Doggone It!

I haven't written in several days. Not because nothing has happened, but because I just didn't feel like it. I have been grieving for Elmer, who was dognapped. Or fled the country. Elmer was wearing a blue harness, but didn't have a tag yet because he wasn't quite old enough to get his rabies shot. So no one could call and find out where he belongs if he did find him. :(

About three or four weeks ago, we were given a Jack Russell terrier by a lady here at work. His name was Spencer, but because he liked to terrorize a stuffed bunny and would desperately look for it when I hid it under the covers, I renamed the dog Elmer (as in Fudd, "Be Vewy Quiet! I'm hunting Wabbits!"). Elmer was a fun dog. His whole body would wiggle when he was happy, and he was usually happy. He loved playing with the kittens, and even tried dragging one across the floor by its tail, which didn't make Elmer any points. Elmer even made friends with our muttweiler (part Rottweiler, part German Shepherd? part Labrador Retriever maybe?), Bashful, who is scared of cats but terrified of kittens.

So Elmer started staying in the (fenced) backyard on the days that he didn't ride with Logan (Elmer loved Logan, even licking Logan's bald head and trying to clean Logan's ears for him, despite the fact that I got Elmer to be Weyland's dog.) to take people to their morning destinations or pick me up from work in the evening. So it was disturbing to come home one day last week to find Elmer gone. He probably squeezed under the fence and ran down the sidewalk in pursuit of neighbor children on their way home from school.

Logan has checked the dog pound, to no avail. He has been meaning to put up signs, but hasn't gotten around to it yet. Whoever took him in (unless it was a coyote or the huge hawk that lives in a giant nest in the top of one of our pecan trees) is probably keeping him, since he's so cute and playful. I am sorely aggrieved at losing Elmer, and find this odd in myself, since I'm an avowed cat person. To use Brighid's animé notation, *heavy sigh*. *teardrop*.

Take Two Aspirin and DON'T CALL ME!!

I usually hate getting smarmy emails replete with trite sayings, angel wishes, chain letters that predict dire outcomes for failing to continue the chain, and the like, but I found this genuinely funny. Not a clue as to the original author:

To those of us who have children in our lives, whether they are our own, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, or students, here is something to make you chuckle. Whenever your children are out of control, you can take comfort from the thought that even God's omnipotence did not extend to His own children. After creating heaven and earth, God created Adam and Eve. And the first thing he said was...

"DON'T!"
"Don't what?" Adam replied.
"Don't eat the forbidden fruit," God said.
"Forbidden fruit? We have forbidden fruit? Hey Eve! We have forbidden fruit!!!!!"
"No Way!"
"Yes way!"
"Do NOT eat the fruit!" said God.
"Why?"
"Because I am your Father, and I said so!" God replied, wondering why He hadn't stopped creation after making the elephants. A few minutes later, God saw His children having an apple break, and He was angry!
"Didn't I tell you not to eat the fruit?" God asked.
"Uh huh," Adam replied.
"Then why did you?" said the Father.
"I don't know," said Eve.
"She started it!" Adam said.
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"DID NOT!"
Having had it with the two of them, God's punishment was that Adam and Eve should have children of their own. Thus the pattern was set, and it has never changed.

BUT THERE IS REASSURANCE IN THE STORY!

If you have persistently and lovingly tried to give children wisdom and they haven't taken it, don't be hard on yourself. If God had trouble raising children, what makes you think it would be a piece of cake for you?

THINGS TO THINK ABOUT:
1. You spend the first two years of their life teaching them to walk and talk. Then you spend the next sixteen telling them to sit down and shut up.
2. Grandchildren are God's reward for not killing your own children.
3. Mothers of teens now know why some animals eat their young.
4. Children seldom misquote you. In fact, they usually repeat word for word what you shouldn't have said.
5. The main purpose of holding children's parties is to remind yourself that there are children more awful than your own.
6. We childproofed our homes, but they are still getting in.

ADVICE FOR THE DAY: Be nice to your kids. They will choose your nursing home one day.

AND FINALLY: If you have a lot of tension and get a headache, do what it says on the aspirin bottle: "Take two aspirin and KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN"!!

Pitiful Redux

Logan told me the most horrifying story last night. His friend, Loren Stroup (a guy in, I think, his 70's, who has a patent on some sort of helicopter blade ( http://www.pra007.org/newsletters/007_Sept_2003_newsletter.pdf#search= ), got a call from a friend. Seems the friend of Logan's friend (I'll call him FOAF, friend of a friend from here on out.), upon learning of the devastation in the gulf coast, loaded up his Suburban with food, water, & etc., drove to Louisiana, and distributed said items. FOAF then loaded the Suburban with 20 displaced poor blacks, drove them back to his home in Texas, and let them stay with him. All was well and good over the weekend, but come Monday, he took his small car to work. Upon returning in the evening, he found his Suburban gone (hotwired, presumably), the black family gone, and the entire contents of his home gone. Neighbors reported the Suburban pulled up earlier in the day with a U-Haul trailer, and then drove away just a few minutes before FOAF returned from work. HEY, CHUCKLEHEADS!! DID IT EVER OCCUR TO YOU TO THINK SOMETHING WAS AMISS? DID FOAF MENTION HE WAS MOVING?? Gawd, I'll bet his neighborhood even has a crime watch group and a Home Owners Association. Proof once again that no good deed goes unpunished.

More on the birthday evening: I failed to mention (and was lambasted as a result) that the WONDERFUL, FANTASTIC, FAB-ULOUS friend (or fiend as the case may be) of mine, Eric, made a run to the store the night Herbie & Susan were baking and I was just getting baked, and brought back: #1 more wine (which tasted far better than the one Herbie initially supplied, but hey, if you ain't buyin', you don't get to complain, right?), #2 Bluebell French Vanilla ice cream, and #3 a cheesecake so good I felt like going to confession -- caramel turtle flavor, with ooey-gooey caramel, pecans (pronounced puh-CAHNZ, for those of you unfamiliar with the proper Texan way of saying one of the best nuts besides those I know personally). There were even (a token 5) crazy curly candles on the cake. His efforts went a long way to making me feel special. He even made my birthday card. I will try to get it scanned this weekend and posted. It's just too funny to describe. You have to see it.

I'd write more, but I took an early lunch due to a birthday party for one of the accountants in my department, so it's nose back to the grindstone time for me.

Poor Pitiful Me

Saturday was my 41st birthday. It was such a bad day, it made me cry. Logan argued and harangued the kids all day, so there was much screaming, crying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. Nothing went right. Logan told me happy birthday, but no card, no present, not even a kiss. The kids had even forgotten it was my birthday. The day was only redeemed (and only slightly) by spending the evening with Herbie, Susan, Eric, and Heather.

I went over to Herbie's to help bake for her daughter's bake sale which benefitted the Red Cross, but I was so cross that all I felt like doing was knitting (repetitive movements tend to calm me) and drinking red wine (numb the brain, doncha know?). Luckily, Susan and Herbie swung into full Happy Homemaker mode and baked up a storm. I was impressed. The bake sale made somewhere around $250 last I heard.

Monday, I got a gift card to Hobby Lobby in the mail from Louise. I bought (on sale) an encyclopedia of knitting (half price), several different sizes of knitting needles (half price), and some yarn (not on sale). I've started a lovely forest green scarf for Logan, then will make a variegated green (kelly green, dark green, white, and cream) one for Weyland. Once I'm skilled enough, I'll make a shawl for Brighid in black, and something for Louise (haven't decided yet). I wonder if I'll someday be able to make socks like Susan. She's gotten very good. Other things in the works are cross-stitched pieces, but they are not quite so interesting as knitting to me now.

In other news, Weyland finally had a sucessful dental appointment. He was able to see a lady pediatric dentist since I switched insurance companies to one which agreed that a 9 year old was still a child. (Everyone at Aeta DMO is going to hell when they die, to appropriate Granny's curse. She used to say all doctors, lawyers, and preachers would share that fate, but HMOs and DMOs weren't invented yet in her day.) He didn't even have to be sedated, which pleased me. He liked the fact that the dentist had video games he could play, the chair was his size, and she positioned a mirror so that he could watch what she was doing. Apparently, control was an issue for Weyland. I'll have to keep that in mind for later.

Out with the Old, In with the Old

I've been busy cleaning house for the last few days. I was finally able to get the huge green stacking unit in my bedroom cleared off and set out on the curb where it was quickly claimed, and most of the clutter cleared away from Logan's closet, which he hasn't been able to use in oh, at least two years. I sort of went on strike one day when he pissed me off. I quit hanging up his clothes and quit folding his clothes, and just tossed all of them, shirts, pants, socks, drawers -- everything -- on top of his dresser. Then I got the stacker and used it in lieu of a desk/vanity. I used to hang all his clothes in a very orderly (some would say anal) manner: shirts arranged by color and by sleeve length, pants by degree of <ahem> casualness. That is to say, dress pants nearer to the wall and torn, stained, welder-burner, blacksmith-coal smelling, raggedy-assed jeans nearer to the door of the closet, since that's what he wears most of the time. But when I went on strike, he was left to fend for himself, and he didn't seem to mind (at least not enough to motivate his dead ass to do his own laundry) having his clothes piled on top of the dresser.

Well, I guess I've been feeling a bit nostalgic or something because between the closet being unusable and the bed causing his back so much pain that he sleeps on the futon in the front room, I've sort of missed having Logan sleeping in the bedroom with me. So I figured he'd feel more welcome if he could use his closet.

I started my housecleaning venture almost a week ago. Logan went out of town last Thursday to go up to Olney for the opening of dove hunting season. He managed to kill about 15 tiny, defenseless creatures that never did a thing to him. He smiles about it, showing his huge canines. He's had the birdies on ice since last weekend, and only today says they have aged enough to cook. He'll clean them over on the side of the house behind the fence so as to not alarm the neighbors, but to enlist the aid of all the cats in cleaning up the remains. I can hear the growls now. But I digress. So while Logan was out of the house, I was able to start culling through his wardrobe, getting rid of the oldest, ugliest, torn-up clothes, clothes that no longer fit even though he won't admit it, and things he just never wears. My goal was to have his closet ready for him to use by his birthday, which was yesterday. It wasn't quite ready, but I can probably finish clearing the area by this weekend.

Last night, since it was Logan's 53rd birthday, we went to the Lone Star Oyster Bar where Logan had a dozen oysters (ugh!) since they're $5 a dozen on Tuesdays (a happy coincidence for him) and a couple of Rahr Reds (a local brew made right here in Fort Worth: http://www.rahrbrewing.com/rahrred.html ). I had tilapia with lots of nice veggies and a HUGE frozen margarita. We then went to the Shamrock, where Matt bought Logan a shot (a big shot, measuring and pouring at the same time à la Justin Wilson) of Laphroaig, a single malt Scotch whisky, which smells like a peat fire. On the scotch's website, they have some award as the best single malt whisky in the world. Check it out: http://www.laphroaig.com/whiskies/cask_strength/index.asp?expanded=cask_strength

After the whisky, Logan had a Bellhaven or two, his favorite beer next to Guiness, or sometimes instead of Guiness, it's such a close race. I was boring and had a double screwdriver. When we were done drinking, we stopped at Braum's for milk, juice, and brownies. I didn't make Logan a cake, and we forgot to pick one up at Target when we were there before dinner getting 5,897,264 coat hangers. (I told Logan I had to have more coat hangers in order to finish hanging up all his clothes, so he bought three metric buttloads of them, along with sewing needles, pins, and wart remover. Interesting combination. I bought Cokes, tampons, and knitting needles. Another interesting combination as well. But not near as interesting as the couple Herbie saw years ago buying condoms and Vaseline. She wanted to tell them K-Y wouldn't have the same destructive effect as does Vaseline, but figured they would take offense.)

Arriving home around 10 p.m., we found Brighid lounging on the futon, watching anime and Weyland playing Age of Empires on the computer. The dog had not been fed, no one had had his bath, and homework was not completed. I made Weyland stay up til midnight to finish some pages in math, but Brighid claimed she didn't have homework. The report cards next week will attest to the truth or falsehood of that.

In the meanwhile, I've been feeling vaguely stressed and apprehensive, though I can't imagine why. I turn 41 on Saturday, and have been feeling so thankful not to have been living in New Orleans that I don't know why I have an eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it's just allergies. Lord knows the dust I've been stirring has had an effect on my immune system. I've been sneezing my head off and coughing up huge gray loogies which look something like oysters. Which is why I don't eat them. Oysters or loogies.