack for crummy rags around this joint. Seriously.

As the evening wears on, I wander back out to the garage to watch the World Series with my husband who is still slightly honked-off about fixing a leak and ruining a towel in the process. I'm past it, but he isn't...yet.

Anyhow, I'm kinda leanin' towards Texas. I like the uniforms and that young feller that pitched last night did such a fine job. I think his name is Derek. I don't recall his last name. It could never matter that it was printed on his back allllllll night long....I really only pay attention to the games Dusty plays. I love to watch Dusty play baseball.

I've been watching Dusty play baseball for about five years now. You'd think I'd have the game dialed-in at this point in my life, but I don't.

"Was that a ball?" I ask Birdy.

"Yes." Sigh.

"He was out, why didn't they call him out?"

"I don't know." Sigh.

Most men would love it if their wives watched sports with them, but I don't think Birdy really enjoys me watching sports with him.

Baseball anyway.

I make it a point not to watch sports on TV.

Especially not football. I'd consider watching golf before I'd watch football.

Unless Dusty wants to play football, then I'll watch.

Anyhow, back to the game...I'm watching the game, watching the pitcher and the catcher communicate. It's cute to watch the little kids do that. They laugh at each other. But not the big boys. They're serious. They're focused. I mean, it's the World Series, they ought to be serious. And focused.

"What are they saying to each other?"

"Who?" Birdy asks.

"The pitcher and the catcher."

Birdy shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Are they picking pitches?"

"Probably, or maybe he's asking the pitcher what he wants for breakfast. Or what he wants for dinner...."

"Or if he thinks this pipe dope will come out of this cute, festive fall dish towel???"

And Birdy laughs.

"You're so lucky. You are SO lucky. You got me!!! And I'm alllll girl...I'm YOUR girl!!!!"

Bird's Girl....

Karma

I am forever telling my children, "What comes around, goes around." They don't get it and they don't care. They will care, though, when "it" starts to come back around in their direction.

Karma, boys.

Payback.

Revenge.

The ______ you give is the _______ you get.

I can't say it here, in this forum, so feel free to fill in the blanks.

Last week, one of my clients did something nice for me. She left me a little cellophane bag, wrapped in Halloween ribbon, filled with hand-made soaps. When I got home from work that day, I off-loaded my TrailBlazer (yes, I still have the TrailBlazer) and set the bag of soaps on the workbench. Unfortunately, that's all the farther I got with them.

Arriving home from class tonight, Dillon announces to me, "Dustin pulled a 'Papa'."

Oh, no.

"What'd he do?" Excite me, kid. I just came from Math class, Boy, and my brain looks like AND feels like cold, congealed scrambled eggs.

"Well, he cut the top off that little bag of stuff you had--"

And I fell-out laughing, because I could see it coming.

My child is SO predictable.

"and plopped one of those colored things into his mouth."

I cannot stop laughing.

From the other side of the garage, pipes one seriously pissed-off child, "It's not funny, MOM! It tasted AWFUL! It wasn't candy! It was SOAP!"

"And that's what my sassy-mouthed little boy gets for telling me "no" lately," I reminded Dustin.

"He couldn't get into the house fast enough to rinse his mouth," Dillon finished proudly. He is always so thrilled to share one of Dustin's screw-ups with me, since I'm so busy sharing Dillon's screw-ups with others. He's a teenager, he has about 50screw-ups a day...a good day.

There is payback. And if you're lucky, God let's you witness it.

But, only if you're lucky.

Second Opinion

I've long-talked about what a mess the men in my life are. My father, my husband, my children. Not so much a "dirty" mess, just a mess. Most of the time, a "mess" isn't a bad thing, it's usually an affectionate reference.

I always try to take the opportunity to jot down the things that fall from my father's mouth, along with the things that fall from my children's mouths--especially Dustin. Dustin's brain being wired exactly like my father's, it can be quite frightening to witness their thought processes in action. As if that isn't bad enough, they have the same fashion sense: non-existent. Dustin knows his clothes don't match and has announced as much to me, "I know it doesn't match, Mom, and I don't care." Well, that settles that. The announcement made by my father, "If your Mother knew I was in town dressed like this she's throw a fit." Then, of course, if it's hot out, you will find Dad minus his shirt. Mind you, he wears his suspenders AND his belt, but no shirt. Apparently it's okay for folks to see his bare chest, but he's still not free enough with our body to let folks view all of his ass, only a select portion of the crack. Enough said.

I was in the garage one day with Dad when he started grumbling, struggling into his t-shirt. "Your mom wants me to put a shirt on. I don't know why."

"Perhaps she just can't take it," I quipped sarcastically, as if that physique were irresistible.

"You must be right. It's a lot to take in," he giggled.

Yes, that and there's need for a fork for each eye...

Along with his incredible fashion-sense, my dad has his own "language". Translation is required. I was talking to him on the phone Monday morning, when he said, "I wanted to tell you something else, but I've forgotten. It was on the edge of my mind."

Really? Maybe it was the tip of your tongue.

Dad's Associate Producer, Keith, broke his leg last weekend. Dad relayed what the doctor told Keith, "Well, they gave him more vike. Vike...vike," obviously struggling, I suggest, "Vicodan?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"They did the NMRI on him."

"MRI?"

"Yeah, that's it. They gave him a prescription for maureen."

Maureen is your aunt, honey, "Morphine?"

"Yeah, that's it. They give that to cancer patients, don't they? Wow."

Lately, those in my life have been painting. I just re-painted our "master" area of the house, my mom re-painted her bathroom and my in-laws are re-painting their entire house. This has caused quite a dilemma for my mom. She's wanting a new sink and faucets in her bathroom; however, the style she has selected she cannot locate matching faucets for the bathtub. The bathtub faucets are thirty years old. She's having a difficult time with this problem. Since she's painted, she has also changed the hardware in the bathroom. As Dad is retired and usually pretty handy with power tools, she assigned him the task of putting new handles on the cabinets. Apparently, these new handles and drawer pulls are unlike any others Mom has ever used before.

Dad relays this information to me on Thursday when I was there to clean their house. "So, your Mom gets these handles, and I put them on the cabinet doors and she tells me I put them on wrong. There's no other way to put it on, so I know I did it right. But she wants me to show them to Dick when he stops by and see what he has to say about it. Can you believe that???" He is floored that my mother does not trust him with her handles. I cannot repeat anything else that was said, as it really isn't fit for mixed company. I laugh loudly over this obvious insult.

I called him this morning and we had this conversation: "Yes, your mother is still waiting to hear what Dick thinks about these handles." He's a little sarcastic about it, so I was surprised to hear my mom in the background. I'm thinking that Dad must be a little bold and full of himself this morning...

My mother, who is NEVER so rude as to butt-in on a phone conversation makes a crack from the background. Dad repeats it, "Second opinion. She calls it a second opinion. Can you believe that???" I hear Mom's voice again, "Oh, she says if you go to the doctor you might want to get a second opinion and that's what she wants for her handles, a second opinion."

This time her muffled voice causes Dad to laugh, "Oh, she doesn't really trust my opinion because my shirt was buttoned up wrong."

"She says, 'Why would I trust you to tell me it's right when you can't even button your shirt right???' Can you believe that? I even try to button it right and I still screw it up. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to town only to realize after I've gotten home that my damn shirt was buttoned wrong the entire time. And you know that would just driver your mom nuts."

Green Watermelon

I finally got back to a remotely normal schedule with work this week, Wednesday. It took until Wednesday. I'm thankful that it went back to normal quickly and did not continue to unravel wrecklessly, spinning wildly out of control.

I ended my day at my parent's house, cleaning for them. Dad and I chatted for a few minutes when he announced he needed to go out to the garage and divvy up the excess watermelon they had on hand. "Your mom wants me to send some home with you. Dustin just loves it. Especially the green watermelon."

I was preparing to embark on my cleaning expedition and thought briefly: green watermelon? Never heard of it. Is this a new fruit?

Half-way through the job, I went to the garage to take a break. Dad was at his office table, spooning out red and green watermelon.

"You need to try this, it's delicious," he hands me a piece of seedless, red watermelon. I had a try, it wasn't too bad for "off" season watermelon.

"The green watermelon is just delicious. Have you ever had green watermelon?"

Uh, can't say that I have, I think to myself as I take the offered piece. I took a sniff and looked at him, eyes sqinting, forehead wrinkled. Really? Green watermelon, huh? I popped it in my mouth where I realized immediately that it was not green watermelon.

"It's mush melon!" For the life of me, I couldn't think of the actual name. Obviously we're both struggling with that. "You know, canteloupe. Oh, barf!! I hate this stuff."

"It is?" Dad asks, completely serious and taken totally by surprise.

Are you kidding me?

Green watermelon.

Bless his heart...
"Yes, honey, it's melon--not green watermelon."

I told Mom my little story tonight at the basketball game where she supplied me with the correct term:

Honey Dew Melon.

Bingo.

Toast, Milk, Messes & Locks

Woke up this morning to a dishwasher full of clean dishes, a sink full of dirty dishes and a husband who had the wild desire to make breakfast.

I love my husband, but when he makes breakfast it equals a mess for me. He makes messes but rarely cleans them up. Then, he is confused when I refer to him as a "mess." He is. He's just a mess.

There is a long list of words I cannot use to describe my husband: neat, orderly, talkative, adult, mature...

My husband made scrambled eggs with cheese and toast. He even remembered to feed the kids. That he remembered we have kids here is sometimes amazing. I guess the fact that he was taking Dillon to the goose pit today helped him remember that there are short people living here with us.

I wasn't hungry yet, so I did not eat. Instead I did my waitress routine: wash dishes, dry dishes, put dishes away, wipe up toast sweat and toast crumbs. I wiped down the clean butter dish because when Birdy gets ahold of the butter dish, it always looks like the butter exploded on that section of the counter.

Dillon's munching away on his breakfast when he poses this question to Dustin, "What do you put in a toaster?"

Dustin responds with, "Toast."

We all had a chuckle over that one, including Dustin.

Drying dishes, I asked, "Dustin, what do cows drink?"

Dustin answers, "Milk."

We chuckled again, bless his little heart. "No, cows make milk, buddy, they drink water."

I told both boys to pick up their end of the house before Dillon left for hunting. This did not happen. I am sure to find a wet towel hung on the floor, GameBoy games scattered everywhere and one unmade bed. Dustin still hadn't hung up his coat. So, as I'm drying yet more dishes while simultaneously putting away the dishwasher and organizing kitchen drawers, I holler out again for the boys to pick up their rooms.

I glance down at Dustin's room, where I see him seated at his desk, wearing his winter coat.

Dustin's room is the hottest room in the house. It's a northwest bedroom, how this happens, I do not know. I wish my husband had insulated the rest of our house as well has he insulated that child's bedroom. If he had, we could all run around the house naked.

Not that we'd want to, mind you. But just the same, we could.

I mention to Birdy that rather than hang the coat up, Dustin prefers to just wear it.

He shakes his head. This comes as no shock to either of us. Then, Dillon announces that he'll just go ahead and vacuum his bedroom when he gets home because they need to leave. I tell him that this is laughable. This statement confuses Dillon.

Birdy chuckles.

The boys leave and I am alone in the house with Dustin. He comes running to my office and announces, "My phone is locked and I can't remember the code."

He caught Dillon in his cell phone last night, cruising texts. This apparently angered Dustin enough to lock Dillon out of his phone. Unfortunately, it backfired on him.

This comes as no suprise to me. I tried Dustin's birthdate in the phone and that did not work. I started to laugh. His brain is so my side of the family, it's frightening. He may look like a shorter version of his father, but his brain is wired just like my father's.

Poor Dusty. Poor, poor Dusty. Just like little Dickie.

"Well, leave it alone for a few minutes & maybe the code will come to you," I laughed.

"You might think it's funny, Mom, but I don't!" and he stormed away.

Oh, honey, learn to laugh at it, now...it'll help you cope throughout life.

Trust me.