Ashes and Beauty

Who knew fire could renew, not just destroy?

It’s been exactly one year since my last blog post. I figured this would be a fitting time to try and re-enter my blog; introduce myself to it again, see if I can attempt to make room for it in my life once more.

My fingertips have missed the feeling of the keys beneath them. My heart has missed the honesty it is allowed to show here. It’s like my life inside out—this blog bearing witness to my guts and innards. Ewww. I know. I get it. No one likes to look at guts and innards. Let’s just look at the pretty stuff please.

So, where did I go after my last post in 2012? What has happened to keep me so far away from this hobby I had come to love? Well…

My grandma died on this day last year. That much you know. Two weeks later (to the day) my other grandma (Grandma McCauley) died as well. And in between those two weeks, two of my chickens were eaten by hawks. I thought about writing a blog post titled, “How to lose two grandmas and two chickens in two weeks,” but that really is such a niche market I didn’t think anyone would be able to relate. And not that losing chickens is even comparable to losing two grandmothers you dearly loved, but when things start dropping dead in such a small amount of time, everything feels equally important.

I think the coffee maker shit the bed that week too. And the iron.

I had already planned a trip to Arizona later that month (originally to see my grandmothers one last time and show them my recently published book project) but instead I ended up attending both of their funerals. I guess if there has to be a benefit of dying within two weeks of each other, it was that I could go to both services in the same vacation. My Grandma McCauley would have appreciated the cost savings in that.

One evening in May, I found out that a neighbor who had lived one house away from us (their family had only just moved the previous summer) died in her sleep. She was only a couple years older than me. She just died. Went to sleep after her night shift at the hospital (she was a nurse) and didn’t wake up. Her daughter and son (good friends of my children) found her when they got home from school. Yes, she had a heart condition, yes they knew about it, but nobody knew that morning would be her last. Her daughter called my daughter that night on the phone. I listened in. “Did you hear about my mom?” she asked my daughter. “She died today and I found her.” That’s pretty rough shit for an 11-year-old to hear. And literally hours after it had happened.

On June 21^st, my Aunt Debi died. She was just 10 years older than me.  I was very close to her—her amazing photographs fill my walls with close up shots of my children as babies. Our family. Their smiles. Her passing less than one year from her being diagnosed with aggressive brain tumors. The good news is that while I was in Arizona for the Grandma funerals, we spent time together: had breakfast out, did a little shopping, got pedicures. Vented. Chatted. Ran errands. We managed to squeeze in quality time before her headaches and fatigue kicked back in and I returned her home to sleep. I wasn’t able to attend her service though, which I deeply regret.

In June I also found out that I didn’t get a job that I was really, really hoping to get. I came in second to a guy with more advertising experience. Which of course is nothing really, after losing your Aunt. It’s not a brain tumor after all. It’s just a job. But I still wanted it.

At the end of August, my marriage ended. He moved out in September. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m the one that filed. I’m sure he’d want me to publicly own that, which I have no problem with.

I also lost two more chickens to hungry hawks. Fucking hawks. Not that losing chickens is the same as losing a husband you still loved, but again…things start to feel equally important when they happen so close together.

2012 was a year of losses. Of grandmothers and chickens, friends and aunts and husbands, jobs and dreams, and illusions. Depressing, I know. Who wants to read about all this shitty shit? How could I possibly blog about what was going on in my head, or my heart, or my life? Where’s the funny in the kind of year I had?

Well, I haven’t gotten to the good part yet. Hang in there. I haven’t told you about the miracle yet.

Because after a person has that kind of year, especially culminating in the loss of 13 years of marriage, you reach a point where there are two options: despair or prayer.

I tried despair and couldn’t do it. Too dark. Plus it reminded me too much of my morose teenage years except without the cool 80’s clothing.

I brought everything that’s happened in the past year; all the ache and pain and loss and yuck and questioning and worries and obsessions and dead people and marriage issues and I laid them all at the foot of the cross.

Yes, that cross.

I know. I’ve never really blogged about my faith or my religion and maybe that part of me is new to you. You weren’t ready for this turn all religious-y. That’s okay. That’s where you’re at. But if you quit reading now you’re going to miss the miracle part.

And after I laid all this stuff before the cross (quite literally, on my hands and knees in front of the blessed sacrament during adoration one day) I let it go. All of it. I gave it all back to God to take care of. I couldn't do it anymore. The weight of all those things was just too much. 

And I found something. Well, a lot of somethings.

I found myself.

The me that I buried under roles and expectations and life and worries and regrets and fear. I got her back.

I also found peace. And joy. And serenity. And Truth. And happiness. And contentment. All those things I’ve been fighting to find for so long, came to me once I let go.

2012 was quite possibly the worst year of my life to date.

2012 was also quite possibly the best year of my life to date. How is that—that such a beautiful, wondrous existence is possible even amidst the flames that have turned so much to ash?

That, my friends, is the miracle.

“Now I can trade these ashes in for beauty
and wear forgiveness like a crown
coming to kiss the feet of mercy
I lay every burden down
at the foot of the cross.”

(lyrics from At The Foot of the Cross, by Kathryn Scott)

Fathers, Daughters, & Disco Sticks

Today's guest blogger is Ted Ten Eyck. He's extraordinarily funny, even more so when you meet him in person. If you enjoy his wry humor you'll love his take on therapy, as well as his feelings about picking zits. Don't read the zit one if you're eating. 

When my wife finished watching the coverage of the recent royal wedding, she confessed the following to me:  “I’m glad you’re not a prince, because I don’t think I would make for a very good princess.” Having learned a thing or two over the past twelve years of marriage, I knew I had to respond carefully:  “Don’t be silly. Of course you would be a good princess.” My wife appreciated my lame attempt to sound supportive. But she went on to explain why she felt she would be a less-than-exemplary princess:  “I probably would have just flipped off all of those spectators at my wedding.” Oh. Well in that case, you definitely are not good princess material.  

My wife can breathe a sigh of relief because I certainly am not prince-like material. Luckily, I don’t want to be a prince. Hell, I don’t even want to be Prince. (But that is mainly because he is a full sixteen inches shorter than I.) Even though my wife knows she wouldn’t be a good princess, I am sure that doesn’t stop her from still having a desire to be a princess. Because, as far as I am aware, most people born with lady-parts have some yearning at some time in their life to be a princess. (Don’t worry; I make sweeping, stereotypical comments about men later on.) This desire is reinforced with weddings and proms and, as I discovered last year, the beloved Father-Daughter dance.  

My understanding is that the dance has its origin in basically forcing fathers to spend time together with their precious daughters. Fatherhood was very different “back in the day.” It was, after all, a time when it was socially acceptable for the likes of Don Draper to get drunk at a bar while his wife was in labor. An awful lot has changed regarding the role of fathers since then. Today, for example, men are expected to not only be (1) present and (2) sober for the birth of their child, but to also (3) pretend that their wife did not just have a bowel movement on the birthing table while awaiting Junior’s arrival into the world. Yet despite all of these changes, year after year, the Father-Daughter dance keeps on happening.  

And this is a really special night for the girls. The girls are typically wearing a new dress...and new shoes...and new jewelry. Some go to the hair salon on the day of the big event; some go for a manicure and pedicure. They get flowers from their father. And the girls are absolutely beautiful. They look like little princesses. 

Unfortunately, these little princesses don’t have a proper audience who can fully appreciate just how beautiful they look. I paid close attention this year, and discovered that the girls themselves really don’t care what one another look like. As long as they tamed their bed-head and are not still wearing the same Justin Bieber t-shirt they had on at school earlier that day, all is apparently good. And the only other people in attendance at the Father-Daughter dance are, appropriately enough, fathers. The fathers will make a big deal about their daughter’s appearance. They will even throw in a perfunctory, “You look beautiful!” However, all fathers really care about is making sure their daughter is never, ever wearing sweatpants that proudly proclaim “JUICY” across the ass.  

So, the only people who will truly appreciate all of these efforts are the only people who will not actually be attending the dance. Yes—the mothers. The same ones who bought the dress and the shoes and dealt with their daughter’s tears because the hair stylist made her hair too curly. So the mothers latch onto what they can; namely, posting the pictures on Facebook for all of the other mothers to appreciate.    

Despite the fact that my wife was already sharing her photos with all 252 of her Facebook friends before my daughter and I even entered the event, we still got suckered into paying for the professional pictures at the dance. And then we had to walk past the refreshment table, and another table where they were selling glow sticks. (I refused to buy one just on principle; I don’t need to give my daughter practice for what she might experience when she finally gets to go to her first rave.) Then it is finally time to enter the ballroom (a.k.a. high school cafeteria) where the magic happens. And I have learned from experience that the night will only play out one of two ways:   the first scenario happened to me last year, where my then six-year-old daughter clung to me the entire night because she was overwhelmed and over stimulated with the chaos of the event. The second option is what happened this year:  we walked in and my precious offspring dropped me like a hot potato. “Dad, I’m gonna go dance with my friends!” Fine by me. At the age of 41, I am pretty sure that I have more than met my lifetime quota of having to dance to “Y.M.C.A.”

That means that I am then on my own to mingle with the other fathers who were also ditched by their dates. So what is created as a result is a cafeteria full of men left to make small talk with other men. And everyone knows that striking-up conversation is not a strong point of people born with dangly-parts. That is why men prefer to get together with a planned activity in mind to give them something to talk about; activities such as playing poker or watching a stripper. So, if the organizers of the Father-Daughter dance really wanted to raise some serious money for the school, they would do more than just sell soda and candy bars; they should offer a full cash bar. Not only would the alcohol provide the much-needed social lubrication, but the sales would bring in enough money for the school to most likely build a new wing. (I can hear it now:  “Today’s assembly on scoliosis will be held in the Anheiser-Busch Multi-Purpose Room.”)

Although I have been tempted to bring my own flask to the dance, I have so far used my better judgment. So I have to resort to using my patented conversation starters that are specific to the Father-Daughter dance. Let me give you a few examples:  

“Hey, Bob? Doesn’t it seem odd that the kindergarteners are all dancing to Katy Perry going on and on about losing one’s virginity?”  

 “Am I the only one here who finds it creepy that our seven-year-old daughters are chanting ‘Boys wanna touch my junk’ along with Ke$ha?”

“Good to see you. Nothing like Lady Gaga proclaiming that she ‘wants to take a ride on your disco stick’ to build lasting memories for girls and their dads, eh?”

I really, really wish I was joking about these particular songs being played at the dance. But believe you me, these are the selections. Luckily, the songs that are played for the slow dances are surprisingly free of sexual innuendos. So, I have nothing to carp about regarding what we are dancing to; I do, however, have some things to say about how the dancing actually happens. Some pairings opt for the isn’t-that-cute daughter-standing-on-Dad’s-shoes move. Let me tell you from experience that that is enjoyable for the fathers for approximately seven seconds. Then there is the traditional option where even though the two dancing parties are holding hands, there is enough distance between said parties as to not catch cooties. (I wish that this image did not conjure up for me so many memories of dancing this way with uninterested partners during junior-high mixers while Journey’s “Open Arms” played in the background.)

If I had been cooler in middle-school (or in high school, or in college...), I would have had the chance to dance really close with a girl, with our bodies pressed up against one another and the girl’s head resting on my shoulder. Surprisingly, this is the move that many Father-Daughter pairings resort to. Unfortunately, because of the massive height difference between most adult males and their elementary-school-aged daughters, the girl’s head inevitably ends up resting on her father’s lower abdomen. And that is a sight that you will never see, rightfully so, in any of those Disney princess movies.  

So, I can bitch and moan all that I want, but it doesn’t matter. And that is because the Father-Daughter dance is not about me. It’s about my daughter, the princess. And my princess has a magical time at said event, because she feels special on that night. And hopefully later in her life she will find someone who can make her feel that special each and every day. In the meantime, she is stuck with me, her father, who is still closest at being prince-like only when I play the soundtrack to “Purple Rain” on the drive home from the Father-Daughter dance.  

Picking Battles

I decided to break my almost-two-month silence here with a guest post from Ted. After reading this you'll be laughing too hard to be mad at me for my ridiculously long hiatus. When you're finished, leave a comment letting us know if you are or aren't one. I can tell you right now, I'm a card carrying member of this club, right along with Ted's wife. 

Shortly after graduating from college, my friends and I were nursing our hangovers in the front yard of my parents’ house. While we were busily recounting the antics of the previous evening, my father pulled up in his freshly washed and vacuumed Mercury Marquis and immediately asked me in front of my friends:  “What happened to the lawn?”

 “I mowed it.” I replied. “Doesn’t it look good?” Even if I didn’t have wet-brain, I should have known that there was 0% chance my father would have answered in the affirmative.  

No, he did not think the lawn looked good. Perhaps that was because one of the wheels on the mower was apparently at a different setting than the other three while I mowed the entire lawn. As a result, each strip of the lawn was cut at an ever-so-slight angle that only the most obsessive of obsessive lawn owners would ever notice. Unfortunately for me, my father just happens to be one of these individuals. Not believing him initially, my father then requested that I join him on all fours so that we could both gain a better view of my horticultural faux pas. Please keep in mind that my friends were present for this entire exchange. Luckily, my recently-earned undergraduate degree was in neither landscape architecture or pride.

I do not bring up this story just so I can poke fun at my father’s anal-retentive lawn care tendencies. (But if that were indeed my intention, I would inevitably use that as the lead-in to the story of my father standing on the roof of our two-story house using the electric leaf blower to rid the roof of all debris. I am pretty sure he must have had to plug two extension cords together to be able to gingerly operate the equipment that far removed from anything resembling an electrical outlet.) Rather, I bring up this anecdote to illustrate how some people have an amazing ability to see things that most other (read: normal) people are completely oblivious to. With that, I resort to the analogy section of the SAT’s to drive home my main point:  

Lawn imperfections are to my father as pimples are to my wife.  

Just as I would most likely not have noticed if my father’s lawn mower’s blade was temporarily replaced with two plastic knives lifted from Dairy Queen, I am not someone who really pays attention to pimples, either mine or those of others. Yes, I will pop my own pimples; I consider it to be good hygiene, just like making sure I don’t have any stray nose hairs or kale stuck in my teeth. However, I don’t get enjoyment out of any of these acts. They are just things I do if I want to have people willingly interact with me.  

This is all very different for my wife. (Let’s call her Pam, which seems pretty appropriate considering that is indeed her name) For Pam, the act of picking satisfies a burning need that one usually only sees when watching a tweeker light up on an episode of “Intervention.” And without the aide of rehab or twelve step programs, Pam has learned how to effectively manage most of her impulses to pick. Impressive, eh?

Pam is not alone in this obsession; by my unofficial count, approximately half of all Americans are “pickers.” My non-scientific studies have further concluded that there is absolutely no grey area between the two camps; either you’re a picker or you aren’t. That’s it. Just as you either love the show “Glee” or you despise it. (I am in the latter camp. So for those of you keeping track, that makes me a “Glee”-hating-non-picker.) And my doctoral thesis in the psychology of picking concluded that although it is satisfying for a picker to pick something on their own body, it is that much more satisfying to pick something on someone else’s body. And whose body is better to pick (and more socially appropriate) than your spouse’s.  

If Pam were actually a junkie and in need of a fix, I would do what all good enabling spouses do, which is pawn the baby’s crib and score her some dope. Done and done. If only my life were that easy. Unfortunately for me, my wife is not hooked on crack or meth; her vice is white-heads. And on those occasions where she gives in to her temptations, I can’t just go out and score Pam something to pick; rather, I have to organically grow something that will satisfy her burning need. And considering that I am six foot six, there is a pretty good potential at any given moment that there is something somewhere on my body that is in need of picking. (I now question if she married me because I am truly her soul-mate or because I provide more surface area than all of her other prospective suitors.)

But here’s the kicker: I am not a fan of her picking my pimples. I enjoy her picking at my skin about as much as I enjoy her picking on my character flaws. After twelve years of marriage, Pam is now usually able to overlook most of my numerous shortcomings as a husband. However, she has a more difficult time attempting to overlook the tiniest of pimples growing on my forehead. And I know the moment when she spots something new on my skin. She tries to be really discreet about it. But I know her all too well. And I know what I am in for when I see her gaze shift ever-so-slightly from my piercing hazel eyes to my forehead. That is when my own version of homeland-security-against-unwanted-picking escalates to the dreaded “code red” level. 

“Stop it.”

“What???”

“You know what you’re doing. Stop it.”

“But I’m not doing anything.”

Both Pam and I know to what I am referring, and we both know that she is trying not to be obvious in her quest to pinpoint the black head she just spotted on my skin. She is like a four year old with her mouth covered in chocolate desperately trying to convince me that she didn’t sneak a piece of left-over Halloween candy. But she will eventually confess to seeing something. And then I can see her having an internal debate as to whether or not she should proceed by asking if she can pick away.  

She inevitably has a far more difficult time gaining my permission to pick when the pimple is on my back. Mainly because it’s on my back, and I know that nobody is ever going to see it. Hell, Pam doesn’t even see my back. And if she knows that there is something on my back to pick, that means that she discovered it when we were enjoying a little “adult time” together. What usually happens is she will be gingerly stroking my back, and then she will pause ever so slightly. And I know that that means that she felt something. “Pam, stop it!” And once again, she knows exactly what I’m talking about. 

At times, Pam will ask me to pop something for her, and that is only because she is not able to reach said offender. I then attempt to muster up a modicum of enthusiasm for the task. This amount is equivalent to how much I would have if someone asked me to be a groomsman in their Star-Trek themed wedding party. I fumble around for a minute, pretending like I’m doing something substantial. But I’m not. And she knows it. She eventually walks away with her original not-popped pimple, and although she won’t admit, I know that she is judging me. Harshly. Judging me the way she did (rightfully so) when I flailed my arms and screeched like a little girl when the vacuum that I was using caught on fire.  

There was actually one time when I went at one of her pimples with genuine vigor and vim. I knew this would be my chance to prove to her that I was a man of honor, and not just a man who was incapable of thinking on my own to unplug a smoking vacuum. I discovered the pimple in the middle of the night. I rolled over, put my hand on Pam’s back, and felt something. Something big. Something big enough that it woke me from my sleep. So I poked and prodded over and over, trying to fully wrap my mind around this crazy growth on her back. And then Pam, herself half asleep, barked:  “Ow!  What are you doing to my nipple???”

Wanted: Cat With an Effective Mother

This is what I'm going for. 

Not this.

Last night I was just finishing dinner—chicken pot pie, salad, and apple slices—when I heard scratching and gnawing inside one of my cupboards. The cupboard I keep my Starbucks coffee and Wildflower iced tea in.

Now they’re trying to screw with my caffeine intake. Bastards.

Listening to the little scratchy-scratchy sounds gave me a stomach ache  and I didn't want to open the cupboard to inspect it, lest a mice might dive bomb me right at face level, and you all know what that would do to me.

Put me right in the asylum. Just hand me my straight jacket now.

I tried to call my husband who was supposedly on his way home, but he didn’t answer. Twice. I finally called my neighbor to come check it out since I couldn’t take the anxiety anymore. He did some inspecting and the long and the short of it is, found no mice. But they are still alive and well in my kitchen walls somewhere, probably with a paw full of poo to throw at me given the opportunity.

I can’t tell you how many people have suggested we get a cat. Just today my mother even brought it up.

“Well, what you need is a cat,” she said.

“I’ve considered that, but how do I know I’m going to get a mouser and not just a cat who likes to tinker around with them like stuffed toys?” I replied.

“You know, cats learn those things from their mother. If the mother cat teaches the kittens how to do it, then they’ll chase the mice,” she added helpfully. It always comes back to the mother doesn't it?

Fabulous. So she’s saying I need to scour the alleys looking for a street cat with street smarts, whose mother showed them the finer points of catching and killing rodents? Do you think the people at the MSPCA have the vitaes for the strays in their shelter, filed by personality habits and specialized skills? I’m pretty sure that most cats these days are from the genetic line of the washing-mittens-and-eating-pie type. Meow meow meow.

Perhaps I should just purchase a mouse at the pet store and secretly release it in various cat cages and see what the felines do. A little like an interview or performance evaluation. Chases mouse? Check. Catches mouse? Check. Kills mouse? Nope. Just bats it with paw and licks it. Move on to cat option #2. It’s times like these when it would be helpful if animals could talk, or if those space-age dog collars from the movie UP! were a reality. Then assessing whether a cat was up to the job would simply be a matter of questions.

“So, Tom, tell me about your past work experience.”

Tom: “Well, I used to work down on the west side of town,” he drawls with thick Italian accent, “right behind Jim’s Big Barbeque. To date I’ve captured, killed and disposed of (glances at slash marks on his furry forearm) 253 rodents of all sizes.”

I’d hire him on the spot, that Tom. Even if he was a chain smoker and had a penchant for licking himself.

But you can’t know until you’ve taken the cat home, got the darned thing acclimated to your home, and seen him in action. It’s a huge risk. That, and my husband and I are in a pretty good place. We get along well. We're jovial (mostly). We even have conversations. That this coincides with the death of my other cat two years ago is pure coincidence I'm sure. But I'm a little worried that bringing a new cat into the home would turn our topics of conversation towards, "Did you notice it smells like cat piss downstairs?" or "When's the last time you changed that litter box?" or "There's cat hair all over my workshirts." Am I ready to potentially sacrifice my spousal relationship to appease my germ-a-phobic, controlling, type-A nature?

If I find a new piece of mouse poo I am.

If anyone out there knows of a cat whose mother did her due diligence to the breed and taught the thing how to be a mouser, feel free to contact me. If I like the cat and it works out, I promise to reward you with a special treat: probably something I baked in my kitchen.

Mouse Tales Part Deux

 [If you’re just tuning in, I highly recommend reading the blog below first. (The Clock Struck One.) You don’t have to, but the story is funnier from the beginning. Just sayin’.]

I wake up on day two of my Germ Nightmare, (after having spent the night dreaming that I moved into a dorm room at ASU only to find that I had to slay a Troll, kill the snake that was wrapped around my legs and in my shoes—while I was wearing them—and fight off other hideous monstrosities in order to live there…honestly I have no idea what made me dream about that…) and I gently check in the cupboard to see if there are any rodent carcasses lying about.

Nope. But the bait is gone on one of them. Dammit.

Which gives me no amount of pleasure or comfort knowing that the mice are still running through my cupboards and pilfering the bait off the traps while giving me the finger.

I continue to clean the kitchen, pulling out the oven, disinfecting the sides of the stove where all the food spills, vacuuming behind the appliances checking for more mouse poop, and generally dismantling the kitchen area while trying to purge it of mouse feces. It was a beautiful day.

My husband got home later that evening, checked the traps that were in the cupboard, and we crossed our fingers and said a little prayer that the traps would work this time. (Maybe I was the only one praying come to think of it.)

Around 11:00 p.m. my SIL, BIL, and I were in the kitchen/living room talking when my BIL, who is leaning against the counter and facing the fireplace, starts pointing and shrieking at the wall behind me.

“AHHHHH!! Ahhhhhh!!!”  he yells. He’s yelling and pointing and gagging a little I think, and I’m starting to freak out because I’m not sure what he’s looking at behind me—a couple of glances didn’t reveal anything—and I’m wondering if he’s seeing an otherworldly specter, the grim reaper or maybe Jesus himself, and while he’s still yelling and pointing, I turn around long enough to see it…..

…a mouse that has popped out of a tiny hole between our mantel and the slate bricks of our fireplace and is now running along the fireplace, down onto the floor and into the floorboard heaters in the living room. I’d have rather seen Jesus.

 I’m not sure at what point I found myself sitting on the edge of my hutch with my feet ontop of the couch, but I do recall that I also started yelling for my husband, repeatedly calling his name with terror and immediacy in my voice, and I keep calling and calling and calling him, and I think “Where the hell is that husband of mine…is he outside?” because aren’t husbands supposed to come running when they hear their wife is in distress and screaming their name? Where’s my knight in cotton shorts when I need him?

But no, he isn’t outside, and he comes sauntering, sauntering I tell you, up the stairs and into the living room, like I always yell his name in fits of shock and panic and it’s no big deal that screaming wife who is sitting on the hutch with her feet on the back of the couch because she frequently has fits similar to these and why hurry.

“Did you see a mouse?” he says all casual-like; tones reminiscent of “did you get the mail,” or “pass the salt,” or “have you seen my wallet?” Like we see mice in our house every day. No. Big. Deal.

My husband is not an alarmist by the same measures that I am a germ-a-phobe, which is probably a good checks-and-balances system in our union, but I was kind of hoping that he’d locate the sucker, look for it, capture it, dispose of it, in front of me and before I decided to go to bed that night, just so I could rest peacefully and with the budding illusion that perhaps the only mouse responsible for all that crap in the cupboards was dead. But he didn’t.

He nonchalantly got another mouse trap, baited it with peanut butter, and placed it on the floor in the living room near the baseboard  heater where the thing disappeared.

“Aren’t you going to look for it any more than that?” I asked incredulously.

“Nope,” was his reply.

To say I was crestfallen is an understatement…but whatever I was feeling (a mixture of horror, anger, helplessness to name a few) one thing was certain: you can be damned sure I wasn’t going to be sleeping on the couch—where I had slept the night before because of snoring and company. I took the master bed. If my husband wasn’t going to find the mouse then he could sleep in the same room with it, a few feet away from it, and listen to the trap snap in the middle of the night all by his lonesome. Not me folks.

The next morning I awoke to whispers of good news. My SIL asked me, “Did you hear that we had caught the mouse?”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The one in the cupboard,” she said. “We heard the trap go off while we were talking. I cleaned out your cupboards with bleach and everything.”

“What about the one in the living room?” I inquired.

“I think the mouse we caught in the cupboards was the same one. I think he ran down the heaters and around to the kitchen. I’m sure that’s the only one.”

Now, I think I’d like to marry my SIL. Here is a woman who knows exactly how to lie to me, what illusions to feed me, so I can carry on with living in my house and cooking in my kitchen without fear and panic. She knows that I know there is more than one mouse, and that clearly it wasn’t the one in the living room; she knows I’m no idiot, and yet, she doesn’t make me feel stupid for my phobias, she just lies to me in order to help keep the pathways in my brain moving and not frozen. That, and she cleaned the cupboards with bleach. Because using a flame thrower to get rid of dead mouse germs is just too dangerous and pure acid is simply too strong; but she understands me enough (and she is such a good housekeeper herself) to know that bleach will do the trick and make me feel better. She is a smart, smart woman. My husband could really stand to take a pointer or two from her on how to handle me. Bless her bless her bless her.

I approach the living room couch, where my husband is curled up in blankets, and glance over at the trap that was set on the floor—and there lies dead mouse #2. Feet straight up in the air and still. That’s just how I like my mice….four legs in the air and on their backs. PETA people best stand back, because I’ll argue this with you till my death.

A check of the traps in the garage reveal another dead rodent—to bring the death total to three. And a few days ago, another trap in the garage caught mouse #4. Four dead within four days. There is still a baited trap in the cupboard which hasn’t seen any more action since its first body, but we’re leaving it there (along with a few more in the garage) to make sure we’ve caught all the pooping culprits before boarding up the cupboards and sealing holes. Nothing’s worse than mouse carcass in the walls I’ve been told. I’m happy to take their word for it.

And now? Well, the kitchen is really, really clean. During this event I purged many cupboard items I didn’t need, didn’t use, and simply served to collect rodent crap. I’ve cleaned behind my stove as well as the sides of the stove. I’ve vacuumed above my oven, and next to my fridge. Oh, and I get to buy a new toaster. Whoop Whoop. I may never store my cookie sheets and baking pans under the stove again (you can’t properly seal up a stove drawer) and there is a good chance that the plastic bin that currently houses those objects will become our newest piece of kitchen furniture. I’m okay with that. All I know is that the next mouse I see better be dead, or on TV being chased by an idiot cat.

Vacuuming the Lawn

 When it comes to being a mother, I’ve noted my mediocre status, but the truth of it is that I’m really mediocre across the board, which includes my status as wife.

When my husband married me, I think he had little idea of how deep my feministic tendencies ran, and I sometimes believe he’s spent the last 11 years of our marriage continually being blown away by all the things that I don’t or won’t do. It’s not because I can’t do them, just because I don’t want to do them. Or if you start expecting me to do something. Woe to the person who expects me to perform a duty simply because it’s viewed as women’s work. One thing I do not do is iron his clothes. On occasion (to be nice) I will press a shirt or pair of slacks, but 90% of the time, his wardrobe is up to him. I buy his clothes. I wash and dry his clothes. I fold and put away his clothes. He can iron them.

Another thing I did not do (up until three weeks ago) was mow the lawn. My feminism may run deep, but it also runs along my well-worn mental paths, namely, that women do not a) mow the lawn b) take out the trash c) fix anything that flushes or has a drain clogged with hairy debris. Those are men’s jobs. In addition to being mediocre, I understand this makes me a slight hypocrite. I’m okay with that.

The idea of females mowing the lawn wasn’t even on the radar until we moved back East, where plenty of women can lay witness to pushing a mower, their hair pulled up in a pony-bun. Back in Arizona, women do not mow the lawn. Heck, most men don’t mow the lawn, preferring to hire a landscaping crew who may or may not have correct documentation, and I can tell you not many people care, as long as they aren’t the ones cutting their grass in 110-degree weather. The exception to this is my brother-in-law who not only mows his lawn, but frequently enough that my nephew’s favorite toys are kid sized “mow-ahs and trim-ahs.” (The accent giving testimony to his four-year-old-age, not any East Coast dialects). He’s even been known to use empty wrapping paper tubes, the vacuum hose, and other long objects to pretend he’s mowing and trimming things in the house. (My nephew, not my brother-in-law.)

Another reason people don’t mow in Arizona, is that most front and back yard areas have gone the way of xeriscaping, in order to save precious water in the land of desert drought. If grass does make an appearance, it’s usually a pubic-sized patch of green surrounded by thighs of flesh toned rocks, just so you can claim you have a “lawn,” which could easily be maintained with a good sharp beard trimmer. No large lawn mowers necessary.

My husband will not admit this, but there is a little part of him that coveted those  mower-pushing women, if only for the idea of how much time it would free up for him to do other items on my list. Three or four weeks ago, the to-do list was long and in my usual Controlling Woman state, I was eager to have the items crossed off. I offered to mow the lawn for the first time.

I realize now what a mistake this was, and am reminded of the time I was five and my mother asked me with bubbly excitement, “Do you want to help me do the dishes!?” in her sing-songy voice. What? Is my mother inviting me to do the dishes with her? Finally?

“Yes, Yes!” I cried with glee. “I bet I can do them all by myself!”

Well, you know the rest of the story. That one brief moment of virgin excitement has been followed by a lifetime of mundane dish washing, all because I thought I was being invited to do something cool. After about  twice, you realize what an idiot you were and the next time someone asks you if you want to learn how to do something else (cook scrambled eggs, run the washer, hem some pants) it’s best to say no thanks and get the hell out of there.

My husband was outside while I mowed the lawn for the first time which I was grateful for, namely because I am slightly afraid of the lawn mower. This may stem from the fact that as a kid I wasn’t allowed to be outside while my father mowed the lawn in case he hit a rock, and that rock went smashing into my head, took out my shins, or worse yet, sucked up one of my appendages. Mowers are scary business, don’t you realize, and I never understood why things like these never happened to my father, but apparently it was an adult thing. I could play outside when he  finished.

You can imagine my apprehension then, at finally using a Husqvarna 6.5 horsepower bright orange mower, that could in theory, eat me. Or send rocks flying at my dry, hairy legs, or chew my hand off. But I sucked it up in true I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-fashion and mowed the entire lawn, which is no small feat. How hard could it be really? If I can push a vacuum (however infrequently) surely I can push a mower. They can’t be that different.

My husband said I did a fabulous job. What’s he going to say? That I missed a spot? Because he knows, just like my mother knew when I was five, that when you want people to add some skill to their repertoire that invariably benefits you, you do not criticize on the first go-round. Or the fifth. You do not point out where they f’ed up the lawn, the spots they missed, or the ridiculous mow patterns in the grass. You pat that person on the back, give them a big hug and kiss, and say, “Damn the yard looks great!”

Today I mowed the lawn for the second time by myself, my husband being at work. The grass was really long, and since he started a new job yesterday, I’m trying to make his week as easy for him as I can. I actually had to pull-start it by myself this time, which is another thing to check off my list of “man jobs that I can perform.” It’s clear I’m still an amateur grass mower, because I haven’t figured out an efficient route around our yard. I start off at the outside, mowing along the border, figuring I’ll loop the whole thing, but then our trees and bushes get in the way, and I start cutting down the middle. In inevitably this leaves me walking back and forth in a two foot square once I get to the middle of the section, which is difficult since I’m pushing a mower twice that size. So I figure that I’ll try to use the mower like a vacuum, pushing it back and forth to get the last few long grass hairs. Or to get under the bushes and around trees. Or to mow beneath the slide and ladder on the playset.

I have come to realize that mowing is like vacuuming only when you look at it from a pushing perspective; a lawn mower doesn’t pull back very easily, (unlike the vacuum) and even less easily when you keep forgetting to ungrip the forward moving wheels. I’m sure my neighbors looked out the window at me today and had a hearty laugh. “Look honey, there’s Rachel. Trying to vacuum the grass again. She’s such an idiot.” And though I finished mowing the front and back lawn in two hours, when I looked at my handiwork from the porch and front window, the yard leaves a little to be desired. Many homeowners on our street mow their lawn in pretty diagonal stripes, reminiscent of ball fields and golf courses. But one side of my lawn looks like the Mother Ship landed; concentric circles leading to nowhere, and the other side reflects curvy lines and stripes, looking like I chased a rabid animal across the lawn. I also avoided the close edges of all the mulch beds and didn’t even go near the rock path in the backyard because I’m scared of the blades cutting out or braking altogether. Just last week my husband bent the mower blade after running over a rock from the path…and while it’s only a $20 fix, the cost to counsel me from the resulting post traumatic stress just wouldn’t be worth it.

My husband came home from work tonight with a big grin on his face, muttering thanks and words like “Mom’s the best.” Honestly, heat notwithstanding today, I didn't really mind mowing the lawn. I’d rather do that than clean toilets, pick up the house, or wash laundry. (Which is evidenced by how my house looks today.) Just as long as my husband doesn’t start expecting it. He needs to have a few things to do around here just so he feels needed and useful. But if he ever asks me in a sing-songy voice if I want to help him change the oil, just in case, you know, the oil needs to be changed and he’s out of town, I’m going to say no thanks, and get the hell out of there. Changing the oil is a man’s job.

Peaks and Potholes: Being 40 with a Sexual Catch-22

I recently celebrated my 40th birthday. I was not worried about turning the big 4-0 as I have never really been that concerned about my age. Through the years I have not been overly anxious about my changing face (what are a few wrinkles?), my sagging skin (so I am not as firm as I used to be), my grey hair (that’s what a salon is for), or my post baby body (which is a whole other blog all together). I am young at heart, still love to have fun and I basically feel like I am in my twenties. I can manage the slight aches (that is what Motrin is for) and the rising blood pressure (fine, I will exercise more), and the increase in doctors appointments for myself (seriously, a mammogram EVERY year?). Overall I am thinking this aging thing is not so bad.

I have been married to Ted for almost 12 years (which is probably encouraging my rising blood pressure). We have 4 children, 8 pets, 2 full time jobs and a house that is never clean enough. We have our struggles and certainly our bad moments, but we are lucky to be a couple who truly like and enjoy each other’s company. Don’t get me wrong, there are many days I would happily throw him off the roof, but still, he is my favorite person on earth. Among this crazy life we have traversed the ups and downs of an intimate relationship, but generally our life between the sheets has been satisfying for both of us, every time (a little shout out of appreciation there to my darling husband for all his efforts). I was cruising happily along through the years (okay, mostly happy), with my husband, my family, my friends, and my house. Unfortunately my hormones had other plans, big plans, just for me. 

As I approached and have now reached my 4th decade of life I have finally hit my sexual peak. What used to take my body half an hour to achieve between the sheets is easily achieved in mere minutes (if that) and is generally more intense and pleasurable. I even have a full appreciation for that elusive myth of “multiple” achievements at one time (maybe there is a GOD). I have heard it before: men peak in their early 20’s and for women it’s a bit later. For me it was the second trimester of each of my pregnancies (thank you hormones!) and around 38 1/2 years old. Finally, something to REALLY appreciate as I age. 

Everything was bumping along smoothly until my hormones drove me straight into a pothole in October of 2009, when I actually hit the big 4-0. Literally in a weekend I changed from being a sex goddess of happiness (my husband is rolling his eyes now, but I can dream) to a raving bitch on a roller coaster of moodiness, cramping and all out grouchiness. The hormones of my 40-year old body are strikingly similar to my pregnancy hormones, and I cringe just remembering any one of the many incidents during those combined 40 months of fun. On top of my delightful personality change, my body (of which I have been oh so proud) began to betray me as well. My cycle changed and the period I have been able to set my watch by for over 25 years is suddenly all out of whack. The PMS and need for feminine hygiene products lasts 3-4 weeks at a time. No more of the simple five day period, oh no, now it is more like there are only 5 days in a month without it!!! The general result of this is that I am hiding Tampax in every spot imaginable and running to the bathroom like a 15-year old girl. Because my hormones are so out of control, I am in a constant state of PMS. Not just your run of the mill, might-be-a-bit-moody-for-a-day-or-two, but all out psycho-bitch PMS. Oh, excellent! 

While I am a lunatic, I am able to control the rollercoaster of my quickly shifting moods at work, with my friends, and (mostly) with the children. The only person with whom I let my crazy flag fly is my husband. It just so happens he is also the only person I am intimate with. (And he with me, right? Right!) My husband is the type of guy for whom being intimate  is not just about his body, but also about his head. He is always most enthusiastic when we are emotionally connected. He finds romance coupled with intimacy very erotic.  I don’t disagree with this. I am happy to feel the power of our love rush through my head, but currently I’m much more interested in scratching the itch. “Yes, I know I have bitched at you all weekend. Now shut up and take your clothes off!”

This irony of my responsive body and its inevitable hormonal betrayal, reminds me of when I had given birth to our first baby. A couple of days had gone by and my milk had come in. My chest was huge. I mean, I had porn star, rock hard, gorgeously enormous boobs. However, they were too tender to touch and the nipples were not quite what they used to be due to the cracking and bleeding, and  my husband learned it is a cruel, cruel world. Well, here we are again. Suddenly my body is very responsive to his every touch and I would be happy to engage in an afternoon delight every day (seriously honey, 3 of them are at school and the baby is asleep…we have at least a half an hour!). However, I am so crabby he is in fear of getting too close as he is not 100% sure that I’m not part black widow. As a result, he does not want to be intimate with me, which pisses me off, makes me even more crabby (if you can believe it), which in turn makes him  want to be intimate with me even less. And the cycle continues.  

I understand how difficult I can be to live with, truly I do. I work really hard to control it and remain calm, even pleasant. I have learned that my husband does not find it sexy when I eat cookie dough for dinner. If I avoid cleaning the house and all of my daily motherly responsibilities so I can beat another level of Wii: Super Mario Brothers or watch a four-hour marathon of Grey’s Anatomy, Ted does not see this as attractive or cute. He does not find it a turn on to come home and discover that my Facebook status reads something like, “I am unfit for human company,” (as it did recently). I don’t really see why that should diminish his desire to have lots of fun,  fast sex with me. I mean, orgasms feel really good, it would be worth it!

My mother tells me she experienced peri-menopause  from age 40 to 50, and it appears my system is acting suspiciously as hers did. I have not yet mentioned that to Ted though, as our marriage barely survived the four pregnancies. By my calculations, 10 years of this would be 120 months of these rogue hormones, and I am pretty sure my husband may commit a felony to ensure he’d be incarcerated for the next decade. 

Fortunately, at this point in our life together I am not pregnant. I can take medicine or maybe ask for an endometrial ablation (that’s right, I would prefer to sear the crap out of my uterine lining with boiling hot water than continue on this hormonal marathon). I am done with my uterus and I would be quite happy to have it stop all its shedding. The words barren, dried out, and empty have never sounded so good and they cheer me slightly as I dream about returning to my sexual peak of 38 1/2 and the cheery, dynamic housewife that I was—leaving this cranky, miserable bitch behind.

My Head or Theirs: Somebody's is About Ready to Roll

We all know how difficult it is to live with other people. If you are a mother, or are married, you understand that there is only so much you can do to pick up, clean, and establish organizational protocol when the people you live with refuse to acknowledge the systems that are set in place. And since being a family member is not an elected, appointed, or salaried position, there is not much recourse available to us in curbing other's behavior. There are days I'd really like to doc my kid's paycheck, but they don't get one. Not even an allowance. Plenty of hours in my lifetime have been devoted to asking my husband (yet again) to please do, well... whatever it is at the time that is bugging me. Nagging is not working with any of them. Yelling is even less effective. So I figured I'd vent publicly a little; hoping that some of you out there will reach a hand out to me, commiserate about our pet peeves, and help me by sharing about the things in your own home that remain unchanged, because no one bothers to listen to you.

So, hop on the tram with me today ladies and gentlemen. Keep all arms and legs inside the moving vehicle at all times. Fasten your helmet, and let's go.

Stop #1: The Toilet Paper Roll

As we slow to a halt, please look over to the left of the picture, noticing the brand new roll of toilet paper ladies and gentlemen. Now look over towards your right where you can see the empty roll of toilet paper visibly displayed on the tile wall.  The new location for our family's butt tissue is now on the back of the toilet, on the floor near the toilet, or on the sink beside the toilet, but never, ever on the toilet paper roll holder where it belongs. In fact, the empty cardboard tube has been there for approximately three weeks. We have gone through 5 rolls of toilet paper since this last one ran out, and no one seems capable of squishing in the spring action rod to remove the old one. I'm thinking of hot gluing on some gems and sequins and simply calling it a bathroom decoration. Or perhaps I could hang a small hand towel there. But that too would probably end up on the floor. 

Stop #2: The Laundry With a Mind of it's Own

My husband may be upset with me for this stop folks, but as he doesn't read my blog too frequently, if you don't tell him, I won't either. Please observe the big-ass yellow laundry hamper rising stately above the laundry on the floor. I'll admit my husband did not play basketball as a youth, but he did play baseball, leading me to believe he is capable of throwing something in a certain direction and having it land where he would desire. It is fact that we have had this laundry basket since we have been married and that it originally had a lid. In the first few years of our marriage his dirty clothes would find themselves piled on top of the laundry basket, but never actually inside it. To make things easier for my husband (because I am incredibly accommodating), I removed the lid which now lives with the dust and lint balls on the closet floor. Regardless of my efforts, his clothes seem to end up on the floor next to the laundry, but again, never inside the laundry hamper, leading me to believe that the laundry is crawling out of it on it's own accord.

Stop #3: The Empty Food Boxes Left for Posterity

I'm pretty sure I know who the culprits are for this tricky act. Yes, the very same kids that eat these delicious, non-organic, full of sugar, snacks seem to have no problem telling me we are out of a particular food item, but do have a problem throwing the empty boxes away. I have one pantry. It is very small. Space matters. In fact, as a lesson I think I'm going to remove all the food from all the packages, so it just looks like we have things to eat. Then when they complain we are out of something, I'll simply reply, "No, I'm pretty sure I saw the box in the cupboard. Look again." 

Stop #4: The Lonely Amish Pegs

Look carefully ladies and gentlemen or you might miss this one. If you'll look at the top of the picture you'll notice a row of very nicely painted Amish peg wall hooks. You might be focusing on how cool that checkerboard stencil is, or how craftily the decorator made it look worn by sanding the edges and giving it a coat of stain. Do not be fooled! It too serves a purpose! If you look at the bottom of the photo, what do you find? Yes Yes!! Two jackets and a book bag in desperate need of some hooks! How ever will we solve this issue? Could it be, that the owner of this house, (the one with female anatomy) personally hung this set of hooks in this specific place, so as to combat her family's propensity to pile crap at the bottom of the stairs after they return home from school, on the weekends, and all days ending in 'y' ? Are you aware, tram riders, that this woman was also chided by her husband for hanging these hooks because clearly, "no one uses them"? Sigh. I've got it on good authority that after she hung these pegs, she gave the in-service to the family (and neighbor kids) who all (still) blatantly disregard the family operations manual. A manager can only take so much insubordination before someone gets the boot.

Stop #5: Toothpaste Nastiness

Tighten your seatbelts for this one folks. It's the best stop of the bunch. This lovely picture (exposure issues notwithstanding), is what the Lady of the household deals with every evening when she tries to keep her pearly whites, pearly white. I have tried every type of toothpaste top imaginable. Screw on lids stop screwing on about day two of tube use, the lid falls onto the floor repeatedly, and eventually is lost all together, allowing the toothpaste to crust it's way around the hole eventually clogging altogether. The flip top lids are no better (as evidenced above) and the most beautiful part of this pic is the little black hair that's stuck to the ice blue nastiness. I find myself wiping these tubes clean more often than I wipe my three year old, which is pretty often. I have also attempted to use the toothpaste with the lid that is also the base for standing, but you can imagine how that ends up. All I have to say, is that if you come visit, you need to bring your own. Either that or bring some floss, because there is hair in ours, and your going to need it.

I hope everyone enjoyed your trip through my world. If you live in similar circumstances, I'd love to hear about it. You can even post pics to the East Coast Musings Fan Page on Facebook if you're so inclined. I'd love to know I'm not the only family manager who has to deal with these kinds of people.

The Search for a Better Beer

I’m taking a detour for a moment to explain to my reading public just what exactly entitles me to feature and rate beers over in my sidebar. I’m just a mom after all, and a mediocre one at that, so what qualifications do I have that help my beer research?

Well, none to be exact. No beer-drinking college degree to speak of, no past membership in any sorority where attending frat keggers was part of paying dues, no alcoholic tendencies that started my drinking at the ripe old age of eleven. I’m sorry to say that I’m just your average mother who enjoys a good beer while grilling (or watching the neighborhood children…just kidding guys) and who also likes to share the beer experience with my husband. It’s nice to have him say, “Can I get you a beer?” and actually respond with “Yes” versus, “You know I hate beer. Why don’t you ever offer to pour me a glass of wine?” Plus standing around a bunch of guys with a beer in your hand automatically makes you a cool wife. Who doesn’t want to be a cool wife?

My husband’s beer sampling years started much earlier than mine, which means if it’s called beer, he’s probably tried it. I learned long ago that his beer choices would not be my beer choices. He’ll drink everything from extremely bitter beers to Coors Lite. This required me to venture off  to the liquor store on my own and I’ve been sampling different ones ever since. I found out that I’m a true lover of unfiltered wheats.

But trying to sample and feature different beers everyday has proven to be a tad difficult. First of all, my local packie (package store for those of you residing in the West) does sell single beers, but most of which I’ve tried. I’m scared to commit to a six-pack in case I hate it, plus the stock I’d accumulate buying six at a time just to sample a different one everyday, would make everyone in my house an alcoholic since I’d need to be pouring it on the kid’s Cherrios and feeding it to the plants just to get rid of it all. And that’s definitely a buzz-kill.

The other day I found myself in a town adjacent to mine and needed a few different beers—I figured I’d try my luck at a different packie. You know, spice it up a bit. My three-year- old daughter had fallen asleep in the backseat (of course) and being the multi-tasker that I am, I decided to stop for beer anyway. So I shelp my sleeping daughter over my shoulder, grab my mom purse, and head into the packie at around 1:30 in the afternoon.

I finally spy the cooler along the wall, which is visibly buried behind cases of liquor stacked 8 feet high, and find the one-man-wide corridor that follows the beer case. I make my way to the single beer section hoping to find a treasure trove of beer I have yet to sample.

Well, the good news is that if you’re really thirsty, there are a lot of 22-ounce beer choices. Quite a few from Wachusett Brewery, and many of the 12 ounce beers I’ve tried. Bud Light. Budweiser. Coors Light. Boring.

I can’t decide, and unlike my local packie, some young twenty-something hot guy did not come up to me within 9.7 seconds of my entrance and ask if I needed any help. And this time I was shleping a sweaty sleeping kid. So with one hand I’m holding my daughter to my body, and with the other I’m trying to decide what I should pick, noticing of course that there are no prices on the bottles or posted on those little plastic signs that always fall off the shelving. I’m holding open the cooler door with my mother-butt and grabbing bottles of beer; two 22-ouncers of Wachusett IPA (different varieties), and the only 12-ounce beer I hadn’t tried, a Dogfish Head 120 minute IPA. Apparently it was an IPA kind of afternoon.

Now I’m wrestling three bottles of cold beer with one hand and a wrist while my daughter is STILL sleeping, and trying to avert the gazes of the two people in line ahead of me who are looking at me with a mixture of pity and admonishment since I’m clearly buying 58 ounces of beer for my lunch at 1:00 in the afternoon while I drive around in my mom van. I wish I could have come up with something witty at the time, like “After the beer she had earlier wears off, she’s going to need another..” while nodding at my sleeping daughter, but I refrained. I just needed to get out of there.

The clerk rings up the total and pronounces, “That’ll be $19.38 please.”

Cough. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, thinking he said $19.38.

“19.38,” he replies again, annoyed with the alcoholic mom and victim daughter.

“How much are the beers?” I ask, now branding myself broke, cheap, and alcoholic.

 “Well, a couple are about 5 or 6 bucks,” he tells me, barely glancing over the receipt. And there are people behind me in line. Fabulous.

I need the beers to review. It’s hot outside, my daughter is sleeping, and I’m annoyed with the register guy, so I pay the man and head outside to inspect the receipt. Besides, at this point I know I’m writing a blog about it, which is at least $19.00 worth of material.

Wachusett 22 California IP 22 oz………………$4.70.

Wachusett 22  Larry 22 oz……………………...$5.45.

Dogfish Head 120 Minute IP 12 oz…………….$7.95.

$7.95? for a 12 ounce beer? Are you telling me I only paid $2.20 more for 44 ounces of beer, than I did for 12 ounces of stuff I’ve never tried?

Let me tell you, if I am going to pay $8 bucks for a bottle of beer, not only had it better be FABULOUS beer, but I expect something to go with it. Like a ball game in stadium seats. And peanuts. Or a comedy show of blue collar proportions. During events like those I’m happy to fork over $8 bucks and a lung for a drink, but at 1:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, I’m feeling a little fleeced. Well, I think, this crap better slide down like maple syrup on a stack of warm pancakes.

I returned home and filled my husband in on the day’s journey while tending the chicken on the grill. I told him what I bought, and he replied, “Why all IPA’s? You don’t like IPA’s. They’re high octane.”

Fabulous. Where the hell was he at 1:00 in the afternoon when I needed advising? Where the hell was anyone? Why didn’t I remember I don’t like IPA’s?

I went upstairs to crack the 12 ouncer, thinking I could blog about it later in the evening, removed the cap and took a looonnnggg swill.

And about threw up. No kidding.

At this point I decided to read the bottle, where is states that not only is this beer good now, but it also gets better as it ages, like, for a year or more. Maybe I should have done a little more bottle reading before purchasing because any beer that can age like wine probably isn’t really even a beer.

I have never, in my life, tasted a beer that left me feeling like I needed to Magic Erase my tongue; that I would have rather sucked the label off glue and all than drink another swallow of that liquid. What’s a mediocre, beer-drinking, fleeced mother to do when she’s holding $8 bucks of crap in her hand? That’s right. Go give it to the husband.

I handed him the bottle as he’s asking, “So, is it good?” I shake my head and tell him to try it. He takes a loonngg swig and also coughs while swallowing. “Wow.” He says. “That’s potent stuff.”

I’ll flash to the end for you. He had one more sip trying to take one for the team since we forked over $8 dollars, but after that it went back into the freezer where it turned into an adult Flavor Ice and I threw it away. The fact that not even my husband would finish it speaks volumes. When it comes to beer he’s like Mikey—he’ll drink anything. Except that.

After the disappointing Dogfish episode, my husband broke open the Wachusett California IPA figuring the only place to go was up. That one was surely better than the first, but that’s a little like saying castor oil tastes better than sludgy motor oil. My husband was right, I didn’t care for the California IPA either—too bitter for me—so my husband selflessly drank that one (he enjoyed it I think) and I grabbed my old standby, Sam’s Summer, which of course I can drink like a soda. We decided to let the Wachusett Larry simmer awhile in the fridge because honestly, I’m not ready to admit an 0 for 3 beer count with a $20 dollar price tag.

If you’re a big fan of Dogfish Head 120 minute IPA, I’d love to hear about why you like it and also how long you’ve smoked. If you work for the Dogfish Head company, I’m not trying to slander you, but clearly do not understand why anyone would brew something that heinous. Maybe you could enlighten me. The unqualified beer critique that I am.

The Fun-Sucker: Yes, It's a Blog From Ted

“Don’t worry about a deadline. I just want you to have fun with it.” That was Rachel’s response to my query of exactly when she wanted my last blog entry. “Just have fun with it.”

Oh, Rachel. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. If only it were that easy. If only anything for me were that easy. Alas, nothing ever is, because I have the super-human-like ability to suck every last ounce of fun out of anything. I like to think of it as the mental equivalent of overcooking broccoli. What starts out as a delicious and dark green vegetable winds up a colorless, flavorless mound of something that my guinea pigs refuse to even nibble on. That is exactly what happens to “fun” once it meets my brain.

Let me clarify: it is not a matter of not being able to have fun. I can do that, especially when a couple of beers are thrown in. That is not my issue. Instead, my problem is that I am not “in the moment” for anything because I am constantly anticipating what is coming next. For example, while everybody else is enjoying the beauty of the beach on a sunny summer afternoon, I am anticipating how I am going to arrange the various beach items in the wagon to ensure the most efficient method of getting everything back to the car. On Christmas morning, when the kids are tearing off the wrapping from their presents, I basically have a game of Tetris playing in my head as I anticipate how to get all of that cardboard to fit into our one recycle bin that is allotted to us from our town.

Some (read: my wife) would call me an anal-retentive freak. Others may call me borderline-autistic, someone who could easily pull up a stool and join Rain Man in a hand at the blackjack tables. I, however, like to refer to myself as a “planner.” So, in my organized manner, let me go over the list of those for whom I plan:

1. obviously, for myself
2. for my kids, who are usually grateful that I have not forgotten any of the pivotal pieces of sporting equipment for their latest activity
3. for my wife, who is not nearly as grateful and repeatedly questions in a highly-sarcastic manner how she ever did anything with me not telling her how to go about each and every detail. And…
4. for fictional characters in movies

You were probably following me up until that last response. I am not one of those film geeks who is seeking out inconsistencies in plot or costume design. That is so not the case for me that I can’t even think of an example to include here (and I really don’t want to ever have to do a Google search for anything that starts with the phrase “Star Trek episodes.”) Also, I am not one of those movie-goers who is upset with the characters for making foolish decisions. On the contrary, I am usually thinking that if that woman is stupid enough to go into the basement when she knows that she is being chased by a homicidal maniac, then she fully deserves to be disemboweled.

Rather, I am the individual who happily pays a small fortune for admission and popcorn, and then sits in the darkened movie theatre unnecessarily obsessing over the logistics of each scene. For example, I can easily become fixated on any romantic scene in a movie that involves candles. The character in the movie is never using just one or two candles—to fully set the mood they have typically lit at least fifty candles. The sight of this overloads my brain with all of the practical elements that involve such an act. First of all, it takes a whole lot of time to light that many candles. Secondly, these are never candles that have been previously used, saving the individual from having to use a butter knife to dig out the remnants of the wick from the wax in order to light it again. No, these are pristine candles, which makes me question if the character has a closet full of dozens and dozens of new candles for this very purpose. These are inevitably not cheap candles from the Christmas Tree Shop. These appear to be high quality candles from the likes of Pottery Barn, where candles cost a minimum of $25 each. $25 per candle multiplied by 50 candles totals $1,250. That’s a good chunk of change I am sure could be spent on more practical matters. Wasn’t the person in an earlier scene complaining about their son having a rare bone disease and how they couldn’t afford the proper medical treatment? Hey, lady: Maybe your kid could get healthy if you stopped dropping a fortieth of your income on freakin’ candles! Come on, where are your priorities??? And speaking of practical matters, who really wants to spend their post-coital moments walking around the house extinguishing fifty candles? I don’t care how meticulous you are, with that many lit items in your home, you are bound to forget at least one. And then what? You are wakened in the middle of the night by the smoke detector, and trust me—that is never, ever romantic.

“But Ted, that’s not the point of the movie!”

I know! But I...just...can’t stop...myself...And again my brain is back on the candles. If the characters actually summon the energy to get up to blow out all of these candles, then I hope that they take an extra minute to make a trip to the bathroom before they return to bed. These characters just made mad, passionate love And look at what they are doing immediately following that act: choosing to fall asleep in one another’s arms. I have fathered four children and have thus been sexually active at least four times in my life. Since I can speak from that vast experience, I have learned that there is usually some clean-up involved after such acts. Yet these characters just lay there, taunting me in their refusal to even glance at the box of tissues clearly displayed right there on the nightstand. Hell, I would be happy if they just picked up the discarded tee shirt from the floor and used that to freshen up with. Please, I beg of you, do something, anything that will ultimately prevent you from waking up after a few hours of sleep and finding yourselves stuck to one another. And don’t even get me started on the female’s increased chances of developing a urinary tract infection if she chooses not to frequent the loo. (I sure hope that she likes cranberry juice, because obviously that is all she will be drinking for the next few days.)

I would love to tell you that I am exaggerating all of this for comedic effect. Sadly, it’s not the case. This unfortunately, is just the way my mind works and I need to accept it. I should get used to the fact that I will continue to almost always be on time for absolutely everything (and if I’m not, there is usually a damned good reason, i.e. alien abduction, anthrax attack, etc.). And I need to get accustomed to the fact that while everybody else is captivated by the interplay between Batman and The Joker, I will continue to be the lone individual obsessing over who is responsible for changing the oil in the Batmobile.