Halloween Scary

My girls have had some great Halloweens--like the one where Birdie, costumed as princess, daintily accepted candy from the neighbor who lived down the street, then inquired if she was, in fact, "the mean old lady everyone talked about." Another year,  Daisy scored a pair of ruby slippers--the gateway drug to Uggs, Sperrys and Jimmy Choos. Some years, my girls faced down chain-sawing wielding vampires, jumping spiders and misplaced treat bags. They endured threats of "not getting to go," but always got to. And they rebuffed warnings of "you'll need to wear a coat over that." With some decent Halloweens under their belt, they can claim to know "scary," but I know "scary." I was a not-quite-teenager, not quite bored with Halloween, but much too old to do more than yawn at creepy monsters. I don't recall my costume or whom I trick-or-treated with. I remember hearing the screams of packs of kids running from house to house. Darkness cloaked everything. I caught a vague amoeba-like shadow as one group streamed past me. Then, for a moment, I stood alone on the leaf-strewn, wet asphalt one street over from my familiar Britt Street. There, in the night, I took one step forward and then another. A sudden massiveness lurched toward me. Immobilized by fright, I waited. Labored breathing and dripping drew near. Warm stench enveloped me. Then, the presence passed. My Halloween continued, but with a bit more skittishness in my step. In the cold light of November, my scare settled. One street over from Britt, a mild-mannered St. Bernard with ropy trails of saliva roamed on slow plodding feet. He had a name. But whatever it was, he'll always be my Cujo.  

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (On Nail-biting)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
I chewed my fingernails to nubs watching Game Six. How do I clean toenails enough for a good gnaw?
Sincerely,
Redbird Fan

Dear Redbird Fan,
Don't. Sturdy floss should remove any chunks from between your teeth. 
Warmest Regards,
Miss Flonotes

The Wager

The Minnesota Twins beat my beloved Atlanta Braves 20 years ago, in the seventh game of the 1991 World Series. I didn't remember the moment, as I was busy worrying over Baby Daisy, who refused to stay awake long enough to eat. This year, it's different. Long ago, I ditched the Braves for the St. Louis Cardinals. Tonight, I'll watch Game Six as the Cardinals face the Texas Rangers in a must-win situation. In between innings, I'll be texting Niece Nightingale. She lives in Texas. I wagered chocolate candy from Crown Candy Kitchen and a sea of tears deep enough to break the Texas drought. She promised me "something." Twenty years ago, that "something" would have been a Barbie doll or half-stick of gum. But we are both older, and more focused on the game. My wager is definitely a wise one. Should the Rangers win, heaven forbid, Niece Nightingale will get her chocolate, wrapped in soggy tear-stained paper. I will console myself with a Crown Candy Kitchen BLT and milkshake...and chocolate for the ride home. Should the Cardinals win, I'll get "something" from Niece Nightingale. And she'll get a consolation photo of me, at Crown Candy Kitchen, enjoying a victory feast--with Daisy, perhaps. While Daisy still loves her sleep, she will wake up for bacon.

The Daisy Day

The notion of childbirth used to be one of supreme vagueness. Only the active participant, and the medical staff, could truly confirm that childbirth didn't involve storks, massive cabbage plants or tightly woven baskets floating in the river. Twenty years ago, enough progress had been made that Big Guy joined me for labor and Daisy's arrival. And that, pretty much, defines much of what I remember about the day. To clarify: Mostly, it was My Day. My Day to watch as Big Guy tried to snooze in the labor and delivery room's recliner. He didn't get the comfort of a bed nor the relief of an epidural--which yes, while getting an epidural bends the spine and racks the nerves, having an epidural makes everything easier to manage. For example, Daytime T.V. While I snoozed through Phil Donohue's talk show and mind-wandered my way through Sally Jessy Raphael's insipid program, Big Guy had no drugs and very little sleep to blunt their yammering over the airways. I could have turned off the t.v., but with my epidural, I didn't feel like bothering. And, admittedly, as talk shows morphed into soap operas, it gave Big Guy something to complain about until early evening. Then his complaints, and mine, shifted to the Braves. They played in the World Series, Game 6 in Minneapolis, on this night twenty years ago. It was painful...not childbirth painful, just painful. Again, I had the bed and comfy epidural. Big Guy had the sturdy vinyl recliner and no pain meds. He also had to get up each time he wanted to go to the bathroom. Not me, a tiny perk in retrospect. As 10 p.m. closed in, Big Guy looked ragged around the edges. I, with my epidural, didn't care how I looked. But I did want that baby out of me. Suddenly, nurses walked in. Bright lights flashed on. And the Daisy Delivery Doctor walked in. He said he'd come from a party, but I knew the crisp white long-sleeved shirt and silk necktie were worn especially for Daisy. With one push and then another, Daisy arrived--wet and unhappy. Probably more unhappy than the Braves. And in that moment as Big Guy cut the cord, his day, and my day, turned into Daisy's Day. Happy Birthday Daisy.

Waiting For The World To Change

On this night, 20 years ago, I waited for the world to change. I remember: Walls painted blue with pink stenciled rabbits running in a row; curtains--white trimmed with blue; the hand-me-down wooden crib--decorated in pink and blue bunny motif--pushed against one wall with fabric balloons gathered over it; a brand new changing table tucked into a corner--a diaper bag, again with bunnies, hooked to it; itsy-bitsy diapers stacked tight and hypoallergenic wipes still sealed. Mostly I remember the wide-bottomed chair, upholstered in soft blue. On many nights as summer slid into fall, that chair begged me to sit and swivel for a moment--to daydream of a belly flat and arms full. And so, on this night, I sat and swiveled as half-hearted twinges began to find their rhythm. Impatient, I pried my awkward self loose from my reverie. Big Guy called the doctor. We grabbed our stuff, filled the cat's food bowl and left. We traveled the sleepy midnight highway. Late night slipped seamlessly into wee morning hours. And my world--our world--began to change. In room five. A bunny free zone.

There's A Story Here, Somewhere

Found stuck in a copy of a textbook: Probation, Parole & Community Corrections.

Dad Remembered

It's Friday & You Want Advice? (About Rock Chalk)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
I am desperate. Rock Chalk, Jay Hawk, Rock Chalk, Jay Hawk keeps running through my head. My brain is like a choo-choo train. How can I get it to stop?
Preoccupied.

Dear Preoccupied,
Hum the Brady Bunch theme song. That will obliterate the Rock Chalk chant, provided it is not God chanting to you. I've heard He is partial to Kansas, where the dinosaurs never roamed.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

The Davin Rant Finale

There's nothing quite like an apology to dampen a two-blog rant, which is why I buried the second half of my "I hate Davin" rant. Turns out that once I finished composing my first blog rant and switched my attention to dicing Davin on dealerrater.com, I received a within-10-minutes phone call from Davin--as dealerrater.com alerts dealers when they are close to getting blasted on the internet and provides a two-week long opportunity to calm an irate rater before a negative rating gets posted.  Davin apologized for his crappy behavior and ta-da! the Sentra with everything we want will be delivered to our house next week. I warned Davin that I would write about my experience. Hope that crow was tasty dining. And that Daisy enjoys the soon-to-be-hers birthday car. 

Davin At Lou Fusz Nissan

Last night, Big Guy texted a photo to Daisy to let her know that, yes, she was the proud owner of a 2012 Nissan Sentra. Ten minutes later, I texted Daisy to let her know the deal fell through. Thank you Davin Agnew at Lou Fusz Nissan. There's not much I like less than disappointing my daughter. My guess, there's not much Davin likes more than teasing customers and grabbing commissions out of salespeople's pockets. This was, quite literally, what happened. As Big Guy prepared to drive "our" sparkling new Sentra off the lot, he discovered it lacked one feature we specifically requested. Our sales person Nice Enough Guy had already left for the evening, no doubt counting his money as "earned." Davin stepped in to say that if we wanted the feature that was promised, we'd have to pay another $200. We showed him our email agreement with the Lou Fusz Nissan sales staff. It was a very detailed, very well spelled out email. Davin refused to honor it. So Daisy doesn't get that car. But on the bright side, I gain a handy new phrase for "not living up to commitments." It's called "Doing A Davin."

Santa Sighting

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (about money)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
First, I discovered six pennies.
Then, I found a Canadian quarter. 
Should I be worried?
     Thinking About It


Dear Thinking About It,
Yes.
Warmest Regards,
       Miss Flonotes

' Steve Jobs

If you want to attract a geek, here's a fun fact to drop at parties: The ASCII code for an apostrophe is '  In truth, it probably works better at detecting geeks than attracting them. A true geek would be so aware of ' that he/she would likely stroll away from you as "not geek enough" to merit communicating with. A nongeek would mistake your fun-fact for a misheard, not understood, joke, then laugh and drink another beer with you. Last night, a news flash on the internet alerted me to the death of Steve Jobs, undoubtably the coolest genius to have walked the Earth in my lifetime. Like a lot of keyboard tappers, I work off a PC. But I've never loved it like I love my daughter Daisy's Mac. It is reliable, intuitive and downright touchable, just like the IPods, phones and other gizmos Jobs had a hand in creating. The man had a gift and he used it well. I like to imagine a young and impatient Steve Jobs at a party. An awkward, young woman drops some sort of near totally ignorant comment about computer punchcards. In my imagination, I see Jobs mentally dismiss her as unimportant. He turns and walks away. Then he does what made Jobs so good at being Jobs. He comes back, listens to her and figures out to communicate. I don't know that Jobs ever experienced this exact moment. Now that you've read this far, perhaps you have figured out I have no clue if ASCII has anything to do with Apples, but I still admire Steve Jobs.

Them Bones

There is stuff even I don't want to know, like how to make musical bones. An overenthusiastic backwoods musician wrote the instructions. And my eyes accidentally read them: Obtain bones from large animals. Let bones bleach dry in the sun for several years. The rest of the instructions read blah... blah... blah... as I'm lost wondering how to convince the large animal to give up its rib, and if drying the rib in the yard violates the subdivision covenant. I know the covenant prohibits chickens, a personal disappointment, and clotheslines--which I should care about using, but don't. In all the years our subdivision has existed, I don't think there's ever been an emergency meeting to revise the covenant. A front yard rib-drying operation might do it. I've learned that neighbors don't like strange, unless it's their own brand of strange--like hanging curtains that resemble large red lobsters in the front windows or raking new-fallen snow.  Neither, I admit, are on the same scale as yard preparations for musical bones. And, no, I'm not going to position a rib cage by the red bud tree--I just wanted to share that image with you. And for those still reading, here's what else to steer clear of thinking about... if someone offers to let you watch sausage being made, don't bother to eat breakfast. Another tip, never eat a salami sandwich and read the salami package ingredient label at the same time. Turns out, there isn't much that doesn't go into salami, except maybe the bones.

Oahu Curls