Dillon

At 3:44 this morning, this child turned 17:



He is the child that most people only ever dream about. As a baby, he rarely cried. He happily sat, wherever I put him, smiling and gazing about the room. He chewed on the cat's ear, he played with his toys, he just laid down and slept whenever he got tired. He didn't fight with other kids. If someone else wanted the Lego he was playing with, he just gave it to them. He never bit or pinched or hit. He was a diplomat in school and always got excellent grades. He adores his little sister and treats her like a princess. He comes home at curfew, calls whenever he heads somewhere unexpected, and admits to his mistakes. He likes Classic Rock and animals, his long hair and retro fashions. He is an artist and a scholar. He has an incredible sense of humor and is handsome to boot. For seventeen years he has been the light of my life. I am so, so grateful for the mistakes and choices that led me to become his mother and the strength and support to remain so.




He and "Elaine" at his Birthday Dinner.








With his Frank Sinatra t-shirt...








And his new nutcracker.

Drama, Defined.

This will have to be a Double-Entry night. I have something Very Important to say later, but first, an update on the Drama: (and proof that nothing is ever as Simple as it seems....)

If you prefer not to read an update, that is ok with me, just click on that "Next Blog" button in the top right corner and hope you don't land on porn...

(Or hope that you DO! Whatever.)

So. On Christmas Afternoon, Jeff, Singing-Lisa, Torrey, Rachelle & Scott were here at the house and we were drinking, eating, and checking out our new presents when we noticed flashing emergency lights through my grandma-sheers in the front window. I was immediately concerned that Joe, our 70-year-old neighbor had had another heart attack and ran to the front door to check on him. He was ok. He and his wife, Phyllis, were actually sitting in their car, in front of our house after returning from lunch and on their way over here for a visit. Turns out that the paramedics were aimed at the townhouse on the corner, 3 down from mine, where Laura (who had cataract surgery on the 6th) and Al live. Phyllis went and checked out the situation and found that Laura had found Al unconscious on the kitchen floor. She refused to go to the hospital and they took him on in. Unfortunate, but not really a surprise, as Al is 88-years-old. And not exactly spry.

That evening, Phyllis and Joe went over to take Laura to the hospital but she couldn't function well enough to even put her pants on and stand up straight. When she fell back on the bed, Phyllis called 911. They came, took Laura off in her own ambulance, and we were worried, but glad they were both in the care of Trained Medical Professionals. Around 11:30 that night, I noticed a taxi out front and figured, correctly, that the hospital had released her.

The next night, Monday night, Mac noticed the emergency lights again through the Grandma-Curtains. I just couldn't stand it. I had to know that she was ok. So I wandered on out. (This is what Candi calls "Knocking on Drama's door".) The paramedic-lady said that Laura had called 911 but they couldn't get in, did we know anyone who had a key? (No.) They had to break in the back door. Literally. They also didn't know that the paramedics had been there twice the day before or that she had fallen last Wednesday and Al had knocked on my door asking me to pick her up. She told the 911 operator that she had fallen and hurt her back, but when the paramedics checked her out, they decided she was ok and left her home*.

I went to work Tuesday morning and hoped she was ok. But by Wednesday, when I noticed that her car hadn't appeared to move and it didn't seem as though anyone was visiting her, I knocked on her door. She called from upstairs to come in, so I did.

I don't know Laura well, just enough to say, "Hi" and "What a lovely afternoon it is" in passing, but she was clearly not taking care of herself and I wasn't even sure that she was capable. She was crying and her eyes wouldn't stay open and there was a hole in her back door. I told her I would bring Tater back to fix her door and bring her some chicken and rice for dinner. I did and he did and she threw up. Apparently, not eating for 4 days and then eating my chicken, rice and peas is not good for the stomach. While I was there I also noticed an open bottle of Brut on her nightstand. Whatever. I might need a drink or so after the week she had too! Phyllis came over and we got her next of kin (none) and Al's (2 ancient sisters and a niece in Massachusetts), and a set of keys for each of us. I called the hospital and talked to Nurse Hazel who gave me Al's bedside number so Laura could call him.

But then, things got complicated. Phyllis took her vomit-y clothes home to wash them and found a receipt from the supermarket dated that day at 2:30pm, for $12 worth of champagne. No food, just liquor. That little shit! She told us she hadn't left the house. When I went back to her house later that night, the bottle was gone and I found 4 caps in her trash.

Apparently she's an alcoholic to boot. It explains a few things.

So today it's Friday. Al's niece has called me several times each day since Wednesday (she's concerned about Al, and Laura, and Laura's ability to care for him when he leaves the Rehabilitation Hospital, and Laura's "sobriety". Hmmm. She's called Social Services to evaluate the situation.) , checked on Laura several times a day, and took her to the hospital today. For the last 2 days she has been lucid and bright eyed and more steady on her feet.

I feel good about her being alone now, but I'm not convinced that she shouldn't be in an Assisted Living center. I even asked her about it. She doesn't want to do it. She and Al aren't married and they won't be allowed to live together in a home.

I've done what I can. I'll continue to check on her and keep an eye out for flashing red lights, but I'm glad the week is over and hope that things are returning to what we call "Normal".

*I now believe that she was actually drunk, as she doesn't remember either of the last 2 ambulances coming.

And We're Back To the Drama...

There's been Drama here on Geriatric Court and I'm smack dab in the middle of it. Only because I was the only one brave...(stupid?)...enough on Monday to go find out why elderly Mrs. M had yet a third ambulance in front of her house in two days. Thank God I did, because she needed help. I can't explain now - I have to go to bed and tomorrow after work I have to take her to the hospital to visit her 88 year-old boyfriend who has had a stroke. She hasn't seen him since she found him lying on the kitchen floor on Christmas Day. :(

Do I find the Drama.......Or does the Drama find me?

I'll try to update this weekend.

P

Christmas Wrap Up

What an Excellent Holiday!

Christmas Eve, Scientist-Lisa, Dr. Tim, Kirsten and Emma came for the afternoon. They stayed for dinner and met Scott, Rachelle, and Torrey and we had a really great time eating lasagna, having some Christmas Cheer, and connecting with long-lost "family". Scott, Rachelle and Torrey woke up with us on Christmas morning and we had the best time laughing and opening presents... Later in the day, Singing-Lisa and Jeff came over for some Christmas Gumbo and then our neighbors, Joe and Phyllis, stopped by with some Drunken Carrot Cake to share.

Clearly, The Girls had a happy, happy Christmas Day. This is Me, Rachelle & Singing-Lisa enjoying a very spirited Apple-tini. We had Cosmo's too. Get it? Green & Red?







Dillon got a new tie to go with his new suit.










And they both got new Nano's. Black for D, White for Mac. Thank you, Wago!







I also got a new Canon Rebel camera, which I adore! So we have our Christmas photos spread out among 3 different cameras this year. It will take me a while to round them all up.

A Doubly Merry Christmas

Dude. I realize that I said yesterday that I thought Rachelle was the best present a girl could get, but that was before this:





Yup, that's a Flamingo Cookie Jar.

A cookie jar that's shaped like a Flamingo. How awesome is that?!?! I got it from Beth. This is Beth and I at my office Christmas Party (and that's my bra you can see on my right boob):



She's my boss. But not really a boss because bosses are horrible and not your friend and I really, really like her and she covered my back twice this week when I got busted for not being a very good secretary (key word: "secretary"). She's a lot of fun and we get along great and I like to hang out with her even after work.

And she knows I love flamingos. So she ordered me that flamingo for Christmas. And it made me laugh really, really hard. And Dillon and Mackenzie cracked up and then told me I need to make cookies. But now I'm a Working Mom so I think I'll buy some.

I got her socks. Because she needed them. They are stripey and fun (though still muted so as not to scare her off too quickly). She always wears very boring, pedestrian (huh! that was like a pun!) socks and not fun, polka-dotty, stripey, match your sweater socks. I didn't buy her the orange or red or pink ones I wanted to, but stuck with the brown and black and gray that will ease her into the super-fun world of exciting socks verrrry slowly. And then she will see how much her spirit is improved by the super-fun socks and want to wear them all the time. And she will thank me.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

This is Rachelle, Torrey, Mackenzie and I.

We are at Disney Sea in Tokyo about a year and a half ago. Just before Mackenzie and I moved. And we cried. From 2000-2005, we saw each other almost every single day. We lived 2 blocks away from each other and were both spouseless most of our time in Japan. Rachelle and I would drop the girls off at school and then go to the gym and run, lift, bike, or do yoga. You'd think we would have been beanpoles for as much as we worked out, but we also liked to eat (and enjoy a frosty beverage on occasion(s)) and sabotaged ourselves within hours of burning all those calories. We haven't seen them in 17 months and miss them terribly. It was a horrible shock to be ripped away from them cold-turkey like that.

BUT!!!

They will be here in less than 48 hours!! They are on leave (with Scott, the Dad) to househunt in Pax River where they will be stationed next, only about an hour and 15 minutes away. Fate has been good to me this tour.

They will be staying here with us for Christmas. From the 23rd through the 26th.

I had wished for a camera, but Torrey and Rachelle are the best Christmas present I could have asked for.

Done!

We have 364 days to prepare for this holiday. Why is it that we run around like whack-jobs the last week before it arrives? I could forgo sleep for the next 5 days and still not be ready. So now I'm to the crossing-off portion of my to-do list...

Dust
Mop
Cook
Vacuum
Buy Vodka

See? I'm almost done now.

Parties and Concerts and Travels, Oh My!

What a full weekend!

Friday night was my office party. (Who woulda thunk?!?!) I give Tater two thumbs up for going, though he knew only one other girl there besides me. He seems to have held his own, though and didn't look bored the entire evening. We were home before midnight, and I think the Japanese Party Gods all said a prayer in quiet disappointment.

Saturday morning there was no sleeping in for teenagers at my house. Dillon had a dental appointment at 10, we had to be dressed... (Mackenzie in a dress:)



...packed, and at Jeff and Lisa's by 12:30 and to the Kennedy Center by 1:30. The kids and I went with Jeff to a Christmas Concert that Lisa was singing in and I really, truly, enjoyed myself. There was no "Winter Wonderland", "Jingle Bells", or for Lord's sake, "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer". It was all pretty high-brow, which, I in general, try to avoid at all costs. But nonetheless, whether sung in French, Latin, or Spanish, the music was beautiful and the singing jaw-droppingly impressive. (Check me out, like I'm writing a critique for The Post...)

We left the Kennedy Center and headed straight for Frederick, Maryland, to spend the night with friends whom (who? - damn, The Post's not going to like THAT!) we hadn't seen in 6 years. I missed them so much and didn't realize how badly until we started jabbering away and poking through Antique Shops. Her name, not to further confuse my narrative, is also Lisa. I call her Scientist-Lisa and her husband's name is Dr. Tim (sort of). We met in San Diego, exactly the same way Rachelle and I met in Japan 6 years later*: For months, she and I stood outside the kindergarten waiting for Dillon and her daughter, Kirsten, and not saying a word to each other. Finally, one day one of us spit something out and became fast friends. Dillon and Kirsten got along beautifully. They had many of the same interest, the same temperament, and even looked alike. They still do:



In San Diego we spent holidays, birthdays, and many, many other days together shopping, playing on the beach, going to the pumpkin patch, out to dinner, in for margaritas, and in general, finding fun wherever it was to be had. And then they moved to Portland, we moved to Japan, and neither one of us is any good at keeping in touch. We probably could have lost touch with each other, but as Fate would have it, they moved to Frederick about 2 years ago, only 50 miles from where we landed for this tour. I plan to get busy and fit 6 or more years into the next 2 so as to stock up for the next tour to God-Knows-Where.

When we got home, it was 5:30 Sunday night and the weekend was over. But what an excellent weekend it was.

*Rachelle and I stood outside Mac's kindergarten waiting for Mac and her daughter Torrey for months as well, before saying the first word to each other. But once we started, we didn't shut up for almost 4 years.

In Case You Were Wondering...

Yesterday the subject was STD's. And as far as Mackenzie is concerned, they might as well have been talking about Metaphysical Astrophysics for all it pertained to her. When I picked her up from school (because you know we have all our most profound discussions in the car) I asked her how they enlightened her today and she said, "We talked about STD's and you know, how you only get them from (insert eye-rolling, as if she will never stoop) intercourse."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Well, I didn't really get what AIDS was but I know you can't get it from kissing or toilet seats or sharing food. And the dog can't get it (WHY this is relevant, I certainly don't know, but I do think it probably depends on your usage of said dog)."

So I filled her in.

"It sounds like HIV."

And the 3-point-shot goes to Noodle, who pays attention in Sex Class!

(THAT'S my girl.)

(And NO, Annie, I haven't filled her in on "Fred" yet. But there's time.... I won't let her down.)

:)

For Annie:

Direct quote from HRH Mackenzie:

"Creepy people collect elephants."

Sibling Rivalry. With Growling.

We don't have sibling rivalry at my house. What do a 16-year-old man-boy and a 10-year-old girl have to rival about? They have different interests (except for movies, music and X-Box), different friends, different clothes, and different schedules. They have no issues.

I can not say the same for the dog.

Mackenzie has always been my shadow. As an infant & toddler, she freaked when I left the room. I was the only one who could push the grocery cart. We didn't think she would ever go to kindergarten*, and likewise for college. She follows me around the house - it would be blasphemy for me to get up right now and go get on the computer in the basement without telling her where "we" were going. She sits smack-dab right next to me when we watch TV. Until she gets up. Then Taiko swoops right in and lays in her spot.

Every Single Time.

And it makes her Crazy! Last night she got up twice within 3 minutes and both times he just nonchalantly got up and curled up right next to me in her spot like he'd been there all along. Then when she went to move him, he growled at her like, "How do you have the NERVE to move me while I'm RESTING?!?!"

She was 5 when we got him. It's 5 years later and now at 5 and 10 they have yet to find a peaceful coexistence. For the first year or so we had Taiko, he was unwilling to accept that she outranked him in the pack. We had to do some serious re-booting of his hardware before she gained the upper hand. Now, on the surface, he seems to accept that she's Alpha, but in an incredibly nefarious way he lets her know that she's dogmeat to him.

From the moment we got Taiko for Dillon & Mac, he was my dog. I picked him up while the kids were at school. He sat on my lap the whole way home and hasn't left my side since. And I gotta tell you, it's getting a little crowded in my immediate vicinity, a frequent complaint from the Dad. When I leave the room, Taiko follows me. When I go to bed, so does he. If I'm sitting on the couch and I even act like I might be getting up, he jumps off and twirls around waiting to see what exciting thing we're going to do next. Though he has, in his middle years, stopped following me into the bathroom. I guess he finally figured out that there's only one way in and out of there and he's quite safe to just guard the door. Quite frankly, he's the worst present the kids have ever gotten.

Hmmm... Follow me on this tangent if you're not doing anything else...which you're clearly not, if you've got nothing better to do than listen to me go on, and on, and on... She's got 7 1/2 years left before she's off to college. In 7 1/2 years, Taiko will be 13. Approximately the life expectancy for a 14-pound spaniel. Fall of 2013 is going to suck to be me big-time.

Anyway, they live together in this house, each tolerating the other while just under the surface, is a smoldering desire to push the other out of the pack. Thankful that the dog doesn't have the vocal cords to yell at her, or the coordination to stand on his hind legs and stomp out of the room while slamming a door in her face, I will just sit here and silently referee the nightly battle for my personal space.

And enjoy it while I can.

*She did go without a single tear. Can't say so for myself...

Things That Can Get Me Dooced

So I'm sitting at my desk today and about 11:30 my coworker comes strolling in with a huge smile on his face. He grabs 2 cups and starts filling one for me.

With Eggnog. His own recipe of "Puerto Rican Eggnog", complete with coconut extract and Rum. It's just he and I in the office (until a homeowner comes in and bothers me) so we had ourselves some Christmas Cheer for lunch. It was a good day. And I highly recommend a little rum to make a Customer Service Job more tolerable.

In case you are not as hip* as me: Dooced

(*Hip..Dorky...whatever.)

Continuing the Theme...

So somehow we ended up on the subject of Menstrual Flow. She's hoping to be a light-flower. I told her not to count on it, as she has half my DNA and I have historically had the cascade and duration of Niagara Falls. On the other hand, my sister had what we thought was the good fortune to have a 1-day, mini-pad controlling period. Until she was 19-years-old and a doctor discovered that she was hormonally challenged and informed her that she would never have children. And I was explaining to Mackenzie how even though my periods have been a complete ass-ache all my life, at least I had enough hormones surging through my body to mature and pop out an egg every month, thus increasing my chances at Motherhood.

So she took all this in then looked at me and said, "So that's why Auntie had 3 babies? She was stocking up?"

Menstruation and Conception 101

Well, Internet, we've reached that point in the story where I tell you about how my daughter is learning about "Human Growth and Development" in 5th grade.

Back in 1977 we just called it "The Talk". It was for an hour or two during one afternoon in the 5th grade. The boys all mysteriously disappeared and went to one classroom and us girls went to another where they covered the windows in the doors with black construction paper*, lowered the blinds, (engaged the Anti-Testosterone Shield) and showed us Puberty Films with cartoons for main characters who showed us to expect hair on our hoo-ha's and how to strap ourselves to a Sanitary Napkin Belt and ginormous pad with long floppy ties at each end that would prevent our knees from touching for one week every 28 days. We even got a Take-Home Sample Belt/Pad Combo. The pad alarmed us more than the inescapable purge of blood and tissue that was to happen in a few short months or years.

*I can only assume this was to keep sacred the Enigma of Woman from every hapless boy that chanced to be roaming the halls of Cumberland Elementary on that day. Knowing what I know now, I'm thinking they should have left off the construction paper and let the Male Enlightenment begin at that point.

I'm just sayin'.

Anyway.

In 2005, "The Talk" is now titled like a college course and I can only hope that more of today's 10-year-olds have at least an inkling of what's to come than some of my peers did back then (I can still see their eyes popping out of their heads and their mouths hanging open in horror). In 2005, it's a week-long special program, one hour per day devoted to their changing bodies and human reproduction. The school sends home "Conversational Worksheets" each night to help start a dialogue between parents and their children. (But really, I'm too busy for that so we just had a chat about it in the car yesterday between errands. Really. I'm so not joking.)

So far, the only dialogue that's started in my house is Mac passing me on the stairs and looking right at me, using her arms for emphasis and saying, "Everyone! Say it with me...NI-PPLE. NI-PPLE." Apparently, that's what she retained from yesterday's lesson.

It seems as though she hasn't been surprised by much as of yet. I'm guessing some of that comes from having a brother 6 years her senior, some of it because not much is off limits for discussion* in my home and the rest from our Alternative/Liberal/Questionable(?) Parenting Style. She probably got a pretty good start on the whole sex-knowledge-thing simply from watching "Friends" and some undeniably inappropriate rated R movies and asking me at 7-years-old what a condom was and where babies come from.

So I told her.

*I'm thinking about this and all I can think of that's been off limits is the Great Santa Claus Debate and Sado/Masochism (not that this would be general conversation around here... I do have some standards). Pretty much everything else though, is up for discussion...

Today they learned about the Miracle of Birth. According to her, no surprises there either. (And again, this conversation took place in the car. Really? At Christmas? They couldn't think of a better time to fit this in?)

(And just for the record, the Indiana public school system didn't think Reproduction was pertinent information until 8th grade. Conservative? Naive? Stupid?)

So. Bottom line. Either I'm doing a pretty good job keeping her in the know, or I need to up the allotment going to her Therapy Fund.

Whispers From the Train

I can hear the train at night. When all is still and I'm lying in my bed, just before I drift off, I hear it. And each time, it paints a picture in my head of my Grandma.

Her name was Mary Jo Murphy. She was born in 1919 and she was short and round. An Irish Catholic with black hair. Her fingernails were long and red and the nails on her forefingers curled under when they got too long, just like mine do. She liked to read and kept RC Cola in the house and made oyster stuffing for the holidays. She had a happy, happy smile, outlined in red, red lipstick. She collected angels and played Euchre and went to Mass every week. She raised ten children, including two sets of twins back-to-back, during the era before disposable diapers, TV, and evolved husbands. Behind her house on Kossuth Street, literally in her backyard, ran the railroad tracks. All night long, everyone in the house could hear the rumble of each train and feel the house tremble in it's passing, the windows rattling us awake. It bothered some of my cousins when we chanced to spend the night, but I loved hearing the whistle as it rolled through town and the chugga-chugga disappear into infinity.

She died in July of 1988. I was pregnant with Dillon and just starting to show. She had hoped it was twins and had faith that even at 21 I could handle it. She never saw my marriage fail, or my Purdue graduation; my children born or my new life with Chris. But I know that she knows. She tells me at night when everyone is asleep and it's just she and I. I doubt that my neighbors even notice the sounds, and to those who do, it's just a train headed to parts unknown. But to me, it's my Grandma reminding me that she's still here watching over me and she still loves me.

Damnit!

Just about the time I've worked myself into a good Mad, he came upstairs being all cute and charming and made me feel better.

My house is still a shitpile, I'm still not making dinner, and I'll still be up 'til the wee hours, but I'm not so pissy anymore.

Shit.

My house is a fucking disaster.

I'm serious. There is NOT ONE room that is clean.

And when I just mentioned it to my husband who does not clean and as a matter of fact, does a better job than the kids of creating a shitpile out of a home, I'm pretty sure he just suggested to me that the answer to my complaint is to "forgo sleep".

I am Flabberghasted. In Awe. Amazed. Horrified. Stunned. Saddened. Disappointed.

Me & Mini Decorate the Tree

Christmas is HERE! Mackenzie and I decorated the tree tonight. It made us happy. And it made our backs hurt. But mostly it made us Happy.

You would think this would be a family endevour. It wasn't. Dillon was up in his room doing homework, Tater was down in the basement allegedly writing a paper (though I heard the TV on Really, Really loud). So Noodle and I did it by ourselves. Just us. And they wonder why we act exactly alike...



Helper-Girl.















Before the ornaments went on...

This is a Real Tree. It's been 5 years since we've had one. And it was the first one Tater picked up in the Knights of Columbus lot. I told him we couldn't buy the first one we saw, but couldn't come up with a good enough argument as to why not.

So we bought it.





Project Complete!

Proof I'm a Dork. And Easily Distracted.

Ok. Its 9:40am and Chandler Bing just made me cry. That's not right.

Noodle and I are watching Season Ten of Friends. We missed the last 5 years due to stupid, stupid AFRTS (Google if you really have to know). When we moved to Japan they were about 3 years behind so we stopped tuning in. Next thing we knew, we got cable and they skipped forward like 5 years, past the seasons we missed, so we STILL couldn't watch it (I was busy anyway; I taught Hiroko English on Thursday nights).

So for the past couple of years we've been catching up via DVD. It's been fun, but a little bit scary how addicting it can be. Those episodes just keep coming and coming and before we know it, 2 or 3 hours gone.

But today Chandler and Monica got a baby.

(Oh my God - trying to concentrate at the topic at hand, but we've moved on to the episode where Danny DeVito is performing a strip tease for Phoebe. It is not pretty. He's swinging his hips and thrusting his groin. OH! She just made him cry!)

Really, I gotta go. I'm missing Phoebe's wedding rehearsal.

Yay... Wrestling!

I figured out tonight why my parents made me a golfer at a young age. They saw, ten years down the road, that if I was a golfer then I would compete in golf meets. Parents don't attend golf meets. You go, you play, you come home and tell them what you shot. There are no parents wandering around unfamiliar cities, wondering where the golf course is. There are no parents standing around before the meet, waiting for a busload of kids to show up so it can start. There are no parents following their kids down the fairway hanging onto every swing. It's a very low-parental-maintenance type of sport (just my kind...). Replace balls and tees every once and a while and you're good to go. Clubs last forever and gloves and spikes are optional. There are no sneakers to replace, cups, pads, swimsuits, helmets, gloves, leotards, sweats to buy.

There's very little guilt in parenting a golfer. You don't have to feel bad when you'd rather be at home watching CSI than sitting in a football stadium. You don't have to feel bad for not wanting to work concessions/provide lasagna/bruise your butt on rock-hard bleachers/drive an hour (each way) for two 3-minute wrestling matches. You don't have to feel dread when you pull up to a school and circle the parking lot, hedging your bets on which is the closer door to the pool.

But on the bright side, with a wrestler for a son, I'm inside a somewhat warm gym and not growing icicles from my nose in the stands at a football game. I feel relatively confident that he's not going to snap his neck on a wrestling mat.

I don't mind coming to these events. I know that in two years, when he is off doing the college-thing, that I will long for the smelly gyms, the sports I don't understand, bleacher-butt, and missed prime-time shows.

But then it will be time for Mac to join.



Sporting the "Onesie". Please note the disaster that is his room behind him. That is unusual. He's been busy.















Saying, "Hey Dude, I'm gonna kick your ass."









Getting his ass kicked in his first match ever.








Here he put up more of a fight during the 2nd match. Check out how the only thing touching the mat is the other guy's foot...

How To Make Me Proud

My Hero
By Mackenzie

A hero is someone you admire or look up to. There are many people in this world I might consider my hero. Out of all those people I chose my older brother Dillon because he is really cool, a good roll model, and very nice.

My brother is really cool because he doesn't ignore me. Also because once when I was little, these two boys that were older than me were pushing me around. Then my brother helped me out. He is also really cool because he never tries to hurt me... well besides the occasional punch or hit in the head.

Dillon is a good roll model because he always gets on the honor roll. Also because this one time he had a friend that had an encounter with the police and was always getting into trouble. Then he met Dillon. Dillon got him to stop getting in to trouble. Most of all, my brother is a good roll model for me because he isn't afraid to show what he likes, his style, or his real personality.

My brother is really nice to me. He helps me with homework all the time. Dillon is also nice because he intentionally buys two player video games so I can play with him. Lastly, my brother is very nice because he lets me hang out with him and his friends when they're over.

Ok, so I know since we're siblings we’re supposed to fight and hate each other. I also know I can be annoying and a pain in the neck, but what makes him a good hero is that he's really cool, a good roll model, and very nice. What makes him a great hero and an awesome brother is that he loves me.

The End

In the Nutshell

Roll back to last Tuesday:

Eleven hours with 3 others (yes, they are the 3 others whom I love most in this world, but Damn!) in the cab of the truck. Sit for one hour in the parking lot of Cabela's in Wheeling waiting for Tater and Dillon. Sleet in the mountains.

Wednesday, Thursday (9 degrees at home, by the way), Friday, Saturday, Sunday:

Cook, do dishes, eat, do more dishes, congratulate Dillon for killing his first deer. figure out why the 4-year-old niece is pissed, visit friends at neighborhood bar, break up a sister-fight, eat, shop, drink Starbucks, congratulate Tater for killing another deer, eat, figure out why the 8-year-old niece is pissed, shop, eat, be extorted by the 5-year-old niece, make jewelry, watch Elf, eat, shop, pack.

Monday:

Eleven hours in the cab of the truck with same 3 others. Fog in the mountains, rain after. Unpack. Go to Costco to buy a refrigerator to store all the murdered deer flesh.

Moral of the story:

Before you spend 24 hours in the cab of a truck with your entire family, be Very ,Very sure that your marriage is Very, Very strong.

The end.

Didn't We JUST Do This?

And again with the packing...

We're headed back to DC tomorrow. We leave at O-dark-30 for the 12-ish hour ride home.

In the truck.

Yay.

PS - Dillon shot a deer.

This Is Me, Not Packing...

It got cold here last week and day after day, I watched these 2 roses stop their slow march toward bloom:




So I rescued them:

Grrr....

Getting ready to go home to Indiana tomorrow.

I hate packing.

Otherwise Known As Mini-Me

On our way home from running errands tonight, I asked Mackenzie if she wanted me to drive through McDonald's and pick her up a milkshake to soothe her sore throat.

"No, thanks. I just want to go home."

"Ok. Do you want me to stop at Giant and I'll buy some ice cream and make you a milkshake at home?"

"No," she said. Then after a pause, "But I'll take a Margarita!"

Karma, Baby!

So.

After he left for a Saturday night trip to Home Depot, I ran upstairs to carry out my nefarious plan...

I stripped the apple green, freezing cold, high-thread-count, cotton sheets off my bed and grabbed my white, super-heavy, super-cozy, Lands End flannel sheets out of the linen closet. I draped one corner of the fitted sheets around the first corner...and then the second...and then the..........

WHAT THE HELL?!?!?!

It wasn't wide enough to make it to the third corner! How can this be? I checked the tag..."Twin"!

In a panic, I ran back to the linen closet. Red queen-size sheets, pink twins, purple twins, white twins... What happened?

I sat like a dunderhead for a couple of minutes trying to figure it all out. And then I remembered:

After warmer weather became the norm last spring, I took my flannels off for the last time and Threw. Them. Away! I remember now! They were starting to yellow, as white sheets will tend to do, and the cozy brushy feeling was wearing off them so I threw them out, knowing that I would remember to buy some in the fall. Well, guess what? It's fall. I forgot.

So as I type, my icy-cold cotton sheets are in the washing machine and I'll have to return them to my bed until I can order some flannels.

Joke's on me.

I Always. Win In the End.

We've been in our house almost year. The previous owners didn't leave the instruction manual to the electronic thermostat and while I do consider us a shade brighter than your average bear, neither one of us has cracked the code on re-programming it. Part of the trouble is that we're a little afraid to really try. What if we get it stuck in the 97-degree-range all winter and then we have to go adjust it every time sweat starts popping out on our foreheads?

So, we've chosen the alternative, which is to just live with their settings and adjust as we get too cold or too hot. The problem here is that they seem to be a family of polar bears, with the temperature set at 66 degrees be it summer or winter. So I go up and hit "Hold" - "70" (that's one day that's almost warm enough for me) and then I get all toasty and forget that in a mere 24 hours, we're going to have icicles hanging off our noses again and then I'm out, or we're asleep, or something happens to distract me*, and of course, by the time I figure it all out, it's back down to 66 degrees again and everyone** is bitching that their toes/nose/ears are cold. (Except Dillon. Because he has a lizard in his room and the heat lamp keeps his room at a toasty 80 degrees year round.)

*Which doesn't take much. I was going to name this journal "Easily Distracted" until I Googled it and saw how many of us flakes there really are out there.

**Mostly me.

So that is what happened last night. We were all freezing, no one willing to do anything about it until we all converged on the stairway headed to bed, complaining, "My toes are freezing! I need an electric blanket!" and I actually looked and saw it said "66". Brr. I knocked it up to 70 and by the time I was finished brushing my teeth and washing my face, my bedroom was warm, my sheets still a frozen wasteland.

But it's ok because Tater was in bed already so I just scooted WAAAY over to his side and smooshed myself right up next to him, super cozy and comfy. Nice.

And then he said, "You have to turn out your lamp."

"No."

"Yes."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I can't. Because if I move, then you'll move and then I won't get as comfy again as I am now."

And then he tickled me.

So I turned out my light. And when I got back to his side of the bed, he was lying on his back, his ribs jutting into my spine, his biceps a miserable lump under my ear, and I said, "SEE! You moved!"

And he just laughed. So I tried to wriggle my way into another comfy position to best steal his body heat but it never happened again and I ended up SO uncomfortable that the only option was to go back to my side where it was FREEZING which I did and today I'm going to put on the flannel sheets. Which he hates. :)

I win.

Friday Dog Blogging

Because on Fridays I clearly have nothing to say except, "WOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! HAPPY FRIDAY!!!!!!! Pass the MARGARITA!!!", I decided to conform to Blogging Norms and join in Pet Blogging Friday. Not as scintillating as my Wednesday chatter, but better than nothing...?!?!?!

This is Taiko. He is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. He is a cat-dog.

Exhibit A:



Exhibit 2:



Exhibit C:




The animals in the photo below are technically not pets (if you INSIST on being 100% PC), but I found it while searching my photos for more Cat-Dog Evidence. These are my kids with Japan-Indiana jetlag during Summer 2003:

Nevermind Me Trying To Class Up the Joint

Paige to Noodle: "What else should we have for Thanksgiving dinner? I have Deviled Eggs, Turkey & Gravy, Spinach Persimmon Salad, Sweet Potatoes, Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Corn, Tuscan Stuffing, Cranberry-Orange Sauce, Parker House Rolls, Toasted-Pecan Pie, Pumpkin Pie, Cherry Pie".

"What about that red stuff in the can with the lines?"

"Canned Cranberry Sauce?"

"Yeah....." With a big ole smile.

He's A Keeper

He brought me flowers yesterday after I had such a crappy day Monday.







...And they are Orange. :)

The Rambling One About the Cold

Winter is here. It arrived sometime between 3 and 3:30 this afternoon.

Before 3, and for the past few days, the weather has been fabulous. Hovering between 65 and 72, and mild even in the evenings, it was perfect weather for taking the dog for a walk, talking to neighbors in the yard, and sleeping with the windows open. When I left work at 3 today, my car said it was 67 degrees out.

After 3 it all came to an end.

It was raining by 3:15; the sky had darkened, rain was falling, and within 30 minutes it was a nippy 53 degrees with a brutal, biting wind.

Tomorrow the high is supposed to be 45 and if the scuttlebutt is to be believed, we could expect some mixed snow/rain this weekend.

I can feel my mood plummeting with the mercury. I don't believe it's about the lack of daylight, as in the SAD disorder, it's definitely about the cold. The cold makes me even less social than I am in the first place. It makes me want to whip up some hot cocoa, wrap myself in fleece and flannel, light a cinnamon candle and hibernate with a book until the tulips appear in the spring.

In winter, I frequently have a sore back. It's from shivering. Stopping the shivering has become a life-long battle for me. Turtlenecks, Uggs, my long hair, electric blankets are all weapons in my war, but it's never enough to prevail. Every morning I have to drag myself back out of my cozy bed and start another frigid day. I despise it. For a time, the magic of Christmas holds my loathing at bay, but in a blink it's over and I'm faced with January, February, and March to bide my time until the days start getting longer, the buds start appearing on the trees, and slowly, the warm days begin to outnumber the cold.

And I remember that I am thankful I don't live in Alaska.

Oh, the Rants. They Do Excite Me.

I've had a headache since I woke up last Wednesday.

Some days are worse than others. Friday morning it was a sharp, blinding pain emanating from the top of my spinal column across the back of my skull and over the top of my head. I couldn't turn my head. And yet, I went to work. I "had" to. I took one of Dillon's Zomigs because I'm out of Imitrex and by afternoon the icepick in my brain had faded to a dull ache. (I get the same effect with Rum, but Zomig is more socially acceptable at 0930.)

I'm trying to temper my use of Dillon's Zomig, because after all, it's Dillon's Zomig. And what if he needs some after I've swooped in and ingested his whole stash? So I've been supplementing with Bayer periodically. I have Motrin 800's too (lovingly known as Vitamin M), but in the case of a migrane, Motrin is as helpful as Mike-n-Ikes. (I also have one single, solitary, Tylenol 3 left from my surgery last summer but I've been rationing those very strictly. One each month on the first or second day of my period. So as I can stand up straight and carry on a coherent conversation. Fair warning: Avoid me on the 9th or 10th of January... )

Anyway, at first I thought it was a migrane. I tend to get them during my ever-so-inconvenient monthly hormonal fluctuations. But since I went off The Pill a couple of years ago, the instances of migranes has dropped dramatically. I can't even remember the last time I had a headache that lasted more than 3 days. But now it's been 6 days and I can feel it ramping back up even now. I am starting to wonder if this is less of a "migrane" and more of a "what-the-hell-am-I-doing-in-customer-service-if-my-biggest-pet-peeve-is-whining-headache". Seriously. I had homeowners call me to complain that there were leaves in their yards today and then ask me if I would be staying. You know it's never a good sign when you start meeting people in your new job and they very cheerfully say, "Well, Paige, it's nice to meet you. I hope we can keep you. We seem to have trouble keeping people here."

Did it ever occur to you people that it's because you're CRAZY? And you need to get a grip and realize Ethnic Cleansing qualifies as a catastrophe, but leaves on your lawn only qualifies as AUTUMN! And that just because YOU think that a tree needs trimmed doesn't necessarily mean that it will be trimmed if our professional arborist doesn't agree with you! And guess what?! If you are scheduled to have your house painted next summer but you think that your rake board* needs painted now...no one gives a crap! You will wait 6 more months with the other 150 homeowners or pay yourself to have it done! Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the Board of Directors chooses to enforce SOME of the By-Laws (ie: there can be no chairs/benches/decorative flags in the common areas) but ignore others (ie: leaving your trailer-trash Little Tykes playhouse in the common areas where everyone has to look at them is not a problem)

(So if I buy a Little Tykes bench is it OK?).

And don't walk into my office and treat me like shit because you think that I'm an ignorant, couldn't-get-a-real-job, phone-answering, paper-pusher from the wrong side of the tracks. I am a fast-talking, fast-moving Yankee, who has lived abroad, raised 2 of the best-behaved, most intelligent kids I've ever met, earned two degrees from Purdue University and without-a-doubt paid more for my house, in YOUR neighborhood, last year than you did 2, 5, 15, or 35 years ago.

*Can I tell you how much I hate it that I even know what a rake board is?

Well...that didn't help my headache. But I think we all have a better picture of what the real trouble might be.....

I'm getting a Tylenol PM and going to bed.

PS - I really love my boss and would have probably already called Uncle if I didn't have her watching my back (and buying me lunch when she sees me going under).

On The Fast Track To Therapy

So. In the continuing saga titled "Why Mackenzie Gets a College Fund AND a Therapy Fund"...

At dinner tonight, Tater was celebrating the fact that in 6 years Mac will be 16 and going out on dates therefore freeing up the 14 inches directly next to me on the sofa for him to sit there and enjoy a movie (while occasionally feeling me up).

She replies, "Fine. Maybe I'll just go stay with Dillon then."

Tater and Paige high-five.

Then Paige realizes that in 6 years Dillon will be 22. Presumably with 22-year-old friends. We decide that's not such a good idea, at which point D realizes what's going on and gets totally grossed out thinking about trying to keep his friends away from his 16-year-old sister. Things go downhill from there.

Tater thinks about this for a minute and then says, "In college you two need to find girls that are psychology majors. It should reduce your therapy bills."

Then I look at him.

He looks at me.

And he points at Mackenzie and says, "You should find a guy."

And then we all consider the alternative and crack up while she curls up in a fetal position on the kitchen floor.

Send your contributions to WeFuckedUpOurDaughter.com

Sorry, Stanley!

Allow me to clarify:

I accidentally named the lizard Stanley. Dillon was holding off, trying to think of the coolest, cleverest, dragon-ey name (Vlad, as in The Impaler, was at the top of the list). But he took too long and in the interim I started calling him Stanley.

And it stuck.

Which makes me so thankful that we went into childbirth with a clear plan. Can you see me open the back door and holler, "Vivian!! Fabio!!! Time for dinner!!!"???

Yikes.

The Pets, They Fear Me

I don't think I ever recorded it, but right after we moved here last spring, several innocent animals gave up their lives for my amusement.

We already had the dog. We acquired him in Japan and must be a strong little ball of fluff as he is still living and breathing, though I frequently forget to feed and water him until he scratches and sneezes at his food bowls in a canine attempt to communicate that, "Hey, Stupid! I know you don't like to cook all the time, but I don't have a drivers license and can't go through the Mickey D's drive-through so I'm completely dependent upon your lazy ass to keep me alive!"

And then I tell Mackenzie to feed him.

I think the death-toll is somewhere around 8 fish and 2 aquatic crabs.

Anyway, Dillon wanted a snake. We said, "No way in Hell." He counter-offered with a ferret (refer back to answer #1), and then came up with the lizard idea. So we went and looked at them. He came home with a Chinese Water Dragon and all the required accessories (including a container of live crickets which must be refilled on a weekly basis - ewww). His name is Stanley, and though I was in charge of his well-being all summer long, he is still with us.



My problem seems to lie in the aquatic realm.

Mackenzie wanted an aquarium. We bought her a 5-gallon freshwater with 5 or 6 fish. None of the original fish are still living, though that's not entirely my fault. We brought home a fish with "Ick", who infected all of the others, who then, one by one, slowly kicked the bucket despite my best efforts at marine veterinary science and a product called "Ick-Away". We also bought a couple of teeny-tiny brown crabs. We had to put them in a decorative shallow glass bowl because they kept scaling the filter and climbing out the back. And then I'd have to chase them down. And sometimes I'd have to wait stealthily outside Mac's bookcase until they came peeking back out, thinking all was safe, and then I'd whomp a tupperware over the top of them. So finally, they ended up in the glass bowl on the coffee table where everyone could enjoy them and the sides were too slippery to perform a Birdman of Alcatraz. Until one died and the other molted. And I wanted to get a peek at the renewed crab and lifted up a corner of the rock it was hiding under, at which point it (obviously) scooted further under the rock, and then the rock slipped out of my hands. And I squished it.

And then I made Tiny-Little-Crabcakes.

We also bought a Betta for the kitchen. He lasted about 2 weeks. Until I washed out his bowl with Palmolive (which I totally know you're not supposed to do but did it anyway) and he died.

Then we bought a pop-eyed goldfish for the same bowl. I rinsed the bowl out sufficiently, but apparently forgot about the rocks. He was dead by dinner.

I still haven't lived down the murderous rampage and my family is still teasing me about the carnage. In spite of all this, Mac has asked if we can get some more crabs and another Betta but I'm not sure in good conscience I can deliberately go to the store and select any more creatures to be my next involuntary victims.

You Make Grilled Cheese For Dinner, Right?

"Elaine" stayed for dinner tonight.

When I got home from work, I looked in the freezer and all I had was venison (nah), pork chops (all pork-chopped out, thankyouverymuch), and 3 tupperwares of frozen chicken noodle soup. As I didn't have any aspirations towards cooking tonight At All*, I decided it would be Soup and Sandwich Night at La Casa. So I whipped up some grilled cheese sandwiches while heating up the soup (and a left-over pork chop from 2 nights ago for Dillon, who eats more than your average human) and called the troops down. As I was cooking the last sandwich, I heard Elaine telling Dillon (in the most innocent and super-sweet 15-year-old way) that "her mom never cooks like this and always has like 5 things to eat. She never makes grilled cheese for Dinner".

I've always had grilled cheese for dinner. It's like a Family Tradition. Tuna, Grilled Cheese, Fried Egg Sandwich... all acceptable dinner fare in The House of Mounce. But now it occurs to me: are not all families like that? Do some people actually have a Real, Well-Rounded, All-Food-Groups-Represented, Dinner Every Single Night?

*Come to think of it, I didn't feel like cooking last night either and we had Tuna Sandwiches. Hmmm...

As Dillon took her home, I got to wondering... I've always known that we Parent differently than most people, and I've always attributed it mostly to our being younger than our parent-peers, but now, as I approach 40, I am realizing that in fact, we (mostly me) Are different. I don't think in a bad way; I hope in a Fun, Open, non-therapy-inducing way, but it's interesting to see how the teenagers react to us. As opposed to little kids, who are pretty much accepting of everyone.

I asked him, when he got home, "Are we weird?"

"Yes."

"Bad Weird?"

He got a smile on his face. "Actually, as we were walking down the steps, she said, 'I like them.'"

And I am relieved. "Weird" is ok. "Embarrassing" is not.

Bethesda Rocks!

No Military-Medicine-induced-frustrations today...

We were in at 1:00, out at 1:15... (had to wait about half an hour for the meds, but...) we were home by 2:30, even after stopping for a Starbucks.

I am still amazed. We lucked out at the pharmacy. I forgot to use Tara's trick and pick up my pharmacy number on the way in, so the first number we got was about 40 customers off and had a wait of an hour and fifteen minutes. But as we were walking away from the counter we saw an abandoned number only 10 away from the number being served! We scored! Dillon snagged it while I was deciding whether or not to claim it as mine with a look that said, "Jeez, Mom! Did you just fall off the Turnip Truck?"

Within 30 minutes he had the Accutane in his grubby little hands and FINALLY (!) we are on the way to clear and acne-free skin.

Ironically, Mackenzie's face has been breaking out for the last week or so. The Teen Misery Demons are not done with La Casa de Pooh yet...

"It's Got Bows."

She opened the box and said, "It's got bows." She didn't know what "it" was yet, but she knew it had fuzzy bows.

I said, "It's a dress coat for you. From Wago (my mom)."

(Blank Stare.)

"You'll be really glad to have this when we go to the Christmas Concert at the Kennedy Center."

"Do I have to wear a dress?"

If she wasn't such a shit, she'd say "thank you, Wago", but as she is (a shit), I'll have to say it for her until she has to get dressed up and then feels like a princess getting off the Metro, in the City, wearing her new jacket.

Thank You, Mama! I love you!

The B

Maybe you don't know Mackenzie. If you do, then you know that she sets very high standards for herself and others, and expects them to be met. She has very little patience for idiocy.

I just returned from her Parent-Teacher Conference. Her teacher started out by asking if I had any concerns or if there was anything I'd like her to know.

As a matter of fact.....

"You need to know that Tara drives Mackenzie insane. She can't stand to be around her. Tara does and says things that Mackenzie can't understand and it makes her completely freaked out. So last week, when Tara sat at Mackenzie's desk during Math (while Mac was in another classroom) and rearranged it, and wrote on it, and used her scissors to cut up a piece of paper and leave it scattered about her floor, she completely lost it. Could you please not have Tara sit at her desk anymore?"

About halfway through this tirade/request, she started grimacing and nodding and looking terribly sympathetic. She said that the 5th grade team has issues with Tara and no one knows what to do with her (I've got a few ideas, but I'll just keep them to myself) and understands how Mac feels. She will maybe have to turn around the desk when Tara is visiting.

And then she told me how another 5th grade teacher gave Mac a "B". In reading. And yup, there it was, right in the middle of all those A's lined up like soldiers on her report card.

"Oh, no, you didn't give her a B in reading."

"Well, Miss Blah-Blah did, but it means that her comprehension is good, she's just not making inferences from what she reads. She's still at grade level."

At which point I looked at this (very nice, just out of diapers, still has callouses from where she sucked her thumb) teacher like she had 2 heads.

"She's always read several grades above her level. Reading is her favorite subject. She is going to Freak Out. I'm not going to tell her."

"Well, you can call Ms. Blah-Blah if you want."

And I gave her the look that says, "And say what to her? You change my baby's grade to an A right this very instant young lady! Or else!"?

I just cannot fathom how in kindergarten, and in first grade, and in second grade, and in third grade, and in fourth grade, she has ALWAYS gotten A's in reading, but all of a sudden, in 5th grade, she's not performing. She's read around 25 books this year. All above her "grade level". I could understand if "something" were going on and all of her grades went down. Maybe she is stressed, or the Virginia school system is too hard* (snicker-snicker) but that is Clearly Not The Case.

So, my plan is to be "That Mom" who thinks that the reading teacher is Wrong, and just ignore the fact that she got a B. (I could just lie and tell her she got all A's...) I will not call the teacher. How foolish would that be? ( "Mac is real smart...please give her an A so you don't hurt her feelin's.") No, the plan is to not say anything and maybe she'll never find out. Even if I did tell her, I'd have to include how Stupid her reading teacher obviously is and how it's not her fault that her teacher is so Stupid and obviously Wrong and even in my alternative parenting style I try not to criticize her teachers too often.

Much better to lie to her about her grade. Excellent plan!

*These folks here in Fairfax County, they sure are proud of their schoolin'. They all told me how my chillins, coming from Californy and Japan and Inni-ana, would prob'ly have a rough time of it round these parts, them Virginians bein' so smarts and alls! Why it be's hard for us countryfied corn-fed Military types to understand all this culture and shit they got here! Good thing we gots the Discovery Channel and the History Channel, so when my lil tots be done with all the homework from their's AP and Honor's classes and makin' A's and shit in math and science, they can get caught up on theirs learnin'!

(Late Parental Edit 6.30.06 - This was the only "B" on her report card.)

Overheard During Dinner

Paige: "I think I want a new camera for Christmas."

Tater: "Why?"

"Because you won't let me use yours."

"Yes I will."

"Not to take it anywhere. Like to Indiana for my reunion, for example."

(Point for Paige.)

"What kind?"

"Something better than what I've got (a Sony Cyber-Shot). How about that Canon Rebel?"

"You don't want that."

"Why not?"

"It's an SLR."

"So."

"So it's heavy and shit. You don't like carrying heavy stuff."

(Keeping this one within my inner monologue... "Well, concerning TV's and luggage, that's true, but I think I could handle a camera...")

Paige: "I could get a bag."

"Where would you put your wallet?"

"In the bag."

"There won't be room."

"Think of all the shit you put in your bag!"

"Yeah, and it's really heavy."

(Getting frustrated.)

"You'd need lenses."

"Yes."

"That's a lot of money."

(Inner monologue: "Which is why I'm asking for it for Christmas.")

Tater: "It would be stupid to have two different systems with parts that aren't interchangeable. (He has a fancy Nikon.)"

(Inner monologue again: "But I'm not allowed to use your camera anyway...")

Paige: "I've grown out of my point-and-shoot."

"I agree with that, but....blah blah blah..." ...lots of stuff that sounded like I wouldn't be capable of operating all those buttons and switches and talk that just lead to me being pissed off.

Which only makes me want it more.

Rain, Rain, Go Outside

Remember THIS? When my house was leaking from the third floor onto the second?

This week it's leaking from the second floor onto the first.

Seriously.

About a week ago Mac noticed that there were "funny lines" around the can light in the basement. The dad investigated and found that it was water. Water. In the light. Sooooo not ok.

So he unscrewed the lightbulb and let it be. (He was busy.)

Then a few days later, it started raining from another nearby light. After I did the dishes on the 2nd floor. And then again after Dillon flushed the toilet on the 3rd floor.

So the dad cut a hole in the ceiling, exposing a teeny-tiny copper pipe with a drip hanging precariously off the bottom of it.

And put a bucket under the drip.


For a couple days.

But now he has a clamp on it...


...and it seems to be working. But for how long is anyone's guess and regardless, I still have a big-ole nasty hole in my ceiling:


Again.

Kids Gone Wild

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Mackenzie:



Dillon:


Dillon's Friends:



Mackenzie went trick-or-treating with friends too, but I forgot to take a picture of them. Duh. It was easier to remember to take a picture of D and his friends as they were loitering around my kitchen and eating pizza.

Oh yeah, and these...

"I am SO humiliated."

"My eyes are burning you with the intensity of 10 blazing suns."

"What? You said I was a Good Dog? Treats for Taiko?"

Carving Pumpkins!

Carving....



And Concentrating...



And Proud...

Homecoming

Homecoming was last night. This is how great Dillon looks in a suit. And there's his girlfriend, "Elaine", and those are his friends: