Why Elephants Don’t Chew Gum

There once was a little elephant named “Ellie”.  Ellie was a very good little elephant who tried to always do what her mama told her.  But, Ellie was also a very curious little elephant, so she also asked her mama “why” a lot.  Sometimes, even after her mama answered her question in a very kind and patient way, Ellie still needed to find out the answer for herself.

One day, Mama called Ellie in from the yard:  “Ellie, come in please, we are going to the grocery store.”

“Why?” Ellie answered as she continued to push her baby elephant in a stroller around the yard.

“We need to buy yummy peanuts, hay and chocolate milk,” Mama answered as she gathered her coupons, grocery list and tucked them into her purse.

“Okay, Mama.” Ellie put her baby and stroller away, went into the house and picked up her little pink purse.

As Ellie and Mama strolled to the store, Ellie saw lots of things that made her curious.

“Why is that leopard wearing a yellow hat?” She asked.

“See the big brim? It keeps the sun out of her eyes,” Mama replied.

“Why do people ride in cars but we have to walk, Mama?”

“Because we are too big to ride in cars, Ellie.”

“Why is the sky blue? Why is the sun so bright? Why are some houses big and some houses little?”

Mama kindly and patiently answered each of Ellie’s questions so Ellie could learn about her world.

As they neared the grocery store, Ellie saw a little girl blowing a great big pink bubble-gum bubble.

“Oh, Mama! I want to blow great big pink bubbles, too!” Ellie cried as she watched the little girl’s bubble grow.

“No, Ellie, elephants don’t chew gum.”

“But why, Mama?  Why don’t elephants chew gum?” Ellie asked.  Mama’s mind was on the list she held in her trunk, so she didn’t answer Ellie.

“Mama,” Ellie said again, “Why don’t elephants chew gum?”  All the way to the store, Mama had kindly and patiently answered all of Ellie’s questions, but now she was feeling a little bit tired, so she said firmly, “Elephants DON’T chew gum, Ellie.”

“But, Mama, why?  Can I buy some gum? Please Mama?  I want to blow a big bubble, too!” Ellie whined.  Mama didn’t like it when Ellie sounded whiney.  Giving Ellie her “Mom Eyes” look, she said, “Absolutely not.  Elephants DON’T chew gum.” And then she walked into the store.

Ellie knew better than to ask any more questions after Mama had given her the “Mom Eyes”, but it didn’t stop her from pouting and walking very slowly behind Mama in the store.

Shuffling her big elephant feet, she followed Mama as they finally made it to the check-out.  Staring at the floor she thought “I wish I could have some gum.  I’d show Mama that elephants DO chew gum!”  Just then, Ellie saw a quarter lying on the floor right at the end of her trunk.

Quickly, Ellie glanced up at Mama and saw that she was busy chatting with the Rhino in the check-out next to her.  Slowly, Ellie reached her trunk out and picked the quarter up.  Then she edged past Mama and scooted toward the gumball and mini-toy machines at the end of the check-out aisles.

“Ellie, where are you going?” Mama asked her as Ellie slipped past.

“I just want to look at the toys, Mama,“ Ellie lied.  She knew she shouldn’t lie, but she had to buy a gumball!  Quickly, Ellie slipped the quarter into the gumball machine and turned the knob.  A big blue gumball popped out.  Ellie snatched the gumball and quickly tucked it into her little purse, just as Mama said, “Come on, Ellie, time to go.”

All the way home, Ellie thought about the big blue gumball hidden in her purse.  She knew Mama would be sad that Ellie had disobeyed and lied, but Ellie was so excited to get home and try to blow a bubble that she pushed her guilt way down deep and just thought about the fun she was going to have.

When they arrived home, Ellie helped Mama put away the groceries.  Then she went outside to play.

Looking at the house, she checked to make sure Mama wasn’t watching, then she tip-toed around the backyard shed and pulled the gumball out of her purse, “Now I’ll show Mama that elephants DO chew gum!” she thought as she popped the gumball into her mouth.

The gumball was hard and sweet.  Ellie smacked and chewed (and drooled a little too) until it was a gooey mess in her mouth.  She tried to blow a bubble like the little girl at the store, but it wouldn’t work – no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get a bubble to form.

She stuck the end of her trunk into her mouth to adjust the gum.  As she pulled it out, the gum stuck to her trunk – creating a long gum-string that went from her mouth to the tip of her trunk.  She put her trunk back into her mouth and tried to scrape the gum off on her little tusks.  Instead, two more long gum-strings formed! 

Reaching her trunk down, she tried to wipe the strings off with her toes, but more strings formed.  She tried to throw the gum, but only got another string stuck on a branch above her.  She shook her trunk and more gum stuck to her big ears.  She shook her whole body and stomped in a circle – gum stuck in her eyelashes all the way to the wisp of hair on her tail.  She was COVERED in gum.

Then she heard Mama:

“Ellie?  Ellie!  Where are you?”  She wanted to answer Mama, but the gum held her mouth glued shut.  “ELLIE!” Mama called.

“Mama!” Ellie tried to say, but it came out sounding like “Mmmhmmh.”

“ELLIE! COME HERE NOW!” 

Ellie’s big eyes filled with tears as she tried to answer again, “mmMhmmm!”

She heard the backdoor slam as Mama came out of the house.

“Ellie, Where are you?” 

“Hm, ombr hmmm, Mmmmhmmm!” Ellie replied and tried to move, but the gum had her stuck, stuck, STUCK.

She heard Mama’s footsteps drawing nearer.

“Mmmhmmm! Mhhemlp!” She tried to say, wiggling her big rump and doing a little dance.

“Ellie?  What are you doing?” Mama said as she rounded the shed.  Her big eyes got even bigger when she saw Ellie covered in gum and stuck to a tree.  “Where did you get that gum?” She asked as she reached up and pulled the gum away from the tree.

“Mhat mm mdorem,” Ellie tried to answer, as big crocodile tears streamed down her gray wrinkled gum-covered cheeks and dripped off her trunk.

“I can’t understand you,” Mama answered as she kept gently pulling gum off of Ellie.  Finally, Mama managed to get enough gum removed so that Ellie could move out from behind the shed.

Still crying, Ellie followed her Mama and let her use the hose to clean the gum from her tusks, trunk, toes and tail.  Using her soft trunk, Mama gently cleaned the gum out of Ellie’s eyelashes.  When the gum was all off Ellie’s body, Mama put a garbage can in front of Ellie so she could spit the little bit of gum still in her mouth into the can.

Then Mama looked at Ellie and said, “Now you know why elephants don’t chew gum.”

Ellie sobbed and said, “I’m sorry, Mama! I’m sorry I lied.  I’m sorry I didn’t listen! I’ll never ever do it again, Mama! I promise!”

Mama wrapped her trunk around Ellie as she whispered to her, “I know you won’t, sweet baby.  I love you.” And together they started walking toward the house.

Just then, a boy on roller skates rolled by, Ellie saw him and said, “Ooooo, Mama! I want to roller skate!”

“No, Ellie, elephants DON’T roller skate.”

“Why?” Ellie answered as together they walked into the house.

~ The End ~

All I Want for Christmas is a Pink Daisy Red Ryder

"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Kid..." ~ A Christmas Story

On a recent visit to Walmart (I love Walmart.  Where else can you get a new car battery, razors for the swimmer, bananas, toilet paper and craft supplies all in the same store?) I discovered my Christmas Wish:
A pink Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun.  Anything pink generally catches my eye, but a pink Daisy Red Ryder? Oh man, that stopped me in my tracks.  At first, I thought about it for 8 year old Sparkles, but quickly realized putting a weapon, even a BB gun, into Sparkle's hands was a recipe for disaster, exceeded only by the idea of putting weapons into Sparkle's, Buttercup's AND TBone's hands - we'd have an all out war in our backyard where someone would have their eye shot out in about 30 seconds.  But, to pass on such a glorious item as a PINK(!) Daisy Red Ryder seemed almost as crazy as giving it to one of my wild monster children.

I stood in the middle of the aisle, gazing longingly at the powder pink gun, imagining myself ripping into the present (wrapped lovingly by me in the wee hours of Christmas Eve), finally revealing the BEST. CHRISTMAS. GIFT. EVER.  My revere went something like this:

Kids: What'd Santa bring you mom?  Let us see!
Me: It's a PINK Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun!  I'm so excited!
Kids: Wow! You are so lucky! Better watch out: You'll shoot your eye out, kid! (A Christmas Story is a family favorite any time of the year.)
Me: I'm going to take it outside RIGHT NOW! Maybe there's a squirrel that needs shooting? (PETA: don't come after me, I'm not that good of a shot, and those squirrels are fast. Just ask the hyper Huxley and geriatric Bella dogs.)
Donning my Grandpa's old down-filled coat (a puffy jacket he owned before they were even cool!), my old Ugg boots over my hot-pink camo fleece pajama bottoms and tossing my pink plaid "Elmer Fudd" hat on my head, I troop out the door, my pink Daisy Red Ryder in my hand.  Plopping down on the bench on our front step, I lovingly caress it's pretty pinkness as the next-door neighbor steps outside to fix a dangling Christmas light.  I smile and wave the pretty pink gun at her.
Me: Look what Santa brought me for Christmas! Isn't it lovely!  What, wait, where are you going? 
My neighbor dashes back into the house.
Me: It's not that cold out here. I wonder what's wrong with her? Her California blood must still be too thin for 25 degree temps.
I happily sit for a few more minutes, my unloaded gun in my lap, enjoying the early Christmas morning, when suddenly, a city police car slowly drives past my house and then backs up and pulls into my driveway.
Me (Grinning like a fool): I wonder if it's one of our cop friends, stopping by to wish me a Merry Christmas and admire my new pink Daisy Red Ryder?
Police Officer: Morning, Ma'am.
Me: Merry Christmas, Officer! (Fortunately, I hadn't delved into my Christmas morning bloody Mary causing me to call him "Occifer" instead...)
Police Officer: What's that in your hand? We had a report of someone brandishing a firearm in this neighborhood. Is it loaded?
Me (holding up my new pink Daisy Red Ryder BB gun, causing the officer to duck): This is my Christmas present.  Isn't it lovely?
Police Officer: Yes ma'am, it's nice.  You didn't happen to wave it at anyone this morning, did you? Such as a neighbor? (Nods his head in the direction of my neighbor's house where a slight movement of their drapes reveals that they're intently watching the exchange.)
Me: Oh no sir. I wouldn't brandish my new BB GUN at anyone.  I was simply enjoying the morning. It's not even loaded.
Police Officer: We were told that there was a person brandishing a large gun in this neighborhood, making threats to her neighbors.  Are you sure that wasn't you? I might have to charge you with "terroristic threats."
Me (snorting back a laugh): Sir, you do realize that the people in that house who are currently cowering behind their curtains while watching you and I chat are the same people who were afraid that birdshot would suddenly be able to travel over a mile and go through their 6 foot wooden privacy fence and kill them, right?  I assure you, I have not brandished my "weapon" at them in any way.  The wife came outside as I was sitting here with my Christmas present, that isn't even loaded with the BBs it requires, at which point, I waved "Hello" and wished her a Merry Christmas.  I can only assume that she dashed back into her house and called you with the speed of Santa's seven reindeer.
Police Officer (smiling): Ok, I just had to check.  Be careful with that thing: You'll shoot your eye out...

(The only thing better than my neighbor freaking out over an unloaded BB gun would be reading about it in my local paper's "Police Report" section the next week.)

Update: Hubby heard me talking about the PINK Daisy Red Ryder and took it upon himself to buy FIVE of them for Christmas.  Not five pink guns, 3 pink and 2 regular brown fake wood.  His idea was that three kids, himself & I all needed these cool guns for when we go up north to our friends' cabin.  I convinced him that 5 of these guns were not necessary and took them, the BBs and targets he also purchased back to Walmart yesterday.  My fear of the neighbors calling the police when Sparkles is spotted wielding a pink BB gun over-rode the entertainment caused by the looks on their faces when they realized we had given her and Buttercup each weapons.  (Even though Hubby said he'd hide the guns except for when we went up north, knowing that these are the same children who kept disappearing to friends' homes 6-7 blocks away no matter what the consequences - until Hubby took the front wheels off all the bikes - gives me faith that they'd probably find the guns' hidey-spot and if they didn't succeed in shooting out their own eyes I doubt the neighbors' kid would be safe.)

How to Fail a Job Interview

Have you ever been slogging through a week from hell and suddenly realize "OMG, it's Thursday?"  That would be be me this week.  It's probably because of the fact that the kids didn't have school on Monday that I'm all discombobulated and confused about what day we're on today.  That type of thing always throws me off.

Monday was quite the day of ups and downs.  The weather totally sucked: cloudy gray sky spitting icy mist, not a glimpse of the sun all day, temperatures in the mid-40s; just an ugly day.  I was out and about that day, actually dressed up in the only pair of black pants that currently fit, a pretty pink sweater, my pearls and black butter-soft leather jacket.  Not my usual attire by any means (currently it is almost 11am and I am still in my hot pink/camo fleece pajama pants and slippers), but it seemed appropriate since I was going to my first job interview in years.  The job I for which I was interviewing was described as:

"Elderly Companion Care: services include light housekeeping, meal preparation, hygiene assistance, errands and shopping and companionship."

I was a little worried about what "Hygiene Assistance" meant, but upon further research, I decided that maybe it didn't include baths and help with other very personal hygienic assistance (a girl can hope, right?).  I was pretty excited when I received the call to go in for the interview, so when the time came, I spiffed myself up and headed out in the wintry weather, wearing the most awful boots known to mankind. (These boots made me realize that, yes, when my butt expands in size, so do my ankles, a phenomenon previously unknown to me.)  Upon arriving at the nondescript little office, I was given a stack of paperwork to fill out and promptly realized that I couldn't remember the name of the position for which I was applying, (thank God for good friends and their smart phones!) and was very thankful that I had brought along my updated resume` since without it, I'd probably still be there today, filling out the "previous employment" section of the application.  About thirty minutes later, after checking box after box relating to my "experience" working with the elderly, (honestly, people, are you sure I can't count raising four children as "experience"? How much different is it really dealing with a two-year-old or an elderly person's temper tantrum? Not much.) I was called back for my interview, which, in my mind, went something like this:

Prospective Employer: (looking at my resume`) Wow! You've been a busy girl.
Me: That's because I'm 39 years old and have had to change careers a few times. I'm experienced.
PE: I see that you've participated in the Breast Cancer 3 Day; how many times?
Me: Can't you read? It says right there: 2008/2010 - that'd be twice.
PE: I don't know much about it but I've heard it's hard.
Me: If you don't mind begging people for $2300 for the pleasure of walking 60 miles in three days in the middle of a Minnesota August and getting blisters on top of your blisters, sleeping in a pink tent and crying a lot, it's great.
(Fast-forward a little)
PE: So, these hours you have here, 9:30-3:00pm, Monday through Friday, are these the hours you are available to work or the hours you would like to work?
Me: Is there a difference?
PE: Well, we can't guarantee a set number of hours each week, but we do pay $11/hour, so...
Me: Those are the times in which I am available to work.  I need to be home in time to meet my little girls off the bus after school and be able to get my son from his hockey practices.
PE: We also require that you are available to work every other weekend.  Is that a problem?
Me: Do you see me available to work on the weekend days? On that form? Right there in your hand? That you made me fill out?
PE: No.
Me: So yes, that is a problem. My husband works out of town a lot. We have four children. When he's gone, I'm a single-parent.
PE: It's just that everybody would like to have Sat/Sun off now and then.
Me: So hire people who CAN work weekends whenever it is necessary. Because I can't.
PE: We don't always have work for you on the weekends, we just want you to be available to work every other weekend.
Me: So I'm supposed to "be on call" every other weekend because you may or may not have work for me to do? So I may or may not be able to go to my kids' sports activities or may or may not be able to spend time with my husband who may or may not be home that weekend?  Is that what you're saying?
PE: Well, yes.  Because every one wants to be able to be off on Sat/Sun sometimes....
(Fast Forward....)
PE: Ok, another question:  Sometimes you may be assigned to people who live vastly different lifestyles and have much different beliefs/values than you have.  How would you handle it if you were on assignment and your client expressed a belief that was different than the way you believe?
Me: Well, first of all, I would have them clarify their point of view.  Then I would break their opinion down point by point, citing recent articles/research, etc. that back up my opinion on the matter.  After verbally beating them until they were intellectually battered and bloody, if they still didn't see it my way, I would then verbally abuse them with clever and humorous name-calling and sarcasm until they cried.
PE: Ooookay...Do you have any questions?
Me: Would I be required to help with personal care? Like would I be required to give baths?  I have no experience and/or training in such activities.
PE: We will train you and certify you as a Home Health Aide.  So, yes, you will be able to give baths.
Me: Ok, thank you so much for your time. (Picks up coat, and goes SCREAMING OUT OF THE OFFICE: "No wiping butts! No baths! I don't even like seeing myself naked! Gaaaaah!")

Imagine my surprise that when the phone rang yesterday, the name of the company was on my caller ID.  I wasn't brave enough to answer the call nor have I called them back yet, either.

Onward and Upward my friends!

** I returned the company's call.  They were calling to ask me to complete a "mantle" (I'm really not sure what that is other than what we hang Christmas stockings on over the fireplace), so they could have me complete an Orientation next weekend.  Which brought up the fact that I can't (and WON'T) work weekends.  At which point their job offer was rescinded.  Oh well. No wrinkly bottoms for me to worry about (except my own) now. Alls well that ends well (heeheehee!).

A Snapshot of My World

A Typical School Day Morning:

5am Hubby leaves for his 2+ hour commute to current job location.

6:15am Re-awoken by alarm blaring (enter title here) song from local Christian Radio station, slap snooze.

6:25am Alarm goes off again; new song blaring. Slap snooze again.

6:30am Decide to turn off alarm as brain is running anyway and sleep is no longer possible. Lie as still as possible while ruminating over the day's upcoming events (kids off to school, errands to run, chores to complete, hockey games, swim practice....)

6:32am Remember that there is still half a DVR'd Hallmark movie to watch, flip on TV and resume movie.

6:39am Tearing up over sweetness of Hallmark movie love story plot.

6:44am Hear basement shower go on; oldest child in shower. Glance at clock to check start time.

6:49am Cry a little more over Hallmark movie, check child's showering time so far.

6:55am Shower still going. Movie almost over.

6:59am Think: That child better get out soon or her brother won't have any hot water! Wish I knew how to turn off the hot water and surprise her...

7:01am Hear the CLUNK as basement shower is shut off.  Movie over, flip to Fox News.

7:05am Decide that am still burned-out from the election and really don't give a crap that Romney is having lunch with Obama, so Obama can a) look like he's a real gentleman and b) steal Romney's ideas and pass them off as his own regarding the budget crisis, so turn off Fox News and roll out of bed.

7:15am In kitchen hoping for some coffee, only to find that hubby has emptied coffee pot completely.  Mutter to self about no coffee while grinding coffee beans.

7:16am Oldest child attempts to get into my coffee-making space to make breakfast for herself. Tease her by getting into her space right back.

7:17am Dancing in circles in middle of kitchen, hand over my eye, saying "Gross! Gross! Gross! You licked my eye!" while oldest child and 16 year old son laugh at me.  Say to oldest child "Don't lick your friends!" Her response: "At least I didn't bite you."

7:21am 16 year old son hands me dress shirt and pants and says "Thanks mommy," before going downstairs to a (probably cold) shower.

7:23am 8 year old child comes into kitchen still in pjs, saying "It's pajama & movie day at school today, so all I had to do was put on my boots and hat on. We get to watch 'Santa Buddies' and not 'A Christmas Story' or 'Inkheart' because my teacher forgot to tell us we can only watch 'G' movies." ("A Christmas Story" isn't Rated-G? Who knew? Good thing I didn't let her take "Christmas Vacation" like she wanted to!)

7:28am Ironing shirt and pants. Get into argument with oldest child over her date for the Sadie Hawkins dance. Feeling very much lied to. Am told "YOU NEVER LET ME DO ANYTHING!" (Lies! Lies! Damn lies!) Take away oldest child's car keys and tell her to find a ride or ride the bus.

7:31am Still fighting with oldest child over fact that boy she "isn't dating" is disrespectful because a) he rarely drives, b) when he does drive, he doesn't even pull into driveway to pick her up, c) and the fact that he needs to get over his "fear" of me and come into our house, because really? That text message telling him that if he drove her car again and I found out that I would report it stolen was so 7 months ago - get over it already, man up and come into the dang house or I really will give him a reason to be scared of me.

7:40am Boy-child comes upstairs in shorts, wondering why he has no clothes yet, and if he has to ride the bus, how will he do it without pants?

7:42am Finish ironing boy's pants and shirt, vowing that he will get better shirts than the 65/35 poly/cotton blend hubby bought him (no wonder the shirts "tear up his neck"!).

7:45am Make youngest child her requested PBJ sammie for breakfast.  Fight some more with oldest child. Text BFF today's troubles. Fight irritation over the fact that maybe she is right and that I am overreacting (I NEVER OVERREACT!) again. Happy she agrees with me about being lied to and that boy needs to be more respectful.

7:50am Grudgingly give keys back to oldest child, with conditions: a) She finds other friends than boy to hang out with this weekend, b) that he drives and comes to door to pick her up if she does hang out with him, and c) that they start hanging out here more often because it is impossible to trust someone with my baby-girl who refuses to actually let me get to know them.  She agrees and snatches the keys from me.

8:15am Two oldest children run out the door to school. Youngest children dressed, teeth-brushed, hair-brushed, on couch, playing Wii.  Think, I have time to check my email before they have to be out the door... crack open laptop and log-on.

8:31am See email from son's hockey coach, telling us that 8 year old "Sparkles" will be welcome to sing "National Anthem" at hockey games when there isn't a music student there to do it.  Tell Sparkles, who bounces around like a puppy in happiness.  Ask her, "Some of the games you'd have to miss swim practice in order to be there to sing for the Varsity - would that be ok?" Her reply: "UM, YEAH, MOM! I'd rather sing than swim any day!" (Guess her getting a swimming scholarship to college like her older sister is out.)

8:47am Look up from computer and realize that the girls have 4 minutes before their bus will come; yell "Girls! You gotta Go!"

8:48 Mass panic ensues, reminiscent of the proverbial "Flying around like a fart in a mitten," as the three of us run around trying to find boots, mittens, hats (heehee cute sparkly Santa hats!), backpacks, agendas, jackets, snowpants, etc.

8:51am Girls at bus-stop. Did not miss bus. Back to the computer for me.  Now what?

Fun with the Neighbors Part II

As mentioned in my previous post, "Fun with the Neighbors Part I", my next-door neighbors drive me a little crazy.  The only upside of this situation is that I'm pretty sure we drive them equally crazy, which goes to show that there really is justice in the universe.

With the great weather this fall, the farmers across the road from our neighborhood were able to get their crops in quite early, leaving the fields crowded with Canada geese gleaning the dropped corn kernels all day.  Once goose hunting season started, we were awakened early on Fri-Sun mornings by hunting sounds - gunfire and geese honking as hunters took advantage of the easy access to thousands of birds.  Growing up around guns and having many friends who hunt, the only feeling I had about the gunshots I heard was irritation from the fact that I was being woken up far earlier than I wanted to be on weekends.  This sentiment was shared by my neighbor to the south - he too, did not appreciate the 5am gunfire - and, in past years, went so far as to call the police on the hunters.  Legally, they are allowed to hunt on the land across the road since it is privately owned, and birdshot does not travel far enough to threaten any residences, so his  call was to complain about his peace being disturbed (he also admitted to me that he was a bit jealous because he wasn't hunting with the hunters which added to his irritation when making the complaint to the police).

My neighbors to the north, however, being from California, decided instead to make a complaint to our city, citing that the hunting was a danger to residents in nearby neighborhoods and going so far as to say that our entire neighborhood was also worried about the dangers of hunting in the fields across the road from our homes.  Which is to say that the residents of the neighborhood with whom my neighbor speaks on a regular basis, may or may not have an issue with the hunting.  She did not ask me my opinion; if she had, I would have happily told her what I thought.  (I'm guessing that's why she never asked me.)  Instead, I only learned of her complaint when I was approached by a reporter for our local city newspaper who happened to see my daughter and I outside our house after she had been interviewing next door neighbor about her complaint.

At first I thought the reporter was stopping by to talk to my fantastically talented daughter about the fact that she had just participated in Early National Signing Day and had rocked at the State Championship Swim Meet the prior weekend.  My disappointment was short-lived, however, when I learned the actual reason for the reporter's appearance in my neighborhood.  (I have to admit that she may have thought I was nuts for the cackling laughter and snorting that I couldn't hold back when she told me her reason for being there.)  She asked me if the neighbor had ever talked to me about the hunting, mentioning that my neighbor had claimed knowledge that the entire neighborhood was concerned.  She asked me if I would be willing to go on the record how I felt about the goose hunting, and once I stopped snickering, I told her that while I didn't appreciate being woken early in the a.m., it was private land, so it didn't matter what I thought - they were legal to do it.  I then asked her: "Did she tell you they moved here from California last year?  Did you ask her for her views on the 2nd Amendment? Did you mention to her that a) that land is being developed into a subdivision early next year and hunting will no longer be allowed and b) that she has more chance of getting hit by a stray bullet in downtown (enter big city name of your choice here) than by birdshot in her backyard, especially when it is protected by her 6' privacy fence?" I also told her that I wished that they would allow more hunting - bow, not gun, mind you - within city limits as the night before I had followed two deer who were out for their evening constitutional on a residential street two blocks to the north of my own neighborhood, and that I was tired of the coyotes barking nearby every night and the raccoon that loved to harass my dogs.  (By the way, my suburb has a population of 50k+ and while we still have woods and farmlands nearby, we are by no means truly "rural" in nature.)

While I was chatting it up with the reporter, I noticed my neighbor in her car, high-tailing it out of her driveway while giving me the ol' stink-eye.  It was about that time that the reporter asked if I thought any of our other neighbors would be willing to share their views on the issue, to which I responded "Yes!" and helpfully pointing out which neighbors were hunters and/or who actually talked to my neighbor on a regular basis.  The last I saw of the reporter, she was being welcomed into the house across the street, home of one of the many hunters who has resided here for more than 20 years.

The next day, hubby and I took advantage of the unseasonably warm temperatures (mid 60s on Thanksgiving Day Eve?! No Way!) to "Griswold" our house: dragging out of our attic all the working lights, candy-canes, Santa, Sleigh, Reindeer, etc. and installing them on our house.  (It really is a good thing we have no HOA here or we'd be in severe violation of "single-color"/"clear/white light only" rules, etc.)  We love the Christmas Season and sharing Christmas cheer with our neighbors by having the largest light display possible, which is celebrated with the "Annual Lighting Ceremony" on Thanksgiving night, modeled after the Griswolds of "Christmas Vacation," complete with "drum rolls" produced by whomever is still at our house after dark on Thanksgiving Day and the singing of the Star Spangled Banner by my BFF, after which every one usually hurries back inside, complaining of the cold and asking why we insisted on having them outside to witness the turning on of our glorious lights.

The fact that our neighbors have yet to put a single light on their house last season or so far this season only contributes to our glee regarding our over-the-top display - if we can be annoying them in the process, it truly does make the work it took to create the display all the more worth it.

Black Friday morning found BFF and I up and at Menards at 5am, then on to Mills Fleet Farm at 6am (yes, we really are geeks! But the deals at Menards were really awesome.) which was where I found the final piece to this year's Christmas Light Display: A Six Foot Inflatable Snowman Hunter, complete in camo and wielding a shotgun! I snatched up the box and took it home with me, intent upon putting it in the front yard, six inches from the lot line between the neighbors' home and our's. Hubby even seemed excited with the prospect of tweaking the neighbors, laughing over the irony that we aren't even hunters!

Alas, it was not to be: our light display this year is too big this year for the crappily wired electrical system of my house as it is, and the addition of my wonderful Camo-Clad Snowman would require that we not only not run the microwave after dark, but also be relegated back to using candles for light (and while that seems like fun for a while, the thought of the 16, 8 and 6 year old children playing "Pioneers" while wandering around with lit candles scares the crap out of me) if we wanted to keep from blowing circuit breakers every 30 seconds.  So unfortunately, I had to take the Snowman back to Fleet Farm. (I promise though, next year, I will give up the candy-canes and even the sleigh and reindeer if I can have Mr. Snowman Hunter in my yard.)

~~ Still waiting to see an actual article printed about the goose hunting; wondering if there will actually be one published.  Also fighting the urge to buy a Christmas wreath for the neighbors & put on their front step since their unbedecked house looks very bare and sad next to our Griswold majestic wonderland.  There's two things stopping me: 1) Hubby finding out and yelling at me for wasting money on our unappreciative neighbors and 2) being caught putting the wreath on their front step (they keep their blinds closed all day, so the chances of being detected are slim, but I'm still paranoid).

Fun with the Neighbors Part I

We have lived here for four years.  For the most part, our neighborhood is pretty quiet, other than lots of kids tearing around, the occasional doggy escape from fenced-in yards, random ferrets or cats found hiding under our deck, fireworks shot off after 10pm on non-4th of July days, etc.  But generally, the neighbors, while friendly, haven't been the type of people to insist upon neighborhood BBQs or block parties, a fact for which most of us have been grateful.  Until last year when new people moved into the house to our north.  They came from the exotic land of California: the wife is an Associate Professor of Social Work at two of the most liberal schools in the metro, the husband is a card-dealer at one of the local casinos/card-rooms.  Together they have two children, a son (no one has ever seen/met) in college and a 6 year old daughter (who is apparently deathly allergic to dogs and to kids who refuse to allow her to boss them around). A week or two after they moved in, a good friend of mine "@SHockeyMama2" (follow her on Twitter!), stopped by with her very well-behaved and leashed dog, to hang out and have a beer on my deck with me.  While I went inside for something, @SHockeyMama2 took her dog into my backyard (still on his leash) to let him wander around.  She was greeted by my neighbor (who may have been on my property at the time) with "Don't you let your dog poop in MY YARD!"  That, my friends, was one of his first mistakes.  First of all, the dog was on a leash.  Second of all, no one speaks like that to @SHockeyMama2 and gets away with it. Third of all, that dog was like a child to her, and like her kids, NO ONE talks smack (and that was smack talk) to her about her dog or her kids without retribution.  From that moment on, the neighbors were never given the respect (they believe) they deserve (from everyone) from @SHockeyMama2, (who, ironically, knows pretty much everyone in our city and is well-loved by everyone who has ever met her) who began to loudly refer to them in insulting terms, infused with her southern sweetness, so unless you really knew her well, it would be hard to tell if there were insults being hurled their direction or not, every time she was on my deck or in my backyard.  (Quite entertaining.)

About six months after the family moved in, the fun truly began: suddenly our once quiet "stay-out-of-your-neighbors'-business" neighborhood became "HEY! Let's have neighborhood ladies' get-togethers at each other's homes once a month!"  Initially, I was included in the planning emails, but due to the fact that I have an exceptionally busy life carting my children from one activity to another and a husband who may or may not be home for weeks at a time, I was unable to attend the gatherings (Ok, I admit it: the gatherings were NEVER a priority to me anyway).  This, I believe, was one of my first mistakes.

My next mistake happened this spring when the neighbors decided to put in a 6' high privacy fence on the border of our properties.  Forgive me, but as I watched the browbeaten husband diligently trying to measure where to put the fence while the nagging and disapproving wife, clipboard in hand, looked on, I thought that maybe it would be prudent (and hubby agreed, him being 5 hours away at the time and unable to supervise said fence-building) to go out and chat with the happy (ha-ha) couple regarding the placement of the fence.  While I made small talk and joked with one of their buddies and talked about my plans for a row of raspberry bushes in the area of which they were planning to put the fence, they decided that I was angry about the fence that they insisted had NOTHING to do with us (even though I had received several FaceBook messages and messages via my children that my geriatric dog had pooped in their yard, and I caught their "perfect" little princess swimming in our pool without permission or adult supervision on occasion).  The second day of fence building began with their "guide-line" having snapped at some time in the night, for which I received a, yep, you guessed it, FACEBOOK message asking me if I "had any knowledge of how said line would have been broken? you know, since I am angry about the fence?"  Like I would have wasted my time to go cut their line.  Which is exactly what I asked - if they "were trying to imply that I cut their line?"  Wifey quickly retracted her statement by saying that "perhaps I had seen someone cut it?" (Because maybe I spent the night staring into the darkness outside the one window on that side of the house, guarding their line with my special magical x-ray vision. Yah, sure, you betcha.)  In all honesty, I don't like the fence.  I think it is ugly and does nothing to promote all the neighborly happiness/communication that they seem bound and determine to foster with all the neighborly gatherings they set up (but never host).  However, it is a great support for the raspberry bushes I planted and next spring will be awesome for the rows of giant sunflowers I plan to plant.  (I'm also planning on doing a "sunflower fence" stretching between our outside wall and their fence - just to demonstrate that there CAN be beauty between our yards.)

The summer dragged on with me doing the usual gardening (starting way too many tomatoes and actually sharing them with the neighbors), reading on my deck, yelling at my kids, mowing the lawn, planting raspberry bushes, chatting with all the neighbors when I ventured to the front yard (rare), etc. Until, toward the end of the summer, when the neighbors, through yelling at my girls ("No! You can't play with us in our yard! Your dog pooped in our yard!") and via Facebook (did I mention that their door is a mere 30 feet - if that - from mine?) alerted us to the fact that they believed that our 14 year old Border Collie/Australian Shepard X (also known as the BEST DOG IN THE WORLD) had not only gone into their garage and out the back garage door and pooped in their backyard, but she had also APPROACHED their child who is DEATHLY ALLERGIC TO DOGS. This began a series of events which may have included some FB replies regarding my feelings about passive-aggressive people, my going over to their house, ringing the doorbell several times, walking through their garage and into their backyard, only to find children playing but no adults in sight, more FB messages and finally, the husband coming over to "confront" me about my dog (I also must mention that these are very short people. Which, during the conversation, when he stood on my front stoop and I stood in my doorway, I was towering over him - quite empowering, really).  He insisted that it was my dog (yeah, ok, right) and that if it happened again, they would call animal control.  He had just uttered that detestable sentence when his wife walked up to hear my reply: "Sure, you do that. And the next time my dining room fills with the scent of WEED, I'll be sure to call the cops."  (Did I mention that they're from California? And Liberals? I honestly couldn't give a hoot if they toke up now and then, but could they please not do it behind their 6' privacy fence on the border of our yards? And, if they're going to threaten Animal Control on my geriatric dog, they need to understand that I will go Mama-Bear and fight back viciously.)

At this point, the husband's face went white as he stammered "What? That couldn't have come from our house! That must have been someone else!" as the wife also said, "You think we smoke pot?!" To which I replied, "Either you or some of your friends do, but it was definitely pot."  They went on and on about how they don't smoke weed (I don't care) and about my dog and how terrible my kids are (that really was the last straw) when I finally said, "Get the hell off my porch. NOW." Undeterred, they continued attempting to argue their case until a little voice piped up behind me: "My mom said NOW!" (Which, really, while I appreciate my 8 year old daughter having my back, the timing was really bad, since she just proved them right regarding the behavior of my kids. Regardless, I could barely keep from laughing in their aghast faces.)  They finally stalked off and nothing more was said for several weeks (during which time the husband "disappeared" for over a week, and since then, I've not been given the second-hand high from pot-smoke drifting from their yard into my dining room), which was great.

After a few weeks of avoiding almost all neighborly contact and being excluded from event-planning/invitations by the wife (but having other neighbors be sure I still received said emails - ha! psyc on her bootay!), school began.  I was not looking forward to the first day of school since everyone ends up at the bus stop to watch their little precious babies get on the bus.  Somehow, my crazy next-door-neighbors and I managed to perform the task without having to speak to one another.  However, it was so uncomfortable that I decided to make nice with the neighbors.  So I took them a small bouquet of gloriously blooming sunflowers and made peace (my effort was met with the wife hugging me...ooooo please stay out of my bubble. I'm part Scandinavian - we don't invade space nor do we appreciate space invaders, doncha know? Or maybe SHE DOES KNOW? Devious woman.).

Or So I Thought....

(Stay tuned for Part II)

Adventures in Mowing

A kid's paradise. Note the hockey gear airing out on the deck - sunshine is the best deodorizer.

I have four children, two of which are old enough to mow the lawn; however, it is easier to do it myself than to spend 13 hours nagging one of them to get off the couch and mow.  Realizing that my lawn was the scruffiest of the neighborhood (ok, so that's not exactly true, there are a couple down the block that seem to be growing dandelions instead of grass...) and that tomorrow it is supposed to be in the 90s, I decided to mow instead of doing other chores, like vacuuming or cleaning whatever yellow substance is now in my front hall (youngest child just informed me of its presence).  (Have you ever noticed that mowing the lawn is satisfying because the lawn stays looking nice for at least a few days as opposed to cleaning the house, which might stay clean for 2 minutes or less if hurricane-children roar through?)  One of the reasons why I like mowing the lawn myself is because it is something I can look at and think "ah, clean" for at least a few minutes. And since I spend as much time as possible avoiding the inside of my house - I mean seriously, we have like 2 weeks of summer in Minnesota when we can be outside, so why wouldn't I spend every minute possible on my awesome, giant, albeit in need of stain, deck? - and since I consider mowing a form of exercise, I decided to do it myself.


Donning my earbuds and failing to change out of my flip-flops for sturdier shoes (which has resulted in a few hot spots on my feet now), I headed out to mow.  Mowing at my house is a major undertaking, not only because we have a large corner lot (about .25 acre, which for in the burbs, is a good-sized lot), but because there's a multitude of tasks that must be done prior to mowing, which include: picking up dog poop (something I try to get the kids to do, but usually do myself due to the same reason I end up mowing), picking up various toys, bikes, balls, sticks, pool toys, random shoes, random clothing, towels, scooters, hoses, sprinklers; unhooking the extension cord from the pool filter cord and rolling each up (woe be to anyone who forgets to do this small task - the man of the house would cork if either were run over by a lawnmower, never mind the fact that the MotH is a high-voltage lineman and perfectly capable of repairing any type of electrical cord, as he proved when I was digging a new veggie bed and sliced through the underground dog fence line.  He was a little peeved, but fixed it with some electrical tape while muttering something about women...the dog only gets out that side of the yard now and then now.) and putting them out of reach of the mower.  Once all those tasks are completed, then the mower comes out.  I'd love a rider, and know for certain that if we had one my son would be all over cutting the grass.  But just like the snowblower we keep talking about buying (it would have been great the winter of '10-'11 when we had 88" of snow), we still don't have a riding lawn mower, but a self-propelled one.  Last year, the self-propelled mower was great during the last cutting as I plowed through several inches of oak leaves (I was seriously sick of raking at that point) and only died when I nailed a large rock.  I was almost done, so even though I killed the mower, I fired it back up and kept going.  Apparently, the blade was bent quite dramatically because not only was our grass cut pretty funkily, but I also managed to take off the head of one of our sprinklers.  Oops.  (That caused a fair bit more than muttering by the MotH when he saw what I had done, but he wasn't home when the lawn needed cutting and a girl has to do what a girl has to do, right?)


TMotH is very particular about how I mow, especially after the rock incident, but since he's hardly ever home, his main directive I try to follow is not getting grass in the pool.  One would think that a 15'x48" pool would be easy to avoid and that grass wouldn't be able to scale 4 feet to jump into our pool, but if one isn't careful, a lot of grass goes right into the water and then has to be fished out or else the pool turns green. (Which is pretty gross.  We had that happen the first summer we had the pool - made the mistake of going to Wisconsin Dells for a week during which the MotH unplugged the filter but left the cover on during the hottest stretch of weather that summer.  When we arrived back home, our pool was one big algae pond. NASTY. By the time we got the algae out, the weather was no longer warm and we had to take the pool down anyway.) The plus side of trying to avoid shooting grass into the pool is the cool pattern that is made by circling the pool in one direction.  Since there's only about three feet between one side of the pool and the garden fence, I end up going over the same strip of grass about ten times, but keeping grass out of the pool (and the MotH's ire down) is worth the extra steps.


So, as I puttered along behind the mower (trying to remember that pulling it backward works better when I release the "drive" lever), I was struck by the random thoughts that flitted through my brain, such as:

• "What the heck kind of song is this? That's what I get for downloading music off the boy's iPod. Dang it."
• "I wonder what the hurricane girlies are up to? I hope they haven't dragged out the paints."
• "Was that dog poop?  Did it get on my shoe? No? Whew."
• "All the Singlelies...All the Singlelies..." (As in Beyonce's song, "All the Single Ladies", which, btw, isn't even on my iPod.  "Singlelies" comes from my bff's nieces - it is how they sing it. I don't hear this in kids' voices, but in my bff's, which makes me laugh.)
• "I should write a book for teens about my teenage years."
• "On second thought, I don't want my teenagers reading my story from when I was a teenager; it might give them ideas."
• "On third thought, I don't want theMotH reading my story, either. Scratch that."
• "Easy come easy go...."
• "Hmmmm, I wonder what the girls are up to now? Boy, I hope they haven't decided to play with playdough."
• "What is that smell? Where is the dog poop?" Check shoes. "Nope, not on my shoe. Where the heck is it?" Start looking all over the mower, discover poop riding along on the "mud flap" on the back of the mower (no, I don't know the technical term for that particular mower piece). "Gross." Take stick and try to flick the poop off, only to smear it. Give up.
• "Is that screaming coming from the house? I hope they haven't got blood on the carpet." Take earbuds off. "No screams from my house. Good."
• "I wonder what's going on on Twitter?"
• "Criminy, being the only one for the kids is getting old. I hope the MotH gets work closer to home soon."
• "How is it possible that I am the mom of a senior?"
• "Ooooo, that's a cool pattern. I should try an s-curve now.  Wow. Pretty."
• "It sure would be nice if theMotH was home to see my cool patterns."
• "Is that screaming? That has to be screaming. Oh wait, that's on my iPod. Stupid new pop music."
• "Oh yay, another Taylor Swift song. How many Taylor Swift songs did oldest child have on her iPod anyway?  At least I made a playlist that avoids all the Chipmunk and High School Musical songs. Thank goodness."
• "How can Romney even be considering Pawlenty as a VP pick? Man, I really hope he doesn't pick him. I'd be embarrassed to harass the liberal neighbors with a Romney-Pawlenty sign in my yard."
• "I wonder if I can still get a Bachmann sign or two for my yard this year even though her district has changed? I hope so. The lib neighbors just love that one. Hehheh."
• "I'm sexy and I know it!" Do a little dance with the mower. "I bet the neighbors think I'm nuts. Oh well, they're probably right."
• "Is it really only Tuesday?"
• "Was that a hurricane-child grabbing another popsicle? I wonder if Michelle Obama thinks letting kids live on popsicles contributes to obesity? She ought to see my kids - not an ounce of fat on any of them. So dumb."

That, my friends, is a sample of my random musings while mowing.  The yard looks great now.  I should get out the weed-whacker and attack the clumps of grass along the flower and veggie beds, but the last time I tried that I got a little crazy and got all the way down to the dirt in some places.  The yard still hasn't recovered. Not to mention I'm kind of scared of the string.  That thing is wicked. And I don't want to put on pants. No, I'm not mowing in underwear, I have on shorts. But it is too warm out for jeans and sneakers and did I mention I'm scared of the weed-whacker? Same goes for the hedge trimmer - haven't tried it and don't want to start.  I mean, if I started doing all the "man-jobs" around here, whatever would theMotH do when he actually is home? I have to leave something for him to do otherwise he'll decide he's unnecessary to our survival, I mean other than the usual replacing the burned-out light bulbs in the kitchen or asking oldest child and I if we've checked the oil in our vehicles lately or not.  He needs something to complain about having to do, right?


Next up: cleaning the pool.  There seems to be some sort of mass suicide pact among large beetle-type bugs and they're using drowning in my pool as their preferred method of death.  I think if I were a bug in on a suicide pact I'd vote for flying directly at cars. Seems like a quicker more painless form of death, especially compared to drowning. (Oh man, now I'm listening to Justin Bieber. Definitely time to go through the ol' playlists. Ugh.)  I'll get right on cleaning the pool after I figure out what the yellow substance is on the floor of my front hall.  I hope it's just yellow popiscle residue and not something from an overly excited fat geriatric dog.