Somebody Has A Paper Tooth

The Pony and I arrived home yesterday around 5:00. We were greeted by the #1 son, who handed me a package. "I found this on the front porch. That's exactly how it looked."

It was a brown 7 x 10 bubble-wrap-padded envelope with one side chewed out and the top heavily damaged. I can only blame new pup Juno for this carnage. The other dogs have not eaten a package since the black shepherd Ann was an adolescent, and chewed up Farmer H's Case Collector Knife. She ate the box and the Styrofoam and had the collectible box in her mouth when we came up the driveway. "Oh, look. I wonder what Ann's chewing on." #1 jumped out and rescued the treasure just in time.

Juno is that age. She's about four months, all gangly and loosey-goosey and boundingly playful with nobody to play with. The big dogs tolerate her now, give her a polite nose bump with a slight tail wag. But they won't romp with her. If she runs up to them while they're romping and wrestling, they stand stock still and look at her. Like, "B*tch. What's your problem?"

Silly me. I though the 27 assorted gnawing bones and squeaky chicken and rubber milk bone and three-ring rubber toy and mini basketball and rawhide chew sticks were enough. Apparently not. I thought of taking that package and rubbing her nose on it and spanking her with a rolled-up magazine. But I don't know if she has the memory to make the connection. More likely, she would look at me with sad, abandoned, starving puppy eyes while thinking, "Why New Mommy no like me now?"

So I put a note on the front and back doors for UPS and FedEx. "Please put packages in garage so dog does not eat them."

Today, the garage door raised to reveal four boxes. Kudos to UPS.

Wishing You Weren't Here

Dang that numero uno boy!

I was all ready to write the most scathingly brilliant post about our pup Juno's naughty antics today, and here he came with a letter to proofread. Not that I'm not a good proofreader. I rock at proofreading. I'm a world class proofreader. Olympic caliber, even. I thirst for opportunities to strike out and underline. I yearn for them. But it does put the kibosh on my creativity.

I tell myself that in two years time, I will be wishing #1 was here bothering me, instead of off at college, out from under my thumb, loose from the apron strings, where I cannot gripe at him to my heart's content. Hold on a minute. I had something in my eye.

He is preparing a letter for his robot team. They need to solicit donors to help defray the cost of competitions. Yep. It's robot season. Bet you knew that already though. Last year, his team was ranked 12th in Missouri, and made it to the final four of state competition. And it was their very first year. The team has grown from four members to ten. That means more t-shirts, and more cars to drive them, and more food money. The school pays for most of their equipment and robot parts and entry fees and overnight lodging. But they have to pay for the rest, unless they can get sponsors. Guess who's on the sponsor bandwagon? Yep. That would be me. Let somebody else feed and clothe him and buy his fancy gewgaws.

But two years from now, I will be wishing he was here asking me for that stuff. Hey. Something's in my eye again.

The Confusing World Of Farmer H

Poor Farmer H. He's the Rodney Dangerfield of the Mansion. He gets no respect.

Sometimes, though, he brings it on himself. The #1 son took a long-sleeved St. Louis Blues t-shirt out of his birthday bag tonight. "I really like this shirt!"

"Too bad they won't let you wear those shirts to school."

"What?"

"You can't wear it."

"Yes we can."

"Oh. Yeah. It's cigarettes you can't wear."

"The Blues are not cigarettes."

"I know that."

Later, Farmer H asked to look at #1's birthday card. "Made from substantially grown forests. Hmm. See? It's good for the environment."

"Let me see that. It says 'made from sustainably grown forests,' not substantially grown."

"Yeah. I wondered what that meant."

Sigh. I also double-checked on the mystery Dollar Rolls. Auction bread. I suppose the next course of auction edibles will be romaine lettuce. He might as well save his coins. I draw the line at auction food.

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise!

Monday is the #1 son's birthday. Seventeen. Gosh. Where did all those years go?

Instead of taking his buddies on a trip for go-kart riding, wall-climbing, laser-tagging, and mini-golfing, he chose to redecorate his bedroom. It was long overdue. He and Farmer H taped off the walls and made some kick-butt large diagonal stripes of white and gray. The front wall, mostly window, facing out on Mansion acreage, was done with a green the color of the hard case for my glasses. I was skeptical upon hearing the scheme. But it turned out well.

They took apart the metal bright red, blue, and yellow bunkbed frame, leaving #1 with a single. His dad took one bed frame to work to blast and finish it in battleship gray shiny paint. Only he didn't. He took it to the BARn, where he worked on it all week. The plan was to put it in #1's room when he went to church, so he would be surprised upon return.

#1 asked for some green sheets to match the front wall, and a gray comforter. I told him I would look when I made my weekly expedition to The Devil's Playground. After he left, I remembered that I have the perfect comforter for that room, a white/gray pinstripe plaid. Alas, Farmer H has spirited it way to parts unknown. I'm hoping that it's just in the attic. Because if not, Farmer H has given it away with a bunch more of my stuff, or used it for goat bedding.

The Pony and I found the perfect green sheet set, and a solid gray comforter with a reversible black side. We called Farmer H on the way home. "If you can stall him and keep him out of the house, we can put the sheets and comforter on his bed, too." Farmer H agreed to the plan. We beat #1 home be about 20 minutes. Farmer H put the bedding on. The Pony acted as porter for the groceries and lookout for the arrival of #1.

Darn that Farmer H! He went outside to piddle around in the yard, and missed the reveal. The Pony and I lurked in the kitchen, then casually mosied to the living room. "I'm making lunch. Oh. You brought home lunch. Never mind." #1 carried his fast food feast into his room and placed it on his desk, next to his TV and laptop. Slowly he turned.

"That is SO cool!" He loved it. The colors matched perfectly. I told him that I would wash the sheets if he wanted, before sleeping on them.

It's getting harder and harder to surprise him as he gets older.

Going Once...Going Twice...SOLD!

Didja ever wake up and find a strange bread product on your cutting block?

That happened to me this morning. It was a bag of Dollar Rolls. I didn't buy them. I do my shopping on Sundays, with occasional jaunts to civilization mid-week for necessities. Dollar Rolls are not necessities. I don't think I have ever bought Dollar Rolls. My mom buys them. But the last time we were at her house was Thanksgiving.

So I'm left with a most disturbing conclusion to draw from that Dollar Roll mystery. Cue the stabby music from the shower scene in Psycho.

It's AUCTION BREAD!!!

I'm leery. It is not sealed. Just a twist tie at the top. A twist tie does not make foodstuffs impervious to the poopy fingers of middlemen. Who bought these Dollar Rolls originally? Why did they not want them? Were they squeezed for freshness? Was one surreptitiously removed and consumed? Was there a railroad car of Dollar Rolls going to waste? Did the sale to the exotic animal farm fall through?

Auction Bread is not quite so scary as the Auction Meat. But it's close.

The Pony Leads A Secret Life

We have a curious message on our answering machine. A lady called from Washington University to say The Pony has an appointment on December 19, and she would like us to call back with insurance information.

Short of The Pony leading a clandestine orthopedically-unsound life, and injuring himself secretly and calling a specialist for an appointment...I'm not sure what to make of this message.

It was December 2 of 2010 that he broke his second elbow. After having Wash U physicians splint it and haggle over x-ray diagnoses, he had a follow-up appointment on December 17, 2010. Perhaps those Wash-Uers made an automatic yearly follow-up appointment. The Pony has had no problems with his elbow, unless you count that annoying clicking sound when he wants to gross me out.

I'm not sure he needs to keep this appointment. I'm going to run it by Farmer H. He who would be the driver on this long, strange trip. He's never averse to a day off from work. But The Pony would have to miss school on the fun short week before Christmas break. I think we need to call a family meeting.

Welcome To Anarchyville

We have an ongoing discussion, my students and I. They declare that rules are made to be broken. That a lawless society would be the greatest thing since sliced bread. Well, not in those exact words, because I don't think they realize that unsliced bread is possible. Just today, one asked me what was the purpose of a pager. And another knowingly informed her that it was what people used in the days when their cell phones were like bricks. Um. I couldn't break it to him that they were from a time with no cell phones. Thus, the pager.

I asked them what made them think I knew about pagers. I never had one. A good ol' land line was good enough for me, by cracky! They could not comprehend that somebody called a pager from a phone, and all the pager showed was a number, and that the pager-carrier had to go to another phone and call the first caller. It boggled their minds. Yes, I informed them, it was inconvenient. That's why only people that really needed to be contacted at all times in various places carried them. I did not mention the drug dealer connection. Because they all thought I had a pager. Nope. "What do you think I am?" I asked. "A skilled transplant surgeon in high demand?" That kind of flew over their heads. As do many of my offhand comments.

But we're not here to talk about my mad skillz in the operating room. We're building a lawless society.

"I'm never getting a driver's license," declared one future citizen of Anarchyville. "But I'm going to drive. I know how. And I'm going to have a cool car, too."

"Well, with no laws, good luck hanging on to it. Because if somebody wants it, he'll just come take it. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll go get it back."

"Good luck with that. You'll be running after a moving car. Because yours was just stolen."

"Huh. I'll have another one out back."

"How are you going to pay for gas? You said yesterday that nobody has to work that doesn't want to."

"I'll just take it. Drive off. Nobody will come after me, because it's not against the law."

"How are you going to eat?"

"The farmers will grow food."

"What makes you think they want to work."

"We'll make them work. And then take the food."

"You know, there's always going to be somebody bigger than you to take your stuff."

"I'll have big friends to stop that."

"You won't have electricity because people that work in the plants won't want to work. Farmers aren't very good at running nuclear power plants. There won't be stores. No movies. Nothing to do. Except steal each other's cars and have big friends fight for your stuff and boss the farmers around. Pretty soon, nobody will know how to do anything, because I doubt the kids will want to go to school. And besides, the teachers won't want to work. So it will be a society of simple people building cars out of wood and using simple tools like the Flintstones. IF they want to work."

"Man. You ruin everything."

Today, one declared, "Look at how thick this book is. There should be a law against that."

"Oh! Anarchyville needs a law all of a sudden!"

"Well, that's the only law we need."

I can't wait until they start to clamor for more.