I Just Can't Get Over This Pluto Thing

Off and on over the past few months, we have been working on decorating the room that will eventually become Toddler's.  At least, it will become Toddler's when he no longer has the compulsive need to press his face into the bedrails so hard that it leaves marks for hours, and all of Mommy, Daddy, and Toddler are ready to move him further down the hall without tears (by any of us).

One of the "decorations" that came with Toddler's new bed comforter/curtain set is a picture of the solar system for the lucky child to color and hang on his wall.

The only problem is that this picture has only eight planets -- no Pluto.  I still can't get over how wrong this is.  I mean, yes, maybe technically Pluto was misclassified early on, and if we had to do it all over again knowing what we know now, we would have called Pluto a "dwarf planet" all along.  But why do we have to do it all over again?  Why can't Pluto just be special?  By itself, the discovery of Pluto is a mathematical achievement reflecting mankind's growing understanding of the space we occupy in the universe.  The planet is not observable with the naked eye, and yet, with math, we discovered it because of the pull it has on the gravity of the other bodies in the solar system.  None of the other "kuiper belt objects" had enough "pull" to produce that effect, so doesn't that make Pluto an extra-special kuiper belt object deserving of a little bit of respect from us?  Doesn't its discover make it ... say ... a little more like Neptune, which was discovered in the same way?

I mean, this is harder than getting used to the idea that we weren't supposed to call Halley's Comet "Haylies" anymore, but instead we were to call it "Hallies (rhymes with Bally's)".  (I'm really giving away my age here, aren't I?) 

Besides, if we demote Pluto, do we then have to name all of the kuiper belt objects, or at least all of the estimated 200 of them that will likely be dwarf planets?  What happens if all the other kuiper belt objects make fun of Pluto because it actually has a name? I guess Pluto could hang out with the other dwarf planets recognized by the International Astronomical Union (Ceres, Haumea, Makemake, and Eris), but shouldn't we at least be sensitive to the issue and aware that we might be setting Pluto up for some bullying?  I mean, with Jupiter as your big brother, who will touch you?  Take that away, and it just might be open season on Pluto.  You don't know.  If there is an increase in asteroid attacks on Pluto, just don't come crying to me for help.  I warned you.

If we de-planetize it, will Congess refuse to fund NASA's proposed missions to Pluto?  (Eh, probably.  They've managed to un-fund everything else, why not this?)  In that case, don't we feel like we are kicking some poor hunk of rock out of not only a home, but a job, too?  How far will the madness go?

What does Mickey Mouse's dog think of all this?

The whole problem stems from the idea that we have no universal definition of a "planet".  I'm not scientist enough to be able to say what that standard should be, but whatever it is, we should make an exception to be sure Pluto gets to stay.  I firmly believe that no matter what, Pluto's time as a planet should not be the Amarna period of cosmology.  We should not be able to just erase it from a few King's Lists and  "George Orwell" it out of existence and pretend it never happened.  Let's just own up to it for what it is -- a hunk of rock the citizens of Earth feel a lot of attachment to, even if it doesn't "technically" qualify for it's title.  After all, plenty of people still count Europe as its own continent, even though it is techincally attached to Asia.  Isn't that pretty much the same concept?

A few years ago I finally tossed out a poster from the Smithsonian showing all the planets in a pretty neat 3-D arrangement. A good friend of mine bought it and mailed it to me after I left my copy in a cab, along with all my business receipts and my raincoat.  *sigh*  The poster was looking a little beat up in those last few years, and I decided it was time for a change.  I honestly don't know why it was looking beat up, as I had only had it in my last two dorm rooms at law school and moved it seven times by the time we got it here.  It should have been fine, right?  Careless, I tell ya.  Careless.  Anyway, I tossed it, thinking I could just run down to the Smithsonian myself these days and pick up a new one if I needed it.  Well, if I had only known that the whole composition of the solar system was changing around me, I would never have let the original go!  Think of what it won't be worth in a few dozen years!

Of course, no one listens to me.  Just you wait, though.  They'll find microbial life under the ice on Pluto one day, and then everyone will wish Pluto were still a planet.  Won't they all be chagrined then.  In the meantime, I'll bet someone starts a campaign to kick Uranus out of the solar system because it orbits sideways.

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The Hazards of Living in the "Not-Country"

In my last post, I shared with you my first, and for nearly a decade after that my only, telephone call to the police.  (Notice that I carefully did not say, "encounter" with the police.)

I really did think that it was quite something to say that my one and only telephone call to the police station involved a runaway cow.  I just wasn't sure whether that "something" was a good thing or a bad thing.  Certainly, it was distinctive.

Little did I know that my second ever telephone call to the police (and, so far, the last one I have ever had) would be even more unique, involving a racoon and a mayonnaise jar.

Yes.  A racoon, a mayonnaise jar, a feral cat trap, and a laughing dispatcher.

Here is what happened.  Basically, Darling Husband and I were running a shelter for feral cats.  Well, no, we weren't, but the cats seemed to think we were.  We had adopted two feral cats to live in our backyard and help us control the rodent population.  At first, they (the cats, not the rodents) were contained in a very large pen -- I think it may even have been bigger than Darling Husband's single dorm room at Penn State.  Then, after enough time went by, we released them into the backyard and left the pen there with the door open.  (They returned every night to sleep and use the litter for awhile before we took the pen away.  Yes, we cleaned litter for outdoor feral cats.  We wanted them to like us.)

Literally hours after we first let the two orange mousers out of their pen, we were watching them cavort around the yard in the fading sunlight.  As the moon rose, we counted one, two, three, four ... five??? sets of eyes in the backyard and the neighboring undeveloped land.  Our new friends had friends ... and lots of them.  As it turned out, there were a lot of feral cats living nearby, probably because there was an old woman with a lot of cats who used to live somewhere around here.  No one knows what happened to the cats after she passed away, but the neighbors all seemed to think her family just opened up the house door and let them all go.  With all the eyes we kept seeing in the backyard, I was beginning to think so too.

With the help of Alley Cat Allies, the wonderful organization that gave us Princess and Charlie, our two feral cats, we gradually began trapping, neutering, and returning those cats to the wild.  Surprisingly, none of them were totally wild, although I wouldn't have invited most of them over for dinner.  Those that were friendly enough (although clearly abandoned) went on to live in new homes with people thrilled to take care of them in all the domestic glory they could stand.  One of them went on to become the now-famous Houdini that wormed his way onto our queen-sized bed -- in the middle, thank you very much.

So ... as the years passed by, we accumulated one or two ... sets ... of traps to catch and transport feral cats to vets who will treat them. 

One day, while I was trying to use the internet to identify the strange long-legged, odd looking animal that ran through my backyard (it was a young coyote), not too long before the 12-point buck chased my husband out of the yard, our family of racoons came to try to steal the cat food from the back stoop. 

Did I mention that we live just outside the beltway in metropolitan DC?  No, I don't mean in the West Virginia or Gettysburg commuting corridors, either.  I mean, I could be downtown in 15 minutes.  I know, with all this wildlife, you just knew I lived in a big city.

Anyway, here comes the racoon family, and one of them is looking mighty strange.  He's following his family members, and wobbling and weaving a little ... because he has a mayonnaise jar stuck on his head.  Yes, he looks like a jar head -- literally.

As annoying as racoons are (and expensive, with all the cat food they eat), we were too much of softies to let this situation go.  So, Darling Husband got out the cat trap and set it for the racoon, baiting it with cat food.  The poor thing kept creeping in, trying to figure out how he could eat that food through the jar on his head.  For the life of me, I can't figure out how he was breathing, much less smelling anything.  He'd move forward, hit his jar head on something, and back away confused.  Anyway, Darling Husband got him trapped fairly quickly while I, once again, had the pleasure of calling the police to report an animal issue.

Fortunately for me, the county I live in now has an animal control division that they can send, but I still needed to talk to the dispatcher.  The conversation went something like this:

"I need some help with a racoon in my backyard."
"What's wrong with the racoon?"
"He has a mayonnaise jar stuck on his head."
"...  I'm sorry, he has a what?"
"A mayonnaise jar.  On his head."
"A mayonnaise jar?"
"Yes.  On his head."
"It's stuck there?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's about the strangest thing I've ever heard.  I'll call the animal control officer.  Do you want us to remove the animal?"
"I want to get the jar off its head before it suffocates or starves in my backyard."
"Okay."

According to the animal control officer when he finally arrived at our house, the dispatcher could hardly stop giggling when she radioed the call.  He, of course, was mildly amused at the diversion, but he wasn't sure it was going to live up to the yogurt cup that got stuck on a possum once....

Now, the animal control officer was a nice enough guy, but he was a little bit ... of ... a goofball, if you haven't already figured that out.  He didn't understand what we were trying to tell him when we said we had the racoon confined to an animal rescue trap.  He took a big hook-loop thing like the kind they use on Animal Cops or whatever that Animal Planet show is, and he tried to open the hatch to the trap so he could hook the racoon.  In the process, he managed to let the racoon go, and off into the woods it ran.  I don't know why he couldn't just take the trap we gave him, take the 'coon to some vet, shoot him full of drugs, and pry that jar off.  I'm figuring if the 'coon couldn't get it off himself, I don't know how one guy could do it with a control collar around the 'coon's neck.  But hey, I'm not the animal control expert.

And what was the officer's advice?  "He'll be back.  If so, give me a call.  If not, it probably means he broke the jar and got it off somehow."

Yea.  Sure.

To be a bit more fair to the officer, he did apologize for letting the 'coon go, and he blamed it on his unfamiliarity with the trap, thinking the door would only open a little bit.  He thought the trap was a neat idea, and he thanked us for trying it.  But still .... confined animal in small cage versus animal dangling from metal pole.  How would you prefer to deal with it? #justsayin'

Anyway, we never saw the 'coon again, so either he starved in the woods or he did manage to get the jar off.  I guess we'll never know.  Either way, I have now gone down in the police log books (again) as calling to report some pretty crazy animal antics.

Yep.  That's how my life rolls.

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The Hazards of Life in the Country

I grew up in a small town in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.  No, I did not grow up on a farm.  We lived in an ordinary suburb in a house that was only as old as I was.  I did, however, live across the way from a horse farm, and the vacant lot next door was fertilzed by the leavin's from that there horse farm, if you smell what I mean.

Down the end of our street, the housing development stopped rather abruptly, leading out into the great wide open farmland that you can see on all the postcards.  We bought most of our fresh vegetables from the Plain farm down that street.  Beyond them was ... not much -- a lot of winding, twisty roads with very few street signs.  Like much of the "back roads" of the County, those road signs were turned 90 degrees or removed by the local kids "for fun." 

Of course, these days were before the GPS era, and the word to the wise was, "Don't go driving on those roads unless you know where you are going."  A body could get lost for hours trying to find their way back to a main road ... or a house that believed in using electricity.  And a bathroom?  Forget it. 

If you knew where you were going, however, precisely, and without needing to see road signs, those so-called "back roads" could save you a lot of time, especially in the summer when the tourists clogged all the main roads gawking at the horses and buggies.  Most of the time you would easily be the only car on the road, and if not the only, then one of a very few, especially on the unmarked roads.  A hawk's eye out for people walking, horses and buggies, and bicycles was a very good idea.  Occasionally, a few other moving beasts were back there, too.

I worked at a restaurant at the other end of town, so I knew half a dozen ways to get back home.  Many of them were so rural that my mother made me promise to go the same way every night if I was coming home after 10 PM so she'd know which way to come looking for me if I never came home.  One night, on my way home from a late shift at work, I met one of these "beasts" of the back road.

I was driving down this windy, dark road that had fences on either side to keep the local livestock contained.  The fence line was several feet back from the road, and parts of it (at least) were made of wire.  As I traveled, I thought I saw a dog in the distance, near the fence.  As I got closer, I thought, "man that is a big dog."  As I got even closer, the animal starting running, first towards my car.  At that point, I realized that this was no dog, and if it was, it was the biggest dog ever made by man or spirit in this universe.  Just as I thought it was about to plow into the side of my car, it turned right and started running along side of me.  It was drag racing me!  I was in a rural drag race with a ... a what? 

A cow.  Possibly a bull.  It was too dark to see.  It was bovine, and it was big, and I was country girl enough to know two things:  (1) If it hits me, it will win.  It is stronger and heavier than my car.  (2)  If it hits me, I will lose, because that cow is almost certainly worth more than this car.  I swerved my car into the other "lane". (I say that in quotes because most city folk wouldn't consider that a two lane road, although much of Scotland would call it a three-lane road.)  The cow kept running, drag-race style.  If it got in front of me, one of us was in big trouble, probably me.  I don't know if my auto-insurance covered cattle loss, or "death by stampeding cattle," for that matter.

Thankfully, it veered right when I veered left, and I had the chance to speed on without it, leaving it galloping alongside the road. 

After I caught my breath, I got to thinking about the next poor vehicle coming down that road.  What if they weren't so lucky?  Think of all that beef and moo juice that would go to waste!  Think of all the damage to that car!  What if they closed my little shortcut and all my restaurant buddies got stuck?  (I was a very conscientious college-aged kid, you know.)

So, like any super-squeaky clean kid, I drove the rest of the way home and called the police.

Yes, I called the police.  My name went on record in the local police station as reporting a ... a ... runaway cow.

The call went something like this:

"Hello, East Lampeter Township police, how can I help you?"

"Hi.  I'm calling to report a loose cow on ____ road?"

"A what?"

"A loose cow.  It got past the fence line, and it's on the road.  It almost ran into me when I drove past."

"Which part of the road were you on?  That road cuts across the township line."

"I was on the part between Route 30 and Old Philadelphia Pike."

"Uh.  Shoot.  That's us.  Are you sure it was a cow?"

"Well, it was big, and heavy -- too fat to be a horse, and to big to be a dog."

"Did you see any markings?"

"Big and brown.  That's it."

(They had a few more questions to try to be sure I wasn't some prank caller -- like, what were you doing on that road this time of night? -- , and they made me give my name and phone number for good measure.)

The Operator turns away from the phone and talks to someone beside her, "Hey. We got another loose cow tonight.  I'm getting the directions now. One of yous is gonna have to go wrangle it in and find the owner."

Yep. That's where I grew up.  They totally believe the possibility of a drag racing cow.  I think their only concern was whether some band of drunk teenagers was off chasing the cows.

Yee haw.

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I Met *HER* Today

I finally found her, in the park.  I have been wondering if she was real, or simply a figment of my imagination triggered by the paranoia inspired by modern media.

Yet, out of nowhere, there she was.  I didn't recognize her, at first.  She looked like just another mom in the park watching her toddler and hanging out with other moms.  True, this particular group of moms she was with was exceptionally fit-looking, with well groomed hair, fingernails, toenails, and kids.  I overheard them talk about their desire for pedicures, so I knew we had little in common.  Still, I didn't recognize her.

Then, after about a half hour of sitting near each other, and chatting just a little, I watched her pick up an infant from a stroller I didn't see earlier.  Hmm.  She had not one kid with her, but two, then.  The baby was not too small, but still, there was something about the way he was curled up that triggered a recognition in me.

"Oh, you have a really little one!"

"Yes," she answered.  "He's two weeks old."

At that moment I recognized her.  With her perfect hair, her clear complexion, her well-rested eyes, her makeup, her trim figure and fashionably tattered clothing, I don't know how I didn't see her before.

She is that mom -- the mythically, etherally, perfect mom from the cover of parenting magazines.  Two weeks post-partum, and she looks almost airbrushed.  Her infant didn't cry, and her toddler had no dirt stains on her dress.  She and her children all looked well-combed and thoughtfully dressed.  None of them looked tired, there were no red eyes (from tears or otherwise), and no one had a drippy nose even in the middle of a terrible allergy season.   She was stunning, in a blonde-next-door-meets-Kim-Kardashian kind of way.  Even her clothes were stylishly shabby and unassumingly cute ... provided you overlooked the fact that she bought them that way.

In all ... she was perfect.

It was unnatural.

I am deeply suspicious.  She seemed knowledgable about things like how hard it is to convince a small child to leave a playground gracefully.  She seemed to understand about boo boos and the tension between giving your kids freedom to be independent and the desire to be a helicopter parent.

And yet, something was very wrong with this picture.

Either those perfect kids weren't really hers, or she wasn't a real person. 

Real women two weeks post-partum don't sit angelically at a picnic table looking serene and well-rested. 

Real children don't play in the dirt-playground in white dresses without stains.

Real babies don't sit quietly for hours waiting for their turn to have attention.

I think someone gave her a dressing room, a hairstyle, makeup, a suporting cast of actors and actresses, and sent her into the park that day.  I'm not sure who gains from this, but someone wants us to think that kind of perfection really exists in the world.

I am not buying it.  She was a fake.

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Ding, Dong the Mouse is Dead

If you haven't yet had a chance to read yesterday's post, then stop, rewind, and go do it.  Don't worry.  I'll wait for you.

Okay, are we all ready and up to speed now?

We left our story yesterday with me turning in for the night fully armed with visions of "death by rat" (thanks again, Spike TV) while Girl Cat, Houdini, and Big Black Cat were wandering around the house in search of Girl Cat's new friend "the mouse."

The plan was to have DH run to the hardware store the next day at some point to pick up some sticky traps.  While the idea of traps at all with Toddler in the house is not pleasant, sticky traps beat traditional traps because if I lose track of the child for two and one half seconds, and he finds a trap, at least I can cut it off him and no bones will be broken in the process (his or mine).  In the meantime, I was going to stay home and try not to think about "the mouse" somewhere in the house.

After all, chances were good I was never going to see him again.  Either he found a way out, or he suffered "death by cat."

However, early in the afternoon that next day, I was belatedly folding some laundry and draping some shirts over the dining room chairs.  I was about to go check on a corner near my plants while I was out there, because I thought I caught the faint whiff of pissed-off cat potion.  (That's unlitterboxed pee to those of you not worthy of having cats.)  

*Fold, fold, fold* *Sniff* *Take one step toward plants*

OH MY GOD THE MOUSE IS SITTING IN MY DINING ROOM!

He's right there on the floor, not moving.  (I say "he" like I know.  I assure you, I don't know.)

No sane, healthy mouse sits in the middle of the floor in broad daylight.  I know that much.

I back up.  He ... doesn't move.

I went back into the laundry room, thanking my lucky stars Toddler is snoozing in his room.  All I need right now is for him to come running around the corner yeling, "WHAT YOU DOING, MOMMY?"  I retrieved the bucket and broom from last night's collection of mouse-combating elements.  I gingerly walked back into the dining room.  The mouse was ... still not moving.  Okay.  I took that bucket and dropped it on him, trapping him inside.

He ... didn't move.  I'm getting the very real idea that perhaps he has met his maker and is never moving again.  Perhaps that smell I so hastily blamed Girl Cat's temper for was really ... the smell of dead mouse beginning to emanate.

So, I promptly announced to Twitter:  "Because I have a child who will soon wakeup, I will actually pick up the dead mouse I found. If I didn't, I'd wait for DH like a coward."  Then I said, "At least, I hope its dead. If not, you will hear the shrieking." Followed by, "I'm getting the cat for backup."

The problem was I couldn't find Girl Cat, and neither of the boys were interested.  I tried.  I even brought down Houdini and sat him next to the bucket.  He promptly ran away.  Great.  Just what I need.  Me, a mouse, and no backup.  So, I donned some disposable gloves, grabbed a plastic bag, called my mother for a pep talk, and went out to remove said mouse.

A few moments later, I said on Twitter, "Oh help.  He's alive."

Yes, the little stinker (and I mean that literally) was, in the immortal words of Monty Python, "not dead yet."  I moved the bucket, and as I was reaching my hand up, he sidled away a few steps. I promptly slammed the bucket back down, threw a towel over it and, after further thought, got a big book and put it on top.  Then I got a moment to catch my breath and think about it, and I had the sickening feeling this was not the same mouse we saw last night.  That one was small and black.  This one was medium (if you know what I mean) and gray. 

That meant that this mouse was probably not lying here in a fit of exhaustion after having been harrassed and teased by my cats all night long.  I had been imagining them kicking back with some catnip tossing insults at the mouse while he was surrounded.  Alternatively, I imagined that after being chased from the upstairs by a cat bigger than he could imagine, he met all three of them at once, looked up, had visions of being in the movie, Cinderella, and just gave up the ghost.

But no.  This was altogether a different mouse.

So, here I was, the proud jailer of a semi-conscious mouse in my dining room, under a bucket, under a towel, under a very big book.  (It was Antonia Fraser's Mary Queen of Scots, if you must know, an ex-library edition.)  Even better, Toddler was due to wake up soon.  Best of all, there was still another mouse somewhere in the house.

What to do?  What to do?  Clearly the mouse was messed up.  I was thinking perhaps I might have the courage to take it outside and let it go, but I was afraid he'd been poisoned somehow and would possibly harm the outdoor predators like my cats ... or the neighbors dogs.  Or worse ... he might recover and come back.

Of course, my alternative was to ... I can't even say it ... kill him. 

Either way, I couldn't just let it sit there.  I was having visions of Toddler coming down the stairs, picking up the bucket, and then grabbing this sick mouse.

Ugh.  I decided that it was a good day to leave the laundry unfinished and go ... anywhere with Toddler.  Shortly thereafter, I sent my first (and so far only) tweet by phone:  "I am now outside with Toddler. mouse is dying in my dining room."  Then Toddler and I went for a walk.

Wouldn't you know it, though, but today was the one day Toddler did not want to stay outside.  After the walk, and a little bit of playing, Toddler insisted on going back inside.  At that moment, I found out that even though Toddler is not tall enough to open the screen door from the inside, he is plenty tall enough to open the garage door.  He was in the house before I was even sure which way he went.

I succumbed to my cowardice.  I decided to just play, "distract the Toddler from the bucket" for the afternoon and leave the semi-dead rodent for my husband.  After all, snakes, bugs, spiders and rodents are some of the reasons I got married.  They became, "someone else's responsibility" on the day I said, "I Do."  (For that matter, so did the job of examining loud noises and stealthy sounds of intruders in the middle of the night.) 

Surprisingly enough, I was able to keep Toddler's attention from the bucket for the remainder of the time until Darling Husband came home.  Toddler never even noticed it was there, even when he took his push toy and ran it around the living room and dining room a few times.  I guess I have to thank goodness for small favors.

Despite my neurosis of not wanting Toddler upstairs in case any more ailing rodents appeared, and not wanting him downstairs in case he kicked the bucket (literally, not figuratively), and while periodically looking for Girl Cat, who was most decidedly MIA when I needed her the most, I found time to tweet a few observations. 

"The small woodland creature expiring in my dining room bears no resemblance to Warehouse Mouse of Imagination Mover fame."

"Neither does it resemble Mickey Mouse."

"Toddler asked me if we could get a dog today. I said no. If I had known how apathetic my cats were about mice in the house, I'd have said yes."

"Cat #3 used to live outside. He is chomping his food not 6 feet from the rodent under a bucket and he doesn't even care. "

"From now on, the round eared creature that lives in #disney shall be referred to only as "Mickey". No mice are allowed in my house."

And so I passed the hour, waiting for some sort of solution, or for someone else to bump off the mouse so it wasn't on my conscience.  Darling Husband came home as soon as he could, and with a piece of cardboard as an added weapon, slid said mouse into a plastic bag, at which time he told me the blasted thing was dead, and I had suffocated it. 

I deny suffocating it.  I say he was at death's door before I got the bucket, and all I did was give him a little bit of privacy. 

Either way, the mouse had left the house.  Thus endeth the drama.

PS:  After a closer look when sliding said mouse into the trash bin, DH said he thought it WAS the mouse from last night. (We're still debating that, but in his defense, the cats seem to think we are alone again.)

PPS -- Special thanks to those of you who participated in the "mouse dialogue" that day.  I especially appreciate the clarification that Douglas Adams was referring only to white mice as being super-intelligent pan-dimensional beings.  The gray (or black) ones are just ordinary mice.

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His Name Isn't Mickey, So He Isn't Welcome Here

If you have been reading this blog for awhile, you have probably stumbled on the fact that I am not ... exactly ... a fan of mice unless they happen to be named Mickey and live in Orlando, Florida.  For the full story of mice (and a practical joke played on me by Entropy), see here.  That post is a long one, so let me summarize it for you.

I bought a house (this one) that was occupied by, among other people and creatures, a very large dog and a large family of mice.  The dog and its owners left quietly, but the mice refused to move despite the posted eviction notices.  Even after the spiders and other creepy crawlies had (mostly) departed, the mice remained, and we, the unwilling landlords, had to get tough.  The mice left, one way or another.  The end.

Because we live in a bizzarely rural part of a major metropolitan area, we have since employed a couple of outdoor cats as door guards to help ensure that the mice family didn't return or invite it's mafia brethren to take a swing at us in some kind of blood feud.  Somewhat later, we added the dynamic duo of indoor hunting pals Big Black Cat and Girl Cat.  (See here, for Big Black Cat's prowess in defeating bath toys and candy canes.)  Even later, Houdini snuck inside.  Life has been good.  Furry, but good.

Then, apparently, I made two mistakes.  First, I wished for a night when I could sleep in a bed without having to share it with cats (and without the guilt of locking them away 'cause I'm softhearted that way).  Then, when our contractor commented that our old garage door had a big gap and he was surprised we didn't have a lot of mouse problems, I said, "Aw, no problem!  We haven't had a mouse since we got the outside cats."

I guess tempting fate is never really wise.  Apparently, neither is replacing a garage door, replacing all holes in sofitting, fully replacing all gutters and installing an underground water pumping system, all at the same time.  Sure, we are finally waterproof, and the gentle spring rains will no longer carve deep rivets into our yard, pour into our basement, or erode our foundation.  These are good things.  Apparently not giving the local woodland creatures notice that the neighborhood was being developed and they might want to move was a bad idea.

Yes, yes, I'll finally come out and say it.

We ... have ... a ...m-m-m-m-mouse ... in the house ... again.

At times like these, I desperately hope that Douglas Adams was wrong about mice being super-intelligent pan-dimensional beings.  I just don't want that sort of crime on my conscience.

We had our first clue earlier this week that something wasn't right, but we failed to understand the significance.  We had a little ... funk ... around the house.  We even complained about it, but, like many pet owners and small children owners, we blamed the wrong source.  In hindsight, that was dead mouse in the wall, I'm sure.  There really isn't any smell quite like it, no matter how much we try to blame it on other things.  (You know that "old house" smell?  That's it, except it isn't old house, it's dead mouse.  We just tell each other it's "old house" so we don't have to think about the dead mice rotting away somewhere.)

Well, that was pleasant ... okay, not.

Our second clue was a little more obvious.  Darling Husband caught Girl Cat toying with something alive that he described as a "very big black bug thing."  This "toying" was going on in our bedroom, no less.  I never saw it, but DH said he saw no tail, and Girl Cat let it scamper away and disappear, hopefully to go where all icky crawly bugs go when they don't come back.

Last night, though, we got the clue that was hard to ignore.  I came up the stairs, and Girl Cat was worrying something behind the bookshelf in the hallway.  She had "that look".  I've never seen it before last night, but I just knew that she had something big trapped behind that bookshelf.  This was no bug.  I yelled down to DH that Girl Cat was acting funny.  He came up, looked at her, and said, "Yeah.  She has been doing that for at least an hour."  While we were talking, she got up, walked to the other side, and began pawing underneath, only to walk back to the end where she could peer in. 

Yes, as much as we wanted to deny it, something was back there.  I tilted this (very tall, twice my height) bookshelf back about a half a centimeter.  The bookshelf is very cheap, so I could move it by simply flexing the fake wood.  Nothing ran out, so DH and I spent a few moments fooling ourselves.  "It can't be a mouse.  A mouse would have made a run for it when I moved the bookshelf."  We both agreed.

So, DH felt a lot more comfortable with the idea of muscling the bookshelf out a little further.  I was on the floor, with my eyeball pressed to the wood again, trying to peer under with a flashllight, and I had a creepy feeling that if we were wrong, some creepy thing was going to come running right at my head.  So I asked him to wait just a moment while I got up.  For added comic effect, our flashlight kept flicking off.  Anyway, DH moved the bookshelf a little bit, and Girl Cat promptly wedged herself in further so we couldn't see anything past her furry backside.

Finally, she agreed to step back and let DH take a look.  He laid himself down and peered with the flickering flashlight a long time, before he said, "Yep.  There it is.  A mouse."  Thne he got up.  Girl Cat resumed her  sentry duty while we discussed what to do.  We had all the stereotypical tools, like a broom and a bag.  We also had a bucket and a pole.  Of course, I'm never sure what we're going to do with any of these things, since I've never known anyone to successfully trap a mouse with a broom.  Ever.  (And yet we continue to try.)

I tried to bring Big Black Cat as a backup, but he would have none of it.  Usually he and Girl Cat hunt together ... at least when they are attacking insects that fly in during the summer, but he was all about running downstairs last night.  Houdini is scared witless of Girl Cat, so I didn't even try.

So, DH stuck a poking stick under the bookshelf with one hand, while holding the broom in the other, hoping to grab the little sucker in the bristles.  Of course, the little snot makes a run for it.  I think DH might have actually had a shot if it weren't for Girl Cat being underfoot.  She wanted the mouse, and she ran for him, but then she saw the broom coming and backed away, while DH stopped the broom because he didn't want to hit Girl Cat.  I felt like maybe I was watching a junior high baseball game when someone forgot to yell, "I GOT IT!"

In the meantime, the mouse took advantage of the confusion and headed straight to the guest room and vanished.  After a few moments of fruitless searching, I returned to my quest for a bath and bed.  I was having flashbacks about my earlier experiences with mice, and was sorely regretting ever agreeing to watch even the five minutes of Spike's 1000 Ways to Die that I forced myself to sit through.  The subject was death by rats.  Right.  So sorry I watched that.

I left the guest room door open all night, figuring if the mouse didn't find another way out, one of the cats would corner it again.  Besides, they love that room because they aren't allowed in it, so I knew they'd at least pretend look to appease me so they could stay there for the night.  In turn, I had the night mostly free of furry creatures on my feet.  From time to time they would appear and snooze, but most of the time they were pretending to hunt down the hall.  As you might imagine, I was a restless sleeper last night.

I got my bed back ... but what a price!

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Toddler to English Dictionary

I have found recently that one of my primary occupations during the day is serving as Toddler's interpreter.  Other than Toddler, I seem to be the only one fully fluent in "Toddler" and even I get some things wrong from time to time.  (Toddler is not always patient in correcting me.)

So, in an effort to make my life somewhat easier, I have begun making a list of some of Toddler's more esoteric sayings.  Hopefully, as word spreads, my services will become less unique, and I might be able to get a bathroom break once in awhile without having to have an interpretive session through the door.  But even if it never works, I thought you might enjoy some of these.

TODDLER:  Oh no!  What you gonna do? ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  The video on demand TV cartoon has just ended and I want another one.

TODDLER:  I need to go get the blue car from the shoe garage.  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I want to get my blue toddler-ride on toy from the garage and play with it in the driveway.

TODDLER:  I need help! My coat is stuck on a branch!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I would like to get my coat from the closet, but I can't reach it.

TODDLER:  I need help roll the booster seat!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I pushed my chair too far away from the table.  Please help me get back.

TODDLER:  anneeeya neeya, neeya  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  This jabbering is a meaningless phrase used to distract the adult from whatever he or she is asking Toddler that he does not want to answer.

TODDLER:  Uh, oh.  It's yucky!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I just pooped in my pants again.

TODDLER:  My nose is stuck!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  (1) My nose is stuffed up; or (2) I'm bored and I want to play with the tissues.

TODDLER:  Get off my nose!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I'm happy with my boogers where they are.  Leave me alone.

TODDLER:  My finger hurts.  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I have a piece of nail dangling/rough nail on my finger and I would like it off, please.

TODDLER:  Go away/Go downstairs now  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I'm about to throw a temper tantrum.

TODDLER:  Gotcha!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  A word you say when you grab onto something.  In context:  Child:  "Gotcha!"  Adult:  "Yep, you got me."  Child:  "Not got me.  Gotcha!" 

TODDLER:  I said yes!  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  Why do you get to be the boss, again?

TODDLER:  Puleeze?  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I don't understand why I can't have what I want.

TODDLER:  Fre-frey  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  (1) french fry; or (2) flashlight

TODDLER:  What a mess! ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I just dumped a box full of a lot of things.

TODDLER:  I want to color crayons. ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I want to hand you crayons and make you write my name and numbers over and over in various colors while I scribble next to you.

TODDLER:  I want listen Ooh Aah.  ENGLISH TRANSLATION: I want to listen to my Disney Channel CD.

TODDLER:  Hello everybody on the TV.  ENGLISH TRANSLATION:  I want to listen to my children's music songs on the CD player in the family room (as opposed to the one in the car).

Well, that's about as far as I've managed to date.  The problem with Toddler is that, like the child that invented it, it is constantly changing.  This list will be out of date by the time you are done reading it -- tomorrow at the latest.

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It's Shout Out Time Again! Shara Lawrence-Weiss

Every once in awhile, I come across a writer or entertainer that makes me realize that I should definitely introduce them to you because then I won't have to write a post today! I know you will enjoy what they have to say.

While hovering around on Twitter recently, I came across someone who seemed to be suffering from the Toddler syndrome of Non Sequiter Hot Dogs as I am, and she is writing about it too.

Here is a little bit about our shout-out guest: Shara Lawrence-Weiss (aka @Mommyperks) owns Mommy Perks and Personal Child Stories. Shara has a background in published freelance, journalism, nanny work, education, special needs, marketing, networking, PR and sales. She is married to her best friend and biggest supporter, Rick, owner of Design Media Pros. They brag three terrific kids and a handful of true and dear friends. They have a roof over their heads and share one vehicle in order to better the planet and save money on insurance and gas. They enjoy food, water, shelter and love. Who could ask for more?

In her series of local interviews in her small town of Pine, Shara interviews "Mini Human #2," a lovely girl-toddler I like to call "Toddler's Future Girlfriend." Sadly, Shara has informed me that the girl-toddler in question is not allowed to date until she is 74, and they have declined (on her behalf) my request for a date (on Toddler's behalf). Oh well. Its never to early to learn that you can't always get what you want, right?

So, check out Shara's Interview here, and if that doesn't work, cut and paste this into your browser: http://image.examiner.com/x-22404-Flagstaff-Early-Childhood-Examiner~y2010m1d15-My-second-LOCAL-interview-Miss-Samantha

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Yesterday ... All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away....

Yesterday was an odd, odd day. I accomplished a LOT. I was so proud of myself.

I made it to the pet store.
I made it to the store to pick up laundry detergent.
I weeded the flower bed.
Toddler actually went pee pee on the potty.
I got all the laundry at least into the dryer.
I tried something new for dinner.
I almost got my in-box cleaned out.

I mean, WOO HOO! Right?

By the time Toddler went down for his nap, I thought everything was going GREAT! Now, I was a little bit leery, because days this efficient usually mean the forces of Entropy and Chaos are massing for a big strike against my home, but I've learned to enjoy my successes where I can find them. In fact, I was thinking about sitting down and writing a blog about procrastination and asking how many times would I have to learn that the longer I waited to do the landry, the worse the chore became? I was so excited -- the last load of laundry was going in to the washer at about noon! How great! I was going to wait until the second to last load was dry so I could swap out some pants for the ones I was wearing and make a complete sweep of all the jeans on one day. Wow.

Then the rose colored goggles came off, and reality set in.

I realized I went to the pet store, but failed to use some coupons that were expiring.

I realized I went to the store for laundry detergent, but I failed to remember to buy the butter we were out of.

I weeded the flower bed, but I didn't get the full bag of weeds out to the curb in time for the truck. Plus, I wasn't able to get all the clover out, and it will grow back by tomorrow. Worst of all, a whole bag of weeds went out, and DH didn't even notice a difference.

Toddler went pee pee in the potty, but he decided to hold the poop until the diaper was on.

The reason I was so ahead in the laundry was that I forgot about two piles that were up in the bedroom, and I was actually not ahead, but behind.

The new recipe I tried for dinner was plain awful. First of all, it had lots of carrots, and the sauce did not hide the flavor. The whole thing tasted a lot like my blood pressure pills when I swallow them without water. Toddler hated it, and I didn't blame him one bit.

I did almost get my in-box cleaned out, but I neglected to write a blog entry, and now I'm behind.

Entropy was very subtle yesterday. It made me think I was winning, when in fact I was losing ground.

Very tricky.

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It's More than Unmatched Socks

I have two things on my mind today. Unmatched socks and tupperware.

I know the whole question about socks has been done to death, and we still don't know how socks go into the washer in pairs and come out of the dryer in singles. I know women who safety pin the socks together and it still doesn't always help. But ... I'm not here to cover old ground. You can read my hero Erma on that topic. She said it best. What I want to know is how do you handle all the single socks? I suppose we could set them up a dating service, but we are a pretty closed society here. I don't think we are ready to be supportive of mixed-color sock marriages. After all, as a society we still can't wear pink and orange together and shrink in horror when someone wear plaids and stripes on the same day. I admit to very strong biases in these directions, and I'm actually somewhat fashion-null. I'm sure I commit 1000 faux pas a week and don't even know, but I'm pretty sure we're still in a society where two different socks are only appropriate in the circus. So, I guess we can try to set up an internet sock dating service, but I think it might lead to disappointment and ridicule.

So, what do you do? How long do you keep the poor things before sending them to the rag bin or the dumpster? Does it matter how many you have? I think I'm staring at the largest pile of unmated socks possibly in the history of Western civilization. Rough justice, it measures two feet by two feet by 8 inches. Some of the socks have been in here for years, poor things, still hoping. I've seen some pretty far out reunions in the past, including one yesterday that was maybe a year old. I just don't know how long we should let the poor things hang on to hope before we break it to them that their buddy is probably not going to come back. And how big of a home do we give them in the meantime? Do we give them their own unmated sock drawer? What is the kind thing here? I don't know, but a huge pile on the coffee table just doesn't seem like the right answer. In this house, it is an invitation to more lost socks (at which time you know as well as I do the long-time prodigal mate will return to find himself alone).

Then we have the tupperware. I think tupperware is possibly a worse problem than the socks. First, the unmated tupperware is usually larger and harder to store and, if possible, they are even harder to throw away. After all, a bottom without a top will work in a pinch with some foil, or even as a mixing bowl if you are making one of those kitchen-clearing recipes. But I have to ask, because I don't know that anyone has yet -- WHERE DO ALL THE TUPPERWARE PIECES GO??????? I am looking at 9 tupperware bottoms, ranging from square, to oblong, to upright, to liquid, all without lids. Then we have 3 lids with no matching bottoms. Obviously I can't store them in the tupperware cabinet, because that will cause tremendous frustration when we need a mated set. Unlike even two feet of socks, I can't stick them in a plastic bag and hang them in the laundry room. And yet, how can 9 lids and 3 bottoms just disappear? Did they melt in the dishwasher? Are they hanging out in an interdimensional vortex with all of Erma's unmated socks? Is there a portal leading to someone else's dishwasher, as Erma suspected about dryers?

Of course, in my house, I have to ask a few other, more routine questions, like: Did I turn my back too long and Toddler grabbed them and threw them down the basement stairs? Did he filch them into his toybox? Is this some mysterious action by the forces of Entropy and Chaos? (If the last one is true, then as soon as I throw these unmated pieces away, the rest will show up stored behind the George Foreman grill or out on Darling Husband's workbench. You know I'm right.) Before the end of the day I need to decide what to do with this stack. Right now I'm bereft of ideas.

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There Might Be a Conspiracy

The whole world is busy, I think, except maybe some small village in the middle of some jungle somewhere that hasn't been found by tourists yet. (This is why I was dreaming a little bit yesterday about the leisurely life of the old landed gentry, if you read that post.) On the "busy-scale" though, I have way fewer meetings, appointments, and medical visits than I had even a few months ago, much less a year or so ago.

So why is it no matter how I rearrange my days, everything always has to happen at once? It used to be that everything happened around here on Mondays. We have a friend who comes by twice a month to help with some household projects. She used to come the first and third Monday of the month. Toddler used to have a home care speech therapist visit every Monday too. Obviously, household projects and speech therapy don't often go well together. Monday became harder and harder for our friend, so we just managed to get things changed to the first and third Wednesday of the month. Good. Finally, these two things happen on different days. Well, that lasted a whole week. The next Monday, the speech therapist told me her schedule had changed and she needed to move us to Wednesdays. (Okay, raise your hand if you didn't see that coming.) The weirdest part is that I apparently neglected to tell Darling Husband that everything had switched to Wednesdays because he did me a favor and booked Toddler's dentist appointment on a day when the two of them could go. Sure enough, he picked a Wednesday.

Similarly, I've been trying for months to find a day to take some family members to visit an historic house not far from here. (It has some connection to our ancestors.) After much planning and thinking and phonecalls, we settled on the only Saturday all summer that worked for everyone. In the meantime, Darling Husband's family was working on an equally difficult project to get all of THEIR family to a local amusement park. Of course, they pick the exact same Saturday. (OF course they did. In my life, what else could possibly happen?) Never fear. Never fear. I managed to move my side's trip to the house back to Sunday so all fits. Yep. All fits.

Then Toddler's doctor calls. The only available appointment for him at the specialist that is far away and hard to get to is the Friday before the amusement park (which is the Saturday before the historic house). OF COURSE it is. OF COURSE we will run around like mad fellows with three essentially day long trips back to back to back. How else could it have possibly worked out?

You may think this phenomenon is just a phase we are going through, but I beg to differ. I have been struggling with this for at least two solid years. Every week I would have a conversation with Toddler's old therapist (no longer works here) who used to ask, "Can we begin seeing him on Thursdays?" Every week I would reply, "No, he has a standing appointment every Thursday in another county. Its a long drive, and I don't think we can manage both in the same day." I'm not sure what was more puzzling, that her only open day was the same only open day for the other office, or that she couldn't seem to remember this from week to week.

Our summer vacation plan to go out of town (the only days available, of course) completely coincide with other family and friends coming INTO town for the week. Say it with me ... OF COURSE they do.

I'm hoping that Dr. Michio Kaku will soon be explaining this phenomenon on Sunday nights on the Science Channel. Maybe figuring this out will be the key to solving the problems surrounding the theory of time travel.

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Everybody Wants to Be A Cat

I have these three pretty wacky cats. Two of them were by "our" choice, and one of them came later by "his" choice.

We met the "twins" at a pet store when they were kittens. The little black one climbed up Darling Husband's arm and sat on his head. No joke. They came home with us and switched their loyalties. After we took them to the vet for their little "surgeries," the little black one (now the Big Black Cat) became my best friend because I was the one to come and rescue him from the Mean Scary Vet. He has been following me around ever since. Darling Husband picked up little girl cat the next day, and she has been sleeping on his dirty socks just about every night. (Someone has to take care of the dirty socks, right?)

So there we were, living harmoniously, just the four of us, then the Universe came around to disrupt things. Mommy got pregnant, and Houdini the Outside Cat made a mad dash for the cushy life.

So now, we have Big Black Cat, Girl Cat, and Houdini. Big Black Cat is sweet and gentle and a ... little ... bit ... high ... strung sometimes. When Toddler drops a toy in the family room, if Big Black Cat doesn't see it coming, he's likely to be up the stairs before he stops to take stock. Other times he seems unphased by the world. His biggest claims to fame are his remarkable ability to smell ice cream and his fascination with wine. If there is a wine glass within reach, he will have his nose in it. If there is an ice cream bowl anywhere in the house, he will be sitting in front of it begging like a dog. Vanilla is his favorite flavor, but he has been known to beg for frozen cool whip, too. (Actually, he is sitting at my feet now instructing me that cats do not beg. In the case of ice cream, he is just actively demanding his due respect as a feline, and under no circumstances does he ever behave like a dog.)

Here is Big Black Cat when he was not so big, sneaking his first draft. Note Girl Cat in the corner egging him on.



With due consideration for the vagaries of feline relationships, Big Black Cat is the alpha cat, and he knows it. He is the best at everything, and everyone get out of his way. In his own way, he is more *cat* than the others, and he shares that cat trait of knowing his own mind and not caring what you think of it. He also doesn't know the meaning of "give up." Every morning he sits in front of the fish tank, pawing at the glass, certain that today will be the day he gets a fresh fish for breakfast. Every evening he sits in front of the glass doors batting at the glass to catch the tail of the outside cat. It never seems to occur to him that he hasn't caught either in 5 years. He's perfectly content to keep on trying.

Big Black Cat thinks he is entitled to a seat at the dinner table, and if there isn't enough chairs, he will take yours if you get up for something. The only way to get him down is to tell him that whoever sits in that chair has to feed Toddler. He likes to keep a healthy distance from Toddler. He also thinks he is entitled to a spot on the bed at night and a Christmas present every December 25th. He likes to sit on the back of the couch, and if he wants a pet and you aren't listening, he will grab you as you walk past.

Here are Big Black Cat and Girl Cat eyeing the fish together:



Big Black Cat is also very curious. He can hardly resist a paper bag on the floor or a box big enough for a cat. (Big enough is, of course, in the eye of the beholder.) Sometimes, though, paper bags are beneath his dignity. This may be because Houdini CANNOT pass up a paper bag, and Big Black Cat thinks Houdini is trailer park trash. More likely, though, it has to do with a bad day one Christmas a few years back. We were storing bows in a paper bag with handles. Big Black Cat got a little too curious, and ended up with the bag handles caught around his neck, at which time he promptly panicked. He ran, and, of course, the paper bag followed. Well wouldn't you know that paper bag chased that cat around the house for nearly 15 minutes, throwing bows at him every few feet? No matter where Big Black Cat went, the bag chased him, right on his heels no less. Try as we might, we had a hard time convincing him to just "hold still!" By the time we got the bag away from Big Black Cat, he didn't want his Christmas present anymore. I think the experience may have scarred him even more than his de-manning surgery.

Here is Big Black Cat Getting ready for Christmas one morning.


Life with Big Black Cat has always been interesting. He likes to sit in the window of the living room, pushing back the lace curtains with his paw and staring out. Of course, in his world, glass is all one-way, and if he can't smell you, you can't see him. If you walk in the room, he runs for cover, because of course he isn't supposed to sit there, but otherwise he waits and watches carefully while you get out of the car and walk up the sidewalk. As soon as you put the key in the front door, he moves like lightening from the window, and by the time you get the door open, he strolls casually toward you from the kitchen (another direction altogether) to greet you for the evening. Funny thing, you can even go up to the window and knock on it from the outside and he won't budge. After all, you can't see him ... right?

The entrance of Toddler into this house has cause some stir. Big Black Cat is least bothered, but he does flip his ears a lot at the noise and glares at me if Toddler cries too long. In his own way, Big Black Cat cares a lot about all of us. He is quick to show up if someone is sad or hurt, but mostly, like any good cat, he cares about himself. After all, his diligence in getting us up on time in the morning has less to do with our schedule and more to do with his stomach.

Keep an eye on this spot, there will be more on our colony of cats later on. After all, I still need to introduce you to Girl Cat and Houdini.

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Some Things Just Shouldn't Change

This world is a pretty changeable place. I get that. Kids grow up, friends move away, people die, stock markets rise and fall, even civilizations rise and fall ... nothing lasts forever.

Nonetheless, I think there are some things in this world that just shouldn't change. Or at the very least, they shouldn't change the way they have.

Let's take the solar system, for example. The solar system is a dynamic structure, always moving, and always dealing with the cosmic risks of collision, gravity, decay, and ultimately, old age. Scientists, in turn, are always dealing with the mysteries of how things work, how things came about, and how they will expire. Inevitably, scientists also deal with new discoveries, adding to our knowledge base and forcing us, as humans with limited knowledge, to adapt and learn and expand our thinking.

One thing that should NOT happen to us as residents of the solar system is to lose a planet. I mean, seriously, how does that happen? How did Pluto become an un-planet? I've been thinking about this for a long time now. Did the sun forget to pay the gravity bill? Did the other planets play crack the whip and Pluto let go?

No, no. As it turns out, Pluto is still there. The only thing that happened was a bunch of scientists got together and reclassified Pluto out of a job. Yeesh, and we thought the US economy was in trouble.

Putting aside the psychological impact (on Pluto and on millions of grownups whose elementary school education is now not only obsolete but absolutely wrong -- this is worse than when Canada combined provinces and screwed up my game of Geography trivia), putting aside the emotional impact (waaaaaaahhhhh!!!!!), this is just silly. Imagine all the tax dollars and charitable dollars that had to (and have to) be spent to correct all the museum exhibits in the world. I'm sure many of you remember that grainy video that played in the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum for generations (sing it with me!), "The family of the Sun. The family of the Sun. There are 9 planets in the family of the Sun." So -- what did the Smithsonian do? Did they go out and find a bunch of little children to record a new song? Did they just shut the exhibit down for lack of funds? I mean, was this all really necessary? Actually, knowing the Smithsonian (and no disrespect intended), they probably just put a sign over the booth that says, "Exhibit is being updated." After all, that is what the Museum of Natural History has done to the human evolution exhibit since I moved to DC 10 years ago. (I don't think they have finished yet, have they? It has been about 2 years since I checked....)

I understand that classification systems change. But was this really necessary? Wouldn't a footnote have been a whole lot easier? You know, it could say something like, "Under the current classification system, Pluto would not have qualified to be a planet, because under the new cosmic zoning law, planets are not permitted in the Kuiper belt. However, given Pluto's longstanding good citizenship, we have decided to grandfather it until a new Building Permit is requested, at which time it is subject to reclassification under the existing zoning law."

Like I said, some things just shouldn't change.

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Do You Smell That?

We took a quick 3 day trip to the deep South last week. With such a short trip, especially over the weekend, there is a whole lot less you have to do to get ready. I'm still of the philosophy that everything should be neat and clean before you leave so you don't get discouraged when you get home, but there is only so much I can do in this family. I mean, after all, pets and a small child live here.

When we finally got home, it was very late, and we were tired. The yard was looking a little long in the tooth when we left, but with all the rain (you know what I mean), there wasn't a whole lot we could do about it. Obviously, the rain continued while we were gone. I know this because the tarps covering the kid's playset were sunk under the weight of about a foot of water, the yard was a yard deep, and my mother called me while I was gone to say it was still raining.

We opened up the door, came inside, carried the sleeping bub upstairs, and looked around. Something wasn't right. "Do you smell that?" I asked Darling Husband. He said, "I was about to ask you the same thing." It isn't the toddler, and it doesn't smell like the cats." (These are the first two things a parent and pet owner blame -- the diaper, and the pets.) Oh boy. What fun! We were about to embark on a potentially lengthy game of "Find the Funk."

The Funk was apparent the moment we opened the door, but it permeated the entire house. We couldn't even find a point of origin, and it smelled like mold. Ooh, this was going to be a good one. Where could it be? What could it be?

Check the litter. Nope. No spills, near misses. Empty the litter. Nothing improves. We did find three hairballs in three different rooms, but cleaning those up had no effect on the smell. Hmm.

Cat food bowls. Okay, they are looking a little bit green after three days. Maybe that's it. Soak bowls in sink, and odor improves. Keep looking.

It has been raining for years now ... maybe the air conditioner needs to run a little higher. Okay, turn it up. We can sleep under blankets tonight. Smell diffuses, but it doesn't go away.

By now its midnight, and we're beat. So, we retire and hope for the best. By morning, nothing has changed. Still Funky. The game continues.

Cat accident in the corner ... okay, we missed that last night. Still no improvement. Open dishwasher to put in cat dishes. YIKES! Can dishes really mold in 3 days? Obviously, in this rainforest, it can. Hmm. I think we're on to something. Wash dishes again. Okay, that's much better.

But wait ... there is still Funk. Check garbage. Nope. Not that. Refrigerator? Ummm, don't go there. I'm sure that isn't it. Feed baby, spill baby food on self, remove shirt, pretreat, open laundry machine ... wait. How long have those towels been in there?

Hopefully by running the dishwasher and doing the laundry again we have finally finished the game of "Find the Funk." I sure hope so. I'm running out of ideas, and we are out of scented candles.

Now, what to do about that yard? Well, by this time I think we have few options. I could call for an early hay bailing. Instead, though, I'm seriously considering just posting a sign in the yard that says I'm reducing my carbon footprint. That should solve it.

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My Battle Against the Forces of Entropy and Chaos

I took a few days in thinking about this next entry because I was having a hard time coming up with a single story I wanted to tell. So many times I just want to hang my head and either laugh or cry ... . Of those I can actually discuss, none of them were long enough to make it worth my time (or yours).

So finally I decided to tell you a little bit about my generic battle with the forces of Entropy and Chaos.

Now, I'm not talking about the routine stuff, like laundry, dishes, and the general toy "explosion" that usually occurs 30 seconds after a toddler gets out of bed or down from his high chair. I'm talking about the oddball stuff that is my house and life.

For starters, I get out in the morning, blissfully aware of how fortunate I am that darling husband takes the baby down for breakfast. I go into the baby's room, pick up the clothes from the floor, and close the diaper wipe box. Then I find clothes for the baby. Most of the time I don't think too much about it, but every once in awhile I just have to wonder. Every morning and every evening I shut that diaper wipe box. Why? No, not why do I do it -- why doesn't everyone? It isn't hard to close. In fact, it is very simple to close. You just put a little pressure on the lid, and it slides gently into place, clicking quietly to let you know it latched.

Yes, changing a diaper can be a challenge. I don't think I need to talk all that much about the hand to hand combat that can come from changing the diaper of a toddler that doesn't WANT his diaper changed. Either you've done it, and I don't need to explain the bruises I have on my upper body, or you still have the pleasure awaiting you and I don't want to spoil it. But still, no matter how vigorous the diaper change was, what is so hard about closing one small lid before you leave the room?

I finally decided that I cannot figure out why the diaper wipe bin has to stay open until I come in to close it. Instead, I've started treating it as my opening salvo each morning in my one-woman crusade against the forces of Entropy and Chaos. This task is simply one step in our enduring struggle, which includes some long standing conflicts such as:

- Why does the crap simply move from room to room, never leaving the house, never getting thrown out, and never finding an "away?"

- The threat, "if you don't put this somewhere, the baby will soon take it as a toy," has tripled the little boy's toy supply.

- Other people have begun storing things in my garage, and I can honestly say I didn't realize how much.

- The forces of Entropy have brainwashed members of my family to pick up their clothes, towels, and other things from the bathroom and take them to the laundry. The washcloths, however, stay in a wet heap in the bathtub.

Sometimes I make progress. Some days -- weeks even -- I make headway and beat back the Chaos with the weapons of order and organization. I pay dearly for these victories. This past Memorial Day I tackled the garage, and I made great progress. After setting aside 4 bins worth of trash to throw out, I had cleared a space big enough for almost 2/3 of my car. I filled the trash bin and set it out to the curb. The trash man dutifully came and hauled the contents away. Over the next day or so, I went to the large stack of trash I'd gathered from my cleaning efforts and stuffed the bin full again. The hardest part, to my surprise, was this large bag of trash I'd carefully set against the house. There was a box in the bottom of the bag to hold the bag upright, and I'd filled it with large, but lightweight, things. I pulled, tugged, and tried to lift the bag into the trash bin (because the trashman won't take things that aren't in the bin). Nothing. This is strange. I put the bag against the house, and now when I want to pull it away, it's too heavy to budge? Something is really odd here. I try again, and again, and even again. When logic fails, I sometimes resort to dogged persistance. Sadly, this, too, fails me.

Finally, after many minutes of struggling, I get my first clue. Something sloshed. Then I looked at the ground. It is wet ... all over. The grass is wet, the car is wet. I brilliantly recall that rain fell from the sky for many hours over the prior two day. I look up at the house. The bag is resting under a gutter that is clogged and overflowing. Oh, crap, the bag is full of water! So not only is it full of disgusting garage trash, it is full of WET disgusting garage trash.

This is so much more then I bargained for when I ran outside wearing socks to put the trash in the bin while the two year old took a drink in the high chair. (He can't hurt any electronics in the high chair unless someone is silly enough to hand one to him.) Now what? Go back inside? Hell no! That would be giving up!

So, I very carefully try to tip the bag. How do you tip a trash bag? Good question. Then I grabbed the bag at the bottom and lifted until water came gushing out. Four tries of this and the bag was finally light enough to lift into the bin. I don't even want to know what happened to the rest of the water or the trash guys that came to take it away.

This was just Entropy's revenge on me for attempting to restore order to the garage. I have managed not to regress on the garage, but so far we've made no further progress. I have noticed, however, that boxes are multiplying in the basement. Entropy will find equilibrium, I suppose.

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Water in Lake Erie and Soap in a Soapdish

I'm working on packing our clothing for an upcoming vacation. Of course, with the airlines charging by the bag, I am trying to pack minimally. Nonetheless, I am still a mother, and I must pack matching outfits for the two year old. It isn't like packing for me, where I throw in all 2 pairs of shorts, both pairs of jeans, and the 5 shirts that still fit and figure it out later. It isn't like packing for darling husband. Actually, I don't know how to pack for Darling Husband ... I let him figure it out. (Which is why we end up with two giant tubes of toothpaste each time we travel together, and the hairbrush we both use is almost always left behind.)

Now, I've long ago given up the idea that some people can match outfits without help. This is why the clothing industry invented Garanimals. After numerous Saturdays seeing my son come down the stairs wearing plaid overalls and striped socks, I learned that Darling Husband is one of those people that needs help. So, I started putting the clothes away in matched sets. The orange shorts were placed right underneath the matching orange shirt. Same with the overalls and matching shirt. Now, I have a stack of t-shirts and a stack of shorts, for the more experienced among us to freelance, but there are two complete stacks of matched outfits for the initiate. Or, should I say, there *were* two complete stacks of matched outfits. To hear it told in this house, they magically stay in neat matched stacks when I am in the room, but as soon as I leave, one half of each matched set disappears.

My son comes down the stairs wearing an orange shirt from a matched set, and blue shorts. "Where is the matching orange plaid shorts?" I ask. "I don't know," comes darling husband's response. "It wasn't with the shirt." Hmm, I think. Did I not stack them correctly? I go into the drawer, and there is the pair of shorts ... right on top. Hmm. A few days later, the same thing happens ... but this time its a yellow shirt (part of one matched set) and a pair of overalls (from a different matched set). Apparently, the mates to both were missing. Mysteriously enough, they had returned themselves to the drawer (on top) by the time I got into my son's bedroom. Very strange indeed.

As I go to pack my son's clothes, I am astounded at how there is no mate to any matched set in the drawer. All of the mates are in the wash ... worn with other things.

Now, one might assume from all of this that I think my husband is blind, or silly. I think neither. See ... I do believe there are gremlins that come around and move things when we aren't looking. I spent my entire childhood looking for things my mother sent me to find. Inevitably, they would not be there, and inevitably, she would go looking and find them right where she told me to look. I would then get teased mercilessly about not being able to find water in Lake Erie or soap in a soapdish. I would wail, "It wasn't there!" Alas, my wails were only cause for more teasing. "What do you mean it wasn't there. I just found it right where it wasn't."

I believe my husband. I do. Things don't stay where you put them in this house. Just ask my diaper bag. Or better yet, try to find things in my diaper bag. It isn't me. I asked my mom to find a plastic baggie full of diaper wipes when we were out together. After routing through and dumping the whole bag ... nothing. Of course, the baby was lying naked on the ground with an unexpectedly full diaper, and I have nothing to wipe him with. *sigh*. I solve that problem, then go home to make another plastic of wipes to take with us ... only to find the original baggie tucked inside the diaper bag ... right where we were looking for it all along. I'd blame the diaper bag, but its my second one, with the same problem. The other one was so small it is hard to imagine how anything could hide in it.

I have no explanations for this, except gremlins. And, it isn't just me. My sister lives this way too. She uses a little prayer to tell the gremlins it is time to bring something back. "Dear St. Anthony, please come around. Something is lost and needs to be found." Then she steps out of the room, waits a few moments, steps back in, and finds her "lost" item, right where she was looking for it. The gremlins just needed a second to put it back while she wasn't looking. Or maybe its the Borrowers. Remember those books? Maybe they weren't fiction ... except the Borrowers never returned anything, despite their name.

I'm wondering when the gremlins will return my GPS. You see, I can't seem to find it right now, and I'm a little bit concerned. I'm hoping it will be before we leave on our trip, but I'm running out of hope. I think they took it on their own vacation and we won't see it again until they bring it back. See, I know they have it, because I know exactly where I left the GPS, and it isn't there anymore. That's how I know it's not just my ongoing battle with the forces of chaos -- it's something more. After 36 years of living with gremlins, I know they aren't sinister, but for sure they are annoying. I'm sure they sit around and chuckle at me, too, when I can't find my car keys ... clipped to my belt, or when I can't find my sunglasses ... on the top of my head. These things are completely my fault, but I'm sure it gives them endless sources of amusement to recall when I am pleading with the air for them to bring it BACK for crying out loud ... and it isn't even them this time.

So tell me -- do the gremlins live with you, too?

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