What kids think I should be; ticks on the dog

Doug woke up at 7:35 or so this morning, usually that's the time he's walking out the door.

He was mad because he didn't set the alarm or someone turned it off. I pointed out to him that I heard him hit snooze twice, and then I didn't hear anything after that.

Suffice to say, he was very late.

Geoff was sitting on the couch. He'd been awake for a little while, long enough to get the TV turned on and go to the bathroom. The fact he didn't come in to wake us up made me sad. I'd gotten used to the 6:30am crawl that he'd do, up into the bed with the pig, smelling warm and sleepy... I think that phase of our relationship is either over or suspended.

Doug rushed to get ready, I got the kids ready and knew I'd be taking Geoff to school. He was amazingly cooperative when I asked him to dress, clean up his dishes from breakfast, get his shoes and socks, get his backpack.

Geoff and I went to his school and I sat down on the rug with him to tie his shoes and say a quick prayer with him to get his morning going on a positive note.

Within a split second I was surrounded by four or five preschoolers, about 4 years in age, all telling me that they are puppies or kittens or babies for the game of "house" they were playing right there in the reading nook. I expressed interest in finding out who was a puppy or a kitten.

Next thing I know I'm there for about 45 minutes with kids taking turns sitting on my lap, reading stories, talking about favorite colors, finding out how one girl's grampa died last month, who lost a pet, who lost an uncle. Kids this age usually volunteer this kind of information willingly, to anyone who makes eye contact with them. You get a life story, a complete "Did you know my dad likes to watch football?" kind of thing.

I'm that kind of an adult. Doug is too. For some reason, we are kid magnets, always have been. I remember going over our friend G&K's and their little boy I became attached to Doug like nobody's business. We were amazed.

Some little kids hang back a bit, but when they see four or five others, they creep closer and begin to spill their guts on whatever the topic is. First it was favorite colors, then death, then uncles and aunts who live far away (I told them how Geoff's Aunt moved to Florida and they all have been to Florida at least once), then who has gone to Disney World, who was in a wedding... it wasn't going to stop. The teachers seemed amused, the director kept popping her head in to see what I was doing, and was laughing that I had such an audience.

One little girl, cute as can be, was missing her bottom front tooth. I was surprised and asked her when it fell out. She was three and she tripped and hit her face on the side of the coffee table in her house, and the tooth fell out. It's been gone ever since.

"What are you doing today?"
"Are you staying here with us?"
"You should take your coat off."
"You have gum on the bottom of your boot."
"Why are you wearing winter boots?"
"What kind of job do you have?"
What kind of JOB do I have?"

Uh, well.

"I don't have a job right now. I'm looking for a new one... any suggestions?"

Well, of course. These four year olds are very opinionated.

"You should be a teacher here. You'd make a great teacher. You are very friendly and Geoff already goes here so you should be our teacher," said one girl followed by several nods of agreement and big, hungry smiles. Aaah, a victim to lure into our lair they seemed to say, with their tiny teeth showing and eyes glinting in the fluorescent lighting... vampires these kids are. Vampires!

"How do you know I'd be a good teacher?" I asked.

"You sit on the floor," said another girl, "and you look like a good teacher, and Geoff is really smart."

Hmmmm. Geoff is really smart. That's the most positive feedback I've heard on him from anyone in a few months, from a four year old at that... So I must be doing a good job teaching him, according to this little girl. Okay. Let's keep going.

"You can be a mommy teacher. A mommy who works here and is a teacher like this mommy and that mommy and her mommy..." they were still hung up on the idea that I should be a teacher. I finally got them to move on from teaching.

"I think you should be a fire fighter."

"Why do you think I should be a fire fighter? That's a really hard job."

"You look like you could drive a fire truck really fast and you look really strong so you can rescue people from burning buildings when they can't breathe and they fall down."

Not bad... nice suggestion. I look strong too. I like how kids these days don't see gender as an issue when picking jobs for someone. Keep going...

"You can be a farmer."

"A farmer? What would I do on the farm?"

"You can work on a barn (note, on a barn is what the kid said... not in a barn or on a farm. On a barn. How funny is it when kids are still acquiring language) and you can take care of the horses and they'll listen to you."

Great suggestions, but I'm not in shape enough to be a fire fighter and I bet mucking stables doesn't pay more than unemployment.

So I got some good suggestions from kids. I doubt I will follow any of the career paths suggested, but

---

Jessica has the MCAS test today, and didn't remind me, so I didn't get her up early enough for breakfast... I threw a granola bar to her on her way out of the door.

There goes her academic future... she'll fail miserably and her "young girl dreams of Vassar" will vanish (to steal from Lisa Simpson).

Kidding. She'll do wonderfully. Last week they spent a whole day doing a "practice" run for today, which I found appalling... that they would spend a whole fucking day practicing to take a test. It's a full day test with a break for lunch and a snack break during the morning and afternoon. It has caused a lot of grief here in the state of Massachusetts, parents and kids all up in arms about the test. Failure to pass the one that you take in high school prevents you from graduating.

The first phase of MCAS that she took last year she scored in the 98th percentile I do believe. I think that it was reading comprehension. I don't recall what it is (way to keep up on the parenting here, Chris...) The rest of her class was in the 96th for average. So the school here is doing an amazing job with the kids. The pass rate for MCAS in our district is very good. I had to take very similar tests in New York State when I was growing up, I distinctly remember them. I remember not answering the questions but just filling in circles in a pattern. I tried to make a flower out of all the dots without checking two circles in the same line, which would be bad. No lie.

I'm surprised as hell they didn't pull me in and say "what the hell is this? A 10th percentile?"

I'd have admitted it to them if they did ask. I was bored, the tests were stupid and boring. I wonder if I accidentally filled out every single right answer. Regardless, I made it out of the elementary school and in high school took the test correctly, and obviously did well, but have no idea what my scores were. In New York, the test was a general Regents test... and then there were Advanced Placement tests. A ton of my friends were in AP classes, I took AP English, which I was told I didn't belong in by some of the teachers, but I loved English. My grades weren't great, but I stuck with it. When I took the AP test, I got a four. Yup. Highest grade you could get was a five. Ha. Made you think for a second I got four out of 100. Proudest achievement of my academic career was the four on the AP English test.

I have no worries about her, with or without breakfast, she'll shine. She isn't worried or stressed, for her, it's just another day. Some kids freak out when presented with just the concept of a test. Not her... She loves tests.

When Doug was in graduate school, he would bring tests home for preschool and early elementary school aged children and practice administering them on Jessica. He had to get the flow down, how to turn the pages, how long to give a kid, how to score the tests... and he had a willing subject in her. She loved it.

One test that he gave her corresponds very closely to an IQ test... the score you get is limitless, and is supposed to pretty much equal what your IQ is. She got a 174 on the test. Doug thought maybe he did something wrong in grading it. So after a few weeks he gave it to her again. The second time she got a 170.

"I'm afraid," said Doug to me as he held the scoring sheet. "I'm terribly afraid."

---

Geoff wouldn't sit still for the pre-preschool tests, which Doug took as a bad sign right from the start. He still doesn't sit and test well.

I sent in the paperwork to have him screened by a behavioral neurologist at a local hospital to see if he has anything that can be diagnosed. I don't want to stick a label on the kid, like "Oh, he's O.D.D. [what a great acronym, eh? Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Like kids aren't screwed up enough and they find out they are odd...]

I want to find out what we can do to work with him, if he needs medication or not. If it is strictly behavioral... and find out now. Doug has kind of dragged his feet on this, but the past week has shown that we have to get a handle on what's going on in his little head. So I'll be sure to keep people posted.

We got a great book called "The Explosive Child," which was recommended to Doug by his school psychologist. Doug is reading it now and is almost done, and yesterday he did a few things which he read in the book to diffuse Geoff's temper when we asked him to do something and he fought back. It was almost like magic... Geoff stopped the arguing, and did exactly what we needed him to do. I couldn't believe it.

One thing that we're both applying to Geoff is something that Doug shared with me last night -- never try and out yell your child. Your child will always win, and will piss you off and frustrate you and you will then lose your temper. Never try to out yell... which I always try and do. What I've been doing instead of yelling is talking softer and setting up the consequences. By talking softer, Geoff has to stop yelling to hear me. Then he hears the message. Bingo - he gets it.

Wow.

I never thought I could learn something new but there ya go.

We'll keep you posted on Geoff... pray for him if you pray. He can use all the mojo he can get.

---

It is tick season.

Last week I was sitting on the couch and noticed a lump right between Kinger's eyes. It was a tick. I pulled it out, dashed him with a swab of alcohol, and then sent him on his way. Doug later pulled one out from his cheek.

The next day I had him pinned down on the floor and was pulling and picking all over his big furry body... I got 20 frigging ticks off that dog. Twen-teee. Good gracious.

So now I am constantly checking his furry bod. He's got thick heavy fur, so you have to get your fingers in there tight and close to the skin and crawl around, which he absolutely loves. I brushed him twice this week, going against the grain, looking at the skin as the brush passed. He's never been so well groomed. I called the vet to get some tick medicine, which normally we don't put on him until May, but the incredibly mild winter has obviously benefited the tick population.

I think I'll take him swimming today because he can't go swimming for about 24 hours after the medicine is put on his back... and you know this dog loves to swim. So have a great day, stay on the look out for ticks, and enjoy the nice day (if you are in New England) before the rain comes tomorrow

What a hard weekend that was...

I am worn out.

It's almost 11 am, and I feel like I need a nap. I took Geoff to school because Doug got a late start. I woke up sad because there was no half dressed little boy snuggling up to me with a guinea pig in his hands whispering "isn't she cute? I love the guinea pig... Good morning mommy..." and it broke my heart. I could have just cried my eyes out right there. So I've been kind of down in the mouth, but trying to look on the bright side of life, even in the face of inadvertent death.

Geoff has been on best behavior since the pig incident, and I know he feels badly and is totally sorry. I've never seen him express regret, or remorse before, so this is all new. I'm sorry that he had to learn that his bad decisions sometime have bad consequences in this way, but I hope this lesson sticks with him.

Jessica already wants a new guinea pig. I told her no, not for a while. And when we do, we get a proper cage with a sturdy locking top that he can't open.

After I wrote about the incident yesterday, we had a funeral for Oreo. Jessica got one of her tiedye shirts, which used to belong to Doug back in the day. It had holes in it, and was all worn out. Hell, it must have been 15 years old... Doug looked shocked that it was her choice, but I totally agreed with it. She loved that shirt, and she loved that pig. They could be retired together. Geoff didn't take any of this seriously at first, which totally made Doug and me very nervous... what kind of a monster is he? Can he just kill a guinea pig and laugh it off.

Doug told me he thought the laughing when we would try and talk to him about what was happening was a nervous thing, but I didn't feel it was. Sometimes little kids laugh not to be mean or because they actually find humor in the situation, but because they are nervous and don't want it to show.

He was right. When we went outside, Doug had picked a place and dug a foot deep hole. He quartered an apple, and I wrapped the now very stiff guinea pig up in Jessie's shirt. I laid her in the ground (crying my ass off silently, whispering "bye pig,") and each of us put a quarter of the apple in with her, because it was her absolute favorite food. Then, Doug started to fill in the hole, and Geoff freaked out.

"Stop it! You can't do that! It's not true!!!" He started yelling. Right up to that point, he thought it was all alright. But here, seeing the reality of the grave, the finality of life, it hit him.

Doug let Jessica go in the house because she was very sad, she didn't need to see any more, but we made Geoff stay with us, and we talked to him by the now covered hole. She can't be woken up, the vet can't fix her, and God isn't going to make her alive again babe, she's gone.

He was really upset, and spent the afternoon crying and moping about the house. He played on the keyboard with Doug for a while, but he was certainly sullen, and very sad.

I feel horrible that we all had to go through this. I especially feel horrible about the guinea pig.

I looked up some stuff online about kids his age and death, why this happened, how to deal with it. We did everything right and he didn't do it intentionally or with malicious intent or depraved indifference (man, I sound like I'm on "Law and Order," don't I?), and it was an accident. Kids do stupid things like this, and man alive, I think it finally made a difference in him to see that not following rules and not listening to his parents does actually lead to bad ends.

I hope it really makes a difference in what he does in the future, and I am so sorry that the guinea pig was the "sacrificial lamb" to knowledge on his part. But I always try and see some sort of positive in things, ya know? And if the positive is that he finally gets it... well then hallelujah. I see Bart Simpson up on the statue of Jeremiah Obidiah Zechariah Springfield addressing the crowd with something along the lines of "this Sunday School student on the brink of redemption..." when they are ready to string him up for cutting off the head of the revered man's statue... and I think of Geoff. He's my Sunday School student on the brink of redemption... and I sure hope the lesson sticks.

No more guinea pigs for a while. Thanks.

---

And thanks to everyone who wrote me... I got some very sweet email from people. I guess that Lileks is right, that the web is a conversation, and I appreciated all the kind conversings that you folks did towards me. I'm humbled.

Earlier in the journal, Saturday to be exact, I mentioned we were going to Walden, to Concord, to places historic. Well, Doug found out they were doing a reinactment of Paul Revere's arrest down there at the national park, and it was supposed to be well attended, which meant tons of people and no fun for us, and we'd have to leave the dog home because he wouldn't be able to deal with the crowds... so we went to a place not too far from the house to walk. I took some pictures, here they are:

It wasn't Walden, but where we went did have conservation in mind. Here's the trail marker. It is somewhere we've gone a bunch of times. There's a good swimming hole for the dog(s). Aaron swam in it once. We learned there are leeches in the water there thanks to his experiment.

Geoff kind of looks like Kurt Cobain here. Piercing eyes. Grin. Blonde.
I thought Jessica did too at this age. She's grown out of that look.

Jess and Dog in the car... funny angle.

Aaaah, goood loooookin' doggie. He looks like the king of nature.

And another shot of Jess in car.

More of dog.

Me. Jessica insisted on taking my picture. I was harassing the kids by taking tons of pictures of them while Doug was in the store.

Geoff is a little nature boy. He loves to go for hikes. I look forward to having him all to myself for a while. We'll be doing this solo, with dog.

Doug and Geoff crossing a bridge, rather small in comparison to the old trees here.

Doug thought these buds was freaky. They were furry and grey, kind of like pussy willow, but on a tree, and they dangled down. We have no idea what they are. And I took this with a flash, so they look super funky.

Alrighty then. I have a curtain to make for Jessica's room, something to spray paint for a project for her for school which is due tomorrow. I have to buy rubber bands too for this (pictures coming, I assure you). And finally to finish up on the websites I've been building. I'm waiting for content from all three, one is 99% done. The other 80%, and the catering man's site is in its infancy.

My life... busy but boring.

To Grieve A Pig

I was very sad yesterday to read Shelley's account of the death of the one and only hairless pigpigpig Wilbur. I sent her a condolence email, letting her know I will think of her when I call our pig a pigpigpig, and to let her know I feel her pain.

Well, this morning rises and shines and we find ourselves pigless as well.

Geoff decided the guinea pig needed a bath while we were all sleeping. I'd been up twice this morning. The first time was to help him to turn on the television, the second was to make him come back inside because it was 29 degrees out and he was barefoot in shorts and a tshirt from sleeping.

I should have stayed up, this never would have happened, but I was tired and daylight savings time was kicking my ass.

Doug got up when the dog threw up (yes, the dog threw up in our bedroom, can't you tell this is just a gorgeous morning???) and went to get paper towels. He opened the bathroom door and the pig was in the sink. She was soaking wet, and there was no water in the sink and no Geoff.

Suffice to say, he either drowned her by accident or held her still because she was trying to get away. She was smelly, she needed a bath. So he says.

We grilled him and he said that she wouldn't be still so he had to hold her. So either he squeezed too hard or he just held her in there. Doug tried to revive her, when he picked her up he thought he felt a heart beat, but it was no use.

Geoff wanted us to call the Doctor and see if we could get her fixed. But it was too late.

I sat on the couch and cried, Doug lectured Geoff on what happens when you break the rules, the fact that every single day since she came in this house he took her out of her cage without asking permission, without asking a grown up.

Jessica didn't take it well. But she's already asked me for another one. The hell we'll get one anytime soon.

I'm not good with pet death. It is almost a year to the day (tomorrow) since we put My Missy down, and I'm just not emotionally stable when it comes to four legged death. So this is not a good time for me. This is bad. I'm sad enough about the pig, but have residual grief on Missy.

Later this afternoon I guess we'll bury her in the yard (Geoff said "YAY! I get to dig a hole!" to which we expressed displeasure, even though hole digging is one of his favorite things). Jessie is crying on her bed and will not allow any of us to console her.

Thoreau and his ilk

One of the really nice things about living in this region, so close to Boston, New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine... is the history, not just the history history, but the literary history. The traditions run as strong and healthy as the Merrimack River... I was an English major in college, so this is the heart of country for such poets and prose-penners as Thoreau, Alcott, Emerson and their ilk. While some of the writing I disagree with (ie: Emerson is pretty much a pantheist, a "spiritualist," but many people view him as a "Christian" writer. He isn't a good Christian but he is a good writer, so I appreciate his writing) I still loved reading the novels and poetry of the 19th Century which were set right in our own back yard.

That back yard is awfully populated these days, or so it seems.

Concord is kind of a pain in the backside to get to. For all the literary history of beautiful landscapes and pastoral homes, the highways and the backroads of this region are clogged morning noon and night with motorists. Not that I'm complaining about the advances in technology or anything. I'm just complaining that it's a pain to go see interesting, historical stuff.

But, no matter. Today we're planning a trek down that way... to the heart of Concord, Minuteman Park, Walden Pond, the Lexington Battle fields, the heart of Massachusetts rebellion. It's kind of funny that today someone who behaves as Thoreau once did may be considered some sort of seperatist Unabomber type, but then, he was just an eccentric poet who enjoyed canoe trips down the Merrimack, and living in a cabin by a lake.

And most of us would give eye teeth for a simple cabin by a lake these days.

So we're off in just a few.

A quick update of the last few days...

I substitute taught on Wednesday and Thursday. The kids on Wednesday were awesome... Thursday's class left a little to be desired.

Well, a lot.

On the whole there were some kids in there that I absolutely loved and were the best kids I've ever had to deal with. But two or three of them ruined my opinion of this class as a whole. One girl got into an argument with another kid and called him a "Pillow-biting buttmunch gaywad."

I had the assistant principal remove her from class. I guess she hears a lot of words and phrases at home, perhaps not knowing the significance of the terms, but that is no excuse for saying that in class.

She also accused another kid of kissing my ass... One of the kids in her group "narked" on her, and I said there was no such way this person could be guilty of that or he'd be in less trouble than you all are, and you've got indoor recess tomorrow according to the assistant principal.

Sorry Logan... you were kissing my butt, but I can't allow the rest of the class to see you getting un-punished for the sins of the many... you'll be eaten alive.

This girl was a reapl problem from the minute she walked in the class and saw they had a substitute. Satan was waiting by the coatrack for these kids, and picked her to possess. I have a feeling there was no internal struggle on her part.

Usually it's a boy... but man. This girl had her issues and wasn't going to stop.

The third graders the day before that were interesting. There was a girl who was obviously a ringleader and they would gang up on one girl. A rumor was started about one of the girls, that she had lice, and we ended up needing the school "feelings teacher" to come in and talk to the girls about rumors, lies and feelings.

Funny thing was, at the beginning of the day four boys presented me with little booklets that they have to bring home every single day outlining their behavior status for the day... did he listen, did he follow adult direction, did he get along with the other kids...

Only one boy presented me with any difficulty, and it was because he obviously has problems focusing his mind, and is easily distracted. The boys weren't the problem in that class.

On Seinfeld in a recent re-run, Jerry was informed he had an overdue library book, so he flashes back to junior high when he and George were in the locker room and Jerry gives George the book. They get into a whole discussion about how cruel boys were. There was the wedgie, then there was the Atomic Wedgie... Elaine found it rather cruel and brutal, so they asked her what girls did to each other "Oh, we'd just pick on a girl until she developed an eating disorder. That's all."

And girls are just that way.

Anyway... Friday was a veritable orgy of web design, I sat here for about 9 hours cranking away on the sites I'm working on. Geoff's school had a chapel presentation concert at 6:30, which went wonderfully, and then we went out for ice cream afterwards at a Friendly's.

Okay, I've been informed we're going. More later, as usual.

Beam Vs. Lileks

Got email this morning from Mister Garfield alerting me to an article in today's Boston Globe. Columnist Alex Beam feels that that blogging is ridiculous, and writing should be left to professionals.

Mister Garfield pointed out to me that he quotes James Lileks my journal (not blog) writing HERO! I went to Lileks' site to check out his position on the Beam Opinion.

Oh my God, if Lileks isn't a genius I don't know who is.

The Scribe of Jasperwood laughs Beam's cocky little meh-meh-meh I'm a professional and those other people who write blogs aren't, so their opinions aren't valid, and Lileks you used to be a talented columnist but now you spew meaningless blather about your daughter and your dog out on a daily basis, what happened to you??? attitude right off with the BEST little analogy (and I steal it here):

"For a print columnist who writes, oh, say, twice a week to sniff at those who pump out ten tons of spirited commentary for free reminds me of some baggy-pants third-rate vaudevillian rolling his eyes at the people streaming into a nickelodeon. Oh, sure, they have moving pictures of a train robbery, but nothing beats a pie in the face."

Oh yeah!

Further, he clarifies the differences between web publishing and newspaper writing.

"The newspaper is a lecture. The web is a conversation."

A conversation.

Imagine that.

If you'd like to read Lileks' complete opinion, feel free. It's located here today (4/2/02) and will move here tomorrow, based on how he organizes his archives.

The conversation theme is what I totally enjoy about journal writing/blogging, whichever title you'd like to give it. I can respond immediately to something Wil Wheaton writes, I can compare Wil and James Lileks' opinions on Michael Moore (by the by, I agree with Lileks that Moore is a hypocrite, a millionaire windbag who wants for everyone else that which he will not apply to himself). I can make connections between Lileks and Tess, or Tess and Taunia, or Taunia and Virginia. I can dialog with the people I read and like, and stop reading those that bore me. I have options. To do that in print, Lileks writes out the process by which a newspaper would have to be structured, and it would not work.

There is something else that is important about writing a blog or a journal that Lileks doesn't mention.

IT'S FREE.

I didn't have to go on an interview to convince an editor that I deserved this job, that I'm a fabulous writer and my opinions count... I didn't have to impress a boss by throwing words like "outré" into the middle of a sentence. I didn't have to fight to the top of my class at journalism school.

I don't have to try and impress a publisher for a book deal so my disjointed ramblings can be read by say 30 people who give a shit.

I can just sit down, write what I think, and be done with it.

If you choose to read it... super. If you don't, whatever.

And most importantly I didn't have to kiss Oprah's big ass to get included on her book list, or suffer criticism like Jonathan Franzen did when he got pissed that she picked him for her magic list.

I won't have to worry about some script writing schmuck taking my carefully woven tales and turning them into a movie, destroying them up as he goes because there aren't enough black characters, or the woman lead is fat.

It is what it is. It is good. It is mine. Buzz off if you don't like it.

Lileks contends that if he were to start a newspaper he'd take the writers of the blogs he reads and would assign them to their strongest roles.

Notice, Beam need not apply for a job on the Lileks' beat...

So Lileks, my hat is off to you.

You get it.

Beam Does Not.

None of us write this to be discovered as WRITERS. I do this because I have a tale to tell once in a while. I'm not the journalistic equivalent of some actor waiting tables in L.A. singing at the counter or sucking up to the customers hoping to be "discovered" because this particular fat white man with a bad haircut, sunburn and big cell phone may just be my lucky break into the big time!

I just like to write.

And when it comes down to it, the concept of the professional paid writer isn't all its cracked up to be, in my opinion. There is a diamond out there, but I'm admittedly biased. "Hey, I knew Christopher J. Kelly when he worked at a Sunoco!"

But there are others who just STINK. These guys and gals get paid to stink the place up with their banal rantings masked as "opinions," such as Mr. Beam. I write a lot better than some of them, and I don't get paid.

No justice, no peace!

Case in point, back in the day in Western Pennsylvania there was this old curmudgeon named Joe Tronzo. His "opinion" column often cast a shadow of his displeasure about modern life and the kids-of-today, and he'd end his stories with some wistful mention such as "we'd sit on the front cement stoop with it's loose iron rail, and spit watermelon seeds towards the gas streetlamps in the hot summer air," or some such crap.

His articles were the fodder for many a guffaw by my husband, Christopher J. Kelly in his pre-journalist days, Smitty, and myself. We'd laugh at his 50x50 pixel black and white photograph in the corner of the column beneath his byline. He had a bad comb over which somehow still made bangs, jowls like Morty Seinfeld, and a stub of a stogie clenched between his teeth.

Joe Tronzo: Man of the Populace. Joe Tronzo, telling it like it WAS. Joe Tronzo, Beaver County's sage of wisdom.

And he got paid to puke out some of the worst crap I've ever seen in newsprint. Pathetic.

Well, I may be the cyber equivalent of Mr. Tronzo to some. Be that as it may. Joe probably loved his job and deserved more respect than he got at the lashing tongues of myself and my cronies, whipper snappers who didn't understand the 'old school' style of columnists.

I should put some sort of wistful ending here in honor of that paid journalist... here it is:

"Reflecting on the events that had just transpired, we sat in silence in our barcoloungers enjoying our Tasteycakes, while an episode of South Park tickled our fancy. The songs of the pond peepers leaked through the cracked window pane."

Now, someone cut me a check for that gem.

April Fools, and Poppa Walt

Time to laugh.

If you go to Google.com and type in monkey stink, you find my site. Isn't that just a friggin kick in the ass!

Fifteen years ago last night was my first date with Doug. Our first kiss technically took place on April Fools Day. I kissed a fool on April Fools. Hurrah! I think it's pretty funny and rather apropos. I love this fool.

I meant to mention yesterday but was feeling too damn poopy, that the Good Friday Sink Repair that Doug embarked upon turned into a six hour project. Isn't that the way it always is? A twenty minute project blossoms into a day long nightmare?! This is why the man does nothing home improvement-wise.

It was a really simple project: all we needed was to put something in the faucet that would make the water flow straight down, instead of 50 degrees to the BACK of the sink and down into the little overflow-prevention hole. Over time, something had caused the front part of the faucet to clog up or something, so it needed fixed. The rocket-scientist prior owner of our estate installed the sink back in 1970 (or whenever that part of the house was built) and was a lazy shit, and didn't install shut-off valves under the sink. Way to build to code, bucko.

Seeing there are no shutoff valves under the sink, Doug investigates downstairs to see if there is one in the basement that does this bathroom. There are none along the line anywhere. There are no shutoff valves for this bathroom, so the water to the whole house had to be turned off.

We warned the tenants, and instructed the children that they could use the toilet but not flush... they don't usually anyway if it's pee, but should one make a number two deposit we didn't want them to drain the tank to get rid of it -- it could sit for a little while and no one would die.

Doug dismantled the sink, discovered that the hot water control thingie inside the handle had also disintegrated, so that needed to be replaced. He went to the plumbing supply store. They had no part to match. So they gave him two other store names who would. Neither did.

He ended up going to Lowell, about a half hour from here, and it took him over 90 minutes to get the part. By the time he got home from this, the fifth plumbing store, he was ready to rip the sink out of the wall and throw it through a window. He gets that way.

The poor thing.

He put the part in, trudged down to the basement to turn on the water. The faucet was fine, but the handles were dripping so they needed to be tightened. So he tightens the cold water one, and the hot water handle won't tighten, and ends up falling out -- water shoots out of the sink straight back towards the shower... just like in the movies. The house is flooding.

So I run in there and cup my hand over the spout, and he goes to the basement to turn off the water (none of this would have been an issue if the previous owner hadn't been the aforementioned code-violating lazy shit!) Meanwhile, it is the HOT water that is spouting out, and I'm starting to get... burned a little. So I quickly scan around for something to hold in front of this scalding stream. I find a small plastic box on the floor in the bathroom that got shot off the windowsill, and place it in front of the steaming fountain of death. It stands on it's own, wedged up with another piece of the box. So I run and get some towels.

A few weeks ago Kinger shook water all over the house so I didn't have to mop. Now, I've got hot water all over the kitchen and dining area. So I'm throwing down towels, and I hear the water finally turn off.

Doug comes upstairs ripping angry, slams the door and throws stuff. The valve for the water shut off in the basement fell apart in his hand when he grabbed it to turn it off, so he had to find a wrench... now he's pissed.

He was mad before, but now he's swearing like a drunken sailor. I heard him say something like "Fuckity fuck fuck fucker," which made me start laughing... I have a potty mouth, and swear too much. He gets after me for it, even gets mad when I say "Aw fer chrissake!" in front of the kids. So to hear him launch full force into a torrent of swears like that of the hot water that he just turned off, that was funny.

He finally got it all lined up. It isn't perfect, the cold water squirts out from around the handle when you turn on the hot water so you have to loosen up the cold handle a little, but you know what? The water flows vertically straight down out of the faucet, and that, my friends, is all that matters.

Doug fixed himself a good stiff drink, I told him I was impressed and that he was my hero. He told me that I am easily fooled, and that he felt like he just won the gold medal in sink repair at the special olympics. I laughed hysterically as he stood there, pissed off and trying not to laugh as well, wet and sardonic, and chugged his vodka and lemonade on the porch.

He got lots of husband points for that adventure... and the tenants were happy to have their water back on. Someday, we'll rip the sink out, put in shut off valves and proper plumbing. That bathroom needs to be redone anyway... the tile in the shower is falling out, and the ridiculous fake tile wall covering is rotting from where water hits it all the time, and the baseboard behind the toilet exudes a bizarre stench thanks to Geoff's bad aim whilst potty training. That room will be getting a face lift as soon as we can afford.

---

My entry yesterday was a real downer, was it not? I wasn't the only one feeling poopy about the State of the Planet and Its Inhabitants though. And on the whole, I think all of us have been feeling super poopy lately.

I wrote the entry at about 8am, and then we went to church. The guest pastor this time was a woman who works at the diocese office in Boston. She was fabulous. Her children's sermon was awesome. Her grown up sermon was awesome. She spoke extensively about change, and how many of us cannot let go of something from our past that holds us back, prevents us from healing, and addressed specifically what's happening in the middle east. She also wanted to draw that attention to the fact we're looking for a new pastor, and that holding on to some concept of "well, it was THIS way when HE was here..." mentality could hurt what we're looking for in the future.

And she also talked about something that I think of every year, but wasn't in the mood to talk about it yesterday... that Easter is more poignant a time to make a major change in your life than any other time of the year... many people earmark New Years for that resolution... or their birthday. Or if you're a kid you use September, "THIS school year I will do all my homework on time!" But Easter, and spring, are times to rejuvenate, change, rise from the dead of your past and look to the new life, literally, that you want for yourself... just as Christ gives new life to you by his rising.

That's something that is on my mind every Easter and gives me hope and joy and absolute happiness. This year, I wasn't telling myself that. I let the shit of the universe get to me... the stench of our collective human unkindness.

Thank you Reverend Liz. You kick butt.

And now, I feel a little better. I'm not all sunshine and lollipops, pink fluffy bunnies happy about the world. Let's just say I'm less disgruntled, and more hopeful, and trying to recognize that there is new life available to us all, to those blowing each other up in Haifa, to those starving in Calcutta, to those not knowing how to pay next month's mortgage on the farm. There is hope. There has to be.

Here are a couple Easter pictures of the kids. Notice Geoff is missing his tie. He took it off in a fit of exuberance when it was time to do the egg hunt and we can't find it anywhere, damnit! I loved that tie! Ratzenfratzen pingingpulpin friggin kid!!!

I made her wear a dress. I made her wear pink. I even made her wear pantyhose and dress shoes. Look how thrilled she is. Goodness, Lord. She is something else.
I rarely ask her to look half decent and she makes such a production over it.
She looked wonderful... and I love her.

They're hangin' out. And Geoff loves to wear
his suspenders and tie (he's sans tie, notice)...

HA! This face cracks me up. I couldn't get
him to look at me. He insisted on making
weird faces and saying stuff from Spongebob.

---

After church we came home and mellowed out. Doug and Jessie both read on the couch, and I worked on the two sites I have going on. I'm kind of swamped right now and need to finish them before I get into the meat and bones of Cateringman's site.

We then went to Bonnie's parents' house for desert and coffee after the dinner thing they did. Bonnie and I go way way back... and her family feels as comfortable to me as a freshly washed polartec fleece in a cold livingroom on a day like today -- embracing, comforting... joyful. I love her family. Her mom and dad have always made me feel so special, I believe they genuinely like me, instead of the kind of "oh, she wants to bring THAT friend over for the holidays.... I guess it's okay."

Sometimes you get to forge a friendship with a person where the entire family becomes a part of your inner circle. With my sister, it is her friend Virginia's family. They are so tight. Linda flew down to Florida for Virginia's brother's wedding. I haven't gone to such extremes with Bonnie's family, but I feel the love there even though I'm not always physically there.

We got there and hooked in immediately with Bonnie's brother Mark. It's like I saw him just the other day, but in reality, it's been about a year and a half if not more. I last saw his wife at Bonnie's baby shower back in July, and I'm amazed at how her kids have grown. Their son is 2 1/2 and I fell head over heels in love with him. My son is a wild man, and they try and keep their little boy's wildman side under control. Well, we brought it right out... and he laughed like crazy and made me feel so happy. It almost makes me feel like I could have anot--- oh shut me up.

Their little girl got Doug wrapped around her finger... he was quite taken with her. He hasn't seen these kids since Bonnie's wedding in 2000, so they are quite different, and he had tons of fun. Doug is reticent to go places sometimes, not feeling sociable, or feeling in advance that he'll be bored. He always ends up having a wonderful time, even though he starts out like a crumudgeonly old fart. I love watching that change in him.

I just wish he'd start OUT with a joyful heart instead of having his grinch ticker melted by a gorgeous four year old who loves to rhyme.

And I adore Bonnie's husband. He sat on the floor and played guitar for a while, their baby was out of sorts with the excitement and change in schedule and love overdoses she was getting from the whole family... so this was one of the mellower moments of her afternoon:

So sweet... makes me cry.

Duncan got into this jam thing, and Geoff was right in my face with a sock puppet, so I grabbed the sock puppet and did this retarded rap/improv Barenaked Ladies meets Sifl & Olly style. I sang about Savannah, Georgia, and how they have plants in the middle of the streets and cobblestones and how nice it is. I was a sock and I show you how to rock... that kind of crap. Geoff and Jess thought it was pantsrippingly entertaining, and I could hear Bonnie's whole family, especially her dad laughing butt-off at me. And that alone egged me on and made me laugh. Duncan, he was a sport... kept rocking out. Let me do my thing. I fed off the energy of the audience, man... inspiring. Dude, I found my true calling. Sock puppet rock n roll improv theatre, man.

Oh God, stop. I'm so retarded.

I love her dad. Walt has always ALWAYS made me feel so loved. Without going out of his way. He's had a history of heart problems over the years, and each time something happens to him that lands his ass in the hospital I think this is it-- they're gonna lose him. Ugh. And the man rebounds. It's incredible, but I guess he's not meant to leave this family yet... there's still so much to do and so much love.

Killer emotional kind of thing for the family. Everyone loves pops.

At Bonnie and Duncan's wedding, I got to read a passage as part of the ceremony. Walt had been emotional at the rehearsal the night before, and made everyone cry just by being silent and standing there holding Bon's hand... when they got through the ceremony, and to the reception, that high emotion was still flowing, and there was such a sense of elation in that house... I remember standing in the living room and Walt comes up to me and hugs me, a big, enveloping hug. And he started crying into my hair. And I cried my ass off... He sighed and said wonderful things to me about how he was so happy I was there and how "Our Bonnie" had found the most wonderful man and he was so thrilled and happy...

And I cried, not because of the same reasons, but because I love this man. I so love him. And there was nothing better than being there that day at that moment in that room with that family.

I've got a family, don't get me wrong, I LOVE my family. But, that one moment was probably the most intense moment in my memory of any family moment I've had. And it will never leave me, even when he finally does.

Last summer, right before the baby shower, Walt had a heart attack while fixing the stone wall in front of the house. They took care of him, got him back on his feet, and he was at the party... most men would have asked the wife to postpone a week. Most men would have just said "Hi," and gone to crash up on the bed to get away... not Walt. When I called that morning to get directions, he was mopping the floor.

Can't keep a good man down.

I wrote him and Barb a letter letting them know how much I love them, and how I wanted him to know before anything else happened that could take him out of commission. I was schmoopy and weepy. But I had to get it out. Had to let them know. And in some ways I feel guilty that I adore them so much, I'm supposed to adore MY family to the point where the concept of losing one of them would move me to tears. What's wrong with me?! My family loves me and I love them, but it seems a lot less schmoopy with my family, not less meaningful, just less touchy. Not sure why. Perhaps it is that way with you too... that you feel love for them but it's like Garrison Keillor said "Of course I love you, don't be stupid." Instead of "OHMYGODILOVEYOUUUUUU!!!!"

If I lost one of my parents, I'd of course be sad... but I don't think about that. I don't take it for granted that they'll always be alive and then when they are dead I'll be completely crushed and gnashing teeth by the graveside. I love them. I honestly do. There is just something about Walt... makes me adore him and love him, and I get weepy at the prospect of losing him.

Oh I have to stop thinking like this. Enough. Live in Joy... You've got things to do today Christine... quit journaling! Anyway, I'm all misty here... Tito, hand me a tissue. Sniff.

Photos from April 2002