P.J. Gordon's Blog

(or How Big Fat Kitty Spent Her Summer Vacation)

We’ve got a bit of the empty-nester thing going on at my house…and not soon enough for my husband.

No, the kids haven’t moved out or gone off to college. It’s a bit soon for that. I mean, they haven’t hit 44 yet, and isn’t that the new standard move-out-of-your-parents-house age? It’s the actual nest on the front porch that’s finally empty. My husband lost his yearly battle with mother bird this time around and as a result of his failure, he has had to endure a front porch liberally christened with bird poo. The cat, however, has enjoyed a summer of prime bird watching. Big Fat Kitty will have to find a new hobby now that they are gone.

First, a bit of back story. For the last several years, my husband has fought a war with a bird who has tried time and time again to build a nest on the front porch pillar. (Okay, it is likely a succession of birds, but it’s more fun to think of it as one particular bird locked in mortal combat with a grown man year after year.) Every year, the hubby vigilantly brushes away the beginnings of the nest as quickly as the mother bird builds it. It’s a tricky endeavor…once eggs are in the nest, he won’t knock it down again. He unwittingly knocked it down one year when there was an egg in it and he’s felt guilty about that ever since. This is Mrs. Bird’s one advantage. If she can just get a single egg laid in the nest, victory is hers. My husband’s strategy, therefore, is to keep the nest from growing to the point where it can hold eggs.

This year, Mrs. Bird got clever. She launched a sneak attack. Without warning, she built her nest and laid her eggs while we were gone over a long weekend. Score one for Mother Bird. We came home to find this nest…

Peewee nest on the front porch

…with these eggs in it.

The five eggs laid on the front porch

This is where my story takes a bit of a twist. Little Mrs. Bird ended up with more than she bargained for and I don’t think her victory was exactly what she anticipated. If there is such a thing as victor’s remorse, she may have suffered from it. If you counted, you will see that she laid five cute little eggs in her nest. It seems like a pretty healthy sized brood for such a cute little bird. (For the record, I think she might be a Western Wood Peewee…best name for a bird EVER…Peewee…adorable!) Even with such a large clutch to begin with, though, I think she still might have noticed that something felt a little different when she settled onto her nest with all of these eggs in it.

The five original eggs plus the three foster eggs

As fate would have it, a few days after discovering the nest on our front porch, we discovered another, very similar nest with very similar eggs, on our camper. I was fairly certain that this mother bird was going to have trouble sitting on her eggs while traveling they raced down the highway at 60 mph, so I took the nest down…then stood there looking like an idiot, trying to figure out what to do with it. I knew that having moved it, the mother bird was unlikely to keep caring for the eggs it contained, but I didn’t have the heart to just leave them orphaned on the ground. The only solution I could think of was to take the three eggs home, add them to the nest on the porch, and hope for the best. I was banking on Mrs. Bird’s inability to do math to work in my favor. It did.

Fast forward a couple of weeks…

The original five eggs hatched, producing five ugly little beasts that resembled miniscule Muppets from hell.

Original five hatchlings plus three foster eggs

A few days later, the foster birds hatched as well—they were equally ugly. (Baby puppies are adorable. Baby kittens, precious. Baby peewees, hideous. Even worse than baby hamsters.)

All of the hatchlings

So far, my bird rescue operation was a success. The hard part was still to come though…for the mother bird, not for me. My biggest challenge at this point was dragging a chair onto the front porch and sneaking pictures of its new inhabitants every so often without freaking out the already overworked mother and father birds. (Yes, Mr. Bird was present and just as busy on bug-catching duty as Mrs. Bird. Score one for a responsible paternity!)

Aside from trying to stay out of our bird tenants’ way (which was not that easy, since…hello!…they were right outside my front door!), I did perform rescue operations on more than one occasion. The first time one of the little half-naked birds bailed out of the nest prematurely, I found it on the porch when I got home from work. I donned my latex gloves and returned it to the safety of its nest. I’m fairly certain that this was one of the foster birds, no doubt crowded out by its numerous and slightly larger foster siblings. A few days later we returned from a weekend camping trip to discover that one of the foster birds (possibly the same one) had abandoned ship while we were away. Without my there to rescue it, this little one met a sadder fate. Our first known casualty. I very ceremoniously scooped him up on a piece of cardboard and chucked him in the dumpster. It was a quite moving. (Did I mention that they were grotesquely ugly?)

Slightly older , still ugly baby birds

We watched the little monsters from the front door as they grew. Soon we could see their tiny little Muppet heads bobbing up over the edge of the nest with fluffs of feather crowning their noggins. One more rescue mission was necessary when they got a little bigger, and somewhere along the way there was another casualty. Though we never knew when and never saw the unfortunate victim, a head count showed that it was another one of the foster birds.

Ugly Baby Birds

Are you my mother?

As the baby birds got bigger and more active, and the parents had to make more and more frequent bug deliveries, Big Fat Kitty took up her vigil inside the front door and drooled.  (The birds pretty much just ignored her.) The dog was blissfully unaware of their presence, which was fortunate for her mental health because she’s been afraid of birds ever since she was traumatized by a nesting Robin in the backyard a few years ago. She restricts her wildlife-related amusement to squirrel chasing nowadays.

Foster bird front and center amidst his nest mates

In this picture, it’s easy to see the difference between the younger foster bird (front and center), and its slightly older nest mates. The older ones now look like real-live birds instead of some Jim Henson creation from The Dark Crystal.

The older and closer to flying the little birds grew, the more protective Mr. and Mrs. Bird became. They were no longer satisfied to just scold us from the tree when we insisted on using the front door. They resorted to acrobatic fly-bys and other aerial histrionics. (Note: They never did become as aggressive as nesting Robins I have encountered, who will dive bomb you mercilessly when young ones are fledging.)

Fledglings have spread out onto the adjacent pillar

After another camping trip we came home to find that the teen-birds had decided their tiny little nest was too small and had spread out to occupy the top of the adjoining column…the verandah, if you will. (Let’s spread the bird poo around even farther, shall we?) All except the one remaining foster bird had sleek, fully developed feathers and they were practically indistinguishable from the parents. One of the older birds was unaccounted for, however. I looked around but didn’t see it and decided it must have earned its wings while we were away. A few minutes later my son reported otherwise. It had indeed tried to fly, but hadn’t made it farther than here…

The watering can that the fledgling got trapped in

Luckily, there was no water in the watering can. Just this…

Fledgling peewee trapped in a watering can

I liberated the little klutz and he recovered from his temporary confinement quickly and was soon fluttering around the front porch, soon to be joined by his siblings. Big Fat Kitty was beside herself.

Kitty Bird Standoff

Over the next couple of days, they all took wing…even the surviving foster bird. They fluttered around in the bushes and trees near the front porch for awhile, and then they were gone…off to live their little birdie lives. I’m especially happy that Foster Bird made it. It’s nice to know that I saved at least one life. It’s been terribly boring on the front porch since they left. Big Fat Kitty misses them terribly. Don’t tell my husband, but I hope some of them come back next year. I may try to distract him if they do, at least until we have eggs. Maybe they can expand onto the pillars in the other corner of the porch, too.

Now, off to hose off the bird poo.

 

Spent all morning today working on the car, ‘cause you know, I’m a renaissance kind of gal like that. I eagerly tackled the task of fixing the clock spring (look it up)—ready to read the repair manual, reference instructional YouTube videos on my iPad, and make the repair with minimal husband-supervision. I was really looking forward to Tweeting my accomplishment to the world (at least the 120-person segment of the world that follows me). Sadly, there will be no such Tweet today. It was an abortive repair attempt.

After the husband unhooked the battery (gallantly protecting me from an accidentally deployed airbag to the face), I am proud to say that I quickly and painlessly removed said airbag unit from the steering wheel. **A moment for you to bask in my accomplishment…….moving on** Now, time to remove the steering wheel. In case you didn’t know, there is a special tool for this particular task. It is called, creatively enough, a steering wheel puller. The good news is that we are the proud owners of not one but TWO of these handy gadgets. The bad news is, neither one of them were suitable for my particular car/steering wheel.

**Insert trip to the auto parts store here. It was a particularly awkward expedition, as I was wearing my “working on the car” clothes with a bandana wrapped around my head. Mmm, sexy!**

Armed with my shiny, new steering wheel puller, which boldly promised on the package to work on my particular vehicle, I tackled the problem anew. It refused to be tackled. It stubbornly kept running down the field. I tried my tackle maneuver again with little affect. (I’m going to end my football analogy here, because I don’t know what position would be best at tackling someone who is running down the field. A tackle? That’s a position, right? Never mind.)

Unable to make my beautiful new tool do what it was supposed to do, I subcontracted out the task to my big, strong husband. (My victory Tweet would not be so sweet, but hey, the car still needed to be fixed.) Fast forward three hours. The steering wheel has still not been pulled. The father-in-law is now helping too. We’ve brought in a fourth steering wheel puller, borrowed from said father-in-law. (It didn’t work either.) Steering wheel still firmly attached to car. Confidence is not high. Shiny new steering wheel puller with “lifetime warranty” snaps like a toothpick–defeated by stupid steering wheel. Remnants of shiny new steering wheel puller hurled across the garage by highly irritated husband.

Discouraged renaissance gal goes inside to search the internet for someplace close by with a new and different type of steering wheel puller…need not be shiny. No success. Returns to the garage, beats ineffectually on steering wheel for a while and glares at it, hoping it will miraculously fall off. It doesn’t. Replace airbag. Ask husband to reconnect battery. Give up. Go inside and make enchiladas. Try again next weekend.

In the tradition of “The List”…as in, the list of five famous people you would be allowed to cheat on your significant other with should the opportunity ever arise (as explained in the episode of Friends where Ross has his list laminated)…I offer for your consideration my version of “The List: Fictional Character Edition.” **Hey, if you’re going to fantasize, why limit yourself, right? I figure I have at least as good a shot with any one of these characters as my husband has with Shania Twain or Britney Spears.**

You will note that my list does not contain any sadists, thank you very much. (You know who you are and you did not make my list!) Nor does it include any sparkly vampires. Sorry. The movies totally ruined that franchise for me. Pitiful. Simply pitiful.

So, without further ado, I give you my top five fictional character crushes. (Don’t judge me.)

5. Aragorn from The Lord of the Rings

Not this kind of king.

Hey, I didn’t have a place at the geek table in high school for nothing! Not only is he a king, he also does not have furry feet, isn’t geriatric, and is manlier than an elf. What more could a girl ask.

4. al’Lan Mandragoran from The Wheel of Time series

He’s the strong, silent type. A man of action and intellect. Like Aragorn, Lan is also the uncrowned king of a lost kingdom. Hmmm. Seems like maybe I have a thing for kings in exile.

3. Matrim Cauthon from The Wheel of Time series.

He’s the scallywag with the heart of gold. He’s just looking for a good time but keeps getting backed into being a hero. He seems like he would be a fun date. And, come to think of it…spoiler alert people…he ends up being royalty of a sort too.

2. Thor as played by

And not this sort of king either.

1. Richard Raines from Mythe: A Fairy Tale

This is a no-brainer, even though he is not a king or any other sort of royalty…at least that we know of so far! Who would I find more attractive than the character tailored made by me to appeal to all of my specific requirements of crushworthiness. Plus he’s free to come out in direct sunlight, being conveniently non-sparkly, and has none of those pesky blood cravings.

 

I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to each and every tech god whom I offended with my Tweet about using my antique typewriter for all of my writing from now on. I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have said it. Of course I love you and only you.

Now, will you please stop smiting all of my computers? Pretty please? You’re making it really difficult to get any work done around here.

I’m not sure which digital deity I angered. Perhaps it was Binarius, Greek god of computers, or possibly Cyber, Norse god of annoying crap that doesn’t work properly…er…umm…I mean Norse god of fabulous PCs. The only thing I’m fairly certain of is that I still seem to be in the good graces of Appleonius, Greek god of really cool digital gizmos, because my iPad and the various other i-prefixed devices in the house are the only computing gadgets that haven’t been totally useless.

For the last two months, the wrath of whichever entity (or entities) I offended has been poured out upon not just me, but every member of my household. (Heck, I’ve even been getting calls for tech support from vague acquaintances, so the effects would seem to be quite far reaching.) Computer crashes, system failures, viruses, and connectivity issues have befallen every PC in the house in one form or another. In my pain and aggravation, I have adopted a special (if not completely politically correct) “tech support voice.” (My 12 year old finds it hilarious.) I’m even thinking of setting up a 1-800 phone line for my family to call me for computer troubleshooting help. If I charge $20 for the first 30 minutes, and $1 a minute after that, I should be able to buy myself a nice Mac and call it good. (Oh, I shouldn’t have said that! Now I’ll probably have to go out and buy everyone in the family new computers and install a new router before I’ll ever be able to access my e-mail again. **sigh**)

**My playlist for the day: An array of Christmas music, of course!**

I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to each and every tech god whom I offended with my Tweet about using my antique typewriter for all of my writing from now on. I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have said it. Of course I love you and only you.

Now, will you please stop smiting all of my computers? Pretty please? You’re making it really difficult to get any work done around here.

I’m not sure which digital deity I angered. Perhaps it was Binarius, Greek god of computers, or possibly Cyber, Norse god of annoying crap that doesn’t work properly…er…umm…I mean Norse god of fabulous PCs. The only thing I’m fairly certain of is that I still seem to be in the good graces of Appleonius, Greek god of really cool digital gizmos, because my iPad and the various other i-prefixed devices in the house are the only computing gadgets that haven’t been totally useless.

For the last two months, the wrath of whichever entity (or entities) I offended has been poured out upon not just me, but every member of my household. (Heck, I’ve even been getting calls for tech support from vague acquaintances, so the effects would seem to be quite far reaching.) Computer crashes, system failures, viruses, and connectivity issues have befallen every PC in the house in one form or another. In my pain and aggravation, I have adopted a special (if not completely politically correct) “tech support voice.” (My 12 year old finds it hilarious.) I’m even thinking of setting up a 1–800 phone line for my family to call me for computer troubleshooting help. If I charge $20 for the first 30 minutes, and $1 a minute after that, I should be able to buy myself a nice Mac and call it good. (Oh, I shouldn’t have said that! Now I’ll probably have to go out and buy everyone in the family new computers and install a new router before I’ll ever be able to access my e-mail again. **sigh**)

**My playlist for the day: An array of Christmas music, of course!**

…I’ll be hiding under my bed.

I hate October. Halloween candy and lovely autumn foliage notwithstanding, I wish I could skip over the entire month. August…September…November…December. That would be my preferred calendar progression. What is wrong with October, you may be wondering. Well frankly, October terrifies me. It’s a month that is in love with horror movies…an affinity that I do not share. Being possessed of an overly active imagination, I have a very low tolerance for horror stories in any form. Books, movies, campfire tales, urban legends—all off limits for me. Even television ads for horror movies give me the heebie jeebies. (Honestly, I think they put the most terrifying parts of the movie in the commercial, so why bother going to see the whole film anyway??) I spend the entire month of October avoiding these trailers…which means I’m either hiding my head in a pillow and begging my husband to change the channel, or I am relegated to watching nothing but Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel. So you can understand why October isn’t winning any popularity contests in the land of me.

If doing away with October is out of the question (as I’m sure it is), how about just abolishing Halloween?? **Insert your condemnation and outrage at such an idea here.** Okay. Calm down. Calm down. I know that isn’t a particularly popular idea. Fine. Fine. How about just altering Halloween slightly? Instead of looking at it as a festival of the spooky and scary, maybe it could be a celebration of the cute and funny. You know, like babies dressed up like pea pods and wiener dogs dressed up like…well, just about anything actually, because wiener dogs are inherently hilarious in their own right. Another alternative to spooky and scary might be Geeky—like a nationwide Comic-Con sort of thing. Now THAT has possibilities! Just a thought.

Before you mock me too cruelly and label me a huge chicken, just know that I wasn’t always such a coward. In years past, I loved a good Stephen King novel and a well-crafted horror flick. Over time, however, I have paid the price for these indiscretions. My brain has meticulously filed away all of the terrifying bits in exquisite detail, and it pulls out these little video clips at the most inopportune moments (i.e., when I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I have a minor phobia of mirrors in dark bathrooms. More on that later.) I finally got wise to the fact that I shouldn’t be feeding my mind’s little fear factory, so I imposed a categorical ban on all spooky horror flicks. (To clarify, I don’t have a problem with monster movies—zombies, aliens, killer sharks, etc. —or slasher movies **yawn**. It’s the creepy, supernatural stuff that messes with my head. A couple of classics that still haunt me on a regular basis are the Boogeyman in the closet and the clown from “It”. Thank you very much to Stephen King on both counts.)

As a testament to my low tolerance for scary movies and my own foolishness, last year I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to watch Paranormal Activity. I’m an idiot.

Let me repeat, I’m an idiot.

If there was one movie in the history of the universe guaranteed to completely and totally freak me out, that was the one…custom-made to scar my psyche. In a ridiculous miscalculation, I allowed myself to become fascinated by all of the hype that had surrounded the movie, and I was confident that if I watched it in broad daylight, in the most non-spooky and populous location available to me, all would be well. So, I watched it during my lunch break on two consecutive days at work, sitting at my desk amidst my coworkers. (This was probably a mistake on another level as well, considering the gasps and small shrieks I wasn’t able to stifle.) Let me reiterate, I am an idiot. Just because I watched the movie in a “safe” environment, didn’t mean my mind wasn’t going to use it for its own evil purposes when I was, say, in a dark bathroom or…even worse…in a dark bathroom in a dark basement! That movie has an extremely high creepiness factor. To this day, I try not to think about it too much. I was a basket case.

If that wasn’t enough, however, my viewing of this particular little terror fest coincided with the release of one of the sequels, so I was subjected to repeated showings of the television commercial for said sequel. If the original was taylor-made to send me diving under my blankets, the creators must have talked to my family before making the sequel. At this point, I will explain my bathroom mirror phobia. I would bet that some of you out there will relate to this.

When I was a little girl, my older sister would occasionally have sleepovers, and her friends took great delight in trying to scare the annoying little tag-a-long…namely, me. As has occurred in countless slumber-parties over countless years, the group of nervously tittering girls…with me in tow…would lock themselves in a dark bathroom and perform the “Bloody Mary” routine in order to conjure the specter in the mirror. Of course it never worked, but it was still enough to stick with me and plant the phobic seed in my mind. Ever since then, I’ve not been a big fan of bathroom mirrors, especially in the dark. Fast-forward to last year, when the commercial for the Paranormal Activity sequel featured two young girls in a pitch black bathroom trying to conjure Bloody Mary. One little girl turns on a flashlight and shrieks, scaring the other one, who storms out of the bathroom angrily. As the door opens, the light from outside illuminates the terrifying figure of Bloody Mary in the bathroom. **Excuse me while I hyperventilate briefly. Breathe. Breathe.** WHY would you make such a commercial and put it on television where I could ever possibly accidentally see it? Why?? Those film-makers are going to pay for my therapy bills. It’s not right. Simply not right! To this day I won’t look at the bathroom mirror until I’ve turned on the light. I’ll close my eyes if I have to, but no way am I looking. If the power ever goes out during the night and I have to pee, forget about it. I’m just going to wet the bed. I hope my husband will understand.

So, you see, I have a real, legitimate gripe with October. Television is a mine-field during the whole month. I might just have to buy the complete Gilligan’s Island collection on DVD and stick to that for my television entertainment. Of course, the episode when the island is haunted by the ghost creeps me out a little bit too, so maybe not. **sigh** I guess I’ll just hide under the bed some more. Come and get me in time for Thanksgiving.

**Song and video in my head right now: Gangnam Style. Honestly, how can you NOT smile during the elevator part?**

…I’ll be hiding under my bed.

I hate October. Halloween candy and lovely autumn foliage notwithstanding, I wish I could skip over the entire month. August…September…November…December. That would be my preferred calendar progression. What is wrong with October, you may be wondering. Well frankly, October terrifies me. It’s a month that is in love with horror movies…an affinity that I do not share. Being possessed of an overly active imagination, I have a very low tolerance for horror stories in any form. Books, movies, campfire tales, urban legends—all off limits for me. Even television ads for horror movies give me the heebie jeebies. (Honestly, I think they put the most terrifying parts of the movie in the commercial, so why bother going to see the whole film anyway??) I spend the entire month of October avoiding these trailers…which means I’m either hiding my head in a pillow and begging my husband to change the channel, or I am relegated to watching nothing but Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel. So you can understand why October isn’t winning any popularity contests in the land of me.

If doing away with October is out of the question (as I’m sure it is), how about just abolishing Halloween?? **Insert your condemnation and outrage at such an idea here.** Okay. Calm down. Calm down. I know that isn’t a particularly popular idea. Fine. Fine. How about just altering Halloween slightly? Instead of looking at it as a festival of the spooky and scary, maybe it could be a celebration of the cute and funny. You know, like babies dressed up like pea pods and wiener dogs dressed up like…well, just about anything actually, because wiener dogs are inherently hilarious in their own right. Another alternative to spooky and scary might be Geeky—like a nationwide Comic-Con sort of thing. Now THAT has possibilities! Just a thought.

Before you mock me too cruelly and label me a huge chicken, just know that I wasn’t always such a coward. In years past, I loved a good Stephen King novel and a well-crafted horror flick. Over time, however, I have paid the price for these indiscretions. My brain has meticulously filed away all of the terrifying bits in exquisite detail, and it pulls out these little video clips at the most inopportune moments (i.e., when I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I have a minor phobia of mirrors in dark bathrooms. More on that later.) I finally got wise to the fact that I shouldn’t be feeding my mind’s little fear factory, so I imposed a categorical ban on all spooky horror flicks. (To clarify, I don’t have a problem with monster movies—zombies, aliens, killer sharks, etc. —or slasher movies **yawn**. It’s the creepy, supernatural stuff that messes with my head. A couple of classics that still haunt me on a regular basis are the Boogeyman in the closet and the clown from It. Thank you very much to Stephen King on both counts.)

As a testament to my low tolerance for scary movies and my own foolishness, last year I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to watch Paranormal Activity. I’m an idiot.

Let me repeat, I’m an idiot.

If there was one movie in the history of the universe guaranteed to completely and totally freak me out, that was the one…custom-made to scar my psyche. In a ridiculous miscalculation, I allowed myself to become fascinated by all of the hype that had surrounded the movie, and I was confident that if I watched it in broad daylight, in the most non-spooky and populous location available to me, all would be well. So, I watched it during my lunch break on two consecutive days at work, sitting at my desk amidst my coworkers. (This was probably a mistake on another level as well, considering the gasps and small shrieks I wasn’t able to stifle.) Let me reiterate, I am an idiot. Just because I watched the movie in a “safe” environment, didn’t mean my mind wasn’t going to use it for its own evil purposes when I was, say, in a dark bathroom or…even worse…in a dark bathroom in a dark basement! That movie has an extremely high creepiness factor. To this day, I try not to think about it too much. I was a basket case.

If that wasn’t enough, however, my viewing of this particular little terror fest coincided with the release of one of the sequels, so I was subjected to repeated showings of the television commercial for said sequel. If the original was taylor-made to send me diving under my blankets, the creators must have talked to my family before making the sequel. At this point, I will explain my bathroom mirror phobia. I would bet that some of you out there will relate to this.

When I was a little girl, my older sister would occasionally have sleepovers, and her friends took great delight in trying to scare the annoying little tag-a-long…namely, me. As has occurred in countless slumber-parties over countless years, the group of nervously tittering girls…with me in tow…would lock themselves in a dark bathroom and perform the “Bloody Mary” routine in order to conjure the specter in the mirror. Of course it never worked, but it was still enough to stick with me and plant the phobic seed in my mind. Ever since then, I’ve not been a big fan of bathroom mirrors, especially in the dark. Fast-forward to last year, when the commercial for the Paranormal Activity sequel featured two young girls in a pitch black bathroom trying to conjure Bloody Mary. One little girl turns on a flashlight and shrieks, scaring the other one, who storms out of the bathroom angrily. As the door opens, the light from outside illuminates the terrifying figure of Bloody Mary in the bathroom. **Excuse me while I hyperventilate briefly. Breathe. Breathe.** WHY would you make such a commercial and put it on television where I could ever possibly accidentally see it? Why?? Those film-makers are going to pay for my therapy bills. It’s not right. Simply not right! To this day I won’t look at the bathroom mirror until I’ve turned on the light. I’ll close my eyes if I have to, but no way am I looking. If the power ever goes out during the night and I have to pee, forget about it. I’m just going to wet the bed. I hope my husband will understand.

So, you see, I have a real, legitimate gripe with October. Television is a mine-field during the whole month. I might just have to buy the complete Gilligan’s Island collection on DVD and stick to that for my television entertainment. Of course, the episode when the island is haunted by the ghost creeps me out a little bit too, so maybe not. **sigh** I guess I’ll just hide under the bed some more. Come and get me in time for Thanksgiving.

**Song and video in my head right now: Gangnam Style.

Honestly, how can you NOT smile during the elevator part?**

I have a confession to make. I'm a bad influence. This is new and untrodden ground for me...I've always been such a good influence. When did this happen? I was always the kid that parents wanted their children to befriend. "Why don't you go hang out with that Pam girl. She's so nice!" (I'd love to be able to insert some smart-alecky comment here like "If only they knew! Ha!" but I honestly can't. I really was an unbearably "nice" kid who never, ever got into any trouble. I was boring and I was every parent's dream.)

I think I'm probably still fairly nice--I don't generally get into any trouble--but now I like to spice it up a bit with a little attitude and a five-year-plan to become Mistress Evil Overlord. (If I can attract some venture capital, I'm going to start hiring minions soon.) My bad influence seems to be strictly focused in two areas...convincing my coworkers to eat Cheetos and cheeseburgers instead of the healthy lunches they should be eating, and encouraging poor literary choices among said coworkers. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. You may now start judging me.

I won't even begin to defend the Cheetos and cheeseburger thing. I know they aren't health food, but darn it, they're good! As for the poor literary choices, I do have an explanation for that.

A coworker of mine started reading a book of questionable merit that is all the buzz these days. I have read this book myself, but it was sort of self-defense. (Everyone kept asking me if my book was like this all-over-the-news book and I hadn't even heard of the darn thing, so I read it.) After I mentioned how horribly written it was, my coworker decided to read it as well in order to judge first hand.

After the first chapter, I think my friend would have stopped reading were it not for my encouragement. "Oh no! You have to keep going! It gets SO much worse. You won't believe the next part." I was thoroughly enjoying our daily discussions (translation: our daily mocking sessions). They were hilarious! So you see, I was encouraging bad behavior AND bad reading choices. You can judge me some more here. I'll wait............................

I didn't really feel too bad about encouraging the reading of such a train-wreck at first. After all, we were having such fun picking apart all of the atrocious writing and plot flaws. Then my coworker said something that made me ponder (and spoiled my fun completely). "I kind of feel guilty reading this when I know it's so terrible. After all, there are so many great books out there, and here I am wasting my time on this one. Years from now I'll probably look back and wish I had read XYZ classic. Instead I'm reading this garbage."

Now I feel bad. Here I am encouraging the consumption of something so terrible it can't even be considered mental chocolate. It's more like mental cotton candy, with absolutely no nutritional value of any sort at all. It just rots your teeth...er...brain. So I will try to be a better influence.

Now, to all of the others out there who have made this "cotton candy" a best-seller....Really people? Really? Your mothers would be so disappointed. Next thing you know, they'll be sending you over to hang out with me.

**Reading Now: Currently working my way through the My-Daughter-Says-I-Should-Read-This reading list. Lots of YA, but good stuff. Like to keep up with what my kids are reading.**

**Mental soundtrack tormenting me currently: Rock Steady (and I blame Wil Wheaton)**

I have a confession to make. I’m a bad influence. This is new and untrodden ground for me…I’ve always been such a good influence. When did this happen? I was always the kid that parents wanted their children to befriend. “Why don’t you go hang out with that Gordon girl. She’s so nice!” (I’d love to be able to insert some smart-alecky comment here like “If only they knew! Ha!” but I honestly can’t. I really was an unbearably “nice” kid who never, ever got into any trouble. I was boring and I was every parent’s dream.)

I think I’m probably still fairly nice—I don’t generally get into any trouble—but now I like to spice it up a bit with a little attitude and a five-year-plan to become Mistress Evil Overlord. (If I can attract some venture capital, I’m going to start hiring minions soon.) My bad influence seems to be strictly focused in two areas…convincing my coworkers to eat Cheetos and cheeseburgers instead of the healthy lunches they should be eating, and encouraging poor literary choices among said coworkers. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. You may now start judging me.

I won’t even begin to defend the Cheetos and cheeseburger thing. I know they aren’t health food, but darn it, they’re good! As for the poor literary choices, I do have an explanation for that.

A coworker of mine started reading a book of questionable merit that is all the buzz these days. I have read this book myself, but it was sort of self-defense. (Everyone kept asking me if my book was like this all-over-the-news book and I hadn’t even heard of the darn thing, so I read it.) After I mentioned how horribly written it was, my coworker decided to read it as well in order to judge first hand.

After the first chapter, I think my friend would have stopped reading were it not for my encouragement. “Oh no! You have to keep going! It gets SO much worse. You won’t believe the next part.” I was thoroughly enjoying our daily discussions (translation: our daily mocking sessions). They were hilarious! So you see, I was encouraging bad behavior AND bad reading choices. You can judge me some more here. I’ll wait.….….….….….….…

I didn’t really feel too bad about encouraging the reading of such a train-wreck at first. After all, we were having such fun picking apart all of the atrocious writing and plot flaws. Then my coworker said something that made me ponder (and spoiled my fun completely). “I kind of feel guilty reading this when I know it’s so terrible. After all, there are so many great books out there, and here I am wasting my time on this one. Years from now I’ll probably look back and wish I had read XYZ classic. Instead I’m reading this garbage.”

Now I feel bad. Here I am encouraging the consumption of something so terrible it can’t even be considered mental chocolate. It’s more like mental cotton candy, with absolutely no nutritional value of any sort at all. It just rots your teeth…er…brain. So I will try to be a better influence.

Now, to all of the others out there who have made this “cotton candy” a best-seller.…Really people? Really? Your mothers would be so disappointed. Next thing you know, they’ll be sending you over to hang out with me.

**Reading Now: Currently working my way through the My-Daughter-Says-I-Should-Read-This reading list. Lots of YA, but good stuff. Like to keep up with what my kids are reading.**

**Mental soundtrack tormenting me currently: Rock Steady (and I blame Wil Wheaton)**

(or How I Scarred my Son’s Psyche Before Dinner)

I am the worst mother in the world and this is my story.

My children had been wanting a dog for quite a while, but unable to convince his father that a dog was just the thing to make our lives more joyous, my son made do with a stuffed beagle named Banjo. He’d gotten it at a Build-A-Bear store during a vacation in California and he carried it with him everywhere. Little Banjo was his constant companion and beloved pretend-pet—the Hobbs to his Calvin. Where other children might have a security blanket, my son had Banjo. He loved that dog. (To fully appreciate the extent of the psychological damage I have inflicted upon my son, you must first understand this fact. He adored that stuffed beagle.)

One evening, as I was cooking dinner, my son entertained himself by making Banjo fly. Maybe he’d recently watched Underdog or maybe he was just bored, but he repeatedly launched the stubbornly non-aerodynamic beagle from the upstairs balcony, watched him plummet to the floor below, and then raced down the stairs to pick him up and start the whole ceremony again. (My son has since shown a strong interest in science and aeronautics, so perhaps the beagle-launching was some sort of primitive, early exploration into the basic principles involved. More likely though, he was simply a six-year-old who thought it was funny to drop things from high places…something, incidentally, that I’m convinced we never fully outgrow.)

After a good ten minutes of this little show, during which I teased my son that Banjo probably wasn’t enjoying his adventures in free-fall, I decided to play a little joke. (I have to wonder how many of the world’s great tragedies have started out with those very words…”I decided to play a little joke.”) As soon as my son dropped the beleaguered beagle, I snatched it up and darted back into the kitchen. Without a second to spare before my son descended like a small avalanche to reclaim his beloved stuffed friend, I hit it in the first place that occurred to me—and the last place that anyone else would look.

This is where my little “joke” was derailed and things went bad. Rather than arriving at the drop zone and immediately demanding to know where his sidekick was, my son got distracted. I can’t tell you how or by what, but his distraction quickly led to my own distraction and Banjo, the poor hapless victim of this tale, was promptly forgotten.

Fast-forward to the following evening. I’ve just gotten home from work and am hurrying to prepare dinner. I’ve turned on the oven to preheat and am assembling the ingredients for our evening feast. (You already see where this is going, don’t you? I can hear your groans and exclamations of dismay. It is tragically inevitable.)

Before long, my daughter loudly asked me what was burning. Even then I was oblivious to my fatal mistake and my immediate thought was that my husband had left the greasy broiler pan in the oven. **I still feel bad about jumping to that accusatory conclusion, given what happens next.** I quickly donned my oven mitts and opened the oven to remove the offending pan. By this time, my son had appeared on scene, drawn by my daughters declaration that something was burning, and eager, no doubt, to see a repeat performance of “Mom Sets the Stove on Fire”—a drama that had met with mixed reviews several years earlier. I therefore had an audience of two when I opened the oven door and discovered not a dirty pan, but a charbroiled Build-A-Bear beagle.

Horrified by the realization of what I had done, I immediately and decisively slammed the oven door. Pure panic gripped me and my children’s ears perked up with interest. Wow! What could have gotten such a great reaction from Mom? I quickly realized that I couldn’t just leave poor Banjo in there crisping, audience or not. I gathered my courage and reluctantly removed the smoldering stuffed dog. The ensuing wails still haunt my nightmares—and not just my son’s cries. My daughter was almost as distraught as her brother. It was horrifying and it took every bit of self-control I had not to burst into tears myself as I stood in the middle of the kitchen trying desperately to figure out how I was going to fix the situation.

Thankfully, my usually reliable problem-solving skills did not desert me in my hour of need. As my son repeatedly sobbed, “Banjo was a good beagle! He didn’t deserve that!” (breaking my heart into tinier and tinier pieces), my mind raced. The solution was simple enough. I’d buy him a new beagle. Child Psychology 101 teaches us that “new Banjo” can never take the place of “old Banjo” in a six-year-old’s heart, of course, so the trick would be to make it seem like a repair, not a replacement.

The necessary fiction came easily. Everything would be okay, I explained. I would take Banjo to the “Build-A-Bear Hospital” and they would fix him, good as new. I could go right away, I declared after hastily checking the clock. Yes, there was still time to get to the mall before closing time.

Hopeful but still distraught, my son helped me wrap his critically maimed friend in bandages and a blanket, and away I went. A rather tearful drive later, I’m not exactly sure why I felt it necessary to carry the evidence of my crime with me through the mall, but I did. I still wonder what people must have thought if the wild-eyed woman hurrying along with the bandage-wrapped stuffed dog swaddled in a baby blanket. It’s probably best that I never find out. At the time, I wasn’t even conscious of the strange looks I was surely receiving. I was just relieved that there was no line at the Build-A-Bear store. I should, I thought, be able to get in and out in no time, and all would be right with the world once more.

Alas, it was not to be. I desperately searched through the displays of available animals once…twice…and a third time…to no avail. There wasn’t a beagle to be found. With my perfect plan laying in useless shards at my feet, I stood stricken in the middle of the store, fighting back a fresh fountain of tears. What on earth was I going to do now?

At this point, the young man who worked there took pity on me and hesitantly asked the crazy woman if she needed help. Of course it must have been patently obvious that I did, indeed, need help—and a lot of it.

“You don’t have a beagle!” I wailed, half question, half lament.

“No,” he explained carefully. “The beagle has been retired.”

Oh, horror of horrors! All was lost. My son was sure to become a serial killer or a politician after this.

Noticing that this news had further upset me—maybe it was the way all of the blood drained from my face, or maybe it was my uncontrollable whimpering—the young employee hazarded a guess.

“Did you promise somebody a beagle?”

No, no, I explained. It was exponentially worse than that. I proceeded to relate my pathetic tale to the poor, unsuspecting young man. To his credit, he almost managed not to laugh. Then he became my hero. There was a possibility, he explained, that the beagle might still be available online. Clinging to this glimmer of hope, I trailed after him and held my breath while he checked. The relief I felt when he told me that the beagle could be ordered from their Web site was indescribable. I still had a chance to redeem myself! I needed a new game plan though.

First things first—I needed evidence of Banjo’s hospital visit. I scoured the store until I found a tiny Build-A-Bear hospital gown that fit the victim perfectly. I purchased my evidence, dressed the little invalid, and headed for home with the next bit of fiction already forming in my mind.

When I arrived home, I explained that Banjo needed to see a “specialist” and I would have to schedule an appointment. The specialist was near my office, so I would take Banjo to work with me on the day of the appointment and take the little guy to the “doctor” from work. Then I quickly hid in my bedroom and ordered a replacement Banjo. I had it shipped to my office and watched the tracking information like a hawk until I knew exactly what day it was going to be delivered. Then I announced that I had finally gotten an appointment with the specialist and would take poor Banjo with me to work on that day. When the day arrived, I brought the burned Banjo to work and swapped him for the new Banjo. Banjo 2.0 wasn’t as fully stuffed as the original, but that was only to be expected, right? After all, he’d been through a traumatic experience…of course he’d lost a little weight! I delivered the restored Banjo to my son and finally…after much stress and guilt…all was right with the world again. I am currently saving money for my son’s future therapy bills.

As a footnote, I didn’t have the heart to throw away the original burned Banjo. He’s been living in a box under my desk for six years. I thought maybe I’d give him to my son on his wedding day. Or perhaps on my death bed. That’s what death bed confessions are for, right?


**Song going through my head right now: Chasing Pavements. I know it’s not cool to like what’s currently popular, but I’m not cool and I really like Adele. I don’t know what the heck she’s singing about half the time, but she sounds fabulous singing it.**