How old are you?

om

from wikimedia commons/author rich007

So I'm proving a point AND writing my blog.  I can blog and watch TV at the same time.  I can watch TV and blog at the same time.  Cool.

So I'm watching this special on PBS; Paul McCartney, 'scuse me, SIR Paul McCartney is receiving the Gershwin Lifetime Achievement Award for Songwriting.  I didn't know what the special was about; I'll admit I was channel-surfing looking for anything when I spotted Sir McCartney being interviewed about the upcoming performances.  I thought he was doing all the singing, but it turns out he opened the performances and then relinquished the stage.

I started thinking about age because Sir McCartney sounds darn good for his age!  I mean, the man is in his 60's and, though his voice roughens on the upper notes, he sounds like the Paul McCartney I listened to in high school.  I watched the Obamas and realized they were 15-20 years younger than Sir McCartney.  (I looked it up:  McCartney was born in 1942 and Obama in 1961.)  Holy cow!  Barack and Michelle  probably didn't even listen to Wings when they were in high school!  President Obama is just a year older than my sister; I wonder if he was a fan of Shaun Cassidy, too.  (smirk)  The smirk is for my sister; she doesn't like being reminded of her high school crush.  

So first Sir McCartney sang "Got to Get You Into My Life".  Then Stevie Wonder sang - and Stevie sounds great and looks great, too.  Then the announcer introduced the Jonas Brothers.  Who?  The cameras panned to the two Obama girls; they were lit up like Christmas trees!  Oh yea, the Jonas Brothers.  They came out and sang a Beatles hit (They were singing it when I started typing and I've forgotten the song  I'm going on memory here, folks.)  and they were GREAT!  They could have been the young Beatles; their voices were pitch perfect and their accompaniment was spot on.  The Obama girls were experiencing the Beatles almost as I experienced them.  Young, good-looking guys singing and having a great time.

(Elvis Costello is singing Penny Lane right now.  Not so pitch-perfect, but hey!  it's Elvis Costello!)

The whole age thing blows me away at times.  Last week I was taking my morning vitamins and our summer intern Jenn was watching me.

"Fish oil," I explained.

"Oh," she nodded.  "My grandfather takes that."

%*$(#*%&#(*$#

All I Wanted Was a Houseplant

Before Christmas I purchased myself a BARGAIN houseplant.  I paid just under $8 for it.  (Then I spent $34 on the pot for it, but it was still a good deal, right?)  You can see it in the photo...behind the white oscillating fan..and to the left of the dancing elf.  (She was singing and dancing to Jingle Bells sung by my dancing poinsettias, but that's another story.)  Although it was cool outside, it was imperative to have a fan going.   (When a 3-year-old visits there is NONSTOP activity which can cause women of a certain age to SWEAT.)

Although my houseplant and I got off to a shaky start due to a tree frog hiding in the watering can, I am now enjoying the newest addition to my living room.  I believe the palm tree is happy with its new home as it is filling out, sprouting new leaves, and not developing any brown areas.  It adds a bright spot of color to that corner by my front door and I just enjoy looking at it.  Everything would be perfect...except...except for ...

the *FLB.

Yes.  Him!  He spends a lot of time staring at the tree.  Up close and personal.  He will walk up to it, sniff around it, stick his stinkin' little nose in the dirt and sniff...

sniff....sniff....

Then he will startle... and stare ... at SOMETHING he sees or thinks he sees in the tree.  He will back off and sit and stare.  Move closer.  Stare some more.  Eventually he forgets what he's doing and wanders away. He is driving me crazy.

I picked up that tree and plunked it in my shopping cart and hefted it into the back seat of my car and lugged it into my home.  If there was something IN the tree wouldn't it have jumped out and gotten me then?  Wouldn't it?

Today I remembered a story carried in the St. Augustine Record last July.  I looked it up and here is the headline:  "Garden Shop Reopens After Rattler Bites Shopper".  I am not kidding.  A man was shopping in the fern section of the St. Augustine Wal-Mart Garden Shop when his girlfriend's child dropped or threw a baby bottle onto the floor.  Said customer "reached under a plastic shelf" whereupon HE WAS BITTEN BY A PYGMY RATTLESNAKE!  He survived - after he was hospitalized.

The garden shop was closed so a wildlife professional could be called in and "assess the area".  Here's my favorite quote, "What is not known is whether the rattlesnake got into the garden center from nearby woods or if it came in on plants delivered to the store." 

WHAT????!!! 

Since 2006 three incidents were reported of snakes attacking customers in Wal-Mart Garden Shops around Florida.  In the almost-requisite "What to watch for" part of the article appeared my 2nd favorite quote: "The ornery pygmy rattlesnake is a 'sit-and-wait' predator that sits coiled in one spot, waiting for its prey to approach." 

Nice.

So I'm sitting here wondering what the heck my dog is sniffing and staring at in my palm tree.  I bought it at Home Depot, not Wal-Mart.  Thank heavens.  I'm not going to DO anything with the palm tree like pick it up and move it - not anymore.

And I keep my eyes WIDE OPEN when I'm watering it - after I have checked out the watering can thoroughly.

Damn.  Just damn.

*Freakin' little bastard

TV - THE GREAT NUMBING EFFECT

For some reason I wanted to watch TV very much this week.  I wanted the noise and the "company" that TV could provide, especially yesterday and today.  It was like a craving - no reasoning to it - just WANTED it. 

I knew that the TV would be full of AFTER CHRISTMAS SALES & LIQUIDATIONS commercials.  I reminded myself how annoying those would be. Still wanted TV.  I tried to analyze this craving:  did I associate TV with Christmas?  I was unable to dredge up any memories of TV and Christmas - no parades or events that I would miss. Still wanted TV.


I finally decided I was tired.  I had hosted dinner for my family Christmas Day and, even though we all had a great time, I was beat.  TV would be so EASY...just sit there and click click click my way into numbness.  Nothing (besides sleep) is as EASY and as MIND-NUMBING as watching TV.  And when I say "watching TV" I was not thinking of any particular show.  I still like certain TV shows and look forward to watching them in the future.  When I craved "watching TV" I craved sitting in my big chair with the remote and staring at the TV and tuning out.    

Instead of watching TV I cuddled up in my big chair with my new Sue Grafton mystery, and read.  What a pleasure to read something as well-written and intriguing as U is for Undertow.  Unlike so many writers today who take a formula and just basically "fill in the blanks" as they crank out book after book after book (can anyone say James Patterson?), Sue Grafton crafts each and every book the same way an artist creates a painting or a sculpture.  She experiments with point of view, she is attentive to detail, she creates living, breathing characters who you care about - even if they end up being the "bad guy".  

I start a new Grafton mystery by allowing myself a chapter or two at a time, but I always end up devouring the final chapters as the suspense builds to a surprising climax.  I finished this book last night.  I was sad for a few minutes - sad and satisfied - and then decided it was time to read the series from beginning to end again.  The series is so good that you can read and reread the books and enjoy them over and over again.

I've been reading a huge collection of Flannery O'Connor stories and I'm ready to be finished. What a tremendous talent!  I've learned a lot about writing, but I'm ready for something ... sunnier.  Not a lot of laughs in Ms. O'Connor's stories.  Same for Eudora Welty...another Southern writer with a very twisted way of looking at things.  I have The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass waiting for me at the library.  I may release my hold on that one - again, not a happy funny novel - and start rereading A is for Alibi.

THE OMEN

Something caught my eye as I eased up my driveway.  The afternoon was bright and sunny, but with the long shadows of approaching winter.  I turned my head and peered through my windshield and what I saw caused me to slam on the brakes.  A large bird - I think it was mostly brown both on its body and its wings, and I could only see it from the neck down and from below - swooped over my car and then rose over the back fence and the house behind.  A snake dangled from its beak!  (At this point I'm still fairly sure it was its beak and not its talons, but I was in awe and my memory is imperfect.)

The snake was colorless in the strong sunlight.  It was about one and a half times as long as the bird and I believe it was still writhing in protest.  Of course, it could have been swinging but I think it was moving.  The bird flapped its wings and soared over my neighbor's house, then descended out of my sight.  I wondered at the time if it was going to land in my neighbor's front yard and finish off the snake.  I sat in my car for several moments just letting the feelings wash over me.  Amazement.  Wonder.  Creepiness (afterall, it was a SNAKE).  The awe that nature inspires. 

My part in the small drama was over.  I started my car and pulled into my parking spot.  As I walked to my backdoor I kept turning around and looking for another glimpse of the bird and its prey.  I wondered what kind of bird it was.  What kind of bird hunts snakes?  I opened the storm door, unlocked and opened the back door.  The *FLB stuck his nose out in greeting and I invited him to come out and relieve himself.  I watched him as I thought about the bird.  Was it an osprey?  An eagle?  Some kind of hawk?  Harley decided to run off as I stood there.

Twenty minutes later I caught him five buildings east of mine.  Unlike a large dog who will galumph around a neighborhood in the joy of being FREE FREE FREE to run, the FLB is like a nosy neighbor who takes the opportunity to check up on everyone.  He trots up to all the doors and sniffs with great gusto.  He snuffles the various pet scents and he checks out other wilder scents:  armadillos, possums, whatever floats his dastardly little boat.

I didn't call for him.  I knew it was a waste of time and, besides, I was embarrassed.  I knew better than to let him out of the house without a leash.  He didn't even have his halter with his ID tag on it and I was just a tiny bit afraid I would lose him for good.  That would be my punishment for being careless.  I spotted him bouncing up the sidewalk of a pale yellow triplex and kept my eye on him as I approached.  When I was even with him I called out his name in a voice like you would use when you run into an old friend.

He looked up from his snuffling and actually looked happy to see me.  He took a few steps in my direction and stopped.

"Harley, come!"  I said in a more serious tone.

At that point he decided to give in, but he wouldn't do it without a small win on his side.  He cowered.  He crawled to me on his belly looking like the most beaten, pathetic, abused animal you have ever seen.  I tried not to look around to see if anyone was watching; that would make me look even guiltier.  I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and looped the leash around him in a slip knot.  As soon as the FLB realized he was caught and was not going to be kicked and beaten (at least in public), he jumped up and headed for home, pulling on the leash, wagging his tail, and holding his head high.

When we got home I filled his water bowl and he drank all of it.  Running away is thirsty work.  Then he laid down to rest.  I will never never never let him out again without his leash.  (Famous last words.)  I should have known when I saw the bird and the snake that something bad was going to happen.

I looked up birds of prey last night, and  I've decided it must have been some kind of hawk.  The osprey is primarily a hunter of fish and, though it could have been a juvenile eagle, odds are it was one of the seven species of hawk that either live here or migrate here in the winter.

Postscript:  I have a new palm tree in my living room that I purchased on clearance at Home Depot last week for only $7.00.  I needed to water it this morning, so I retrieved my cheap plastic watering "can" from the back patio where I leave it for my granddaughter Kinsey to use to water Grenah's outdoor plants.  I filled it and when I tipped it to pour onto the palm, the water gurgled and only trickled out.  What?  I guessed that some kind of outside gunk had gotten into the spout.  I carried the plastic can back to the kitchen sink.  I fished a bamboo skewer out of my kitchen supplies and was just sticking it into the spout when something caught my eye.

A tree frog looked up at me from the watery depths of the watering can!!!

My blood ran cold, my bowels turned to water, and I nearly fainted.

I grabbed the watering can and carried it carefully to the back door.  The frog swam frantically from side to side while keeping at least one of its bulging eyes on me.  I fumbled with the door knob.  Oh crap, it was locked!  Was the frog getting ready to jump?  Keeping one bulging eye on the tree frog, I flipped the lock, pulled the door open, pushed the storm door open, set the watering can down on the patio, and backed away.  Then I ran back inside and slammed and locked the back door.

The palm tree will have to wait.

*FLB=Freakin' Little Bastard

HARLEY - ONGOING FUN & GAMES

Things I do to torture Harley:

1. I play the CD Songs of the Humpback Whale.  The CD contains no instrumentation or vocals - just the whales.   Sometimes the whales even sound a bit...er...romantic.  I was deciding whether or not to keep the CD, and noticed Harley cocking his head back and forth.  Oh, he would try to ignore it!  How he would try!  Then when he couldn't stand it anymore he'd run over to the speakers and stare at them, cocking his head.  Sometimes he'd utter a sharp bark.  It's so easy to get my jollies....
2. I go outside without him.  I don't do this to torture him or punish him.  The fact that it bothers him is a side benefit.  He will stare mournfully out the storm door at me or run into my bedroom, jump onto MY bed, and bark out the window at me.  

Oh, come on!  When I first adopted Harley I let him outside to do his business and he would come right back.  "What a well-trained dog!",  I thought.  Boy, was I stupid.  One night he didn't come back.  In fact, as soon as I opened the door to let him out, he bolted into the dark and never looked back.  Of course, I chased him.  It's human nature.  He never looked back.  I took a flashlight and walked my street calling for him feeling like an idiot.  It is not fun to yell "Harley" throughout your neighborhood.  And, deep down, where I didn't want to admit it, I was terrified I'd lost him for good.

When I got back to the house my phone was ringing.  A woman who lived on the street behind me had found him.  The day before this runaway episode I had put a tag on his collar with a web address, so if someone found him they could put in his code number (also on the tag) into this web site.  The web site had my name, address, and phone number.  Oh, he had his county tag on, but I think we all know how well those work.  Besides, my real fear was that he would get hit by a car because he has no street smarts.

So I drove over to the nice woman's house and listened to her tale of the little wet dog that greeted her when she arrived home from church.  He must have crawled through a hole in the old fence that surrounded a retention pond, mucked around in the surrounding grasses, then crawled under a broken piece of fencing on her side.  (That fence around the retention pond has since been replaced!)   She said he jumped all around her and was just so happy to see her.  She took him inside and toweled him off and fed him cheese.  Her husband (a very smart man) jumped on the Internet and looked up his tag information and made her call me.  I think she would have kept him, but her husband must have sensed T*R*O*U*B*L*E.  I thanked her and almost cried with relief.  I then pulled and dragged the *FLB into my car.  He didn't want to leave the nice lady with the cheese, you see.  A month or so later she dropped in on me so she could visit Harley.  She brought him pieces of cheese and brought me several issues of the Watchtower.  Harley is the gift that keeps on giving.

I only take Harley out on a leash and I find I can't do quick chores with him tethered to my wrist.  I also will tie him to one of my Adirondack chairs but once he starts hunting lizards he gets tangled.  I tied him to the fence near my car once, thinking that there was nothing on which to get tangled.  He ended up crawling under my car then whining because he didn't think he could get out.  sigh.

Who's torturing whom?

*FLB=Freakin' Little Bastard

ONE HOUR (USED TO BE ONE TV DRAMA OR TWO SITCOMS)

Last night I babysat my granddaughter for just over an hour.  Now there's not a lot you can do in just an hour.  The previous week I babysat for about 2 hours and we managed to squeeze in a trip to Staples, a walk to Barnes & Noble, chocolate milk in the Starbucks Cafe, a bathroom break, playing with the train set in the children's department, and a quick walk back to Staples to meet mommy.

For our hour last night I thought we might have a picnic:  get a bite or a drink at the drive-in, and sit at one of the outside picnic tables and just enjoy the evening.  (Grenah was a bit TIRED.)  Kinsey got out of her mommy's car with a milkshake in one hand (forget the bite or drink!) and her daddy's flashlight in the other.  I buckled her into the Princess seat and as I buckled myself in, she told me, "I saw COW!"

This was exciting news.  Cows are very important to Kinsey and me.  You see, Kinsey has always loved stories and books.  And when she was very small, just toddling-around size, about 12 or 13 months old, she was staying with me one day and learned she could close the door to the laundry room.  My back door was bolted (so she couldn't escape!) and the laundry room was fairly safe, so I didn't immediately open the door and check on her.  I knocked, and she opened the door, and I asked, "May I come in?"  She LOVED that.  For a couple weeks just playing with the door was enough.

Then one afternoon she let me into the laundry room and we were just kind of standing in there and she asked me to tell her a story.  I didn't have any books in there and I really don't know why this story came out of my mouth, but I told her a story about Kinsey playing at Carousel Park and COW drops in for a visit.  And COW wants to swing, Kinsey says NO, COW gets on the swing anyway, CRASH goes the swing.  And the same with the slide.  And the carousel.  Then Kinsey tells COW that it's time for COW to go home.  So Kinsey rides in her car (with mommy and Grenah) and COW follows.  They find a farm and the farmer is very happy they brought COW home, and COW is so very glad to be home.  The End.

Then please tell me more story - so I'm thinking this is easy - and it's Kinsey at the beach.  Here comes COW.  COW tries to do human things like surf, boogie board, build sand castles....disaster results...Kinsey takes COW home.

And so on.   COW in Target. COW at Grenah's house.  I had a million of them.   And for weeks she would take me in the laundry room and ask for a COW story.  I was a hit.  A star!  THE GRENAH OF THE AGES!  She would pass these stories down to her grandchildren and tell them what a loving and wonderful Grenah she had....oh...the immortality...the fame...the love.................

Then one day we were in the laundry room and she clung to me and asked if COW was there?!  She was scared!!!!! of COWS!?  I went from a loving Grenah to a PHOBIA-CAUSING NUTCASE.  The stories never had COW as a villain - more of just wanting to be a little girl!   What was I going to do?  And Kinsey still wanted COW stories, but she would hold my hand and peer around me looking for the maniac cows.  This couldn't go on!  I would be vilified!  The topic of therapy sessions and tell-all autobiographies.  The example of evil in every grandparenting book!

So we entered our PC phase where we talked about how COW was lonely and just wanted to have some fun.  I bought her a couple of little stuffed cows - she wouldn't touch them!  We learned the Old MacDonald Had a Farm song - especially the MooMoo here and MooMoo there.  Still scared.  When we were driving or riding around I would point out COWS everywhere I saw them - kind of desensitization therapy for 2-yr-olds.  Luckily, Chick-fil-A is big on COWS and there were big friendly COWS on their billboard, and inside the Chick-fil-A the welcome mat had a big picture of a COW, and there was a cardboard cutout of a COW near the counter.  Lots of pointing and touching and talking about COWS.  I also watched for any and all books that featured COWS in a positive light.  TIME will tell if I'm truly successful.  She seems more fascinated than scared now.  If Kinsey becomes a large animal vet or studies agriculture or marries a farmer - not so bad.  If she becomes COW-phobic,cannot venture outside any city limits as an adult, and needs years of therapy, I will deny deny deny.


So back to last night, Kinsey tells me she saw a COW and she's very excited.  I realize her milkshake comes from Chick-fil-A (It's called a CLUE, Grenah!) and that must be where she saw the COW.  (Her mommy confirms later in a phone call that Kinsey was very excited and yelled "MOMMY, LOOK!  COW!" while she was ordering.)  So I tell Kinsey we are going on an adventure and looking for cows.  It's only a 10 minute drive west to farm country; it's at least 40 minutes to sunset.  Plenty of time.  So we head west and then my cell phone rings.  Can I bring the car by the mechanic's just for a minute?  They have to SEE the hose they are replacing so they are sure to order the correct part.  Sigh. We do a U-turn and I tell Kinsey we have to run a  5-minute errand.  She doesn't mind.  She says, "We go get Harley and go on adventure."  (You see, she's decided the *FLB is her **"best friend" now.)  I say, "I don't think we'll have time to go get (gritting teeth) Harley."  She just nods her head and says, "We go get Harley.  Harley my best friend.  We take Harley on adventure."

That damn dog.

We wait at the automotive place 30 minutes instead of 5.  Kinsey is fascinated by the constant stream of people in and out, and by the picture of the Daytona Race Track painted around the top of the waiting room.  She alternately chews her straw and sucks her milkshake.  Several people speak to her and get the 3-yr-old mute stare.  I tell John the owner that she will not speak to him and he promises me that she will.  When we leave I say, "Bye, John!" with a smirk, and Kinsey says, "BYE!".  He laughs us out the door.

Now we have about 30 minutes left.  No time for Harley (HA!) and no time for COWS.  So we drive one mile east and around the big curve and park at the beach.  We spend the next 30 minutes walking and racing (well, she raced and I pretended) and picking up shells and climbing on mounds of sand and having a great time.  We get back to the car just as the sun truly sets and darkness surrounds us.  We meet her parents, shake off most of the sand on her shoes and rear end (when you climb you have to slide and fall dramatically, don't you know), hand her daddy his flashlight, and hand her mommy a milkshake cup with shells.

All in one hour.

*FLB=Freakin' Little Bastard

**A couple weeks ago Kinsey arrived at my condo and I took Harley out on his leash to meet her.  It's the first time she hasn't run to me and jumped in my arms.  She screamed, "HARLEY!" and ran to him. FLB.

NO ROOM AT THE INN? PUH-LEEZE!

In any other city my place of employment - a bed and breakfast - would be unique, but here in St. Augustine, Florida, unique becomes weird very quickly.  For those of you who were brought up with a less-than-thorough education a brief history lesson:

Many Americans know about Jamestown - the first English settlement in the North American continent.  Well, big woop.  Who cares about Jamestown - the 2nd oldest settlement in America.  It's not even a real town!  YEARS before Jamestown was settled Pedro Menendez landed here and settled the town of St. Augustine.

St. Augustine is the oldest city in the United States.  (So there, Jamestown!)  And don't even start with Thanksgiving in Plymouth, PUH-LEEZE.

We have almost 450 years of history here.  As you can imagine ghost stories abound in our old city.  And the oldest inn in the oldest city has its own ghost stories.  From time to time we have psychics, sensitives, ghost-chasers, and paranormal investigators staying with us.  It's gotten so common that the owner has finally put a "ghost stories" link on our website, although you have to hunt for it.  Even though this is Halloween week, tonight's story is not about ghosts; it's about some other strange visitors we had at the inn recently.  I heard about these guests the morning after they checked in.

I was getting my morning cup of coffee and Kelly, the Inn's manager, waved me over to the Front Desk.  Her eyes gleamed as she asked, "Has anyone told you about our guests in the Dummett* (pronouced Dum-mit) Room?"

"No," I said.  "What's going on?"

"Yesterday afternoon our guests were checking in and asked if the room was pet friendly," she said.

I frowned.  We do allow pets in some of our rooms, but only ground floor rooms with outside entrances and only with prior approval.  I knew this was a problem right away; the Dummett Room is on the 3rd floor.  No way would we allow any pets up there.  Kelly grinned and continued her story.

"I tried to explain that we restricted the rooms because of allergies and the extra cleaning we always have to do," she said.  "They told me, 'No problem, our pets don't shed.'  So I'm thinking it must be birds of some kind, and told them we couldn't have birds either because of the noise.  I was starting to get worried because we were full and I didn't have a pet-friendly room for them.  They were very cheerful and said their pets weren't birds either.  I finally had to ask just what kind of pets did they have."

Kelly stopped and stared at me.  I shook my head; I had no idea.

"Snakes," she whispered.

"Snakes?" I whispered back.  I was trying not to shriek.

"Yes," she said.  "They said they had $10,000 worth of snakes.  They had just been to a convention. They couldn't leave them in the car overnight; the snakes would die.  They had to be in a climate-controlled space."

"Snakes?" I said.  "More than one?"  I was getting a real creepy feeling all over my skin.

"Yes," she said.  "They had 15 of them.  All boa constrictors.  Some were babies, most were small, but there was one large snake about 6 feet long."

"15 snakes?" I said.  I should be a detective with these kinds of interviewing skills.

"You should have seen it," Kelly said.  "They brought in all these plastic tubs and containers and stacked them over by that wall."

I jumped and looked at the wall.  There was nothing there, but just the thought of what HAD been there...

"You let them check in?" I said.

"All the snakes were locked in the tubs; they even had bungee cords around the tubs.  Most of the snakes were also in cloth sacks.  You couldn't see them through the plastic; you wouldn't even know what was in the tubs unless someone told you.  Besides, they had already paid for their reservation," she said.

"I know," I agreed.  Sometimes you just have to say yes.

The guests were a married couple who had just been to the Reptile Breeders Convention in Daytona Beach - evidently a HUGE event.  They raised boa constrictors and sold them.  They were on their way home to Louisiana.  Well, THAT explained a lot.  (No offense, Louisiana, but when a large portion of your area is  bayou a.k.a. swamp, you know that you're going to be lumped in with snakes.  Besides, did you ever see that show The Exterminator on A&E?  Filmed in...Louisiana!)

Once they had permission they brought the tubs in one or two at a time and stacked them in our lobby.  Kelly said the creepiest part was after all the tubs were stacked, you could hear the snakes hissing. HEEBIEJEEBIES.  No one else seemed to notice; a few other guests checked in while the tubs were stacked in the lobby and just ignored them.

"So where are the snakes now?" I asked while I rubbed my hands up and down my arms.

"They stacked all the tubs in the closet in their room!" she said.  "They went out to dinner, had a nice time, and had a nice quiet evening at the Inn."


The process was reversed that morning after the couple had their breakfast and packed to leave.  They brought the tubs down the three flights of stairs one by one and stacked them in the lobby.  They showed one of the babies to Kelly and some other employees who were crazy enough to want to look.  I stayed in the kitchen and peeked around the door.  Then they took the tubs - one by one - out to their car.  They really were very nice people and there was no mess or any problem with the extra visitors.  In fact, they had such a good time I bet they'll want to stay with us next year after the Reptile Breeders Convention in Daytona Beach!  I'll be taking that day off....

That afternoon Kelly and I were talking about our unique visitors.  She said, with a perfectly straight face, that she was glad there was no problem, because she had to get ready for the ghost-hunters who were renting the entire third floor for the next two nights.

15 boa constrictors one night and ghost-hunters the next - just another day at the Inn.

*pronounced Dum-mit - named for the Dummett family who owned the Inn in the mid-1800's.

NOT REALLY A SEPTIC TANK STORY

This is part of my backyard.  What look like small rolling hills are actually part of the septic tank systems of my building and the building next door.  In some parts of Florida the drainfields have to be raised because the water table is so close to the surface.  You don't want the drainfields draining directly into your water table, do you?  I guess the extra 4 or 5 feet of soil and rock make a difference.  Hmm.

So what's with the BUCKET?  The bucket covers an electrical outlet that pokes out of the ground; an underground wire goes from my building to the outlet. The septic tank pump is plugged into the outlet.  Oh yes, we have to have a pump because the drainfields are elevated above the tank and the...uh... liquids in the tank have to be pumped up into the drainfields.  The outlet has to be protected from rain and lawn mowing equipment and a bucket has proven to be better than the plastic covers the septic tank companies install.  The bare space next to the bucket is where a septic tank company recently dug up the yard, opened the lid to the septic tank, and replaced the septic tank pump.  yummy.

Since I am the only condo-owner in my building - the other 2 units are rented - I have taken the responsibility of insuring that the pump is plugged in and operating.  Since I installed the bucket last spring - blatantly copying my neighbors - the bucket has done a wonderful job of protecting the outlet.  I've checked it several times over the past several months and the outlet and plug have been undisturbed.

Late last month my toilets were flushing reluctantly and there was an awful....AROMA...in the backyard, so I stomped over to the bucket in my bare feet and picked it up.  The pump was plugged in, but there was a lot of...water...all around the area.  I then stepped carefully to our building about 20 feet away and opened the circuit breaker box - AHA!  The breaker had flipped off.  I flipped it on.  Sparks flew and it flipped itself off.  I screamed like a banshee.  Luckily the ground was dry by the house or I might have fried myself.

After I recovered from my brief trauma AND scrubbed my feet and legs with antibiotic soap, I called the septic tank people.  The next afternoon a repairman came out and dug up that small portion of the yard.  He got the job done in about an hour.  When I was writing him a check for the new pump, he asked me if I'd ever seen the snake living under the bucket.

What?

"Oh, yea," he said.  "He's got a burrow under that bucket.  He's green and brown and kept peeking out at me while I was working."  My hand shook as I finished writing the check.

I don't care if we get 24 inches of rain.  I don't care if water erupts from every drain in my home.  I don't care if I have to use the public bathroom in Publix for the rest of my life.  I am NEVER NEVER NEVER going near that bucket again.

I MAY BE DUM BUT I AREN'T STUPID: HARLEY GAMES

One of the first "tricks" or behaviors that I taught Harley was sitting and staying for his meal.  In order to eat he has to sit and stay until I release him with the "OK" command.  It is really one of the easiest things to teach a dog because you do it at least once a day and it involves what the dog lives for - MEALTIME.  No matter how bad the dog is or how wild or how stupid he seems, he can do this.  Before I ever attended a dog training class or watched "It's Me or the  Dog" or "The Dog Whisperer" all of my dogs learned this behavior.

From time to time Harley does bark or jump up and down while waiting for his meal.  I then remind him to sit, stay, and be QUIET, then I count to 3 (silently), and release him with an OK.  In his first year with me I would often test him by saying some other word with the same tone, then stop him if he got up.  Believe me, he has this command DOWN.

Several months ago I found myself repeating the OK command.  I set the dish down on the floor, said, "OK" and Harley just sat there looking at me.

"OK!" I repeated.  He then got up and walked to his dish.  This didn't happen often enough to make me even think about it, just often enough to make me repeat myself.  Then I found myself repeating the OK command more than once.  I started wondering if he was losing his hearing.  I didn't give it a lot of thought; I was usually rushing off to work in the mornings when this happened.

Then it started happening in the afternoons.  I would find myself saying, "ok", "OK", OK! Harley!  OK!"  before he would get up and walk to his dish to eat.  What was wrong with him?  Did he really not hear me?  Was I saying it differently?  I still didn't give it a lot of thought, but as it continued and it started to happen at each and every meal, I became annoyed.  I knew the *FLB could hear!  Good gosh,  he could be chewing on a toy in my bedroom and hear a dog walking up the street through a closed living room window!

It occurred to me one day that I NEVER have to repeat the OK command when I'm giving Harley a treat.  What?  A very nasty suspicion took root in my mind and I narrowed my eyes.  "Bastard," I whispered.  I decided to test him.

I touched the lid on his treat jar.  He ran out from my bedroom and jumped around me.  No hearing problem there.  I told him to sit and I used the hand gesture I had learned at dog training.  No, not that hand gesture.  Just a fist that you kind of dip at the dog.  He sat and wagged his tail so hard I wondered if it would detach itself and fly off.

I removed a dog biscuit from the jar and put the lid back on.  The jar and lid are ceramic so the lid always makes a sound whether you are taking it off or putting it on.    Harley started jumping for joy again.

"Oh, boy!  Oh, boy!" he thought as he jumped around my legs.

"Sit," I repeated.  He sat and wagged his tail as hard as he could.  His tongue hung out and his eyes watched that treat like a cat watches a mouse just before she pounces.

"Stay," I said as I put the treat on the floor.  He quivered with the strain of behaving.  He drooled and stared at the dog biscuit.

I stepped away a few feet and in a normal tone of voice said, "Ok."  Before I could draw a breath he had jumped on the treat and run off to the living room with his treasure.

"Hm," I mused.  Slowly it dawned on me.  Harley was messing with me.  For months Harley had been messing with me!  There was no other explanation!  I felt almost betrayed!  Almost.  I knew he was a little bastard, but I didn't realize he could really screw with my head that way.  The months of executing his little plan - what tenacity he showed.  Gradually increasing the amount of OKs he would get before he would eat.  DAMN.

Well, the jig was up.  That afternoon at his dinnertime I called him to the kitchen, told him to "Sit", put his dish filled with food down on the floor, and said,"Ok."  He sat there and looked at me as if he hadn't heard me.  Oh, the treachery.

I walked away.

I sat in my chair in the living room and looked back at him.  He was still sitting but he had twisted his head all the way around and was watching me.  I picked up a book and began reading.  Seconds ticked by.  Then I heard it.  Crunching.

Bastard.

NATURE VS NURTURE: PART DOS

Just 2 or 3 weeks ago I was in the kitchen where I work fixing a cup of coffee to take back to the office.  Carolee is the kitchen assistant and part-time chef.  This particular morning she rushed into the kitchen in an absolute frenzy.  She looked possessed.  

"I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she muttered.  "Is it on me?  Do you see anything on me?"

"No, you look fine," I answered.

"No, I mean, do you see anything ON me?" she asked.  She was brushing her hands up and down her clothes and running them through her hair.

I checked her over.

"No, nothing," I reassured her.

"Good," Carolee said, but she wasn't convincing.  "That means he's still in the car.  How am I ever going to get home?"

Bit by bit her story emerged.

Carolee has to be at work at 7am when she is the kitchen assistant; that means leaving her home in Flagler Beach before 6:15.  This time of year it is still very dark at until almost 7:00.  That morning she got into her car and headed north on A1A to St. Augustine.  A1A runs along the ocean part of the way, then veers inland through the Hammock, a heavily wooded area, then runs back along the ocean. For most of the trip it is dark; there are few lights until you enter St. Augustine Beach.

Carolee was zipping along just minding her own business when she passed a an open and well-lit gas station.  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted something on her rear view mirror.  A second horrified look confirmed that it was a ... banana spider!  
 

At nearly the same instant that she identified the THING on her rear view mirror she passed into the darkness of the Hammock. She careened along A1A terrified that monster was going to jump on her.  She couldn't stop.  What was she going to do?  It was pitch black on the two-lane road; she'd get run over!  (Besides, if she stopped in the woods in the dark and got out of the car how many BUGS, SNAKES, GATORS, ETC. would be waiting for THEIR CHANCE to attack her on the side of the road?)  She squeezed over against the door and kept staring back and forth between the road and the dark rear view mirror.  Was it still there?  Was it looking at her?  What if it was gone?  Where was it?

She rocketed out of the Hammock, past Marineland, and into the brief spot where A1A widens and has street lights next to 3 high rise condominiums.  THERE HE WAS!  He had spun a short web and was HANGING FROM THE REAR VIEW MIRROR.  OMG!  If she took a curve too fast he would start swinging and swing RIGHT INTO HER FACE!!!!

The street lights disappeared behind her; she and her passenger were thrown into pitch darkness again.  She slowed a bit so she could navigate curves without causing the spider to sway or swing.  She couldn't see him at all and hoped against hope that she wouldn't FEEL anything for the next several miles while she pushed ahead in the dark. 

When she entered St. Augustine Beach and the accompanying street lights she looked for the spider; he was gone.  GONE?  Where was he?  She looked all around and twisted and fidgeted in her seat; one minute tensing because she thought she felt something, the next minute brushing herself off frantically.  For the next terrifying 6-8 miles she looked in vain for that spider - and dreaded feeling him on her leg or in her hair or on her arm, or ON HER NECK or ON HER FACE.

The sun was rising as she crossed the temporary bridge over the Matanzas  River into St. Augustine and there he was!  He was scuttling across her headliner "about 90 mph!".  Thank God, he was running AWAY from her.  She hurtled the last couple miles through town and down the cobblestoned and very bumpy St. George Street and into our parking lot.  She slammed on the brakes, turned off her car, opened the door, and tried frantically to get out of her car.  SOMETHING WAS HOLDING HER IN AND WOULDN'T LET GO!  It was her seatbelt.  She jammed the release button and almost fell out of her car.  She slammed the door shut and stood there for several minutes, just glad to be alive and spider-free.

I really tried not to laugh, because it could have been me and I would have been just as upset, but, the truth is, it wasn't me and I started laughing and couldn't stop.  That morning she didn't see any humor in the situation.  She demanded to know how she was going to get home; I suggested she leave her windows down so he could get out.

"NO!" Carolee said.  "Do you know how many creepy-crawlies live in the parking lot?"

I didn't have any more suggestions so I patted her shoulder and took my coffee back to the office.  I ran my fingers through my hair and brushed off my arms a couple times on the way.

I don't want to say Carolee was obsessed with this banana spider, but she admitted later she asked everyone that morning for an answer to her dilemma.  I don't think she met with too many sympathetic responses.  After breakfast service ended she asked Mike, our maintenance guy, if he had any bug spray.  He gave her a big can of Raid.  Carolee opened the hatch of her Yarus, aimed and fired.  She DRENCHED her car.  She said she could see the spray clinging to some webs in there, so she knew the banana spider had been busy.  She shut the hatch, then opened her driver's side door and DRENCHED her car in poison.  She sprayed until the can was empty.  Then she shut the door and went back to work.

When it was time to go home she took a couple of rags and used them to wipe her seat and the steering wheel.  She rolled down her window, but left the others up.  She drove home with her interior reeking of poison, one window down, and the air conditioner blowing full blast.  She didn't see the spider.  (That much poison probably disintegrated him!)  She had been home for about an hour when her significant other Russ said he was going to take the car to run an errand.  "OK," she answered.

When Russ returned he wanted to know what the HELL happened to her her car!  His hands were all sticky from the door, the steering wheel, the controls.  The interior was covered in something sticky and gross!  What was it?  She told him that if he ever LISTENED to her that he would know it was RAID and that she had bombed the car's interior to kill a spider.

Russell took the car to a car wash place and the rumor is he used the high velocity spray to clean the interior.  He never saw the spider.

HARLEY THE WONDER DOG

Thousands of you have asked about the FLB* that often accompanies my darling, precious Harley's name.  Although I had about 10 other topics to discuss today, including a followup to the heebie-jeebies disorder and its manifestations in the presence of Florida's wildlife,  I decided I could not ignore the clamor from  my fans.

Please remember that the number of my followers and number of visitors displayed on my blog are grossly under-reported.  I have to keep a low profile.

Harley will be 6 years old in January.  He is a "mixed terrier".  A Heinz 57.  As someone on the street once called him:  a Disney dog.  Yes, he is incredibly cute.  Now.

When I first saw Harley at the St. Augustine Humane Society in January 2005, my comment was, "He's kind of fugly, isn't he?"  "Noooo," my sister Sheila argued.  "He's very cute!  Look at his cute face."  It had been Sheila's idea to visit the Humane Society that day.  She wanted to adopt a puppy for her family and she knew I wanted a dog, too.  "Now, you know, Karen," she had said in as kind a way as she could manage, " in 10 years you'll be in your 60's and you won't be able to pick up a large dog."  Family.  You can't live without them and laws prevent you from slicing them into chum and tossing them into the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

The puppy that she was taking home was a darling Golden-shephard mix and about 6 months old.  He was galumphing around his cage and I wanted to trade.  The mixed terrier was wiry and had hair sticking out around his neck like an Elizabethan collar.  "I don't know," I wavered.  The card on the terrier's cage read," Name: HARLEY  Age: 1 YEAR  Gender:  MALE   Housetrained:  YES  Likes:  CHILDREN AND OTHER DOGS  Dislikes:  CATS.  Story:  CHILD DEVELOPED ALLERGY TO DOG."  I didn't have a cat and I had heard that terriers didn't shed much.  My only other options were to go home empty-handed or take home a pit-bull-mixed something and wait for the inevitable mauling.  "Just take him out and walk him around," Sheila urged.  I approached a volunteer and she handed me a leash.

When I opened the gate Harley jumped up and down like he had springs in his back legs!  I leashed him up and took him outside.   I was pleased to see that he immediately relieved himself.  So he knew to do his business outside.  In fact, he relieved himself several times, lifting his leg here, lifting his leg there, etc.  He didn't seem interested in me, but that could have been the excitement of being outside.  I squatted down and rubbed my hand down his back.  He WAS wiry, but kind of soft, too.  His ears  were so cute and how about those big brown eyes...I was hooked. 

The next week I brought Harley home.  I let him sniff around and get used to my condo.  I'd only been living there 10 months and everything was still very fresh and new to me.  Even though the carpet was several years old the former owners had kept it in good condition, and I did worry that Harley might have some accidents on it.  I took him out frequently over the next several hours.

The next morning I blocked him in the kitchen/laundry rooms with a baby gate.  He had fresh water and chew toys and a floor to tinkle if he had an accident.  I had house-trained other dogs by blocking them in a kitchen and it had worked well.  I gave him a treat and left.

I hurried home after work to see my new buddy.  I unlocked my back door, opened it, and gasped.  My laundry room and kitchen floors were covered in garbage.  As I picked my way through the trash I was horrified to see a chewed-up library book on the floor.  That book had been on the clothes dryer!  My new Liz Claiborne jacket was crumpled  in with the garbage on the floor, too!  I looked at the wall where my coat had been hanging.  The hook and the 30-lb screw anchor attached to it had been pulled out of the wall and there was a HOLE IN MY WALL.  SOMEONE pulled and tugged and SWUNG on my jacket until he pulled the hook right out of the wall.  In addition, my new jacket was torn.  I wanted a gun.  "HARLEY!" I roared.

The baby gate was knocked askew.  Harley was nowhere to be found.  Finally, I spotted the little beast in my guest bedroom with an empty can of ravioli next to him.  He looked pleased to see me; he wagged his tail.  I was afraid I would kill him if I touched him, so I said very calmly, "Come on, you f***ing little bastard.  Let's go for a walk."  He jumped up and ran past me to the back door.  As I leaned down to clip on his leash he lifted his leg and peed on my dryer.

That night Harley and I drove to Wal-Mart to purchase a dog crate.  I didn't dare leave him alone in my condo.  Already this "free pound puppy" was draining my wallet:  neutering, adoption fee, replacing the library book, one very nice jacket, and now a crate.  I left him in the car while I made the purchase.  Maybe someone would steal him.  No such luck, though, he was waiting when I returned.

The next morning I placed him in his crate with a dish of water and a chew toy.  We had played in and out of the crate the previous evening, so I hoped he would be okay with it while I was at work.  I gave him a treat and left.  I hurried home after work to see my new best friend and let him out of the crate.  When I walked into the living room I at first didn't understand what I was seeing.  The crate was filled with what looked like white yarn!  White yarn and a terrier!  Huh?  Then I saw the hole in my carpet and the CONCRETE FLOOR UNDERNEATH.  Harley managed to somehow push the plastic tray on the bottom of the crate through the opening of the crate - you can slide out the tray without opening the crate door - I guess if you have a pitbull-mix-scary-dog that's what you would do.  Harley managed to push the tray out - I don't know how he "unhooked it" and then he dug a hole in my carpet.

I left him in the crate for fear I would kill him.  I had owned this dog less than a week and he was destroying my home and driving me crazy!  I considered taking him back to the Humane Society.  People did it all the time.   I paced back and forth refusing to look at him.  I refused to look at him because he was sitting and wagging his tail and just looking so happy to see me.  I sighed, stalked back to the laundry room, grabbed his leash, stalked back to the crate, opened the door and leashed him before he could run to the back door by himself.  I muttered, "You f***ing little bastard, I can't believe you dug a hole in my carpet, you f***ing little bastard."

I signed us both up for dog training the next day.  Over the next three weeks I considered taking him back time and time again.  The last time was the day he picked a fight with a chow-mix at dog training class WHILE THE INSTRUCTOR WAS HOLDING HIS LEASH.  I was in tears by the end of class like the mother of a juvenile delinquent who knows the kid has to go to jail.  For some reason I made a commitment in my heart that day to keep him no matter what.  Smooth sailing since then?  NO WAY NO HOW.  I do love the FLB and he never ceases to surprise me.  Each surprise usually costs me money or time but now I usually get a laugh or at least a good story out of it.

Just ask me about his accident 3 months later....another time.

NATURE VS NURTURE: PART I

There are many good things about Florida.  There are many bad things about Florida.  Pictured to the left you see one of the VERY BAD things about Florida.  This Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake was found in a neighborhood in St. Augustine a couple weeks ago.  This picture was on the front page of the St. Augustine Record and, after seeing it, I had the most incredible case of heebie-jeebies I've ever had.  The heebie-jeebies lasted about a week.

If you are unfamiliar with this particular disorder, heebie-jeebies manifests itself as phantom caresses on your legs, the urge to brush your fingers through your hair 476 times a day, nervous tics, and unexplained shudders.  In addition to the physical symptoms the victim also experiences severe psychological fears and behaviors such as:

• Fear of getting in your car in the dark, so you turn on the overhead light to make sure you are alone; you then peer in the back seat, and under your seat, and up near the gas pedal until you start to feel foolish;
  
• Fear of missing what was hiding in your car in the dark and is now slithering or crawling out from its hiding place, so you turn on the overhead light while you are driving AND talking on your cell phone and nervously look on the floor near your feet where you can't see anyway;
• Fear of stepping on some creature while walking your FLB* (your beloved terrier Harley) so you carry a flashlight and shine it where you are going to step, but still shriek when you almost step on the large brown and gray toad who lives near the back door;
• Fear of a tree frog (with little suckers on the end of its legs!) springing onto you as you enter or leave your home so you watch for tree frogs (several live on my back wall) and dash in or out if the heebie-jeebies is especially strong that evening.   Of course the FLB* (your beloved terrier Harley) doesn't help you dash as he is sniffing the large toad sitting near the door and you trip over him and almost fall onto the walkway thinking all the time that the toad is going to leap on your leg while the tree frogs leap onto your head and STICK to your HAIR.
  

Don't pooh-pooh.  The week before this HUGE MONSTER RATTLESNAKE was found, a young woman in Jacksonville rented a car and, when she opened the door and started to slide in, discovered a 3-foot-long red snake lying on her dash sunning himself in the window.  The car rental company had no idea how it got in there.  (HEY STUPID! SOMEONE LEFT THE DOOR OPEN OR THE WINDOWS DOWN!)

Excuse me; I'm hyperventilating.  (nice yoga breath) (again)

To finish the above stories and not leave you hanging, the young woman received a replacement rental car but was very uncomfortable driving it.  (Beginner's heebie-jeebies.)

The 7'3" rattlesnake (the record size is 8'...what a bummer right?) was killed by a trapper who "rolled it up like a hose", stuck it in a sack, threw it in his truck, and drove off.  The trapper was found a couple days later by a reporter and, when asked why he killed the snake instead of capturing it, said, "I was always brought up that the only good poisonous snake is a dead poisonous snake."  I wonder if he is married....   He took the dead snake to a muffler dealer who makes things (ew.) out of snakeskin and traded it for a future car repair.  (I take back the married comment; the darn snake was worth $100 per foot to some dealers.)

This evening when I walked the FLB* (sweet baby Harley) I opened my mailbox and started to pull out the one envelope that was in there.  Suddenly I realized SOMETHING WAS RIDING ON THE ENVELOPE.  I know there are people out there who will not believe this, but I did not scream like a wounded hyena and leap around the mailbox!  I calmly flicked the envelope so that the small frog - yes it was only a frog - hopped off the envelope and out of the hole in the back of my mailbox.

I hope the FLB* (my precious darling terrier Harley) can hold it until morning; I'm twitching and jerking too much to take him out again tonight. Can we say RELAPSE!?!

*FLB=freakin' little bastard

THE BUTS

I've been cleaning and decluttering in preparation for my company coming this weekend.  In the process I've begun to do some things that I put off doing years ago; for example, hanging pictures in my living room, hanging pictures in my hallway, and clearing out the TV entertainment center (it's going outside Saturday for sale or pickup).  I've disliked the entertainment center for a couple of years now but inertia caused me to just sit and hate it instead of getting rid of it.  Let me introduce you to - The BUTS.  So I'm sitting in my living room glaring at the entertainment center and thinking,

"I hate that entertainment center; it leans away from the wall and that's just so unattractive.  And I have something I like much better to put in its place."  Uh oh, here come The BUTS:

• BUT there's so much stuff piled on it; I'll never find a new home for everything.
• BUT even if I could find a home for everything, I'd never be able to move it by myself.
• BUT even if I could move it by myself, I can't have a yard sale with just one item.
• BUT even if I decided to just junk it at the side of the road, I couldn't drag it all the way out there by myself.

The BUTS are related to procrastination; they are the mental voices that discourage me from even trying to do some activity.

I thought that blogging about BUTS would be helpful, but instead I have killed almost an hour on this stupid topic and still have quite a bit of work to do.  Stupid BUTS.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS...NOPE...ST AUGUSTINE

OK, don't freak out, but I've signed up for Google Adsense.  A friend suggested it for earning extra money.  It sounded too good to be true, of course, so I did a lot of research this afternoon.  Results are mixed.

I immediately read as many complaints and as varied problems as I could.  Most of the complaints were from webmasters who earned up to the minimum $100 that Google requires before issuing a check.  They claimed that just when they were expecting their first check, Google accused them of fraud and closed their account.

Aha! said my cynical side.  Typical corporate scam; however, most of the webmasters went on to complain about all the time they put into getting more ads and getting more hits, etc. 

I had almost decided NOT to do it just because I was sure it wouldn't be worth the trouble, AND I already had the Cable TV monopoly and the cell phone behemoth to deal with - I didn't need another company ripping me off.  Then I decided...... I decided to take a leap.  I am so darn conservative and I don't do a lot of things because the results are not guaranteed. 

I thought about it and decided I would only do it if I put NO EFFORT WHATSOEVER into it.  So I filled out the application and it was short and only mildly annoying.  We'll see.  They promise that I can veto up to 200 advertisers (that I may view as objectionable).  We'll see.  If I go through with this you are free to do what you want.  Whoever advertises is chosen by Google, not me.  I'm just letting them use some of my space.  And if I don't like it I'm promised that I can get out of this arrangement quickly and easily.

So call me a sellout.  Whatever.  I need more income.  I am going to try more stuff.  I am going to take more chances.  And so what if it doesn't work out.  At least I tried.

OFFSPRING FROM ANOTHER PLANET

I have not mentioned this NO TV project to my two daughters; I knew they would just think it was another weird thing about their weird mother.  I'm finally getting it that they don't get me and that's OK; I really didn't "get" my  mother either.  That's why we have grandchildren.

Mary Lee (my older daughter who lives here in St. Augustine) noticed Saturday my cable wire was disconnected from my TV and asked me what was wrong with my cable.  So I told her I wasn't watching TV for a year. 

"Why?" daughter asked.

"Because I just wanted to see if I could do it."  mother answered.

"Cool."  daughter comments.  

"Bullshit." mother is thinking.

 I know that's not the end of it.

So I guess the two daughters put their heads together.  I'm sure Mary Lee reported this aberration along with  the new bumper stickers on my car:  EVE WAS FRAMED and DON'T PISS ME OFF - I'M RUNNING OUT OF PLACES TO BURY THE BODIES.  I mean, come on!  My beloved Cabrio is 10 years old and I'm finally only carrying Liability Insurance and I'm driving it as long as I can and have no plans to sell it so if I want to put bumper stickers on it now, so what!  Anyway, they're always comparing notes to see if it's "time".  You know, time to "put me away".  I'm only 55 and they've been preparing for "putting me away" for a decade already.  I've told them both I've got a one-way ticket to Tahiti that I'm using with the last of my strength.  Actually, it's for Nome - I think it would be better to freeze to death on an ice floe than to die all hot and sweaty on a tropical island. 

So...my younger daughter Melissa calls me tonight.  She's driving down from Atlanta for a long weekend with me.  (BTW bringing 2-yr-old Noah - woo hoo!)

"So I hear you're like not watching TV for a year," daughter says.

"That's right,"  mother answers...waiting.

"So does that mean like no one can watch TV?  Like I can't watch Survivor or Amazing Race while I'm visiting?"  daughter asks with her 3-year-old voice.

"That's right, no TV at all.  After all Tim will record everything for you anyway."  mother is screwing with daughter....because she can.

 "Oh... yea...that's right.  Well, that's fine."  daughter sounds pitiful.

"Well, I guess I could hook up the TV in the bedroom and you could spend time with the TV instead of with your mother."  God, this is great.

"No, no, you're right, Tim will record everything."  Daughter is being so nice.  I know it's killing her.

I did let her off the hook, but it will be weird to be all together and not watch TV.  I will have it hooked up so my friend LuAnn can watch while she's here visiting for a week, and it will be hooked up this weekend in case my daughter wants to watch, but I won't use the opportunity to watch.  That would be...like...cheating.