The Meeting

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?

"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

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

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

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 books or good art supplies but thinks brand name clothing is a waste of money. 

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

"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

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

“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

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

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

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

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."