Fine Young Fauves

A while back, we were driving along in the car and Isaac piped up from the back seat, "Mommy, what if Hitler were stung by a bee and yelled, 'I'm hit! Oh, lawdy I'm hit!'" The young Dada-ist, with his most unlikely conflations. This is a natural consequence of one parent letting him watch Jerry Seinfeld's "Bee MOvie" (in which a very fat good ol' boy provokes a bee to sting him and then screams, "I'm hit, oh lawdy I'm hit!") and the other parent allowing him to watch "Victory at Sea" in excessive quantities.

It always seems to be in the car, where we spend so much of our time, that his mind wanders to these odd places. Like the time he mused, "An avalanche is half the size of a grown-up's gut." What the–?? I said, "You mean, an avalanche? You mean like rocks or snow falling down the side of a mountain?" 

He said, "No– no, I mean tarantula." 

I said, "okay… and do you mean half the size of a grown-up's GUT, like intestines?"

He said, "No, I mean HAND."

Okay… so NOT an avalanche being half the size of a grown-up's gut, but a tarantula being half the size of a grown up's hand. That's a fine statement, but substitute a few words here and there and it really gets pretty far off track. 

Or another example, his new pediatrician's name, Dr. Galm, bears a passing resemblance to "gong farmer ." And isn't it just a classic Isaac moment to sit in the car the whole way to the doctor, snickering about "Dr. Gong Farmer," thus combining his natural five-year-old love of poop, with his bottomless store of esoteric information that many adults don't even know about. 

Summer is here. School is out. Sports camp starts Monday. The weather is alternating smothering heat and tropical storms. Last weekend we went to my 20th reunion at Vassar. Oh, LAWDY. I can't fathom that it's been a full twenty years since I graduated, a mere slip of a girl at 21. At the time I planned to be an anthropologist, travel the world, and perhaps write ethnographic novels. I was fresh off 8 months in Kenya and ready for action. But the reality was, I was exhausted and burned out. I went home to Minneapolis, got a job, started dating Ben seriously and settled down. I was weary of having my stuff spread around the world and very sick of being poor. After a few years I had to admit that the anthropology books on my shelf were collecting dust, and the novels were where the action was. I took a writing class, which lead to a writing group, which lead to more and more writing, which finally lead to getting an MFA in writing at Columbia. Then I graduated again, full of hope and promise. Within a month or two of graduation, I landed Binky Urban, one of the biggest most powerful agents in New York. It's amazing that from that promising place, so little has come to fruition. 

That's the problem with reunions. They tend to make you take stock. I had reunion anxiety for some time before the big event itself, and then when I got there I realized it was all either my dear friends or people I didn't care about at all. Neither constituency seemed to find me lacking. I was so glad I had our beautiful boys along by way of an explanation as to my complete career stagnation. (Stagflation?)

Really it was wonderful to be back at Vassar– such a stunning and magical place. When I was there, I DID appreciate it. I appreciated it all the time, but still my appreciation seems in retrospect lacking. All that beauty, freedom, ease and plenty. It was like– it was like winning the lottery, but without all the lawsuits. … I'm at a loss for comparisons as to just how wonderful and LUCKY it was. Of course, as is so often the case, I made my own "luck." I worked hard in high school, I figured out how to apply to good schools out east, I got the funding and got myself there. I'm impressed with young me when I think of it, but at the time I was downright cocky, and had the arrogance to be disappointed by it– my fourth choice. I wanted to go to Brown! Indeed, pretty much everyone at Vassar also had wanted to go to Brown… so I was in good company. Little did I know that Vassar was a way better place for me than Brown would have been. I had to do all this figuring from brochures and hearsay. 

Actually one reason I even applied to Vassar, or even heard about it at all (living in Minneapolis in pretty humble surroundings), was because a man in our neighborhood referred to my going there in a mocking way. I worked for him cleaning apartments and planting lilies  and when he saw me I was generally covered in dirt. He said to me one time, "Hey– why don't you go to Vassar. You'd make a GREAT Vassar girl!" But he said this sarcastically, with an evil smirk on his face. The bastard. Indeed I thought at first that he said "wassal." I had no idea what he was talking about. But later I pulled out my Selective Guide to Colleges, which I had inherited from my Brown-bound boyfriend and mentor. And I figured out that the jerk must have meant Vassar. And I said to myself, "You asshole– I'll show you!!"

I did. I showed him!

Weird how such things can turn into strokes of luck.

Anyway, we had a great weekend. We sweltered in nearly unbearable heat, but still it was fun. Isaac came away with the impression that this is "COLLEGE" with a capital C. I hope it's a good influence on him. He was also very impressed by the massive 32-inch telescope… they opened the observatory one night and Isaac got to be the assistant– he got to do the lever that moved the entire roof!

At the moment though he's standing next to me and begging me, begging me to STOP writing!! We need to make strawberry ice cream, seeing as we went strawberry picking a couple days ago and have already made some stunning unbelievable sorbet.

Life is good…  

I just got home from my 20th reunion at Vassar. Class of '88– woo-hoo! I've gone to every reunion along the way, thus returning to my heyday at regular five-year intervals for noursihment. I do LOVE it there. Heavenly! It's such a lovely, otherworldly sort of place. Lo these many years later I still have a dreamlike disbelief in my good fortune. 

This time, though, a suffocating blanket of heat nearly smothered the festivities.

Every once in a while I look at Isaac with fresh eyes. Last summer there was a moment in which we first met our new neighbors. Isaac was wearing DVD headphones from the minivan and stalking down the driveway with his pink cap gun when he encountered them. At that moment, I thought to myself: "I wonder if Isaac is a little bit eccentric?" The other day I had such a moment. Isaac was dressed head to toe as a tiny businessman. He was wearing khakis and a little blue blazer, a Brooks Brothers shirt and a child-sized clip-on tie. He was also taking the temperature of pizza with an instant-read thermometer. (110 degrees F.)

The businessman phase was adorable, a great compliment to Ben, kind of pain for me to coordinate, and blessedly short-lived. Isaac opened his eyes on Monday morning two weeks ago and his first words were, "I need a tie." I have no idea why this sudden need to dress formally for school. We didn't have one! He was forced to wear his business clothes with an open collar for a day or two until we managed to scare up a couple. The businessman phase also created shoe issues at school. There they have indoor shoes that stay at school and outdoor shoes. Makes a lot of sense, especially because in Montessori the floor is an important workspace. But for Isaac this was a problem– he needed his brown leather indoor shoes all the time, because they completed his look. This problem became fully apparent one day mid-week, when on the way home he admitted that he had smuggled his shoes out of school in his lunchbox! "But how else could I get them home without Miss Beki seeing?!" he demanded. "How else?? How else??" I tried to sort through the ethical problems of deception, and also address the practical matter of needing the brown shoes with him always.  I e-mailed his teacher and she took the whole thing in stride. She said he could have the shoes with her blessing. "I know better than to try to rationalize with a (compact) captain of industry," she said.

He's really gotten into grooming also. He was home sick for a couple days last week (asthma, cough, ear infection), but not too diminished. At one point we went out on a Target run. I said he could get a little something in the toy department, and ultimately he settled on a little toy shaving kit with foamy soap, a comb and a little mirror. He proceeded to spend an hour in the shower shaving repeatedly. Then shaved another four or five times throughout the day. The minute Daddy came home– shaving time! (Daddy was very kind about it, and stood patiently by offering pointers.) He begged that I invite his little friend from school over for a sublime playdate: "We'll shave, and then we'll watch Scooby-Doo!"

Overall while he was home sick he wasn't really sick enough to be in any way placid. Indeed, he was driving me crazy, and combined with Little Crazy (AKA ELias) I was about to lose my mind entirely. Finally I gave him the directive to "watch Scooby-Doo until your eyes bleed." Which of course he loved! Here was a project he could sink his teeth into. He watched a good three hours or so without flagging. (We have the new series "What's New Scooby-Doo" on DVD. I didn't realize it wasn't the original when I bought it– and I find it quite jarring for Scooby and the gang to be talking on cell phones, using laptops, and relying on GPS in the Mystery Machine.) I came in to check on him, "Are your eyes bleeding yet?" I asked.

"Nope!" he said from his blissed-out horizontal posture.

"Has your brain completely rotted on its stem?" I asked. "Can you do simple math? What's two plus two?"

"Four!" he cried. But eventually I decided he really was going to rot his mind with too much Scooby-Doo, if such a thing was possible. "I think we'll have to limit your TV time," I said. "Even when you're sick."

"Okay," he agreed. How rational of him! I thought. Then he added, "How 'bout 20 hours a day?" 

He LOVES being an invalid. Just give him a heating pad, plump pillows, a laptop, and breakfast on a tray–  he'll be happy for hours. He would make Proust proud. I think Proust, at age five, was probably about like this. You should see how delighted he is with his two bottles of medication (cortisone because his asthma medication isn't controlling his cough well enough, and antibiotics because of his ear infection) and his two inhalers. He shows them to anyone who comes in the house. Even if they're just dropping something off or here to do some work. This reminds me of a conversation a few months ago, when he had a simple cold. He said, "Mom, can I have one of those beds with wheels on it?"

I said, "You mean a gurney? You just have a cold, Isaac. You don't need a gurney."

He said, "Well, how 'bout a wheelchair then?"

I said, "Isaac! That's crazy. It's just a cold! You don't need a wheelchair."

He said, "Crutches? Could I AT LEAST have CRUTCHES??"

Aak.

This love of being sick makes it sort of tricky to determine when he actually IS sick. Last week I took him to school on Monday and Tuesday despite his protests that he was SICK. It wasn't until Wednesday morning, when he coughed the entire 20-minute drive to school, that I realized he actually was telling the truth. I took him to the doctor later that day and from her sober expression I could see that he actually was SICK. I wonder now if he has been truly sick on some level for more than a month. We went out on the Bath Salamander Walk in early April… we had a wonderful time, out there in the woods at night with our flashlights. (It's a study of the salamander migration, run by a wonderful biologist from Akron.) They lent Isaac a headlamp and gave him a whole bucket of salamanders to release. It couldn't have been more fun– but we froze our butts off and Isaac came up sick a few days later. On some level, I think he's been mildly sick ever since. Anyway, he seems totally fine most of the time and I'm sure that now a round of antibiotics will kill anything that's still hanging around him.

A tiny businessman who loves to be sick– Hm. … perhaps he'll be the next Howard Hughes… 

Here is a photo of our huge some-kind-of-pear tree. It's burst forth with white blossoms in the last few days. Such a wonderful discovery!! It's right outside our bedroom window, so in the morning (if we're not up way before dawn…) we get to see the sunrise through it. The boys are in this photo also, Isaac in his shades and knee socks on the way to school. I don't make a habit of posting photos of them, mostly because I read the NY Times three part series on pedophiles, but they are pretty small here… also here's a photo of the yard now that it's officially spring. There's this beautiful purple haze I don't think really shows up here well– violets blooming in the grass.

 Spring has sprung around here. The birds are chirping. The violets and springing up. The daffodils and yellow and the bluebirds are blue. But. If you think it's all duckies and bunnies you would be mistaken.

Vermin-wise we seem to be making a seamless transition from mice to wasps and ants. Indeed, we had this lone-wolf of a mouse creating a public nuisance last week. Pooping on the stove top (grrrr…), nibbling his way through a small part of a brand new loaf of bread (grrr!) such that I had to throw the whole thing out, etc. So Isaac and I dutifully broke out the live trap, and sure enough, there he was the next morning, staring up at us with his inky black eyes. 

I took him down to the creekside for his new life in the woods, where I can only hope he will be eaten soon by an owl. (It encourages me that I've been hearing one at night.) He was clearly not the smartest mouse in the world in the first place (all the other mice had the sense to move out) and his night in a tin box perhaps had left him even more disoriented than usual. I unlatched the lid, and leaped back, assuming he would spring out and run for cover. Instead he just sat there, fur slightly damp from his own pee. I held the lid open with a stick while he ambled out, and very slowly nonchalantly made his way off into the underbrush.

Later that night, probably about 3 a.m., I found myself trying to scratch my foot off of my lower leg. I found myself wondering, really, what could possibly be the downside of total foot (or why not knee down?) amputation. Diagnosis: poison ivy. I got it going out to release the stupid mouse! If you've never had it, just imagine the itchiest possible bug bite. Then add hives to it. Then make it glow from within. Then make it throb with itchiness, such that tearing your own flesh seems a very fine idea indeed. Oh yes, and if you indulge the desire to itch it, it only gets worse. Oh yes, and it spreads. What started as a brush against a tiny bit of ankle– I was wearing long pants and trend-of-2006 Croks– is now up two-thirds of my calf. 

Poison Ivy and I never had any trouble whatsoever before last year. I happily maintained total ignorance of what it looked like, where it lived, and what it could do to a person.  Then we bought this place, which is like poison ivy HQ, and I began to develop a reaction to it. This got more pronounced as the summer wore on, and now, this spring, before the little plants seem that they could even have peeked their heads up, it's here with a vengeance. I just went to the CVS and spent vast sums of money stocking up on poison ivy remedies. (I recommend the Cordaid scrub and spray combination– it's pricey but does work well). I spent some time on Saturday examining the many ways to kill it in the weed-killing aisle at Home Depot. I can see now that battling poison ivy is going to be a subplot of the remainder of my adult life. 

"Leaves of three, let it be. A vine with hair, best beware." Do you realize we have monster poison ivy vines, ropes as thick as your arm, going up 60 foot trees? My plan for these– and it dovetails nicely with the other subplot of the remainder of my life, rose greed– is to a) cut through the vines near the base of the trees, thus cutting the supply lines to the whole vine; b) spray the open wounds with RoundUp, the PC weed killer, and c) plant enormous tree-climbing roses to then suck up and strangle out what feeble poison ivy growth remains. (I just ordered a Paul's Himalayan Musk for my first try.) I'll have to wear a hazmat suit to do this, of course, as we've now established that I'm allergic to the stuff, and getting more so all the time. But this is my plan… I'll check back to let you know if it works.

Speaking of rose greed, I'm working through it. I have spent the last three months reading rose books. Ben has tired of finding me, when I have only ten minutes, sitting amid a pile of open rose encyclopedias with my laptop humming, cross-referencing rose listings. I've made some initial selections. After much thought and research, I finally settled on "Gloire de Dijon" to climb on the pergola that doubles as our front porch. I called back my old dear friends, Graham Thomas and Golden Celebration, although I was sorry to learn that "Comtes de Champagne" was sold out. These form a yellow area… and so on to the pinks, "The Ingenious Mr. Fairchild" is on my short list, and "Wife of Bath" is there too, if only for the title. I need to find a place for "Peace." I need… thousands of dollars and a team of strong men, preferably bare-chested, to break the sod and prepare the soil and dig many, many "almighty" holes (you know the old saying, "two-bit rose, ten dollar hole"?– those holes are a bitch to dig.) But… in the meantime, I did manage with the help of two small children to get my three tiny Gloire de Dijons in the ground this weekend. I also dug up this poor wisteria at our old house, which our neighbor had aggressively pruned down to a stick, and moved it here where it is more welcome. I'm not sure whether it will survive this ordeal, but wisterias are notoriously tough…

I'm also happy to report that I just ordered us a big fat worm bin and two pounds of wiggly red worms. Seems that with a septic system instead of city sewers, the garbage disposal is frowned upon. So my plan is to have worms eat our garbage and make soil for the garden. They say this is easy to do. I fear it's not all that easy, but we'll see.

There's so MUCH potential around here. I mean– 7.82 acres!! Our old property, including the house was a stunning .04 acres!  It's totally overwhelming. I keep telling myself… work in progress… gonna take years… one step at a time… but my mind is just swimming with options.

I'm going on a magnolia tour at the local arboretum to pin down what sort of magnolias I should put where.

The evil man who had a pending sale on this property for a year, and who came here and tore out OUR huge rhododendrons also tore out a bunch of lilacs. THese he tossed in a heap behind the house and left for dead. But they are still alive, have sent shoots up and even have buds. My project this week is to find them a home, dig some massive holes and relocate them.  

I'm giving some thought to the whole native plant movement, and how I can develop areas that will feed the bugs, birds, and support the ecosystem, butterflies, and migratory birds.

I've got two bluebird houses up and am watching, watching, watching at least one pair of bluebirds… they seem to be house hunting and giving this area a second look.

Wouldn't it be nice to create a clearing down by the creek? So we could get at it, and sit there… like maybe a bench and a weeping willow?  But that will take some serious RoundUp, a chainsaw, and much heavy lifting.

Vegetables– there's some prime land that has vegetable garden written all over it. But this will require a huge amount of work, a fence, and a rototiller.

(A bunny already nibbled on my Gloire de Dijon…)  

I think I'm going to put a little herb and flower garden for the children right up by the terrace, where they can water it while we're sitting there drinking lemonade.

I'm waiting… maybe this week… to see what we have here in the way of blooming trees. It looks to me like maybe this huge tree we have right outside our window (some sort of non-fruiting pear?) is about to burst into bloom. 

Wasps are flying around the dining room windows again– Elias came up with a good sign for them, "Airplane spiders!" Ants are hard at work between the kitchen floor boards. The carpenter bees are making a comeback at the play structure. 

Ah well… nature is not my friend. Not by any stretch. But we're working on our differences and you could say we're civil. Yes. I have a civil relationship with nature. That's good enough for now.  

A couple weeks ago, Elias turned 18 months old. In a related story, he's developed a sudden love for backhoes.

I think of all the stages of human development, the toddler is the cutest. Of all toddlers in the history of mankind, Elias is the very cutest ever. (Oddly enough Isaac held this title also.) Marching around on his stumpy legs, signing important information with his dimpled plump fingers, maintaining a near-constant smile and a steady flow of "Swee'Pea"-esque patter, he is the quintessential toddler. (Some of the things he has signed: "This is too hot, you need to blow it more."; "I'm sleepy and I need to nurse."; "I love airplanes!") His cuteness blends the Kewpie-doll he was as a baby with the "Been Farming Long" big boys.  In fact, the other day he was wearing little striped bib overalls like those and little red shoes, and I felt that now his toddler cuteness had reached its apogee. In my pre-children fantasies, my ideal imaginary child was a toddler just like him. 

But.

In my pre-child fantasies I never had to face the flip-side of having a toddler in one's life: the mischief. Is there any stage more exhausting than the toddler? I guess infants are incredibly exhausting too, you could make a solid case for that, but at least they sit still. If you plop them in a baby seat, they just sit there and play with a rattle. I could say that at least toddlers sleep through the night, but that would be non-teething toddlers. It seems to me that Elias has been teething for about 8 months straight. He has a lot of teeth to show for it, and he rarely sleeps more than two hours in a row. This is a source of the "mommy brain" people talk about. Two plus two? Huh? Ask me later.

But the real trouble with toddlers is their endless inquisitiveness about the world around them. This is their job, I know. But Elias's ability to climb up on the counter/the middle of the dining room table/ the stairs/ the dresser/ etc. makes it hard to keep him out of trouble. He has nothing but vertical and horizontal mobility (he can run!), but not much in the way of sense. And certainly no interest in the fact that some things in the world could be harmful to him, and other things in the world could be harmed by him. This means that I need to chase him all day long, without ever stopping. The slightest gap in vigilance leads to either a major mess or damage to the child or damage to something in the house. Getting quiet in the other room? Run!! See what he's into now. Simple tasks are endlessly fragmented. Fold a shirt, get him off the counter. Fold another shirt, stop him from putting trucks in the toilet. Fold a pair of pants, run upstairs to find he's unloading the dresser and all the clothes folded yesterday are now unfolded.  I should add that if I had a full complement of personal assistants, this would not be such a problem. I would need a chauffeur to take Isaac around; a housekeeping team; a laundress; a chef; a night wet nurse, and so on. But if I had these people, and had nothing else to do save chase Elias and keep him out of mischief, I think, MAYBE I could manage it. Maybe. 

Meanwhile, he's been doing R&D on a cookbook, I take it. His working title must be something like "Toddler Treats : Culinary Creations By and For Toddlers." To give a sense of but one genre of mischief, here are some highlights: 

Vichyssoise a l'eau du chien
Immerse pieces of grilled cheese sandwich in the dog water. Stir with a carrot until fully dissolved. Serve chilled.

Das Boot
Place your winter boot on the table. Insert spoon. Scoop out lint and what-have-you. Attempt to eat it.

Trail Mix al Rustico
Combine partially eaten Gerber's wagon wheels, regurgitated grapes and dry dog food. Toss lightly in dog dish. Serves one– or more if stranded in the arctic following a plane crash.

Bobbing for bacteria
Dip your apple in the toilet water. Lick wet apple. Smack lips. Rush into the other room to proudly show Mama your new invention. Don't be surprised when she throws your apple away and swabs you down top to toe with Purell. (NB: to makers of Purell: why not a mouthwash?) 

Coins
If you find a coin anywhere, pop it in your mouth and savor it. It won't be long till someone stops you.

Cheerios de la Central Park Zoo Sidewalk
Find Cheerios partially crushed on the sidewalk of the Central Park Zoo in New York City. Pack them in your pie hole before anyone notices.

Sel Aux Petits Pieds
Dump a pound or so of Kosher salt on the kitchen floor. Walk in it, leaving tiny footprints. Sit down and lick your feet.  (Raisin Bran variation: begin as above, only add a full box of Raisin Bran to the salt on the floor. Wallow in it, getting flakes stuck to your feet and knees as you attempt to eat the raisins.)

 A final note: Isaac has been working on a few things himself. Here's one: "Duck, Duck, Fart"– a game by and for five-year-old boys. (With apologies to the creators of Duck, Duck, Goose.)  

This morning we began our exceedingly AMPLE spring break from Isaac's school. Two full weeks! Wow! That's… a lot. When I say "morning" I should clarify that I mean "three in the morning." Isaac had a bad dream and then couldn't get back to sleep. So he then chose to torture me for the remaining three hours, while Elias slept like a lamb. Isaac was sleeping on the floor in our room (because he's scared…) and after he woke up commenced to toss and turn and fidget, such that I couldn't sleep. I tried getting up and helping him talk through the nightmare (basic monsters), and reimagine a new ending. After that didn't work I brought him into his room, turned on the light, and set him up with a glass of water and a big stack of wonderful books. I returned to bed, and fifteen minutes later, Isaac came in to find out the time. This devolved into checking the time every five minutes, literally, and finally was reduced to Isaac actually sitting in a chair beside my bed, holding the clock in his lap and gazing at it. When the time would move slightly forward, he would tell me this.

Finally around 5:30 you will not be shocked to learn that I lost my temper, carted Isaac into his bed, yell-whispered at him, and quietly slammed his door. I turned a deaf ear to his sobbing. Ten minutes elapsed, during which my eyelids made light contact. Then Isaac came in and told me that he had hurt himself. (Trust me: it was a minor injury.) During all of this, Ben managed to sleep on the floor, where he had been sleeping with Isaac in the first place. When the clock finally clicked over to 6:01, I woke Ben up and sent both Ben and Isaac downstairs.

I had a vain hope of catching a wink in that narrow window before Ben had to leave for work, but, needless to say, Elias woke up promptly at that moment.

Thus dawn found me, standing at the sink for the one millionth time, bone tired, washing dishes by hand. This makes me feel like Ma Ingles, and not in a good way. We're actually getting a dishwasher delivered today! After only nine and a half months. It's a long story, but suffice it to say that the new dishwasher was entangled in the entire kitchen renovation project, and installing a new one requires actually cutting the counter to get the old one out, and that seemed like it should wait "just a couple months" until the new kitchen happens. But now just a couple months are coming up on a year and the daily grind and dishpan hands of it are getting beyond tolerance. To say nothing of the fetid water that collects in the old non-functional dishwasher. In any case, we decided finally to cut the counter, make a mess, get the old one out, and just set the new one in its place until the kitchen finally happens. May– so I'm told. We do have beautiful drawings now, and that inspires hope. The new dishwasher in itself will be life-altering.

Last weekend I had a novel experience: I skied to the mailbox. We had quite a blizzard– 18 inches in 36 hours or something like that. It happened over the weekend and we were quite snowed in. However we were prepared, had lots of food and wood for the fireplace, and really it was quite cozy and nice. The snow was the fluffy, sparkly sort and knee deep at its low points. I took my new cross-country skis, and skied directly out the back door, all around the yard, and then down the long driveway to the road. it was gorgeous! But now it's warmed up again, the green grass is exposed in wide swathes, the creek is swollen with melted snow, and I saw two robins hopping around yesterday. This must mean that we're in the home stretch. Spring can not come too soon.

Also, the other night I was working in the kitchen when I saw a massive dark creature lurking out in the trees, not far from where Lena was tied out on her dog run. I thought it was a bear at first, although we don't have bears in ohio, but then saw that it was a huge untethered dog. A mastiff, it turned out.My fear was that it would attack Lena or vice versa, and then I would really have a problem on my hands. So I rushed out and brought her in. the dog ran off. But over the next few days, kept appearing again and scaring the wits out of me. On Friday it came right up under my windows, and I could see that it had a) no collar and b) big sores on its feet. So I figured it was a stray, and after making a few calls, finally ended up talking to the dog warden about it. They sent a man out right away– again a difference between life in the city!

So the man tracked the dog through the woods (we still had enough snow to make this easy), and returned a little while later, saying that the dog belongs to our neighbors over there. He said that the tracks led up on to their deck, and the door was wide open. No one home. He discovered that the dog was in the house, and closed the door. He said he would leave them a note on the door to tell them not to do that again. I felt pretty bad for having called to dog warden on my neighbors, especially since until recently we were deluded enough about country living (which it is NOT) to imagine that we could let Lena out for a pee and it would be no problem. But then we figured out that she was running way too far away, close to the road, to various neighbors, and generally not exercising good judgement. I installed a dog run maybe a month ago, and we're looking to activating the invisible fence, whichis here already.

Anyway, I intended to go over and apologize to the neighbor I've never met and bring him a six pack (but is he an alcoholic?) or a plate of cookies (diabetic?) or something, just so as to not start a blood feud. I'll admit to having a low-grade fear that the dog was running loose and the door standing open because he had keeled over from a heart attack or been clubbed by an intruder or something like that. Well, yesterday I drove by the place and noticed that the bright orange notice from the dog warden was still there on the door! So then I was really worried that he was dead on the floor and perhaps the dog was eating his remains. Or the dog had killed him and was the Hound of the Baskervilles all over again. Or that the man was an idiot who had gone to the Bahamas, leaving the dog to fend for himself, and by closing the door the dog warden had trapped the dog without food and water.

In any case, after dispatching Ben to make sure that the orange thing was indeed the dog warden slip, I decided to call the non-emergency police number of Bath. (Picture sleepy sheriff with feet on the desk, I think.) I explained the whole thing. I then worried for a few more hours, mind running wild with possibilties. However, the real answer was one I hadn't considered: the man was home, had been home all weekend, and was clueless. He hadn't noticed the dog warden thing because he never uses his front door. (Hey, I could see it from the main road…) So now I'm really in the dog house, having called the dog warden AND the police…! 

But, I should say that I'm very happy to not have a dead, half-eaten body anywhere nearby. Perhaps this is all the result of long-term sleep deprivation?

I'm writing this with Bob the Builder blaring in the background, Isaac sitting on my back chewing gum and insisting that I smell his breath periodically, while alternately nursing Elias and lifting him down off the desk every third or fourth word. I saw this mommy lifestyle book in the bookstore the other day and just happened to open to a page that said, "Is your special alone time when you go to the dentist?"

Pretty much!!  Hello two weeks of "vacation."

It's primary election day here in Ohio. I encourage you to not let a little ice storm keep you home. What? Horizontal ice chips aimed right at your eyes? What else is new? Go out and vote. Specifically, vote Obama. You can vote for him on the basis of substance , or hotness . It doesn't matter to me. Just do so.

Okay, okay, you can vote for Hillary if you loved 1992. I'll accept that.

But above all, if you want us out of Iraq before the dawn of the 22nd century (it's only 92 years away), DO NOT vote McCain.

I'm Catherine Park, and I approved this message.

My article in Garden & Gun magazine is on newsstands now.  At least some newsstands. I don't know how well distributed it is.  In any case , since it's a regional  (southern) magazine, and I'm pretty sure that the majority of my readers are not southern,  I'm going to attempt to post it here. Please note that of course, as they are wont to do, the editors felt obligated to mark their territory. This article has been amended a bit. I think it's about a third shorter, and parts got mashed together that I would have better liked separate. In some cases the meaning has been subtly shifted. But this is the way it works. This is no way deters me from suggesting, asking, nay BEGGING them to let me do it again. I had fun doing it, and I really enjoyed the check they sent me. And it's a very nice magazine… beautifully designed… literature and art and elegant gardens I love along with the affluent, southern "sporting life" elements that are very foreign  to me. You can browse around the magazine at www.gardenandgun.com . In any case, let's see if I can post it… 

 (click on the link below the thumbnail)

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It's pretty pretty these days if you like this kind of thing.

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