How Much Love?

At Birdie's request, I checked her tattoo last night and informed her that the bits of fuzziness she was worried about were itsy-bitsy scab edges drying up. It took a bit of mother love to look that hard at her healing tattoo. It took a whole hunk of mother love to do what I did last week. I shone a flashlight up Daisy's right nostril to help her figure out how to free the earring from the side of her nose. She needed it out to meet the dress code described in the handbook of American Eagle, her holiday break employer. I peered up the nostril at the backside of the piercing I didn't want Daisy to have in the first place. From the outside, Daisy spun the tiny snippet of metal around. She described how there was some sort of twist that she couldn't figure out how to do that needed to be done to remove the earring. Her nose turned red. The panic rose in her voice. The earring spun in place. I kept shining the flashlight. Eventually, I knew, either her finger or mine would be up that nostril. As my finger inched closer to decision time, the earring popped loose. Happy once again, Daisy left for her Christmas job at American Eagle. I washed my hands and finished preparing dinner. That night, Daisy returned home and told me that American Eagle doesn't care about nose piercings. I wish she'd found that out earlier, but then again perhaps not. Because now I know just how much love it takes to pick someone else's nose. The answer is right here at my fingertips.

The Tattoo

Finally. At long last. It is done. Birdie has her tattoo. On Saturday, Birdie's aunt Candy Squared and sis Daisy helped her disguise the trip to the tattoo artist as an "aunt-nieces shopping" bonding experience. I should have suspected "something" as, in retrospect, they slinked out the door. The troublesome trio phoned in Birdie's intentions once they were safely on their way. They caught me when they knew I would be too busy spending my own money to worry about how Birdie spent hers--beyond hoping that needling a tattoo would hurt enough to keep the artwork small. Birdie returned home with her tattoo covered with a taped on, white paper towel. We trimmed the Christmas tree. I stared at Birdie's back. We decked the halls. I stared some more. We listened to the Chipmunks Christmas album. I kept sneaking peeks, wondering what lay beneath the Bounty. Finally, in the soft glow of the tree lights, she unveiled it. We stared in confusion at it and what it didn't say: No proclamations of I love mom, or dad, or grandma, or June (Daisy's treasured first cat), or Chuck (my treasured departed dog), or bacon (Big Guy's treasured treasure). I think we all thought we would get to own at least a small chunk of the Birdie back. In reality, the tattoo is a lovely, simple black-etched faceted heart. It sits on the midsection of Birdie's back, close enough to her side that if she twists around, she can see most of it.  We complimented Birdie on her choice. There's plenty of room to write I love Mom around it. And Birdie's Grandma--a nondrinking woman not brave enough to get her own ears pierced--chimed in cheerfully, and sincerely, that the tattoo will show just fine when Birdie dons her beach bikini. Clearly somewhere among the stuffing, cranberry and swear-like-a-sailor sweet potato pie, I lost control of my Thanksgiving children and my Thanksgiving company. For that I am grateful. I like Birdie's tattoo. Already I am planning mine. There will be a Birdie, a Daisy and a Martini--as a drink glass is easier to sketch than a full-blown depiction of Big Guy snoring in front of the TV or a multi-layered stack of crisply fried bacon. If Candy Squared isn't available to tattoo with me, I will conference phone her in to the procedure. But I won't ask Mom how fine my tattoo will look when I wear my bikini. She would have to turn into a serious drinking woman to contemplate that sight. So would I. Sooner or later, the Birdie tattoo will make its blog debut. Right now, Birdie reports, it's healing.

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (about thank-you notes)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
Recently, I received an expensive gift that I'm fairly certain is "hot." How do I write my thank-you note?
Sincerely,
Always Proper

Dear Always Proper,
With a guilty conscience.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

Little Red Wagon

Big Guy, Birdie and I camped at a local state park during our visit to Indiana University. It was there that we stumbled upon Santa conferencing with two elves, only one turned out not to be an elf, but rather the new "Mrs. Claus." Santa looks like Santa, drives a huge motorhome and uses a motorized wheelchair to manuever around the campground. Mrs. Claus is about 25 years old, slender, Asian, with beautiful black tresses. Big Guy tried his best not to get caught, by me, oogling Mrs. Claus. Birdie and I oogled away at the situation. We speculated that becoming Mrs. Claus might be how the young woman got to America. We watched as she and Santa interacted over fishing poles and grilling and concluded that they liked, and were kind to, each other. We agreed, that perhaps, if what we thought really were true, perhaps a marriage for citizenship--if that gets you to a better life--might not be such a bad thing. Thinking that true love found its own path, Birdie and I (and Big Guy, too) watched the happy couple. Mrs. Claus brought a child's red wagon out of the motorhome. She placed it on the ground and then sat snuggly tight in the wagon. We kept looking, mesmerized, as motorized wheelchair-bound Santa grabbed the wagon's handle and pulled the young Mrs. Claus around the campground. That's how we learned Santa is a Hoosier and citizenship, true love--or perhaps both--comes delivered in a little red wagon. I wish I had a photo of the wagon pull, but it's hard to focus a camera when laughing so hard. For that, I'm sure Mrs. Claus is grateful.

Wildlife

Camping provides ample opportunities to observe wildlife. Last summer, in our campground outside the Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, we witnessed the mom and dad of a "blended" family screaming about each other's kids. The next morning, the family "unblended" as half of them split.  Earlier this summer, at the Silver Mines campground near Fredricksburg, MO, our neighbors played their radio loud. But they were polite about it. Pot-bellied, No-shirt Guy strolled over to be sure we were o.k. with the volume. That's how we found out he wasn't working; his camping date was his neighbor; he was supposed to have his eight-year-old son with him, but the ex-wife and her rich new husband kept bribing the boy with Nintendo, so now the boy hates the outdoors, and he never sees the kid. Wow. That was a lot to take in. Then Pot-bellied, No-shirt Guy offered to share the whiskey he'd brought. We declined and he took a giant swig straight from the bottle. Suddenly, I understood his ex-wife. Vomit Guy I'll never understand and this was years ago. Long after dark, he and his buddies pulled into the adjacent campsite at Robertsville State Park in Missouri. As a young Daisy and a younger Birdie blissfully slept, Big Guy and I laid awake listening as Vomit Guy upchucked in the grass, then stumbled around in the dark, spitting. That's when we learned how campground hosts with huge RVs, plastic flamingos and Japanese lanterns earn their keep. A team of two showed up and ordered Vomit Guy to go to bed. And he did.

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (About today)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
How'd it get to be Friday?
Sincerely,
Just Woke Up

Dear Just Woke Up,
I don't know.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

Indiana University

I can't define Hoosier, but I know it when I see it. Big Guy, Birdie, Tequila and I toured Indiana University. The campus is beautiful; the trees are packed with squirrels; and pretty much every inch of sidewalk is scrawled with chalk. I arrived excited with the prospect of observing Hoosiers in their natural state. Mostly I saw exceptionally well-dressed college students walking to class. Then again, I missed the football game.  And the residence hall tour didn't include a peek at the dorm bathrooms. I suspect, both are prime places for Hoosier sightings. But the visit wasn't about me or about Tequila chasing squirrels. It was about Birdie. While Indiana University was the seventh college we visited, it was the first with an administrator blunt enough to tell Birdie that her intended major won't make her rich. Birdie didn't take the news well. Big Guy and I laughed, sort of. We know Birdie better than Indiana University. Chances are, if Birdie sets her sights on "rich," she will get there. And she will have fun, too. Eventually Birdie cheered up. We left campus satisfied that we'd seen enough to keep it on the Birdie list. Then our time in Indiana turned much better: We scored a major Hoosier sighting. That's a story for another day.

Morning

I woke up this morning disappointed to be awake. It's the first Tuesday of "fall back an hour" and my internal clock woke me an hour early. Awake, I twisted and turned, trying to cash in on my "bonus" hour of sleep. For a stray moment here, and a stolen moment there, I slipped back into the unsatisfactory sleep of a grown-up with things to do. Then my back began to hurt. The covers bunched into an uncomfortable knot. And the sounds of morning crept in--Big Guy in the shower; animal toenails clicking down the hall; Birdie drying her hair. I awoke more fully and realized: This day, like every day, is worth the waking up for. That, and I could smell the coffee.

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (about the actions of another)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
By nature, I am a very busy person. Normally, I don't have the time or inclination to wonder about the actions of strangers. However, the other day, I was finishing a wee coffee break in the Starbucks parking lot. As I watched, a dark blue SUV reversed out of its parking space and scraped its entire side against the dumpster. The driver kept going, without even a look at the damage. Busy, but intrigued, I followed the vehicle. The driver drove straight to McDonalds. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Busy

Dear Busy,
Starbucks has a dumpster in the parking lot? Who would have known? For sure, not the SUV's driver. More to your point--what should you do: Quite simply, learn from others. Fries and a $1 sweet tea are an excellent feel-good choice for days when dumpsters, or other solid objects, jump in your path. 
Warmest Regards,
Miss Flonotes

"I Love You"

Found on the internet
My old lady doesn't have very many teeth any more, and she's underweight, so I would like to get her chopped hay or hay cubes.  I was just wondering if there's a way to chop and maybe even make a "soup" of hay at home.

Someone Has To, But Not Me

Big Guy and I had children for the same reason everyone else does: So they can do things for us. With a bit of prodding, over the years, Birdie and Daisy have unloaded the dishwasher, mowed the grass, folded laundry and shown remarkable self-initiative in monitoring our wardrobe choices. But now, the family sits trapped at an impasse. Daisy is away at college. And Birdie appears to have inherited a double dose of aversion to Styrofoam. Two huge slabs of the nasty stuff rest on our back porch. These remnants of replacing the hot tub cover need to be broken into smaller pieces to place in the trash. Neither Frank nor I will lay our hands on them long enough to break them. They feel creepy stiff--like Styrofoam--and we worry that we will accidentally create a noise akin to fingernails on a chalkboard. Just amongst you, me and whomever else stumbles on this blog, if I had known Big Guy felt so strongly about Styrofoam, I might would have reconsidered my choice in mate. Spiders wander away eventually, grass grows only so tall and AAA will bring gas when your car runs completely dry. Nothing is going to move that Styrofoam. Tomorrow I will attempt to lure Birdie to the task by offering cute pink earplugs and flowered gloves. When that doesn't work, I will threaten her. She will capitulate--sort of, meaning she will promise to take care of the Styrofoam, then hide the twin slabs under beach towels. In the end, we will wait to spring the task on Daisy. Perhaps she will come home for Thanksgiving full of goodwill and ready for cash in her pocket.