Suzy: It walked UNDER my pillow

Suzy, dear, I have been meaning to send you this story for some time now. Today feels like the day for it. Hope you are feeling better...

So...

(Because that's how Laurie likes my stories to start)

When I graduated from college Moose and I were engaged and trying to decide where to settle in. We picked a city that was in the state between our two families. Not too far, not too close, just right. It had a major university was a seat of government and had a left-of-center vibe that we both liked.

We rented a house a block off campus near the stadium which has surely contributed to my dislike of most things related to college and professional sports. Home games were a nightmare and our landlord parked cars on the lawn. Post game the drivers would hit the house trying to back up, or throw trash in the yard, or not pick up their car for 2 days.

The day we moved in we found out that the boy who had been renting the main level with some friends was moving upstairs by himself. Marcus. Marcus the boy who saw no need to pack anything and who decided carrying things up the stairs by himself one at a time while we sat on the front lawn with a Uhaul waiting and waiting would be the way to handle his move. Graduate school. Physics. 'Nuff said.

Anyone who has rented knows that there is no way this place got cleaned before we moved in. I really believe this triggered many of my OCD issues. The basement smelled funny. Like maybe there was a body buried down there. A few years later we found out the landlord, who was a firefighter by day slum lord by night, was also a drug dealer and got in the kind of trouble that lands you the lead news story at 6 and 10. So it might actually have been a body. I don't know. I wouldn't go down there. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the laundry was also down there. Really.

All of this is the long way around to let you know the house was not...well...while cute and classic brick and stained glass and all...not reliably sanitary.

So after a long day of waiting and not being able to reach the drug dealing slum lord we finally had the chance to move in the bed and toothbrushes before going to sleep. I was feeling very anxious about the space and hearing things which were probably Marcus drawing pentagrams on the floor above us but which sounded like things scurrying in the walls.

So, when I felt something move underneath my pillow I thought I was imagining it at first. Heart pounding, I tried to catch my breath. Moose was already snoring and I finally relaxed enough to rest my head on the pillow again. Wrong move. Because this time, when I shifted the pillow, SOMETHING GRABBED MY HAND!!! I am not kidding you! All I could think of was a giant, grey rat. I was out of the covers and standing on the bed because if one was under my pillow there must be a whole colony down on the floor. I later learned that I was also screaming but at the time the world seemed silent. The kind of scream you only hear in slasher movies. Only in the movie they usually come to an abrupt end. This one kept going. When I ran out of air I started yelling, "A rat! It's a rat!"

Oh, let me add this little bit to the story...Moose, while all kinds of manly, has quite a rodent phobia. And white turkeys. But who can blame him on that one because when he was 6 his class took a field trip to a turkey farm and that morning his big brother told him not to worry because only the white ones bite. Have you ever seen a turkey farm? Needless to say the 6 year old Moose spent the field trip on the bus with the driver.

So now we are both standing on the bed yelling about rats. He gathers himself enough to ask where it was...you know...so I would know where to go get it and smack it with a shoe or something because he sure wasn't going to do it. As I am kicking pillows and blankets to the floor I am telling him it was ON the bed and UNDER my pillow and it EVEN GRABBED MY HAND! Look! Look! Are there bite marks? I am going to need rabies shots!

And Moose falls to the mattress, still in hysterics, only now he is laughing. Because that thing under my pillow? Was just him trying to hold my hand as we fell asleep together for the first time in our smelly little rental house.

After we re-made the bed and discussed and agreed upon nighttime hand holding protocol I could still hear noises upstairs. I am pretty sure it was Marcus, scuffing out the pentagram, surprised as hell that shit might actually have worked!

Miss M is not into the pre-teen scene. She's almost 12 and just figured out who Taylor Swift is. I like that about her. I also like that, once aware of her, Miss M has been taking note of her image when she sees it. Oh, I especially like the part where she has diagnosed Miss Swift with bi-polar disorder.

Which naturally led to a discussion about common images and perceptions and what people find attractive and why. Symmetry, neoteny, strength, health, helplessness. It all came up. And how can you have that conversation with a girl and not bring up lip-injections? Because I still want to know why and when society decided that looking like you've been punched in the mouth is sexy.

Who doesn't love a gal who looks like she tolerates abuse?

Just keep smiling. It hides the pain.

Oh, Miss Jane

We love Miss Jane. She is Miss M's BFF. And she has not been over for a few weeks. Dinner just ended and Moose and I smiled..."Sure nice having Miss Jane here," I said. "Yep," he answered.

She looks like a beautiful Madam Alexander Doll with a fantastic sense of humor. Like Betty White without being Blue.

Here are some of the highlights from the table this evening:

Miss Jane: I used to have a huge crush on Darth Vader when I was little. Not when he was Annakin...when he was already Vader. I kept his picture in my locket. Thought his name was Dark Bader. I felt sorry for him...with that breathing condition and all. And then I found out he was evil and I felt fooled and betrayed.

later...

Miss Jane: My brother tells me "Your Mama" jokes all the time. Which is kind of silly since she's his mama too.

Miss M: I never get those jokes.

Alpha: Well, it is a terrible thing to insult some one's mother. They are supposed to defend her honor.

Big C: Really?...whoops.

cross your fingers for me

Over at Forgotten Bookmarks there is a giveaway today. It is a book about composers with some pastel colored plates. The real treat is the old photograph found inside of it comes along with the prize book. A simple shot. Mother and child. But it is sweet. There is another reason I would love to win it. The following is my entry. Keep in mind, the only requirement is to leave a comment. Any comment. But this one was too perfect not to pass along...

Unmoderated, your timing is perfect! My 10 year old's class is doing a play about great composers! I am always up for some Bangsian humor so I read the script. The premise being that an assembly of the all-time-greats has been called to iron out some minor detail. Not much driving the plot and even my 6 year old can see that this is just a contrivance to make kids learn about dead guys. My son has a very minor role but his friend Jack...Jack is the backup Schubert. You know, in case the winning Schubert is unable to fulfill his duties that go with the title. So if the actual Schubert gets Strep throat, Jack's the man! Also...the kids are wearing white wigs made of expanded tampons glued to hats. The first kid to figure it out will lead the mutiny. Cross your fingers it's Schubert. You know, for Jack's sake.

scaredy-dog

Alpha: Seriously, Neve, you have to get out from under my feet before one of us gets hurt!

Geneva: But Alpha, you have to listen to me!

Alpha: Fine! If I listen will you back off?

Geneva: I. Think. So.

Alpha: Say what you have been trying to say then.

Geneva: (sigh) I was right.

Alpha: huh?

Geneva: All these years. My alerting you to the signs. The loud noises. The dropping barometric pressure....

Alpha: You mean your out-of-proportion response to storms? The one we drug you for?

Geneva: Doesn't seem so out-of-proportion now, does it?

Alpha: (sigh) Honestly. You are not blaming Olly's accident on the storm that happened FIVE HOURS LATER are you?

Geneva: Justified. Vindicated. Wrongfully-accused! Doped into silence!!

Alpha: Sit! Stay! Listen to me. Olly was bouncing in the yard and he impaled his leg on a branch. His bouncing was no different than any other day. The only change was that the kids moved the branch and tied it to that thing so it didn't give way when his rear-right bat flap caught it on the downside of a bounce. The storm did not do that! Fireworks did not do that! Bubble wrap DID NOT DO THAT! It was an accident, Neve. Just a random event.

Geneva: (pant, pant, pant)

Alpha: You're still going to walk between my feet aren't you? And have to ride in the car with me for a few more days? And pounce the children in their beds as they sleep, aren't you?

Geneva: Couldn't you SMELL the blood? I saved those children last night! Have you learned nothing from this experience?

Alpha: Oh...I think I have, Neve.

Geneva: Don't turn away from me! Who are you calling?

Alpha: Dr. W, yes, hello. This is Alpha Monkey. When I pick up Olly later can we get a refill on the X-a-n-a-x for G-e-n-e-v-a?

Geneva: I am a dog, remember? Just because you spell it doesn't mean I don't know the Vet's voice when I hear it! (pant, pant, pant)

Alpha: We may want to consider upping the dosage...

2 Moose walk into a bar...

We live in a friendly cul-du-sac. Kids to play with, neighbors who randomly dispense baked goods or cocktails, and dogs who all like to play together. One of our boys' best friends shares a first name with Moose. I know! You thought Moose was pretty unique...me too! Anyway, there was a meeting of the Mooses yesterday that played like this:

Little Moose: (stealthily arrives in the front yard and pops up next to Moose who is reading a book) I can't play with any of my Legos for another week.

Big Moose: (rather surprised) Really?

Little Moose: Yah. They got taken away because...

Big Moose: Why?

Little Moose: I don't like to say.

Big Moose: (still trying to read his book in the hammock) Ok then.

a few minutes pass

Little Moose: Well...the thing is...I called my little brother the C word.

Big Moose: (now devoting his full attention to the conversation, curious about the mature nature of the 9 year old's cussing) Really?!

Little Moose: Yah. You know what that is, right?

Big Moose: Um...(playing it cool) no. No I don't.

Little Moose: You know. It starts with CH...

Big Moose: (now he really doesn't know) Huh?

Little Moose: Ends in a K.

Big Moose: (scanning his archives...he's got nothing) I don't know what that is, Little Moose.

Little Moose: (looks back toward his own house, sees no one, and whispers) choke.

Big Moose: (trying to verify what he heard) You called your brother a Choke?

Little Moose: Shhhhhhh! (He looks over his shoulder again.) No. I did not CALL him a choke. I said if he touched my Legos again I was going to CHOKE him.

Big Moose: (lightbulb) Ah. Seems like no Legos is the right punishment for a threat like that.

Little Moose: Yah. I guess so. (kicks some mulch, then his mood brightens) Are your kids in the house playing Legos?

Big Moose: (clearly on to the kid) No. They are at the park.

Little Moose: (kicks the mulch again and then scuffles back home)

because Laurie likes it that way...

I am wearing a big-girl bra today. I mean, they are always big girls...but some bras let them settle into an age-appropriate comfort zone. Not this bra. This one is trying to be something she's not...but she used to be.

Also, I have lost about 15 pounds since I bought it...and it is a down week for me. Which is a not-so-subtle way of saying there is a little extra space in those space-age molded cups.

Not that I am trying to fill them back up or anything...but I also fried up some eggplant parmigiana for dinner. Mmmmm...seasoned panko on thin slices of eggplant, golden brown and crisp, covered in fresh mozzarella and sauce. SO yummy.

My evening progressed, as most evenings do, to flipping a load of laundry (which has STILL NOT piled up since my hostile take over of the laundry room weeks and weeks ago...yea for me!) and when I stood up to close the dryer door...

ow! ow! ow! ow! oooowww!!

It suddenly felt like I had a wad of burdock in my brassiere! I am reaching in there, moving things around, trying to find the source of the sharp pain in the nipple...and it was a rounded teaspoon of fried panko. Now...I assume this happened while I was eating because I think I would have noticed it if it had happen right out of the fryer.

So I lean over the laundry tub, tug down the cup and lift up the girl, only to have the bra snap back up and CATAPULT THE CRISP PANKO INTO MY EYES!!!

Gilt-y as charged

For most of my life I have not been what one might consider "girly." Especially during my childhood. Yet one of my best friends when I was younger was VERY girly. So was her mom. And her baby sister. They lived in a world of pink ruffled canopy beds. The living room (which we were not allowed in) was white and baby blue. And that's all. Everything in that room was white or baby blue. No exceptions. They even put up a white artificial tree at Christmas, decorated only with blue lights and blue and silver ornaments. There were even prop-gifts below it: empty boxes expertly wrapped in the appropriate color scheme.

It was nothing like my house or my family. And I felt like a foreigner visiting at first...and I was kind of in awe of it. There were so many toys at their house that we used them to pile up walls in the basement to make little rooms to set up the toys we actually wanted to play with. She had a lemonade stand. No. Really. It looked like an olde-timey soda fountain. It rolled out on wheels, had a candy striped canopy, and four spinning stools for the customers to sit on. She also had a pool. It should go without saying that I spent more of my summer at her house than I did my own.

When Junior High rolled around I found myself interested in being girly for the first time in my life. So it took very little urging by this friend's mother for me to sign up for a dance class and cheerleading. The cheerleading thing lasted two weeks. Long enough for me to get the uniform, try it on, cheer at one soccer game, and then quit. I joined the soccer team instead.

The dance class lasted through one whole season. I liked the girls in my class. I adored the instructor who happened to be Miss Suburb of the town I grew up in. (And her mom, who owned the studio, was totally Miss Baltimore Crabs!) And, truth be told, I can still remember most of the dance to Herbie Hancock's "Rockit". We wore mostly black, with neon socks and fingerless gloves. Over the leotards we had on short sleeve sweatshirts with the neck hole cut out and the words Dance! Dance! Dance! in neon written across it. We did the whole piece under black light. I clearly remember seeing the video of the number after the show and recognizing that from the audience it looked like random darting neon spots with the occasional glowing grin the only evidence there were actually people on stage.

Fast-forward to today.

I check out the offerings on Gilt.com most days. If you don't know what it is you should check it out. And if you sign up tell them I sent you! I am feeling a little girly lately and find myself in the market for a new handbag so I usually check through the designers offering accessories that day. Today, Alexander McQueen is on the list. All of his bags were already sold out BUT he does have these to offer:

And god help me but I want them!! They are u-g-l-y as s-i-n and I know if I get them I will have to replace all the light bulbs in the basement with black lights. Just looking at them makes me want to cut up a sweater or something. I am stuck singing an instrumental song that won't get out of my head! And I can distinctly smell 1983...smells a little like le Jardin (and not the nice one from Hermes...the one from Walgreens...next to the Love's Baby Soft.)

my mother of all pet peeves

I am not sure if this is a grammatical error or a pet peeve...or perhaps both. I find it irritating when someone, who is not my sibling, says to me, "We were at Mom's house for brunch yesterday." The brunch part is fine. It happens to be my favorite meal. But your mother's actual name is not Mom and she is also, unless you are my sister, not my mom.

Shouldn't there be a possessive pronoun thrown in there? "We were at MY mom's house for brunch yesterday." You know, to show you have a basic understanding of genealogy. Or you could do a proper noun with, "We were at TIM'S mom's house for brunch yesterday," if it was your in-law's eggs you covered with hollandaise and lapped up with some bacon. I can see that the double possessive can be confusing, but it you limit it to two I think I can follow along. Throw one of those "We were at George's ex-wife's cousin's step-mother's place for brunch yesterday...for the kids" and I will lose you.