The Ballad of Jesse Z

Today, Z got his first lesson in the perils of law-breaking.

L, Z and I ran into Target for a quick errand. Which, of course, meant plenty of side-tracks, sales distractions and diversions in the form of shiny things. At one point in the journey through my red and white version of Heaven, I vaguely recalled hearing Z say something about his blue bracelet. But I was in my “Mommy’s in Target so don’t bother me unless one of your internal organs suddenly becomes external” zone. Plus, he wasn’t holding anything with a chevron pattern so he kinda just faded into the background. 

We completed our errand -- with a minimum amount of damage to JAO’s credit card -- and left the store. Half-way down the road, my post-Target buzz was harshed by Z’s sudden cry of, “Oh, no! Mom! I walked out of the store with this bracelet and it isn’t even mine!” 

Quickly, I spun in my seat to see what he was holding -- torn between horror at his crime and a tiny spark of hope that it was actually something sparkly and shiny. But all he was holding was a blue, braided-rope bracelet that looked just like the one he already owned. 

Apparently, while traversing the vast wonderland of home-goods and fabulously-cute shoes, Z spotted this blue bracelet, with no tags on it, laying on the floor. Since it looked just like his, he picked it up and put it on. Now, I’d like to say that it was an accident and that he thought that the bracelet was actually his -- after all, he had purchased the exact same one from that very Target two weeks ago. But, I’m not sure what makes him look worse: being a down-right thief or being so simple-minded that he couldn’t recall whether or not he had worn the bracelet into the store in the first place. 

I think I’ll go with simple-minded. It’s not illegal. 

But, regardless, I couldn’t let this life-lesson go unlearned. We returned to the store and I instructed Z to walk toward the Customer Service counter and admit to his crime. 

As we entered the store, he looked ready to burst into tears, throw up all over his new Crocs and faint all at the same time. To be honest, I was feeling a bit Jodi-Arias-on-the-first-day-of-trial myself. I’ve never been an accessory to a crime before. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. But, maybe that’s a matter for a future therapy session. I digress.

As we approached the Customer Service counter, I was surprised to see a police woman standing there. Never, in my extensive history of shopping at Target have I ever seen a cop while I was there. Perhaps they are always there, but as a law-abiding citizen, my upstanding-moral brain doesn’t register them because I are smugly confident in the knowledge that I have done no wrong. Well, today, this officer may as well have had a spot light shining on her surrounded by a choir intoning a harmonic “Ahhhhhhh!” 

I thought, “Oh, great. Z is really going to lose it now.” But he held it together and shuffled somberly up to the counter. He stood there a moment as the Target lady looked expectantly at me, then down at Z. She was about 50 and just screamed “grandmother.” Not to be overly-stereotypical, but, well, she did. I prayed she had experience with mischievous boys and would sympathize with how trouble seemed to come as naturally to them as breathing and understanding “Super Mario Bros.” 

“Go on,” I encouraged Z, “tell her why you are here.” 

In a voice so meek (and pretty stinking cute), Z replied, “I kinda stealed this.” He then stretched out his slightly shaking hand and placed the stealed item in question on the counter. Then he dropped his head once again and willed his little body to melt into the floor. 

The woman then leaned over the counter, propping herself up on her elbows so she was more on Z’s level, and asked in a mixture of sternness and leniency that I have never been able to master, “Can you tell me what happened, young man?”

Z kept his head down, but raised his eyes up just enough to fix the woman with a boyishly-endearing, repentant gaze. “I picked this up and kinda taked it, even though it wasn’t mine.” 

My heart was bursting with pride at his bravery, but my Mamma-bear Instinct was clawing its way to the surface. I had to chime in.

“This was laying on the floor with no tags, and he has one just like it. He picked it up and put it on and then just forgot about it and walked out the door. It wasn’t until a bit later that he realized it wasn’t really his.” 

(Now before you go judging me for making excuses for him, you should know that Charles Manson’s mother still, to this day, maintains her son’s innocence and continues to write the whole murderous rampage thing off as a fiction created by Hollywood and the National Inquirer.)

Okay, fine. That’s not true. But I know my baby boy isn’t a villain! I had to make Target Lady see that!

Still on Z’s level, this kind woman spoke again and said, “Well, it sounds like it was just an accident. Is that right?”

Z nodded contritely. 

“You were right to bring this back in. Now, you see this lady behind you?” She nodded an indication to the police officer. “She is here to make sure nobody takes things from the store when they shouldn’t.” 

Two wide eyes zeroed in on the lady in blue and looked ready to over-flow with tears. But the police officer spoke with an equally kind and understanding voice.

“Thank you for bringing this back in. You did the right thing. And you won’t ever take anything from a store that doesn’t belong to you, right?”

Z nodded with enough enthusiasm to separate his atlas from his skull. 

With the matter seemingly solved and the threat of my son’s impending imprisonment lifted, I turned my attention to the kind Customer Service Lady.

“And now,” I declared, “I have some items to return. And I HAVE my receipt.” 

I’m not sure why I felt the need to exclaim this loudly. Perhaps I was reacting to an unwitting need to separate myself from Jesse James, Jr. Or maybe my Me-Instinct is actually a bit stronger than my Momma-Bear one. Regardless, we finished the transaction and, with a final word of thanks to both the Target Lady and the Police Lady, we left the building. 

Exiting through the vestibule, I took a quick glance at the wall plastered with sales items and other advertisements looking for a Wanted Poster featuring Z’s snaggle-toothed school photo -- but, thankfully, it wasn’t there.

Yet.

When JAO returned from work, Z’s sidled up to him and whispered in his ear, “Daddy, I almost went to jail today.” 

Now, I sit at my computer and raise a glass of wine in a silent toast that we never hear that sentence uttered from Z’s lips again.

But, I’m not counting on it. 

Swim or Sink

Perhaps you have noticed that I am not like a lot of other mothers. I love my children dearly, but I do not need to be needed -- I need to be left alone. I do not ignore my children or neglect them, but I have not made them the end-all-be-all center axis of my life. I would throw my body in front of a charging, rabid rhino to save their lives, but I won’t sacrifice all that remains of The Woman I Once Was to ensure their complete and total happiness. I apply this philosophy to almost all aspects of motherhood. But, I dare say it comes into play the most during Summer Break. I suppose I never grew out of the idea that Summer Break was for one important and glorious purpose -- taking a break. And that is what I do. And, people, I break hard. 

It is for this reason, and many others actually, that we are not -- gasp -- a swim team family. I know the glory of the swim team is revered by many, though the actual existence of such an institution was never something I was aware of until a few years ago. Growing up, I knew of no one who belonged to a swim team, but now it seems my children are surrounded by the tight-bathing-suited adolescents and I am now surrounded by mothers who sing the glories of the sport and seem puzzled (and perhaps incensed) at my refusal to dive in.   

But, I would not be me if I didn’t have an entire blog’s worth of reasons why I actively avoid this summer-time ritual. And, I would also not be me if I didn’t feel the narcissistic desire to share my reasons with all of you. So here goes...the arguments for swim team and my well thought-out (and highly opinionated) rebuffs of those arguments. Enjoy. 

Argument #1: It teaches the kids to swim properly and be well-trained in all manner of strokes. 

I have spent thousands of hours watching kids frolic in pools -- both as a participant myself and as a parental observer. Never have I ever seen them spontaneously break into organized backstrokes and compare butterfly techniques. No, they squirt each other in the face, dive for pennies, and see who can do such a superb cannon ball that it splashes water up onto my People Magazine. And that is perfectly okay with me. A pool in the summer is the ultimate gigantic bowl of fun. Why is that not enough? Of course there is nothing wrong with knowing the “proper” swimming strokes, but I contend that unless your child is training to swim the English Channel, that is not a necessary skill. Perhaps some day, someone will say to me, “Little Bobby was goofing off on the top deck of the Disney Fantasy and fell overboard. Thank goodness he is on the swim team -- he was able to alternate between his freestyle and breast stroke and make it back to the ship! And, boy, it’s a good thing he always has his goggles around his neck.” 

Only then will I entertain the idea that I am doing my children a disservice by not insisting they can execute a perfect underwater kick turn.

Argument #2: Swim teams provide children with a sense of accomplishment and team spirit as well as teaches them the value of competitive sports.  

Guess what -- so does the soccer league and competition cheerleading I pay for in the fall and baseball and tennis that I pay for in the spring. Is there really a chance that two-and-a-half months of not participating in a competitive sport will reduce my children to sniveling recluses who have lost all sense of societal cooperation? Or perhaps the fear is that the lack of competition with their peers will lull them into a false sense of entitlement where they expect everything to simply be handed to them. As it is, my kids compete with each other on an hourly basis -- first one to finish breakfast wins; the one who has the longest french fry is the winner; who can spot the most school buses while on the road and shout "skittles" as loudly as possible, whoever takes the most breaths in 60 seconds is the champion breather! Believe me, kids don’t need an “organized” reason to compete. 

Argument #3: It gives the kids something constructive to do during Summer Break.

Um...what? It’s Summer Break! By its very implied definition, Summer Break means -- nothing! Having to do nothing, having to go to nothing, having to get up for nothing, having to think about nothing. (And, yes, that sentence was packed with grammatical inaccuracies. But, we’re talking about Summer Break -- grammar has no part in it.) During the school-year, my job is to prepare lunches, act as Room Mom, help with homework, do endless loads of laundry, chauffeur little people to play dates, ball games, gymnastics classes, birthday parties and cheerleading practice, and manage everyone’s schedule with grace and aplomb. During Summer Break, my job is to keep the kids at least partially clothed and prevent them from killing themselves and/or each other. That is all. If they want planned, age-appropriate, cognitively-stimulating, adult-planned activities throughout the summer, they can Google it. And dig in their piggy banks for cab fare to take them to those activities because the Mommy Limo doesn’t maintain summer hours. 

Argument #4: Oh, the kids love it! 

Do they? Do they really? If you asked Susie if she would rather jump and splash and play in the pool for a bit and then have a popsicle and watch the Disney Channel OR stand around in a too-tight bathing suit with a plastic cap on her head watching a bunch of kids swim back and forth in a straight line for two hours waiting for her turn to swim back and forth in a straight line -- which would she honestly choose? 

Argument #5: It gets them out of my hair for a few hours.

If your child is already annoying you by 8:00 am, you either need to adjust your tolerance levels or stop letting your kid get up so flippin’ early. 

Argument #6: It tires them out and they sleep so good at night.

So does melatonin. 

Now, before you go getting all Esther Williams on me and start evoking the name of Michael Phelps, I will concede two important points. 1.) I firmly believe that all children should know how to swim. With all the pools, lakes, rivers and oceans they encounter over the summer, being a strong swimmer is vital. And if you do not have access to a pool 24-7, I can understand how swim team might seem like a viable option for ensuring your child’s water safety. 2.) I am willing to admit that there are some children for whom competitive swimming is a passion and I have no problem with parents supporting their children in their olympic pursuit endeavors.

That, however, is where my concessions end.   

Yes, my children are currently waging an intense campaign of whining, pleading, crying and begging to try and get me to sign them up for swim team this summer. But, I will not relent. And if you should start to feel bad for the poor, little dears, feel free to come over and view the rooms piled high with toys, look back through all the pictures of elaborately-themed birthday parties and custom, homemade cakes, watch videos of hundreds of hours of dance recitals, t-ball games, soccer games and cheerleading competition routines, flip through my Room Mom Handbook and familiarize yourself with all I did for their classes throughout the school year and listen to tales of multiple Orlando trips and summers spent at the beach -- and then tell me how sorry you feel for them. 

Or just go ahead and call DFCS. They can find me in my backyard, laying by the pool reading People Magazine pausing occasionally to turn the volume up higher on my iPod to block out the constant calls of “Marco! Polo!”

I just hope they don’t want to drink from the pitcher of lemonade I’ll have sitting next to me -- because it may or may not contain Vodka.

Or melatonin.

Or both. 

Just keep swimming, my friends. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming; what do we do? we swim. Swim.....

Guilt is a 4-Letter Word (Plus One Additional Letter)

There have been a lot of blog entries floating around lately that have dealt with the uber-pressure we moms (consciously or unconsciously) put on each other. Women have raged against the Elf on the Shelf and his buddies the Magic Elves and the mischief that they must make around the holidays. “What did you elf do last night?” is the oft-most discussed topic on the playground and Heaven forbid your kid doesn’t have a unique and hilarious tale to tell. 

I’ve recently seen one mom denounce the “minor” holidays and plead for her fellow women in arms to put down their crafty Pinterest weapons and call a truce. Love notes left in lunch boxes every day of February leading up to V-Day -- and then gifts? I thought Valentines Day was for lovers -- why are we now expected to romance our own kids? Don’t we do that every day by simply allowing them to live in our houses and give them food and clothing? Gifts for Saint Patrick’s Day? What’s to give besides maybe a snake? And now a leprechaun is supposed to visit every night, leaving green pee in the toilet and scattering clovers all over the house? What if you’re not even Irish? Most kids probably think St. Patrick’s Day has something to do with Sponge Bob’s friend. 

Then there are the moms who spout clean-eating and boast proudly of how their kids never even walk down an aisle in the grocery store containing foods tainted with the deadly Blue No.1 and look at you askance if you dare pass your kid a Berry Blue Blast Go-Gurt in their presence. 

I, myself, have written about the infuriating habit moms have of comparing their kids to others academically. No, I don’t care at what “level” your child reads, I’ve still seen him dig into his nose and pop the gooey treasure he found there into his mouth just like the rest of them. 

So, what’s my point? Am I now going to give you a “We’re All In This Together One For All Women Unite” load of hooey? Am I going to suggest that instead of tearing each other down while wearing a smile, a string of pearls and holding a homemade Paleo-approved apple pie we look for ways to encourage each other to simply do what we do best -- love our children? Should I get all sappy and say that being a mother is not defined by the creativity of your child’s Valentine’s Day cards (which, you know you put together yourself while he was off playing his DS), but by the number of times you stop and give him a hug just because you are overwhelmed by the joy that is his presence? 

Or maybe I should simply stop speaking in questions and come to my long-rambling point?

Being a mom is hard. But, guess what -- it’s always been hard. Get over it.

You think this pressure is unique only to us moms of the twenty-first century? You think we’re the only generation to have to hold down full-time jobs while being the family chef/maid/chauffeur/first-aid administrator and disciplinarian? Well, we’re not. 

You think the mothers who lived in little houses on the prairies didn’t feel pressure? You try cooking without a proper stove, washing clothes without a washing machine, sewing all your family’s clothes by hand, while snatching your baby out of the jaws of a marauding coyote while pushing the other child out of the way of stampeding buffalo while dodging the flying arrows being flung at you by angry Injuns. (Okay, so maybe that last one seems a bit non-PC, but you know it happened.) 

Look at the very first mom, Eve, for the love of all that is sibling rivalry. How many times have you broken up a fight between your sons? If it didn’t end in one of them slaying the other, than you’re already one step ahead of our infamous first matriarch.

The pressures of being a mom haven’t changed -- only the manifestations of those pressures. I am forever confounded by the way we moms accept (nay, embrace) this notion of “Mom Guilt” as an integral part of the job. Why do we walk around with the back of our hand to our forehead, sighing heavily and continuously ticking off the exaggeratedly long list of chores we must perform on an hourly basis? We sit around at Book Clubs and benches on the playground and reaffirm to each other that our lives as moms are nothing but guilt-filled, exhausting, thankless routines of woe. 

Is that really how you want to describe the greatest job you’ve ever been blessed to have?

You know what makes me feel guilty? Nothing. Not a darn thing. Maybe it’s a gift or maybe it’s early sign of sociopathic behavior, but I simply don’t buy into the Great Mom Guilt Extravaganza. If my kid pouts and tells me that other kids have leprechauns visit them, I say “bully for the other kids.” If my kid doesn’t have their sandwich cut up into shapes appropriate for whatever bogus holiday is around the corner like the kid sitting next to them, I could care less. And if my kid tries to manipulate me into buying, going, making, doing whatever it is that every other kid has, goes to, owns or does, by saying they will simply die if they don’t get to buy, go, make or do like the other kid’s moms let them buy, go make or do, then I hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck. 

No one can make you feel guilty about anything. You do that to yourself. Remorse, sure; regret for something your conscious tells you that you’ve done wrong, go for it. But, guilt is a different and ugly animal. And I don’t like animals enough to keep that one around. Congratulate the mom who can whip up a Creek Indian tee-pee out of the scraps she has in her sewing drawer, but don’t give your lack of tee-pee building skills (or the fact that you don’t even own a sewing drawer) a second thought. Compliment the mom who hand-makes extravagant birthday party favors, but don’t for one minute beat yourself up because you threw a bunch of stuff from the dollar store into a plastic baggie and tied it with a twist tie. 

So you don’t create elaborate birthday cupcakes using fondant and homemade sprinkles. Maybe instead you find yourself in the thankless (yet vital) job of corralling ten rambunctious little leaguers during dugout duty. So you don’t obsessively explore the internet looking for educational crafts to construct with your children that will stimulate their minds and help improve their fine motor skills. Maybe instead you remember that your daughter loves pancakes baked in the shape of Mickey Mouse and lovingly pour those three circles of batter into the skillet on a Saturday morning.

There are a million different ways throughout the year that you demonstrate to your child that he is unique, that he is special and that he is loved. No one -- not even the mom with the idea that has been re-pinned the most -- knows better than you do how to accomplish that. 

I personally like the Christmas elves and have fun moving them about and engaging them in mischievous activities. But, if you don’t -- then don’t. It is highly unlikely that your child will end up firing a riffle from a clock tower screaming, “My Elf on the Shelf never moved!” 

So give yourself a break. Don’t rail against the moms who, in your opinion, raise the bar and over-achieve in the Martha Stewart game. I guarantee there is something that you do that other moms envy and be content that your kids are getting the best -- because it comes from you...their mom. And in the end, you know that if you gave your kid the choice between you or any other craft-making, cupcake-baking, original lullaby-singing, costume-sewing, creatively-themed-birthday-party-throwing mom on this planet, they would choose you. 

And that is enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go put the finishing touches on the Pinterest-inspired, kick-ass art room/playroom I have designed for my children -- complete with chevron-patterned bean-bag lounger, hanging hammock chair from Ikea and project table stocked with all the crafty goodness Hobby Lobby has to offer. And when your kids come home and ask you why they don’t have a kick-ass art room/playroom like my kids have and try and manipulate you into feeling bad because all you have to offer is a pack of dollar store Rose Arts and a stack of scrap paper you brought home from the office -- hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck.

And then, when they decide that they have a pretty awesome mom already, do whatever it is that you do that makes them smile and feel like they are their mother’s favorite person in the whole world. Because that’s all they really need. 

The Bird

Last night, L and I were sitting at the dinner table enjoying a quiet meal with just the two of us. We were chatting about school and life and the riots in Egypt, when she said, “Hey, Mom, this means you don’t love God.”

My eyebrows shot up as I watched her try and form her fingers into whatever formation it was that meant a person doesn’t love God. After a brief moment of uncertainty, she finally achieved the look she was going for and held up her hand proudly. Basically, she was flipping me off.

I stifled a grin and asked, “Who showed you that?”

“Alex did. But, Kaitlynn told me that it meant you don’t love God.”

I carefully folded my napkin and laid it beside my plate, trying to decide how best to respond to this. I said, “Well, it doesn’t mean that you don’t love God. However, it is not a nice thing to do. It’s a gesture that people use when they are angry at someone and they want to show how angry they are. But, it is rude and you shouldn’t do it. Maybe Kaitlynn meant that when you love God, you want to be kind and do good, and holding up your finger like that isn’t being good.”

“Oh.”

“You know, L, in some cultures -- do you know what a culture is?”

Head shake.

“It’s a group of people --“

“Stop talking. I don’t want to know anymore.”

“Um...okay.”

And that was that. At least for a while.

Later, L and Z were playing together, which always ends in fighting together. I interrupted a barrage of “you’re a poopie-head, no, I’m not, you are, no, you are, no, you are” and tried to figure out who was truly the poopie-head. I decided it was L and told her to stop fighting with her brother and be nice.

The poopie-head looked up at me and said, “Oh, yeah? Well, then I’m going to do this to you!”

And she flipped me off.

So help me, all I could do was laugh. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I laughed until I had to bend over and grab the back of the couch for support. L was cracking up, too, and Z joined in though he had no idea why.

When I recovered somewhat I told L that, while I laughed, she really, really didn’t need to do that anymore.

She said, “You mean don’t do it at anyone else’s house?”

I responded very quickly, “No, please, no, don’t ever -- EVER -- do that at someone else’s house. Or school. Or church. Please. I beg of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

This morning, as we were clearing the breakfast dishes, L showed her father her new gesture.

“L,” I warned, “we talked about that, didn’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied.

“And what did we decide about that?” I asked.

“We decided that when I do that, you laugh.”

Touche, poopie-head.

Hot Stuff

'Tis the season to have hot flashes, fa-la-la-la-la, La-open-a-freakin'-window!

JAO will be wearing a t-shirt, a button-down and his suit jacket and still put on his long, wool coat and gloves. Meanwhile, I am driving the kids to school in a tank top and bare feet. I suffer through the drive in the stifling heat because their little hormonal systems have yet to undergo the assault mine has, and then as soon as they jump out of the car, I roll down the window and stick my arm out into the wind trying to direct more of the cold air onto my overheated torso.

I really miss wearing turtlenecks and cute sweaters. Okay, so I wouldn’t wear a cute sweater now anyway because my extra body bulk would only look even more bulky, but still. I have figured out that scarves are the way to go. I can wrap one around my neck when I am a bit chilly and still be able to easily yank it from my steaming body when I start to over-heat.

I know everyone is complaining right now about how cold it is her in the South. And I agree that if it is going to be this cold, we should at least have some snow. But, there is nothing as refreshing to a hot-flasher as strolling out to the mail box in shorts and a t-shirt when it is 25 degrees outside.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could wear a camisole, a sweater and a scarf and be quite comfortable. Now, just thinking about that makes me want to open the freezer and sit inside.

Worried that I might have developed some exotic ailment that affects only the body’s ability to regulate its temperature -- like some South American reptilian disease or something -- I had the doctor run a complete blood work analysis on me last year. Sadly, the lab said there was nothing exotic about me at all.

At first I attributed it to just one other way having children has wrecked my poor body. However, I do know women who suffer from this and have not birthed any kids. So, now I’ll just blame Eve. She’s the eternal fall-gal for any weird body thing that women must endure but from which men are unjustly exempt.

Too bad I can’t develop some magic, rapid weight-loss disease.

Wait...I think that’s called cancer.

Never mind. I’ll just stick with the hot flashes.

It's What All the Kids Are Doing

Well, it was bound to happen. Every time I drive my kids to school wearing my pajamas and no make-up, I think, “Gee, I hope I don’t miss carpool or else I’ll have to walk inside in my p.j.’s.” And, you know how some mornings you just wake up looking better than others? Well, this was not one of those mornings.

Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.

At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.

I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.

Tra-la-la.

Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.

I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.

They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”

What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?

So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”

Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”

Silence.

“Guys?”

The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.

“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”

Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”

I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.

(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)

Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.

L informed me, “We made up a new game.”

“What is it called?”

Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”

L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”

Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”

“There are no rules.”

“Well, how do you know who wins?”

“We’re all winners, Mom.”

“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”

He protested, “But it’s my turn!”

“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”

And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.

The Sign Says "No Soliciting"

Yeah, yeah, it’s been forever since I last blogged, so I don’t blame you if you hate me and never want to read another word I’ve written. But, just in case you do, I have to share my latest encounter with the bizarre.

My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)

I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”

“Um...what?”

He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”

“Uh...not that I am aware of.”

To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”

“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”

He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?

But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”

Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!

Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.

He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”

I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”

Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”

Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”

He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”

Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?

He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.

He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”

I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.

“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”

“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.

Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.

But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”

“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.

“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”

As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.

He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!

I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.

So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.

I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.

He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.

See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?