Looking Glass Houses

About this blog. . .

2009-06-27T06:08:00.000-07:00

Back in 2005 I started blogging stories about my life--from growing up with my little sister after our parents had died, to being a divorced mom raising two kids of my own, to finally finding love after 40 and moving to the west coast.

The stories are mostly funny, a couple are a little sad, and all of them are very personal. I met a lot of lovely people through this blog and had many laughs here. Even though I haven't written new entries in a long time, Looking Glass Houses is still special to me and will remain here.

If you're looking for me these days you can reach me at www.junokughler.com where I am usually working on my newest passion--pencil painting.

Thanks for stopping by. Juno

A Magical Childhood

2005-09-14T00:08:00.000-07:00

A photo collage collection for my sister Iris, who still remembers. . .

Strange things happen to children who lose their mother at an early age.

They gain the gift of magic.

Any fairy tale will back me up on this. Look at Cinderella, Snow White, Vassalisa, or even the Goose Girl. It was the magic left to them by their mothers that allowed them to overcome the horrors and adversity they faced in their lives. It was the magic that protected them until they could unfold into the strong and graceful women they truly were.

So when our mother died, it was only natural that the magic would come to my sister and I.

We never had to think about it really. We just knew.

And the magic was never stronger than when we shared our dreams . . .

Each night the snowy owl would appear at our window, ready to take us to the in-between world, the place where "let's pretend" becomes reality. . .

We ran with the wild ponies in sunlight meadows, strong and untamed . . .

We searched for frog princes and played with the fairy folk in the woods. . .

We sang mermaid songs and hid among the water lilies, splashing in the cool water of our secret garden. . .

We made a nest out of ivy, and spent a lazy afternoon nibbling on acorns and sipping honeysuckle blossoms. . .

We chased fireflies in the twilight and danced with the mysterious King of Cats. . .

We called on the Greek gods and they answered. They kissed us, cuddled us, and delighted in our wild games . . .

We looked for the Mother in all her forms and dreamed of one day becoming Queen of the May . . .

The whistle of the trains tugged at our imaginations. We whispered our secret plan to become hobos, hopping boxcars from one town to the next. . .

To combat the scary times, we created friends to come rescue us. Jane and the hippies would appear, laughing, to gather us up and take us on a new adventure. . .

.

Why Moms Hate to Shop with Kids

2005-09-05T15:42:00.000-07:00

I pulled back the dressing room curtain. "You don't happen to have these jeans with a 36" inseam do you?" I asked hopefully.

The attendant shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. The longest we carry is 32."

I sighed. "Figures."

I hate shopping for clothes. I'm so unproportioned. My legs end where most girls' waists begin.

My son cocked his head, considering. "Those look nice mom."

I looked ruefully at my ankles. "If I wanted to go puddle-jumping maybe."

He giggled.

"Be right back." I disappeared into the dressing room.

Brian sat down on the bench outside the door, swinging his legs.

"I bet if you had beds in these dressing rooms, you'd sell a lot more jeans," he told the attendant.

The woman looked puzzled. "Why?"

Brian shrugged. "So people can lie down to zip up their pants. That's what my mom does."

"Brian!" I growled warningly from behind the curtain.

"She's not my real mother, you know" he continued conversationally.

"Really." The clerk smiled at him.

"Nope. She's not. My real mother is Tina. She's the queen of Mars, and she only wears purple polka dot dresses."

"Is that a fact?"

Brian nodded. He leaned forward confidentially. "You see there was a big war on Mars so my mom sent me to Earth in a rocketship to protect me. She's going to send for me later."

"I see." The woman sounded amused.

"Wanna see the scar on my chin from when I fell down and cut it open? The doctor had to use six stitches."

"Wow! Did it hurt a lot?"

"Yeah. My mom and my sister had to sit on me to hold me down so the doctor could sew it up. It's okay now though."

"Well, I'm glad it's all better," said the clerk kindly.

"Me too. I don't like hospitals much. Mom almost had to take her best friend to the rug burn unit last night--"

I threw back the curtain and grabbed my son firmly by the hand.

"Out. Now."

Brian grinned up at me and waved goodbye to the attendant.

"That's quite a boy you have there," she said , smiling.

"Yeah," I told her grimly. "I get that a lot."

Dating and The Single Mom

2005-09-04T14:29:00.000-07:00

Dating is more involved when you're a single mom. You tend to be a lot more cautious and very selective about whom you bring into your family circle. Then, of course, the man has have the patience and humor to survive the pre-date child interview:

"So," Brian said seriously. "You want to take out our mom?"

"Yes," Paul looked amused. "I thought I'd take her out to dinner tonight if that's okay with you."

"Where are you taking her?" Amber asked.

"Sweet Baba's--it's a gourmet pizza restaurant that just opened."

"Well she does like pizza," Brian offered helpfully. "But I think she likes Chucky Cheese better. They have games and stuff too. Only last time we were there she got stuck in the ball tent and the people had to pull her out."

"That's cause you were hiding under the balls, and she got worried," Amber told her brother. "She was scared you couldn't breathe."

Paul laughed.

"Can you cook?" Brian asked curiously.

"I can cook a little. I make great hamburgers, and I've been known to make some killer chocolate chip cookies."

"Mom doesn't cook very well," Amber confided. "Sometimes when we go to parties she buys cookies or cake from the store and wraps them in aluminum foil and pretends she baked them."

Brian made a face. "Yeah. And she's always trying to make us eat healthy stuff like whole wheat bread or Toe Food."

"It's not Toe Food. It's tofu."

"Whatever. It's gross."

They sat quietly for a minute.

"Do you think our mom's pretty?" Amber asked.

"I think she's very pretty."

"She gets weird about that sometimes. Thinking she's fat and all. She's already changed dresses three times tonight."

"Yes," Brian nodded wisely. "She didn't like the blue one because she said it made her look lopsided."

"Brian!"

"Well she did!"

Amber shook her head. "Mom's going to kill you," Amber told her brother. "You know that right?"

.

Vampire Juno

2005-09-02T14:30:00.000-07:00

When I was about eight-years-old, I had my little sister convinced I was a vampire. It was during my Barnabas Collins period. I used to sneak into the den every day after school to watch Dark Shadows, the popular monster soap opera. If my aunt had ever caught me I would have been beaten within an inch of my life. I didn't care though. I was addicted.

It was October, and I had gotten a pair of plastic vampire teeth from the Halloween party we had at school. When I got home I put them in and practiced my best vampiric hiss in front of the mirror, opening my eyes wide and baring my teeth--just like I had seen Barnabas do a milllion times. It looked amazing. Very real. Excellent. Pocketing the teeth, I went off in search of my little sister.

Iris was sitting on the floor of her bedroom, dressing her Malibu Barbie. I settled into the corner and pretended to read. She ignored me. Pulling my face into the most mournful expression I could think of, I sighed dramatically. I peered over the top of my book at my sister. She was brushing Barbie's hair into a ponytail. This was going to require more drastic measures.

I let out a strangled sob and hid my face in my book. Iris looked up, startled.

"What's wrong?"

My lip trembled bravely. "Nothing."

That got her attention. We always told each other everything. "Come on, Juno. Tell me."

"I can't!" I told her, blinking back real tears. "It's just too awful. If anyone ever found out . . ."

She scooted across the floor and put her arms around me. "I won't tell," she promised. "Really I won't."

Taking a deep breath, I looked her in the eye. "I'm a vampire."

My sister punched me in the arm. Hard.

"OW!!!!!"

"That's for making me all worried. You're just mean!" She tossed her head and went back to her Barbie.

"But I really AM a vampire," I wailed piteously. "I am so scared, Iris! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I want to be a bloodsucking monster with an insatiable thirst, always afraid I am going to destroy the ones I love?" Barnabas had made that speech just last week.

Iris looked at me skeptically. "Yeah, right."

"I AM!" I choked, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Her eyes narrowed. "Prove it. Show me."

I stared at her in horror. "I can't! I might hurt you!"

"I'll take my chances."

"You don't understand," I told her earnestly. "Once I transform, I'm not me anymore. I'm a monster. And I have absolutely no control over what I do. I could kill you."

"Are you going to do it or not?" Iris asked pointedly.

I sighed heavily. "Fine. I'll do it. But let's go out in the hall. You have to promise me that once I change, you'll run in your room and lock the door so I won't hurt you. Whatever you do, DON'T LET ME IN! Got it?"

"Fine."

We walked out into the hall together.

Iris folded her arms across her chest. "Well?"

"It takes a minute," I told her.

Suddenly I arched my back, grabbing my throat. I twisted and clawed at myself, letting out strangled cries, seemingly in agony from the throes of transformation. It must have been impressive because my sister began to look scared and stepped back a bit. Finally I turned my head to the side and slipped the teeth into my mouth. I whipped back towards her, wild-eyed and hissing.

Iris screamed. She ran into her room and slammed the door, locking it behind her.

I rattled the handle. "LET ME IN!" I roared threateningly. "I must drink your BLOOD!" I could hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the door.

I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out a hairpin I kept there for just this sort of emergency. Sticking it in the hole of the doorknob, I popped the lock and threw open the door. Iris shrieked and dove under the bed.

Unfortunately it was a very low bed, and she got stuck about halfway under. When she realized what had happened, she began wriggling like crazy , screaming for help at the top of her lungs. I heard footsteps in the hall and quickly slipped the teeth back into my pocket.

"What is going on in here?" my aunt shouted, running into the room. "Why is she screaming?"

I shrugged innocently. "I'm not sure. I heard her yelling and came in to see what was going on."

My aunt went over to the bed and started tugging on Iris's legs. My sister shrieked louder and tried to kick her.

"Stop that this minute, young lady!" With a good hard yank, she popped Iris out from under the bed frame. "What 's wrong with you?" she demanded.

"Juno's a vampire!" Iris howled hysterically. "She's going to suck my blood!"

Aunt Fran looked at me accusingly.

"I have no idea what she's talking about." I looked at Iris, concerned. "Did you have a bad dream or something?" I asked kindly.

My sister glared at me.

Fed up, my aunt grabbed me by the arm and began whacking me. "I don't know what you did, but I know you instigated this. Your sister isn't smart enough to think up this stuff by herself."

Iris watched in satisfaction, only slightly offended by Aunt Fran's comment. My butt hurt for an hour after that, but it was worth it.

Barnabas would have been proud.

Footnote: I called Iris on the phone and told her that I had written a story about the time I had her convinced I was a vampire. After a brief silence, she asked dryly, "which time?."

Do one brave thing today--then run like hell!

2005-09-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

Got this in my email today. Rich says it reminds him of someone. Can't imagine who.

The Meeting

2005-08-30T22:50:00.000-07:00

Back when I was managing the New Age Bookstore, my friend Steve and I were supposed to get together to develop an outline for a project we were presenting to a group. Steve had a great sense of humor and was a lot of fun brainstorm with. We'd already batted around a few really excellent ideas we were both excited about.

Since my ex was unexpectedly taking the kids for an overnight, I decided to leave Steve a message to see if he might be free to meet. About five minutes later he called me back at work.

"Hi Juno, I got the message you wanted me to call."

"Hey Steve. Thanks for getting back to me so fast. I was wondering if you might be free tonight to go over some of the things we talked about in a little more detail. Maybe like around 7:00?"

"Sure. I suppose I can do that."

"Great," I said happily. "Want to meet at your place or mine?"

He hesitated. "Ummmmm . . . your place I guess."

"That probably works best anyway since I have the apartment to myself. This way we won't be interrupted. I can even order in some Chinese food for us."

"Okay."

"I 'm really excited," I told him. " I have some new ideas I want to try out on you.

"Sounds cool."

"I think you'll like them. I figured we can try them out one on one first and then maybe do it in a group next week. . . are you still there? You're awfully quiet."

Steve cleared his throat. "I'm here."

"Good. Okay then." I gave him directions to my apartment. "I'll catch you later."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Juno, you have a call on line 1," my assistant manager called across the store.

"Got it--thanks." I picked up the receiver. "Hello, this is Juno. How can I help you?"

"Hey Juno. It's Steve. I got your message."

I sat down heavily into my chair and stared at the phone.

"Juno? Are you there?"

"I'm here." A queasy lump had formed in my stomach and was moving up to my throat.

"So what did you need, lady? Your wish is my command."

I swallowed hard. "Steve, you didn't call here about an hour ago did you?"

"Huh?" he asked, puzzled. "No, I just got in the door. Why?"

I couldn't figure it out. "Because I just had a phone conversation with a 'Steve.' I thought it was you."

"Nope, not me. Any idea who it was?"

I groaned. "No. But whoever it was now has directions to my apartment and is meeting me there at 7:00."

Steve laughed. "That could be interesting."

"Oh shut up and let me think." Nervously I began fiddling with the sheafs of papers on my desk, trying to calm down. Suddenly, I froze.

"Oh God! I know who it was." I stared at the resume in my hand.

"Who?" my friend asked curiously.

"I've been running interviews for a new sales clerk all week. I finally picked out this one guy and had left him a message to call me so I could offer him the job."

"Let me guess. His name was Steve?"

"Uh huh." Horrified, I replayed the conversation back in my head. "This is very bad. Oh my God, I am so screwed! Taken out of context it sounds like I'm asking him to have sex with me in exchange for me hiring him!"

"Wow! Do you sexually harrass all your employees?"

"It's not funny Steve! This is so embarrassing! I better go. I have to call this guy up and explain what happened and hope he understands."

"Good luck. Let me know what happens."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Steve? This is Juno from the bookstore."

"Oh. Hi again."

"I wanted to call and apoligize to you. I am so sorry." I took a deep breath and explained the whole situation to him. "So you see, it was a simple case of mistaken identity."

Steve laughed. "So I don't need to come to your house tonight?"

"God no! I mean, that's not necessary. This is SO embarrassing. Lord only knows what you thought of me!"

He was still laughing. "It did actually sound like you were propositioning me. And then when you talked about going one on one this week and then doing it with a group the next week, you made me a little nervous. But I really wanted the job so I was going to go along with it."

I blushed furiously. "I am so sorry. I'm really a nice woman, and I don't go around trying to get strangers to come home with me--especially potential employees. Trust me on this one."

"It's okay," he said kindly. "What the heck. It actually makes a pretty funny story."

"Thanks," I said, relieved.

"While I've got you on the phone, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Did I get the job?"

I laughed. "Yes you did. That's why I had left the message for you."

"And I don't have to sleep with the boss?"

"Nope." Thank goodness he had a sense of humor!

"Good. 'Cause I'm gay and it might have been a little awkward."

Both of us lost it at the same time. I laughed so hard I could hardly hold onto the phone. "Come on by the store around 10:00 on Monday, and we'll get you started," I told him when I could finally catch my breath.

"Will do. And Juno? Thanks."

"No problem, Steve. Thank YOU!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You know, it's incidents like these that give a good girl a bad reputation!

My husband Rich proofs all my stories for me. He pronounced this one "typical Juno". This kind of stuff happens to me all the time. He suggested that maybe I should start getting more details about a situation before I jump in. I told him I thought I HAD the details! Oh well. . .

Who Is The Alpha Dog?

2005-08-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

"If that dog does not stop chasing my cats, she has got to go," my husband insisted. "I am NOT going to have them constantly in hiding because they are too terrified to move."

"I know," I admitted miserably. "I feel terrible too. I've even been doing some research to find out what obedience trainers have to say about it."

"And?"

"And they say that you have to establish yourself as the Alpha Dog in the household."

Rich looked at me blankly. "How exactly are you going to do that?"

"Next time I catch her going after one of the cats, I'm going to roll her over and grab her neck in my teeth."

"You're going to bite the dog?" my husband asked, genuinely startled.

"Of course not," I said indignantly. "I'm just going to assume the alpha position."

Rich raised a brow and his lips twitched.

"Ahem!" I looked at him sternly. "I meant I'm going to take on the dominant role."

"Really?" he grinned evilly.

"Don't even go there, buddy. Anyway, maybe it will work. I just have to catch her in the act."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Five minutes later I got my chance. Rich and I were in our room when we heard a scuffle outside the door followed by hissing, yowling, and growling.

"PHOEBE, NO!!!!!" I yelled, running to break it up. The cat escaped and fled down the stairs.

The dog guiltily flipped on her back in submissive pose, her brown eyes apologetic. I fell to my knees and, baring my teeth, growled at her and clamped my mouth around her throat.

She licked my face, wagging her tail.

"She doesn't seem very afraid of you," my husband observed.

I released her neck and sat back on my heels. "I thought I was very fierce actually." I said, disappointed. "Didn't you think I looked fierce?"

Rich considered. "You definitely had a wild look about you. The growling thing was a nice touch."

"Thanks."

Phoebe put her paws on my shoulder and began cleaning my face. "Cut it out!" I wrinkled my nose and pushed her away. She trotted over to her pillow and curled up, watching us both. "You're still a bad dog." I told her.

I looked at Rich and sighed. "What now?"

"I don't know, hon. Let's just keep trying to work with her a little longer and see what happens."

Phoebe just closed her eyes and snuggled in for an afternoon nap. Alpha Dog One and Alpha Dog Two were really quite nice, she decided sleepily. But they really don't know the first thing about cats.

Why Children Should Not Be Movie Reviewers

2005-08-27T14:24:00.000-07:00

Victor and I sat at the kitchen table talking and sipping tea, when Brian trotted into the room. To Victor's amusement, my son climbed up into his lap and helped himself to a cookie.

"Whatcha talking 'bout?" he asked, his mouth full of chocolate chips.

"Chew with your mouth closed," I told him automatically.

Brian looked baffled. "It IS closed. But I have to open it when I talk."

"Well, swallow your food first and THEN talk."

My son shot me one of his grownups-are-weird looks and swallowed. He took another bite of cookie. "So whatcha talking 'bout?"

Victor laughed.

I gave up. "Movies. We're talking about movies we've seen."

"Momma got me a movie the other day about Robin Hood."

"Did you like it?" Victor asked.

Brian nodded.

"Well, what was it about?"

"It was about this guy who wants to go to Texas."

Victor and I exchanged puzzled looks.

"Honey, you must be thinking of a different movie," I told him.

Brian shook his head indignantly. "No I'm not! It was about this sheriff who wants to go to Texas and Robin Hood won't let 'em."

"Maybe he's mixing up two different movies?" Victor suggested.

Brian looked from one to the other of us, completely exasperated. "I am NOT mixing up movies. Don't you remember, Momma? The sheriff kept riding through the towns saying 'Texas, Texas. I need money for Texas.' But then every time he got some money for the trip, Robin Hood took it away from him so he never got to go."

Dumbfounded, I stared at my son then started to laugh. Victor just howled. Brian watched us as though we'd lost our minds. "What's so funny?"

Victor wiped his eyes. "You know, it's actually a whole other movie when you look at it that way."

I gasped for breath. "Sort of makes you feel bad for the poor sherriff."

Brian nodded sagely. "Yes. Nobody else liked Texas very much."

It was quite some time before Victor and I were able to speak again.

The Matchmakers

2005-08-26T11:47:00.000-07:00

I was cutting the kids a slice of chocolate cake when the phone rang.

"Hello?" I said, propping the phone between my chin and shoulder and handing the children their plates.

A man's voice came through the phone line. "Hi. Is this Juno?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"This is Phil."

I hesitated, puzzled. "I don't know any Phil."

He laughed. "I'm the guy that pumped your gas this afternoon. Your son gave me your business card and told me to call you. He thinks you need to get out more."

"He WHAT?!?"

The kids were watching me with interest. I put my hand over the receiver. "Brian, did you give some strange man my business card and tell him to call me?" I whispered furiously.

Brian suddenly decided he had eaten quite enough chocolate cake and quickly excused himself from the table. Amber covered her mouth and started giggling. Great.

"You have quite a little guy there, " the man went on. "He's really bright for his age."

"He certainly is." I was going to have a very long talk with the little Einstein as soon as I got off the phone.

"So how are you?"

"I'm fine. Listen Phil, this is a little awkward. It was very nice of you to call, but I'm really not interested in dating anyone right now."

Brian stuck his head around the corner and peeked at me. I pantomimed a swat on the bottom, and he disappeared again.

I could hear the amusement in Phil's voice. "I can understand that. Still, every mom needs to get out and have fun every once in a while. How about I take you bowling this Saturday--no strings attached?"

"I don't bowl," I said automatically. Amber tugged urgently on my shirt."Sorry Phil, can you hang on a minute please?" I held the phone to my chest. "What?" I asked my daughter.

"Ask him to take you bumper bowling, Mom," my daughter offered helpfully. "Even YOU could do that."

Laughter poured out of the receiver. Figures he'd hear that.

"I really don't think this is a good idea," I said into the phone.

"I'm sure I could arrange for a bumper lane if you want."

"Very funny."

The man simply refused to take no for an answer. "Come on," he wheedled charmingly. "We can take the kids with us. They'll have a blast, and I'd really enjoy the company."

Brian had tiptoed back into the kitchen and was whispering wildly back and forth with his sister. They stopped when they caught me looking, faces wide with innocence. I drew my finger across my throat meaningfully.

"I don't know anything about you," I pointed out.

"What would you like to know? I'm funny, charming, and not too hard on the eyes I guess. I have a steady job, like kids, cook a mean steak, and I never leave the toilet seat up. I've never gotten a ticket or been in trouble with the cops--although I came close the time I was almost caught rolling Susie Hamell's yard when I was twelve."

I laughed.

"See?" he said. "You like me already."

"Can they really arrest you for rolling a yard?" I grinned, despite myself.

"Well, it was a bit more complicated than that. My friend Billy's dad had a carton of pink toilet paper he'd picked up on remainder somewhere. Once we felt pretty sure the family was asleep and it was safe, Billy and I started tossing something like 20 rolls all over the trees and bushes. It was a beautiful sight. Then we almost got caught by one of the neighbors who was out walking his dog, so we ran all the way home. The only problem was, we didn't count on it raining that night. The next morning Mr. Hammell came out to find that his yard, his driveway, and the roof of his shed had turned bright pink."

"Oh no!"

"Uh huh. Luckily he was able to get rinse most of it off with the hose. And since Billy and I managed to get away, my record is clear."

"Glad to hear it."

"So," he continued smoothly. "Should I pick you up about 1:00 on Saturday?"

"You just don't give up, do you?"

"Nope. I'm stubborn that way. How about this? You think on it a bit, and I'll give you a call tomorrow. I promised my mom that I would treat her to dinner tonight so I'd better head on over there now. If you like I can have her call you and reassure you that I'm not an axe murderer or anything."

"I really don't think that's necessary . . ."

"Good it's settled then. I'll give you a call tomorrow. Bye Juno." Click.

I stared at the receiver, still not quite sure what had just happened.

I hung up the phone and looked around for the kids. I found them curled up on the living room couch watching TV.

"Okay. Hand 'em over."

They looked at me, puzzled.

"Hand what over?" Brian asked.

"My business cards. I want you to give them to me right now. "

Reluctantly Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of cards held together with a ponytail elastic.

"Thank you. I don't know what you were thinking of, but you can't just go around handing out information like that to strange men. You know better than that. "

"He wasn't strange--he was funny and nice!" Amber piped up.

Brian nodded his agreement. "Yeah. I mean it's not like I give 'em to everybody. Only the really cool people."

"I don't care. I do not want you to go around asking men to date your mom! Not only is it extremely dangerous, it's downright embarrassing!" A thought struck me. "Exactly how many of my cards did you guys give out.?"

The kids exchanged looks.

"Well, there was the cash register guy at the grocery store," Amber offered.

"He's a TEENAGER!" I exploded.

"He was cute though," she insisted. "And you're always saying age doesn't matter."

"Well it does if you're old enough to be the kid's mom!" I sighed. "Who else?"

"The pizza guy downstairs. . ."

"The guy at the laundrymat. . . "

"The old man who runs the movie theater. . ."

I put my face in my hands and groaned. This was not good.

"They all thought you were really pretty," Brian offered helpfully.

Great. Just great.

"Listen, I know you two meant well but you have to promise me not to do anything like this again. I mean it. I don't like you talking to strangers without me present. Understand? And I am perfectly capable of choosing for myself what people I want to go out with."

The kids looked at each other doubtfully.

"I mean it guys! No more handing out business cards or trying to set me up. Got it?"

Amber shrugged. "Fine."

"Brian?"

"Okay, okay! I promise."

Looking back, I should have made sure his fingers weren't crossed behind his back. And I definitely should have remembered to check his secret stash under his bed. . .

The Mask

2005-08-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

I have a very hard time getting my kids to take me seriously. Brian says it's because of all the practical jokes I played on them when they were growing up. Amber says it's because I've done so many weird things in my life that nothing suprises them anymore. For my part, I think they have just become way too conservative and lack imagination.

Most of the time I like to think I've been a fairly good mom, loving, kind, wise and so on--the mom who packed a healthy lunch for her kids, took them to plays and museums, read them stories, and attended PTA meetings.

Then there is the other mom who thinks farts are funny, sees nothing wrong with hanging a nude portrait of their grandmother in the living room , and won't hesitate to buy good art supplies but thinks brand name clothing is a waste of money. This is also the same mom who innocently suggested to her horrified six year old that he wear his sister's underpants when he ran out of clean underwear for school.

My husband says I remind him of a bad child who can't resist the opportunity to pull some crazy stunt. I prefer to think of it as having an "inspired moment."

Take for example the time I decided to use one of those clear, peel-off facial masks to clean my pores. Having waited for ten boring minutes for the stuff to dry, I came up with a brilliant plan.

"Brian!?" I called frantically.

A head poked around the bathroom door. "Yeah, mom?"

"Come here a minute. I need you to take a look at something."

Brian cautiously entered the bathroom. "What is it?"

I ran my hands over my face."God, Brian, I'm so scared. I think there's something wrong with my face. Please, can you take a look at it for me?" My eyes welled up with tears.

My son came a little closer. "What's wrong with it?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's my skin," I wailed. "I think it's coming off. Look!"

To Brian's utter horror I peeled off a huge strip of the clear facial mask. He screamed and backed away, his arms flailing and his legs sort of running place.

"Help me," I wailed piteously pulling off another chunk off my cheek for dramatic effect.

"MOM! You're losing your skin! Oh my GOD!" His voice rose in panic, and he looked around frantically for help. "Should I call 911 or the doctor or something? I think you should go to the hospital!" He hopped first on one foot then the other, torn between fascination and fear.

I couldn't hold back any longer and started laughing. My son stared at me as though I had lost my mind. When I regained enough control to show him the tube of facial mask, he was thoroughly disgusted and stomped out of the room. To this day he has absolutely no sympathy for any physical ailment I might have. He says he figures it's karma coming back to get me.

Personally, I think he's just annoyed he hadn't come up with the idea first.

Sounds From Another Room

2005-08-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

"I know what you and Daddy were doing in there," my three-year-old daughter said matter-of-factly, adding two plastic fried eggs to the skillet on her toy stove.

Horrified, I froze outside the bedroom door where I had hastily been knotting my robe.

"You do?" My voice cracked.

Breathe, Juno. Breathe. In my mind I frantically tried to recall what the parenting books said to do when your child discovers you in a compromising position. God. We've probably scarred the kid for life.

Amber nodded solemnly. "Yes." She opened the toy fridge and pretended to pour a glass of juice. "Want some?" she offered sweetly.

I tipped the glass to my lips. "Yum. That's really good juice." My daughter nodded, satisfied, and moved to put a slice of plastic toast in the tiny toaster.

"Soooo. . . " I kept my voice deliberately casual. "What do you think mommy and daddy were doing in there?"

"You were eating ice cream."

Relief left me weak kneed, and I sank into the couch.

"That is exactly right. How did you know we were eating ice cream?"

"Because you kept saying 'Mmmmmmm. . . mmmmmm'. I knew you must be eating something really good so I figured it was ice cream."

Made sense to me. I laughed and got to my feet. "Well for being such a smart girl, what do you say I get you a little bowl of ice cream too?"

Amber's face brightened and she trotted after me into the kitchen.

What can I say? I'm not above bribery and deception--under the right circumstances.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Rich and I lay in bed together making owl sounds. We had just finished talking about how we used to call owls when we were children, and now we blew into our cupped hands trying to get just the right pitch and tone.

'What the hell is that?" I could hear my daughter's voice in the hallway. "What are they doing in there?"

"Don't ask," advised my son. "Last night they were doing weird cat sounds. Some things you're just better off not knowing."

My husband cracked up in mid-hoot, and I tried to smother my laughter in his shoulder.

Most of the time my kids and I operate on a sort of "don't ask, don't tell" agreement. It helps cut back on the therapy bills.

I looked at Rich. "Should I tell them we were actually talking to the cats?"

"Nah, let 'em wonder," he grinned wickedly. "Besides they won't believe you anyway."

"True. " I sat up and gave him a kiss. "I can do a terrific seal impression. Wanna hear?"

There is something infinitely satisfying about having your adult kids think that your sex life is more wild and exciting than theirs.

Missing

2005-07-09T02:15:00.000-07:00

This one is for OldHorsetailSnake and all the others who have been impatiently waiting for another of my life stories. Thanks for bearing with me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"How old is your son?"

"Brian's twelve," my voice cracked. "My God, he's just twelve!"

I stared up at the policeman who stood in my kitchen taking notes on a clipboard.

"How long has he been missing, m'am?"

That was really the question, wasn't it? I really didn't know. What kind of mother didn't know?

"I'm not sure. School lets out at three o'clock. He walks home, so usually he's here by 3:30 at the latest. Our rule is that he is supposed to call me when he gets here, so I know he's ok. My job is only 10 minutes away, and I'm normally home just after five so he 's not alone for very long. Today my boss kept me late, so it was close to seven before I got here."

"And did he call?" the cop raised a brow, looking up from his notes.

"No, he didn't." I bit my lip and my eyes burned with tears. "Once before when he forgot to call and I couldn't reach him, I found out he had fallen asleep on the couch watching TV. He sleeps so soundly that nothing wakes him up short of physically shaking him. I thought that's what happened this time. I never imagined . . ."

I looked pleadingly at this policeman, wanting him to understand. I am a good mother, really I am. I read to my kids, cuddle them, play games with them, laugh with them, listen to them, go to all their school functions . . . I don't usually lose a child like this.

Earlier in the school year I had tried putting my son in an after-school daycare, but he hated it. He begged me to just let him walk home. In typical Brian fashion, he reminded me that he was twelve-years-old and not a baby and pointed out that it was only for a couple of hours a day anyway. Other kids did it all the time. He would be fine. After some persuasion, I finally agreed, on the condition that he call me the minute he arrived and that he lock the door and stay in the house until I got home. And it had worked out fine. Until today.

"What did you do when you got home?"

"When I didn't see him in the apartment, I started checking outside. I searched the block around the building, asking the people in the businesses downstairs if they had seen him. No one had. I went next door to the library thinking maybe he was getting a book or a movie, but he wasn't there. My sixteen-year-old daughter came home from work, and the two of us took turns driving around the neighborhood, looking for him. Amber even checked with some of his friends, but no one had seen him. So finally I called you."

The policemen looked at clock over the door and made a notation on his clipboard. It was almost 8:30. "Do you have a recent picture of your child?" he asked.

My heart knotted in my chest. Pictures. . . milk cartons. . . kidnapped kids. . . chances for being found alive lessening with every hour they are missed. News stories flashed through my head. Not my kid! the voice in my head screamed. This can't happen to my kid!

I went into the living room, took Brian's latest school picture from the shelf, and handed it to the cop. Pulling his radio from his belt, he sent an APB over the air. ". . . Caucasion boy. . . 12-years-old. . . stocky build. . . short blond hair and blue eyes. . . " he looked at me. "What was he wearing?"

"Blue jeans and a navy T-shirt."

"Wearing blue jeans and a navy T-shirt . . . last seen in the Eastwood area." The policeman clipped the radio back on his belt and handed me his card. "All the patrol cars have been alerted and are on the lookout for your son, m'am. We'll let you know as soon as we find out anything." he stepped out into the hall, and I followed him.

"Thank you," I whispered, one hand to my throat, tears rolling down my cheeks. "Please find him. Please."

The cop looked at me compassionately and kindly put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm going to drive around the neighborhood now and see what I can come up with."

A door slammed on the bottom landing, followed by the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. They clattered to a halt as my son, startled by the presence of the cop, stopped halfway to the top.

"Brian?" the policemen asked.

My son nodded, fear coming over his face, not sure what was wrong but knowing from the tone that it was serious.

"Where have you been, young man?" the cop said sternly. "Your poor mother has been worried sick about you! Do you realized there's an APB out on you? All the cops out on patrol are looking for you right now. Where have you been?"

"I was across the street at WEIGHT WATCHERS!!!!" Brian blurted out, his face red with embarrassment and anger. "It's THURSDAY, and my MOM was supposed to meet me there but she never showed up for the meeting!"

Silence.

The cop looked from my son to me. Wordlessly he handed back the picture and walked down the stairs. Brian came into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.

"Honey, I am SO sorry! I totally forgot . . ."

Brian held up a hand. "Don't, mom. Just don't." He whirled around and yelled at me. "You are unbelievable, you know that? Not only do you make me go to this stupid Weight Watcher's meeting, but you call the cops on me when I'm there! Do you know how humiliating that was?"

"Brian, I honestly forgot. You never called this afternoon, and I really was worried something had happened to you. I am so sorry!"

Amber walked in the door and caught sight of her brother.

"Where have you been? Mom's been going nuts looking for you. She even called the cops."

"I was at WEIGHT WATCHERS!!!!!" Brian yelled.

Amber looked at me. "You called the cops on him for going to Weight Watchers?"

"I didn't mean to. I just sort of forgot." I explained lamely.

Amber burst out laughing while her brother glared at her.

"It's not funny! Mom never showed up at the meeting, so there was no one to pay the dues. Then when I came home she was crying and there was a cop on the stairs yelling at me."

His sister grabbed her stomach and howled, tears rolling down her face. My lips twitched.

"I am NEVER going back there. NEVER!" He was furious.

Amber wiped her eyes and tried to regain control. "Well, look at it this way, Bri. It's another chapter for the book."

The kids have been threatening for years to someday write their own version of Mommy Dearest.

Brian stared wild eyed at the two of us then ran to his room and slammed the door.

Amber shook her head. "Therapy. Years of therapy."

Fish Tales

2005-06-26T23:11:00.000-07:00

“Oh shit!” I leapt forward, frantically trying to stop the fall of the Excedrin bottle before it –-THUD!

Too late.

My husband looked up from the kitchen table where he was talking on the phone. “Hon? You alright?”

I fished the wet Exedrin bottle out and peered into the blue mug worriedly. I was changing the water in the giant vase I use as an aquarium and had scooped our beta fish into a little mug until I could treat the water. Only I couldn’t find the stupid bottle of Start Right.

Instead I had found the Exedrin.

“Oh my god, Rich. I think I killed the fish,” I told him in a panic. “I knocked him out with the Exedrin bottle. He’s not moving!”

I poked my finger in the water. The little guy halfheartedly swished a fin, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Wait. I think he’s okay. He’s sort of trying to swim now.”

Rich laughed. “You probably just gave the poor thing a headache, but with all the migraine medicine in there he’ll be fine.”

“Very funny,” I said with dignity.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I love betas--they have to be the hardest fish in the world to kill. Several years back my children woke me up early one morning, screaming at the top of their lungs.

“MOM!” Both children were shaking me frantically, grabbing my arms and trying to pull me out of bed. “Mom, he’s DEAD!”

These are not words that any mother particularly wants to hear—particularly at seven in the morning. I leapt out of bed and grabbed my robe, belting it around my waist as I followed them running down the hall.

“Who’s dead? What happened?” I kept asking, beginning to get a bit panicked.

The children skidded to a halt and pointed at the fish bowl on the kitchen table. Somehow it had sprung a leak during the night and the little beta lay brown, shriveled and dried up on the gravel.

Tears streamed down Brian’s face. “He’s KILT!!” he said sobbing.

Amber yanked at my sleeve. “Mom—DO something!” Her voice cracked and she began to cry. “PLEASE! He’s DEAD!”

Two miserable little faces looked up at me as if I could somehow fix this terrible thing. I simply couldn’t take it.

“He CAN’T be dead!” I told them determinedly.

Grabbing a cereal bowl I filled it with tap water and dumped the dead fish into it. Maybe I could trick them into thinking it was just asleep, and then I could replace him with a look-alike later that afternoon.

The children stared into the bowl, then up at me in astonishment.

“He’s alive!” Amber exclaimed excitedly.

Brian’s jaw dropped. “Whoa!”

Perfect. It worked, I thought to myself.

And then I saw it.

Something was moving in the bowl. The fish was definitely alive. I don’t know how or why, but the little bugger had made it.

The children were completely awestruck. Over the next week they were so well-behaved that they started to really get on my nerves. If you think misbehaving children are bad, try being around children who are determined to be angels. It's downright unnatural. Amber finally admitted to me that because I had the kind of power that could raise the dead, they were a little worried about pissing me off by being naughty.

Eventually I was able to convince them that the fish managed his revival act all by himself, and we nicknamed him “Lazarus” in honor of his great comeback.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Back to the current fish that I concussed with the Excedrin bottle. . .

My daughter picked this one out at Walmart when we first came to California about a year ago. Amber spent almost fifteen minutes rejecting all the brilliantly colored red, blue, green and gold betas because, of course, she wanted to choose the one she thought would have the hardest time finding a home. Even at 21, she still has that Charlie Brown Christmas Tree complex.

She handed me the container, and I inspected it doubtfully. “He looks a little sickly and sort of transparent. Wouldn’t you rather have a pretty blue one?” I looked longingly towards a purplish blue one with red fins that sat on the shelf nearby.

My daughter lifted her chin stubbornly. “No. I want this one. Nobody will buy him because he’s not as showy as the others. But he’s tough, aren’t you buddy?”

I cleared my throat. “He’s PINK, Amber! How tough can he be?”

“He IS tough, aren’t you Spike?”

“Spike?!” I repeated in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

“Oh come on! It makes him sound like a gay biker fish.”

“Well it’s a heck of a lot better than what you named our last one!” Amber looked at me pointedly.

“It was a perfectly good Irish name,” I replied defensively.

“Fillet O’Fish?” Amber shook her head. “It’s wrong mom. It’s just wrong.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Anyway, I finally did find the bottle of Start Right tonight and managed to rescue Spike from his mug before a cat lapped him up or a human tossed him into the dishwasher by accident. As you can see he is very content.

Maybe Amber was right, and he is a tough guy after all. Even if he IS pink.

A Magical Evening in My Work Space

2005-06-26T00:21:00.000-07:00

I took a leave from my blogging this week to catch up with work and take care of some things around the house. Most of my time is spent writing in this office/bedroom space. Took a few pictures tonight:

My soon-to-be-completed new modular oak desk, designed and built by Rich. I love the furniture he makes--all gorgeous grains and rounded edges. Eventually the old desk on the left will be eliminated, and the new oak desk will continue to cuve gently around to the next wall. He's also adding bottom shelves and keyboard drawers for both computers.

The rest of the room--a quiet and cosy place to work in the evenings. As you can see, I'm addicted to candlelight and books.

Of course I love fairy tales, mythology and all things magical. This funny little toad guards over the paper supplies.

Pan plays his pipes under the Bonsai tree while a baby otter sleeps at his feet. Growing up with Juno for a name naturally made me a huge fan of Greek and Roman mythology. Pan has always been a favorite--especially in his aspect of protector of children and animals.

Morrigu, the Celtic warrior goddess, and a woodsy moon candleholder of copper and Roman glass.

Quan Yin, goddess of compassion.

This beautiful rendition of The Lover's card rests on top of the wardrobe.

The Unfairness Of Being A Boy

2005-06-20T16:32:00.000-07:00

I poked my head around around my son's door, "Why are you still in bed, kiddo? You better get a move on or you'll be late for school!"

My six-year-old peered miserably at me from under the covers. "Momma? I don' feel so good."

I came over and sat on the side of his bed and felt his forehead. It was definitely hot. I looked down at him concerned. "Where do you not feel good, Bri Guy?"

"My head feels weird and my stomach hurts really bad," he said mournfully. He burst into tears. "I think I'm pregnant."

I tried not to laugh, but couldn't stop myself.

"What's so funny?" Brian asked offended. "It HURTS!"

I gave my son a hug, still smiling. "I'm sorry, baby. I know it does. But you're not pregnant. I think you just have a tummy ache and a fever."

My son wrinkled his brow at me. "How do you know I'm not pregnant?"

"Well, for one thing, only girls can get pregnant."

"That's not fair!" Brian said indignantly. "What if I want to have a baby?"

"One day you probably will. You'll fall in love with someone special and the two of you will decide you want to have a child together. " I tried to explain, "It takes both a man and a woman to make a baby. The man plants the baby seed in the woman's body. Then once the baby grows big enough, it comes outside of the mom's body to meet its family."

My son considered this carefully. "I really want to be a dad," he said finally. "I like little kids."

"I know you do." I smoothed back the hair from his forehead. "I'm going to run into the kitchen to get you some water and some medicine. I'll be right back, okay?"

After dutifully taking his Tylenol and sipping some water from a flex straw, Brian lay snuggled into his pillow while I tucked him in.

"You know what, Momma?" he said sleepily.

"What?"

"I've decided that when I get big, I'm going to donate all my toys to charity."

"Wow," I looked down at my son, surprised. "Well that's really generous of you, Brian."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Momma?"

"Hmmm?"

"What does 'donate' mean?"

I laughed. "What do you think it means?"

He thought for a moment. "To give away to somebody?"

"That's right."

We sat together in companionable silence.

"Momma?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not going to be big for a long time, am I?" Brian asked worriedly

"Nope," I kissed his nose. "Not for a very long time."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I was putting on makeup in the bathroom and, as usual, both kids were underfoot. Amber was testing out a lip gloss, and Brian was standing on the toilet watching me line my eyes.

"Momma, when will I get stomach puffs?"

"What?" I was baffled.

"Stomach puffs," he repeated, patiently. "When will I get them?"

Amber stared at her brother. "Did you say 'stomach puffs'?"

"Uhuh. You and momma have them, and I wanted to know when I'm gonna get them."

My daughter and I looked down at our stomachs and then at each other.

"Do you mean 'bellybutton' Brian?" I offered tentatively.

He looked disgusted. "No! I HAVE a bellybutton. I meant STOMACH PUFFS!"

I gave up. "I'm sorry honey, but I have no idea what you're talking about. Can you show me?"

My son reached up and patted me on the chest. "These."

Amber cracked up laughing. "Those aren't stomach puffs, silly. Those are boobs."

I shook my head, smiling. "Actually they're called breasts, Bri. And it's something that girls get when they start growing into young women."

"Another thing that's just for girls?" Brian was disgusted.

"'Fraid so."

Amber giggled.

Lists of Five Things

2005-06-17T23:16:00.000-07:00

Five Things that scare me:

1. Clowns. (And thank you, Stephen Speilberg, for that lovely scene in Poltergeist)

2. Restaurants that serve weird foods like bull testicles, tongue, or anything with a face.

3. Talking dolls (no matter what they say they always sound evil)

4. Heights (although I've occasionally enjoyed being put on a pedestal)

5. The alarming number of parents I see who don't parent their kids or bother to teach them respect for themselves and others.

Five Things that make me laugh:

1. My husband Rich's imitation of Arnold Schwartzeneggar screwing Donald Duck

2. Guide dogs who pass gas in an elevator full of people just as the doors close

3. Peeling off strips of a clear facial mask and convincing my son I am actually losing large layers of skin

4. The time Torie's boyfriend worked on her car with his buddies. For weeks after that, whenever she made a right hand turn her horn would blast.

5. Writing "Wash Me" with a ball point pen just above my best friend's pubic area right before they wheel her in for surgery

Five Things I love:

1. Losing myself in a good book while soaking in a hot, fragrant bath.

2. Playing devil's advocate

3. Writing or doing anything creative or artistic

4. Playing a multiball bonus in a pinball game

5. Hanging out on the beach, making sand sculptures and looking for beach glass

Five Things I hate:

1. Mean-spirited and artificial people

2. Censorship, homophobia, racism and general intolerance.

3. Rectal thermometers

4. One-size-fits-all pantyhose

5. Crowds

Five Things I don't understand:

1. Myself

2. How exactly an alka seltzer can be used as a sexual aide (long story)

3. Where my G-spot is

4. The Cadbury Bunny

5. Canadian men

Five things I can't do:

1. Gymnastics (At least not intentionally. Scrabbling madly to regain my balance, while impressive, doesn't really count)

2. Watch the Ferrangis on Star Trek (something about the way they move skeeves me out)

3. Keep my sneakers tied (even when I baby-knot them)

4. Find my keys

5. Keep plants alive (when relatives visit, I go out and buy new plants to place around the house just to impress them into thinking I have a "green thumb")

Five things on my desk:

1. The most recent Harry Potter book I'm rereading. (I have this excellent theory that Snape was actually instrumental in saving Harry from Voldemort's attack when he was an infant.)

2. A can of Diet Coke

3. Sheets of tutorial exercises I'm writing for the software company I work for.

4. A goddess statue of a woman with a lion and a moon glow crystal ball.

5. A candle.

Five negative facts about me:

1. I set all my clocks ahead at least 15-30 minutes to trick myself into being on time

2. I once fooled my kid into thinking a doggie treat was a hunk of bacon. I know--bad mom--but you had to be there to appreciate it.

3. I used to give my kids giant pixie sticks to eat before I sent them to visit my ex-husband. The resulting sugar rush was something truly beautiful to behold.

4. My house might look spotless, but you take your life in your hands if you try to open the hall closet.

5. Too often any attempts I make at--ahem!--self-pleasure, usually end with me falling asleep before anything interesting happens.

If any of you wants to try your hand at one or more of the Lists of Five Things, let me know so I can see your responses.

The Verdict

2005-06-17T18:57:00.000-07:00

I was washing the last of the dishes when my eleven-year-old daughter came into the room. Opening the fridge, she poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat down next to her brother who was drawing at the kitchen table.

"Mom? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure," I rinsed out a juice glass and placed it in the drainboard. "What's up?" I asked drying my hands on a towel.

"I was wondering if I could get a raise in my allowance."

Brian's head shot up at this, and he immediately jumped in. "I want more allowance too!"

Amber glared at him. "I asked first."

"So what?" Brian was mad. "It's not fair for you to get a raise if I don't."

"It is too!"

"Is not!"

"I'm older than you!"

"It doesn't matter!"

"Whoa, you two. Hey . . . hey . . . HEY!!!!!" I shouted over them. Both children looked at me. "I don't want to hear any fighting, understand?"

"But MOM--"

"You can't just let her---"

"ENOUGH!" I yelled. "Nobody is going to convince me of anything by screaming and pitching a fit. Understand?"

Both children nodded, still glaring across the table at each other.

"Good. Now then. Let's calm down for a minute and let me figure out a way to settle this." I took a deep breath and looked from one to the other of them. "You both want a raise in your allowance, and yet I don't see any reason I should help either one of you."

Two voices immediately rose up in protest. I held up my hand.

"Let me finish. You can't just walk up to somebody and start making demands like that . First you need to explain why you feel you deserve a raise. What have you done to earn it? What other responsibilities are you willing to take on in exchange for it? Stuff like that. It is your job to convince me that what you're asking is fair and reasonable."

I thought for a minute. "Here's what I think we should do. Let's turn the living room into a courtroom. Each of you will be a lawyer, and I will be the judge. It's up to you to prepare your cases and present them to me so that I can make a fair ruling."

The kids were completely intrigued. I could see their minds going a mile a minute as they tried to figure out what they would say.

"There is just one condition," I continued. "In order for this to work, you both have to agree to accept the final decision of the judge. No arguing or fighting or pitching tantrums. Agreed?"

Amber nodded. "Agreed."

Brian hesitated then added, "Me too."

"Okay then. Go prepare your cases. Court will convene in--" I looked up at the clock--"half an hour."

Both children ran from the room, nearly knocking my friend Marty off his feet as he came in the back door. "What was THAT about?" he asked puzzled.

I smiled. "Have you ever thought about being a bailiff?. . . "

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. The Wright family court is now in session. The honorable Judge Juno is presiding."

Solemnly I entered the room, wearing a sheet the kids had cloaked over my shoulders, and took a seat on the couch. Someone had brought in my wooden meat tenderizer mallet from the kitchen, and I whacked it three times on the coffee table. "Thank you Bailiff Marty. You may all be seated," I said grandly.

The two lawyers sat on the floor behind low stools they were using as makeshift tables.

The bailiff stepped forward and instructed counsel to raise their right hands. "Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?"

"I do" Amber said earnestly.

"Me too. I mean--I do," Brian said hastily.

"Who will go first?" I asked.

Amber jumped to her feet. "I will your Honor."

"Your name please?"

"Amber Wright," she replied, pulling a stack of papers from a briefcase beneath her table. "And if it please the court, I have prepared a statement that I would like to read."

Brian looked in dismay at the impressive sheaf of papers then to his own empty table. He raised his hand. "Your Honor, can I be excused for a minute?"

Amber turned to him exasperated. "I'm TRYING to read a statement here."

"But I forgot to bring a pencil and paper."

"You should have thought of that before," she told him unsympathetically.

"PLEEEEEEASE your Honor?" Brian begged me, his little face close to tears.

Amber handed him a piece of paper and a pencil. "Here, take this. Jeez. NOW can I continue?"

Her brother nodded.

"Thank you. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I have a statement I would like to read." Amber cleared her throat. "Your Honor, for the past year both the defendant--my brother over here--and I have received a five dollar a week allowance. In exchange for that allowance we help out around the house and make sure our rooms are picked up. However I feel that because I am older than the defendant, and frequently have to help BABYSIT him, that I deserve a raise."

"That's not fair!" Brian burst out. "You can't--"

"MR. WRIGHT!" I said firmly. "There will be no outbursts in this courtroom. Do you understand? You will have the opportunity to say what you want to say when you give your own statement in just a moment. Are we clear on this?"

He nodded miserably.

"Good." I nodded at the plaintiff. "Please continue."

"As I was saying, since I am the oldest I have more responsibilities. For example, I walk to the store to pick up grocery stuff or to the library to bring back books and videos. And a lot of times now I end up babysitting the defendant when you're not home, which isn't always easy because he's a pain in the butt and won't behave." She looked pointedly at her brother, who was quietly wiggling in frustration.

"Those are all good arguments," I told the plaintiff. "I do have a couple of questions for you though."

"Yes, your Honor?"

"You mentioned that part of your responsibilities included cleaning your room and helping around the house. Is that correct?"

The plaintiff knew where this was going. "Yes your Honor."

"Would you agree that I have had to ask you a number of times this past week to pick up your room or put away messes that you left out?"

Brian grinned triumphantly.

"Yes your Honor," Amber admitted reluctantly. "But I promise to try harder to work on those things if you give me a raise."

Her brother slumped against the table, head in his hands.

"I see. One more thing. Although you pointed out many of your responsibilities, you haven't mentioned why you need more allowance money. Have your expenses changed?"

The plaintiff nodded. "Sometimes I need more money when I am out with friends and everyone is getting an ice cream or something. And I know you think it's silly to spend money on designer clothes, but maybe I can make up the difference with my allowance if I really want something."

"Those are all good points, and I will take them into consideration."

"Thank you your Honor."Amber took her seat again.

"Now then does the defendant have a statement?"

Brian stood miserably. "It's not fair," he said close to tears. The bailiff walked over and whispered in his ear. The defendant brightened hopefully. "I'd like to consult with my colleague, your Honor."

I looked at the clock. "I'll call a five minute recess then."

Bailiff Marty and the defendant scooted out the door. There was much urgent whispering and giggling from the hallway as the two planned their case.

Five minutes later court was again in session.

Brian made his way up to the front of the courtroom. "My name is Brian Wright, your Honor. And I would like to ask you for more allowance. Just because I'm younger than Amber doesn't mean I don't work as hard as she does. I don't think it's fair to give more money to somebody just because they're older. If I had more allowance I could pay for my ninja turtles by myself and not have to ask you for money. And I could buy ice cream. And I would even buy you an ice cream too Momma--I mean your Honor."

He paused and looked at Bailiff Marty who nodded encouragingly. "If you will give me more allowance I can help you by taking out the trash or doing other jobs for you. I will even" he swallowed hard, "try to behave better when Amber babysits me." The defendant looked up at me with a little tear in the corner of his eye and his voice shook. "Just 'cause I'm little doesn't mean I can't do stuff. Please give me more allowance. PLEASE?"

"Thank you for your statement, Mr. Wright. Now please go sit down next to your colleague."

Brian ran back to the table and sat in his colleague's lap.

"You both have presented very good cases and given me a lot to think about. I'm going to take a quick, ten minute recess to deliberate. Then Bailiff Marty will call you back in, and I will tell you my decision. Court is adjourned."

Bailiff Marty led the plaintiff and the defendant out of the room and closed the door behind them. He grinned. "That was impressive!"

"Wasn't it though? And they really did do a pretty good job at explaining their positions. The District Attorney did a school visit with Amber's class last week, and she's totally taken with the idea of practicing law now. She's good, isn't she?" I laughed. "What happened with Brian and you in the hallway?"

"Poor little guy. He was all upset and crying because he thought his sister gave such a good argument he didn't have a chance. That babysitting thing really got to him too. I helped him come up with some ideas on things he could do in order to get more allowance and just basically gave him a little encouragement."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"No problem. So what is the Judge going to decide to do?"

"Oh I have a few ideas," I said mysteriously. "Why don't you go gather up the counselors and tell them I have a verdict for them."

. . . . . . .

"I would like to say first of all that the two of you presented very strong cases. So strong, in fact it was very difficult for me to come to a decision. But I do have a verdict for you." I turned to Amber. "Will the plaintiff please stand?"

"Ms. Wright, you made some excellent points about your need for spending money increasing now that you're older. And the fact that you are depended upon to babysit your brother when necessary is an important consideration. Therefore I am increasing your allowance from $5 to $15 a week."

Amber's face lit up, and she jumped in the air out of sheer happiness. "Thank you, your Honor," she said smiling.

The defendant collapsed, sobbing in Bailiff Marty's arms. I winked at the Bailiff.

"Would the defendant please step forward?"

Sniffling and rubbing his eyes, Brian walked up to the front of the court.

"Mr. Wright, you too presented many very good points in your case. Amber will receive a higher allowance than you because she has more responsibilities and expenses than you do because of her age. However, since you seem so willing to work hard and to improve your behavior with your sister when she is babysitting, I think that you too deserve a reward. I am increasing your allowance from $5 to $10 a week."

Brian looked up, stunned, then gave a wild whoop and threw himself on Marty.

I rapped the mallet three times on the coffee table and smiled.

"Court is now adjourned."

Looking Glass Houses Has A New Look!

2005-06-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

Cat over at Blog-Togs was kind enough to put the time and energy into giving the old place a new look with a writer's theme. Thanks so much for all your hard work Cat!

Feel like dressing up your blog and helping out a charity at the same time? Visit the Blog-Togs folks at http://www.blogtogs.blogspot.com/ They do some amazing work.

The Other Side of The Brian Debate

2005-06-16T09:24:00.000-07:00

Thank you guys for your comments in my last post. I really am very lucky that I have smart kids who aren't afraid to debate their old mom--even on her pet topics!

In all fairness to Brian, I do have to mention one quick little story. When he was a little guy in fourth grade, he was a journalist for the school newspaper. The editor asked him to write a story on Christopher Columbus for the upcoming holiday edition.

Brian threw himself headlong into his research, going outside the accepted school texts to find answers. His article entitled "Christopher Columbus--Friend or Foe" presented not only the common facts taught in school, but also outlined the atrocities the man committed and his attempts to enslave the Native Americans.

The editor rejected his article. He said that although he knew it was factual and well-researched, the school did not want to print a story that would ruin Columbus Day for the kids. The children would find it too confusing. Brian was stunned--and you can just imagine my reaction! It was all my kid could do to prevent me from storming into the school, writing a letter to the local newspaper, etc. Because I love my son though, I held back and just let him process it in his own way.

I think that's why this last paper of his threw me for a loop--although I'm beginning to suspect that Brian has adopted my habit of playing devil's advocate with the issues. I have a habit of arguing a point with the kids then, once they concede, arguing the opposing side. Confusing, yes, but it makes them think! They used to say they learned more about a subject during a 15 minute debate with me than they did in a week of classes.

Anyway, here's to glorious debates, stubborn moms and kids who think!

The Problem With Huck Finn

2005-06-16T01:43:00.000-07:00

"Mom, can you proofread my paper for me? " Brian asked from the doorway.

I pulled a colored pencil from behind my ear and shaded in a section of the portrait I was experimenting with at my desk. "Uh huh. " I leaned forward to inspect my work. "Just bring it in to me, and I'll look it over."

My son hesitated. "JUST proofread it, okay? Don't go changing anything else."

I looked up at him suspiciously. "Why would I change anything else?"

Brian hedged. "You may not agree with some of my arguments."

"Oh really?" Now I was curious. "And what exactly is your paper about?"

" . . . Censorship," he said hesitantly.

"You wrote a PRO-CENSORSHIP paper?" I exploded. "Are you kidding me?"

My son shook his head. "See, I knew this would happen. Just read it, okay?"

Brian reached across my desk and downloaded his paper to my computer screen. I stared incredulously at the title: Censorship, The View You Haven't Heard.

"Please tell me you're kidding."

Brian just grinned.

Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and started reading. His basic premise was that if a book is required reading for middle school students, then minute changes could be made to remove profanity and sexually explicit material without damaging the integrity of the text. As an example, he referred to the "N" word in Huckleberry Finn.

"You want to change Huck Finn? Are you nuts?" I was beside myself.

"It's an offensive word, mom," he insisted. "Shouldn't I, as a parent, have the right to deem what's appropriate for my own child to read?"

"You just can't go around removing words from an author's text!" I shouted. "It changes the meaning! God!" I began pacing the room. "Books like Huckleberry Finn or Uncle Tom's Cabin dealt with a particular period of our history. By all means have a class discussion about why such language isn't appropriate today, but don't chop up a classic work of literature to try to make it more bland and digestible!"

Brian stood his ground. "All I'm saying is that the parents should have some say as to the appropriateness of the material their kids are forced to read."

"And that's exactly where the whole concept of censorship falls apart! How exactly do they determine what's appropriate? And what happens to us as a society when we are spoon fed an "appropriate" vision of the world? Writing and art are supposed to move people--to shake them up, make them think, provoke some sort of reaction. If you don't agree with something in a book, then use that as an opportunity to talk to your child about the issue. Don't just suppress it like it doesn't exist." I paused, taking a deep breath. "I really can't believe we're even having this conversation."

Amber walked in the room and looked from me to her brother. "What's going on, you two?"

I folded my arms over my chest. "Your brother thinks it's okay to censor books."

"No way!" She turned to her brother. "What books do you want to censor?"

"I'm just saying that I think parents should have the right to choose what's appropriate when it comes to required school reading," Brian explained patiently.

I cleared my throat pointedly. "He wants to edit the "N" word from Huckleberry Finn."

Amber laughed. "Are you nuts?" she asked him. "What are you going to change it to?
'Black Man'? Jeez, Bri."

Thank God one of my kids got it.

"It's like those weird translations in a foreign film," she continued thoughtfully. "You know. The guy will be screaming something like 'dammit, my leg's been blown off!' and the subtitle says 'my goodness, I've lost a lower appendage.' It just doesn't make sense anymore."

Brian argued his point. "I still say that if the school is going to force required reading on the kids, the parents should have the right to insist that offensive parts be removed. Or alternatively, teachers and parents should work together to come up with more appropriate titles."

He continued. "People who are anti-censorship always insist that if you change one word you change the whole book. Then they point to Bradbury's Fahrenheit 452 and start preaching about the coming of the apocalypse and the loss of first amendment rights. It's just not that extreme. Stuff like that would never be allowed to happen."

I stared at him."I can't believe you just said that."

"Okay, okay," my son laughed. "I'll stop. Did you proof the paper?"

"Yes. The spelling and grammar are fine, but I were your teacher I'd flunk you."

He protested. "Hey! You can't flunk me just for disagreeing with you!"

"I wouldn't flunk you for disagreeing with me. I'd flunk you for not being able to support your argument. Your position falls apart when it comes to deciding what is 'appropriate.' Who decides this and how? Who's to say whether a painting is art or pornography? Or if a book is important and worthwhile or dangerous and offensive?"

Brian thought for a minute. "Give it here then. I'll try tweaking it a little."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My son came home with his paper today. He was the only kid in his class to get a 100.

I'm seriously thinking of going into his room with a black marker and crossing out sections of the different books on his shelf.

After all, as a concerned parent, I wouldn't want any of those titles to give him inappropriate ideas.

The Question

2005-06-15T02:05:00.000-07:00

It was Thanksgiving.

My boyfriend Michael's parents had invited us over for dinner and, naturally, I was eager to make a good impression. His family were staunch Catholics, and his mother had a particular fascination with Virgin Mary sightings. In a shameless effort to win brownie points, I bought her some books on the subject and made sure I casually mentioned how I had wanted to be a nun when I was little. It seemed to be going well. While his mother basted the turkey, I slipped outside for a bit of fresh air.

"There you are," I felt Michael's arms around me as he nuzzled my neck. "All this nun talk is making me hot."

"You," I told him with dignity, "are a pervert and are going straight to hell."

He laughed and, turning me around, kissed me long and hard. "I can't help it. You make me crazy. Want to sneak off to the bathroom for a quickie?"

"No, I do not." I said reproachfully. "I'm trying to make a good impression here. The last thing I want to do is make your mom think I'm corrupting her son. Besides, I need to check on the kids."

"Actually the kids are doing great. Last time I looked, Amber was teaching my cousin Ned a card trick. "

"Well just don't let her talk him into a game of poker. She pretty much took her entire third grade class for their lunch money last week. I think she's figured out how to count cards."

"Smart girl," he laughed.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Back in the kitchen, I was helping Michael's mother and sister prepare vegetables for the side dishes. As I was rinsing the carrots in the sink, my six-year-old son wandered into the kitchen and tugged at my shirt.

"Mommy?"

"Yes baby?" I smiled.

Brian looked up at me earnestly. "What's a prostitute?"

Silence.

I furtively looked at Michael's mom who stood frozen in astonishment over a partially dissected green pepper. Every adult in the room was staring at me in dead silence, waiting to see how I would handle the situation.

Now I've always tried to be fairly frank and open with my kids when it comes to questions about sex. I figured if they were old enough to ask, they were old enough to be told. Although Brian's timing couldn't have been worse, I didn't see a graceful way out of this one.

I knelt down so that I was eye level with my son and took a deep breath. "Well honey, a prostitute is a woman who has sex with men for money."

Ohhhhh," he said, his face brightening. "Like a hooker."

Satisfied, Brian trotted out of the room.

Michael's mom was looking at me disapprovingly, obviously wondering what sort of household I raised my children in.

I couldn't help it. I sat down on the floor and laughed until tears ran down my face.

When you desperately want to make a good impression, leave it to a child to keep it real!

Holy Domestic Disturbance Batman!

2005-06-12T03:14:00.000-07:00

"Guess what exciting thing just happened to me?" Torie asked, a grin in her voice.

I looked suspiciously at the speakerphone. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

My best friend laughed. "Oh, it's nothing like that. I had to call the cops tonight, and the officer just left the house."

Torie always does this to me. She'll burst out with some outrageous statement to get my attention, then slowly piece together the story behind it.

"Okay, I'll bite," I told her. "Why were the police at your place?"

"Because I had a bat in the house."

"A bat? The black fuzzy kind?

"Uh huh," Torie replied. "Matt found it in the living room and came upstairs to get me. We tried just about everything to capture it, but couldn't do it. Not that Matt was all that much help. He was so freaked out that he kept hiding behind the door."

Her son Matt is a sweet, shy teenage boy who has an endearing, absent-minded professor sort of way about him. I could easily see why he would find the idea of a furry mammal with sharp teeth flying around the room rather alarming.

"Poor kid."

Torie sighed. "Honestly Juno, the way Matt was acting you would think the Mafia was after him or something. Anyway, I couldn't catch the darn thing, and I was starting to get worried about the dog or cat trying to mess with it and getting a nasty surprise. So I called 911."

"And they actually came?" I asked incredulously.

"Yup. Fast too. I hardly had time to hang up the phone before the officer was in the driveway. I went outside to meet him, and he asked what the problem was. For some reason he seemed to think it was a domestic disturbance call."

I considered. "Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it."

Torie continued, "When I explained the situation to him, he thought it was pretty funny. He kept shaking his head and saying 'A bat call? A bat call?' Said he couldn't wait to tell his lieutenant about this one."

"So did he have something on him to catch it with?" I asked her.

"He used this big tupperware thing that I store cake in. The bat finally decided to hang upside down from the tapestry over my fireplace. The cop put the cover part over the bat, slide the plate under it, and took it outside. Said it was the most exciting thing that had happened to him all night."

I laughed. I imagined it beat the hell out of monitoring the speed traps that her area of town is known for.

"Anyway," Torie went on, "I said 'Thanks Batman' which got him laughing again. He actually got a huge kick out of the whole thing. He said the guys at the station would have a ball with all this--he'd be known as Officer Batman Bentley."

"How old was he?" I was curious.

"Mmmmmm. About forty or so. Sort of average looking. Really nice guy. When he came into the house he commented on how clean and pretty it was. He told me he didn't blame the bat for wanting to hang out in such a nice place."

"Sooooooo. . . " I prompted her. "Did you check for a wedding ring?"

"Yup. Definitely married. He talked about his wife too. He figured she'd love the whole Batman angle."

"It would have been a such great way to meet someone." I sighed regretfully. "Funny, handsome guy in uniform rescues woman from potentially dangerous small mammal. It has all the makings of a great romance."

"True," Torie admitted. "Too bad all the good ones are taken."

"Yeah," I told her. "Maybe next time you should go for Robin."

Five Things That I Miss From My Childhood

2005-06-10T04:26:00.000-07:00

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later no matter how far I try to duck under the radar. I've been tagged by Spirit of Owl. Ahem! Just be forewarned that I shall repay the favor in my own time and in my own way when you least expect it. . .

Five things that I miss from my childhood :

1. Fireflies.

My sister and I used to sit on the steps in the early evening, waiting for twilight when the fireflies would come out. The scent of fresh cut grass, the singing crickets and tree frogs, the blossoming dogwoods and azaleas, and the golden blinking of the first firefly of the night--that's what I remember most. We were goddesses, dressed in gowns of rose petals and irridescent raindrops, laughing and chasing the lightening bugs, carefully placing them in our fairy lanterns. Afterwards we would lay on the grass, counting to see who had caught the most. Being polite children, we always thanked them for playing with us and released them into the night so they could return to the Moon Mother.

2. Rain Dancing

As a child I was fascinated by storms and loved the heavy stillness just before a downpour. It would grow very quiet outside and the sky would take on a purplish grey color. Then the wind would start to blow, and the trees begin to sway wildly. And finally the rain would spill down.

My sister and I would put on our swimsuits and dash out in the rain and dance around until some adult would eventually start worrying about us catching colds or being struck by lightening and make us come inside. I had read somewhere that lightening loved people with red hair and that redhaired witches made powerful weather mages. This, of course, pleased me to no end, and I would stretch out my arms and try to call the lightening to me. Sometimes it would crack down very close, sending my sister and I jumping backwards into the carport, shivering in nervous exhilaration.

3. Being An Artist

The soft chalky feel of pastels, the roughness of charcoal, the misty flow of watercolors, and the smudgy smoothness of pencils--drawing always made me feel fierce and dreamy and passionately alive. Whenever I sat down to create something, the rest of the world simply melted away leaving only pure imagination and sensation. I was never satisfied with anything I actually produced because it never matched what I saw in my mind. But the process of creating had me hooked.

I used to pretend that I would one day be an amazing artist and hop trains from town to town with just my sketchbook and a little suitcase. I would stay for a while in each place, working small odd jobs and drawing the people I met, astonishing them with my talent. Inevitably someone would fall in love with me, and we would have a brief but intense romance before I sadly had to move on again. Dramatic little thing, wasn't I? Anyway I miss that feeling of losing myself in something beautiful and being perfectly in the moment.

4. Living The Magic

After we lost our mom, my sister and I shared a private, magical world that no one could touch. We were goddesses who looked after ladybugs and caterpillars, mermaids who sang starfish back to life, and high-spirited horses that could fun faster and fly higher than any mortal. We feasted on acorns, chestnuts, and blackberries and drank honey from honeysuckle blossoms. We were friends with the King of Cats, the White Owl, and the ancient Oak People who lived in our yard. If a breeze caught up a whirlwind of autumn leaves, we knew it was a Sylph playing with us. We called on Pixies to help us with our housework and left offerings of walnut shells filled with peanut butter or honey for the Faerie Folk. Iris and I found we could wake up in each other's dreams at night, and we learned how to sleepy travel together to other realms.

I miss the freedom of trusting the imagination and being open to the unexpected. I forget sometimes how worlds open up for people who aren't afraid, even if just for a moment, to look and believe. For me, the best part of being a child looking at the most ordinary and seeing the extraordinary.

5. My Parents

My mom died when I was five, and my dad when I was nine. She was 41 and he was 60 when I was born. It amazes me how much I still miss them, even as an adult. Admittedly my memories are fragile--I had them for such a short time that they are like paper dolls with little substance to flesh them out. I have to rely on photos and my father's paintings and the memories of my older sister to make them real.

My father I remember the best because he was with me longest. I can close my eyes and almost feel his hand in mine as we walk along the railroad track together, gathering armfuls of Queen Anne's Lace. Or see myself working beside him on my own little easel while he paints. My mother is harder--only the sensation of being held and touched--and even that is almost gone now.

Recently one of my cousins from my father's side of the family found me on the internet and has been sending me emails and wonderful old pictures of my father, grandmother and great-grandmother. It's been such a bittersweet experience. Sometimes I'm jealous of her memories and the deep sense of family and connectedness that she has. And yet I love her for sharing it with me now. So conflicting. Last week, this cousin saw a photo I had taken of myself standing in the wind, and she gave me a gift. She told me I look like my mother.

And it made me realize that even if my memories fade away, my parents left me a legacy to know them by. All I have to do is gaze into the looking glass to see.

Peeps: Not Just For Easter Anymore

2005-06-09T06:20:00.000-07:00

Juno plays with food.

Here's few photos from our family Peep collection.

The Bad Man

2005-06-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

"Momma, momma!" I was trying to pick out a new tie for my husband when my little boy came barreling up the aisle. He threw himself against my legs and held on tightly.

"Honey, what happened? What's wrong?"

He pointed over to the right where a distinguished looking elderly gentleman was quickly making his way across the store towards us. "That man. He's a bad man, momma. He tried to . . ." Brian broke off in mid-sentence and hid behind my skirt.

As the man drew closer, I could see he was a store clerk. "I'm so sorry, miss. I believe there's been a misunderstanding." He eyed my son worriedly.

Bewildered, I looked from my child to the elderly clerk. "What in the world is going on?"

"That's a fine young boy you have there. I was just having a little conversation with him, and I think he must have misunderstood my intentions."

"I did not!" Brian yelled indignantly, peering around my leg. "He tried to take my money!"

"What?" The old man appeared genuinely startled.

My son nodded emphatically. "You tried to take my money! You told me to give you five!"

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing.

Brian stared at me as if I had lost my mind. The poor man stood mortified, stunned that his innocent attempt at hipness with a toddler had taken a such terrible and unexpected turn. Then he too started laughing.

I wiped my eyes and tried hard to gain my composure. "Sweetheart, when somebody says 'give me five' they aren't asking you for money. It's just a figure of speech. "

My son looked puzzled.

The old man squatted down and smiled at him in relief. "Your mother's right. It's a way of saying hi to someone. Only instead of shaking hands, you kind of slap your hands together like this." He demonstrated. "Now you try."

Shyly Brian slapped the man's palm.

"Good job!"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Momma?" Brian asked thoughtfully as we left the store. "You know how you're always telling me that it's bad to hit people?"

I had a feeling I knew what was coming. "Yes."

"Isn't this giving five stuff like hitting?"

I considered this. "Well, I guess you could look at it that way. Except you're not really hurting the other person. It's more like you're both agreeing to play with each other."

Brian grinned, and I realized I had just handed my kid a whopper of a loophole he could use the next time he and his sister starting getting into it. Great. I decided to clam up before I made it worse.

He shook his head. "Grownups are funny." he laughed.

Don't Mess With Miss Kitty!

2005-06-07T02:10:00.000-07:00

I think it is a very bad idea for parents to give weird nicknames to things.

I really do. It's just way too confusing for a child and can necessitate years of therapy when they reach adulthood.

My sister and I grew up in the south with an aunt who would go to extreme lengths to avoid calling certain intimate things by their correct name. If you were a lady, it just wasn't done. Since my sister and I were so sheltered, we naturally never thought to question this until many years later.

Case in Point: For some reason we still don't quite understand, our aunt used to refer to a woman's private area as a "posse".

I cannot begin to tell you how disturbing it was for us to watch those old spaghetti westerns on TV. When the sheriff would tell a group of grizzled cowboys to "round up a posse" to help him catch the bad guys, Iris and I would watch with saucer eyes. You can imagine what we thought was going to come hopping around the corner of the local saloon!

We were firmly convinced that Miss Kitty was the most powerful person on Gunsmoke.

Therapy. Years of therapy.

Who Knew?

2005-06-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

"Mmmmm?"

It was the middle of the night and someone was shaking my shoulder. Opening one eye, I saw my four-year-old son standing next to my bed, stark naked, with a serious look on his face.

"Momma?" he sounded unhappy.

"What is it, Bri?"

"The people in my penis are making muscles," he complained. "They're trying to make me into a muscle man."

Glancing down I could see what he meant. His little flag was definitely at half mast.

"How many people are in there?" I asked curiously

"Two, " he answered without hesitation. "And they won't leave me alone and let me sleep."

"Well that's not very nice." I thought for a minute. "Why don't you tell them that it's sleep time now, and that they need to behave themselves and let you rest?"

Brian looked doubtful. "I don't think they're gonna listen."

"Yes they will. Just tell them that if they're good boys, you'll take them swimming tomorrow."

My son smiled. "I like swimming."

"I know."

I watched while he explained the situation to 'the boys'. "So what do they think?" I asked.

"They say okay."

"Good." I climbed out from under the sheets and took his hand. "Let's go get your pajama bottoms back on and get you to bed."

Five minutes later, my son had his spiderman jammies on again and was tucked neatly under the covers. I kissed his forehead. "Night sweetheart."

"G'Night," he giggled. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bunny bugs bite."

I switched off the light and walked to the door.

"Momma?" Brian called.

I turned around. "Yes?"

"Thanks."

"No problem. Now get some rest."

Going back to my room, I snuggled under the sheets smiling to myself.

Little men. . .

Now that would explain a lot!

I'll Be Watching You

2005-06-05T01:27:00.000-07:00

"Are either one of you organ donors?" My son asked from the back seat of the car.

My husband and I looked at each other."Yes," I said. "No," he said, simultaneously.

We all laughed. It was typical for me and Rich to have completely opposite world views. It's what keeps our marriage interesting.

"I figured as much," my son grinned. “I don’t know how you two ever got together.”

I turned around in the front seat. "Seriously though, anything of mine that could be useful to anyone, I want donated."

"You mean organs like your heart or lungs or something?" Brian raised an eyebrow at me.

"Or my corneas or anything else."

"Your CORNEAS?" my son was clearly disturbed by this bit of news.

He looked at Rich, who shrugged. "I've given up on trying to talk sense to her about this stuff."

"But her CORNEAS?" he asked again in disbelief.

"Sure," I told him. "They do cornea transplants all the time."

Brian sat back against the seat and shook his head. "That's just wrong, mom."

"What do you mean?" I asked puzzled.

"Well, first of all, “ he said earnestly, “they've done studies with transplant patients where sometimes the memories of the donor transfer to the person receiving the organ. It's freaky. Vegetarians start craving chicken nuggets, lumberjacks start wearing pink, weird stuff like that."

I nodded. "I know. I read those studies too, Bri. What was that author’s name again? Pearsall, I think it was. But its not like I'm a serial killer or have any bizarre traits to pass on or anything."

My husband cleared his throat but didn't say a word. I shot him a look.

"On top of that," Brian continued. "The whole idea is freaky. I mean what if I ended up dating a girl and found out that you had donated your corneas to her? " He shuddered. "We would be doing something, and suddenly I'd look at her and see your eyes looking back at me. It's just wrong."

I laughed. "Let me get this straight. You don't want me to donate any body parts because you're afraid they will go to a girl that you may someday end up dating?"

"Uh huh. Especially the eye thing."

I batted my eyes at my son. "Hey there, big boy."

"MOM!" Brian yelled, disgusted.

My husband cracked up. He loves it when I tease someone else for a change.

"It's kind of interesting actually," I turned the idea around in my head. "Say, for instance, she asked you to pick up some towels you left on the bathroom floor. You just wouldn't know, would you? Is that her being tidy, or me nagging you from the grave? And in terms of sex---"

"STOP!" Rich and Brian shouted at the same time.

I looked at them innocently. "I was just saying. . . "

Do These Pants Make My Butt Look Big?

2005-06-04T11:09:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist snapping this photo yesterday.

Just think. Some Japanese businessperson thought this great toy was the cutting edge of American culture.

Coming soon to a Dollar Store near you.

Juno Gets a New Name

2005-06-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

"Honey?" I said in the darkness.

"Mmmmm?" My husband was stroking my arm in that soft feathery way that drives me crazy.

"I've been thinking . . ."

"Yeeeeeees?" I could hear his smile.

"I've been thinking that I want to change my name."

He grew suddenly still. "You mean you want to go back to your maiden name?"

Rich is very traditional and old fashioned that way. He never did like the idea of a woman keeping her maiden name after she married.

"No, I want to change my first name. I've picked out an Indian name I like better."

Rich groaned and rolled onto his back. "Sheesh," he said, mildly exasperated "Why am I not surprised?"

I propped myself up on one elbow and looked down at him. "Seriously. If I changed my name, would you call me by my Indian name?"

Silence.

"Never mind then." I punched my pillow and curled back up on my side of the bed.

"Okay," he sighed heavily. "Fine. What Indian name do you want?"

"Wind and Fire Woman." I answered promptly.

"Wind and Fire Woman?" His voice rose in disbelief.

"Yes." I paused, then added generously, "But you can call me Running Fart for short."

There was a moment of stunned silence while I tried to smother my giggles.

Rich whacked me with his pillow. "I can't believe you sometimes!" He burst out laughing. "You totally had me going with that! You're like a bad child."

I grinned at him mischievously. "Had you worried there for a minute, didn't I?"

"Uh huh."

I ruffled his hair and gave him a kiss. "That what I love about you, you know. You really would have called me by my 'Indian name' just to make me happy."

"You know," he said, making a grab for me, "I really think Running Fart needs to be taught a lesson."

Of course, that's what Running Fart was hoping for all along.

It Does What?

2005-06-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

"I love you baby," Rich nuzzled me awake.

"Mmmmm," I snuggled closer, not wanting to open my eyes. I have a sort of arrangement with the world that if I don't open my eyes, it's technically not morning, and I don't have to get up.

He kissed me on the ear.

"I made a mistake last night," I mumbled sleepily.

"You did?" I could hear the smile in his voice. "What did you do?"

"It was really late so I was tired. I washed my face, then used this blue stuff that you put on cotton balls that takes off any residue. Except that I forgot that I had rearranged the medicine cabinet." I sighed. "It turns out I rubbed my face down with Listerine."

Laughing, Rich sniffed my face.

"Do I smell minty fresh?" I yawned, grabbing his arm and pulling it around my waist.

"You smell great baby," he squeezed me tight, still grinning.

"I figured it was okay--it's mostly alcohol anyway." I rubbed my face with one hand. "I think it actually got rid of that pimple thingy on my cheek."

He inspected my cheek. "You know, I think you're right."

"Cool." I said, tucking this away for future reference. "I may have hit upon one of those model secrets or something. Like using hemmoroid cream on puffy eyes."

"You put hemmoroid creme on your eyes?" My husband looked startled. "Never mind, I don't want to know." He gave me a deep kiss then stood up. "I have to get going babe."

"'Kay, 'kay." I yawned again. "Love you."

"Love you too. See you tonight."

At the door he turned around to look at me thoughtfully.

"Hemmoroid creme?"

"Uh huh."

He hesitated. "The egg in the bathroom?" he asked.

"Hair," I told him, "makes it bouncy and shiny."

"And the Milk of Magnesia?"

"Face mask."

"Those two round pink stones?"

"Ummmmm." I wriggled uncomfortably. "Girl thing. Can't tell you about that one."

There are just some things a woman just has to keep secret.

What I REALLY Want to Know . . .

2005-06-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday today, so I'm giving myself a writing break. I thought I'd try something a little different for this post instead.

Have you ever met someone you really liked and wanted to see if they were good relationship material? Or have you ever wondered how well you really know your partner? Or maybe you're just hanging with friends and need some good discussion topics.

A while back I made up a list of questions that I kept handy for exactly these sorts of situations. I figured I'd share them and see if anybody finds them useful. If you feel moved to answer any of them I'd love to hear what you come up with!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When you wake up in the morning, your first thought is:
- Must. . . hit. . . snooze alarm. . .
- Bathroom run!!!!!
- I wonder if she's as horny as I am right now?
- Drool puddle on the pillow again--yuck!

You have a flat tire. Do you. . .
- Call AAA
- Grab the lug wrench and pull out the spare tire
- Realize with a sinking feeling in your gut that that WAS the spare tire that just blew
- Perch on the car and try to look cute so someone will stop to help

How do you feel about doing laundry?
- Groan, Can there be a chore any more BORING?
- Yum, nothing smells nicer than clean fresh sheets
- Yeah baby! I never miss a chance to straddle the washer during the spin cycle!

How best would you describe your kissing style?
- Slow and lingering
- Hungry and passionate
- Hunt and peck
- Vampiric

When finding myself in a room full of strangers I:
- Hide in the corner
- Give a friendly hello and introduce myself
- Am the life of the party
- Sneak out the back door

Finish this sentence. I dance like:
- Fred Astair
- John Travolta
- A baby elephant
- Lurch
- Cher

We have a free afternoon together. Would you prefer to:
- Go to a museum
- Take a drive with no particular destination in mind
- Go antiquing or explore a flea market
- Take in a great movie
- Hang out around the house and relax together
- Have wild monkey sex

What qualities are most important to you in a partner?

What is your best trait? Your worst fault?

If you could have dinner with three famous people in history, who would you choose and why?

The world is going to end at midnight. How would you choose to spend your final day?

Who is your worst enemy? Why?

What superhuman power would you most like to have? Invisibility, super strength, flying, or the ability to read minds?

If you could shapeshift into any animal at will, what animal would you choose to be?

Your best friend's significant other hits on you at a party. Do you tell him/her?

How do you feel about public displays of affection? How do you feel about public displays of affection between gay couples?

My dog eats your shoe? How do you react?

Tell me something about yourself that no one knows. I'm writing a book on a serial killer. Would you let me stalk you and force you into compromising positions to help me in my research?

Your birthday--event to be ignored or celebrated?

If you were a candy bar what kind would you be? Why?

Who is your favorite fictional character? Why?

What is your favorite color? Favorite season? Favorite time of day?

Do you sleep on the left or right side of the bed?

Do you sleep in jammies or in the buff?

After sex, which partner should sleep on the wet spot? (Think carefully on this one)

Do you leave the toilet seat up or down? Have you ever had the seat smack down on your winkie?

How do you handle disagreements with your partner? Walk away? Talk it out? Lose your temper but then make up quickly? Hold a grudge? Ignore the problem?

What is the most romantic thing you have ever done for a woman?

What's the most romantic thing a woman has ever done for you?

Do you believe in magic? If so how would you define it? Can I have a lock of your hair?

Remote control--channel surfer or stayer-putter?

Eating with your fingers--good or bad? Me feeding you grapes with my mouth--good or bad?

What is your favorite guilty pleasure that won't grow hair on your palms?

Favorite movie monster: vampire, werewolf, Frankenstein, mummy, or King Kong? Why?

Boxers or briefs? White or colors?

How would your ex girlfriends describe you?

Finish this sentence: I would never ______________________.

What bad habits of other people make you crazy?

What food can't you do without? What food would you NEVER eat?

Spanking

2005-06-01T02:39:00.000-07:00

"Sorry I missed you on Paltalk last night," I told my sister Iris. "I was out grocery shopping."

"No problem. I was having computer problems anyway. I went over to the help rooms but no one would help me. Too busy. So I decided to go talk to this Dominatrix instead."

"A Dominatrix?" I laughed.

"It made sense to me. I mean, after all, she was a Dominatrix. You know. . . strong, female, in control and all that. I figured she'd know what to do."

I love this about my sister. She's the sort of person who goes to Niagara Falls and ends up having tea with an 80-year-old artist who weaves clothing from hair shed by his dog.

"So did she help you?" I asked curiously.

"No," Iris sighed. "I don't think she quite knew what to make of me. She wasn't really even into spanking. Can you believe it?"

I shook my head. "I never really understood that whole spanking thing myself."

I've pretty much dedicated my life to avoiding all forms of violence against my butt.

"Still," my sister insisted. "You'd think it would be part of her job description. And then the foot fetish guy came in so I left."

"The foot fetish guy?"

"Don't ask."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I never did like the whole idea of spanking--probably because I was always being singled out for one.

My first grade teacher was an Evil Midget named Mrs. Hooker (I know you guys think I make this stuff up so I've attached our class picture as proof). At least twice a week that woman turned me over her knee and swatted me with a wooden paddle for talking in class.

Because that's what they did back in the 60s. Scary.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sometimes adults would try to trick us into mistaking a spanking device for a toy. Remember the bolo paddle? It was a plastic or wooden paddle with a little red rubber ball attached to it by a long rubber band. The idea was to try to bounce the ball off the paddle. This worked great until the ball came off--which it always did--after about 15 minutes of hard play.

The first time our aunt used a broken bolo paddle on our behinds, my sister and I vowed to never let her get her hands on one again.

We took to burying them whenever they broke.

At last count, we had about thrity paddles buried in our backyard.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A friend of mine once tried to explain to me about a Zen meditation technique she practiced.

"You sit facing the wall, your back straight in proper sitting posture, and try to clear your mind of all thought. If you become tired, or distracted, or begin to slouch, the Master strikes you on the shoulder with a stick to bring you back into focus."

"Ohhhhhh," I said, suddenly comprehending. "Now I know what you mean. I used to practice that all the time."

My friend look puzzled. "You did?"

I nodded sagely. "Yes. Only we called it 'punishment'."

The Secret

2005-05-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

"How do you get your kitchen floor to look like that?" I asked, munching on a cookie.

Girlfriends are the best. They commiserate with you over bad boyfriend choices and believe that good cuisine is the key to emotional recovery.

Torie was putting dishes away and looked over her shoulder at me. "What do you mean?"

"Just look at it. " I stared at the spotless shiny floor. "It's freakin' amazing. This linoleum's got to be over 10 years old, and it looks better than the new stuff in my place! How do you DO that?"

My best friend grinned. "Trade secret."

"Aww, come on. You know I'm no good at this stuff."

Torie is a domestic diva, and my source for information on anything home-related, from roasting a turkey to getting grass stains off jeans. She's just gifted that way.

She laughed. "Okay. But you have to promise not to tell the kids." She put away the last dish and closed the cupboard door. "Right now they will do ANYTHING not to have to deal with the kitchen, so I have them doing everything else--cleaning the living room, bathroom, catbox, taking out the trash--all the stuff I hate. If they find out about this I'm dead meat."

"I promise."I told her. "Witch's honor."

The next thing I knew she was yanking my sneakers off my feet and carrying them over to the counter. Reaching under the sink, she pulled out a package of Scotch Brite scrubbies and an industrial stapler.

"Now wait a minute," I protested. "I just bought those sneakers!"

Expertly she stapled scrubbies to the bottoms of my New Balance sneakers then did the same to her own.

"Here," she said handing over my sneaks. "Put these on. I'll be right back."

Slipping my sneakers back on, I ran my fingers thoughtfully over their new scrubbie soles. I heard the stereo start up, and a few minutes later Joan Jett was singing about how she loved rock and roll. Sweet.

Torie danced through the kitchen door and over to the sink. Grabbing a gallon jug of bleach, she poured a large puddle in the middle of the floor then added a small bucket of water.

"Come on," she grinned at me, holding out her hand.

I hesitated. "This isn't going to be like that time you tried to teach me how to roller skate and kept pushing me into the wall is it?"

"I did NOT push you into the wall silly. You were just so nervous you kept trying to hug it. " She took my hand. "Now do what I do. Slide your feet back and forth through the bleach like you 're skating."

I obediently slid my feet back and forth. I really can skate--just not with wheels.

"Good. Now slide even bigger--like this."

I followed her lead, stretching as far as I could. I was starting to get into it.

"Now DANCE!" Torie let go of my hand and did a little slide dance across the floor.

I did three quick scrubby slides and then one long glide into the wall.

"Again with the wall thing?" she yelled over the music.

"I MEANT to do that!"

"Right," she laughed and did a row of twisty side-steps.

The stereo cranked up a notch as the Stones came on with "Satisfaction," and we skated and slid and rocked our way all over the kitchen floor.

Twenty minutes later we collapsed, breathless and laughing, in the dining room.

We looked at each other and grinned.

"Is that really all there is to it?" I asked

"Pretty much. After it dries I'll mop it down with Pine Sol to make it smell nice, but that's pretty much it."

I looked at her doubtfully. "Is it smart to mix chemicals like that?"

I once had a vey bad experience with bleach, a bottle of Mr. Clean, and a gas stove. It was weeks before the cats would come near the kitchen again.

"If you let it dry first, it's ok."

The front door opened and Torie's son Matt came running in the room. He gave his mom a kiss and grabbed a cookie. "What are you guys doing?"

"I was just helping your mom scrub the kitchen floor. You missed all the fun. "

"I bet." Matt looked relieved.

"Which reminds me young man," Tori added. "The cat box needs to be changed and the garbage taken out. "

"I'll do it later tonight." The teen prepared to make his escape.

"Nope, you're going to do it now," his mom said firmly.

"Look at it this way Matt," I said brightly. "At least you didn't have to scrub the kitchen floor."

"Yeah," he admitted. "that's true. It beats spending an hour with a scrub brush and a bucket of bleach."

Matt went off to change the catbox, while across the table the two scrubbie goddesses gave each other a high five.

The Favorite

2005-05-29T22:19:00.000-07:00

A roar erupted from the hall. "I'm going to KILL that dog!"

A small furry figure suddenly dashed into my room and ran under the bed.

My 17-year old son came storming in, his older sister close behind. "WHERE IS SHE?"

I looked up innocently from my computer chair. "I have no idea. What's wrong?"

"She POOPED in my room!" Brian yelled, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red.

"She did NOT!" Amber jumped in defensively. "You don't know that! You didn't see her do it."

Brian looked increduously at his sister. "Who else would it have been?"

Amber crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. "Maybe it was me."

Brian stared at her. "You pooped in my room?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it was one of the cats. Or Mom."

Now there was a thought.

A tiny snout poked out from under the dust ruffle, and I casually nudged it back under the bed.

I tried a diplomatic approach. "Brian, did you actually see Reyna poop in your room?"

"NO I didn't actually see her, but --"

"So," I continued smoothly, "basically what we've established here is that we have a stealth pooper."

"Mom!! You know that dog hates me."

"She doesn't hate you."

A little growl came from under the bed, and my son looked around wildly.

"She doesn't poop in anyone else's room. You probably did something to her!" Amber looked at her brother accusingly. "THAT's why she doesn't like you!"

"I DID NOT!" Brian yelled. "She just hates me!"

"Just calm down," I said soothingly. "The point it is you just don't know for sure. Like your sister said, it could have been anybody--Tiggy, for example"

Startled, the cat looked up from where she was cleaning herself in the corner.

Tiggy is my husband's Bengal Tiger cat. She was in heat and had spent the past three nights yowling under our bed. I had no compunction whatsoever about framing this one on her. Besides, Brian would never be able to catch her anyway.

My son shot me a look. "It wasn't Tiggy. She's been in here all day."

Oh well. It had been worth a try.

"I tell you what," I offered. "I promise that if you catch Reyna in the act, I'll punish her, okay? But, for right now, let's just clean up the poop and see if it happens again."

Brian gave up in complete frustration. His shoulders slumped forward as he looked from his sister to me. "She's going to do it again. You know she will," he muttered.

I grabbed a plastic bag and removed the offending pellets from my son's room. A little disinfectant and some apple cinnamon spray foam later, and the room smelled fresh.

"See?" I said brightly. "Good as new."

Amber sniffed. "Actually it smells better than Brian's room usually does."

"Shut UP!" My son shoved his sister out the door, closing it behind her. "And keep that stupid dog out of here."

I walked back into my room. Reyna was sitting in my computer chair waiting for me. She cocked her head at me.

"I just saved your butt, you know." I told her.

Reyna wagged her tail and rolled over for me to pet her stomach.

She'd always known she was my favorite.

Reyna is half teacup poodle and half chihuahua, and so unusual looking that people frequently don't know WHAT sort of animal she is. Only about seven inches tall and four pounds soaking wet, she's even smaller than our cats. And yes, she is full grown.

More Reyna pictures will be posted to my photo album soon!

Metaphysical Hotline

2005-05-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

"Juno, can you take a call on line 1?"

"Yep," With one sneakered foot I pushed off from the filing cabinet, rolled smoothly across the little office to my desk, and swiveled to grab the phone.

"Hi, this is Juno. How can I help you?" I asked brightly, leaning back in my seat and putting my feet on the desk.

A man's voice came over the line. He was an up-talker--one of those people that makes the end of every sentence sound like a question.

"I was in your store the other d-d-day? And I b-b-bought this book on p-p-personal p-p-power?"

"Yes?" I said politely. I picked up the rubber band ball from my desk and began playing with it.

"Well, I have a q-q-question?"

"Okay."

Immediately I knew this was not going to be one of those straight questions like they get over at Barnes and Noble. New Age book store customers are a unique species. They don't just buy books--they hold you personally accountable for the information inside.

"Say someone takes all their p-p-personal p-p-power and p-p-puts it in a glass of water?"

I knew it. This was not going to a happy place.

"And say that a d-d-dog came along and d-d-drank all the water?"

I could hear the terror in his voice and wondered what sort of dog he had. A great dane? A german shepard? Or maybe it was a little chuhuahua that had gotten all full of his big bad self and developed an attitude.

"Is that b-b-bad?" You could tell he expected the worst.

Now there are two ways to answer a call like this. One of them appealed to my sense of humor, while the other appealed to my need for job security.

I hedged.

"Was it tap water or spring water, sir?"

"T-t-tap water," he said and the panic rose in his voice. "Is that b-b-bad?"

I started to feel a little sorry for him. And I'm a wuss when it comes to this sort of thing. I have evil intentions but am too softhearted to follow through.

"No, no--it's fine," I reassured him. "I just wondered."

I took a deep breath, "Now, about your question. . ."

I looked at the rubber band ball in my hand, suddenly inspired.

"Listen, you've heard people talk about there being a silver cord that attached your soul to your body, right?"

"Yes?" his voice quavered.

"Well . . . there is a sort of red rubber band thing that attaches you to your personal power. You can never really lose your power because if it gets too far away from your body it just snaps back into place."

"Really?"

"Absolutely," I replied firmly. ""Don't worry about a thing."

I could feel his relief.

"Th-thank you. Th-thank you so much!"

"No problem."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I always got stuck with the weird calls no one quite knew how to handle. My training as a single mother of two made me perfectly equipped to deal with just about any situtation.

"We have poltergeist activity at our house. Things are blowing around everywhere, and we hear strange voices. It's really starting to scare the children."

"Have you asked it to leave?" I offered.

Silence.

"Ummmm. . . well . . . no . . . not exactly. I meaned we tried doing protection spells and stuff, but we didn't just tell it to go away."

"Well there you go."

Another satisfied customer.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"There's a ghost in our home,"a woman whispered into the receiver. "We keep seeing this white figure move through the hallway and into the family room. We think it's the ghost of the old woman who died here. She's very angry."

Okay, I'll bite.

"How do you know she's angry?"

"She keeps knocking things over and moving stuff around. And she makes this eerie howling sound."

I thought for a minute. "What's your family room like, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Well right now it's a mess." The woman laughed a little self consciously. "We're using it as a storage area for all the stuff we don't have room for. Mainly laundry, newspapers, old furniture and electronic equipment--things like that."

I identified with the ghost. I could be driven to the brink of insanity just by looking at my kids' messy rooms. Maybe if we had a ghost it would unnerve them enough that they would keep them clean.

I decided to give the poor ghost a little help. "I think you should clean the room."

"What?" the woman sounded offended.

"If you want the problem to stop, you will have to do a ritual cleansing of the room."

"How do I do that?"

"Well you begin by cleaning the room, making it nice. You have to shift the energy, so to speak. Then light some candles and scent the room with some cinnamon incense or oil."

I am very fond of candlelight and nice smells.

"That's it?" the woman sounded supsicious.

"Of course not," I said with dignity. "After you're done you need to say a blessing on the room asking that it be a place of love and joy and peace. Trust me, it will work."

"Okay," the woman said doubtfully. "I'll try it."

"Good."

I smiled to myself as I hung up the phone. True, I had just frustrated a customer who was now going to have to spend her whole weekend cleaning.

But I was willing to bet I had just made some tidy little ghost very happy.

Photo: Brian and Juno

2005-05-26T00:20:00.000-07:00

Brian and mom - summer 1991

The Dance

2005-05-26T00:15:00.000-07:00

“Mama, why are you crying?”

“I just feel a little bit sad right now, sweetheart. That’s all.”

Worried blue eyes searched my face. “Why are you sad?”

I opened my arms, and Brian climbed into my lap, snuggling close. I rested my chin against his blonde hair and watched as he traced the lines on my palms with his tiny fingers.

“Do you have a tummy ache?” he asked, playing with my moonstone ring.

I smiled. “No—no tummy ache.”

“Then why are you sad?” he persisted.

I thought for a minute, unsure how to answer.

“Remember when your friend Mike started hanging out with Danny and didn’t want to play with you as much anymore?” I asked finally.

“Yes.” He pushed against the arm of the chair with one foot.

“And remember how bad that made you feel that he liked someone else better?”

Brian nodded.

I took a deep breath. “Well it’s sort of like that for me right now. John has found a friend he likes better than me, and it makes me feel a little lonely.”

He frowned up at me. “That’s not very nice.”

“No it isn’t,” I agreed. “But you know what’s worse?”

Brian shook his head. “What?”

“Getting caught by the Tickle Monster!” I grabbed him under the arms and tickled him while he squealed in delight. We chased each other around the room, hiccupping with laughter until we collapsed into a happy breathless heap on the floor.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I was curled up in the old wingback, reading a novel I had picked up from the used bookstore, when Brian dragged a kitchen chair into the room.

“What in the world are you doing?” I asked, putting down my book.

He laughed and ran out of the room. A moment later he reappeared, this time with the little radio I kept in the kitchen. He plugged it into the wall and turned it on.

“Brian?”

The DJ’s voice came over the radio. “This next song goes out from Brian to his mom to help her not be sad today.”

Strains of Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight filled the room.

A lump rose in my throat. "What? " I began. “How in the world did you figure out how to . . .”

Brian took my hand and pulled me out of the chair. “Come on mama, dance with me.”

Leading me over to the middle of the room, he climbed up onto the kitchen chair. “So we’re the same size,” he explained.

Solemnly, he put one hand on my left shoulder and took my right hand in his.

And we danced.

I circled the chair slowly as we swayed back and forth to the music.

I remembered . . .
the time I had made John get out of the car and dance with me . . .
the rain pouring down, drenching us both. . .
my children's laughing faces pressed against the rear windows . . .
Clapton singing on the car stereo. . .

Suddenly I was overcome with a fierce and overwhelming love for this child who watched me now with shining eyes, so proud of his gift to me. My son had given me the one thing he felt was most precious—a single moment in time.

Leaning forward, I kissed him on the forehead, breathing in his little boy scent of grass, sweat, Play-dough, cookies, and baby shampoo. "Thank you," I whispered.

He grinned. "You're welcome," he said, and stood on his toes to make himself a little taller.

I closed my eyes, smiling . . .

And we danced.

Moon Kisses

2005-05-25T06:51:00.000-07:00

"I wish you would change your pagan ways and marry me."

Victor lay beside me in bed, his tall lean body draped carelessly by the white sheets.

I laughed. "If I changed my 'pagan ways' I wouldn't be me, now would I?"

He sighed, running his fingers through my red hair. "I mean it Juno. I'll be finished with the seminary soon. Greek Orthodox priests are allowed to be married, and it would be good for me to have a wife who could help me in my work. "

Victor had recently left his job of many years in city government to become a seminary student. We had been friends for a long time and used to have long debates on history, philosophy and religion, gleefully playing devil's advocate with each other. Then one night he brought over a bottle of Grand Mariner and . . . well . . . let's just say that the relationship took an interesting turn.

I had never been naughty with a man who was about to be a priest before, and my 'pagan ways,' as he put it, made me forbidden territory to him. The sex was intense.

I made a face at him. "I would make a terrible pastor's wife, and you know it. I'd turn them all into a bunch of Gnostics."

A breeze blew in from the window, and we watched as the sheer white curtains transformed into dancing ghosts.

"Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century," Victor said thoughtfully. "I might have been a monk, working on illuminating a religious manuscript in some old abbey."

"What would I have been?" I wondered.

"You," he sniffed disapprovingly, "would have been one of those poor peasants who kissed their hand to the moon."

I lifted my hand and blew a kiss.

He shook his head. "Not like that. They used to kiss the back of their hand like this while they reached for the moon at the same time."

I sat up, fascinated. "That's beautiful!"

"What?" Victor looked startled. His history lesson was not going as planned.

"That's beautiful. There's a passion and sweetness and a kind of longing to it. It's sort of like making love to the moon, reaching to pull it close and kiss it at the same time."

He groaned. "Here we go!"

I ignored him. I had returned to my first love.

I gently kissed the back of my hand and reached out to the full moon.

Interesting People I Have Known . . .

2005-05-24T16:45:00.000-07:00

If you ever get writer's block and feel you haven't got another creative bone in your body, try working at a New Age bookstore for a month. I guarantee you will meet characters you could never have dreamed up in a million years.

Way back in my late twenties and early thirties I managed a large New Age bookstore, and during that time I met some of the most insane and wonderfully eccentric people I have ever known in my life.

For example:

A motherly hereditary witch who brewed an amazing protection potion according to an ancient family recipe. She shared it only with a handful of close friends because it required several drops of her own blood. According to legend, the potion protected against any attack be it spiritual, emotional or physical. (Some found it had the added benefit of persuading police officers not to issue you a speeding ticket.)

A family whose guest bedroom was possessed by a demonic dresser. It seemed a horned grinning face in the natural grain of the dresser's top drawer made folks a bit uneasy and interfered with their sleep. It was later bought by an enterprising man who aspired to sell this unique furniture item and its haunting history on Ebay.

A slender Romanian girl who bit a male co-worker when he teased her. The agitated young man became further alarmed upon learning that her hometown was actually Transylvania.

The gorgeous male stripper who had two 10-foot long boa constrictors, drove a gold jaguar, and carried huge chunks of quartz crystal in his trouser pockets. He later became a born-again Christian minister.

A man who desperately wanted to learn the secrets of shamanic shape shifting, so that he could transform himself into a bug and be crushed to death under a woman's red high heel shoe.

A group of magicians who manifested Pan in their living room, invoking his protection against evil people who were kidnapping pets off front porches in the neighborhood. The goat-foot god was a mite bit pissed about THAT, and the kidnappings quickly came to an end.

A self-proclaimed spiritual teacher who believed he had been taken up into an alien Mother Ship and was heavily into S&M, Betty Page, and Jesus Christ.

A tiny old lady with thick horn rimmed glasses who believed that terrorist Buddhist monks were bent on destroying Earth.

A hard-working single mom who could:
--light a candle for a new fridge and find it waiting for her the next day at the side of the road.
--ask if an opportunity is as good as gold and look down to find an $800 gold chain lying in a deserted snow bank.

A author who writes popular books about monsters and aliens and magic. He keeps a rubber brain in a bubble tank in his office, a "farting fairy" statue on his bookshelf, and believes that peanut butter is one of the five main food groups.

Sooooooo. . . what unusual people have you known in your life?

Photo: My Unreasonable Expectations of Men Began At an Early Age

2005-05-24T00:44:00.000-07:00

Some kids just get cute baskets for Easter. I always had to be a little different.

Pictures Are Worth A Thousand Words

2005-05-24T00:31:00.000-07:00

. . . and so I've gone back through my old posts and added photos that I thought might make the stories a bit richer. Some of them--Like "Art and the Math Workbook" make a lot more sense if you can actually see a sample of my dad's art.

Anyway, thanks for the kind comments. I've loved exploring all your blogs and reading about your own lives. Isn't the internet grand?

Photo: Silly Sisters

2005-05-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

Iris and I in a silly moment. She's the one in the bad 70's pants.

The Caterpillar Funeral

2005-05-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

I was outside finishing my chores for the morning--sweeping the upstairs and downstairs patios and the long sloping driveway that led up to our house. Iris was cleaning the glasstop tables and the lawn chairs. She finished before me and followed me to the downstairs patio, waiting for me to be done so we could play badmiton.

The concrete was scattered with dead caterpillars.

"Ewwwwww. Gross." I shuddered. I was never a big fan of spiders, worms or crawly things. I picked my way across the patio and began sweeping the fuzzy bodies into the grass.

"No--wait!"

I turned around to see Iris carefully pushing one of the dead caterpillars onto a leaf.

"Come here and help me."

I looked at her doubtfully. "What are you doing?"

My sister walked over and placed the leaf on the patio wall. "I think we should give them a funeral."

"A funeral for worms?" She was clearly out of her mind.

"They're not worms--they're caterpillars."

"I know but come on!" I didn't get it. "Why do you want to do that?"

Iris looked up at me, suddenly serious. "Because they didn't make it. They tried to get away, to be free, to be something beautiful. But they didn't make it. They died and they never became butterflies. And now they're just lying here like they never mattered."

"Nothing should ever feel like it didn't matter," she added quietly.

I knew she wasn't just talking about caterpillars.

I sighed. "Ok. We'll have a funeral."

Iris smiled.

"But I'm not touching those things," I added quickly. "No matter what you say. It's too gross"

For the next hour, we gathered leaves from the maple trees next to our house that we used to hold the bodies. I found two twigs in the backyard that we could use to push the caterpillars onto the leaves. After about an hour, we had about forty little caterpillars laid out side by side on the patio wall.

"They look sort of bare," I offered. "Maybe we should add some flowers or something?"

My sister nodded. "Good idea."

We went over to the ladybug bush in the backyard. It was really just a big bush covered with tiny white blossoms, but there were always tons of ladybugs living there. Sometimes they would fly onto our arms, which meant good luck.

Sister Mary Reginald said that back in Europe during the Middle Ages, insects were detroying the crops, so the farmers prayed to the Virgin Mary to protect them. The ladybugs came and ate all the pests and saved the crops. The people called them 'Beetles of Our Lady'. Their red wings were supposed to represent her cloak and the black spots, her sorrows and joys.

I liked the ladybugs and always took special care to knock down any spider webs I found on the bush so they woulndn't get stuck in them.

We pinched off a few of the white flowers and carried them back to the patio. Iris placed a tiny blossom on each leaf. "That's better."

I looked at her. "Now what?"

"I think we should sing something."

"How about that John Denver song? Goodbye Again?"

Iris shook her head. "Too sad."

"How about Close to You?" I secretly wanted to sing like Karen Carpenter one day.

"No. I think it should be a church song. Something religious."

We sat silently for a minute, thinking.

"Hail Mary?" Iris offered.

"I don't know. That one doesn't make sense really. I don't think caterpillars are big on sin. Maybe something with animals in it?"

Finally we decided on a song we had learned for the folk mass a couple of weeks before.

We stood together solemnly holding hands:

"I heard the sound of the year that lay dying
Hurt by lament of a lone whipperwill.
Spirit of God, see that cloud crying,
Fill the earth, bring it to birth, and flow where you will.
Flow, flow, flow till I be
The breath of the Spirit blowing in me. . ."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Juno?"

"Mmmmmm?" I was digging a hole with Aunt Fran's hand spade that I had stolen out of the storage room.

"Do you think animals go to heaven when they die?"

"I don't know." I scooped out another mound of dirt. "In religion class they say no, that animals just sort of disappear because they have no souls. But I don't think that's really fair. I like animals a lot better than most people I know."

Iris nodded. "Me too."

"Besides, grownups believe a lot of stupid things. They think dead babies that aren't baptized go to Limbo. If things really worked that way, God would have to hang out in heaven with a bunch of dumb adults instead of cute babies and animals. I don't think he'd like that very much."

We carefully placed the caterpillars in the hole and gently covered them up with dirt.

"Let's make a promise," I said suddenly.

"What kind of promise?"

"Let's promise each other that if there's an animal heaven we'll go there instead of the people one. It'll be easier to find each other, and we won't have to float around all day and pray and stuff.

"Maybe we could even rescue the Limbo babies?" Iris had that glint in her eye.

I grinned. "Maybe we could."

Iris crooked her pinkie. "Promise?"

I hooked my little finger around hers. "Promise."

Photo: Iris

2005-05-21T19:00:00.000-07:00

Iris

Creative Lying 101

2005-05-21T08:44:00.000-07:00

When we were growing up, my sister Iris was always getting caught. She would just latch onto an idea and run with it without thinking about the consequences. And she was a terrible liar.

When she was in fourth grade she decided to skip Catholic school for the day and just stay home. She told our aunt it was a Holy Day of Obligation. Unfortunately she was busted when one of her classmates who lived on our street dropped off her homework to her.

I was appalled.

"What were you thinking telling her it was a Holy Day? Are you crazy?"

Iris grinned. "You know, she bought it too until Eric showed up at the door. I don't know whether she was more mad that I skipped school or that she was caught not knowing the Holy Days."

"Still you should plan it better than that." I shook my head. "Next time you should just pretend to go to school and then hang out in the woods all day or something."

She cocked her head to one side. "But I didn't want to hang out in the woods. I wanted to stay in my room and listen to the radio and write."

Unlike my sister, I was a master planner. I kept sheets of paper hidden in my notebook filled with line after line of "I will not misbehave in class" just in case of emergencies. Sometimes I would sell them to other students at a dollar per page.

I was big on contingency plans and always had a Plan A and Plan B in case I got caught. And I always tried to stay as close to the truth as I could.

When I wriggled out of yardwork:
"I did rake the yard. But then the wind kicked up and blew them all over the place again."

Or when I wanted to read The Count of Monte Cristo instead of doing chores:
"I have so much homework to do. My teacher wants me turn in a book report on this by Wednesday."

Iris, on the other hand, enjoyed making up fantastic lies and wild stories and really didn't care if she got caught.

Once my aunt and cousins freaked out because she never came home after school. They called the school and some of her classmates and even drove around town looking for her. It was getting dark out, and they were about to call the police when she finally walked in the door.

She was purple.

My aunt was furious "Where have you been, young lady?! Do you realize we have been all over town looking for you? "

"I'm sorry."

"Where have you been? And what's that all over your clothes?" My aunt was so mad she was staring to turn a little purple herself.

Iris explained that she and her friend Angie had taken a bus after school to go to the downtown library to study. On the way back they had taken the wrong bus but didn't realize it until they were way out on the edge of town. They had finally gotten off and had to wait forever for another bus to come by to take them back.

I watched my sister closely, trying to figure out if she was lying or not. Iris was notorious for being easily distracted and having no sense of direction. I knew our aunt was probably going through the same mental debate.

"What is that purple stuff all over you? It's in your hair and clothes and all over your face! What did you do!"

Iris wrapped a lock of hair around one purple finger. "Well, while we were waiting for the other bus to take us back, Angie and I found some blackberry bushes at the side of the road. I thought that maybe if I gathered a bunch of them and brought them home you could make a pie with them. I had a good armful but then I tripped over a root and slid down the embankment. The berries got squashed and went everywhere."

Aunt Fran grabbed Iris by the shirt. "What were you thinking? Just look at this mess! This is never going to come out! I can't afford to keep buying you and Juno nice things if you keep ruining them!"

She shoved Iris toward the hall, disgusted. "I want you to go to your room and take those things off right now and throw them away. You are going to be grounded for two weeks, young lady. do you hear me? No friends, no TV, no phone--nothing! And you will do extra chores around the house to help pay for those clothes."

I followed Iris into her room and closed the door.

"Ok, spill it."

She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. "What a mess!"

"Did you really catch the wrong bus?" I was curious.

"Nah." Iris pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it on the floor. "Angie and I just got bored and decided to go exploring. We went downtown and walked around the shops and stuff and bought ice cream."

I was fascinated. "What about the blackberries?"

"That actually happened when we got back." Stepping out of her shorts, she rubbed her legs. "Look at all these scratches! I forget how prickly those bushes are."

"Anyway," she continued, "We got off the bus and started walking home and there were these blackberry bushes at the side of the road. Angie picked one and threw it at me, then I threw one back at her, and before we knew it we were both covered in blackberry juice."

"You had a blackberry fight?"

"Uh huh." She grinned. "It was a blast."

"I don't think Aunt Fran believed you."

"She never knows what to think. She's either going to be mad at me because I did something wrong or because she thinks I'm stupid, so I might as well make up a good story. I'm going to be punished either way."

She had a point.

Besides it there was something satisfying about keeping Aunt Fran guessing.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Photo: Sister Mary Reginald

2005-05-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, there really was a Sister Mary Reginald.

The nuns at our school were Dominican sisters and always wore these full habits. Whenever a good wind kicked up, their white bibs would blow up and cover their faces. If you look closely ,you can see the rosary hanging from her waist.

One of the older nuns, Sister Marie Louise, used to grab her rosary really tight and start praying loudly if we were trying her patience in class. If that didn't help, she'd resort to swatting us with the rosary until we settled down.

Sister Mary Reginald preferred an old trick she'd learned in her softball days. She'd grab a blackboard eraser and throw a smooth pitch right at the head of the unwary offender.

Photo: Three Sisters & Mom

2005-05-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

Susan , Juno, Iris and their mom.

My Sister The Hippie

2005-05-20T13:34:00.000-07:00

We didn't see many hippies in a conservative southern town like Chattanooga. So naturally when our sister Susan came home from Minneasota, she suddenly became the topic of many a whispered conversation. Not only was she a flower child, but she also was a vegetarian, lived in an Ashram and followed a Guru. She dressed differently too, wearing long brightly colored skirts, Indian jewelry, no shoes, and black leotards. Our Aunt Fran was mortified. ("She's not even wearing a bra!")

Iris and I were, of course, fascinated. We were never quite sure what Susan was going to do next--only that it was bound to upset the adults. In our world of meatloaf, polyester school uniforms, and Bobby Sherman, she was like some exotic bird. And she didn't seem to care one bit what people thought of her.

Once she took us out with her to the local Red Food grocery store, and the manager made us leave because she wasn't wearing any shoes. Susan argued with him about it while Iris and I watched, wide-eyed. When he insisted that her feet had to be covered, she grabbed two paper bags, stuck a foot in each one, and defied him to say another word. He finally backed down, and we bought our groceries and left. ("Like there is really that much difference between going barefoot and wearing flip-flops or something!"Susan told us in the car.)

Susan's gifts to us always made Aunt Fran crazy--like the time she gave us a coloring book that was filled with drawings of nude people surrounded by rainbows and flowers and words like love and peace. Once she gave me a copy of Malcom X, which I got about halfway through before our aunt confiscated it. Susan was pretty mad when she found out about that.

Another time my sister gave me a big book of Greek mythology and inscribed it as " stories about gods and goddesses like you and Iris." My aunt was appalled. She said she didn't want us getting fancy ideas in our heads. She made Iris and I sit through a fifteen minute lecture on how there was no such thing as goddesses, how we were nothing special, and that we were not to believe things just because Susan said them. I loved that book fiercely and used to carry it around with me wherever I went. I still have it on my shelf to this day.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Susan loved to sing and taught us songs like "the Erie Canal" and "The Water Is Wide" and "He's My Groovy Guru." Iris and I loved performing for her, and sometimes I would sing her songs I had learned in Catholic School.

"If you give your life to him
He'll forgive you of your sins,
He'll help you find your way
Cause you've heard of Christ before
And you know that life is more
Than just holding on."

Susan stared at me dumbfounded. "That's a Beatles song!"

I paused. "What?"

"That song--it's 'If I Fell' by the Beatles! Only they've changed the words."

I shrugged. "I dunno, Sister Mary Reginald taught it to us in religion class"

I adored Sister Mary Reginald. I was going to be a nun like her when I grew up.

Susan freaked. "She can't DO that! That's got to be copyright infringement or something! She taught you that?"

"Yeah. She played a record of it and gave us handouts with the words."

"A record!" Susan was incredulous. "There's an actual recording of that stuff?"

I nodded.

"There is no way the Beatles would let them do that. No way!"

"Why not?" I asked cocking my head to one side.

"They just wouldn't. " She looked at me with a pained expression on her face. "Trust me on this one."

She paced the floor muttering something under her breath about contacting record labels and breaking copyright laws and illegal recordings. When Susan got worked up about something, she usually did something about it. I had visions of the police surrounding our school telling Sister Mary Reginald to come out with her hands up.

I wondered if they would let Sister wear her habit in jail or if they would make her wear a prison uniform . . .

Sketch: The Two Sisters

2005-05-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

Juno & Iris (a sketch by their dad William Francis Vandeveer Kughler

Art and The Math Workbook

2005-05-18T14:13:00.000-07:00

"Juno!" I heard the rattle of keys as my Aunt tossed them onto the kitchen table. "Juno Lisa Kughler, you get in here right this minute!."

Iris scooted against the bed and watched with round blue eyes as I slowly got up from the floor where we had been playing Barbies. Getting called into the kitchen by Aunt Fran always meant trouble, and the fact that she used my full name meant there was probably going to be a belt or a paddle involved.

"Juno! Right now!"

"Coming!"

I walked slowly towards the kitchen, trying to figure out what I had done this time. I knew she had just come back from an open house at our school, but my grades were actually ok and my second grade teacher seemed to like me.

My aunt was sitting at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other, her foot bouncing fast back and forth. She was taking long drags on a cigarette, and her hand shook as she tapped the ashes into the silver ashtray she kept on the table. I felt my stomach drop, and I licked my lips nervously. This was serious.

She watched me with narrowed eyes. "Do you know where I was just now? Do you!?"

I knew better than to answer.

"I was at the school talking to your teacher--that's where I was! ALL the parents were there as a matter of fact, which makes this all the more embarrassing!"

I stood perfectly still. I still had no idea where this was heading.

"All the children had their work laid out on their desks for all the parents to look at--to see the progress you had made, the teacher said." Her voice took on a sarcastic edge.

I knew this, of course. My teacher, Mrs. King, had given each of us a manila folder to display some of our tests and class projects and had us place them on our desks along with our workbooks. Each of us had drawn a picture for our parents that we set on top. Mine was of a deer in the woods. It was pretty good if I said so myself. Brian Johnson had offered to buy it from me for fifty cents if I would let him sign his name and pass it off as his. I wouldn't do it.

"Of course when I got to your desk all I could see was your filth! Everybody saw your filth!"her voice had risen to a shrill scream.

"What?" I was so startled I broke the cardinal rule and actually spoke.

Aunt Fran angrily stubbed out her cigarette. "Don't you dare try to play innocent with me young lady! I will beat the truth out of you if I have to! Anne is a teacher at that school--people there know this family! What do you think they're going to be saying about us now? Do you know how embarrassing this is going to be for all of us? Now you had better explain to me right now why you have naked women drawn all over your math workbook!"

"I was just d-drawing," I stammered.

"Really. Just drawing. " My aunt jumped from her chair and stormed over to the corner where I stood staring at the floor. She bent down until she was just inches from my face, and her voice became dangerously soft.

"Are you a little pervert? Is that why you were drawing nasty pictures of women? Is that it? Do you think it's funny to make filthy pictures in class?"

"They are NOT filthy pictures!" I yelled , looking her right in the eye. "They're ART!"

Her eyes widened in surprise, and her hand flew out and slapped me across the face. "Don't you ever raise your voice to me again--do you hear me?" She shoved me hard against the wall. "DO YOU HEAR ME?"

I held my hand against my sore cheek. "Yes, m'am." I whispered. I hated her.

She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me down the hall towards her room. "You are not going to speak to me that way--EVER! I'm going to teach you a lesson you will never forget. Do you understand me? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

"Yes! I understand you!" I tried not to struggle despite the sudden panic welling up inside me. It was always a lot worse if you struggled.

My aunt slammed open her closet door and grabbed the thick black belt that had belonged to her husband. She shoved me face down against the bed and and began to strike my back with the black leather. I had long ago learned not to move or to try to block the blows with my hands. Instead I pressed my face hard into my hands and curled forward, trying to make myself as small as possible.

"You will NOT . . .EVER . . . backtalk me AGAIN . . . "

Each phrase was punctuated by the sharp crack of the belt, and I clenched my jaw tight as hot tears ran down my face.

I hated her. I wanted her to die. I wanted to take my sister and run away.

"You are going to STOP . . . drawing that FILTH . . .DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!"

Iris and I could leave that night. We could pack my little red suitcase and go to an orphange. There had to be somebody who wanted two little redheaded girls. But then what if they didn't? What if they only wanted one? I bit my cheek hard as the belt cracked against my leg.

Finally, her fury spent, my aunt dropped her hand to her side and stepped back. Breathing raggedly, she returned the belt to the closet, while I cautiously got to my feet. My body felt like it was on fire.

"I hate that you make me do these things but it's for your own good." she said over one shoulder. " Believe me, it hurts me more than you. But I have to teach you a lesson or you'll never learn.

She shut the closet door and turned to face me, her eyes narrowing. "You're just lucky I don't tell your father about this. He thinks you and Iris are little angels because you put on such a good act for him. I wonder what he would say if he knew how disrespectful you really are?"

I idolized my daddy, and she knew that my biggest fear was he would disappear the way our mom had.

"You girls are just lucky I took you in when your mother died. Your father certainly didn't want to deal with you. Nobody wanted you--not even his own sister!"

I said nothing and roughly wiped away the tears from my eyes. I wanted to scream. I didn't want to hear anymore. I wanted her to stop. I wanted her to shut up!

"Now promise me you will never draw dirty pictures again."

I felt something within me crack. "No."

She froze. "WHAT did you say?"

"I said no."

I was as surprised as she was at my sudden bravery. But I couldn't stop myself. All the thoughts and feelings I had held inside slammed out of me in a tidal wave of emotion.

"They aren't dirty pictures--they're art. I'm an artist like my daddy. He draws naked women all the time, and people think it's good. They pay him a lot of money for it. I'm good. I'm one of the best drawers in school! I don't care how much you hit me--I'm not going to stop!"

Aunt Fran stared at me in disbelief. "Your father is an artist and YOU are not! You will NEVER be an artist. Do you hear me? He's a grown man. You're a child, and you are going to do what I tell you to do! It is not appropriate for a child to draw naked women! Do you understand?"

"I won't stop." My voice shook, but I held my ground.

"Really? We'll just see about that, young lady." Grabbing my shoulder she marched me down the hall and shoved me into my room. She snatched up a stack of paper and some pencils and forced me to sit at my desk.

She put her hands on her hips. "Now then. If you want to draw dirty pictures so much , you sit here and draw them until you get them out of your system. You will not leave this room until you fill up every sheet of paper. No food, no drink, no TV--nothing."

She slammed the door and left.

I wiped my eyes and, biting down on my lip, began to draw. I was going to draw the most beautiful women in the world. She would not break me. I was going to show her. I was an artist--I was!

The door cracked open, and Iris snuck into the room. I could tell she'd been crying. At four years old she was still just a baby and was terrified of everything. For a long time the adults thought she was retarded because she refused to speak to them. She talked to me though. She was just shy and didn't trust a lot of people.

"It's ok, Iris. Look--I'm alright. See?"

She came over and put her head on my shoulder. We stayed like that for a while, heads touching, leaning into each other. She smelled like baby shampoo.

"You better go," I said finally. "Aunt Fran will have a fit if she catches you in here." Sliding back the chair, I went over to my plaid bookbag and pulled out a book I'd checked out for her that day at the library.

"Look, here's a story I got you today--it's about those bears you like. You can go look at that, and I can can read it to you later tonight if you want."

"Ok," she whispered, tucking the book under one arm, and hugging me with the other. I suddenly felt like crying.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I didn't get to read to my sister that night and I never got my dinner. I did, however, draw pages upon pages of women--faeries, mermaids, goddesses, princesses--all gloriously naked with long flowing hair.

Every hour or so my aunt would peek around the door and demand to know if I was done.

The first three times I said no.

The fourth time I asked for more paper.

Finally it was bedtime, and the next day was school, then after school there was homework, and so on. My aunt and I never said another word to each other about my drawings, and the matter dropped.

But for me it was a new beginning. I had stood up to my aunt and won a small victory. I still don't know what possessed me to say those things to her, but for the first time I felt there was a piece of me she could never touch, a part of me that was mine alone.

Iris and I never did run away together. At least not literally. Instead we created a magical world we could escape to--a world where we were goddesses who played with lightening storms, sang mermaid songs to beach crabs, danced with the king of cats, and rode away at night on the back of a snowy owl.

Even now we smile when we think about the fairy offerings we wrapped in leaves or the gowns we created for ourselves out of rose petals and irridescent raindrops. In some ways those memories are more real to us than the woman who dominated our lives for all those many years.

Maybe that's why we slipped so easily into the imaginary worlds of our own children. Maybe that's why as adult women we love to write. For Iris and I, magic is not just some abstact fairy tale. For us, magic is coming home.

Dad's Portrait of Mom

2005-05-18T14:00:00.001-07:00

A portrait of my mom painted by my father.

The Battle of The Sponges

2005-05-16T23:21:00.000-07:00

"Paul's very nice really. We make a great match. He loves to travel and all that."

I was on the phone with my sister Iris who was telling me about her latest boyfriend.

"Well that's good. At least he doesn't call you his little 'hamhock' like that other guy you were with."

"Oh shut up. Howard adored me. It was just his way of showing affection."

"By calling you a slab of meat?"

"He was sweet!" Iris laughed.

"That's not sweet--it's just plain weird. Anyway, if he was so sweet why aren't you still with him?"

"Turned out he was an alcoholic."

"Jesus, Iris! Where do you find these guys? An alcoholic with a fetish for bacon!"

"Shall we talk about some of your choices in men?" Iris asked archly.

Sensing dangerous territory, I decided to quickly change the subject.

"Ummm. That's ok. So you've been staying at Paul's house?"

"Uh huh. It's a great place actually--he has excellent taste." I could hear my sister taking a long drag on her cigarette. "He's sort of a neat freak though. I mean I like a clean house and all, but he's a little anal about it. We got into a fight over the sponge thing."

I was curious. "The sponge thing?"

"Yeah. He has three sponges in the kitchen that are color coded for different purposes. There's a yellow one for the dishes, a blue one for counters and tables and a green one for wiping spills off the floor. Or is it the blue one for the dishes and the yellow one for the floor? Oh hell, I can't keep them straight. That's pretty much what the fight was about."

"He color codes his sponges?"

"Yes. He explained the whole system to me but I just can't keep it straight. You know how I am about remembering things like that. God. Anyway I just kept smiling and nodding like I understood what he was saying, but I think he was still suspicious. He kept testing me all weekend."

I laughed. "How did he do that?"

"We'd be standing in the kitchen, and he'd ask me to hand him the table sponge then watch to see which one I'd pick up."

"What did you do?"

"Well the first couple of times I pretended I had to suddenly go to the bathroom. It got to where I would do just about anything NOT to be in the kitchen. But he began to suspect that either something was up or I had a bladder the size of a pea. Anyway I finally just had to hand him a damn sponge.

She sighed. "You should have seen it, Juno. I kept watching his face for a reaction while I held my hand over the sponges, trying to get a clue as to which one it was. I thought I might be able to fake him out, you know? I knew the yellow one was wrong because he got this sort of smirk on his face when I touched it. So I just grabbed the green one instead."

"Wrong choice?"

"Yup--floor sponge. He was so frustrated that he started going off at me. 'How many times to I have to explain this to you before you get it! It's not that hard! Are you stupid?' and stuff like that."

I got mad at that one. "What an ass! Where does he get off talking to you like that! Besides you're not stupid, your special. "

"Gee thanks."

"No problem. Seriously though! Does he think you're a child?"

"Evidently. Anyway, I got back at him though."

A defiant tone had crept into my sister's voice that I recognized from our childhood days.

"What did you do?"

"After he left the room, I took each sponge and wiped it on the floor and put it back in place."

We laughed.

"Did you tell him?" I grinned.

"Nope. It sort of makes it more evil somehow. Just knowing how crazy it would make him if he knew. Now everytime he grabs the table sponge and does his little self-rightous routine, I just smile to myself because I know it just doesn't matter. It really shouldn't matter, you know? I mean if you wash a dish or wipe down a table it's really the same thing."

"I have a separate sponge for the floor. I keep it under the sink."

"Right--that's normal. What's not normal is color coding the stupid things and making a guessing game out of them."

We sit in companionable silence for a minute.

"That's very Aunt Fran now that I think of it," I offer after a moment.

"True. God, that woman made our lives hell."

"Remember the time she made you clean the kitchen floor with a scrub brush and kept yelling at you that you weren't doing it right?"

"Yes. I must have been all of eight years old--something like that."

"I remember she kept ragging on you . You were crying and asked her what you were supposed to do, and she told you to stop being lazy and use some elbow grease. When she came back in the kitchen later she found you digging around under the kitchen sink looking for the can of elbow grease."

"Well what the heck was I supposed to think? The woman was positively evil."

"True."

My call waiting beeped, and I glanced at the phone.

"Iris, I better go. Brian's trying to call in on the other line for me to pick in up at the mall. Can I talk to you later?"

"Sure. Love you."

"You too. Bye"

Sketch: Iris

2005-05-16T23:00:00.001-07:00

Iris (pencil sketch by Juno)

Iris: Goddess of Naughtiness

2005-05-15T19:03:00.000-07:00

My sister Iris is three years younger than me. She's tall and slender with strawberry blonde hair and a strong southern accent that she will deny to her last breath. Her eyes are bright baby blue and slanted like a cat's, a feature that never fails to startle those who first meet her. She's not much on polite how-are-yous but always jumps right into whatever random thought is on her mind at the moment.

"Do you ever dream about making love to a guy that's dressed in a teddy bear costume who turns you over his knee and spanks you because you forgot it was his birthday and ended up sticking a birthday candle in moon pie while you sang 'La Cucharacha' to him at the top of your lungs?"

There is a moment of stunned silence as you try to figure out how to deal with that one.

Then she shrugs and smiles brightly saying, "Me neither."

That is my sister.

Iris is very good at setting boundaries--one of my worst things. She had a boyfriend once who made the unforgivable mistake of fooling around on her. She caught him at a bar in Grundy county("You know who the richest man in Grundy county is?" Iris asked me. "The tooth fairy.")

Of course she didn't make a scene. Always the lady, she sashayed out of the bar, chin held high, drove home, and promptly began tossing his clothes out on the lawn. When everything was in a tidy pile, she lit up her Hibachi grill and proceeded to barbecue his things one at a time.

When the guy finally squealed into her driveway, spitting gravel, Iris was calmly smoking a cigarette and poking at the last pair of jeans with a set of tongs.

Her boyfriend jumped out of his car and immediately started in with excuses. "Aww baby, I'm sorry. It didn't mean anything. Honest. I love you honey. You're the only woman for me."

"You know what?" Iris took a drag on her cigarette and blew a ring of smoke into the air. "I don't believe you. Besides, you're just a little too late. I already barbecued your things."

"What?! Aww man." He ran a hand through his hair and stared at his pants smoking on the grill. "You burned everything?"

Iris nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so."

"Dammit Iris!" He kicked at the grass and swore under his breath. Then he looked up at her again. "I still love you, you know. I do want to be with you."

"Right. That's why you decided to fool around with some 18-year-old slut in a bar." She tossed her cigarette to the dirt, grimly grinding it out with the toe of her high heeled shoe. "Nope. I'm done."

Iris turned around and walked into the house.

And that was that. ("It was completely ridiculous," she confided to me later over a glass of iced tea. "A Grundy county chick for God's sake!")

Men tend to be fascinated by Iris--probably because they are never quite sure what she is capable of. She's this kaleidoscope blend of polite southern lady, ditzy redhead, practical businesswoman, raving lunatic, clever jester and fragile waif. She loves makeup, dresses, scarves and pretty trinkets and thinks flannel pajamas are incredibly sexy. She hates to be alone and can be dangerously creative when she's bored.

Her ex-husband Rick found this out the hard way. At one point during their marriage, he was working as a sanitation engineer. Basically this meant he had to get to sleep very early at night in order to wake up at four in the morning to get to work. Like me, Iris tends to be more of a night owl, so this left her with a lot of free time on her hands.

Never a good thing with my sister.

Now Rick happens to be a very sound sleeper--you could literally run a vacuum around the man and he wouldn't so much as crack an eye open. Iris was straightening up the bathroom, feeling very antsy and not sure what to do with herself, when she happened to glance at the nail polish that was sitting in the medicine cabinet.

She thought for a moment, then picked out a jar of pink pearl polish and another of scarlet red. She crept into the bedroom and carefully pulled back the sheets from the bottom of the bed so that Rick's feet were exposed. Quickly and expertly, she brushed polish onto each of his toenails until they shone with a soft pink sheen. Then, as a finishing touch, she painted tiny red hearts on each one. The contrast between those huge, hairy, tan feet and the delicate little nails was almost too much for her, and she had to hold her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

The next morning, Rick got up for work and, as usual, pulled his socks on and dressed in the dark so as not to wake his wife. Iris went about her daily routine and forgot about her prank until her husband came home that night and greeted her with a "Dammit Iris!"

You see, it was Wednesday.

On Wednesdays all the guys at work always took their lunch break out by a creek near the office. They would pull off their shoes and socks, soak their feet in the water and talk together over sandwiches. Only this time when Rick went to pull off his socks, the boys got a good look at his delicately painted pearly pink love toes and ragged on him mercilessly the entire day.

Iris just laughed till she cried.

Housework Blues

2005-05-13T20:10:00.000-07:00

If you know any secrets for keeping housework from running your life, could you please share them with me?

Savvy mom that I am (or thought I was), I spent last weekend scouring the house from top to bottom because I knew I would be too busy working this week to give it much attention. The place looked great for about a day.

Do you ever feel that you're the only one who thinks about washing a glass and putting it away when you're done? Have you ever shared a bathroom with teenagers who leave their underwear on the floor and toiletries strewn over the counter? Does your family treat the dryer like a spare closet, picking out the clothes they want and leaving the rest? Have you ever gone to answer the phone only to realize all the bases for the handsets are empty? Or how about this: ever have a cat who decides that the litter box just isn't tidy enough (although you changed it that morning) and poops three inches from the box?

Sigh.

The final straw for me happened yesterday afternoon when my son tried to put the milk on its side in the fridge to make it fit. As I sprinted to avert near disaster, he knocked an unopened can of Diet Coke to the floor, where it promptly exploded. Sticky soda spewed everywhere onto the floor, counters, walls,cabinets, ceilings, the clean dishes in the drain board--and all over me.Under normal circumstances I might have maintained some semblance of sanity. However I had just showered, colored my hair, fixed my make-up, put on literally the only set of clean clothes I had left in the house, and--last but by no means least--run out of hormone supplements two days ago.

It wasn't pretty.

Anyway, after vacillating between hysterical threats of kicking my kids out on the street or running away from home myself, things finally settled down again.

My husband took it all in stride. Wise man that he is, he listened to me rant without saying a word. He fed me chocolate then figured out a way to hide exposed computer router cables that had been tripping us up in the hall. Four chocolate covered cherries and a snuggle later, I was back to normal, laughing at his impersonation of our tiny dog on steroids.

This is why marriage is a good thing, I think. You balance out each other's craziness and keep each other from killing the children.

And, of course, having plenty of hormone patches on hand doesn't hurt either.

:)

What I Wouldn't Do For A Good Book

2005-05-12T14:33:00.000-07:00

I never could understand why my kids were always wanting to hang out with me when they were growing up. As with most people of my generation, I would have done anything NOT to have to be around adults when I was a kid. Probably because a lot of the things we did would not have met with the approval of most of the adults we knew! My sister Iris is three years younger than me and, and we were always sneaking off to play in the woods or to tramp along the railroad tracks or to cross a busy forbidden street alone because I simply HAD to go to that used book store on the other side.

It's funny because I can remember mentally calculating that whole used book store thing in my head. Chances were good (especially if Iris was with me) that I would get caught and have the holy hell beat out of me, but I weighed that against the armful of books I would be able to get. I wasn't worried about having the books taken away from me because I would use the old standby argument that I was reading them for book reports. In my experience adults always felt vaguely uneasy about refusing to let a kid read and of course schoolwork could NEVER be denied.

They did try taking books away from me once. That lasted about a day. I drove everyone insane by sitting and just staring at them and refusing to play or move or speak until they finally caved in and gave them back to me.

Now that I think about it, I truly was consumed by this obsession with books. I hoarded lunch money and used it to order books from my Weekly Reader magazine. If Iris and I were given money to see a movie, I'd convince her that the same money could buy 4 books apiece at the drug store, and we could own them FOREVER. If that didn't convince her, I start talking about all the candy she could buy with her share. That usually did the trick.

I think one of the worst beatings I got came from my habit of sneaking books into bed with me at night. My aunt made us go to bed ridiculously early, and I never could go to sleep. I didn't have a flashlight, but I did have this tabletop ceramic owl nightlight. If I lifted off the owl part, it was just a nightlight in a stand. I worried about the light being seen under the crack of the door, so I had to hide it under the sheets while I read.

Unfortunately one night I was so engrossed in my book that I forgot to hold the sheets away from the light and burned a hole right through them. My aunt picked that moment to open the door to check on us, caught a whiff of the burning smell and found the holes. The next thing I knew I was on the floor being whacked senseless by a leather belt my aunt kept especially for that purpose, while Iris stared wide-eyed over her blankets, sobbing. I learned my lesson that night and saved up to buy a little flashlight.

God I was stubborn! I was firmly convinced I would simply die without books and felt the adults (namely my aunt) were dull and stupid and wrong for not having the same passion. I never could understand why adults had these wonderful collections of books on their shelves that they never read but wouldn't allow you to touch either. And I would completely flip out if someone cracked the spine of one of my books by bending it around itself or leaving it open faced on a table.

Then there were those blasted Reader's Digest editions grown-ups were so fond of. Why the heck would anyone want to read a story that was all chopped up and not the way the author wrote it? Disgusting. Reader's Digest books were definitely an adult concept.

Anyone who reads to children knows that if you try to shorten or change a favorite story, kids will always call you on it and make you change it back. Always. It goes against that unwritten rule that you don't mess with the magic.

Ever.

Sketch: Rich

2005-05-11T11:08:00.000-07:00

My husband - stamp engraving by Juno

Build A Better Cat Box

2005-05-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

My husband Rich stopped into Wal-Mart the other day and went over to the pet supplies section to grab a bag of cat litter. Right above the litter they had one of those automated cat litter pans that scoops the poop for you into a little bag after the cat does its business. Rich, loving gadgets the way he does, stopped to check it out.

While he's standing there looking at it, a gravely voice over his shoulder says, "Don't do it, son"

Rich turns around to see a man in his late sixties solemnly shaking his head. " I got myself one of those gadgets for my cats. I mean it sounded great. Five minutes after the cat poops, this rake thing comes out and scoops it into the bag."

The old man sighs heavily. "We're not really sure what happened. All we know is that little Fluffy was standing in the box pinching a loaf when the rake appeared out of nowhere. Scared the holy bejeezus out of her. She let out a yowl and jumped straight into the air before running out of the room. After that she wouldn't have anything to do with the box, and started pooping around it instead. I got rid of the thing and went back to the old box, but it took me weeks to convince her it was safe."

Rich couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. Needless to say, we're sticking with our good old-fashioned, Juno-scooping model of cat box.