Of Hamsters and Harleys

Here it is, the end of the year, when all we've done, and all we haven't, comes swirling down at us in one big whoosh of emotion, wrapping paper, and re-gifted Snuggies. Finish with a flurry of frenzied shopping, and we wonder why assault with a fruitcake is so common in December.

I was Christmas shopping in a pet store the other day when I noticed a burly biker guy getting increasingly agitated. That’s never a good thing, but it’s especially bad when it happens in the hamster aisle, and even worse when it occurs near me. Suddenly the man of many tattoos swaggered toward me.

“Do you know where the leashes are?”

“For h-h-hamsters?” I stammered, trying not to giggle.

"Guinea pig, actually," he corrected me (on the plus side, though, he let me live). I nearly bit my tongue, at the thought of this tough, tattooed dude walking a guinea pig…

"It's for my twelve-year-old daughter. It's a gift for her pet," he growled. “But I can’t find one.”

He was in Christmas pain - that achy place you endure when you venture out of your own comfort zone and attempt to fulfill a loved one's wishes simply because you want them to be happy, even if it means you might get miserably lost in a world of tubular hamster toys, suffer the stares of strangers, and run the risk of coming home empty-handed.

I softened a little. Even Harley riders need help sometimes. Besides, he could have crushed me with his pinky. Lola, the inked portrait glaring at me from his left bicep, seemed to demand that something be done. With the eye of a seasoned shopper, I scanned the aisle for our holy grail.

“Over here," I scurried down the aisle, pushing aside a few crinkle-tunnels and chew-cubes to reveal a virtual smorgasbord of rodent leashes. "Ooh, hey, here’s one with metal studs on it!” Biker Guy brightened. Lola winked at me. Whew!

After some serious musing, Biker Guy narrowed his decision down to either a pink one with rhinestones or a studded black one. Meanwhile I did my best to stay serious, helpful, and alive. I nearly suggested that the black one matched his leather vest better, but I held my tongue. He put the pink one back. It was then I knew he was going to make some bad-ass guinea pig very happy.

“That’ll do. Hey, thanks a lot. Merry Christmas.” Then he was gone.

In our quests for cheer, we brave the traffic, the malls, the mayhem. Sometimes we succeed, sometimes we Snuggie. The time we take and the effort we make are symbolized by the gifts we give. Behind each gift is a story of bringing home the joy. The story is unwrapped with the present, bringing it to life, adding sparkle, and reminding us that while shopping for a gift can be a major pain in the patootie, it's all good.

May you not suffer too long in the hamster aisle, and may your checkout line be swift. Happy holidays.

Flowers and a Song

"Our yard is so ugly," he muttered. "Why don't we have a pool like the neighbors?" He peered longingly through the fence.

"That costs money, sweetie," I sighed. "Now is not a good time for that. But if you help me, we can make the yard look nicer."

"Look at their flowers, Mom!" he said. To a tween, not only is the grass greener on the other side, but the flowers are sweeter, too.

We had been cruising along in that blissful time between toddlers and teenagers, when kids are lower maintenance, doing many things for themselves and not yet suspecting that their parents are clueless. I sensed, with this backyard rebellion, that those days might soon end.

"Come on," I replied. "Let's go get some flowers."

Our shopping cart overflowed with purple - different types of flowers, but all purple. We worked hard all Saturday digging and planting, until we had everything in the ground. A corner of the yard was now transformed into a lush, lavender landscape. He was right - the yard, or at least a small part of it, brightened a bit.

Mothers' Day morning, we ate pancakes outside, admiring our new garden. Suddenly Bobby jumped up.

"I have something for you," he said. He ran to the garage.

After years of receiving handmade cards written in crayon, the tradition had, for me, never grown old. I kept every letter, every note, watching how each year they matured a bit more. They'd be grown up and gone soon enough, so in the meantime I savored every moment we had together.

Instead of a card, Bobby returned with flowers. Beautiful, purple blooms cascading out of their container. I was speechless. At some point he had convinced his dad to drive him to the store and get them.

"I used my own money, Mom," he beamed. "Oh, and here's a card I made."

The lilting sound of a tenor filled the air. His older brother, Tommy, was in the school choir. For his present, I was treated to an a capella solo, a country song he had learned for a recent concert. His voice was clear, steady, and sweet.

As we listened to his song, I held my flowers and glowed. I'm not known for being mushy, but we had been through so much together lately, to see them celebrating our little family was pure joy. As my dad would say, I had "done good."

Happy Mothers' Day.

The Next Horse Whisperer

"They're like dogs, only bigger." As we pulled up to the ranch, I added, "Just don't get stepped on."

My two boys looked at each other. They knew I'd grown up with horses, cows, and itinerant siblings. They were skeptical about this outing. And, because they were brothers, when one was interested, the other was beyond bored.

Nevertheless, I had to check on a sick horse, and since they were with me, they went. The horse was one of about ten owned by a non-profit organization that helps special-needs kids learn to ride. My sons didn't quite understand why I did this, how helping others helped me, how horses helped my soul. And besides a few pony rides at the county fair and a couple of visits to my parents' farm, my boys had never been near horses before.

We headed for Rafi's stall. He had been colicking for a day or two, but was feeling better and wanted to eat. He sniffed the boys, looking for food.

"His nose is HUGE!" Tommy exclaimed, backpedalling into the corner to escape. Bobby tried to hold his ground, but Rafi was pushing him, searching his pockets for treats.

"Um, Mom, he's attacking me," it was all he could do to keep calm.

"Just pet him, like a dog," I said. Bobby stroked Rafi's nose, enthralled. Tommy did, too, grimacing. Always such opposites! Still, one out of two wasn't bad.

Rafi had been sick the day before - I had spent hours with him, walking him, massaging his back, trying to get him to drink some water. He was the kind of horse that, when he wasn't feeling good, wanted to crawl in your lap like a golden retriever. By Saturday night, after a shot of painkillers, he seemed a bit better. Although he still wanted to crawl in my lap.

The next morning, on my way to church, I decided to stop by the barn first. Sure enough, Rafi was down, thrashing, his body twisted in pain. We got the vet out right away, pumping his stomach, more pain medication, then filling his stomach with mineral oil in the hopes his intestines would unkink. Colic is often deadly in horses, especially older ones like Rafi. After that, all we could do was walk him, watch him, and wait. Later that day I took a break to get something to eat and pick up my boys.

To get Rafi’s system going again, he had to be walked. A lot. I caught Bobby staring at the lead rope I was holding. "Would you like to walk him?" I asked. I didn't have to ask twice. "Just don't get stepped on."

He took the lead rope. Rafi looked at him. Bobby walked forward and Rafi ambled off with him, slowly, putting his head down low so he was eye-level with my son.

There are certain moments in a parent's life that freeze-frame in your mind. Watching Bobby and Rafi walking side by side was one of them. Spending time with horses had, in my youth, given me confidence, and recently eased a difficult time. And now here I was, watching my son discover the healing qualities of a horse. The intensity of the emotion caught me by surprise. I fumbled for the camera on my cell phone, hoping to capture the feeling, but I was too spent, my eyes too glossy and worn to deal with it. I sighed. The sun was setting on a Sunday evening. We would have to get going soon.

Circular healing. Walking with my son, Rafi was feeling better. My son was grinning, stepping out confidently to guide the huge animal like he had done it all his life. In the cool breeze of a California sunset, this was a bit too much of a happy ending for a weary mom. I was pretty sure God didn’t mind me missing a hymn or two that morning. Besides, that night, I think we discovered a few new ones.

Like There's No Tomorrow

It was bedtime, the witching hour for complicated questions about life, philosophy, outer space, and trigonometry. The child who had once waxed eloquent about "negative infinity meeting infinity on the other side of the universe" was at it again.

"I have some questions," he said. He always had questions, but especially at this hour, when my brain had already gone to bed. He was twelve, that magical time when kids start to gain energy, somehow sapping it right out of their parents. Just standing near him, I could feel my batteries draining.

"You really need to read your book," I yawned. My tween bookworm was behind in "reading points" for school, because he insisted on reading everything but the approved curriculum. Much like me, he didn't appreciate being told what to read or do.

"Okay, Mom," he said, feigning cooperation. I knew his next move would be to change the topic of conversation.

"Really, you need to read a lot," I gave him the mom-glare, complete with raised eyebrow. "You need to catch up so you have enough reading points. You need to read like there's no tomorrow."

Oops. That was enough of an opening for him to put me into the Nascar wall. I knew it, he knew it, and he took a big breath and did it.

"Mom," he sighed(with twelve you get eyeroll), "If there's no tomorrow, why would I read?"

"Oooh, here we go," I murmured and sat down, getting comfortable and yawning again.

"If there's no tomorrow, why not do something fun? The reading points won't matter anyway. They're not due for another month. And since there's no tomorrow-"

"It's an expression. I didn't make it up. It's just an...expression." Suddenly my bed was so very distant.

"But it doesn't make sense." He had a valid point. "If there's no tomorrow, I'd much rather play video games..."

"I know, I get it," I sighed. "I'm just not up to defending the concept right now." Never mind the minor detail that he was absolutely right.

We know very little about tomorrow. And in that sense, we need to make the most of today. We need to hug more, hate less. Less calls, more contact. Less fluff talk, more action. Corny, but true. Too many manipulative mind games, verbal diarrhea, saying one thing, doing another, by people who pretend to be friends when all they want is someone to listen to them rant. And they'd been sucking the life out of me, to the point that I was too exhausted to listen to my own son.

It was time to cull the herd.

No more long-winded, circular monologues from people who were always too "swamped" to listen to my thoughts, yet thought nothing of wasting literally hours of my time. No time for that, and frankly for me, finally I told them - I had no time for them.

My son had just read The Phantom Tollbooth, where "killing time" was considered murder. It was a valid point. Saying you'll show up and blowing it off, whether it's a lunch, a listen, or an entire relationship, should be criminal. I couldn't have them arrested, but I realized I could eliminate them, so I did. Life is too short. Tick, tick, tick....

My mind had wandered off to an ugly place, a wasteland of broken promises. Josie the dog wandered in, wondering what was taking me so long to get to bed. She saw the perturbed look on my face and made a u-turn out the door. Smart dog.

I looked up. My son had his arms out, waiting for a hug. He beckoned me back from the needy vanity I had thought was love but was only a selfish, cruel farce. Smart kid, patiently waiting for his mom to come around, to heal, to home.

Truly there is no time but now. I mustered up the last bit of energy I had. I hugged and listened to my son. He hugged and listened to me. And that, I realized, is all that matters. The busy busy phonies who had wasted so much of my time in the past would go on forever, however long that was, chasin' their tails and chattin' the world dry. But now they'd do it elsewhere. Now, here in my son's heart, I was untouchable. Suddenly I didn't care about tomorrow, because I had fully embraced today.

Finally, fabulously, I was lucky in love.

There's Snow Place Like Home

My two sons had been clamoring to 'go to the snow,' so the other day, to cork the clamoring, we finally went. After two hours of 'Are-we-there-yet' clamoring, we arrived, only to discover that the waiting lines for the ski slope were longer than the actual ski runs, the parking lots were overflowing, and I'm guessing the porta-potties were, too.

You know the feeling you get when you're poking around in the woods, and you flip over a rock just to see what's under it, and you uncover a huge swarm of ants milling about, climbing all over each other wondering what the hell is going on? That's what this town felt like. We had driven through the prettiest, most serene winter landscape to get there, only to arrive and discover a horde of swarming snow-tourists, choking the main road with their skiboots and clamoring.

"What are we gonna do?" my boys clamored, although by this time it was more of a whine than a clamor. It was then I remembered my snow training from my youth.

In upstate New York, snow was a way of life. It was handy to keep beer cold, and to put down your little sister's back. We did not drive two hours to see it. We were so spoiled, Mother Nature delivered it to our driveway. Many, many times. As a result, I was a snow ninja. I packed it, shovelled it, sledded in it, burrowed in it, and froze my butt off in it. And here I was, raising two boys who had barely even touched it.

Southern California is a wonderful place. Depending on your mood, you can choose your climate from a sort of weather menu - beach, mountains, movie set, ghetto, even snow. The problem is, you have ten million other people doing exactly the same thing. If they all feel like snow on the same day, there's gonna be some serious clamoring. But the difference between most SoCal clamorers and me is that they have little or no experience as a snow ninja.

When my boys finally paused their whining to catch their breath, I turned the car around and headed back into the quaint mountain town of Wrightwood. To be honest, I'm assuming the town was quaint once you peeled all the layers of tourists off of it. At that moment, though, it was under siege. It was like a beautiful winter scene, a picture postcard, only with metal fencing around everything. "No Snow Play" signs were everywhere, including the bathroom. Even the squirrels wore little "Don't touch!" vests.

Like everyone else, my kids were anxious to touch snow. So anxious, in fact, that when they got out of the car, they immediately got to touch ice, slipping and landing right on their keesters. They quickly recovered and followed me into the general store to buy toboggans.

There, on the shelf above the pinto beans and flashlights, was the toboggan of my youth - the red, plastic speed-demon, able to sustain a direct collision with a maple tree, bounce off and keep on skidding downhill sideways while you counted your teeth and fingers. I had assumed they were colored red to hide any blood. As a kid, we often wore slits right through them, snow would spraying up through the holes, hitting us in the face and further enhancing our winter experience.

They were low-budget enough to not worry about destroying them by hitting mailboxes and cars. For $4, we'd just get another one. Now, in this quaint, snowy SoCal town, they were charging $13, but they were still way cheaper than renting skis. We picked up a couple and headed out to find more snow and less people.

We escaped to a side road and eventually found serenity in the form of a quiet, steep, snowy hill. Our ears popped in the stillness. The kids quit clamoring. We each grabbed a toboggan. For a brief moment, my elder son stood up in his, before the icy snow smacked him down for that. He only did that once, but it was enough for me to realize that I would have to teach them the rules for sledding survival:

• Trees are not your friends. They are especially hard when they are frozen solid.

• Snow is cold. Don't let it get into your clothes.


• Snow is often ice, which is really cold and sometimes sharp.


• Don't pack bark in your snowballs. Mom will get you.


• Don't forget to steer. Especially away from cliffs.


• No, Mom won't carry you back up the hill. Deal with it.

To teach them how to steer, I took them down the slope in my toboggan a few times. Apparently I'm a speed demon.

Frightened Son: Mom, slow down!!!

Me: Come on, it's fun. The kind of fun we used to have, before video games and cable television ruined everything.

Frightened Son: Aaaaaaagh!!!

Me: Just steer with your hands and brake with your feet and you'll be fine.

Frightened Son: Aaaaaaagh!!!

Me: See, I knew you'd like it!

I'm apparently not as young as I used to be. After a few hours of being used as a steering and braking system, my knees clamored for a break. We were fresh out of dry clothes and knee cartilage, so we called it a day. A good day. Then I clamored for home.

Thanksgiving Needs More Salt

When I was a kid, we celebrated the traditional family Thanksgiving - tons of food (lots of it home grown), an all day cooking marathon, a cool fall nip in the air, and football. Not all the best plays were in the football games:

• My mom would try to intercept my grandmother, who was intent on salting the daylights out of every dish. Nana would fake right, get a key block from a child-distraction (usually my little sister), then loft the saltshaker over the potatoes, turkey or whatever receiver was open at the time.
  
• My brother, Tom, made an end run around kitchen duties by discovering a sudden, latent interest in football. He would tiptoe into the living room, bury himself in the couch, and stare quietly at the television, hoping that his stillness would camouflage him. He would blend, forgotten, into the furniture, hoping to avoid being hauled into the culinary chaos. I would not be surprised to discover that he was still there.


• My younger sister would play ‘assistant coach' in the kitchen, messing up anything she touched, to the point Mom would shoo her off to play before she spilled any more hot gravy on the dogs or poured more cat food in the string beans. At the time I thought my sister was clueless. But now I’ve worked with adults who have perfected similar levels of incompetency. If you act like a child, continually botching projects, no one will expect you to do anything. I call it planned adolescence.


• My youngest brother guarded the temperamental oven with a fire extinguisher, in case it 'overheated,' a traditional Celtic term meaning house fire. I always wondered if its affinity to go up in flames was somehow related to excessive salt.
  
  My dad spent much of the day in the back forest cutting firewood. He would come in for a break to watch football a bit, then head back out. After a few minutes listening to our kitchen shenanigans, he quickly opted for the soothing sound of the chainsaw.
  
  Our kitchen was long, like a bowling alley. Just clearing the table involved lots of hiking back and forth. On Thanksgiving Day, when everyone was in there, including the pets, navigation was impossible. We were constantly tripping over a dog or a grandmother or both. My mom held her ground and her sanity with a bottomless glass of Gallo wine. I huddled in a corner and peeled potatoes, taking notes on a childhood that was sure to someday make me a famous writer. If I survived.
  
  Even the livestock knew something special was going on. We often fed leftovers to the horses, so through the miracle of conditioned response, whenever they caught sight of my brother with the fire extinguisher, they knew Mom was cooking and that leftovers were inevitable. Ever hear a horse whinny all day for potatoes and gravy? It’s not a pretty sound. They’d get so excited that the cows figured out something was up, and would start in as well-
  
  Midnight the cow: Moo! Moooooo!
  
  Cindy the cow: What’s up? Why all the mooing?
  
  Midnight the cow: Well, the horses are making a racket. Something about a saltshaker run amok up there in the house. Figured I’d join in.
  
  Cindy the cow: Gotcha…Moo! Mooo! …what’s a saltshaker?
  
  Sadly, there was so much noise inside the house, with my mother defending the cranberries from Nana the Crazed Saltress of Doom, and my sister shrieking that her Chatty Cathy dolly wanted to help salt things, too, that the din from our cheerleading cows was lost in the commotion.
  
  Perhaps this was why holiday tunes were invented – to blast them loudly so the neighbors couldn’t hear the real chaos going on inside the house. Perhaps that is why we lived so far out in the country, so neighbors weren’t within earshot.
  
  In any event, it was Thanksgiving, so eventually, after hours and hours of preparation, pandemonium, and excessive spicing, we all sat down in the dining room together, said Grace, and ate. For about fifteen minutes. By then we had run out of salt.

The Juicebox Conspiracy

With the distinct exception of this column, the price of darn near everything has been rising lately. This includes, sadly, that staple of the school lunch - the juicebox. Those little rectangles of liquid joy now cost more per ounce than gas and even (gasp!) beer:

• A four-pack of Hansen's Junior Juice (4.23 ounces each) costs $1.59, or 9.4 cents an ounce.


• A 24 ounce can of Coors Light costs $1.99. That calculates out to 8.3 cents an ounce, over a penny less per ounce. (Plus you can recycle the can and make something back for all your drinking efforts.)

Blame it on rising fuel prices? Hmmm...seems they can factor in the same transportation costs that beer does. If you must know, a gallon of gas is about $4.29, or about 3.35 cents an ounce (128 ounces in a gallon of gas). But please, enough about gas already.

There was something amiss here. A teensy box holding barely a gulp of apple-vapor should not outprice the nectar of the hop-gods. I sensed a conspiracy. A juicebox cover-up, if you will. Stuck between record prices and thirsty kids, I for one was not going to take it anymore. I would fight back. I would start my own juicebox embargo. First I had to sell my kids on an alternative. And I got started on that by questioning the coolness factor of the juicebox.

"I've been thinking," I told my kids. They've learned that this comment is a red flag, that some ugly new edict is about to hit the fan. "Those juice boxes you take in your lunches....do other kids still drink them, too?"

"Well, yeah, of course," my boys replied, their eyes narrowing as they anticipated my next brain sprain. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking how, well..."

"Well, what?" They knew something was up.

"For you guys, they just seem a bit....young."

One of the worst things you can tell a child is that an esteemed tradition he counts on daily, that bolsters his new-found confidence as he swaggers across the playground, should go the way of his crib. Never had they considered that those little boxes with the pain-in-the-butt, thread-the-needle-and-squirt-everywhere straws would be 'unhip.'

They looked at each other. "Well, what else are we supposed to drink?"

Soda was out of the question. That stuff rotted teeth, packed on the pounds, and was just as pricey. Wheatgrass, green tea - sorry - I'm not about to flaunt my faux Green World views through my minions. Think about their therapy costs!

A water bottle with a Jolly Rancher candy in it would probably suffice. But with my luck, I'd get busted on the 'choking hazard' issue. Everyone is sooo litigious lately.

Maybe it was time to think about swapping out a Juicy Juice for a Coors Light.

Although hops are considered a vegetable, I knew that if I gave my children real beer, some PTA NARC would come banging down my door, so I researched the non-alcoholic brews. O'Douls came in nicely at 8.3 cents an ounce, a full penny under the evil juiceboxes. I opted for cans, since glass is not allowed on school grounds. I could save even more by serving my kids Old Milwaukee NA (non-alcoholic), at 4.9 cents an ounce, but I love my children and want only the best for them.

To be considerate, I got my youngest a beer-cozy, so he wouldn't flaunt his brew in front of his DARE teacher. Nothing is crankier than a cop who can't drink on duty. It's kinda cute, with an LAPD logo on one side and an ad for "Uncle Louie's Bail Bonds" on the other.

It warms my heart to know I'm helping to keep so many of those horrid, waxed-paper boxes and cellophane-is-forever straw wrappers from littering our beautiful landfills. Even better, I'm now in the process of arranging a 'can-drive' for the school, recycling the beer cans for money. We will quickly raise enough to pay for a 'cease-and-desist' court-ordered injunction against the school magazine and cookie dough fundraisers. Those campaigns are enough to drive you to drink.

The Summer of My Sons

Summer's great, isn't it? It's like suddenly, for a few months anyway, it's okay to be lazy. Sloth rules. You can almost feel the foggy, sleepy haze oozing out of our own craniums, soaking into everyday life, compelling us to watch mindless cable television and overlook basic rules of personal hygiene and low-salt diets, scratching our where-evers and snuggling on the couch with a beloved bag of chips.

We've been setting the snooze alarm on Life, letting the sun rise and set without us, knowing our bank account's stocked chock full of lazy days. We've been telling Time to move on without us, murmuring that we'll catch up later. But now we're fast approaching the end of the summer, and, like that last sprinkled donut that your brother took when you weren't looking, it's gone and never coming back. Much like, hopefully, the analogies in this paragraph.

My sons were already 9 and 11 and I'd never taken big, lazy, chunks of time with them. To sit, to stay, to just be. Usually I'd miss all this summer stuff, this non-doing. Instead I'd whisk out the door early, off to work in a carpeted box to push numbers around. As a working mom, yes, time was precious, but my boys' time should have trumped work time. With a little luck and a gentle push, boys are not boys forever. Hopefully they mature and, like it or not, eventually move on.

As fate would have it, I was now home. Not much money, but mercifully plenty of time to finally get to know my sons. If they would just, for the love of Morpheus, wake the heck up.

Vacation isn't so much a where but a who. I've gone to extravagant places with people I'd prefer to never see again. And I've crashed on the couch with the most incredible characters. This summer, with my sons, we didn't go anywhere but to each other. And it was great. We hung out. We slept. We wallowed. We slept some more.

I highly recommend wallowing. Nothing defines summer better than a languid wallow, wrapped in slothful ennui, and smothered in idle sauce. And if you can do it whilst being aware of your own lethargy, realizing how amazingly decadent you are while still in the moment, even better. Bonus points are awarded for gloating. But keep it humble, please. Too much wallow-joy approaches the realm of making an effort, something frowned upon during the summer doldrums. A simple, righteous "Yessss!" while you dribble Dorito crumbs down your shirt is enough of an understated celebration to acknowledge this subtle yet sacred event.

We did do a few things, ventured out to the beach, the park, the pizza place. Just to put perspective on our wallowing, of course. You can't fully recognize the real power of sloth unless you give it contrast by running around like maniacs for a bit. Then the stillness is outstanding even more.

This world of 'do-do' we live in very nearly became my undoing. The daily freeway dance of the commuter lemmings is no place to spend all your heartbeats. Luckily, thanks to my newfound wallowing ways, my life savings is finally full of summer memories. We're rich in a most splendid, if corny, way. Now if only I could get paid for wallowing...

The Fresh Air Girl

The first thing I remember about Stephanie was her odd yet joyful habit of jumping in and out of our front door onto the grass. To a little kid from a New York City ghetto, that was apparently the greatest thing in the world. Landing on grass at her high-rise/low-income home involved a major hike and probably some risk. So as soon as she got to our house, she hopped in and hopped out, over and over and over. We’d hear the screen door banging closed again and again, and we knew Stephanie was having fun.

One of the easiest ways to figure out what you have is to be with someone who doesn’t have it. The Fresh Air Fund is a non-profit company that helps inner-city kids get out to the country for a while. They either attend a camp or stay at a private home. It’s a great program and still going strong. I guess the stories about livestock roaming our living room or giant moths attacking our dinner never made it back to the Fresh Air people, because they kept sending us kids every summer.

One thing Stephanie had that I didn’t was confidence. She would go anywhere, anytime, even at times defying my mother. Up until then I thought anyone going up against Herself would vaporize instantaneously. Not Stephanie. She had a Teflon soul. I wanted to be Steph-tough, too.

Stephanie was black. Her mom had sent instructions on how to do her hair properly, and my Mom did her best. But I still remember her frustration as she gamely attempted to put conditioner on Stephanie’s hair and turn a tidy corn row and pigtail or two on a very busy eight-year-old. Low-brow hijinks on a quiet country night. Kids don’t care about whether something is politically correct – it’s either funny or it’s not. Now that’s fresh air.

One thing Stephanie absolutely refused to do was pick crops. She had toiled as a child laborer, doing that for a living for a few summers to help pay bills. I found it fun to pick corn and dig for potatoes. I’m sure if I had to do it all day until my fingers were numb and my back ached I’d think otherwise. But at least I got to sling the slimy 'taters at my brother and flick potato bugs at my sister, so all was not lost.

Stephanie had her own priorities, soaking up the summer every minute she was with us. She was outside nearly all the time, picking flowers, climbing trees, playing with dogs, swimming in the pool. I got tired just watching her. Yet she made it pretty obvious, like only a kid could, just how much I had. Yes, it was different. Yes, I had to shovel chicken poo and heft itchy, heavy bales of hay. But I got the feeling from Stephanie's manic cavorting, that this poo-hefting and bale-pitching was something special. Smelly, perhaps, sweaty, yes, but special.

Later, during my college years, I would swing back and forth between campus life and working construction. Very early on Saturday mornings, I would literally step over my roommates' tipsy bodies to go work the first shift at a blacktop plant. Once a coworker at the plant was gloating over hitting a great garage sale the weekend before. He beamed because he was able to buy decent back-to-school clothes for his kids. At a garage sale. Meanwhile, my snoozy roomies at the university had spent three times that amount on booze the night before. Did this give me perspective? Of course. It also gave me mental whiplash.

There's something to be said for not fitting in, for riding the rail between farm and city, rich and poor. For one thing, when you perch yourself on a fence there's usually a pretty good breeze. And more than one view.

The Waiting Room

"The doctor is reviewing your images. We'll let you know as soon as he's done."

Word for word, that was the fourth time I'd heard the phrase in the last two hours, each repetition less comforting than the last. A safe, plastic sound bite meant to be consoling that in reality was, in all its emptiness, downright frightening.

I was angry at the nurse for thinking a pre-packaged comment would console me. Of course she couldn't tell me anything. But she knew I wasn’t stupid enough to believe everything was fine. And must she smile when she told me that? I certainly didn't return the grin. I probably looked stunned at her canned callousness, that she wouldn't tell me more. Although I'm sure she didn't mean it that way, I took it personally. I took the stupid lump personally, too. Nice timing, God.

I was being scanned and rescanned, a small lump in my left breast repeatedly scrutinized. Waiting for the results gave me so very much time to dwell on things I'd prefer to avoid. I had just separated from my husband. I was alone with two small boys. Now, in this chilly examination room, I was alone with my thoughts, and they were not behaving.

This worry-wait was too grey, too unboxed, to wrap my brain around. Shockingly, the People magazine they gave me wasn't enough to keep me distracted. Instead, my mind was racing ahead, jumping to conclusions, and flattening any synapses that got in its way.

Although somewhat housebroken, my thoughts behave best when shackled to ideas. Off a leash, they tend to scamper off to scary places, running roughshod over weaker ideas. So after several hours of unfettered playtime, imaginary graffiti covered the walls of the examination room and saccharine-sweet, politically correct captions lay bleeding and broken on the floor, mementos of my thoughts run amok.

Anger blanketed my fear. Fear of leaving. Fear of losing control, losing life, losing all. I had recently bought the cutest shoes and not even worn them yet. Lump or no lump - no way would I go with shoes unworn.

What were the odds? Fifty percent? Ninety-five? How much time was left? I was clueless and truly in the dark. At least in a sport, you had an idea of whether you were winning or losing, and you knew how much time you had left. Each breath was now measured, each click on the game clock so loud. Nice timing, God.

Yesterday my main concern had been whether the Yankees’ pitching would carry them through to the playoffs. Today, I wanted to make the playoffs.

As I lay there, I had time to prioritize, to separate the wait from the weight, hold close to the vital and let the rest go. When you are suddenly reminded out your time here is measured in finite moments, what do you do? You cut to the chase, speak to the heart, say what you mean, and skip the fluff.

I did not have time for lumps, for cancer, for tolerating politically correct terminology. I wasn't about to make time for any of it either, but no one seemed to be consulting me about whether I could fit it all into my schedule.

"Thanks for being so patient. You may go now."

I could go? Not just go, but dance, and blink, and breathe, and live, and shop. From zero to gone, just like that.

The lump ended up being nothing more than a dense spot, of which I have many, mostly in my head. Soon I was back to my daily grind, quickly forgetting my long moment dwelling in a bottomless unknown.

But that wasn’t right, either. Once in a while I think back to that cold room that my thoughts trashed, and am reminded that the game clock is running. Quietly and slowly, but still running. So I run, too. In simply fabulous shoes.

I've gained perspective and lost my ability to sweat the stupid stuff. Since the worry-wait, I’ve worn my new shoes right through and joyfully bought more. Now I try to remember that ‘lump time’ could come anytime. I waste less, live more.

Nice timing, God.

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Day! From my two young sons, I received the following coupons:

We have a dishwasher.

We have automatic sprinklers.

It's the thought that counts. I can guarantee a tremendous amount of thought went into these coupons.

I love my kids.

If You Give a Kid a Truly Disgusting Story, He'll Probably Want You to Stop

Remember the old days when your parents would bark "No, because I said so!" and that was that? Now it’s a no-no. We're supposed to explain things clearly and patiently to our children. We consider their views, listen to their feelings, email their therapists, and then tell them, "No, because your therapist said so."

As a single mom, I worried about keeping my boys in line. I didn’t exactly want to be a dad, yet I needed some way to keep them from destroying the house and each other.

Remember the never-ending 'Why?' questions? Frustrating, especially when combined with the ‘No, I won’t’ snipe and the incredibly smackable ‘You’re not the boss of me’ retort.

Child: Mom, can I jump off the stairs?
Mom: No.
Child: Why not?
Mom: You might get hurt.
Child: No, I won't!

And around we’d go, wearing us down until we’d wonder if jail time for assault might be a nice way to get some peace and quiet (it is, by the way). However, with rising court costs, you might want to consider another option I discovered – the over-the-top, graphic explanation that grosses them out so badly they never even consider doing something that moronic ever again.

Child: Mom, can I jump off the stairs?
Me: No.
Child: Why not?
Me: You might break your scapula on the banister and spurt blood all over the carpeting. While we’re at the emergency room having your bones re-set, the blood will set into the carpet and never come out, so when your friends come over, they'll see the stain and ask about it, and I'll tell them and they'll laugh at you for trying something so ridiculous. Would you like a cookie?

See the steps?
1) Gross them out
2) Mention potential embarrassment
3) Lead the topic in another direction

Eventually my kids dreaded the gruesome responses so much that when they made the mistake of asking to do something dangerous, their faces would twist in fear and my stories were no longer necessary. Too bad, since I had nearly turned it into an art form.

Recently, however, instead of asking permission, they’ve opted for the quicker route of just doing whatever stupid thing they wanted to do. At least I don't have to hear the whining and arguing. However, accidents have increased slightly, so as an added deterrent, I’ve amended our agreement to include the following ‘emergency room’ financial rider:

I, _______________________, do hereby agree that if/when I damage myself or my parents’ dwelling, I will be held responsible for any costs incurred in the repair thereof, as well as any damages incurred by siblings, neighbors, and/or pets, in the pursuit of incredibly stupid stunts that I knew better than to attempt in the first place.

Said costs will be deducted from my allowance, and my children’s allowance after that, until repaid in full. Interest will be added at the discretion of my mother and the Federal Reserve Bank. I understand that management also retains the right to publish, for profit and potential embarrassment, any inane misadventures attached to said costs.

_______________________ date_____
Child


______________________ date_____
Parent

Feel free to make it your own!

Piano Lessons With Cats

For as long as I can remember, and even a bit before that, I took piano lessons. My mother determined that I needed a habit more irritating than many of my sister's irritating habits, which included talking nonstop at a high pitch, staring unblinking at people for hours at a time, and having a bladder the size of a walnut. At least with the piano, my sister's squeals would be drowned out by the lilting toils of rickety, pensive scales played eighty-seven times in a row.

My piano teacher was Mrs. Bartagas, an elderly widow who lived alone. If you could call living with forty-three cats living alone. It was more like living with moving, breathing, angora stealth-pillows with claws.

My mother would drop me off at her house and I'd knock on the front door. The cats lived inside, every last one of them, and as Mrs. Bartagas opened the door to let me in, a swirl of cat hair would rise in the draft. The cats would scatter into the shadows, kicking up more hair and throw rugs as they went. I could sense their eyes shining at me from the nooks and crannies of many years of accumulated furniture. I half expected Rod Serling to appear with afternoon tea.

Forty-three cats is a rough estimate. I was never able to line them up for an actual head count. Cats don’t cotton to counting. Once in a while I’d spot one I thought might be new. “Why, yes, that’s Oliver,” Mrs. Bartagas would reply. “He’s new.” Then I’d ask her how many cats she had now. The answer was always, “Why, forty-three, dear,” as if she was surprised to hear such a silly question.

Mrs. Bartagas had a lively past that she loved to share. Since this meant less playing time I was all for it. She had somehow been affiliated, in reality or fantasy, with Doris Day. There were pictures everywhere of Ms. Day, some even signed. It was hard to make out the signatures because cat hair blanketed nearly everything.

She would launch into a story about the olden days, and I'd keep an eye out for attack cats. There were a few that liked to bite my ankles, especially when I pressed the piano pedals. I was convinced that one day I’d be playing a tune and hear an irritated 'meowrr!' from deep inside the piano as I smacked some misplaced feline with a felt piano hammer. The top of the piano would fly open, and the angry cat would leap out and attach itself to my jugular. In a hostile territory such as this, Clair de Lune can become a dangerous enterprise.

The air in the house was pungent, thick. While I loved all animals, I was allergic to cats. Attempting to play Beethoven’s 5th whilst sneezing one’s fool head off was difficult, however the adrenaline rush produced by the cat-claw assaults on my ankles helped clear my sinuses enough to get by. Every once in a while a kamikaze kitten would wipe out the clicking metronome on the top of the piano. The constant drama kept me alert and terrified. Looking back, my visits were probably the highlights of their little feline lives. When I left I’m sure they had some tall tails to share.

The keys of her piano were real mother-of-pearl - worn, wavy and opalescent, much like Mrs. Bartagas' fingernails. I tried not to notice the similarities, but when she'd show me how to play something, her nails clacked on the keys. Ebony, ivory, and geriatric cuticles all blended to form a hopefully once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Her hands were incredibly quick and lithe on the keyboard, which was good because if they stopped for any reason, I couldn’t help but stare since they were, well, ancient. Veins, arteries, and tendons arched and mingled like a city map. I did my best to listen to her instructions, but my mind was fixated on the freeway interchange just south of her pinkie and ring finger.

In a pasture in front of the house lived Mrs. Bartagas’ white horse. When I was leaving, he’d come over to the gate and bob his head at me. Mrs. Bartagas would often ask ‘Bob’ what she should have for dinner. He’d whinny something unintelligible, at least to sane people, and she’d head back to her house of cats. He’d look at me and bob his head, so I’d pick some grass and feed it to him. Then I’d leave before he started telling me things I was better off not knowing.

When my mom picked me up, I’d be sneezing my head off and bleeding about the ankles. But I was humbled, happy to see my mom, and thrilled to be going home. I’m guessing that’s why she sent me in the first place.

Down on the Snake Farm, Chapter Two

(Note -if you're new to this story, you might want to read Chapter One first, located just below this blog post. If you're afraid of snakes, please don't read this at all, unless you enjoy being frightened out of your mind.)

My brother loaded the containers into the car and I drove them down the road to the Montfort Reptile Institute. When I took a turn a bit too quickly, the containers rolled about on the passenger side floor, their contents hissing and wiggling. If a lid came undone, I was completely prepared to leap from the moving vehicle. Nothing in the world could get me to even touch the containers, for fear of feeling the skritchy movements of the varmints inside. When I reached the Institute, I rang the doorbell and told Mr. Montfort that I had some snakes for him.

Mr. Montfort was thrilled. "What cute babies!" he exclaimed, as if they were kittens. He pulled a couple of the hissing, coiling vipers from a container and let them wrap around his fingers. Their heads were triangular shaped, like pit vipers, with nasty little turned-up noses like my friend Allison. They were speckled like rattlesnakes but arched up and flattened like cobras about to strike.

Feeling lightheaded, I backed my way toward the car, muttering something about being glad to return his poisonous snakes to him. “Oh, no, these aren’t mine,” he said. “Nor are they poisonous. They’re Hognose snakes - they act poisonous but really aren’t. They fake it to survive.”

He kissed one on the back of its hissing, flattened, speckled-leather head. “They’re the clowns of the snake kingdom!” I was never a fan of clowns, especially when my sense of humor was tucked up neatly under my bladder for safety.

Mr. Montfort was so delighted with them that he insisted on giving me a behind-the-scenes tour of his snake farm. I recall attempting to say "No, thank you," but his offer knocked the wind out of me and the words stuck in my throat. Mr. Montfort was already starting the tour, and I was raised to be polite, so....

"Have you ever met a caiman?" he beamed, waving me through the door. A caiman is a slightly smaller, slightly more unattractive version of an alligator. Gators and crocs get all the good press and choice leading roles. As a result, caimans resent this, working harder to be feared like their bigger, prettier relatives.

Mr. Montfort hopped into the cage to wake up the caiman and put on a show for me. The caiman didn’t care much for this, spinning around and hissing at him. I agreed with the caiman. No introductions were really necessary here.

The issue with getting a behind-the-scenes tour is that it is usually just that -behind-the-scenes. In this case that was a bad thing. Much like a mullet, this place was business in the front, party in the back. Regrettably, not my kind of party. Many of the safety features designed to protect everyday visitors to the institute were on the front sides of the cages and displays. Backstage, not so much. One wrong step and you could end up with a rather grumpy reticulated python as a roommate.

Our crazy neighborhood herpetologist continued, proudly showing off his collection of lizards, snakes, and things most sane people avoid at all costs. He had all kinds of snakes, many I’d never even heard of, many I’d meet again in my nightmares, but his pride and joy, our final stop on this wonderful up-close-and-personal tour, was his King Cobra. "This is what your hognose wants to be." The viper stared motionless at us through the glass. "But your hognose is quite a bit slower than this fella."

What a surprise - Mr. Montfort was going to demonstrate to me how fast his cobra could strike. “See this stick?” he put a long stick in front of me. “No marks on it, anywhere, right?” He opened the rear of the snake’s case with the stick. I heard a thwack but didn't see the cobra move.

“Now look,” he said, putting the stick quite close under my nose. There was a nasty, new gash in the stick along with a small blob of what I believe was, depending on your point of view, either snake spit or deadly cobra venom. “Pretty wild, huh?”

I steadied myself against what I thought was a shoe box, stacked on a shelf about head high. I felt something rustle in the box. "DANGER - TIMBER RATTLER" said the label. If I fainted I’d fall and knock open that box, or maybe a different box with a different slithering, killing machine, or maybe multiple boxes of slithering death, so I did everything I could to stay upright and breathing.

“I feel bad taking all of these. Are you sure you don’t want to take a few home with you as pets? They’re not as common as they used to be around here and they’re excellent mousers.”

I shook my head no. I meant to say something but my lips had dried to my gums and my tongue was hiding behind my tonsils so nothing came out.

“Hmmmm… You gave me eight babies. Hognose lay eggs in groups of 10 to 15, so there are probably a few more out there. You might want to look around. They usually don’t stray too far. You might get lucky and find the rest of them.”

“Urrrgh,” I replied.

“Then there’s Momma Hognose. She’ll be laying more eggs soon enough. They’re territorial, you know.”

I, on the other hand, was no longer territorial. I was moving. At the earliest possible opportunity.

P.S. - if you're insane interested in seeing how an Eastern Hognose imitates a cobra, here's an excellent video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjH7eIs7_Uo

Photos from the top are:hognose, cobra, cobra, and hognose.

Down on the Snake Farm, Chapter One

One of the nicest things about growing up in the country was having our own pool. Forty feet long, it sat sparkling in the middle of our front lawn. (Keep in mind this was the country – we baled our front lawn.) However the sparkling only occurred if we cleaned it daily, vacuuming the bottom, skimming bugs off the top, and retrieving thirsty but clumsy mice, frogs, and snakes.

Yes, one of the hazards of the great outdoors is that animals tend to live there. Cute animals as well as gnarly, nasty, legless lizard-types.

One afternoon, after vacuuming, skimming, etc., I decided to take a nap on a chaise lounge next to the pool. It was hot so I wore my bathing suit, hoping to erase a bit of my farmer’s tan. I was dozing off when a small, skritchy sound awakened me. It was coming from directly beneath my lounge chair, so I leaned over to see what it was.

“HISSS!!!!” screeched a herd of tiny snakes, swarming in the shade of my chair. A couple of them coiled and puffed up, rising like itty bitty cobras. I’d never seen anything like it, and would have preferred to continue not seeing anything like it. But there they were, at least five hissing, puffing junior vipers, within inches of my bikinied bottom.

More were coming out from under the edge of the pool and heading for the shade. My shade. Apparently a momma snake had laid a clutch of eggs in the cool dampness next to the pool liner. I was, unfortunately, welcoming them to the world.

I froze. The snakelets settled. I waited, hoping they’d leave. They settled some more. “Shoo!” I waved my hand at them. “HISSS!!!!” they replied. This was beginning to look like a very long day.

They settled down again. More newly hatched vipers joined their older siblings. Maybe if I extended my leg really, really far from the lounge chair I could manage to leap away from the chair....

“Hissss!”

No such luck. Somehow this sort of thing only happened to me. Somehow, someday, it would all make sense. Either that or some universal entity was bored and messing with my kharma just for kicks. Getting attacked by a chicken was one thing. Getting chomped by a swarm of angry mini-cobras was entirely another. Please God, don’t make me have to explain this at school.

I yelled for my brother. “Help!!”

“Hissss!” came the chorus from below.

“Shut up!” I yelled at the snakes. “For newborns, you’ve got a lot of nerve!” Some of them were rather large. I wondered if they could slither up the chair leg.

“Help!!”

“Hissss!” By now there were quite a few of them milling around down there. Maybe I was dreaming. What kind of snake puffs up and rises like a cobra anyway? I knew all the local type snakes –black snake, garter snake, Ray-the-cowboy-wanna-be, water moccasin, and puff adder. The last two were poisonous, but none of them acted like this. Strange.

Then I remembered the snake farm down the road.

The Montfort Reptile Institute was a quirky place. Mr. Montfort collected snakes and icky, crawly things. He milked poisonous snakes and sold their venom to places that made anti-venin from it. We met him when our cows broke through our fence and were grazing in the field behind his place. As my siblings and I gathered our herd for the trip home, my mom apologized for our cows trespassing. “We’re so sorry our cows got out,” she said in a voice you might use to apologize for spilling tea.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Mr. Montfort. “Happens to me all the time with my snakes.”

In my entire life, I never left a field quicker.

“Help!!”

“Hisss!”

I was going to die here, in my bathing suit, fifteen years old, chewed up by a swarm of teeny, weird, poisonous snakes. I’d become another local legend, like Mitch the mechanic who thought he could fly, and Mrs. Bartagas, my piano teacher with forty-three cats and a horse that told her what to make for dinner.

Stupid brother – where was he? What did baby snakes eat, anyway? I guessed they weren’t vegetarians.

“Help!!”

“Hisss!”

“Tommy, heeelp!” I promised myself I’d never be mean to him again. I promised to never tickle him until he peed, or make him laugh while he was drinking milk, or any of the other mean things I had planned to do but hadn’t gotten around to yet.

“Hisss!” The sun was setting. I was shivering and the snakes showed no sign of leaving. Hopefully they weren’t looking for a warm place to spend the night.

“Whut?” My brother, irritated, poked his head around the corner of the house. “What’s your problem?”

“Get down here!” I shrieked at him, relieved but remarkably, still a bossy older sister. “Get down here now! There are snakes everywhere! Snakes! Now! Here!”

“Hisss!”

“Whut?” Tom mumbled again. What part of my screeching did he not understand? At least he was finally meandering down to the pool. And starting to realize there might be something wrong. For the first time in my life, I regretted depriving him of oxygen as a child.

“Snakes!” I hissed. “Everywhere. Look!”

He started to come over and stopped. “Whoa,” he remarked. “There are snakes under your chair!”

“Get something to get rid of them before they hurt me.” I bit my tongue and added, “Please.”

“Wow,” Tom continued. “They’re hatching by the pool. There must be at least fifteen of them. They look like they’re poisonous.”

“If you get me out of here,” I stated slowly, “I will give you a chocolate bar. Real chocolate this time. No Ex-lax.”

“Promise?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, yes! Go get a broom, please.”

“Even better,” Tom grinned, “I’ll get the shotgun.”

“Tom, if you blast a hole in the pool, Dad will get mad.” I didn’t bother mentioning any potential damage to me. He might think it worthwhile.

He threw a beach towel over the end of the lounge chair, so the snakes couldn’t see what was going on. Then, wearing thick boots, he scooted closer, reached out, and grabbed my hand, pulling me off the chair.

“Hisss!” as the chair wobbled, empty above them.

He swept as many as he could into some big storage cans and sealed the lids. The cans rocked back and forth as the snakes puffed, snarled and coiled about inside them. I changed my clothes and took the snakes down to our friendly neighborhood reptile institute. I wanted to know what they were. But first I gave my brother the biggest chocolate bar I had.

To be continued….

Growing Up Green (Acres)

Every once in a harvest moon, a couple of city people get the wild idea that they would be better off living by a babbling brook with the pretty deer and some fluffy bunnies. Whether it's a genetic mutation, a Darwinian attempt at entertainment (hey, Einstein, hold my beer and watch this), or yet another attempt at a FOX reality show, every so often it happens.

My parents are from Brooklyn, a part of New York City whose name is derived from the Indian word for "arrow broken by heavy accent." When my parents married they decided, much like the nimrods from Green Acres, to move to the countryside. I blame this decision partly on the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn. A diehard Bums fan, my dad decided that once his beloved team headed west, he might as well hang it all up, get married, and move to the 'sticks,' because his life was essentially over.

Both of their families railed against the move. "Oh, my gawd, there are Indians up there!" howled Aunt Mary.

"You'll nevah see us again!" warned Uncle Frank. (This was the same Uncle Frank who would visit us and our pool every summer for thirty-five years.)

"Are you freakin' outta your freakin' mind? Did you even check to see where the nearest deli is? You will freakin' starve!" Uncle Louie murmured. Uncle Louie wasn't our real uncle, but Brooklyn Borough regulations stated that everyone had to have at least one relative named 'Louie,' 'Vinnie,' or 'Tony.' If you didn't have one, one was provided for you at a nominal charge.

Brooklynites live by a different map. First, there are the local neighborhood landmarks consisting of the deli, bakery, corner store, and butcher. All local places are on a first name basis, for instance, Third Street Delicatessen is called Vinnie's because it was owned by Vinnie Constantino. It doesn't matter that Vinnie died twenty-three years earlier - it is Vinnie's, dammit.

Travel is by bus and subway. Routes are referred to by the letters of the train or bus - take the 'A' Line to Rockaway- for instance. A big trip involves a 'transfer,' or multiple trains and buses, maybe even to one of other boroughs of New York City. Beyond the city is the frontier town known as Yonkers, then the wilds of Indian country where my parents ended up, then Canada. We learned quickly not to tell relatives that Indians didn't really live here, because if we did, they'd be up here all the time asking us where the nearest deli was.

City people do not use standard directions such as north or south. Instead, you're told to "go to Avenue D and hang a right at Vinnie's." If you don't know that Vinnie's is actually labelled Third Street Delicatessen then you must be from freakin' Yonkers and don't deserve to live anyway.

Countryborn, I learned to tell time and direction by the sun and stars. I gave valid directions to the citidiots that attempted to visit us, but sadly, they'd get lost anyway. For color, I'd throw in 'take a left at Jimmy Joe's turnip truck' knowing full well the truck wasn't there. Jimmy Joe was serving three to five for embezzlement and not selling turnips anymore. Hee, hee, hee. With no cable television, we made our own entertainment. Ain't no hatrack on my neck, suh.

Green Acres was an amusing show. My childhood was amusing as well, mainly because I survived it. Unlike the television show, though, my childhood consisted of many trips to the emergency room. Even then it was entertaining, at least for the nurses and doctors attending to my injuries. They usually got a good chuckle out of my medical record, which included:

• bitten by horse (stitches)
• bitten by dog (stitches)
• trampled by cow (contusions)
• trampled by horse (lacerations, contusions, and a concussion if I remember correctly)
• kicked by horse (cracked ribs & an impressive double horseshoe bruise/tattoo)
• thrown by horse (severely bruised bottom and pride)
• thrown by cow (massive embarrassment)

Once (thank goodness only once), I was in the henhouse gathering eggs when a chicken hopped off a rather high nest right onto my head. As she landed, she slipped and entangled herself in my hair. Naturally the birdbrain panicked, flapping her wings in my face as her claws scraped my scalp. I couldn't get a grip on her and the weight of her body hanging off my hair bent my head almost to the ground. Make a note- when you're in a henhouse, don't fall down. The floor is incredibly nasty and slippery with....stuff.

After several long minutes of flying feathers and torn follicles, I was able to unleash the beast. Since the giggling of the emergency room staff was still ringing in my ears from my last visit, I skipped reporting this to anyone. When an incident like that goes public in a small town, just try to get a date to the prom. Nobody wants to be seen with the owner of a Girl Scouts' Chicken Attack Survivor badge.

One morning before school my mom was out back feeding our massive herd of cattle, Larry and Suzy. Yes, two whopping head of Angus. How tough could that be, right? Larry, however, was still cranky about losing his Rocky Mountain oysters and, much like many cuckolded cowboys, was determined to prove how macho he still was without them. He pawed the ground and charged at my mother and her grain bucket. A tough redhead from Brooklyn, my mother refused to relinquish the grain, opting instead to head for the nearest tree, where she remained all through breakfast. Finally my siblings and I had to head for the school bus. My dear mother, still treed by Larry, gave us a lovely Rose Queen wave from a sturdy branch, warbling, 'Have a nice day at school!'

In Algebra class, a friend asked me what I was thinking about. By then I knew better than to share the embarrassing truth, so I made something up. Never, ever tell a friend that you're wondering if your mom's still stuck in an apple tree with a fierce steer named Larry waiting below. It took me years just to tell my therapist about it.

I watched Green Acres for years, waiting patiently for them to unmask the dark side of nouveau agrarianism, but it never happened. Arnold the pig never ended up as bacon next to Sunday morning pancakes. None of their cows ever ambled by with meat cuts outlined in surveyor's chalk on their bodies. They never addressed the problem of turning a horse around in your bedroom and getting her downstairs again before your mom found out she was in the house. Serious flaws in a sitcom, if you ask me. Reality, however, kept me in stitches.

The Stinky Binky

Sometimes it's not easy to say goodbye.

This is Jake's binky. It's his favorite buddy. He snuggles with it at night, in a somewhat creepy way. He drags it about the house much like my little sister dragged her favorite dolly around when we were kids. Anyway, it's been stitched, washed, and duct-taped within an inch of its life. It is time for the nice trashman to take it away to live at Uncle Kevorkian's farm.

Jake has another binky, a much nicer, more presentable one, but he's passed it over in favor of this icky swamp-gas thing. We all make our choices, I guess. For whatever reason, Jake had been faithful to this old heap of smell. Taking it away from him wouldn't be easy, but its odor had begun to attach itself to the house, creating a stench entity that threatened to permeate the very beams of our dwelling. In other words, it stank.

Much like my ex-husband, its time had come to go. We planned some exciting entertainment to keep Jake preoccupied and happy. Events such as 'dinner,' and 'more dinner.' Eventually it would sink in that his stinky binky had gone to the great trash dump in the sky. Until then we'd be there to help him through this painful process.

With Jake, the main thing was to avoid laughing at him. Napoleonic runt-terrier that he is, he can spot a suppressed snicker from across the room. If anyone so much as smirks, he's in their face barking furiously. Last month, when the groomer shaved most of his body, except for his head and tail, he resembled a furry black Q-tip. Knowing he looked drafty and ridiculous, Jake would stare at us, searching our eyes for the first sign of a giggle. We would twist ourselves silly in an effort not to laugh in front of him, ducking eye contact, trying to make it out of the room before letting loose with a guffaw. I thought a macho sweater would help his drafty situation, but it sure didn't help us to keep a straight face.

Now his beloved, drool-soaked binky was leaving, and if we laughed at him he'd rip our lips off. And yes, I checked - the Dog Whisperer doesn't cover binky disposal in any of his episodes.

My sons put on hazmat gear (bicycle helmets, ninja swords and clown masks), sang some sort of quirky sea chanty, and deposited the binky in the trash can. I distracted Jake with food and his other somewhat less-offensive binky.

He's fine with it. Although he's requested more duct tape for his current binky. And a black leather collar with big studs in it. And a corvette.