When the dog begins to randomly walk into the living room while no one’s there, with a friendly look on his face and his tail slowly wagging – acting for all the world like he sees dead people??!

Suspect dead people.

But if the dead people start leaving tiiiiiiiny liiiiiiittle poopies all over the living room rug??

Begin suspecting mice instead.

Dead people don’t leave little poopies, I think. Nor do they gnaw the bottoms out of every chip bag in the pantry.  Nor do they create some weirdo stash of dog food in the winter scarves.  Which is how we discovered the mouse problem in the first place – when we were sorting out the winter scarves, second drawer down in the laundry room, and found a stash of dog kibble surrounded by little poopies.

Uhhhh, gross. And now no one in the house will ever wear a scarf again.

Also? Houston, I think we have a problem.  (And when I say “Houston” I really mean “Hubby” and he agreed there was a problem so he set a trap which he stuffed with chips and dog kibble.)

It worked!

We walked away from the experience believing we got the one mouse in da’ house.

Oh, hoh, hoh. Foolish mortals.  Turns out we only got the muth-ah mouse.  Who had, before she dined on a final serving of chips, stashed her babies in the living room, specifically in the piano.

Thus the dog’s subsequent and super creepy “I see dead people” behavior.

By the bye, you know what’s really, REALLY hard to get off a piano?!? A mouse.  Especially if all you’re using is a coffee can and grown lady screams to entice it.

And even harder that one mouse?? Three.  Three mice in a baby grand piano.

Thank Heaven for Houston. I’m not 100% sure how Houston got those cute l’il rat bastards guck, guck, guck out of the piano.  I didn’t see it because I was shuddering and crying – while researching plague and pestilence – in another room.  So this will go down as a great mystery in our marriage since I don’t ever want to actually KNOW how Houston got those mice out of the piano.

Muth-ah mouse out of the laundry room and three baby mice out of the piano? Done and done.  We are now done with the mice.

Until Houston accidentally cc’d me on a text to Sissy wherein he mentioned that he had caught TWO MORE MICE in the living room and set some traps there so she was to keep the dog out.

Yep.  Two.  More.  Mice.

What the frickin’ WHAT?!? Mystery, mystery! La, la, la, la.  Mystery.

But NOW we’re done, right? Yes, I believe that NOW we are done with the mice.  Now.

Kinda wish it HAD been dead people after all.

When Sonny was in first grade we went to LegoLand. The rides were slightly tamer than all the ones at Disney World which just a few short years previously we had to berate Sonny onto – until it occurred to us that berating little boys onto Disney World rides was counterintuitive at which point we stopped and thus descended into an endless loop of It’s a Small World.  That is, until Sonny noticed the snake charmer boy ‘bout round twelve and that was all she wrote.

So when LegoLand came around, Sonny put everyone’s mind at ease by stating that he wasn’t afraid of rides anymore. “Oh really?”  replied Sissy.  “But what happens if a mummy POPS! out at you on the Lost Kingdom ride?!”

Sonny calmly stated, “Well…then I’ll scream like a grown lady.”

Fast forward to a recent week-end this summer. I was sitting on the couch reading my Nook through my eyelids while the kids and dog were in the back yard.  I heard my name, moaned low and urgent through the open window. Mmmmmoooooommmmm.   Whose eyes don’t POP! open at a sound like that?!  And that’s when I saw a rattlesnake about 4 feet long, coiled up and buzzing to beat the band*, striking at the knuckleheaded dog who was coming in closer for a cute and curious sniff.

I screamed like a grown lady.

I mean, I screamed like such a grown lady that was ever grown, that’s how loud I screamed. And then I ran out to the backyard to corral the dog who had tucked tail after strike two.  The dog, who hates screaming (not that it happens a lot at our house, you understand) knew something was up and was trying to make his getaway from me as well.  But eventually I was able to grab him, hoist him high and run into the house with the kids.

Ding, dong!

Apparently I had screamed like such a grown lady that four – count them, four – neighbors (plus someone’s granddaughter) came to the front door to see what all the grown lady screaming was about.

When they heard the garbled report of “rattlesnake in the backyard” they trooped through the house to see it. But it was nowhere to be found.  So they trooped back through the house and out the front door and I politely walked them down the front walk.  As I was returning, I spotted the last foot of the snake disappearing under our front porch.  It must’ve come all the way from the back yard to the front porch and even though I noticed there was *no* rattle on its tail as it was slipping under the stoop, I had to scream like a grown lady again.  Whereupon half the original group of neighbors (plus someone’s granddaughter) marched back to share that it wasn’t a rattlesnake, just a bull snake that makes itself look and sound like a rattlesnake.

Oh, oopsie. Ha, ha, ha.  That’s awkward not knowing a pretend rattlesnake from a real one.  So just ignore all the grown lady screaming then – my bad.  Also?  No wonder why we haven’t had a rabbit problem in the front yard this year.

*And yes, it is time to play our “80’s Song for Every Moment in Life Game” whereupon I will submit the winning entry titled “Keep On Loving You,” a song which first appeared on REO Speedwagon’s 1980 album Hi Infidelity:
You should have seen by the look in my eyes, baby
There was somethin’ missin’
You should have known by the tone of my voice, maybe
But you didn’t listen
You played dead, but you never bled
Instead you laid still in the grass, all coiled up and hissin’

Sissy went to college yesterday.

Wait, what?! Back up the bus.

Will do. Now everyone on.

Just what I said. Sissy went to college yesterday.

It was for sleepaway basketball camp, but still. It gave me such a sense of panic that it could’ve almost been the real thing.

We’re not ready for COLLEGE! We haven’t even bought the BUCKET!!  You know the bucket.  The bucket in which you put all your toiletries so as to easily schlep them to the shower and back to your dorm room.  They have cute buckets nowadays.  Not the dumb buckets from the hardware store like back in my day.  I was really looking forward to buying the bucket together.  But the college thing snuck up on us so fast we didn’t have time.

You know what else we didn’t have time to do? Figure out how I was going to get to college WITH Sissy.  This is key because for as long as  I  she can remember, it’s been  my her plan that I would join her in her dorm room for the first few years of college and sleep in the bottom bunk.  No, not the top bunk. The top bunk would be weird, ya weirdo.  Bottom bunk says cool, hip mom.  Top bunk says complete nut job.  And we all know which kind of mom I am.  And I only plan to stay for the first two years anyway.  Because then I’ll have to head off to college with Sonny and sleep in his bottom bunk. 

And because I was we were so wrapped up in the internal bucket conversation and the what-the-bottom-bunk-says-about-your-mother scenario, Sissy forgot to pack a towel.  So now there’s a towel blame storm burning us from college.  Hubby replied to Sissy’s towel text string with the wise advice to buy a towel at the snack shop. I think we’re getting college confused with the Jersey Shore. Absent towels for sale at the snack shop and money with which to buy one!?  Hubby’s suggestion was to use a t-shirt and lots of deodorant.

So, there you have it. Not sure why I was worried about the bucket or who was in the bottom bunk.  No one’s gonna notice any of that with whatever crazy business is going down with the t-shirt and deodorant every day.

Yep, I think college is going well for us so far.

Anyone been watching the French Open? I saw the first two sets of the Djokovic/Murray match on Sunday and it occurred to me that I play tennis just like that.  And when I say “just like that” I mean professionally, for money, with fellas who look like the kids’ gym teacher.  [Side note: When the gym teacher looks like Djokovic, it’s no wonder all the moms get silly at the school fundraiser when the fine wine man is around.]

And hardy, har, har. I totally fooled you, didn’t I, with my faux pro tennis player line!?

It’s a thing we do on the amateur circuit, joke about being pro. Not that we want to turn pro.  Or ever, EVER hope the Roland Garros and Wimbledon scouts are at our Wednesday evening matches.  We know we’re not going pro, we just want to stop sucking at tennis already.

But whether you’re pro or sucky, it’s so weird how you can rule in the first set of a tennis match, and then in the second set? You get ruled.  Kinda like what happened in the first few sets for Djokovic and Murray on Sunday.  And kinda like what happened to my tennis partner and I one time…

We rocked Set 1.  Then we made one of the opponents fall on her head (accidentally of course, we’re not that good) and after she got a noggin’ bandage from the tennis shop, it was on like donkey kong!  She made a big come back and played tennis like a boss with a noggin’ bandage.

But enough about me and my bad tennis. Also? Does it make me a terrible person to get the giggles whenever I think about that woman falling on her head??  It’s not like we PLANNED it or anything.  And there was the shin, knee, and thigh skid which cushioned things somewhat prior to the head road-rashing.  So I think the consensus here is no?  Not a terrible person at all!?  Thanks for weighing in.

Back to real pros at the French Open: what’s up with all the noises on the court?! Everyone on the court sounds like they’re trying out for bad haunted house gigs.  Mwah, Mwaaaaah, MWAAAAAAH! Or maybe like they’re birthing babies:  Nguh, Nnnguuuh. NNNNGGUUUUUUHHHHH!  I’m seriously considering making these noises during my next tennis match.  There might be a certain distraction-factor-that-could-lead-to-a-win if the opponents think I’m turning zombie on them as the sun sets.   

But what I REALLY wanted to ask here is did the older woman with the gorgeous cheek bones in the blue down jacket just visible over Djokovic’s left shoulder on Sunday remind anyone else of their French “mother” whose semi-detached apartment you stayed in when you lived in Paris??

Yeah??!  Me too!  Twins!!

And remember that part when I accidentally locked her neighbor’s cross-eyed Siamese cat named Lambert in the apartment for one whole week?  Until she asked me in French, “Have you been accidentally locking Lambert in your apartment for one whole week??” That seems a little Frenglish now, but that’s what it sounded like then – just an oddly constructed sentence about odd stuff in oddly familiar and not-so-familiar words.  Naturally the only answer to a question like that is a very hesitant “oui.”  But in my own defense, I thought the cat LIVED in the apartment.

Gaah! I love tennis, don’t you?

You know what I DON’T love? Siamese cats.

Spring has sprung
The grass is riz
I wonder where the owls is?

Forget it. I found them.  They’re on my roof.  All night.  Every night.  Hoot, hoot, hooting to eachother.  All spring.  And did I mention that part about all night?  Oh, yeah, I did, didn’t I?  But what about that part about all spring?! That too??

Seems like every spring in recent memory starts the same way. Twilight descends and I catch a glimpse of Mothman Prophesies flapping through my backyard.  It also scares the crap outta the dog who’s out for his last peep-peep, poop-poop before bed, so he has to spend the rest of his outdoors time hiding under the trampoline and barking in the direction of the pinetree.

And then it begins from our roof. Hoot, hoot, hoot!

Followed by another Hoot, hoohoot, hoot from one house over.

Really? Sonny’s been to cotillion and he knows how to make polite introductions.  Could I just send him out, have you two owly-y types meet and then you can huddle up on the same roof and quiet down already?!

1 a.m. Hoot, hoot, hoot! Sometimes I mistake it for my children calling to me in the night, so I get up.

2:45 a.m. Hoot, hoohoot, hoot! Sometimes I think it’s the dog whimpering loudly to go out, so then I get up.

5:30 a.m. Hoot, hoot, hoot! Sometimes I think it’s just mean people in the street pretending to be owls way too early in the morning.  But now it’s time to get up, so then I get up.

Whereupon Hubby rolls over and mumbles, “Guh. Did you hear the owls all night?”

Oh?! Owls?  Were those owls??  Yep, I noticed that a little bit.

But because I’m groggy and tired, yet intrepid and clever-‘til-the-end (not to mention a WINNER at this “80’s Song for Every Moment in Life” game we play), I will now close my owl blog with some lyrics from a song titled “Where Do The Children Go” from the 1985 album called Nervous Night by…wait for it…the HOOTERS!

So frickin’ clever, right? It’s a gift really.  Or maybe it’s a curse.  Either way, bug off so I can go take a nap.

Surrender into the night, Silently take my hand. Nobody knows what’s inside us, Nobody understands.
They handed us down a dream, To live in this lonely town. But nobody hears the music, Only the echo of a hollow sound…
Where do the children go? [Substitute ‘owls’ here for children, it’s funnier.] Between the bright night and the darkest day?
Where do the owls go? [See?  Funnier.] And who’s that deadly piper who leads them away?

When we were growing up, my mother would call us by a variety of names – each other’s mostly, but sometimes her own brother and sister’s names, though I was never lucky enough to be on the receiving end of that.  That honor mostly went to my younger brother and sister.  Being the middle child, more often than not, I got called the dog’s name.

And on my end, I would pilot my own names for Mom – mostly all were from literary works since we were a reading-ist kind of family.

Fresh off The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew series, Mom became Mamsie Dear.

As I lived the excitement of the Civil War years right along with the March Sisters in “Little Women” Mom became Marmie.

And after plowing through all the Little House on the Prairie books, there was even that failed attempt to start up a whole “Ma” thing.

But nuthin doin’ on that. I think she mistook what I had intended as a plucky, pioneer “Ma” for more of a Vinny Barbarino, wise-cracking New York “Ma” so she nixed that right outta the gate.

Where I’m really going with all of this is:

Hi Mom!

Thank you for being the best Mamsie Dear/Marmie/Ma ever. All you’ve been and done for me I can only hope to be and do for my own children.  (Except that part about being so sharp when they try to call me “Ma.”  I won’t do that 😉 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love, Lady

I just flew in from Denver and boy, are my arms tired!

Guck, guck, guck.  On our flight last night to Virginia, Sissy got stuck behind the drink cart with a French guy.

(Uh, ok.  That whole description made me feel super yucky for a sec.)

But how did you know he was French?

Sissy: Because he said, “Something…something…Francais.”

He was probably asking you if you speak French.  So what did you say?

Sissy: I said, “Uh-huh,” and then nodded and smiled.

[Here she smiled wide for me in the re-telling and revealed her pink American teen braces.  Yes, pink.  It’s a thing they do with braces now that we’re from the future.  Royal blue headgear is from the past.  Trust me, I know this.]

And then what happened?

Sissy: He talked some more French.

Did you respond to what he was saying?!

Sissy:  I said, “Cool!  Cool!” then the cart got done so I waved bye and walked away.

And that?  Is how an American teen (who doesn’t actually speak French) speaks French.

Ok, so, yep, we’re back to the religious blog concept.  I really want to explore this idea.  Or at a minimum, I really want to explore what happened at this past Sunday’s mass.

To set the stage: the Gospel reading was that one where Jesus appeared to the apostles in the locked upper room, post-resurrection. He wished them peace and then he breathed on them.

Uh-huh. That’s what I said the Gospel said.  He BREATHED on them.

Was this an expression of affection back in the day?! Otherwise, Jesus breathing on his homeboys is a little puzzling, right?  But pay this critical juncture in the faith no never mind.  What I’m saying here is that this naturally prompted Sonny and me to begin breathing on each other.  Using various escalating forms of breath, what started out as a playful, hair-riffling breeze soon turned to full throated exhales for maximum bad breath exposure.  Huuuuuuuuuccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkgh.  Eventually, the entire pew sounded like a bunch of sleestacks were after Marshall, Will and Holly.  Whereupon I turned to Sissy to ask her what the whole breathing thing was about.  Jesus’ breathing on the apostles, not our breathing on each other, just to clarify.

I figured that surely Sissy, who could actually BE one of the apostles, what with her zeal and her kindness and her daily walking of the Word, surely SISSY would know what that breathing was all about.

Turns out she DID know what that breathing was all about. And stop calling her Shirley, guck, guck, guck. But instead of revealing all knowledge of end times, what she said was, “If you two don’t stop it, I’m going to punch you both when we get out of here.”

Oh. Ok.  Apostle much?

But? Because I’m such a good mother??  I ignored her threats and breathed on her too.

Huuuuuuuuuccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkgh.

I got a swift jab to the ribs for my trouble.

Apostle in da’ house!!!

Sonny participated in the middle school wrasslin’ championship last week-end.  Side Note: We call wrestling “wrasslin’” because calling wrestling “wrasslin’” funnies things up a bit.  Trust me when I say wrasslin’ desperately needs a little funny-ing up.

But even if it’s not all hardy har har, wrasslin’ is a gentlemanly and brave sport.

Gentlemanly because the opponents shake hands before the match. Then afterwards, they shake hands again and also with their opponent’s coaches.  All the hands wagging in the air must make it easier for everyone to hold back the tears after a loss.

And brave because once you get to be a certain age, you have to wear a singlet. And everyone knows that this is the singlet closest thing to being naked in public while wearing short-like items that you can get.  I wouldn’t do it.

To make matters worse (for me, not Sonny, since he’s the brave wrassler in this story) they then force the wrasslers to walk around with their arms bare and their WEIGHT written on their BICEPS!!

If that doesn’t sound like some awful sorority hazing thing that leaves everyone crying no wonder why there’s so much crying I don’t know what does.  And?  They write the wrassler’s weight in permanent marker so sometimes Sonny will go three, four, five days with his weight proudly proclaimed on his bicep until it finally fades.  The school shirt usually covers it up, but even so.  Nightmare much?  Imagine if you had to go out in public with your weight on your arm?!  If it were me, I’d spend the whole day in a public bathroom stall gnawing on my fingernails or something.

Anyway, Sonny won! Sonny won 1^st place in the “experienced” wrasslin’ division.  How cool is that?!  We are super proud of him – not only because some of the kids he wrassles sound like foghorns and have back acne while Sonny still gets mistaken for his sister on the phone – but also because he brings gentlemanly and brave to every match he’s in.  He also brings sweaty-head-that-smells-like-feet-afterwards, but that’s beside the point.

Ok, that religious blog thing didn’t work out so well for me. So that’s done.

Going secular again…

I resist watching Downton Abbey the way I resist Pinterest. I’m not gettin’ involved.  I’m not even gonna get involved.  Because if I do, there will be no hope for me.  I’ll be a goner.  Time suck – – – activate!

So I resist. Resistance is futile, Earthling.

Until this past Sunday when I was running on the treadmill, trying to avoid reading a book for ‘hood book club by flipping through t.v. channels when I came across a PBS special about Downton Abbey. I stopped there because it was about time I knew what everyone was talking about.  I was sick of hearing things like, “YOU don’t watch Downton Abbey?!,” all shock and awe.  Or, “I can’t believe you don’t watch Downton Abbey; I figured you for a Downton Abbey watcher.”

Really? How are people figuring me for something like this?  Do I wear a cloche hat overtop my Marcel waves and this is what gives me away as a Downton Abbey watcher?! And are we still saying ‘figured you for’ in casual conversation?!  Isn’t it kindof like saying, “Them there vittles my misses made be real fine.”  Nope, no one’s saying stuff like that anymore.

Anyway, I watched the rest of this particular episode and it was AMAZING! There was a wedding, the butler with a tremor retires in pride, champagne was passed around at midnight on New Year’s Eve and a baby was born in Lady Elaine Everley’s bed.  It reminded me of General Hospital back in the day before Anna Devane fell in love with the Star Man and the whole thing jumped the shark.

GadZOOKS! Downton Abbey is GORGEOUS!  Why are we not all living in that place?  And doing good works at that hospital with what’shername from Racing with the Moon?  And wearing those completely fabulous dresses…and hats…and jewelry…and shoes…and talking like THAT?!?  Even the servants got it goin’ ON below-stairs with their accents and drop waist dresses.  Practically the whole cast of those Marigold Hotel movies is involved somehow too.

I am. IN! I am sooooo in!!!!  Count me in!  COUNT ME IN!!!!  Y’all figured right the whole time.  I’m a Downton Abbey watcher.  Now!  No, now!  NOW!!!

The scene I’m watching ends on a close-up of that man with the cane kissing his wife over the top of their newborn’s head. Fade to external shot of the Abbey with snow falling softly into the night.

Gah, AWESOME!  Num, num, num.  I could eat you Downton Abbey.  Get in my belly!

Suddenly we’re back in the loud PBS studio and the announcer says, “And that’s the last episode of Downton Abbey. We’re sad to see it go.”

Whaaaaa?! Wait, WHAAAAAA?!??  What the WHAT?  That’s the END?  THE END??!  But I just joined.  I’m IN.  How can it be OUT when I’m finally IN?!

Figures.