Carpet Lessons

Halle learned a valuable lesson about graffiti today: If your plan for getting out of trouble is blaming your sister, avoid writing your own initial all over the carpet.
Two weeks ago, the carpet in her bedroom had a much different story. I greeted her Sunday morning when she came downstairs. "How did you sleep?" I asked.
"Bad. I slept bad."
"Oh no. Why?"
"Oh, because I throwed up all over the floor."
"You WHAT?"
"Yeah, Grover throwed up too."
I went upstairs with her to survey the damage. The bathroom light next to her bedroom was on. "Why is the light on in the bathroom?"
"Well, because I slept in there last night."
I noticed a clean guest towel crumpled next to the bathroom rug. She had thrown up all over her bed, the carpet, and the guest bed next to her bed. Afterwards, instead of going downstairs and informing me of the situation, she curled up on the bathroom rug and went right back to sleep.

After church, we met a friend and went to a Harness race. Standing in a crowd of spectators, I glanced down and saw that Halle's pants were around her ankles. Diarrhea strikes. I shoved Morgan into my friend's arms and rushed Halle to the bathroom for a change of clothes. I wonder if Halle will have a recurring nightmare of forgetting to wear pants when she gets older.

Last week, we almost got swept away by a tornado. It was during this instance that I was reminded that I am the worst possible person to be with in a crisis situation. My friend whom I had met for coffee had received a phone call that a friend who lived near her had lost her house. So, as we sat waiting for news, power, or a favorable change in the weather, she happened to mention that her house was a mess. "Maybe it won't matter," I said. Immediately after saying this, I realized it was not a comforting comment.
I suppose the moral of all these events is that you can never be prepared for everything that comes. But you can learn to keep your mouth shut. Obviously, I'm still working on the second.

Fish

I shouldn't be allowed to own fish. I wouldn't even have fish except my mother insisted that I get a tank so that my daughter could experience the soothing floaty action. I clean our tank when you can't see the fish any more. Today, it had again reached the point where I wasn't sure if the fish were alive or dead. I cleaned the tank thoroughly and dumped the fish back inside. (Neither fish are named, a testament to how unattached everyone is to the fish - even the bat that terrorized our household last week got named "Alexander".) Not too long after, I clearly saw them floating at the top of the tank. One would assume that the fish would have died in the putrid sewage they were swimming in previously. Instead, they choose to die when they can actually breathe and see the world. Maybe they were shocked by how my oxygen their gills pumped, or by seeing our cat Rex for the first time. (They don't even know that he's less frightening now that his herpes is under control.)

Now that I've cleaned the tank, I'm considering getting another fish. I've gone to all that trouble - it seems a shame to waste a clean tank. If I did, I would get a gold fish, which I could dump in our pond outside when I tired of it. The last time we did that, Halle actually caught "Black Betty" in the pond, flipped her on the bank, and discovered that fish can't survive out of water. Again, too much oxygen can kill a fish.

At least the fish chose a good time of year to die. They will be excellent fertilizer for a really tiny plant.

Beware of Offering to Help

When people offer help “if I need anything”, I often wonder what “anything” means to them. Tonight, I wondered if that included bat eradication. Fortunately, the flying rodent did not transform into a vampire, which would have been at least equally frightening as the large, furry, pteranodon-like creature I almost stepped on.

Climbing the stairs with both children in tow, I noticed a furry-looking creature the next step up. “Wait a second,” I said to Halle she raised her foot. I put my hand on her stomach, keeping her from ascending. “That looks kind of like a bat.” Hearing the name of its species, the bat removed all doubts by screaming like a fire alarm. I grabbed both children, lifted the gate at the bottom of the stairs off its hinges, and threw it on the floor. The three of us sought refuge in my bedroom. “Wait here,” I told the girls, and grabbed my phone.

Calling a friend, I asked for advice. Sonja suggested covering it with a blanket. I reached for a blanket, cast the net, and watched in horror as a bat wing found the edge and then sidled along. The bat’s screams were thinly muffled by the blanket which I will now wash at least three times. The bat succeeded to fly upward two stories to the skylight, where it was impossible to be trapped. Shooting it was clearly the only option.

My friend’s husband called her. Sonja answered the telephone with the greeting, “Kara has a bat in her house and she’s planning to shoot it.” “That is a poor decision,” he replied. Fortunately, another friend had supplied her son Zach, who is a hunter. I met him at the door with an air rifle.

As I pointed out the pest and explained the situation, I told him I didn’t know how it had entered my house. Halle’s voice from behind my bedroom door came, “It’s Grover’s bat! Grover let it in!” I felt strangely betrayed by her imaginary friend.

Zach shot the bat, but only made it scream again and fly around before it attached itself to the same spot. Changing tactics, Zach was able to trap the bat with a telescoping net, then cover the top with a blanket and release the furry flyer into the outdoors. I paid Zach with cookies.

Halle told us Grover would be very surprised that the bat was gone. I told her to relay to Grover that I did not want a bat in the house again. She called him up. “It’s for you,” she said, handing the phone to Zach. Zach declined talking to Grover, but I think the monster got the message. Let’s hope so. 

My Vote is for East

This past weekend, the girls and I headed the Great Wolf Lodge on the other side of the state. The lodge houses an indoor water park, maintained at a balmy 80 degrees year round. The water park, in my opinion, has way too many surprises (water shoots, dumps, gurgles, and sprays at different times and places constantly) but I guess some people enjoy that sort of thing. I'm not a big one for surprises.

As soon as we started home, I realized that my plan of reversing the directions I had printed out in order to come home might be a flawed plan. I got hopelessly lost. At one point, I said to Halle (in an empty parking lot), "We're going EAST! I think we're supposed to be going west. I can't believe I did that!" Halle interjected, "I would like to say right now that my vote is for east." It turned out she was right, which must have been nice for her because about ten minutes away from the hotel, she had thrown up all over herself.

We pulled over to get her cleaned up. "Grover threw up, too," Halle told me. Grover is one of Halle's imaginary friends. He has a herd of cows that travel with him, as well as a couple of dinosaur buddies and his cat named Lotion. Fortunately for everyone, imaginary vomit does not smell or create much of a mess.

The whole adventure home (which took four hours instead of two) reminded me of one that I took two years ago with my Dad and sister-in-law Stephanie. Attending my brother's boot camp graduation, we stayed in a hotel with a toilet that sprayed water all over Steph, I threw up in a McDonald's drive-through, and we got so lost that we drove two hours out of our way before realizing our mistake. In addition to this, I was turning left and keeping an eye on some kids who were J-walking to the right of my car. I failed to notice a driver careening toward us, which Stephanie pointed out. Slamming my foot on the gas, we safely reached the turn lane. I stretched my hand over to my dad in the passenger seat. "High five for staying alive," I said. Dad slapped my hand and Stephanie recovered from her heart attack.

At any rate, I think I've decided to buy a GPS. It would give me a few less surprises.

I really didn't think the "check engine soon" light had a, "now" after it, but apparently it does. I had had the light checked out a couple weeks ago, but was told it was an emissions thing and that I was fine to continue driving it as long as there wasn't an environmentalist behind me. So Sunday evening, I planted my girls in their car seats, had a cup of hot tea in the center console and was surprised to find that the check engine light did not come on - because nothing did. The car would not revive, regardless of my excellent pep talk.

I've been giving cars pep talks since I drove my first car, the '66 Chevy Impala, which was roughly the size of a barge. It would often pass out on me, in which I would pop the hood, look at the gigantic engine, and then begin my talk. "Listen, you and I both know that I have no idea what I'm looking at, let alone how to help you. So if you want fixed, you had better get yourself together and get us home where there's someone who can nurse you back to health." It often worked. Today, it did not.

Kindly, the car did not die on my birthday. It waited a full 24 hours after the date in question. Four years ago, my jeep did not have that decency. The morning of this birthday in question, I went to work and then commenced vomiting every 15 minutes. I told my boss (near a toilet) that I needed to leave work and seek medical attention. I drove myself to the hospital (taking a couple of pit stops along the way) and then was given a couple bags of IV fluid. After I was discharged, I went to crank the old girl up, and was met with a wrrrrr-rrrrr cough. It had to be jumped twice before I was able to stumble home. Willie, not being much of a phone person, did not check any of his messages and was surprised to find me in bed when he arrived home. He had brought me chocolates. Since I was not in much of a mood for them, he ate them himself.

So this morning, I learned to jump the car by myself. I watched a you tube video on the subject wherein the instructor said, "This red cable you clip on the positive terminal. This black one can go anywhere." I called my friend Kat, who referred me to her husband, who walked me through the process. I was still unsuccessful, so he and Kat came over this afternoon. It turns out you're supposed to take some plastic covers off the battery terminals. That was not in the you tube video.

The car made it to the shop, so who knows what they'll find wrong with it. They'll probably discover a gremlin.

Cat Complications

Out new kitten has feline herpes. A friend commented, "Don't they have kitty condoms for that?" It's surprising that they don't. It turns out that 95 percent of cats have the disease, but many of them never become symptomatic. Stress triggers herpes, so if you come to my house, please be nice to my cat.

This was the first time I have ever taken a cat to the vet. Growing up, only the most expensive animals received medical attention. Since cats were free, they never made it. Once, we adopted a white kitten that had a hernia. We just duct taped the hernia up.

When we were first married, Willie and I had a cat named Ike. I have never seen a cat so full of hate before. That cat despised Willie. Anything that smelled like him was peed on. Ike also befriended a raccoon, which he went through our garbage and shared his meals with. The final straw was when the cat used Willie's custom made guitar case as a litter box. We gifted the cat to Willie's parents, who accidentally flattened the cat with their car within a month.

But my favorite cat memories are from our almost life-long friends, the Durfees. The Durfee kittens never seemed about to stay out of the driveway. On more than one occasion, Laurie (Mrs. Durfee) would hit a kitten on our way somewhere, lean over to my brother and me and whisper, "Distract the girls while I bury the kitten". One such kitten was not killed but merely disfigured. She was thereafter called, "Mrs. Wobbles". Mrs. Wobbles was caught wobbling out into the road and lying down several times. She finally succeeded in her suicide attempts.

We have also had many wonderful cats and some have died of old age. We'll see how Rex does. Again, please don't stress him out. (Or me, for that matter.)

Why We Went Into the Woods... and Why We Went Out of the Woods

Thoreau wrote an essay called, "Why I Went Into the Woods", which I read (not voluntarily, but read nonetheless). I never bothered to read his sequel, "Why I Went Out of the Woods" because that always seemed obvious. But the great thing about going out of the woods is that it feels like a vacation when you get home.

Feel like you need a new mattress? Go sleep on the cold, hard ground. Your bed will feel like heavenly clouds. Feel like your bathroom is too far away? Hike to one in the freezing cold outdoors. If you're lucky, there will be one-ply toilet paper. Feel like you can never get your house clean? Go live in dirt. It's all about perspective.

Of course, when you trade your life of relative ease with relative misery, conflict is inevitable. As my friend Yunjong put it, "I went camping once. I have many stories of being mad at my husband." I have many stories, too, most of them stemming around differing definitions. I grew up camping, so when we were dating, I told him confidently that I love to camp. Then, I went camping with him. The first evening, I was in shock. Where was the volleyball net? The poker game? The snipe hunts, feasts, bonfires... none of those existed in Willie's definition of camping. His definition: camping - sleeping near a river and/or lake and fishing from dawn until dusk. This trip, I brought a book. I'm learning.

You always learn something about each other when you're camping. This trip, we learned that Halle walks in her sleep. In the middle of a frigid night, I heard something moan and smack the side of the tent. "That sounds like Halle," I thought. I checked her sleeping bag and found it empty. I woke up Willie. We coached Halle back into the tent. "I'm freezing!" she said. Willie tucked her back into the sleeping bag. "How long were you out there?" he asked. "Three hours!" she replied.

Of course, she wasn't out there for three hours. But it probably felt like three hours, the same way that were were technically camping for three days, but it felt (and smelled) like three weeks. This is another great thing about camping: it lasts longer than a regular vacation. Vacations always fly by too fast and never come soon enough. I think I'll be satisfied if I don't camp for another year or even longer.