Happy Birthday at Dirt Haven!

Years ago, I threw a party for my youngest nephew, at the time four years old. His birthday is in August, so when I was gainfully employed, I completely filled our small poolette with inflated Smiley face beach balls and a blow-up palm tree. I added a five-foot-tall inflated monkey, because he loves monkeys. He never forgot it and now, seven years later, he wants a semi-re-creation of that event, with varying themes, every year.

His mom, my sister Lynn, doesn’t get it and accuses me of being a horrible influence and OCD that she is, I am also disparaged as a person who sends home innumerable dirigibles that I imagine her stabbing and secreting out in garbage containers during her into-the-wee hours cleaning binges. “You two must be cut from the same mold!” she accuses over the phone (referring to me and my nephew), when her only responsibility for the party is to send the hundreds of inflatables our way so that Uncle Jack can blow them up with his industrial strength air compressor. (I admit that some of those bizarre collectibles of his have occasional use.)

All I ask is a little assistance in terms of gift suggestions and decorations but when I call, she yells, “WHAT!? What do you want now?!” Gotta love that little five-foot demon from hell.

Jack is taking his first week off in more than seven months, because otherwise he will lose his 140 hours of accumulated vacation. I’m still trying to get in some billable poor person writer hours, but other than that, it’s like taking a vacation with the Energizer Bunny. He’s up at 6 a.m. tearing boards off of the house, declaring that squirrels are in the attic, and vowing to shoot the little creatures that I feed daily. “You’re attracting them to the house!” he yells as I, a person who seldom retires before 1 a. m., attempt to funnel coffee into my shocked body.

I watch from the back window as he zooms back and forth, back and forth, on a Gator vehicle, then a tractor, then my Jeep with various tools and appliances. I am able to locate him occasionally by the sounds of banging on the sides of the house. The day before, he pulled over a dump truck driver and negotiated a dump of a dirt load in our front lawn—right before the alleged birthday party. When I complain he admonishes, “Never turn down free dirt!” He tacks up a sign in our front lawn to alert the truck drivers: “Dirt!” it reads.

“Let’s just skip that step and put up a sign that reads ‘White Trash’,” I suggest.

“There’s a lot of difference between dirt and white trash,” he tells me.

I must admit that this is very true.

Well, Jack chased the trucks down today and they were out of dirt. We didn’t get any. I attempted to console him. Just write the word “Haven” under “Dirt” on the sign and we can join the pompous elite who name their abodes.

The Bitch is Back-ward and No Longer in Charge

So Leona Helmsley, the Queen of Mean, left her dog, Trouble, $12 million in her will, leaving out two of her grandchildren and providing stipulations for the other grandchildren that they must visit their father’s grave annually in order to receive their piece of greedy pie. A true control freak to the end, Leona obviously just never got it. I mean, with the proper investments that dog could live quite well on a mere million annually!

Her chauffeur received $100, 000. Great! After taxes, I’m sure that makes up for the abuse and humiliation he received from that biddy. So I’m reminded of Janis Joplin’s song lyrics, “Oh Lord, wantcha buy me a Mercedes Benz?” We’re all taught (at least the rats on the wheel middle class) to not base our lives on possessions and that our rewards (possibly in heaven) will come. But it’s difficult not to think, Yeah a bale of hay, you donkey’s ass!

Twelve million buckaroos! I could pay off our mortgage and debt, send my son through college worry-free, give my family and friends some big chunk change, do some home repairs, and easily live the Life of Riley while finding people who truly are in need and helping them out. Yet, the friggin’ dog is a multimillionaire. I don’t know if Trouble is a bitch or not, but in either case the dog is probably thrilled to be rid of that one. Maybe Trouble truly did earn at least a cool million.

Oh yes, in the balancing act, news networks inform us that Leona left millions to her favorite charities. Are those funds going to philanthropic organizations like the BBC—the charity of choice for the McDonald’s widow? Maybe Leona donated millions to a museum that would name a wing after her. At this point, I don’t give a damn. I hope she spends eternity in hell completing income tax forms for the “little people” as she so often called us, with multiple amendments and audits included.

Other Planet Gender Communications

I know I will never fully understand the workings of men’s minds. They seem to be able to engage and disengage in the strangest ways. My two, husband and son, always confuse me with their segues. For example, David was returning to his college apartment today after spending the weekend here. We saw him for brief, enjoyable moments but his calendar was full as should be expected. Jack and I kept trying to carve out a few moments to discuss the serious stuff—i.e. his roommate for a two-bedroom apartment disappeared into thin air (another story for later, but now I just don’t have the energy.)

Just before David’s girlfriend arrives for their trip back to Athens, we talk about his efforts to find a new roommate. He's doing just about all that he can. Then Jack starts to escalate emotionally, stating the obvious by proclaiming, “We just can’t pay for this apartment! You have to get a roommate!”

I decide to absent myself because I don’t want this to become a family conflagration. I let the dogs out into the backyard, and re-enter about five minutes later. “And you know,” Jack is saying as David nods. “Hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward and are the strongest birds and fastest birds for their size.”

Okaaaay.

Addendum to Fried at Fry's

After a ridiculously frustrating experience at Fry's Electronics, I notice that my automatic blog ads have been promoting the place!

Does the irony never end?!

Restless Legs Must Gamble!

Okay, you’ve heard all of the drug commercials where, usually a woman, rattles off a list of possible side effects for some new medication in sexy sotto voce: “Some people may experience rectal leakage, abdominal pain, unconsciousness while driving, spontaneous dismemberment,” and so on. Therefore, I had to listen to this commercial for Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS) many times before I was convinced that I was hearing correctly. One of the side effects for the RLS medicine, Mirapex, is an intense urge to gamble! What?!

Once convinced that I had indeed heard correctly, I concocted a number of schemes. I occasionally do have the RLS symptoms that resemble electrical shocks going up and down my legs, so I could easily get some of this stuff. Then I could go to Vegas and it would be a win/win situation. If I won, great, but I could still sue the drug manufacturer for trip expenses and for making me a compulsive gambler. If I lost, I could sue the drug company for my losses plus for making me a compulsive gambler. However, when I Googled the drug, I discovered that apparently quite a few people have beaten me to the punch without first applying my creative scheme. See below:

“If you or someone you know have been prescribed Mirapex and have developed a compulsive gambling addiction, and you wish to consult with us, please send us an e-mail or call us at 1-800-553-9910.

Robins, Kaplan, Miller & Ciresi L.L.P. has filed over 58 Mirapex gambling lawsuits in federal court on behalf of clients who developed a compulsive gambling disorder while on Mirapex and are currently involved in the discovery phase of the litigation, including reviewing many internal documents of the Mirapex manufacturers. A trial ready date has been set by the court. We represent many people who have been negatively affected by Mirapex, and we continue to investigate individual cases and to file meritorious cases in court.”

This blows my mind for more than one reason. If taking a pill can give someone a compulsive gambling addiction, then the sky’s the limit. Gambling is a behavior, not even a substance, which says to me that all addiction is a physically ruled condition in the brain even before the body is biologically involved. If a pill can be produced that causes a gambling addiction, than why the hell haven’t they been able to invent one that erases that addiction, and many others?

Anyway, another plan to accumulate riches is once again foiled. But I have advice for all casino owners. Get your hands on as much of that drug as you can and start spiking those complementary drinks!

Early Morning Riser

I am by nature a night owl, so when somebody tells me I can interview them at 6 a. m. I emit a silent groan. I was recently hired to interview a gentleman in the Midwest for a profile piece, and I asked his assistant for an additional contact—a friend or business acquaintance who might add some comments about the fellow. She sent me a name and number and told me I should call the man as early as 6 a. m. Groooaaan. I negotiate for 8 a.m. When do these early risers go to bed? Probably at 7:30 p.m. so they can get a jumpstart on torturing us folk whose circadian rhythms doom us to put up with Early Bird Special people.

So Jack gave me this alarm clock for Christmas. (He’s a morning person.) I can’t figure out how to set the thing AND it’s fifteen minutes fast, so I asked him to reset his clock for 7 a. m. (that's Eastern Standard Time) before he leaves for work in the morning. He does so, and places it on my nightstand, but he also sets my clock for the same. Therefore, my alarm clock jars me awake, from a not good night’s sleep. My pug roamed about and over me throughout the night as though I was a challenging mountain range. I dreamed about an appointment I had for coffee with writer friend Kimberly scheduled for later in the day.

The dream was full of the Sturm and Drang of my usually dreary nightly visions—terrorists, robbers, misunderstandings, late arrivals, some sort of a jumping mouse that I was trying to tame, a Malamute puppy, ridicule, my older sister and her friends (more ridicule), an annoying man with a giant cookie at an adjacent table (hmm), a history book, discovering that I had arrived at the appointment without a blouse, and so on. You know, the regular frustration fare.

Anyway, since my newly working alarm went off and I know the clock is fast, I hit snooze only to find that the snooze allows me a mere two extra minutes before sounding again, but I persist. Then the other clock goes off. Its snooze gives me three minutes. After a span of time recreating Chucky Cheese’s Gopher in the Hole game with the clocks, I decide to heck with it and get up. Drearily I pour a cup of coffee; soggily I arrange my notes for the interview; with exhaustion I pull up the interview number on my e-mail.

Wait a minute! I look at the area code. That doesn’t look like Ohio. Damn it to hell! This guy is in California! I have to wait three more hours to call him!

And another day begins.

Fried at Fry's--A Cautionary Tale

This Sunday against my better judgment I allowed my sister to persuade me to accompany her on one of her diligent errand fests. She brandishes receipts for returns, coupons for specials, lists, color swatches, and recipes. Marveling at her determination and organization, I go along for the ride with really nothing to accomplish. Of course, it didn’t go smoothly. A time-sucking trip to a new Fry’s Electronics coupled with a cart-dodging visit to the United Nations building, which most of us have nicknamed WalMart, can only end in dismay. I once again declared a vow to never venture amongst the others again. “I can’t just have a normal shopping or restaurant experience,” I declared. For once, sister Jennifer agreed rather than putting it off to my paranoid perception. “That’s true. What is it?” she asked with a look of consternation. If only I knew. As we parted ways, Jennifer remarked, “Next time let’s get together for a root canal.” Anyway, the Fry’s experience inspired me to compose and send the following letter to corporate headquarters:

Recently my sister and I decided to go to Fry’s, the Alpharetta, Georgia, location. She was in search of an office chair and several other items. It was my first visit and my last! I think I can say the same for my sister. The chair that she chose from the floor display was no longer available. The clerks, if findable, were nice enough, but seemed surprised to be there—not much product knowledge, or if they possessed it, they weren’t sharing. I found the DVD of the movie "Office Space" for $7.99, but when I tried to purchase it, the item rang up for twice as much. The cashier called a manager over who told her he couldn’t make any revisions exceeding $5. Come on corporate; loosen the reins; the horse is dying! Ever heard the saying, “Penny wise; but pound foolish”?

Said cashier informed us that she would be right back and disappeared into the belly of the beast. After about fifteen minutes, we had just about decided to leave when she returned and asked for my phone number and name, and then once again disappeared into the abyss. After another quarter of an hour we summoned a manager who vowed to find the long-lost cashier. He too disappeared, actually never to be seen again. Once more, we discussed leaving, but my sister vowed we had invested too much time to do so. She went on a search for the cashier, and I admit, I was worried that she might also permanently vanish. She returned. Together we consumed a bag of cashews--slowly. The cashier, after forty minutes returned with apologies that she had to get about ten managers to sign off for the price clearly marked on the movie. I decided not to buy half of my other selections having had the time for multiple cases of “buyer’s remorse.”

My sister asked where she could make a complaint and was directed to Customer Service. Oh but you have to leave the building and re-enter to get to customer service because once you check out—if you’re still amongst the living—“you can’t get there from here.”

Goodbye and Good luck Fry’s. You’re going to need it!

A very short-term new and now former customer


When I Googled for Fry’s Web site, I was amused but not surprised when one of the first hits read, “Fry’s SUCKS!” This man actually devoted a Web site to his justifiable anger at the franchise. Ironically, this very afternoon, Jack called on his way home from work to tell me he was stopping off at Fry’s. “Do you not know that I just sent their corporate offices a complaining letter?” I asked. “That place is reminiscent of Nazi Headquarters. The cashier station is like something from ‘A Wrinkle in Time!’ It’s ORWELLIAN!”

“Orwellian,” Jack repeated with a laugh. “Don't worry. If they ask me if I know you, I’ll deny everything.”

Barker and Bradbury--the Lethal Cocktail

One should know that one is in trouble if one’s eyes well-up when someone wins a BRAND NEW CAAHR! on “The Price is Right.” Oh no, I’m not talking about myself; it’s just a general warning. Actually, I am speaking of myself. About two weeks ago, I came upon the old show with Bob Barker that plays every week day at 11:00 a. m. I may have watched it occasionally, when I was a kid, but I was certainly never one of those rabid fans who run to the front, jumping and shrieking like speed freaks with handmade T-shirts acclaiming a lifelong love for Bob.

However, I’ve got to say that I watched it that day, and found myself floating into a, how do I describe it, feeling of euthanized bliss. It was so nostalgic, so unchanging, so unthreatening. I was back in the fifties again, in a world where the most stress came from not knowing the exact price of Johnson's Baby Oil. I became fascinated that the women hostesses of the show, even in this day and age, are willing to humiliate themselves in such cheezy setups for the showcases, pantomiming shticks that would embarrass even Red Buttons. Is it even possible that a time existed when a person made an entire “career” using that name? Then there’s Red Skelton and Soupy Sales, of course.

So I was mesmerized.

Then the next day, intolerably frustrated, my heart pounding as my deadlines crashed upon me and I made no progress, I turned the show on again. At first, I laughed at the silliness of it all. But, now I relax and hope with all of my heart that the contestants, who are so frenetically excited and willing to kiss the cadaverous Bob, (do they give them some sort of illegal cocktail?) will win that smaltzy gift of a new dinette set and a trip to Canada. I have begun to bid competitively, and shout out, “No you idiot!” I love the way the contestants hug one another and cheer each other on. It’s very sad really, now that I put it into words. But I watch it nonetheless. I find it oddly calming, though I’m sure it’s only a passing phase, a mere Bandaid to my malaise. I’m very ADD.

One day I missed the show when one of those pesky business calls involving work interrupted my regular schedule, and discovered, it’s almost unbelievable, a parody of the show on “Mad TV.” In the skit, an elderly woman told Bob that with his tan skin and white hair, he almost looked like a negative. I watched it anyway—an unsatisfactory fix for my new daily habit, like methadone for heroine. I want the pure stuff!

During this summer’s intense heat wave, the non-ending, but poorly paying work, the endless pressure of debt, elderly animals, and the encroachment of age, I’ve chosen to read Ray Bradbury’s, “The October Country,” a collection of short stories that make you want to slit your throat, (or eerily someone else’s), except for the fact that his descriptions make the prospect of death even more horrifying than his depictions of deplorable life in this banal existence. The writing is incredible. I don’t recommend it!

So for some reason, as I muddle through the South’s Dog Days, I turn to Bob and his prizes. Oh shut up about the taxes that winners must pay and Barker's publicized chauvinism. I’m escaping for now and crossing my fingers that the next contestant from Wisconsin wins “A BRAND NEW CAAHR!!”

Survival Skills

David made it out of the Cahutta Wilderness intact. At one point, he and his three hiking companions inadvertently punctured an underground bees’ nest and were attacked by the swarm. They wisely ran! Since he tends to be allergic, I admonished David about how dangerous the situation could have become. They had no Benedryl and all received multiple stings. Yet, his main focus seemed to be to abstain from killing one of his best friends since grammar school. “I swear if he called us ‘gents’ one more time, I might have beheaded him,” he told me—not big on tolerance this one. Then there was the fact that the same friend snores like, as he put it, “a moose on a respirator.” It’s true; I’ve heard him, but I love him like my own, nevertheless.

David got severe blisters, not from his hiking boots, but from his water shoes while trekking through the falls. Believe me, those things can do some major damage. After hiking across Canada and the Western U. S. for about three months in my hippy-dippy years, I quickly decided I was done with the camping thing. It was over for me for a variety of reasons. My dad, who survived four years of WWII in the deserts, always said he would never set foot in a campsite again. Undergoing pitifully less rigorous standards, I quickly understood his position after only a paltry few months of doing it on my own. At one point, having not seen myself in a mirror for several weeks, I panicked when I saw the strange markings on my neck reflected in a crude campground shower mirror. I decided that I had skin cancer, dramatic youth that I was, until I ran my finger across my skin and discovered that it was dirt and I was simply filthier than I had ever been in my life.

So I asked my son, after his three days of hiking during the hottest, most ill-timed season of the year for such a quest. “So what did you think of the experience overall?”

“Well,” he said, in his deep, thoughtful voice. “As I lay there in the tent, listening to the night sounds, and thinking about all of the things we had seen and done, I said to myself, ‘To hell with this!’”

That’s my baby.

Mean Old Man

Well if and when Jack ever retires, I’ve decided I won’t ever complete a project again. Since losing days of work moving David to school, I decided to try and catch up a bit over the weekend, transcribing some interviews and writing editorial captions. But nooo. Just a few minor distractions every five minutes has drastically hindered my progress, so I’m giving up—as writing this may indicate. I’m writing this to the sound of the severe banging on the front door. No, I didn’t lock him out, but he tore down our front porch, steps and all about two weeks ago. As I’ve peered into the sheer drop off, I’ve reasoned that coming through the front door would be very difficult indeed for would-be robbers, so I’ve lived with using only the back door for a while. Right now he’s reattaching whatever it is he’s attaching.

This morning Jack announced that when we were in the Home Depot last week he forgot all about flashing. “Thank goodness for that,” I said. Actually, flashing is that metal stuff that you do something with during construction. As you can see, I’m into detail.

Before that, the tremendous, hammering and shaking came from his removal of an entire section of concrete slab around the pool. We’re searching for a leak. It wasn’t there. Don’t get me wrong. Jack is a very handy guy, but he just doesn’t know when to quit and call in the people who have equipment for listening for leaks which I suggest before we tear out more concrete yardage. He finally relents.

Next he comes in for a break and tells me that something is wrong with the television. He looks at cables and punches buttons, muttering about the “damn thing.”

Me: “The cable is probably down.

Him: “Don’t push any buttons! We can’t both be pushing buttons!”

(Well actually we can because we have about 20 remote controls all of which control one separate and mysterious function each. Sometimes I’ve literally given up on turning on the television and taken a shower instead.)

Me: “Before you waste any more energy on this, why don’t you call the cable company and find out if the cable is down in our area?”

Jack has reached such a state that he is actually looking in the manual—a sight I thought I’d never see. He punches another button and the screen says, “Going into deep sleep.”

“That can’t be good,” I observe.

“Maybe we need new batteries for this one remote,” he suggests. I bring them. No go.

“Maybe you should call the cable company,” I repeat like a broken record, as he wedges between the wall and the set to check wiring.

Finally I hear him on the phone. “Oh okay. Yes, I thought that might be the problem. So when do you think it might be back up? Okay. Thanks.”

I walk around the corner but before I say a word he says, “Don’t say a damn word!” as he tries to strangle me.

Okay, he’s off to another project and I once again try to write a caption. Jack comes bursting into the back door yelling, “Those kids down there in the cul-de-sac are burning something. There’s smoke everywhere and everything is dry as a tinderbox!” He calls the fire department.

“Gosh Mr. Wilson. Are you sure they started a fire? Teenagers have to go somewhere, you know.”

“That’s what the parks are for!”

He’s looking out the windows and announces, “Here comes a fire truck. They’ll at least keep them from setting the whole neighborhood on fire.”

“Are the fireman cute?” I ask.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks.

“A valid one,” I think.

Anyway, the threat of the blaze is over. “I hope they think that our neighbor across the street called,” I say, because she frequently complains.

“They probably will,” he assures me, then laughs and adds, “Works for me.”

"Well you've certainly had an exciting, tyrannical day," I tell him. "Needless to say, I haven't written 'War and Peace.'"

"Yes, it's been quite adventurous," Jack says.

"I think most of the adventure has been self-generating," say I.

"That it has been," he agrees, leaning back in his recliner. "That it has been."

Empty Nester's Past Coming Back to Roost

I’m keeping myself as busy as possible in an attempt to not think of my empty Nesterdom, and other worries. David calls and says, "I really miss you guys” with an emphasis on the “really.” I know he’s homesick because this is so unlike him to admit such a feeling. We do the old-folks-at-home thing by getting on the extensions so we can all talk together. I find it horrifying even as I do it! Tragically, I’m singing old nursery songs in the shower like the “Itsy-bitsy Spider,” only now, I’m drawing on the words to instill self-stamina.

Now to add to my worries, David and some friends have decided to hike into the Cohutta Wilderness for the next four days. Even the name spells trepidation! Amidst my usual admonitions he asks, “Didn’t you spend several months during the seventies camping across Canada and the West doing acid?”

“I certainly did NOT!” I reply. “I was smoking the occasional pot. I only experimented on the rare occasion, doing the other a very few times within the boundaries of the US of A.” (Yeah, that makes it all better.)

Anyway, I’m happy to learn that my son is coming home in several days following the hiking trip to pick up his car which we just paid a hunk to have repaired (if he isn’t consumed by a bear or picked off by a serial killer). To bolster my credibility I point out that there weren’t as many nutcases around during the time of my late, great adventures, (aside from the Green River Killer, Gacy, Bundy . . . oh, I won’t mention those, or the fact that I was kept at the Canadian border for three hours because the Border Patrol thought I was Patty Hurst). I’m much more afraid of people than I am the animals, so I get in as many warnings as I can within five short minutes—all of which he attributes, I’m sure, to a Mom who is paranoid and insane.

Meanwhile, I’m forcing myself to meet writing deadlines, which for any of you familiar with the task, is a Herculean effort. When I discover that the article I’m writing has a 350-word maximum and I finished at 500 words, I decide to get out of the house. I see our retired next-door-neighbor cruising past our house on his golf cart. No, we do not live in a golf community. We can’t even afford to play at a golf community, but he’s a retired engineer with a propensity for renovation.

I stop my Jeep at the end of my pitifully sink-holed driveway and get out to collect my disappointing mail, meaning no money, just bills. He motors up, points to a nearby house and says, “Hey, I just saw signs that they’re having a garage sale. I want to see what junk they’re selling that I don’t have. Let’s go.” This is a bit odd because we’re separated by about ten acres and I have talked with this affable fellow about three times in twenty years (Is a trend starting here? [See previous blog]). However, I’m game, so I park my car and we’re off to the sale. He tries to convince me that I should buy a large Teddy bear, but I know I don’t need it. “Don’t throw it away or make it an orphan,” I tell our neighbor. “If a deserving kid doesn’t buy it, call me so I can rescue him.”

We leave—my neighbor on his golf cart and I in my Jeep. “I really need help in this assigning human properties to inanimate objects,” I think.

I talk to Jack on my cell phone. “I just went to a garage sale with our next-door-neighbor and I bought some wallpaper border for a dollar, even though I have no idea where we can use it,” I tell him.

He pauses. “I never have any idea what you are doing,” he says.

My prediction is that it’s only going to get stranger.

Sans Son Baby Bird

“The thermodynamics of bovines play an integral part in their overall health.”

That was the line that some farmer repeated to me in a dream before I woke up to take my only son to college. The rest of the day was a similar, indiscernible fiasco. I won’t go into the details because I’m simply too exhausted. Maybe later. I’ll sum it up with the following action words and phrases: disagreeing, arguing, attempted murder, eating, loading, sweating (profusely), negotiating, driving, unloading (sweating profusely), fighting the urge to strangle, shopping, seething, hugging, smiling, laughing, crying, remembering, resenting, overeating, driving back to an empty nest, and trying to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew. As you can see, it’s just too long a story involving a large cast of characters, all eliciting a cornucopia of emotions. You can thank me later for not telling the story, although when I’m emotionally stronger, I may tell it anyway. You’ve been forewarned!

Bottom line: now Jack and I are living alone again after twenty years, even though at one point I lost control and pleaded with my son, “Don’t leave me at home with him!” This was when Jack was doing tests to see how small a gap he could leave in the back door to let my poor, incontinent Lab let himself in and out.

“You know, Dad,” said David. “If an intruder gets this far, do you really think he’s doing to say, ‘Oh that gap in the door is just a tad too little for me. I’ll turn back now’?

Okay, I promised no details.

When I awake this morning, I fight back tears. It's the little things: David is not in his room. He won't be coming home from work, telling me his adventures for the day. He and his friends won't be raiding the refrigerator. I can't bug him with my impromptu, stupid stories (lucky him.)

My next-door-neighbor, Gary, calls and asks, “So how are the newlyweds?”

“I have resisted killing Jack while he sleeps and he has obviously done the same,” I answer.

We are now “sleeping” with an 11-year-old baby, our pug, Moses. He’s been sleeping with our son for all these years, and in a single-human bed, he’s fine. But he wants Jack OUT! Jack is complying, disappearing mysteriously into the night to whereabouts within the house unknown. Dogs-left-behind is something that people may not consider. I now have to set the air- conditioner even lower, now that I have a 20-pound little snuggly, breathing fire hydrant attached to his ever-changing choice for the part of my anatomy that he considers pillow-like.

Plus, after the arduous, letting-number-one-and-only-son-with-a-sense-of-humor-escape journey, we had to arise at the crack of dawn to return the Budget Rental Truck. I am still resentful (for reasons that I have not explained but that are perfectly justifiable when you take into consideration that I am married to a German who considers all emotion anathema! Ahem!) combined with the fact that I am NOT a morning person! I get over it. That’s how I have survived this long. (“Oh poor you! SHUT UP!” yells one of my many critical personalities.) Let’s move on.

Jack and I stop off at a Home Depot on our way home from the truck drop-off and discuss the intricacies of the new kitchen counter tops that we’ll get when we have 99 CENT to spare! We’ve had this fantastical conversation for twenty years. (If you notice a lot of all-cap lettering, it’s an expression of my repressed rage, which as a mother who has just watched her only baby bird fly away after she spent his childhood working and trying to get more time with him, seems appropriate at the time; so if bothers you, then UP YOURS!!)

Again, I apologize.

Anyway, we enjoy looking and dreaming about home improvements. Then Jack drops me off at home and I start working on the freelance stuff that pays nothing but is due TOMORROW! Then I hear this beeping sound and discover that Jack has decided to deal with his pain like so many men do—with large and powerful mechanical equipment. I save my Word document and walk out to see him 50 feet in the air on a cherry picker/bucket crane, holding a giant, revving chainsaw.

“If these dead limbs drop off, they’ll kill somebody or squash the cars,” he yells down at me from his skyscraping bucket perch.

“Wait a minute!” I yell back. “I’ll get my camera!” (The one I didn’t get to use on a monumental day, yesterday, because . . . take mental control, take control.)

So I get the camera and then decide that this is a good opportunity to torture myself by confronting yet another of my personal fears—the fear of heights. “Will that thing take up two people?" I ask.

Fifty feet up (which to window washers is nothing) I cling to the bars with sweaty hands and say, “Okay, you take the camera off of my neck and take a picture of our rooftop, yard, and the dogs below ," who are too stupid to look up when we call them but keep looking around at every angle (except up) when we call their names. (Yes, I write “who” for dogs rather than the recommended “that” because I consider a dog as a who not a that! Obviously, the editorial staff at one of my jobs is getting to me.)

When I finally get to the gut-wrenching maximum height of this man-mobile and try to snap a shot, the camera screen flashes “Batteries diminished!” We lower back down to the ground. I run into the house, when sister Jennifer phones. “Can I call you back?” I ask breathlessly, “Jack and I have a cherry-picker and I need to put new batteries in my camera so that we can get some tree-top views of the house.”

“Oooh-Kaaaye,” she answers, a practical person that already believes I should be committed.

I don’t know how this together again routine is all going to play out. I must confess that I'm worried.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks as I walk down the hall.

“Going to the bathroom, but actually not as I walk but heading in that direction,” I answer.

Later, “What are you doing? You aren’t saying anything. Where are you?” he asks.

Oh, MY GOD!!”

Then, a neighbor several acres down suddenly appears at my door after I've downed most of a bottle of wine (thinking, what the heck, it's justified) that I got for cheap at the UGA Walmart. She has two (approximately) ten-year-old girls with her and two little boys: one in diapers and the other just beyond, a jet-black-hair little fella named Hose'.

"I got some of your mail,"" she says, after ten years of never seeing or speaking. The two little boys squeal at seeing our dogs and run toward the pool. Both immediately strip naked and jump into our poolette. Neither appear to be able to swim, so I freak out and yell, "Girls, grab them now!"

Soon, all is calm, and these little buck-naked boys with the girls' supervision are grinning and floating on various devises with their little bottoms shining from the pool floats for all to see.

"I'm so embarrassed," says the almost unknown neighbor. "But somehow the expression on your facc tells me it's okay."

"Bring them over whenever you can," I say, remembering my little boy and all his friends since kindergarten. "You can't imagine what good timing this has been."

"