Lizard euthanasia....

If you've been following my blog, you know that I have a problem with animals.

I love having pets. Whenever someone is trying to give away an unwanted animal, they always call me first, knowing that I am an animal lover (read: sucker).

I remember once being saddled with a Siamese cat that my aunt claimed was just a wonderful pet, but she could no longer keep it. Said cat spent two days huddled behind our guest room toilet, hissing and swiping, claws fully extended, at anyone who tried to coax her out to eat or use the kitty box.

"Get rid of that damn cat," was all Steve said. Feeling grateful for his intervention, I did just that.

Little animals are another story. So is having a classroom of my own. See, there I can indulge myself. Frogs, turtles, guinea pigs and lizards have all shared their lives with me and my preschool counterparts.

Our last little pet was a spotted leopard gecko named, of all things, Sunnie-Lovie. If you don't want names like that, never ask a 4 year old little girl for suggestions.

Anyway, Sunnie-Lovie was a good pet. She (I am assuming she was a she, given that I don't know how to determine the gender of lizards) spent her many years with us asleep on her heated rock. Other than that, her sole source of exercise was chasing crickets, and swallowing them whole as they continued to wriggle.

That my students absolutely loved lizard feeding time is a good indicator of true human nature. They would gather around the tank and actually cheer for Sunnie-Lovie to devour another living creature.

There were, of course, a few kids who would always steadfastly encourage the cricket but, really, they were in the minority.

But, I digress.

Lizards never stop growing, and part of the process is shedding their skins every few weeks. Sunnie-Lovie was a champion shedder. Even more fascinating was the fact that she would eat the skin as it fell off her body. Hey, this is a survival tactic, not something designed to make humans cringe.

But last summer, Sunnie-Lovie suffered several incomplete sheds. Each time she shed, a little bit of skin was left around her eyes. Because I did not address it promptly, this left Sunnie-Lovie blind.

After a while, she stopped eating. Because it was summer and I wasn't in my classroom everyday, I didn't notice until it was too late to do anything for her.

I tried to moisten her eyes with water drops and encourage the skin to come off. I tried to hand feed her - all to no avail.

Finally, my little lizard heart breaking, I decided that it would be best for Sunnie-Lovie to be put out of her misery.

Now, I was the kid who always sobbed when, in the Western, the horse had to be shot. I suffer emotional breakdowns during those ASPCA ads showing rescued dogs and cats and featuring Sarah McLachlan singing mournful tunes and encouraging people to donate wads of money to feed and shelter helpless animals. Really, I can't stand it. Without Steve, I'd be donating hundreds per month to this organization, and probably fostering dogs, cats, horses and goats.

But, I digress again.

Anyway, faced with Sunnie-Lovie's necessary demise, I considered my options. Really, what could I do? Squash her little neck? I briefly considered this, but it was just too much.

I finally hit upon the ideal solution - I would set Sunnie-Lovie free. Our school is surrounded by a wooded area, and predators like hawks, snapping turtles, weasels and other carnivores abound. Surely one of them would take care of this for me.

So, gathering my courage, I carried Sunnie-Lovie outside to meet her maker. I gently said goodbye, wiped my tears, and went back into the school, hoping that her end would be quick and painless.

Hours later, when I had recovered my wits and come to grips with the inevitable, my business partner arrived at school. We chatted for a little while, discussing things both personal and professional. As I was about to get back to work, she said:

Did you know your lizard is out on the sidewalk?

Damn.

Someone's in the kitchen....

Among my many domestic weaknesses is my disdain for baking. It's boring. It's messy. It requires a precision that does not in any way come naturally to me.

My mom is, and her mom was, a wonderful baker. Both of my brothers have the baking gene as well. Many a holiday has been devoted to bake-offs (which is really a more polite way to say pissing contests) between my brothers:

Brother #1 - I'm making apple pie for Thanksgiving.

Brother #2 - I'm making caramel apple pie for Thanksgiving.

Brother # 1 - Oh yeah? I'm making caramel/apple/pecan pie for Thanksgiving.

Brother # 2 - Well, I'm making caramel/apple/pecan/chocolate pie for Thanksgiving. And it will weigh 5.7 pounds.

It is worth noting that this past Thanksgiving, we managed to have one pie per person. One whole pie for each person. Someone needs to stop this, and soon.

Even Steve and Kelsey are great at baking. Steve's cookies always come out perfectly, and never mind the fact that when Kelsey bakes, batter ends up on the ceiling (honestly, HOW does she do that?) She always turns out delicious things. She made a pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving that I could have devoured single handedly had someone else not gotten there first.

As a child, I remember my mom and my brothers in the kitchen, happily baking cookies or, her specialty, chocolate eclairs. (I have never tasted another chocolate eclair like my mom's - and believe me, I've tried them all.)

Because I was a rather cantankerous and contrary child, and, really, a miserable teenager, I'm sure I made a conscious decision to NOT learn how to bake. And, by golly, I've stuck with it over the years.

But I do make an exception once per year. Every Christmas Eve, I bake an apple pie to take to my sister-in-law's Christmas dinner. I have, if I do say so myself, become a family celebrity because of my apple pie. Well, OK, maybe I am just dreaming this last part. But still.

Here's the thing - I hate peeling apples. I hate it so much, in fact, that when the kids were small, I would convince them that peeling apples was about as much fun as a kid could have. "Family baking project," I would proclaim. "Let's go get all those apples peeled."

Until they reached the age of reason, they fell for it. After that, I would resort to bribery.

Then, I found the world's greatest invention - the Apple Peeler/Corer/Slicer.

The APCS looks a bit like a piece of medieval medical equipment, but boy, does it work. By shoving the apple onto what resembles a corkscrew and turning a lever, this little goody peels, cores and slices in a matter of seconds. It has made my annual foray into baking almost enjoyable.

So, this morning I set out to bake my famous pie. The APCS did its wonders. Pillsbury provided the crusts (you didn't really think I'd make my own, did you?) I was almost happy as I worked. Steve put on Christmas music and I hummed along. I fell into a little daydream.

Sometimes, when I am in the kitchen, I pretend I am Ina Garten.

You know Ina, right? The Barefoot Contessa? She has a cooking show that is filmed, I think, in her Hamptons kitchen. She buys her ingredients at cute little food boutiques and prepares picnics for the beach. Her husband Jeffrey (who I think may be gay, but Ina doesn't know it) gets to eat all of her products.

Ina's voice is like liquid valium. Just listening to her for half an hour soothes me in a way that, otherwise, could probably only be obtained illegally. I love Ina.

So, pretending to be Ina makes time in the kitchen go faster. It also helps to pretend that the production staff will be cleaning up all of the dirty dishes.

Of course, Ina doesn't usually bake in a pink bathrobe. And she doesn't have 65 pounds of canine eating machine weaving in and out of her legs, waiting for scraps to fall. (Toby does like apple cores, by the way. I just found that out.)

No, Ina doesn't face this stuff. She'd have Jeffrey take the dog for a walk down to the cute little New England town she calls home. But this morning, I did.

So anyway, in my most soothing Ina voice, I ordered Toby out of the kitchen and had him lay down in the family room. He gave me his best broken-hearted dog gaze, but did manage to stay away until I had finished the pie (which was gorgeous, by the way) and set it on the counter while the oven finished heating.

Then, I went to take out the garbage.

Coming back into the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of Toby, front paws on the counter, fully extended, getting ready to lick the Christmas pie. Luckily, I caught him in time.

Besides, I'm sure 45 minutes in a 350 degree oven will kill most of the dog saliva he left behind, eh?

Aging gracefully...

I have this fear that I will someday end up like those crazy cat ladies on Hoarders. However, I'll be a crazy guinea pig lady. Somehow, I'll acquire 50 or 60 guinea pigs who will procreate like mad because I'll have forgotten how to look up the "Guinea Pig Sexing" website and I'll mix boys and girls. Baby guinea pigs will take over the house. I won't have any food, just 50 pound bags of guinea pig cereal. Probably, when the TV show producers come to film my episode, they'll uncover several guinea pig carcasses under the sofa. When they find the sofa.

Anyway, this is my fear. I am hopeful that Steve and the kids will find enough kindness in their hearts to stop this from happening and have me locked away instead.

Since I have been thinking about aging, I thought I might let you in on my master plan to age gracefully. Step one of the master plan is to embrace the silver (OK - gray) hair that I've been sprouting around the temples and above the forehead for the last several years.

(I must digress and say that my 70 year old mom has not one gray hair. Seems I did not inherit this genetic trait.)

For several years now, I've been faithfully trudging to the salon every six weeks for my dose of hair color. I like going to the salon. It smells good, and the stylists give a great neck massage before they work on your hair. They also give you coffee and trail mix, and ask nice questions like "would you like more coffee or trail mix?" This is pampering beyond what I am used to.

A few months ago, however, I decided that a) coloring my hair was really pretty expensive and b) because I fancy myself a non-conformist, I would instead grow out my gray and show the world that it's ok to get old. So there.

So I moved into what I considered the "gray hair" portion of my life. I told myself that my gray hair was a symbol of the wisdom I had accumulated. I told myself that I wasn't fooling anyone, so why keep spending several hundred dollars a year to pretend that I wasn't my own age.

Then, one day, I happened to catch a glance of myself in the mirror when I didn't expect to. I was horrified to see the crazy guinea pig lady peering back at me. "Just go on over to Petco and get all of their guinea pigs," she seemed to be whispering. "And don't forget that 50 pound bag of food."

I immediately phoned my stylist and asked to book a cut and color as SOON AS POSSIBLE. Heck, I would have driven to salon in my pajamas if they'd been able to take me that very minute.

The result is a nice, warm chestnut hair color with no trace of gray. I was brave for a while, but frankly, I don't want to see that nutty lady for at least another 20 years.

"Isn't coloring your hair fun?" my twenty-something stylist asked as she was cutting my bangs.

You have no idea, I thought.

The first seven.....

My husband has a marvelous marriage formula.

It goes like this:

The first seven years of marriage should be endured. Then they should be forgotten and discarded as if they never happened.

We married straight out of college. I was all of 22 years old, he had just turned 25. When I look back on us, I am amazed that we could actually pull off seven years.

What did we know then about choosing a life partner? What could any 22 year old know about choosing a life partner?

We had fun together. We liked the same music and he had a great stereo. He was pretty smart and very cute.

Of course, as a 22 year old, this was enough to convince me that I was meant to spend the rest of my life with him. So we got married. We did have a great wedding.

But a college romance and an engagement ring did nothing to prepare us for constructing a way to live together. We were so young and so immature, and both so convinced that personal happiness was the magic elixir the other person was supposed to provide.

Needless to say, we constantly failed each other, because we constantly missed the point. We argued. We endured prolonged and heavy silences. We waited for the other person to change.

To make a long story short, it took us about seven years to each realize, independent of the other, that we could only change ourselves.

We'd had our first child by this time, and things started to click into place. We became committed to something bigger than our own little selves and we grew up.

We'll celebrate our 29th anniversary this summer. I cringe sometimes thinking about our early history together. We both wanted so much and gave so little. I'm so glad that we persisted, so gratified that we didn't give up after the first seven. And besides, he's still pretty cute.

And I'm not even dead yet....

My very favorite preschool quote is this:

Miss Laura, my grandpa is 56 years old and he's not even dead yet.

This does, of course, fill me with hope that I just may have more than six years left on the clock. To be 56 and not even dead yet - that's heady stuff.

But, just in case my time is limited, I'd best start working on my bucket list. To date, it contains:

Have grandchildren. Of course, this is highly dependent upon my offspring, and their life choices. So, at this point, it's just a pipe dream. My kids need to learn to feed themselves before they take responsibility for another life. But really? I can't wait to have little ones around the house again. Besides, they make such cool baby accessories these days.

Fly on a big airplane over the ocean. Most people who know me are aware of my terror of flying. I'm talking full-fledged panic attacks. Just ask anyone who has flown with me and you'll hear the sordid tales of my fingernails dug into my traveling companion's forearm. However, knowing I may only have six years left has increased my longing for Italy, for Paris, for Scotland, for Hawaii. These, as I am often reminded, are destinations to which it is impossible to drive the Honda mini-van. Damn.

Finish my novel. I got about 11,000 words written in November for NaNoWriMo. Some of them are not too bad. Some of them I would just rather not acknowledge. Still, the process was joyful and I am not happy that I allowed myself to get side-tracked.


Clean out the basement store room. OK, not such a life goal, but I did tell Steve that I was going to do it last weekend.

Thanks and giving....

My favorite holiday has come and gone. I love Thanksgiving. I hate when it's over.

Mostly, I enjoy a holiday that requires no shopping. I love hosting Thanksgiving dinner. I like the preparation - setting the table, ironing the cotton napkins, buying fresh candles. I don't even mind having to clean the house.

The smell of a roasting turkey is the highlight of the entire day. And then there's gravy and stuffing.

I could, if given the chance, eat nothing but gravy and stuffing every day for the rest of my life.

But now my favorite day is over, and we are onto my least favorite season - Christmas shopping.

I didn't used to loathe Christmas shopping. A long time ago, I used to savor it. Being in the crowds felt festive. We were all on the same quest, looking for a perfect gift that would delight the recipient. Good cheer was in abundance.

Now, I find that my fellow shoppers feel more like competitors. Like that guy in front of me at Target will probably get the last 50" plasma television and I'd better, by hook or by crook, knock him out of place and claim what is rightfully mine.

I can't really blame retailers all that much. We have embraced concepts like Black Friday and, although I shake my head at the line of people outside Toys R Us at 10 pm on Thanksgiving, I can't help but feel that, as a culture, we have created this mess. If those 500 people in line would just stay home, maybe we would get back to normal around here.

These days, my shopping is done mostly on-line. This I can do in my bathrobe. Anything that can be done in a bathrobe ranks high on my list.

So, I'm afraid that I won't be joining the throngs at the mall this weekend.

Gotta go now - it's just about lunch time and there's still plenty of stuffing and gravy to microwave.

History in the making....

There's been a historic election at my school. For the first time in memory, the Fox has defeated the Bear in the Kindergarten election.

The Kindergarten election takes place every year. We read a little book, titled, aptly, "The Election." In "The Election" both a Fox and a Bear want to be in charge of the forest.

The Fox stands on a ...... box (you were thinking something else?) and says that he will do what's right. Other than this, the Fox doesn't really seem to have a campaign platform. He is vague about his agenda and it is difficult to figure out where he stands on fiscal and social issues. I have a hunch that he does not support same sex marriage, but that is just my instinct. I have never seen his position papers. I do know that the Porcupine is one of his staunchest supporters.

The Bear sits in a ...... chair and listens to the problems of his fellow woodland creatures. He, too, is an enigma. There have been whispers, however, that the bear still supports a single payer health care system. But that could just be rumor.

So, we start our election in Kindergarten by reading the book in class. Then I send a copy home to all of the families, and ask them to read the book and cast their votes. Anyone in the home can vote. This year, I know a few stuffed animals voted, but since this is Chicagoland, those votes are just as valid as ones cast by actual breathing human beings.

Then, a few days later, we tally the votes. In order to ensure veracity, I have the kids do the counting. So what if they skip from 19 to 30? Think back to the 2000 Election debacle. My Kindergartners could have done Florida proud!

That the Bear will win has usually been a forgone conclusion. Five year olds want a leader who will do their bidding.

This year, however, the Bear received a scant 12 votes to the 35 cast for the Fox. I was stunned. Seems like even the Kindergartners are fed up. They've voted in a change. It's in the air.

All I can say is - I hope the Fox can assemble a crackerjack team of advisors. I hear that Porcupine is short-listed for Chief of Staff.

Sick days....

It's been coming on for a while. I've had a headache that most closely resembles a giant needle stuck into the back of my brain. I've been tired. I've been cranky. I've been achy all over. I knew that I was in for something miserable.

I woke up yesterday with a fever and a cough and feeling as if a truck had driven over me during the night. A visit to my doctor confirmed that I had a virus. Not the flu, luckily, but a garden variety bug that has moved in and set up housekeeping.

His advice was to go to bed and stay there. I decided to heed it.

I don't like being sick. I feel helpless and ineffective. I feel like I should be doing something besides watching HGTV all day and dozing off.

But my doctor pointed out to me that in this day and age, people seldom allow their bodies enough rest to heal. It made perfect sense to me.

Besides, I no longer have little kids who need to be tended all day. They are semi-adults now and can, presumably, fend for themselves. I have a fantastic teaching assistant who can take care of things when I am out of school, and everything else, I suppose, can wait for a few days.

So, with my husband out of town and both kids at school, I came home from the doctor, put on my warmest pj's and slipped into bed. I fell asleep and stayed asleep for the better part of the day.

Only, I forgot about the one inhabitant of my house who does need to be tended all day. That's right, Toby, the Golden Lab Hellhound, was left alone.

Toby wasted little time protesting this change in his routine. He promptly ate one slipper, one black permanent marker, two socks, one Christmas cactus, a roll of tape, a pair of boxers (Steve's or Trent's - it was impossible to tell from the remains) and several dryer sheets.

Then he had the audacity to wake me up using his cute little wet nose. Thank goodness Trent arrived home at around the same time.

"Take this dog for a walk," I ordered.

I returned to bed and slept until this morning. I'm feeling a little more human, but I know that after cleaning up the effects of the Toby Tornado, I'll be ready for a nap again.

This time, I am going to chain him to the rear axle of my car.

NaNo What?....

I'm going to do it.

Growing up, I wanted to be a writer. I wrote poems and stories. I loved term papers. I loved essay tests. I loved to put a pen to paper and let the words begin to flow.

In college, I started out as a Journalism major. I wanted to write feature stories and music reviews. I saw myself as the next indispensable staff member of Rolling Stone. The girl who got to tour with the Stones and live to tell about it.

Then, I listened to conventional wisdom.

Getting a writing job would be next to impossible is what conventional wisdom told me.

So, I lost my courage and decided on a nice and safe English degree instead. Writing? I liked doing it, but what was the point? I was getting married and I needed a job.

And really, I do understand that apart from teaching high school, an English degree does not guarantee an entry level position with a Fortune 500 company. I graduated in the early 80's when greed was good, and business majors ruled the planet. I've paid my dues.

I did get married, found a corporate job, had kids, went back to school to become a teacher (HA, I say, laughing at myself. Should have known all along.) Apart from monthly school newsletters and parent handbooks, writing went on the back burner for a long, long time.

Then, I started hanging around the Compuserve writer's forum.

I began by just lurking. Then I gathered up my last reserve of courage and actually posted a few things.

I was shocked that people didn't tell me to surrender my password and leave the forum. Other writers, farther along in their journeys than I, actually encouraged me.

I cannot express how affirming this was. I became hooked. Besides, I have learned to love writer's lingo. I get all tingly when someone talks about word count, or chunk writing, or author intrusion.

In short, I felt like I had come home.

I've been dabbling for a while. Have a couple of things half-finished. The little voice - you remember conventional wisdom - still whispers to me "What the hell are you doing wasting all of this time in front of a computer?"

I am trying to ignore it.

Then I found out about NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. The idea is that you write a novel in a month. The month of November, to be exact. So I registered to do it.

I'm certainly not going to talk about the book I have planned, or even share any of it. I just want to write furiously for a short period of time and see what happens. I love the process, and I hope I'll find a few things salvageable about the product. If not, so what?

Wish me luck.

A special guest...

My dear husband of many years has asked if he can make a special guest appearance on my blog. Apparently, he would like to relate some stories about my driving. For some reason, he finds these stories hilarious.

Yes, I have granted him special permission. But, before I let him hijack this little space, I must say a few words in my own defense.

I am actually a pretty good driver. I've had only one traffic accident in 30+ years of driving.

I just seem to have this spatial problem. The kind where I perceive that stationary objects are farther away than they actually are.

Please keep this in mind when reading his words. Thank you.

What I'm reading...

Last year, I signed up for a website called Goodreads.com.

I did this because Goodreads allows you to keep track of every book you've ever read. For some reason, I had been wondering how many books I've read. In my life, I mean.

I tried to guess. What if I'd read 50 books a year? This means that over the last 40 years or so (I really don't think it's fair to count all of the Golden Books or Nancy Drew Mysteries that I read as a child), I've read maybe 2000 books.

Could this be true?

Over at Goodreads, I was only able to come up with about 400 titles. This was disappointing. I really wanted to have 2000 books on my home page, but I couldn't remember every trashy novel I'd picked up at the grocery store.

I was faithful to Goodreads for a while. I would finish a book and add it to my virtual bookshelves. Still, I couldn't get that number up to even 500.

Finally, I got lazy. I would forget to add a book, and read three or four others, and then forget to add those, until finally I gave up. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, it turned into another chore that I would put off and feel guilty about. I sure don't need any more things like that in life.

So, let's just say I've read 2000 books and leave it at that.

On the journey to 2000, I have read just about everything. I'm a fiction junkie, but I don't limit myself to one genre. Sometimes, I'm looking for a literary tome. At other times, I'll settle for a great horror story or mystery or crime novel. I'm partial to post-apocalyptic tales (think The Stand), but I've also been obsessed with historical fiction. I overdosed on Queen Elizabeth a few summers ago, and I really don't want to sit through another go-round of Henry and Eleanor. I don't mind vampires (loved The Passage this past summer), but I'm also a big fan of Richard Russo and Wally Lamb, two guys who write about 'normal' life and pierce your heart while doing it. I love Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, and, along with the rest of the civilized world, I enjoyed Stieg Larsson's books.

As a teenager, I would read Gone With the Wind every summer. I devoured most Agatha Christie titles in middle school and high school. I read War and Peace sitting on the beach, and I remember sneaking over to my friend's house to sit in her laundry room and read Love Story when I was in fifth grade. It seemed racy at the time, and I knew my mother wouldn't approve.

Some books I read earlier in life, like The Sun Also Rises, really stuck with me. I know he's not everyone's cup of tea, but I loved this book so much that I waited my whole college career until, as a Senior, I could write a paper on Hemingway. I tingled with anticipation as I sat at my typewriter, finally able to pound out 20 pages on my writing hero. I think I got an A. In fact, I think I still have the paper somewhere.

So lately? I've read Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, and was not enthralled. His characters were pretty boring, and I really didn't much like them. Just finished a new novel by Julia Glass, whose debut, Three Junes, won the National Book Award, and was just heartbreaking and wonderful. Her latest, The Widower's Tale - not so much.

I'm on to what I hope will be a good ghost story - A Dark Matter by Peter Straub. He knows how to weave a story and keep me guessing until the end. Fall is a spooky time, after all, and there's nothing better than a spooky story to go along with my favorite season.

Oh, and I've never read any of the Twilight books. Just so you know.

Happy Fall. Happy reading.

Saturday morning....

Today, a Saturday, I woke up while it was still dark - about 6:15 am. Because I had fallen asleep at 9 pm (thanks, Julia Glass, but your new novel is really a snoozer), I decided that 9 hours of slumber was enough, and hauled myself out of bed.

I fumbled around in the dark for my slippers. I can no longer keep them next to the bed because my Golden Lab puppy considers them a chew toy, so I have to hide them on a high shelf in the closet. Luckily, I was able to locate them without knocking over anything.

I made coffee, and I poured myself a cup before the pot had finished brewing. This is one of my secret vices, and has been, believe it or not, the subject of the most vehement arguments between my husband and me over the last few years.

But I digress.

Faced with a long stretch of quiet and peace, I pondered what I should do. Years ago, when my kids were small, I would have used this time to accomplish something meaningful....like clean out a closet or wash windows.

Now - not so much.

I used to be an absolute ogre about my house. It had to be clean all of the time. I would never consider going to bed with dishes on the counter, and, like an obsessed scullery maid, I would crawl around on the kitchen floor with a damp paper towel to make sure that every spot or spill had been annihilated.

I continued with this irrational behavior even though my kids were toddlers, capable of destroying a room in a matter of minutes. I persisted even though we had a big black Labrador whose shedding output could create enough fur to weave an afghan at least twice a day.

In short, I was nuts.

Funny how life changes. This morning, I sat on the deck and looked at the stars. I watched dawn break over the trees. I drank two cups of very strong coffee and played with my dog. I considered doing the laundry. I decided to go to the dog park instead.

I can only wish now that I had been a little more relaxed and a little less neurotic when my kids were little. I probably would have played with them more and cleaned a little less.

So, this morning as I briefly considered washing down the cabinets I reminded myself that I'm all better now.

Phil, they're playing with a dead bird....

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of the day we found the dead crow.

There was a whole gang of us - neighborhood kids whose names I really can't remember now. We hung around outside all day because, well, that's what kids in the 60's did. We played with whatever was around. We built forts and went exploring. We looked for snakes in the field behind our house. I don't think we were ever bored.

One day, we found a not quite alive crow behind our house. By not quite alive, I mean dead. Stiff and cold. Eyes that were gray and glassed over.

So we did what any kids would do - we put the recently deceased crow in someone's old bird cage.

We took Mr. Bird (I'm fairly certain this is what we called him, but the name Batman also rings a bell) all over the neighborhood. Being the animal lover that I was, and still am, I think I wrapped Mr. Bird in a baby blanket. We played records for Mr. Bird. Since some of us were young Catholics, we may have held some sort of funeral mass for him. I'm not really sure about this last one, but I know we did something ceremonial.

Our capers with Mr. Bird went on all day, undisturbed. No grown ups had noticed our new friend. Mr. Bird was very probably beginning to smell when we decided to play in our basement, and bring Mr. Bird along.

I remember a look of panic on my mother's face when she realized just what we had brought into the basement. I remember my father descending the basement stairs and I remember Mr. Bird being taken from us rather quickly and without explanation. I can only hope that Mr. Bird found peace in his final resting place, and that he was not thoughtlessly tossed into our metal trash can.

The subject of Mr. Bird never came up in our house again. We probably caught a snake or dug up some termites the next day and were happy again.

Ah, childhood....

Shifing the parental paradigm....

Having little kids was easy for me. I loved the raising of babies, toddlers, preschoolers, elementary schoolers. I seemed to have a knack for saying (mostly) the right thing at the right time. Problems were easy to solve, and solutions usually involved a band aid or a hug.

My daughter has always worn her heart on her sleeve. She's been a verbal kid from the very start. She started talking at a young age. As a young 'un, she followed me around the house to engage me in conversation. All of the time. And since she stopped taking naps before her second birthday, there was hardly a break in her chatter from sunrise to sunset.

Don't get me wrong - I loved having a kid who loved to talk. But I do remember my clenched teeth as I asked, for the hundredth time, if mommy could just have a little quiet for just a little while.

Things started to change when she reached her teens. Sure, she still talked to me all of the time, but the topics started to change from which shoes would be suitable for her Homecoming dress to should she change her major after two years of college.

Often, in the guise of imparting wisdom and a shot of reality, which I thought was my job, I would end up saying something that would send her into a fit of irritation and contempt. She'd accuse me of wanting to crush her dreams. She'd tell me I wasn't really listening to her. She'd tell me that I didn't really understand her and that I was treating her like a child.

I was often left frustrated, and so was she. Our relationship was untangling. I worried that we were alienating each other, and I wasn't quite sure why.

Then, one day, I had an epiphany. I wondered if maybe, just maybe, all she wanted was for me to listen to her, hold my tongue, and support whatever decision she was going to make.

I tested my fledgling knowledge one snowy morning. She found me in the kitchen sipping coffee. Her quandry? Should she risk her safety by driving to work when the road conditions were terrible and getting worse, or should she call off and stay put at home?

What I really wanted to say was something along the lines of you'd better get your butt into work - a snowstorm isn't really an excuse. Then, I stopped myself. I realized that this particular reaction was due to my own fiercely Puritanical work ethic, honed over the years in response to my particular neurosis of always wanting to please everyone, all of the time.

This was a decision she was going to have to make, and she was going to experience the consequences of it.

So I kept my mouth shut until she stopped talking and looked at me expectantly. I gathered up all of my courage and said Whatever you decide, I'm sure you'll make a good decision.

Then I ran away.

Something shifted. She realized that I didn't want to argue about this. I realized that I would be OK with whatever she decided. And a weight lifted, from both of us.

Of course, we still have our struggles. We're both women, with very strong personalities, living under the same roof. But I think, on that snowy morning, that we redefined ourselves, and each gave the other permission to reboot and start over.

I like it that way.

My secret desire

I harbor a secret desire. And it's probably not what you're thinking.

My secret desire is brought to my attention each and every morning as I apply copious amounts of product to my tresses and set off, once again, to tame my hair.

I secretly wish for a pony tail.

And I'm not talking about the pony tail I can now achieve - a sliver of hair caught in an elastic band and held in place by 6 or 7 barrettes. The hair style I resort to when I have chores like power washing animal cages or de-liming the bathroom tile.

No, I'm talking a pony tail where every single strand of hair is firmly captured in a jaunty scrunchy. A pony tail that bounces when I walk.

Kinda like Julia Roberts.

I recently watched a movie where Julia Roberts played a corporate spy. Of course, she looked beautiful - she's Julia Roberts.

Oh, and she was sleeping with Clive Owen.

In one of the scenes, Julia leaves an assignation with Clive, hair askew, to attend a meeting. While on the escalator, she manages to wrestle her locks into the perfectly shaped chignon that she sports in the very next scene.

She doesn't need a mirror, hair clips, straightening gel or a flat iron to do this. She's on a friggin' escalator.

OK, I know that Julia didn't really do this on her own. The director yelled "cut," and hundreds of stylists converged upon Julia, primping and fluffing her into pony tail perfection.

Still, I've always wanted to be able to attain just that sort of casual glamor. The kind where a woman looks stunning and makes it appear absolutely effortless.

How does the pony tail fit into this? A pony tail screams nonchalance. A pony tail tells the world that you're pretty comfortable in your own skin. That you have more important things to do, like steal corporate secrets and romp with Clive Owen, and you just can't spend precious time with a blow dryer.

Never mind how much easier the morning hair routine would become.

I've almost made it a few times. Grown out the layers to the point where I can get just about every hair into the elastic band. But then, I listen to the little voice that tells me 50 year old women have no right to wear pony tails, and I make an appointment for a haircut.

But know what? Screw that little voice. I'm going for it.

You'll know when I've done it. I'll be the woman casually pulling all of my hair into a band on the escalator at Macy's.

October is awesome because...

Just a few things that make me smile in October:

• Socks
• Sweaters (especially handy for disguising the jiggly upper arms that have been hanging around all summer)
• Sleeping under a down comforter with the windows open (OK - this doesn't really make my husband smile, but still)
• Beef stew
• Football
• Halloween
• Picking apples

Happy fall.

Just visiting....

Every so often, I visit my son's room. He's 18, you see, and shares information in monosyllabic grunts. I stop by his room to catch up on what's going on in his life.

Did I mention that he's an artist? An amazing one, in my humble little opinion. He works a lot with stencils that he cuts out of tagboard with an exacto knife and then spray paints. The stuff he can do with spray paint is pretty amazing. To me.

Apparently, the artistic life precludes any sort of personal hygiene. And don't even think about finding value in organization or uncluttered surfaces.

Once in a while, he brings down a few baskets filled with jeans, black t shirts and white socks. I wash them because that was the deal we struck - if he would just cart the clothes downstairs, I would launder them. Other than that, I have let go of any hope that he will suddenly transform into a person who actually keeps his room clean.

But his terror-inspiring mess does contain lots of information about him. Information that I wouldn't get simply by asking him questions. Or by trying to "friend" him for the 987th time on Facebook. He's now "blocked" me anyway.

Sometimes, he tacks up his personal to do lists. Well, to be more precise, he hangs his lists on the wall using black duct tape. They contain goals like "get a job," (he did), "finish portfolio" (he did) and other directives meant to provide motivation.

By reading this, I am assured that he is developing into a young adult who just may be ready to assume some responsibility for himself.

Other times, I find new work that he has done. Sometimes, his images are pretty darn...disturbing. Have I raised a terrorist?

I think of times when I hear him playing with the dog, times when he thinks no one is listening. He laughs in a delighted way and coos endearments in a voice a few octaves higher than his normal tone.

I remember that this is the kid who bought a stuffed duck at a garage sale when he was six and named it "Little Cutie." This is the same person who talked his father into wading into a muddy riverbank to rescue a blue heron wrapped in landscape netting.

Artistic friends tell me these images are pretty much stock in trade for emerging artists. I am comforted by that. I love this kid to pieces, even if I am never allowed to show it, and I don't want him to carry around a cumbersome darkness that no one else can reach.

Sometimes, a visit to his room will reveal song lyrics painstakingly copied and taped to the wall. Lyrics about depression. Lyrics about rage and about the "man." You know the "man," right? The one that has fucked up the world for every generation of teenagers? Yeah, he hates that man too.

Instead of feeling panic, I remind myself that he finds solace in words. That he is able to find comfort through reading and listening to music, cause I can relate to that. I was that kid, too.

He's got the normal collection of dirty dishes and spare change. Books are everywhere. He's got paintbrushes and colored pencils and an easel and lots of other things that tells me he's busy, he's passionate, he's committed to something beyond himself, he's envisioning his future and he's aware of his own talents.

I have no idea if the comfort these visits provide is just a grand illusion, one I employ to still the nagging doubts about the parenting I've provided him over the last 18 years. If nothing else, it shows that he is an interesting person, completely and irrevocably untethered from me.

I probably wouldn't want it any other way.

And I don't want your pumpkins...

Yesterday, along with 135 parents and children, I attended our school's annual trek to the orchard to pick apples. The weather was perfect - low seventies, the kind of bright sunshine that tells you fall has finally arrived - and I looked forward to a day of chatting with parents and kids and absorbing one Midwest autumn ritual that I hold dear.

Only once we got there, we were told that we would not be picking apples - the apples were almost all picked already. We could pick pumpkins and gourds instead.

I have always considered myself a pretty flexible person. No problem, I thought. We'll pick pumpkins instead.

We rode to the pumpkin patch in four wagons pulled by two tractors. Our guide told us all about bees and apple trees and the growing seasons. We could pick one pumpkin per person, or two or three gourds, or a small pumpkin and a gourd, or something like that.

My partner and I were the last ones off the wagon.

By the way, our guide mentioned, we're going to take two of the wagons back to the barn. Can you just tell your people that they have to walk back?

Walk back? We looked at each other. Walk back with toddlers and preschoolers across a pumpkin field brimming with vines and pumpkins and pretty uneven ground? Walk back toting pumpkins and jackets and cameras and tote bags and crying children?
No problem, we said.

So we spread the word. Only half of the pumpkin pickers could ride the wagons back. Everyone else was on their own. Most people happily complied - it was, after all, a glorious day, and it didn't look to be that far.

People remained cheerful as they trudged half a mile through the fields.

People remained cheerful when our promised donuts and cider couldn't be easily found.

People remained cheerful when the personal items they'd left on the disappearing wagon didn't turn up anywhere.

Because I am a semi-reformed people pleaser by nature , I always feel a great responsibility to provide everyone with a good time. So far, the good time was materializing. I remained cheerful, too.

However, I lost my precarious hold on good cheer when the owner of the orchard - an elderly Asian man - appeared at the exit and began telling our families that they couldn't leave because they were stealing his pumpkins.

The father of a three year old boy was about to lose his temper when I arrived on the scene. The owner kept repeating that since the two pumpkins didn't have a sticker on them, the man was stealing.

I thought I would easily be able to smooth this over.

"He's with our school group," I tried to explain. "We paid for a field trip and everyone is supposed to be able to take home a pumpkin."

But the owner would have none of this.

"He has two pumpkins."

"He's carrying one for his son. His son is three years old and can't carry a pumpkin all the way to the car."

By this time, a small group had formed.

"Children need to carry their own pumpkins. We have rules. Children must follow the rules."

The owner went on to explain that he didn't even know if we had paid for the field trip. He was just protecting his pumpkins, he said. He had a right to protect his pumpkins.

At this point, I felt myself getting perilously close to, well, rage. I practically shouted that I had just written his orchard a check. For a thousand dollars. I had the receipt in my pocket.

And thus began one of the world's most circular arguments. I should have know better than to engage. I should have.

Owner: Some people have pumpkins and two gourds. That is against the rules.

Me: Your tour guide was pretty vague about what we could actually take.

Owner: Kids have to carry their own pumpkins.

Me: You can't expect little children to carry a heavy pumpkin all the way to the car.

Owner: I have to protect my farm.

Me: Then you have to have a way to show that people have paid for the pumpkins.

Owner: My employees don't listen to me.

And on and on it went. I was aching for a fight. I was. I really, really was.

Suddenly, a kind dad walked over and spoke quietly to me.

"You seem to be getting pretty agitated. About pumpkins. They're only pumpkins."

Deflation. Thank God. A deep breath and I was suddenly OK again.

I knew we had been mistreated. But at the same time, I knew this man would never hear what we were trying to tell him. That's what happens to people when things (pumpkins) become more important than people.

At last, I was able to feel some pity for him. We procured a sheet of stickers and walked the entire orchard, looking for our families and putting stickers on all of their pumpkins. We told them that the owner was a little funny about people leaving with his pumpkins and to please make sure to show him the sticker.

Our moods lightened. Thanks to someone who took a chance and called me on my behavior, behavior that probably would have crossed the line to embarrassing in just a few more seconds.

Despite the day's events, I got lots of "Thank You" emails from families who attended the trip. They'd had a wonderful time. They were ignorant about our pumpkin battle with the owner. They went home with tired and happy kids and a couple of pumpkins to boot.

And besides, I know that this orchard will never receive our business again.

And I love working with children....

It happens all of the time. As the owner and administrator of a small private school - serving both preschool and elementary aged children - I constantly receive resumes and inquiry letters. Everyone, it seems, loves working with children.

Hardly anyone, however, really knows what working with children is all about. It is not a job for the weak or faint-hearted. Working with children requires a journey to the deepest parts of the self. Only the best teachers know this, but all children recognize a soul on this path.

On the most superficial level, working with children requires a strong stomach. Yes, I can confidently say that all children pick their noses and eat the outcome. Preschool teachers spend a great part of their days in the bathroom, wiping bottoms and cleaning up unsuccessful attempts to make it to the potty. A day without visible poop on the bathroom wall? Well, I did have one nine years ago....

Children are fierce creatures. Childhood is by no means an innocent utopia. Most adults have forgotten this fact, and are left with rosy memories of blissful days. This is a blatant falsehood.

Children's emotions blink like a neon light. They don't hide anything. They can't. They haven't learned how. A three year old coming to school without a good night's sleep is nothing less than a disaster waiting to happen.

Consider this - children's emotions are as deep as the Mariana Trench. The total amount of skills they possess to deal with these emotions would barely fill a shot glass.

Young kids can't fathom why they can't have it - it being any person, place or thing imaginable - and have it NOW. They are the Freudian id personified. Their universe ends at the tip of their noses. "Share and play nice," parents remind their kids each morning. What a lot of parents forget is that sharing is counter to the nature of the average three year old.

Preschool classrooms are the front lines in the struggle to civilize these creatures. Little girl A wants to play with little girl B. Little girl B is happy to be with little girl C, and tells little girl A to get outta here. Now. And, you can't come to my birthday party. Oh, and you're also not my friend.

Young boy X is angry at young boy Y. Instead of banning boy Y from his birthday party, he slugs him in the stomach. And hits him on the head.

Are these unusual happenings in the classroom? If only. Working through this stuff is the meat and potatoes of teaching young children. In the best classrooms, teachers recognize that before we can learn numbers and letters, we have to learn to live life together.

Step one for a great teacher? Recognize this. Know to the very depth of your being that what you bring into the classroom each day makes the difference between utter chaos and peaceful synergy. Expect that kids will act like kids, and figure out in advance how you will show them the way. Lead by example. Show the children how a compassionate and kind person takes care of others, and they will soak it up through their pores.

In short - take care of the little ones, and they will learn to take care of one another.

In my classroom, each child is greeted warmly every single day. Hurt feelings are soothed with hugs and soft words. I want all the children to understand this - I am on your side all of the time. If you mess up, I'm still on your side, and I'll stay on your side while you work this out. That doesn't mean that I don't expect the best of you, because I do, but I understand who you are right now.

Being with young children is a heady thing. Kids love easily. Soaking up their hugs and kisses will inevitably lead one to believe that I am the world's best teacher. Look how much they love me.

But to really be with children requires shifting from feeling their love to knowing that they feel your love. It's about showing love for the child who is, and for the ideal of who the child will become.

Most people who apply for teaching jobs have no clue about this. They see only the superficial - little beings in cute clothes who say funny things. If I can get them to at least understand that the job will include contact with most bodily fluids, that's a step in the right direction.

What do I really want? What is hardest to find? Someone who understands that this job is not about teaching letters and numbers, colors and shapes. This job is about teaching children.

My dog is on a diet

I've been told by my vet to place my little mutt, Dusty, on a diet.

She's getting up there in years. Since she is a rescue hound, we aren't really sure of her age. By the vet's best estimate, she could be anywhere between 10-13 years old

We acquired Dusty a few months after we had to euthanize our beloved black Lab, Molly. Almost immediately after Molly's passing, I began to spend hours on Lab rescue web sites, picking out the dog who would be our next pet. I submitted our application to several places, and sat down to wait for someone to contact us.

In the meantime, I got lonelier and lonelier for another dog. One summer day, after finding a few shelters that all proclaimed there were Labs available for adoption, I loaded my kids into our car and took off to browse for dogs.

The first "no kill" shelter we visited was an hour from our home, out in rural farm country. The building was tired and old, and we were assaulted by the smell of urine and doggie waste immediately upon walking in the door.

The folks in charge of the shelter left us waiting for at least 15 minutes at the front desk. The man who finally talked to us was missing a few teeth, and rarely made eye contact during our conversation.

We explained that we were looking for a new Lab for our family, and he showed us to the room where the dogs were kept.

In what was the saddest excuse for a dog shelter I have ever seen, we were introduced to at least 20 dogs who all resembled Labradors, but were in various stages of filth and mange. All of the dogs barked and growled furiously as we passed by their pens.

Finally, we asked if we could "meet" what appeared to be the cleanest and calmest looking dog. Without a word, our guide leashed the unfortunate canine and ushered us into a foul-smelling room where we could bond with our intended pet.

The first thing I noticed were the dogs eyes. They were filled with both wild abandon and unbridled fear. The pup roamed the room, sniffing and crying, and would not come near either me or my children. She never stopped moving, as if looking for the easiest escape route.

I could tell by the looks on my kids' faces that this was proving to be a horrible experience. We are all animal lovers. I couldn't stand having them exposed to this.

We asked to have the dog returned to her pen, and left as quickly as we could. On our way out, we overheard a man in the lobby practically begging the shelter people to take an unwanted litter of kittens. "Certain death" was all I could think as we hurried to the car.

My kids and I were in tears. I wanted to give them another experience with animal shelters before we went home. Even though I imagined that this shelter was probably opened with the best of intentions, I didn't want them to be left with only this memory. Those dogs could haunt a person's dreams.

We drove to a well-known shelter in the town next to ours. While I knew from constant perusal of their website that they didn't have any Labs for adoption, I was at least familiar with the well-run and clean operation.

Our trip through the dog runs was much more pleasant. We saw big dogs and little dogs, lots of wagging tails. We read each sign detailing why this particular dog had found himself up for adoption. Some were too big, some jumped too much, some had owners who'd had to move, some were merely lost and had been brought to the shelter by a kind soul.

About half-way through the room, my daughter pointed at a medium sized brown dog who appeared to be smiling. Smiling and with happy eyes. Really.

The sign on Dusty's cage introduced her as "Dusty - Australian Shepherd." Hah. Having seen Australian Shepherds before, I saw nothing about this pooch that even vaguely reminded me of the shaggy, brindle-coated breed she was purported to be.

Dusty is a cut-and-paste dog. She is barrel-chested with thin legs and very petite paws. Her head is just too small for her body, although her eyes are quite beautiful. The piece-de-resistance is her tail. Sometime in her past, it was clubbed. And I don't mean clubbed as in a little knob protruding from her behind. Her tail is about 4 inches long and resembles a well-done bratwurst. We've speculated for hours on how this happened, and have never come up with a credible answer.

Anyway, we led our soon-to-be family member into an empty room. Did we bond immediately? No way. She completely ignored us. Her most constant action was shivering, as if the temperature had suddenly fallen about 50 degrees.

We fell in love, even though Dusty displayed none of the people-pleasing characteristics that I had been told to look for in my copy of "Rescue Dogs for Dummies." We took her home that day.

Dusty has been a constant source of hilarity for our family, mostly because she has eaten just about everything one can imagine, and never suffered even a moment of indigestion.

Moldy pizza from the trash can at the curb? No problem. A package of menthol cigarettes that my brother left on our porch? Gone in minutes. Pencils, crayons and markers? Faster than the average six year old can consume a bag of M&Ms.

Dusty loves coffee. I will never forget the first time I came into our kitchen to discover her ON the table, lapping up the cup I had just poured myself. She can lick a 12 oz. mug dry in a matter of minutes. All visitors to my home have been warned - never leave a cup of coffee unattended.

Gum and mints (and toothpaste when she is desperate) also reign supreme on Dusty's list of favorite consumables. I will never forget the day when a friend, who also happens to be a diabetic, left her purse on our outdoor deck. After making sure that we were engrossed in conversation, Dusty dove into said purse snout first, nosed aside several vials of insulin and syringes, and emerged victorious with a package of Altoids. She managed to open the tin and was greedily swallowing mint after mint when we looked in her direction.

Embarrassment in this proportion doesn't occur too often in life.

The greatest experience of Dusty's life has been, I am certain, the day of the Potato from Heaven. It was either Thanksgiving or Christmas, and I was unhappily peeling and slicing 10 pounds of potatoes for our meal that day. As is her habit, Dusty sat at my feet, generally sniffing the area and reminding me of her presence. Suddenly, one of the damp potatoes on my cutting board slipped under the knife and sailed, in a perfect arc, into Dusty's open mouth. Three chews, and it was gone.

Flash forward to the present day. Dusty has not only survived all of her potential food poisoning experiences, but has thrived as part of our family. Despite my husband's repeated warnings that he's not paying thousands of dollars for surgery should the dog ever have a perforated bowel due to eating, for example, a ball-point pen, Dusty has a firm place in our hearts.

I can tell she's getting a bit wobbly. She can't jump up to my face to give me a kiss when I walk in the door anymore. Now, I bend down to receive her slobber. Her legs seem a little weaker, and her back is beginning to sway. Some mornings, she rises slowly. She's put on some weight, making it harder for her to move. Hence, the visit to the vet.

"How on earth do you put a dog on a diet?" I asked. Canine weight watchers? Is there a doggie gym that we need to frequent?

"Forced starvation," was the reply.

Hmmm...

In thinking about Dusty's consumption of food, and non-food, over the years, how can I force a dog who considers bubble wrap a delicacy into a state of non-eating?

But, we're doing our best. I have cut her daily food intake in half. In response, she has discovered our pantry, where potatoes are stored in bins on the floor. She has taken to licking the furniture and the fireplace stones. She spends hours staring imploringly at me, just waiting for a repeat of that potato miracle. She's hungry, but I'm hoping that we can give her a few more years of good life. If shedding a few pounds helps, then I'm all for it.

Gotta go now....Dusty is eating an onion.

Look kids - How I made a blog in two easy steps

I am most definitely technology-challenged.

My cell phone most often lies at the bottom of my purse, waiting for me to figure out how to switch the phone from "vibrate" to "ring" without turning it off or erasing all of the messages.

All of my kitchen appliances beep angrily at me, reminding me that I have forgotten, yet again, that I set the oven timer for 15 hours instead of 15 minutes.

And my kids? Well, they certainly enjoy sharing condescending sneers over my incompetence. My 17 year old son relishes being able to swoop into the room as I try to figure out how to load a DVD. He pushes one button and departs in a cloud of self-satisfied dust when the movie begins to play.

So, it was with lots of anxiety that I set out to do this - figure out how to post a blog. And I was delighted to find out that it's easy! Go to blog site, click on "start a blog," and I'm in. Part one finished in a few keystrokes.

Part two - ah, there's the rub. Why? Why make a blog? Why let my words join the gazillions of other words that clog up the airways? Well, ok, I do know that these words don't travel over the airways, but still - why add to the glut?

I like to write things down. I like to think about all of the little stuff that happens in a day, and then try to universalize it. I may start the day dreading the pile of laundry that waits for me, but will often end the day thinking about how to make my laundry a funny story that everyone can share, and to which everyone can relate.

Oh, and I sometimes crack myself up.

So, it's my goal to ponder all of life here, and then try to find a little perspective. Plus a lot of laughs.