Of Mice (and Spiders) and Men Part II
As I said in my previous post, I love spiders and hate rats. Here’s the explanation. I grew up in a small house near a lake in Central Florida. There are pests by the millions in Florida, and one learns to live with them or pays exterminators lots of money. Early on, I understood the usefulness of spiders. I allowed gray house spiders as big as my hand to grace the upper corners of my bedroom wall and protected them from my mother’s broom. My reasoning was sound. They quietly stayed put and devoured roaches and mosquitos. What more could I ask? Roaches are prevalent in Florida. The big ones hide during the day and run around at night. They are ugly and dirty, and the most horrible feeling in the world is to have one of them fly down your night shirt when you get up to use the restroom at
Of Mice (and Spiders) and Men
When I returned home from the store yesterday, I saw my husband descending a ladder from the attic. I cringed and ran the other direction. We have had problems with rats scurrying and scratching above our heads at night and disturbing our precious, well-earned sleep. If not for the daring exploits of Dad, the rat hunter, alas, we would all need to accept their presence and endeavor to live in peace, sleep or no sleep. I hate rats. I am horribly afraid of their pointy teeth; their smelly fur; and, worst of all, those hideous, bald, rope-like tails, just waiting to ensare me. I am afraid of them because of a childhood experience. I’ll tell you about that event in the next post. Suffice it to say, for now, that I am grateful I have a man in the house, a man who protects me from beasts. Speaking of men and
Yahoo Punctuation Rant
Punctuation of the English language is an exquisite, albeit confusing, tool with which to perfect one’s pithy, powerful, and adroit prose. I assert, with some satisfaction, that, when it comes to grammar and mechanics, I am of the “Old School.” Yes, I enjoyed diagramming, or parsing, sentences when I was in elementary school. I adored the picture: a sentence’s blood and guts hung elegantly on the lines and angles representing its alluring skeleton. Alas, the sentence diagram has become a long-lost friend, and no one seems to understand the differences between phrases and clauses, both dependent and independent; between verbs and verbals; between participles, not left dangling, and gerunds. Because of this lack of understanding, “professionals” perform their tasks wrong, and no one cares. Like the hideous sentence, “Your student did their homework;” like the use of nauseous to mean nauseated, rules once steadfast have changed. What was once wrong is now correct, and I sigh. I go to the Yahoo Mail page so that a
Soul Food
“Mamma, I neeeed some collard greens and okra.” Yep. That’s what my children say, especially after a stint away from home or a busy time when we’ve had too much restaurant food. Even our foster daughter, who will assert that she hates cooked vegetables, devours greens and okra in massive quantities. Every time I place a southern meal on my California table, my soul is filled. My daddy would have been proud. Food is the one part of southern life I have been able to pass on to my SoCal babies. Last week, my daughter and I sat in a theater completely absorbed in the movie The Help. I cried, of course. Well, didn’t everyone? Afterwards, my daughter had questions to ask. “Didn’t you have a black maid when you were little?” “Was it like that?” “Did you love her?” Well, yes, my parents did hire a woman to look after my youngest brother and me after school and
Confession: I Love a Bad Dog part III
The mat at the front door says it all. As much as we like people and enjoy visitors to our home, the front door mat does not say “welcome”. Instead, it is small brown rectangle with these ominous words: “‘Don’t Make Me Come Out there.’ The Dog” If anyone, and I mean anyone, dares approach our humble abode, Jack is livid. He sits on my daughter’s bed and keeps watch. The moment anything human or canine appears, he springs into action, clawing at the window, growling and barking, pretty white teeth exposed. If he gets no response, he heads out the doggie door to the back gate, where he endeavors to breach the fence and fill his mouth with the flesh of the intruder. I suppose one could argue that Jack’s bark is worse than his bite because, once the visitor is allowed entry, Jack does not actually bite. He intimidates by
Confession: I Love a Bad Dog part II
His eyelids are heavy, his ears droopy. He looks forlorn. Oh, why won’t these people go to bed? Why must a dog keep guard over this family of five? I want to sleep. He lies on a blanket on the couch and waits patiently for each of us, in turn, to hit the hay. He must ensure that we are all safely in bed before he can finally find rest. I, the last to seek my pillow, pat him on the head and say, “Okay, Jack. You can go to bed now.” He looks relieved, but he still can’t decide with whom to bed down. All night long, he wanders from room to room, pawing back the blankets, crawling all the way under, and curling up next to each warm body for a few hours of sleep. He’s been pushing his hot, furry self against my legs until I am situated precariously near the edge of our California
Confession: I Love a Bad Dog part one
He knows words. He really does. The word “treat” just brings a perking up of the ears. He goes through the motions of sitting, trying to shake with anything close by, and lying down, waiting for the aforementioned treat to appear. He’ll leave it sitting next to his nose if he’s told to, and then it will be gone in an instant. But that word is nothing compared to the ones indicating that he might be leaving the house and venturing into the vast world beyond. No matter what the context, no matter what voice is used, “walk,” “go,” “ride,” and “shoes” all bring about the same uncontrollable joy and chaos: jumping up and down off and on the couch; earsplitting, nostop, crazy barking; whimpering; cury tail wagging wildly. Then there is the simple act of donning traveling shoes. Not flip-flops or sandals or dress shoes, mind you. He knows the
Foster Parenting: the reluctant caregiver
I never chose to do this. I’m not one of those great people who seeks out ways to help others. I wish I were that person, but I’m not. My life revolves around my family and my church. I adore other people’s children as long as they don’t live with me. I’m most comfortable with my own children, and they usually make me proud. In fact, friends and neighbors tell me I’m spoiled by them. That’s why this was all so hard for me to swallow, but we did it anyway. Two and half years ago, we welcomed a teenaged stranger into our home, my husband with joy and seriousness, I with trepidation. But we both knew we had to take on this responsibility. The circumstances left us with no real option but doing what we knew was right. It would be nice if I could say that this young woman changed
Synchronized Figure Skating
I’m like this every Tuesday. Go ahead: ask me a question. Will I understand you? Is my brain awake? The answer is a resounding NO! I’ve had three cups of coffe and a nap, but the fog persists. All my daughter’s fault. No, wait. I’ll blame it on my deceased mother. She can’t contradict me. It is her fault, though. She made the biggest mistake of my life when she took my daughter to an ice-skating show at Cypress Gardens when the child was two. My daughter came home saying, in her adorable little voice, “I do dat, mama.” Oh, why did I think that was cute? The child begged for skating lessons for three long years. Finally, I gave in. It became apparant immediately that my little girl was not the next Michelle Kwan. Skinny, lanky, long-legged, weak, and uncoordinated, she enjoyed the lessons anyway. She made me skate with her,
Top Ten Child Labor Lessons
In homage to Labor Day, I reviewed my use of child labor in my family’s once-a-week church cleaning chore. Here are the top ten things I’ve learned in two years of toilet swishing and vacuum pushing. 10) Never let them off the hook. Teenageers will use any excuse not to show up at the appointed time and do the appropriated job. I’ve heard so many excuses, I can’t remember them all. I have a headache; I’m tired; my friend needs help with his homework; the dog is lonely; it’s the last weekend of summer; I stubbed my toe; my back hurts; it’s my birthday — just a few words that made me give in and do all the work myself. The scariest one was, “You let her stay home last week.” So, to be fair, no one gets a break — ever! Work, children, work. Labor is good for you. 9) Remove
Hello world!
Giddy. I am giddy. If my 15-year old were to begin blogging, he would say, “Yea, whatever. So this is my blog.” I would be amazed at his content, and he would shrug his brilliant little shoulders at me. But I, the silly old mom, past her prime in so many ways, say, “Dude.” (That sounds strange coming from my mouth, but I say it anyway). “Dude. Look at that. It says ‘Hello World!’ I have become a part of the cool world, the rad world, the opposite of the frumpy mom, junior-high teacher in ‘What Not to Wear’ clothes. Dude, just look at that.” Of course, I shall not tell my son to look at anything. I shall not let him see any of the drivel that I type; he will never know. Okay, maybe he will know, but he won’t care. Therein lies the beauty. Unlike a post on a