The Chicken Incident: A Schnauzer's Tale

My Sam is the bestest dog in the whole world. He is everything a dog should be: cute, smart, furry, housebroken, cuddly, non-shedding, and awesome in every way. He is perfectly behaved 99% of the time.

This story is about the other 1%.

We had just moved in to a new (to us) house and met our delightful next-door neighbors, their lovely daughters, and their chickens. Upon being introduced to Mr. Cheeps, we had the following thoughts:

No. 1: Um...

No. 2: &%$#@! (See "The Happiest Place on Earth" post)

No. 3: Cool!

Husband: Er...

Me: Ew.

Sam: Yum!

At this time, we had just started letting the girls be home alone for short periods of time with No. 1 in charge. Every time before we left, we delivered the same lecture: Keep the doors shut and locked, stay inside, don't let Sam out no matter what. One fateful day, I ran to the store. I was literally gone for 12 minutes and came home to find the front door open, the back door open, both gates unlatched, and pieces of Mr. Cheeps all over the front lawn. I found my sweet Sam in the back yard, blissfully happy, covered in chicken blood.

I snapped in to angry mother mode. I gathered the girls together, supplied them with latex gloves, and told them to clean up the mess. After much whining, crying, and dry heaving the evidence of the massacre had been cleaned up, conveniently at the same time Mr. B arrived home. We walked next door and I made the girls tell him that Sam had done Mr. Cheeps in.

No. 2: We're sorry we let Sam out and he ate Mr. Cheeps.

No 1: (Sobbing)

Mr. B: Well, thank you for telling me.

No. 3, ever tactful: There was blood spurting out of his neck.

Mr. B: I didn't need to know that...

No. 1: (Sobbing)

Mr. B: Don't worry about it, I never liked him anyway. Mrs. B and the girls will get over it. Did you at least give him a proper burial?

Me, lying through my teeth: Of course!

What was left of Mr. Cheeps was in my trash can.

That evening at 11:00, Husband and I went out and dug a grave for a chicken in our back yard, without the benefit of a flashlight, so the neighbors wouldn't find out what a liar I was.

Ho Ho Noooo...

Last night we had our family Christmas party. Mom thought it would be fun to play that game where one person opens a present and the next person can steal it and then the first person has to open another present. The next person can then steal either present and so on. This can be a lot of fun when the gifts are good.

My brother went first and opened up a purple t-shirt with a torch on it. Hmmm. My sister-in-law was next and, taking a pass on the snazzy t-shirt, opened a cube of note paper. Niece the Second opened an Eddie Bauer flashlight/alarm clock which was marginally desirable. Niece the First opened a t-shirt from Speidiefest 2008, child size small. (Please bear in mind that no one present is child sized.) No. 1 opened a pair of purple tights, size large. (Please bear in mind that no one present is a size large either.) When Nephew the Second opened up a Tortenplatte (cake plate) my Mom had purchased at WMF in Stuttgart when we were there in 1983, I was overcome with a wave of hysterical laughter so severe I couldn't breathe.

My mother had come up with 21 presents nobody wanted.

Mom considers herself a great shopper and prides herself on buying people fantastic presents they absolutely love at bargain prices.

In reality, Mom buys the worst presents ever, shopping with an utter disregard for the tastes, wants, and preferences of the recipient. One of her favorite things to do is buy items on extreme clearance and leave the tag on, so the recipient can enjoy the gift more knowing what a good deal she got.

What follows is a completely factual and true list, in no particular order, of items my mother has given as Christmas gifts:

Top sheets and bottom sheets that do not match, but are name brand and very high quality

BandAids

A book the author had signed "To Grace, Best Wishes!"

Hot pink placemats*

A t-shirt with a squirrel on it that said, "All The People Who Drive Me Nuts Are In My Family", purchased at Cracker Barrel (Given to me 3 years ago)

Silver utensils inscribed with someone elses initials; very high quality, of course

Hideous clothing containing shoulder ruffles well after 1980

Bright orange placemats*

Tennis player oven mitts, given to people who do not play tennis

A staple remover*

A bright turquoise sweatshirt, size XXL, for a 6'4" tall man

A collapsible gardening hat

Pink velvet couches (very high quality)

*items given to my brother-in-law

Needless to say, as a child I found the holidays somewhat disappointing. Each year on Christmas morning, my friends would call and we would have a conversation that went something like this:

Friend: I got a Guess sweater, five pairs of jeans, a juke box, a pinball machine, an Atari, and a gold necklace. What did you get?

Me: Uh... Irregular sweatpants.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I formed my excellent sense of humor.

Merry Christmas to you all!

***UPDATE***

This is what Mom gave my brother for Christmas this year:



Yep, that's a jar of Orange Marmalade.

The Happiest Place on Earth

No. 2 is a good kid. She is helpful and clean, friendly and hardworking. She is pretty, athletic and gets decent grades. How lucky Emily is, you may think with a twinge of jealousy as you read my blog, to have such a perfect child. But let me tell you, every girl must go through the awkward, horrible, traumatizing pre-teen years and I have been through them three times. (Four times if I count myself, which I don't because my preteen years were not at all the armpit of my life. Nope. Not at all.)

All my girls were unbearable in their own way between the ages of 12 and 14 - just recently we have been able to withstand prolonged periods of exposure to No. 3 - but No. 2, wow, her pre-teen years were rough. See, where No. 1 cried and No. 3 chattered and shrieked like a rabid squirrel on a sugar high, No. 2 was angry. Really, really angry.

We were worried about her. We met with doctors, teachers, even a psychiatrist. ADHD, they all said. She is just angry because she can't concentrate. Lets put her on Adderall and she will be able to focus.

She was able to focus, all right. Adderall gave her the ability to focus, with laser beam intensity, on her rage. She kicked, bit, clawed, and punched; threw temper tantrums for hours at a time; and peeled off the outer layer of finish on the bathtub with her bare hands just for spite. She was an absolute nightmare.

Right around this time the family was taking a trip to Disneyland for Spring Break. Husband and I debated amongst ourselves about even taking her on the trip with the way she was behaving, but ultimately decided if we didn't. we would always be the parents who left her home and took everyone else to see Mickey Mouse. Off to California we went, to Disneyland, California Adventure, and the beach. Everyone had the time of their lives.

Everyone except No. 2.

She was absolutely miserable. She hurled insults at the Pacific Ocean like a Republican at a Healthcare Reform Support Rally*. She growled at Jasmine, sneered at Snow White, and stared down the deformed bird-things from Chicken Little until they slowly backed away. She screamed and sobbed as we, the most horrible parents on planet earth, made her ride through the Haunted Mansion. She laid down on the ground inside the entrance to Monsters Inc, rolled her way through the line, and didn't get up until we physically picked her up and stuffed her in a seat. She screeched, "I HATE MONSTERS, INC!!!" for the entire ride. As any one of you who has gone to a Disney park can attest, there are more temper tantrums per capita than mouse ears, but very few of them are thrown by 12-year-old girls. Needless to say, it was a little embarrassing.

Husband and I eventually figured out that the medication was making her worse and took her off it. She was still mad, but we no longer feared that she would kill us in our sleep or poison our mouthwash. And we have four rolls of photos from our family trip to Disneyland to help us remember the good times that were had by all. Well maybe not "all"... See, No. 2 was so toxic she spread misery to all the passengers on board The Columbia. I like to call this one, "Take the &#$#@ picture already!"

My original intent was for this to be a picture essay - there are plenty of hilarious pictures from this trip - but I realized that it would be a little unfair to post dozens of embarrassing pictures of No. 2 when I haven't posted any of the other two. So you will have to settle for just this one.

* Happy Election Day! Go Vote!

This Moment in Bad Parenting is Brought to You by Walt Disney

No. 1 is brilliant. I'm not just saying that because I am her mother, I'm saying it because its true.
She absolutely loves to read. In third grade, they had to dress a soup can up as a character from a book. We glued tree bark to the can, covered the top with spanish moss, and chopped the legs off an old Happy Meal toy to create Old Man Willow from The Fellowship of the Ring, complete with Hobbit feet sticking out of the bottom. She was absolutely adamant that her project represent a character that was not in the movie so her teacher and fellow students would know she actually read the book.

When she was eleven, they sent home standardized test results for reading comprehension which included a helpful list of books approriate for your child's reading level. No. 1's results put her on the level of a sophomore in college, and the books suggested for her were by Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Shakespeare.

Last year, she read the entire unabridged version of Moby Dick partly for ten points of extra English credit, but mostly out of sheer spite.

So when her sixth grade Social Studies class required her to read a historical novel and sent home a list of books to choose from, and she (still a Disney Princess junkie) chose The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I made her read the unabridged version. I figured she was up to the challenge. With the help of a French-English dictionary, she plowed her way through Victor Hugo.

It was a little rough at first, but after the first hundred pages or so she really got into it. Every night at dinner she would update me on the book and compare what was happening against the beloved Disney classic. One evening, she informed me that she only had 40 pages left and that she was going to finish the book that very night. She finished her food and disappeared to her room.

I was in the kitchen when the screaming began. I didn't remember until that very second the Disney-fication of the ending.

No. 1 was inconsolable. "Why, Mom, WHY?!?!? How could Phoebus marry someone else? They hung Esmerelda!!!! And Quasimodo lies down next to her corpse and starves to death? WHY DID YOU MAKE ME READ THIS BOOK?!?!?!?"

My bad.

*NOTE: In all her brilliance, No. 1 pointed out my typos and now they are fixed.*

No. 3: Please Don't Eat the Berries

I have been awful at posting lately. I got a new job, which I start on Monday, and have been spending the past few weeks at the old one training my boss's son to take over for me. It is not going well. These people can't even function when I take the afternoon off to go to the dentist, so I fully expect this place to implode when I am gone.

Between work, the kids' sports and my mother's rampant insanity, I have been rather short on down time lately. I have actually started about ten entries (I'm not exaggerating) but I keep getting interrupted - usually by my mom, and usually when I am writing about her - and then its hard to get back in to the flow of things. So today I am starting from scratch and not letting myself have lunch (Fries, the lunch of champions!) until I finish.

I thought a good child story was in order to cleanse your palate. So let me present daughter number three, who is a brilliant child with many fine qualities, but like all other children has some moments of, shall we say, questionable judgment.

She was seven years old when Husband and I got married and moved into a large old house. The first time we brought her over to see the house, I pointed out the bushes clustered around the front porch.

"See those little red berries?" I said. "They are poisonous, DO NOT eat them." When we moved in, I repeated the warning on a daily basis for at least the first week. Regardless, No. 1 came rushing in the house a month or so later to tell me No. 3 was eating the berries.

To say I became hysterical is an understatement. I had visions of my sweet child vomiting, Excorcist-style, then dying in my arms.

I was going to call the Poison Control hotline, but realized they were going to ask me what kind of berries they were and I had no idea, I just knew they were the kind you weren't supposed to eat. I decided to call my dad, since he knows everything, but I couldn't dial the phone because my hands were shaking so badly. No. 1 had to call him for me while I sobbed in the background, convinced that No. 3 was going to start convulsing at any second.

Dad wasn't sure what kind of bush it was and suggested I ask my next door neighbor. We had not known each other long and my only interaction with her had been The Chicken Incident*, so I was a little afraid to ask, but this was a matter of life and death so I sprinted next door. I was not by any means calm or rational so the fact that she helped me so kindly, especially after The Chicken Incident*, is a testament to her fabulosity. She was pretty sure it was a Pyracantha** bush, and being a hoarder of course she had a book about bushes and berries and we were able to make a positive ID.

I called Poison Control, still nowhere near a state of calmness and emotional control, and reported that my child had eaten an undetermined number of Pyracantha** berries. The dispatcher informed me that they were not fatally poisonous and that they would just make her sick. It was at this point that I quickly transitioned from blind panic to relief to murderous rage. All that worry and stress, which undoubtedly would take years off my life, and she wasn't dying?

Dispatcher: How old is the child?

Me, through clenched teeth: Old enough to know better!

Dispatcher: How old is that?

Me, still clenched: Seven

Dispatcher: Oh my, that is old enough to know better. Well, she may have some cramping, vomiting, diarrhea...

Me: She deserves it.

And thus, after much puking and stomach discomfort and very little sympathy, No. 3 did not die.

* An excellent topic for a future entry!

** I have no idea if the spelling is accurate and am far too lazy to google it.

If I Didn't Exist: A Scientific Study

We all have moments when we would wish ourselves out of our lives if we could. For me, this most often occurs between the hours of 8AM and 5PM on weekdays, or in other instances, such as trying to pick up my mother on a busy street corner in heavy traffic. She sees someone she knows and instead of saying, "lovely to see you! My daughter is waiting so we'll have to chat later!" she engages in a full blown conversation. Twenty minutes, three trips around the block and numerous angry horn-honkings later, she is still chatting away, oblivious to the fact that I am about to become the victim of murderous road rage because there is nowhere to park without blocking traffic. At this point I snap and shriek, "MOTHER! GET IN THE CAR!" which is clearly audible to everyone in a 500 yard radius except the one person I am actually talking to.

But I digress. My point is that we all have these moments. And if we did actually wish ourselves out of our lives, maybe an angel would come visit and we would have a heartwarming, Jimmy-Stewart-esque moment where we realize how much we mean to the people in our lives, how much they mean to us, and how important we really are. The problem with this theory is timing.

Even if said angel were to appear and closely resemble Mark Wahlberg, you can't count on these things to happen when you really need them, as I have learned from waiting for the money tree in my backyard to bloom. So why not take the bull by the horns and figure the answers out on my own? I took it upon myself to execute a highly professional and accurate study using the very exact sciences of Guesstimation and Makingitup.

Here are the results:

My mom would be a whole lot more crazy - 317% to be exact - without my calming presence and constant voice of reason. (You may think it wouldn't be so hard to get a person to see reason if you haven't met my mother, who maintains that potato peels are toxic because some whack job proclaimed them to be so on a radio show in Milwaukee in 1957.) Her increased craziness would have far reaching effects. For Example:

There is a 71.8% chance that my dad would have faked his own death within the past two years and taken refuge in the Brazilian jungle.

My brother would be 67% more passive aggressive, driving my sister-in-law to be 209% more aggressive. As a result, 20% of their children would grow up to be criminal masterminds and/or megalomaniacs (I'm looking at you, Michael).

My sister is a tossup: There is a 43% chance that she would have run off and joined the circus, a 40% chance she would have become a blousy alcoholic, and a 17% chance she would have gone catatonic in 1984 and never recovered.

If I didn't exist, it is likely that my husband and I wouldn't have met. As a result, he would have forgotten every single parent-teacher conference ever and No. 2 would never have learned how to properly read. No. 3 would be a career criminal, specializing in forgery and identity theft, and would be featured in the "Stupid Criminals" column after trying to convince a bank teller she was Oprah.

No. 1 would have been born to a less conscientious mother who didn't think twice about pimping her out to the "agents" who wanted to put her in commercials when she was a baby. She would have shot to stardom and had her own show on the Disney Channel, sinking in to a crippling depression after its cancellation and the end of her high-profile romance with Chace Crawford. After three trips through rehab, she would spend the rest of her career making dreadful Lifetime movies with titles like, "Love Me, Love My Hip Displaysia: The Shirley Snively Story."

The disastrous consequences of my non-existence would stretch far beyond my family. Without my hard core Diet Coke addiction, the Coca-Cola company would have smaller profits and none of their employees would have gotten raises last year. Their entire production staff would have gone on strike and a worldwide shortage of Diet Coke would ensue, leading to a 91% drop in worker productivity at A Plus Benefits and any other place where employees get free Coke products. Thousands of businesses would go under, unemployment and homelessness would increase exponentially, and the USA would become classified as a third world country. Maybe fourth.

So, I'm pretty much the glue that holds the universe together.

Caught Red-Handed

We have previously discussed how sometimes things that seem like good ideas, like making your own potato chips, are really not very good ideas at all. I am a parent and although my children are perfect angels, they will occasionally try to get away with things they know they should not do, like watch "Jersey Shore" or wear ridiculously short shorts. The combination of these two thoughts reminded me of why I never rebelled: I always got caught.

Example #1

My friend Mary lived about an hour away and would come to my house on the weekends for a variety of reasons, the two most obvious being my extreme coolness and the fact that my parents let us do pretty much whatever we wanted. During one of our many escapades Mary met Derrick, and she was instantly attracted to him the way you are always instantly attracted to things that are bad for you, like chocolate mousse pie and chili cheese fries. Mary's parents were dead-set against her dating so theirs was a forbidden love. Things went pretty well for quite a while until my dad met Derrick and (rightfully) deemed him to be questionable. Dad forbade me - well, us - from associating with Derrick and his friends.

But Mary and I weren't going to let that stop us. We came up with a plan - a perfect and excellent plan - for her to spend an extended amount of time with Derrick. I would tell my parents I was going to Mary's house for the day and come home that evening. In reality, I would pick up Derrick and his friend Scott, go get Mary, and we would go to Watkins Glen for the day where we would have a highly romantic picnic. I would return home in the evening and no one would have a clue.

To be honest, I don't remember a thing about what we did that day. All I know is we drove home listening to AC DC and to this day I know all the words to "You Shook Me All Night Long." I dropped off Derrick and Scott and headed home, satisfied that we had not aroused any suspicions. When I got upstairs, my dad put down his book, stared at me meaningfully, and said, "Derrick's mom called looking for him."

Oops.

Example #2

My senior year I had French class the last period of the day. Our teacher was hugely pregnant and missed our class every Thursday to go to her doctor's appointment. We had the same sub every time, a clueless old lady who would collect our homework and did not take attendance. As a resourceful young person with top-notch forgery skills, I saw this as an opportunity. I would provide some friends in class with notes from their mothers excusing them for dentist's appointments at times of their choosing, and they would hand in homework for me and my friend Heather while we skipped class. It was the perfect plan.

Thursday came and Heather and I turned over our homework to our partners in crime. My parking spot in the Student Government lot allowed us to escape from school grounds without being confronted by one of the Teacher's Aides. We hopped in my Toyota Tercel and headed out on the Parkway. We had done it. We had pulled off the impossible, skipping class and leaving the school without getting caught. We were so cool. We knew we were cool because someone was honking and waving at us at a stoplight. It was our French teacher.

Example #3

Sometimes, when you are highly skilled like me, you can get caught and publicly blamed even when you aren't the one doing anything wrong. The summer I graduated from High School one of my friends came up with the brilliant idea for us to take an overnight camping trip before we all left for college. I'm not one for the outdoors or any other activity that involves insects, sweat, and/or dirt, so I was not too jazzed about the idea. I'd rather have a root canal and invasive abdominal surgery than go camping; at least the hospital has cable and a flushing toilet. Naturally, this activity was supposed to be free of adult supervision and full of the type of hijinks one would normally expect from marginally nerdy high schoolers who think they are rebels (i.e., three cans of beer and making out). We were all supposed to tell our parents we were sleeping over at each other's houses and they would never know.

Everyone was looking forward to the trip and thought it was going to be the best thing ever. Except me. I really did not want to go and was conflicted about how to broach the subject with my boyfriend, who I assumed was just as excited as everyone else. I agonized for a few days over what to say, and then we had this deep conversation:

Me, with angst: About that camping trip -

Boyfriend, interrupting : I don't think its a good idea.

Me, surprised: So you don't want to go?

Boyfriend, with decisiveness: No.

Me, relieved: Cool.

Thus, we removed ourselves from the process and the flurry of preparations went on without us. The night of the fateful trip arrived and I was working a shift at the grocery store when my friend Jen's mom came through my line buying a pound of butter. Jen and I had been friends since 7th grade, I had spent a lot of time at her house, and I knew Mrs. G well. Well enough to know that she, normally a kind and sweet tempered lady, was not at all happy. I could practically see rage emanating from her in waves.

Mrs G, in her scariest mean-mother voice, yelled,"I know what you are up to. And you are not going to get away with it!" By this point, everyone in the front end of the store was staring at me. "But I'm not going!" I protested. Mrs G. narrowed her eyes and hissed, "well, if you see Jennifer, you tell her if she doesn't come home by ten o'clock she will never leave the house again!" She then stomped off without her butter, and the bag boys fought over who had to chase her down because they were all terrified.

So you see why I didn't bother trying to get away with anything.

Irrational Hatred

Do you ever find yourself utterly hating, loathing, or despising something - or someone - for no good reason? Do you feel guilty for having these strongly negative feelings about persons, places, or things that have done nothing to wrong you other than exist? Do you try really hard to like this person/place/thing and fail utterly? No? Maybe its just me.

Paulo

Let me introduce Paulo. I CAN'T STAND PAULO!!!! Let me list the reasons why:

1) His name is Paulo
2) He has a stupid accent
3) Every time he calls me, which is a few times a month due to our unfortunate professional association, he introduces himself to me as if we have never spoken to each other before. "Hello, my name is Paulo and I am calling from my stupid company and checking status on..."

Its not his fault his name is Paulo. Its also not his fault that English is not his native language and that even though he speaks it quite well he still has a slight accent. And he has to earn a living, so its not his fault that earning said living involves communication with me, and he is probably just trying to be polite and exercise good phone manners. Paulo is probably a really good person who does a lot of charity work and nurses injured animals back to health. No matter how many times I remind myself of these things, I still hate Paulo. I hate him so much I want to reach through the phone and whack him with a stapler. I want to meet him in person so I can punch him in the face and kick him in the knee. And I am not a violent person.

Birds, And More Specifically, Pet Birds

Birds are evil, wicked creatures who live only to poop on my car. And my house. And my driveway. And the fondest wish of their little black hearts is to poop on my person. I know this, because I can see it in their beady little eyes. Who in their right mind would want such a creature as a pet? People say how smart and cute birds are, but why are they utterly unable to be housebroken, hmmm? And why is it every time I have approached someone's "friendly" and "totally tame" pet bird out of a sense of obligation said bird has bitten me with its sharp little beak? And why are they so stupid that if you cover their cage they think you magically made it night time? You could never get a dog to fall for that. Plus, when you get close, birds are kind of ugly and creepy.

You may classify my feelings for birds as an irrational fear. I will cop to having an irrational fear of horses. I like to look at horses, but I won't go near them because I am afraid they will step on me or bite me. Also because they can smell fear, which makes me worry that if they can sense my fear they are more likely to step on me or bite me, which makes me more afraid, which makes them even more likely to step on me or bite me. That, my friends, is an irrational fear. And I really, really hate birds.

Mom + Carrots + Celery

For some reason, my mother was genetically gifted with a jaw which magnifies the sound of whatever she is eating by 300 times. When she eats carrots and celery, I am fairly confident they can hear her in the next county. She might even be breaking the sound barrier, its that loud. And my mom LOVES carrots and celery. She eats them, literally, all day every day. Again, its not Mom's fault that she has an amplifying mandible; its not her fault she was born with an innate love for carrots and celery. Yet every time she eats them, I feel like baby kittens are dying and Santa Claus isn't real. I have to leave the room before my irrational rage takes over and I yank the offending veggies from her hands shrieking, "WOULD YOU JUST EAT SOME FREAKING APPLESAUCE!!"

People Who Don't Love My Dog

It stands to reason that not everyone is a dog person, or a cat person, or even a bird person (ha!). It also stands to reason that even if you like dogs, you will not like every dog you meet, much like you don't like every person you know. I don't even like every dog I meet. But Sam is the greatest dog ever. Better than Snoopy and Benji combined. He is sweet, friendly, smart, cute, and all kinds of awesome. I may devote an entire blog entry to his greatness. I know it is totally illogical, but when people fail to be impressed by my little buddy, or worse, express open disdain for him, it makes me crazy with rage. Crazy, I tell you.


How can you not love this face?

People Who Promise Me Cheesecake And Don't Deliver

. . . Never mind. I am completely justified in my hatred of these people.

The To-Don't List

We have recently been doing home improvements to my parents' old house. They decided to sell it after the renters moved out. Like any home improvement situation, it has been endless, frustrating, and time consuming. At first, I was deeply sentimental about their putting the old homestead up for sale. Now, I'm starting to hate it and probably wouldn't even care if it got swallowed by a sinkhole or taken out by a F5 tornado.

The other night during a particularly arduous linoleum removal operation, Husband and I discussed how the helpful home shows you watch on TV are always giving you to-dos, when really they should be giving you to-don'ts. So with the help of my handsome assistant, I am providing a handy list for your reference:

1) DON'T sand and restain cabinets. Its a lot of effort for very little return. In fact, they will look so crappy you will just end up painting them, then realize it would have been 300% easier if you had done it in the first place, which will lead to self-loathing

2) DON'T let your 13 year old and her friends do anything, even extremely simple tasks such as painting the front door or pulling weeds, without close adult supervision when there is a cute boy living across the street. You may as well make a poster for counterproductivity.

3) DON'T think that if you start peeling up a corner of linoleum that was installed in 1967 (and hasn't been attractive since 1970) that the whole thing will just come off. It won't. Arm yourself with screwdrivers, scrapers, flat headed shovels, back-support braces, and hand grenades.

4) DON'T let family members who are not home-improvement savvy work in your absence without very specific instructions, or else they might spend an entire day vacuuming cobwebs out of the far corners of the attic and think they actually accomplished something helpful.

5) DON'T let your children pick out colors for interior decor. Royal blue trim is one of those things may seem like a good idea at the time and it might even look pretty good, but painting over it is a serious pain in the butt. Choose your paint colors in accordance with how easy they will be to paint over. Blaming said child for the color choice 20+ years after the fact is pointless.

6) DON'T let your sweet little dog run free in the house when the freshly painted cabinet doors are laid out to dry on the floor. You may find little footprints all over them. I'm speaking hypothetically, of course. My Sam would never do such a thing.

7) DON'T set an unrealistic timeline like, say, two weeks to paint an entire house, totally rehab a kitchen and bathroom, polish 1000 square feet of hardwood floors, and clean top to bottom. You can only fail, and failure is discouraging.

8) DON'T buy cheap painter's tape. When you remove it, some of the paint will come with it regardless of how soon you pull it off or how long you wait. This time around I accidentally bought the blue tape that cost twice as much; worth every penny, I tell you. Even after a few days, it came up easily and didn't pull any paint off with it. Best erroneous purchase I ever made.

9) Likewise, DON'T buy cheap paint. You will end up having to paint extra coats to get even coverage, and then as you paint your extra coats the coats beneath will get mushy and you will have to paint yet another coat on top of that. Buy the Valspar stuff with the primer in it. It costs, literally, five times as much but is soooo worth it.

10) DON'T try to mix your own paint. Leave that to the creepy friendly guy with a random extra "e" in his name at the Home Depot paint counter. You may think that adding white to brown will make tan, but it will actually be pink. Then you will have wasted a ton of paint. Again, this one is purely hypothetical.

If you follow our helpful to-dont's, perhaps you will emerge from your home improvement projects with a shred of your sanity intact. Or, if you are like my parents, you will just ignore any and all home improvements until the last second, when you can just make your children worry about it.

Church Magazines + An Evil Child = Disaster

When I was a kid, I loved The Friend Magazine. I couldn't wait until I got my next issue. I loved the stories where they used a picture of an eye instead of the word "I", a picture of Planet Earth instead of the word "world", etc. and the Friends in the News. I wanted to be a Friend in the News so bad, but apparently I wasn't cute enough or diverse enough or whatever it was you had to be to get chosen. I would read the whole issue front to back and then I would read it again. I still loved it when I got older and begged my parents to renew my subscription, even though by 1984 I should have been more interested in the teen-friendly New Era. They got me that too, but the articles in the New Era were all words and there were no puzzles, so I left it in its plastic package and read The Friend. My parents encouraged this. They figured that reading a magazine in which most of the articles were about Jesus would encourage me to develop strong moral convictions and stuff.

It occurred to me sometime in college that I could not recall being babysat or being left home alone very often as a child. At the time, I decided that it was because my parents were either very devoted or very boring. I realize now that it was because I was such a turd that no one in their right mind would want to babysit me and/or they were afraid of what I would do if I was home alone. This turned out to be a completely valid concern. (Note: Foreshadowing)

There I was, home alone on a very rare occasion on a summer afternoon, when the Mailman pulled up and delivered The Friend. Yippee! The last article was awesome. Not about Jesus, but about one if His greatest creations - potato chips! - and how they were made. "Hmmm," thought I, "all it takes to make potato chips is oil, salt and potatoes. I have oil, salt, and potatoes. I will make my own potato chips!" Like all my childhood ambitions, i.e. the second grade talent show, doing cartwheels in the choir seats during church to make Kenny Klingler love me, being a successful adult, etc., this one was doomed to be a spectacular failure.

My experiences with cooking had been limited to opening cans of Spaghettios for my dad to heat up, but I didn't let that put a damper on my enthusiasm. I pulled out a five gallon jug of imported Italian olive oil and filled a large pot to the top. I turned the burner on high and sliced up a potato. This was going to be awesome. It took forever for the pot to come to a boil. I figured the little bubbles didn't count so I waited patiently for the big ones. I speared my first chip with a fork and stuck it in the oil, which bubbled ominously. I was oblivious to impending doom because my chip was perfect and delicious. I speared my second chip and stuck it in the oil, which reacted by blowing up and spurting flames all over the kitchen. The force of the heat knocked me over, probably saving me from some vicious burns.

Fortunately, I also had a subscription to Ranger Rick and had read its numerous articles on fire safety. And although I may lack a certain degree of common sense, I am a quick thinker. I knew that water would not put out an oil fire but baking soda would. I grabbed the baking soda out of the cabinet and quickly doused the fire. Unfortunately, quick thinking and fast action can not hide the effects of a column of flames on kitchen cabinets. The heat made the stain bubble and crack on the cabinets above and below the stove and there was a gigantic scorch mark on the ceiling. There was no hiding this one.

I was debating whether or not to call the fire department to make sure the fire was actually out when my parents arrived. My mother, who has a way of being positive about selected tragedies (meaning, a tremendous capacity for denial) praised my quick thinking and was glad I was OK. My dad didn't say anything and cleaned up the grease spattered walls. I didn't touch the stove again until college, when my roommates had to teach me how to cook pasta and brown ground beef .

The moral of the story is, letting your children read church magazines can be more harmful than you think.

My Mother the Vegetable Pimp

Meal time in my house could be described as barely controlled chaos. My dad cooks; most of the time it is delicious, sometimes its just OK, and once in a blue moon his experimental cooking goes really, truly, awfully, horribly wrong. Regardless of the outcome, the meal always starts the same way - six of us gathered around the table, waiting, whining, begging, and pleading for my mother to come to the table so we can eat. In my mother's universe - which is a totally seperate place from where the rest of us live, by the way - the eating of unblessed food is a cardinal sin.

When Mom finally breezes into the kitchen, instead of going straight for her chair, she casts a critical eye upon the table to see what we have missed. No matter how hard we try, its always something. "Is that yesterday's water? No? Do we have enough napkins? What about knives? I know we're eating macaroni and cheese, but you must have a knife. Those are salad forks. Where are the dinner forks? Does anyone need a napkin? Who sat in my chair? There are crumbs by my plate. Charles, was it you? Is that a spot on the tablecloth? ARE YOU EATING AN UNBLESSED CROUTON? Is there a serving spoon for the squash? Napkins?" I wish I were exaggerating, but this is really how it goes. By the time she sits down, we are all hungry, edgy and ready to shank her with a soup spoon.

One of the girls gives a quick blessing on the food, and Mom immediately launches into a criticism of the prayer. Too short, talking too fast, lacking in deep metaphysical meaning, etc. I am certain that the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, mercy, and understanding, knows that the person giving the prayer is irritated, hungry enough to eat the contents of the recycling bin, and above all else, a child. I mention this to my mother, at which point she turns from prayer critic to parenting critic, and complains about my "relaxed" parenting and how silly it is of me to allow my children to make choices for themselves. Then, the real fun begins: The dinner conversation. It starts out with me asking someone about their day, which invariably leads to:

No. 3: Well, me and Elizabeth went to the park and -

Mom: Elizabeth and I went to the park

No. 3: (Sighs) Elizabeth and I went to the park and down by the creek there was this -

Mom: Does anyone need a napkin?

No. 3: Anyway, down by the creek there was a frog and -

Mom: Who would like some Lima beans?

(No. 3 growls in frustration and rolls eyes)

Me: I'm listening, tell me about the frog.

No. 3: So we tried to catch it, but Elizabeth-

Husband: Hey, isn't Wipeout on tonight?

No. 3: (With visible irritation) But Elizabeth hit her head on a tree branch and then -

Mom: There aren't enough vegetables on the table. Who wants a carrot?

No. 3: (Slightly louder) Then she fell in the creek, and-

Mom: Celery? Would anyone like celery?

Me: I'm still listening. Is Elizabeth OK?

No. 3: Yes, but her pants-

Mom: Did you eat some lima beans? What about carrots?

No. 3: BUT HER PANTS RIPPED-

Mom: Has everyone had some vegetables? Who wants the rest of these lima beans?

No. 3: (Stands up) AND SHE SKINNED HER KNEE!! (Agressively puts dirty dishes in the sink and stomps off, followed closely by No. 1 and No. 2)

Mom: Where do you think you're going? We are having a family conversation here!

At this point, the conversation comes full circle and the topic returns to my piss-poor parenting skills.

Time Management, or Lack Thereof

Its been a while since I posted something. I have been working on some entries but haven't had time to finish them. My problem is that I have a hard time scaling my ideas down to fit the time I actually have available. This principle applies to my life in general and not just my blog. My ideas are grand and detailed, and I have a full time job, a husband, three kids, parents, a dog, and mountains of dirty laundry. Does this stop me from making my daughters' dresses for special occasions? Tackling complicated home improvement projects? Severely overestimating my abilities? No, but it sure interferes with my sleep patterns and sanity.

Last night is a good example of this. I got a call at work in the morning asking me to sub for ballet class at 6:30, which of course I was delighted to do. There was no CD player there, so I would have to bring my own. Not a problem, I told myself, regardless of the fact that I do not possess a CD player. I would just buy a ballet class album from iTunes since I needed one anyway and take my daughter's iHome. I had a CD with a track on it I was going to use to teach a variation, and I would just have to load that in to my iTunes and put it on my iPod.

My dad called to say he was busy getting the floor at their old house ready for new tile to be laid, so I would need to cook dinner. There was a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove and all I needed to do was cook the pasta and a vegetable or two. Not a problem, I told myself, I will have plenty of time.

I got home at 5:20, threw some pots of water to boil on the stove, fired up the laptop, and rummaged through the freezer in search of broccoli. First speed bump: iTunes needs to be updated. Of course, iTunes ALWAYS needs to be updated. So I set it to download and install, and tossed the veggies in the microwave. I checked on the computer's progress, and wouldn't you know it, some stupid Java popup stopped my iTunes update. Grrr. I cleared it up and started it over.

I tracked down No. 3 and put her on setting the table, made the rounds of talking to the husband and No. 2 to see how their days had gone, came back to the kitchen, searched iTunes for the album I wanted, and started the download. No, not really, I just hit another speed bump. It was in my daughter's account and I didn't know the password. I texted her, got the password, and again... No, the password was incorrect. So we tried my husband's. No luck. Everyone in my house except for me has an iTunes account, and no one knew their stinkin' password.

It was now 5:50 and dinner was ready. Through some miracle, my mother actually just came in the kitchen and sat down and ate, which was a pleasant change from her usual 412 distractions: "Napkins? Spoons? Water? Napkins? Is this pitcher OK? We need more condiments... Does everyone have a napkin? Everyone? Are you sure? What about spoons? Water? Does anyone need a napkin?" (I'm not making this up. It really is that bad, every single night. Except for last night.)

By 6:00 I was done eating and decided enough with the messing around, I just needed to make my own iTunes account. More speed bumps were encountered, such as "You forgot to choose a salutation", because apparently it is just not possible to make purchases from iTunes unless it knows if you are a Mrs., Ms., or Miss. At 6:10 it finally started downloading the album while I changed into my clothes for class.

Those of you intimately familiar with iTunes are probably laughing at me right now. I don't know where, in the neurons and synapses of my brain, my concept of time became so warped that I thought this whole thing was going to work out. But there I was at 6:15, with 2 of 53 tracks completed, believing that somehow this was all going to work out.

When it was 6:18, I had to admit defeat. Not only had I downloaded a paltry 4 of the previously mentioned 53 tracks, I hadn't even gotten the music from my CD to load on my iPod because it was to full. Remember that part about me not having a CD player? Still a problem. At this point I pretty much freaked out. I ended up grabbing my daughter's alarm clock which has a CD player in it and running out the door. I was halfway to the studio when I realized I had forgotten my class plan and my water bottle.

At this point, a weaker person might have cried; I just called my husband and guilt tripped him until he offered to bring my stuff to me. I got to the studio right on time at 6:30, ran in and...discovered that no one was there. In the end, a few people showed up for a class which had to be danced to ballroom music because the alarm clock/CD player did not have the firepower to kick out classical music loud enough to be heard over the roar of multiple electric fans, one of which is a genuine relic from the Stone Age. (Going without the fans was so not an option; there is no air conditioning and this is upstate New York in August.) I was distracted and frazzled and kept churning out exercises that didn't work because I had lost all sense of space and time. We did the Four Little Swans variation from Swan Lake to music we couldn't hear and nearly died of heatstroke in the process.

What can we learn from this? When I try to do too many things at once in too short a time, everything melts into crap.

The End.

Community Theater: A Haven for the Mentally Ill

Over the past ten years I have performed in a number of Community Theater productions. I do it because I love it. I love the lights, I love the music, I love the costumes (unless they are constructed out of vinyl tablecloths), I love the dancing and most of all, I love being up on stage. I highly recommend the experience to all. It doesn't matter if you can't sing. Trust me.

One of the things I love most about Community Theater is the people. They are some of the greatest people you will ever meet. You have something in common with them right off the bat because you are both willing to sit for hours at a time on a hard plastic chair in a sweltering church basement inhabited by a rabid and incontinent cat so you can eventually sing your heart out in front of an audience. (When I refer to the cat as rabid, I mean it in the literal sense of possessing the viral infection known as rabies. And nothing, I mean nothing, can compare to the smell of cat pee in a poorly ventilated space in July.) You are willing to walk a 2 1/2 mile parade route in 100 degree heat while wearing a unitard long past your physical prime in hopes of attracting said audience. In other words, you are crazy.

When I say "crazy" I mean it in the best possible way, but people are all kinds of weird. In order for the uninitiated to better understand I have broken Community Theater Crazy down to eight types. Not all are bad. If you are involved in community theater, there is a 100% chance you fall in one or more of the following categories:

The Fame Whore

This person would do absolutely anything for attention. They are like Tinkerbell and need applause to live. They are drawn to the theater like moths to a flame. They jump at the chance for stage time no matter how small, insignificant, or uncomfortable. "Yes, Mr. Director? You need me to stand frozen on one leg while balancing a platter on my head for the entire second act? I'm on it!"

I credit my friend Kathy with coining this term. It is extra funny because she was talking about my brother when she said it.

The Gross and the Stinky

Very little explanation is required here. Some people, despite numerous lectures and hints regarding the necessity of deodorant, just don't get it. This type includes several subcategories, including The Dragon Breathed (these are the people you are typically required to dance with or, even worse, kiss), The Sweaty (who make you wish your costume consisted of rain gear) and The Gassy (these are the people who you are inevitably stuck behind, with your face not far from their butt, during a freeze).

The Awesome

These people have it all. Brains, talent, beauty. They have their lines memorized at the first rehearsal; they execute every step flawlessly; they can ad lib at the drop of a hat; they sing like angels; they wear awesome t-shirts that say things like "Actually, I'm really quite busy on a cellular level". You would hate them if they weren't incredibly nice. They are so cool, you are dying to be their best friend, but afraid that asking them to hang out would seem too desperate.

The Diva

The awesome, but with an ego. Not quite as much fun to be around, but more likely to be your friend because they are looking for groupies.

The Delusional

This person beleives themselves to be one of The Awesome or a Diva. In reality, they are anything but. Their singing is pitchy, their delivery flat, and whenever you watch them dance you get that sick feeling normally associated with dead puppies, burning orphanages, and the environmental consequences of catastrophic oil spills. They hog the stage, push people out of the way both literally and figuratively, and can't understand why they didn't get the lead. This person is going to be a star, damn it, A STAR!!!

The Director

Contrary to what the title may imply or what this person may believe, they are not actually the director. But they don't let that stop them from constantly correcting everyone and offering suggestions to "improve" the show. Every idea and random show-related thought in their head MUST be shared with the whole cast in the loudest and most obnoxious way possible. There is a line between sharing ideas for the greater good and attempting to hijack the entire production, and this person is firmly camped out on the wrong side. Sadly, The Director is so busy telling everyone else to do and sharing anecdotes of "that one time I waterskiied into a cliff" that they never learn their own lines or cues. And they touch the props constantly.

The Creeper

The name says it all here. There are several reasons why this type is attracted to the theater, and very few of them are actually related to a love of their craft. In fact, many of these people can't sing at all. Mostly they come because the stage gets them in close proximity to women who won't give them the time of day otherwise. This person is a never ending fountain of inappropriate comments, many of which are directed at 14-year-old girls. (i.e., "I like it when you show a little leg.") They may lurk in dark corners across from the dressing room hoping to catch a glimpse of you partially dressed; they are among the last to leave the cast party, hoping someone will be drunk enough to need a ride home; they may even be a "professional photographer" who specializes in head shots. I don't care how desperate you are for a headshot, DO NOT go to his house to have one taken. If you are foolish enough to do so, just keep in mind that it is customary to be fully clothed in your headshot. Trust me.

The Just Plain Crazy

These poor souls typically wade in the shallow end of the talent pool. Perhaps they are drawn to theater looking for acceptance, and perhaps because they want to learn how to act normal. Disaster is inevitable. Things may be going along just swimmingly when out of nowhere someone is obsessively slapping a prop box and someone else is beating their head against a cinderblock wall. One cast member may accuse another of checking out his butt, then threaten to unleash the fury of the FBI on them. If you are lucky the disaster will be small and easily contained, like a mercury spill in a high school science lab or it could involve assault and battery, restraining orders, and renegade strippers. The Just Plain Crazy are what make a production truly memorable.

If you are interested in Community Theater, please don't let these completely true and factual accounts put you off. Your experiences will be enjoyable and will continue to entertain you for months, even years, after they are over.

Putting the "fun" in Funeral

I got a phone call today asking me to play the piano at a funeral on Friday. I am not acquainted with the deceased nor, I think, am I remotely acquainted with anyone who is acquainted with the deceased. Sounds crazy, I know, but its pretty much par for the course in my life. And it isn't the first time such a request has come my way.

If memory serves, it was the summer of 1988. Someone who had grown up in our small city had died and their final wishes were to be funeral-ed and buried here. Kind of an odd request, given that the decedent hadn't spent so much as a weekend here since before World War II, but the ladies' auxilliary at my church has never backed down from a challenge. The service was to take place at a local funeral home and a small group of us was asked to sing. Being teenagers, we were thrilled beyond measure and bursting at the seams to contain our joy.

To say the event was sparsely attended would be an understatement. There were four or five of us in our makeshift choir and I think we outnumbered the attendees. We stood at the front of the room across from the creepily open coffin and sang "How Great Thou Art" with gusto. (I'm kidding. There was no gusto. I'm pretty sure we sounded as bored and uncomfortable as we felt.)

I don't know what actually happened, but I do know that in the middle of our song there arose a great clatter. The best I can figure is that someone dropped a grand piano or something. There was a big bang, the walls shook, and the coffin moved. You read that right. It moved.

What is a group of teenaged girls girls to do in such a situation? Giggle like there's no tomorrow, that's what. We tried very hard to be serious and failed utterly. It was a good ten years before I could keep a straight face through that hymn.

Here's hoping nothing that exciting happens on Friday.

Dad-isms: July 9, 2010

I had an idea for a feature I will call "Dad-isms". My Dad is hilarious. (I had to get it from somewhere) He is also quite deaf and refuses to wear hearing aids (his passive-agressive way of getting on my mother's nerves while simultaneously having an excuse to not listen to her) so he often mis-hears things, and hilarity ensues.

Since his strokes he doesn't speak as much, which is tragic because it deprives the world of his wit. So I am taking it upon myself to share his bon mots. Here are some recent and no-so-recent highlights:

It was No. 2's 15th birthday and she had a few friends at the house for cake, ice cream, and a sleepover. The whole fam was gathered in the kitchen, the candles were lit, the singing began, and my mom totally disappeared.

Husband: Where did your mom go?

Dad: The dog is in the bathroom chewing on a bone.


One of Dad's most prized possessions is a Star Trek glass with Uhura on it. He refers to it as his "Foxy Chick"

Dad: Where's my Foxy Chick?

No. 2: Isn't Grandma your foxy chick?

Dad: Hell, no. She's no one's foxy chick.


I was rooting through the refrigerator looking for lunch...

Me: Dad, do we have any lunch meat other than bologna?

Dad: I don't know where No. 1 is, I haven't seen her yet.

Me, louder: Dad, I'm asking you about lunchmeat here.

Dad, with a shrug: Bummer. (walks back to his computer to watch Pigeon:Impossible on YouTube for the millionth time)



My children and husband were trading blonde jokes at the dinner table

No. 3: How do you get a blonde to commit suicide? (dramatic pause) You give her a gun and tell her its a hair dryer!

Dad: What does the hair dryer do? Warm up the gum so you can chew it again?


My sister-in-law and I are discussing the rehearsal schedule for a production of Ruddigore we are starring in. OK, a production of Ruddigore SHE is starring in...

Me: Who has to be at rehearsal tonight?

Rebecca: Bridesmaids and Bucks and Blades.

Dad, perking up: Did you say something about boobs and babes?

To Blog, or not to Blog?

That is the question.

People keep telling me I need to write a book or a blog because I am "funny". Then again, these are the same people who tell me I'm not fat so I have to question their judgement. I actually had the idea to write a (completely ficticious) book about a girl whose mother embarasses her frequently which would not at all have been based on real events from my own life. I came up with a list of incidents to write about that took up the front and back of a piece of notebook paper and figured by the time I wrote them all out I would have a 700 page book. The prospect seemed intimidating so I gave up before I even started. So I hope I can commit to blog entries. We'll try it and see what happens.

I'm going to begin with a few important facts you need to know about me to enjoy my blog:

1) I am 38 years old, have three fantastic and frustrating teenage daughters and a wonderful, cute, and high-maintenance husband. We live in upstate New York with my elderly parents and Sam, a codependent miniature schnauzer who used to be mine but then he met my dad and was like, "Emily who?" Nowadays he only hangs out with me when Dad isn't home.

2) I will be making fun of people. Most often these people will be my parents. Please don't take it to mean I do not dearly love them. But they are getting old, falling apart in mind and body, and I could deal with it by crying all the time (not that I have, um, tried that or anything) or I can laugh it off when my mother, who is a brilliant woman with a PhD, misplaces her kleenex and spends an entire afternoon accusing everyone of taking it before it turns up in the butter dish. Humor is my coping mechanism.

3) I am not telling my parents about this blog and neither should you. I live with them and see them all the time and the Internet where I escape from them when things get rough. Plus, my mother is unable to acknowledge her mental decline, much less see any humor in it.

4) I am making this public because you never know when my brilliant writing will recognized by someone important who will get me published and a comical yet inspiring movie will be made of my life starring Jessica Alba, for which she will earn her first Oscar. (Don't hate me, its not my fault we look exactly alike.) Having lived my life as a stalker magnet, I am a little paranoid and as such am not going to post any personal details, such as my town, children's names, last name, etc. So even if you know me (and lets face it, if you are reading this you probably do) don't post any of my personal information in your comments. Likewise, if I write anything about you staring longingly and lovingly at someone over the burger bar in the cafeteria, I will simply refer to you as "Kelly" and leave off your last name. The Internet is a big, scary, fabuous place full of stalkers and really great people, and my daughters and I are really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking.

5) I may use run-on sentences. And sometimes I might exaggerate. Deal with it.

6) I totally lied. I don't look anything like Jessica Alba. The only way I would look like her is if I lost 30 pounds and wore a Jessica Alba mask. The only famous person I have ever been told I resemble is Ben from Lost. I didn't feel like it was a compliment.

That's all for now, folks!