Dino Santa

When the going gets tough, the smart move on to something else. That's why I lay aside tinkering with media lists and thinking about tedders and articulated wheel rakes long enough to costume a dinosaur in a red felt Santa suit. In November, I rescued the extinct fellow from his position propped against an alley dumpster. The two-foot tall mechanical reptile's innards were tumbling outward. It lacked batteries and a remote control. Plucked from ruin, it rode around my minivan for a few weeks. Then I dumped it in the basement, where it lay forgotten until Christmas passed and 2011 turned to 2012. In the harsh light of January, dino didn't look keepable. I tossed it in the trash, then relented. If dinosaurs were good enough to walk with Jesus, surely this cast-off creature deserved a resurrection. Hence, the Santa suit and a midnight trip to Brad and Angelina's doorstep. Like a match made in heaven, a pact with the devil or something in between, they took in Dino Santa. That's not my elegantly dusted table that it rests upon, crowding out Freud, Mozart or Mr. Vogt. Now that Dino is placed, I return to thinking about tedders. I'm not certain what they are, but somewhere someone wants one, regardless of if they know it. Kind of like Dino Santa.

A Little Less Trash

More than a year ago, Fancy Free asked that a bag of trash be picked up in honor of her birthday. Blithely, I committed. I envisioned picking up trash alongside a creek of free-flowing water on a leafy green, early spring day--birds chirping, flowers blooming and perhaps even a rainbow emerging as God's sign of a good deed well done. In my vision, the trash would not only be clean, it would practically leap into my trash bag. And strangers woud pause midconversation with one another to compliment me on my commitment to nature. Then I forgot all about my commitment. Until December, which explains why Tequila and I slogged through half-frozen mud along a grimly chilled creek bed. I pried chunks of trash--including two, nonmatching shoes--loose from their nature-made graves. Tequila chased any sign of wildlife. No birds chirped. No flowers bloomed. No rainbows shone from heaven. No bonus brownie points from strangers--as no one else was crazy enough to stroll through the land of tossed refrigerators. But I did it. I picked up trash. Nasty trash. For Fancy Free. A promise fulfilled.

Stacy & Other Names

Daisy called to let me know: Birdie bit her while we waited in line for Disney World's Splash Mountain, not Space Mountain. "How could I mix them up?" she asked. "Space Mountain is fun. Splash Mountain isn't." I promised to correct my mistake. Then I started thinking about names. Maybe "Birdie" should be "Biter" and "Daisy" could be "Tasty." If I were to rename the girls, I should give "Big Guy" a new name. This time of year, it would be "Guy who understands taxes, so I don't have to." Some names last long after their usefulness. When the girls were little, they found a turtle and named her Ashley after the gymnastics teacher they'd met that morning. We never saw that woman again. Ashley lived in our backyard for four years. Then she escaped. And now we're Ashley-free. Bless-her-soul June, the black and orange Halloween kitty, who dug through the trash and aggravated Big Guy, was named after Daisy's kindergarten teacher. I don't know what the teacher would think--especially about the trash. But Daisy loved her teacher and she loved her cat, too. The long ago earthworms that lived in a jar on our kitchen table were "Stacy and her friends," named after Sis's sister-in-law. After one too many worms-on-the-table-while-eating-spaghetti dinners, we turned Stacy and friends loose in a backyard planter. Birdie cried. She didn't think Stacy and her pals were smart enough to avoid the birds. Chances are, she was right. But Stacy--the Sis's sister-in-law Stacy--should be honored over the tears that were shed. If Sis ever told her.

Middle of the Night

The K-Mart cashier stopped halfway through checking out my purchase to change the fluorescent light tube in the ceiling. I was already steamed as Big Guy got to drive the semi-truck and I was stuck driving the plywood clad, homemade pick-up truck camper. I began scrutinizing the other checkout lanes to confirm that I was as unlucky as I thought. Then the phone rang. And I woke up. 1:30 a.m. I grabbed the phone. It was Birdie calling the home phone from her cell phone. She wasn't holding down a bench in the emergency room, but rather tucked in bed in her room across the hall. "Mom," she whispered, "did you hear that noise? Oh my gosh, it was a really loud low note!" "A low note?" I echoed. "Yes!" she cried. "A low note on the piano! Send dad to check it out." While Big Guy can snore up a symphony, I didn't think he would wake up for a solitary low note crisis. So I committed to "listen hard" for more low notes. Birdie, her fears eased, went back to sleep. I lay still thinking about ghosts, goblins and other things that go bump in the night. Then the bedroom door burst open. I gasped. I eased the covers up around my shoulders and squinted my nearsighted eyes toward the door. I saw nothing. Big Guy slept. In my heart, I knew the low note and the wide flung door were the mischief made by cats, loose in the house and bored. But a tiny part of me wondered if criminals, werewolves, vampires or witches might tickle the ivories and then wander in search of sleeping souls. Then I realized Big Guy slept closer to the door. He would be one pounced upon, first. And munching on Big Guy's bones would take a while. Cozily protected, I went back to sleep. This time, I didn't shop at K-Mart. I knew better.

Bites

After an hour's wait in line, six-year-old fraidy cat Daisy stood at the top of Disney World's Space Mountain. That's the moment when four-year-old Birdie, who already rode Space Mountain once, turned toward Daisy and bit her arm, hard. Daisy burst into tears and skipped the ride she didn't want anyway. Birdie got yelled at. She also got to ride Space Mountain a second time. I'd mostly forgotten about Birdie's sharp teeth. Then, this week, Birdie took Tequila to the vet. Tequila, a clever yet nervous dog, bit the veterinarian's finger. Apparently, he tried to squirt a vaccine up her nose and Tequila didn't like it. "You mean to say Tequila bit the vet and she still got rewarded with a new red bandana?" I asked. "Of course not," said Birdie. "First, Tequila got the bandana. Then, she bit the vet."

Daisy Packs

Daisy returned to Mizzou today. She thought she would leave by 3 p.m. Birdie and I knew that wasn't going to happen. On a good day, Daisy packs slowly and meticulously. On a really good day, Cracker the tabby helps Daisy pack. If Daisy folds a shirt, Cracker unfolds it. If Daisy matches two socks, one gets lost when she sets it down to rub Cracker's ears. The other gets lost when she looks for the first one. Then, Cracker begs for a belly rub and a snack. So he and Daisy trot to the kitchen. Daisy will want a snack, too. Then, it's back to packing or napping. And as Daisy points out, it's really hard to think about a toothbrush, a hairbrush or a cell phone charger when Cracker looks so cute--make that SO CUTE! Thinking about his cuteness means dragging out Cracker's souvenir "Alcatraz reject" t-shirt. Packing takes backseat to squeezing him into it and following him around the house as he belly-walks trying to remove the prison garb. Then, it is back to packing, which sadly, finishes. Daisy left at 4 p.m. Cracker misses her. And we do, too.

Friday Advice On Gravy

Dear Miss Flonotes,
You didn't warn me that chugging stolen gravy and chicken bones would lead to lingering, uncomfortable after-effects. I look forward to heaving up my tummy troubles on your freshly scrubbed carpet.
Tequila

Dear Tequila,
You're a dog. Would you have listened? Heave up and you'll have more than a gravy hangover to to worry about.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

Gravy Gal

Much to my astonishment, Big Guy accused me of splattering gravy the entire length of the dining room table. I figured that perhaps he was covering his own gravy tracks, until I saw the size of the gravy puddles and the skinny line of gravy drops leading from the dining room and into the piano room. There Big Guy and I found the dainty blonde Tequila lovingly licking a spot on the newly cleaned Oriental rug. That's when Big Guy swore, and swore again, as he realized a piece of chicken was missing, too. It's not the first time Tequila has stolen. She grabbed a chicken wing from an unguarded plate in the den. And her predecessor Chuck, the blind dog, infamously stole and ate 33 chocolate chip cookies--a crime we paid for with massive spouts of dog diarrhea the next day. For her gravy crime, Big Guy gave Tequila a two-minute time-out in her crate. She spent it licking her gravy tinged paws. I moped up the spills. A bit of me is quite proud of the gravy gal's daring accomplishment. All that's left to figure is why Big Guy thought I would fling the gravy. Someone has some explaining to do, and it is not Tequila.

Blast From The Past

Miraculously written on Monday, October 24, 20XX

just moments before 6th grade camp mail call.

Dear Favorite Daughter,

Here’s the REQUIRED Letter From Your Parents. We miss you. We wish you were home. We’ve rented your room to a very nice family from Hungary. Pele--your beta fish--negotiated the deal. Three boys and a goat sleep in your bottom bunk. The mom and dad sleep in the  top—a tight squeeze as they’re “LARGE.” Toothless grandma sleeps underneath the beds. Grandma farts all night, so gas is CHEAP at our house. This is kind of embarrassing—Chuck, the dog, is crushing on Grandma. Love at first sniff. The whole Chuck thing is severely one-sided. I’ve advised lovesick Chuck NOT to get too attached. Grandma is eyeing the tuxedo-clad cat Slim Jim. And while she seems sincerely interested, I found her threading your sewing machine. Not alarming until I realized she had a fur HAT pattern lying out.

Tell the boys at camp that you’re “taken.” The oldest son of the family—George--will trade the goat for your hand in marriage—a goat never leaves stuff on the floor, as it eats everything. And while George  repeatedly emphasizes that he wants your hand, don’t worry. I think he’ll take all of you, especially if you bathe. And I really want the goat. Don’t tell your sis, but I’m grooming the goat for her. Not for her to marry—that’s a silly idea—but for her to ride to school once she’s 16. I’m saving the minivan for you—you’ll need it once you and George start a family.

So what can I tell you about the two YOUNGER boys. One looks a lot like ChaCha, your stuffed monkey. Think a really HAIRY ChaCha. This boy, Harold, has a LARGE (and hairy) drippy nose—always know where he’s been, especially if you’re barefoot. Your sis has gotten really good at not saying anything when she steps in a nose drip. You know, the family RULE about whoever finds it, cleans it up. And we’re all saving on toe nail polish as there’s a shine when IT dries. Some of the puddles get deep.

Almost forgot little Raymondoskilatta. That name—who knows where his parents got it. Raymondoskilatta hot-glued cowboy boots and hats on the gerbils Shoe and Socks. He also hot-glued a saddle on each one’s rear. Anyway, the last time I saw the twins, they were tearing down Larkwood on Ivan the iguana. Three fewer mouths to feed. That rascal Pele has already moved into the gerbil condo. Saturday is babe day in Peleland. LOL. 

So anyway, after reading all this, I’m sure your biggest worry is all of the UNDERWEAR you left on the floor. No need to be embarrassed. The entire Hungarian family mistook undies for hats. I didn’t correct them. The fad has caught on—and now EVERYONE, up and down the block, at Dierbergs and even at Northeast MIddle School is wearing undies hooked over their ears. So save a pair or at least one side of a pair for the bus ride home. Tell your friends, too, as they wouldn’t want to miss out. Not that I expect you to supply undies for them. It’s my understanding that they were on the camp LIST.

Love,

Mom & Dad

Bacon

Bacon breakfasts are over. Big Guy returned to work today. For nearly two weeks, the pigs of America have reigned as the sizzling centerpiece on our table. Big Guy likes his bacon and doesn't mind cooking it. Birdie, Daisy and I don't mind eating it. We could fry our own batch of bacon, but that would mean getting out of bed. And with no smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen, nothing will nudge us from under the covers. So we're stuck, in bed, until Big Guy returns home. Perhaps he will fry some bacon for dinner? For that, we would awake and start our day, well after the winter sun has died. But who cares? There will be bacon. Fried. And lots of it.

The Go-To Phrase

I always thought my "go-to" phrase was "Pick yourself up and move on." But a few days ago, the girls informed me that my current "go-to" phrase is "You'll feel better." And when I think about it, I did hand out a lot of "You'll feel betters" as 2011 dwindled to its end. This year behind us, in fits and spells, contained an overload of crappy roommates, dull teachers, tedious classes, ho-hum work, sleazy car salesmen and really crappy friends. But like bandages lovingly placed, the "You'll feel betters" worked. We got through the toughness of a hard year. In fact, our final week of 2011 slipped away on an even, contented keel. Now it is a new year. Time to retire "You'll feel better" with something else to patch over the rough moments. As a creature of habit, I'm thinking about reverting to my old stand-by "Pick yourself up and move on." We have. And we feel better.