Grandma, you’re wasting my time!

My 1o year old little girl loves to talk. She is what I would call pre-sorority. Usually this first shows up more in middle school, but this is one area she is an overachiever. She wants everybody to talk to her. It can be about anything. She needs the social interaction like a drug. If she can’t find anyone to chat with or talk on the phone, she starts walking around with a look on her face like an addict needing a fix. It’s just plain pitiful.

She already loves to use the computer. Nothing high education. She is shopping online. I take that back, she is shopping planning. Again, pre-sorority. She goes to sites like Limited Too, Target, Kohl’s, and even Skechers. She likes to make her own shoes on their site.  Oh, I am not going to be able to afford this upcoming teenager. The only thing that will save me is she is very picky and sometimes that pickiness leaves us coming home with nothing. The funny thing is she doesn’t like me to see her screen. So when I walk in the  room, she hits the “x” and closes the window, the little rat. Then I ask what she was doing, well knowing I am not going to be getting an honest answer. She responds, “Oh nothing.” This response is given with the look as if to say, ” I sware on a stack of Barney videos. You remember the Barney videos, I love you, you love me.” Mind you this is all with a look, no words. Oh, she is to way to young to be working a room.

The other thing she loves to do is use instant messaging(IM). Her problem is she only knows about 3 other kids her age that use IM. So to supplement her addiction, oh and it is an addiction, she has conned her grandma in Illinois to chat with her. She does this by calling grandma and arranging a chat session with her. Now why she doesn’t just talk on the phone with grandma is beyond me. I think she just likes using the computer like her 15 year old sister.

Anyway, she gets her grandma online and will try and talk about anything silly. As my 3 year old niece would say, “this is a boobytrap.”  They draw pictures and use the different icons. This is right up her ally. Grandma will ask her questions about lunch or the cats in the house. Again, safe territory. Unfortunately, grandma doesn’t know there are unspoken rules for chat known only to the 10 year old. Well, the other day grandma crossed the line. Who knew there were rules? Obviously, grandma was oblivious. But then again that’s not uncommon for grandma. Grandma had the nerve to ask the 10 year old, “Do you have any homework to do?” To which the 10 year old responded, “Grandma, you are boring me. I need to go.”

Oh, there is trouble coming. I can feel it in my stomach like a big greasy brat that you think will be ok because you already had one with no damage, so there shouldn’t be any problem with a second. To accompany that pain in my stomach is the feeling that the only one that is not as smart as me in the house is my 11 year old dog that I previously wished to be an ex-puppy.

I need texmex and maybe a round of frozen margaritas.

Is it bad to wish your dog dead?

Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs. My family loves dogs. We go to the pet store at a mall across town just to play with the puppies. We even signed up to do in home boarding for dogs. So dogs and us are good.

However, one of our dogs, Callie, our 11 year old sheltie, has a problem. Well actually she has several. One, and this isn’t a deal breaker, she has the worst underbite I have ever seen. Her lower teeth jet out and go in multiple directions. Also, since they are out, the air hitting them all the time makes them yellow. So they look a bit narly, but in a cute way. Nothing to make her an ex-puppy.

Secondly, we have a walkout basement that the dogs use. This gives them a direct run to the grass to do their business. Easy enough, right. Wrong! Again, nothing is done easy in this house. This dog brain, when left out for longer then 5 minutes or more, makes her way to the deck. Once on the deck, her mind becomes blank. Yes, the dog has a blonde moment. Apparently, when she steps on the deck it acts like a mind eraser and she forgets there is grass and a yard for her to use. Once on the deck, when she feels the urge to go, she does it on the deck! YUK! And guess who gets to clean these puppy lumps. Yep, me. So every so often, I pull out the wide broom and do my Zambone imitation and clean off the deck. Again, not horrible, just annoying.

Here is the deal breaker. This dog STINKS! Yes, she smells and not just any stink. She smells like a cat box that needs to be scooped. I know it’s in her hair, but we don’t have the time or the money to bath this old dog every week. We tried shaving her last summer and that seemed to help a bit. But the hair is back and oh, she reeks. I feel bad for the other dog, Zoe, because at night they sleep next to each other in their cages. I know dogs have keen sense of smell. So, my bet is Zoe is wishing this dog off the island as well.

Meanwhile, the vet wont let us euthanize her for stink. He says we have to wait for something real. (Real being code for expensive.) Something real like kidney failure or heart problem. You know, something we have to pay a vet until either we run out of money or the dog finally expires which could take years.

It’s at least heart warming that the kids understand. The 10 year old asked, “Well Callie is the oldest, so we will replace her first, right?” And my teenager is already shopping, asking, “Can we get a pappion when Callie is gone.” Oh, the optimism of the young.

I need texmex.

It Was A Redneck Easter

My father in-law loves to have family gatherings. So, Easter rolled around and we got the call. He is getting his brother and sister to meet for brunch and wants us to join them. I say Ok, but there’s a catch. He doesn’t want to spend $20 or more for the meal, so he will look around for other options. My first thought was oh that sounds fine. Then I realize that he and his siblings live in rural Illinois, about 45 minutes from our place in southwest St. Louis, where there are few good options. The other challenge is his family doesn’t like to drive more than 15 minutes to a restaurant. I don’t get it. He and his brother are both over 300 lbs each, so why they can’t wait a few more minutes for a good meal boggles my mind.

Well a few days pass and I get the marching orders. He wants us to meet at the Sportman’s Club in Godfrey, Il. I say fine as I try to envision what this could be like. The Sportsman’s Club is a place for older people to gather for meals and cards. The also have a skeet shooting range, which probably isn’t the best idea for those people with failing hearing and eye sight to be shooting at discs in the air. But hey, they paid the membership dues.  So my expectations were not what you would say, high.

Easter arrived and the plan was to meet at 1p.m. We get to the Club and immediatly discover half of Alton, Il is there. Oh, I think, this place must be pretty good. Right? Oh, who am I fooling. I can see the sense of dread on my teenager’s face and we haven’t even found a place to park yet. Finally, a spot is discovered by the skeet range. This is appropriate. We walk to the door and find a line coming out of the club entrence. It seems they have everyone come through a line and pay cash or check. Oops! I don’t carry cash over $10 usually. We use debt cards in the city. I ask the lady behind the table if they take cards. She says yes, but someone will have to take it to the back to run it. Now wait, this is a union town, and you are telling me you couldn’t run a 100 foot line out to the table. Being nice, I only said this to myself. I  give the other lady my card and she vanishes off into the crowd.

Next we shuffle to the next station where we are met by a man sitting behind the table. He is probably in his 60’s, about 300 lbs(this seems to be a pattern.), sitting with a cane leaning against him, jeans and wearing a cap that references a hunting adventure. The jury is out if all his teeth are present and in their original place. He is obviously head of security. His job at this soiree is to stamp each person’s hand after they pay. They don’t want any party crashers.

We make our way through security without incident to the buffet line. I can now see the spread and we are definitely not at the Hyatt. They have ham and friend chicken for the main course. So far not bad. Next are the vegys. Well some people might call them vegys. There is mashed potatoes with an accompaning ladle of gravy. Watchout, that suff could double for 10W40 weight. They have green beans. How can you damage green beans? Don’t ask how, but they were overachievers. The review from the teenager, “They were nasty!”

We get the rest of our meal and find a place with the in-laws. We end up at the opposite end of the long table, so we are out of normal conversation range. That’s when it happened. THEIR REDNECK CAME OUT!

My father in-law takes a drumstick or two and inserts them in his mouth. He then removes them, now clean as a whistle. I just look at the teenager as she gives me a look as if to say, “why didn’t we go to the Hyatt?” Which I respond nonverbally, “Why don’t you have a job?”

Next up, my wife’s uncle. He’s now got his hand in his mouth. I assumed he was fishing for some grizzle or maybe a green bean stuck in his teeth. I was half right. He was fishing but not for food. With a grin on his face, he removes his hand from his mouth and raises it like he has caught a prize bass. I could only have wished it was a bass.

“I got it”, he declares with the enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas.

I look at his hand. HE HAD PULLED OUT A TOOTH! “EEEWWWW”, I think, just waiting for the teenagers response. I know I haven’t heard this one on any Foxworthy redneck CDs.

“If you pull you real tooth out while eating Easter brunch in a public place, you might be a redneck.”

After the teenager rolls her eyes, she looks at me and says, “Can we not come her next year!”

I reply, “That’s probably do able.”

I need texmex now.

It’s not over until the fat chinchilla is caged

The other morning around 10a.m., I got a phone call from my wife. I could tell from the caller ID it was from her cell. This was odd because I knew she was on her way to take her physics make up final. She had been stressed all week and for her to call now only meant trouble.

 ”Hi, what’s up?”, I say, acting like nothing could be wrong.

“You wont believe what happened when I was trying to leave just now?”, she tells me.

Well based on the previous weeks experience, I was betting it was the rat.

“No, what happened?”, I reply, acting as if I was clueless.

“I was opening the blinds in the den, and looked back at Smudge’s cage.”, she said. “He usually comes out when I do that but I didn’t see him.”

Well so far my hunch is playing out. I should have put money on this call. I could have covered a nice steak dinner.

She continued, “I looked in his cage and in his house and I didn’t see him.”

Suprise! He outsmarted her. Not that she would admit it. He had moved a piece of wood that my wife had positioned with a bolt, yes a bolt, in front of the last escape hole.

“He moved the wood piece up”, she said, with a tone of amazement. “And must of sqeezed out. I can’t believe it.”

I can! I can! As I become giddy with amusement.  This rat is smarter than me and I admitted it. I think it’s time for my wife to come to grips with this concept, but now the fun part begins. She doesn’t have time to look for him and must try and save his little life. You see our dog Zoe is loose in the basement with just a baby gate to slow her down from charging up the stairs. If that rat makes a turn down the stairs, well lets just say my money is on Zoe. She has captured squirrels and birds. This rat being in a confined area, it would be like shooting fish in a very small bowl. So my wife hurries down stairs and locks Zoe in her cage.

Yipee! The rat will live a little longer. At least Smudge wont die a bloody, violent death, that I am surely not cleaning up. And better yet, who knows what kind of shots Zoe would need. That could be expensive!

Anyway, we hang up knowing that she will have all kinds of fun searching the three levels in the house. Oh, and she does have fun. When I got home I was informed of the great hunt. When she got home from her exam, she started her hunt upstairs with a flash light looking under all the beds, dressers, and anything else that could hide a smart rat. She tried searching in the teenager’s rooms, but gave up quickly since her room looks like the dresser and closet both had a drunken benge with the aftermath spread all over the floor.

With the hunt now finished on the top two floors, my wife strolled down to the basement. She walked in to our large storage room. Looking around, she stopped when she heard a rustling noise in the corner. Making sure that it was neither of the cats, who by the way were tailing my wife during the search. Yeah, cats are usefull. Not.

The noise continued in the corner, so she made her way toward the Christmas boxes. She opened up a box under the stairs, and there he was. This brillant rat of a rat had landed in a box. He must have fallen of the shelf into the box. Who knows how long he had been trapped. So, she tried to grab him, but that was silly. He is in a box, so how many attempts must be made to grab a smart rat? Well, apparently, the answer was 6. He kept trying to jump out, but kept missing. He wasn’t happy. I understood that. You breakout, have free run of the house and you fall in a boobytrap of a box. Maybe the rat isn’t as smart as I give him credit.

Well, he was captured, the wood moved to a different angle to block the hole, and all has been quiet for that last couple of days. The next question, do I let my wife buy a sodering tool to fix the holes? Knowing her luck, and I know hers and her mom’s side of the family, my wife will probably either burn herself or the house.

Oh and to top it off. For the next couple of days, the rat was mad at my wife. Imagine that! Each time she would try to pet him, he would turn his back on her and move away from her. So she became depressed that he didn’t love her anymore. Oh, alligator tears all around.

Did I say how much I love having a chinchilla? Maybe, next time we go for a gold fish. They don’t usally breakout of their homes, do they? I feel like I am living in an I Love Lucy episode that wont break for a commercial.

It’s 5a.m., what’s that noise under the bed, dear?

I woke up around 5a.m. the other morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. This is not a good sign because I have to get up in an hour.  Suddenly, my wife hops up and wonders to the bathroom. A few moments later, she and I are snuggly covered up on our backs trying to rescue a few more minutes of sleep. Then it started.

“What’s that noise under the bed”, my wife asks.

“It’s probably one of the cats playing”, I respond.

Then the ruffling noise stopped. Good that’s settled. Right? Oh, no that would be to easy.  And, we don’t do things easy in this house, which runs rampant with 2 cats, 2 dogs, and 1 pesky, and much cleaver than a rat should be, chinchilla. And with that, the noise started again. I sit up.

“Where is Ginger?”(That would be one of the cats.) I ask. Then looking to my wife’s side of the bed, I see Ginger sitting on the floor, looking under the bed in a simulated stalking position.  There is only one reason Ginger is in this position and it means I am not getting any sleep soon. I look to my side of the bed and see the other cat, Othello, looking under the bed with more than a curious look on his face. Great, now I know I am not sleeping any more this morning.  I report Othello’s position back to my wife. Who at this point, still hasn’t moved a muscle to see what’s going on.

Yeah, I know that’s my role and I am fine with that. I would just prefer to execute it at a better time, say after the sun has come up and I have eaten something. I don’t need coffee, just food.

“Hey, maybe it’s mice again”, my wife suggest.

“No way, it’s in the room. Those were in the walls”, I respond, hoping I am right. We had mice a couple of summers ago. But those guys are long gone and the next generation hasn’t found us yet.

“Uh oh, maybe it’s Smudge.” She answers me. Oh, that’s comforting. Warm fuzzys all around now.

“Smudge is in a cage. How would he get out?” I say not wanting to experience what I think is about to happen.  Then I see a vision of a big rat loose in the house. A rat that eats anything, wood, wires, papers, yeah he’s a prince. Grabbing my glasses, I get the nerve to hop down on the floor on my belly and look under the bed. I get situated and raise the bed skirt. Peaking under the bed, I am met with a big rat standing on his hind legs, with a look on his face as if to say, “What’s up doc?”

“Oh, cr**”, I say, “And how do you plan on catching him?” Directing this to my lovely wife, who still hasn’t moved. 

While we discuss alternatives, the rat decides he needs a snack and hops over to my wooden dinning room table leaf that is under the bed and begins to gnaw away at it like the rat that he is. Then the fun begins. Smudge darts out from under the bed and flys into the bathroom. Ah, I’ve got him now. Right? No, this rat was playing me. I moved over to try and close the bathroom door.  As I reach for the door, Smudge looks up and does his Speedy Gonzalez imitation and flys out of the bathroom and back under the bed. Yes, I admit it, he’s smarter than me. So I declare, since it’s now 5:20a.m., I am going to back to bed and you can catch the rat.

So my wife then goes and gets the dust bath house. Yes, this rat has a special bath house to get “dusted” to help his skin. Next, she gets on the floor and begins, “Here Smudgy Smudgy”, as she reaches under the bed to corral this rat. A few minutes later, “I got him”, she declares. Yeah, you got him. Right! You caught him because you were more clever. Oh yes, delusion runs rampant in this house. That was 40 minutes of delusion.

I am going back to bed and apparently, so did he.

Chinchilla on the loose, Part 2 and 3

I walk out of the bathroom the other morning about 7am to find my wife laying on her back with the look of exhaustion. Since we have been married over 15 years, the look of exhaustion in the morning coming from her is not usually a positive. So I ask, “What’s the matter.” With a disgusted look on her face, she tells me, “Smudge broke out again.”  Smudge is her 1 year old chinchilla. I ask, “how did he get out this time?” She tells me, “I don’t have a clue, but he is back in his cage.”  So, thinking everything is fine, yeah right, I go down stairs to make breakfast. While in the kitchen, I glance over my shoulder in time to see a gray flash move across the floor.  In shock, I sneak around the corner in the den, and see Smudge hopping up and down the steps as if to say, ”look at me, you can’t catch me.” And you know what, he is right. These chinchillas are quick. Even my cats can only stalk him, but they never catch him.

So I holler up to my wife, “Smudge is out again.” The next thing I hear is, “Oh, s***.” I turn around to go finish breakfast, while Smudge takes off across the den floor like Speedy Gonzalez and darts under a chair leaving a trail behind him. And by a trial, I mean they pop like bunnys. Yeah, not a pretty picture and I am not cleaning it up.

With breakfast ready, I sit on the couch and have a decision to make. Do I watch SportsCenter or my wife on her belly, waving her arms under the couch with a rat treat in her hand, begging the rat to come to her? Well I can multi-task, so I flip on SportsCenter and watch my wife in between highlights. Finally, after about 10 minutes of, “Here Smudgy Smudgy”; the rat not being able to listen to this poor woman begging, gave in and came to her. She gathered him up, thinking she had won,  and put him back in the cage. He happily hopped to his water bottle where he took a water bath that reminded me of an NFL coach getting a victory Gatorade shower. Yeah, he knew it, he was in charge.