To Kill A Mockingbird

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been, let's see, never since my last confession (I'm not Catholic), but I really need to get this off my chest. You see, I have murder in my heart.

No, no...it's nothing like that, although I wouldn't mind roughing up that jerk that cut me off the other day. I guess I need to confess that too, huh? But I digress. I feel kind of stupid admitting this, so I'm just going to say it. I want to kill a bird. A mockingbird. And since Atticus Finch told his kids, Jeb and Scout, that it was a sin to kill a mockingbird, I figured I'd better come clean before this business got completely out of hand.

Normally I have nothing but admiration and respect for all of God's creatures, except pigeons (I'd like all of them dead), oh, and spiders, I don't much care for spiders, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My neighbors have a large mesquite tree in their backyard. And in that tree lives the aforementioned mockingbird, the subject of my ire. He sits up in that tree and sings, and sings, and sings, which is fine. He has a beautiful voice and is usually very entertaining. Until the sun goes down and I want to go to sleep. But he's up there in that tree just singing his fool heart out. I don't know when the damn thing sleeps! I've woken up way too many times in the middle of the night only to be greeted by his gleeful song that keeps me awake for hours, and nothing I do returns me to my blissful slumber. I'm at my wits end! I need my sleep!

So while I know and understand that it's wrong to kill a mockingbird, what's your take on hosing him down a little bit?

Along Came A Spider

We were in the process of getting the girls ready for school yesterday morning when a blood-curdling scream erupted from Kyra's bedroom followed by the worst words in the English language, "THERE'S A SPIDER IN MY BED!!"

Spiders.

I HATE spiders. The way Indiana Jones hates snakes.

Arizona has tons of spiders. They're huge too. I've even had the pleasure of being visited by a tarantula...right in our guest bedroom. Oh sure, Mr. Tarantula, make yourself right at home whilst I introduce you to the bottom side of Mr. Flip Flop. It wasn't a big tarantula, only about four inches long (legs included), but still, a four inch spider in your house is no laughing matter. I didn't sleep for weeks after that one. Now that we've been in Arizona for about five years, I'm getting used to disposing of spiders around the house. I don't freak out near as much as I used to, but I still don't like it.

Diane and I rushed into Kyra's room (Diane first, thank God) and we began prodding through the pile of covers on the floor. Kyra was making her bed, and for her that process means pulling all the covers off the bed, then replacing them. That's when she found the spider on the top sheet. She reported that it was black, about an inch long, and fast. Gives me the wiggles just thinking about it. Diane and I took turns grabbing sheets and blankets and shaking them out, but to no avail. The little sucker was nowhere to be found.

"It's OK, Sweetie," Diane comforted. "Daddy will wash your sheets and vacuum your room. He'll find it."

I shot her a look that said, "Thanks alot." I didn't know when all this was going to happen since I was already slated to spend the day volunteering at Kailey's third grade luau, but since Diane promised, I now needed to make the time. Besides, the thought of a spider in my little girl's bed, potentially feasting on her was now pissing me off, and I wanted it dead.

After school the girls went down to a friends house to play, and I decided that it was time to go spider-hunting, roughly eight hours after it was originally discovered. I really didn't expect to find anything, but thought I'd give Kyra's room a good cleaning anyway (as though that would repel spiders). I stripped her bed and threw her sheets in the wash, then returned to start picking up a bit. Kyra has about a million stuffed animals that should go on her bed but spend most of their time on the floor, one of which is a massive stuffed horse, big enough for her to lay on. I picked it up to toss it on the bed when I saw a tiny black blur scurrying like hell from under it toward the bookcase/headboard of Kyra's bed.

DON'T LET IT GET BEHIND THERE, I screamed to myself, grabbing the first thing I could find, a roll of wrapping paper, to relieve the spider of its life. Why there was a roll of wrapping paper in Kyra's room is beyond me. Just another indicator that her room was in dire need of cleaning. But I was so glad it was there. The spider slipped into the four-inch gap between Kyra's headboard and dresser and was resting up against the wall. To miss meant that it would retreat behind either one. I measured my blow and struck. And watched as the little bastard slipped behind the headboard. FOUR LETTERED EXPLETIVE THAT RHYMES WITH TRUCK!!

Now Kyra's bed is not easy to move. The base of the bed is one big wooden storage unit with several compartments that happen to be loaded with, what else, books. That unit backs into the headboard which is a bookcase. Why, oh why do we encourage our girls to read? I dropped my wrapping paper weapon and tugged at the bed. It wouldn't budge. So I ran over to the storage compartments and heaved handfulls of books out onto the floor until I was able to move the bed. I pulled the bed out about two feet, then worked on the bookcase. This spider is long gone, I thought to myself, but after pulling the bookcase out about six inches and peering behind it, there he was. Thank God spiders are stupid. But at this moment I was seriously pondering which one of us was stupider. I picked up my trusty wrapping paper roll and once again measured my blow. If you miss, don't, DO NOT, let him go to his right and get behind the dresser. I struck. I missed. He ran behind the dresser. SON OF A FIVE LET...oh, you get the idea.

I pulled the dresser out, which was considerably easier than the bed/bookcase combo, and I now had plenty of room to operate. I also found tons of lost stuff: scrunchies, missing pieced to games, puzzles, toys, etc. Against the wall lay an unused tissue. I picked it up and there he was with nowhere to hide. This time I struck and the wrapping paper found its mark (notice I didn't use the tissue? wuss). I crushed the sucker, then used the tissue to clean up its carcass. Yes, I am bad ass. I then spent the next hour cleaning up my mess. Kyra's room has never been so clean.

And that spider? It was only about a half-inch long.

Animal House

We've been caring for my in-law's Golden Retriever, Rex, for the past few days, and this is where I've been finding him in the mornings when I wake up...IN MY SPOT ON THE BROWN COMFY CHAIR, SHEDDING HIS FUR ALL OVER THE PLACE. Let's just forget for a moment that he's not even supposed to be on the furniture in the first place (give 'em an inch...). There are several other family room options for him to be able to defile our furniture. There's plenty of space on the couch on the other side of the room, or he could sleep on the other side of the chair, on Diane's side, who would be perfectly happy to share her side of the brown comfy chair with him. But he didn't. He chose MY SPOT because he knows that I'm the ONLY ONE in this family who gives a rat's ass about him being on the furniture. And he also knows there's not a damn thing I can do about it (look at that smug look on his face) because this is a battle that I have utterly and totally lost.

Don't get me wrong, I like animals. I love going to the zoo or petting other people's animals that get to go back home to their house when I've had my fill of patting their soft, fuzzy heads. We used to be pet owners, cat people, but our beloved kitties had this nasty little habit of pissing everywhere but their litter box. We should have owned stock in Nature's Miracle, which we bought by the barrel, hooked up to a nozzle, and hosed down what seemed like our entire house on a daily basis. Nature's Miracle was just sort of miraculous, though, as it never truly rid our home of the pleasant scent of cat piss.

When it came time to sell our home, we decided that the piss-soaked carpeting needed to be replaced. It was only after we pulled up the old carpeting that we saw the extent of the damage. Then it was bye-bye kitties. We weren't going to spend a butt-load of money on new carpeting only for our cats to soil it with their butt-loads. My in-laws were gracious enough to give the cats a chance at their house, and they were good, using their litter box, for several weeks. But when they returned to their old ways, it was off to the Humane Society where they were soon adopted by a woman who owned something like ten other cats, and obviously didn't mind the smell of cat piss.

After the kitties were gone I was amazed at how clean the place stayed, "clean" being a relative term in our house. There was no litter to clean up, no Nature's Miracle to purchase and dump liberally in every nook and corner, and, best of all, no cat hair! We went from having 400 of those tape-roller-thingies stashed around the house to none. It was awesome!

But, alas, all good things must end. The pressure of pet ownership has let up considerably since my in-laws acquired Rex. The girls are able to go over there, get their Sexy-Rexy fix, and come home. But they'd really like to have a pet of their own. The only reason we haven't become pet owners again is because Diane hasn't deemed the time as right. I'd like to believe that it's because I'm the one in control and that I've said that it'll be a cold day in hell before we ever own a pet again, but I know it isn't true. I've got a dog snoring on my side of the comfy brown chair to prove it. My beautiful wife allows me to function under the false pretense of control because she knows it makes me feel like "the man". And we both know that it's just a matter of time before we delight the girls with a pet of their own, over my deadened body. And I'll deal with the piss and the poop and the hair because their dispenser will be something that brings them happiness.

Right now the only thing that's bringing me happiness is the vacuum cleaner. It picks up hair and scares Sexy-Rex half out of his mind. Time to go wake up a dog.

I Guess It's Just Not the Same

Getting the girls out of bed has been much easier the past couple of days with "Sexy" Rex the dog around. To make a long story short, I simply "release the hound". He launches himself from the holding cell of the family room, literally beating a path down the narrow hallway toward the girl's rooms with his spastic and potentially lethal wagging tail. Moments later the girls are startled awake from their slumber with cries of "Awwww, Rex!" What usually takes me 5 to 10 minutes, Rex accomplishes in 10 seconds.

So this morning, I decided to give it a try. My alarm went off at 6:00. I hit snooze once then got up and made my way into Kyra's room where I dropped to all fours and sidled up to her bed. Then I stuck my nose right into her ear and started sniffling like a dog. Never have I seen one's facial expressions change from joyful expectation to repulsive hatred so quickly.

"DA-AD! YOU'RE NOT REX! AND YOU WOKE ME UP!"

"Well, that was the idea. Did you think that I was Rex?"

"NO. Rex does it like THIS!" She shot up, stuck her nose in my ear, and performed her doggy-sniffling impersonation, pretty much EXACTLY like I had just done.

"No, I think it's more like THIS!" I countered, sniffling back. And there we were sniffling each other's heads back and forth like a couple of dogs at 6:10 in the morning. All of our commotion woke Kailey up, so she was expecting me. When I snuck up to her and started sniffling in her ear, she smacked me in the head. They SO don't appreciate me. But what I lacked in appreciation I made up for in effectiveness: the girls were out of bed in a minute, quicker than my fastest time, but still slower than Rex. I guess I'll have to leave the wake-up routine to the dog.

A Tale of Three Dinners

Diane is in smoldering southern California for her company's annual Holiday Meetings. Her folks are in Illinois visiting their son. I'm at home "batching it" with the girls and my in-law's dog, Rex. I guess that's not technically "batching it", as bachelor's are not usually charged with the responsibility of childcare, but I tried to make the most of it.

Last night the girls had softball practice. It doesn't matter how early I start the process of getting them ready for practice, we ALWAYS end up rushing to get there on time. Their practice is at 6:00, so I started the dinner routine at 4:30. The girls wanted spaghetti leftovers. Great! That's easy enough! I popped two plates in the microwave, steamed some veggies, and PRESTO! Dinner for two. I'd had leftovers for lunch, so I decided to focus on getting this gravy train on its tracks so we could get to practice on time.

I looked down at Rex's bowl and it was still full of food. I had picked him up from my in-law's earlier and brought him and that full bowl of food back to our place. He hadn't eaten all day. I decided to give him a fresh bowl of food because, seriously, who would want to eat anything that had been sitting out for twelve hours? So I mixed half a can of dog food with a cup of Ol' Roy dry, and VOILA! Dinner fit for a king! "Here you go sexy-Rexy," I gushed as I set the bowl down in front of him. He sniffed it for a second, turned up his nose, and walked away. Well if he starves, it's not my fault, I thought.

The girls finished their dinner, changed clothes, peed, and we headed out to practice. We got there right at 6:00. I guess I need to start dinner at 4:00. After practice, it was baths and bedtime. I gave the girls their final hugs and kisses goodnight, then returned to kitchen. Time for my dinner. I opened the fridge and stood staring. What do I feel like tonight? Nothing jumped out at me, so I opened the freezer door. There staring me right in the face was a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. Now that's what a bachelor would eat for dinner! So I grabbed the pint and a spoon and plopped down into the big comfy chair that I usually share with Diane.

I downed about a third of the pint before finally coming to my senses. I can't eat this whole thing for dinner! So I put the pint back in the freezer and looked for something else to eat. Since I had already checked out the fridge and freezer, I turned to the pantry. Hmmm...what looks good...POPCORN...AND BEER. Popcorn and beer...works for me! I chucked a bag of Orville Redenbacher into the microwave and popped the top off a bottle of Red Hook ESB. Now THAT'S dinner fit for a king. I looked down at Rex's bowl. Still full. He hadn't touched it.

I had just settled back into the chair when the phone rang. It was Diane checking in from California. We were filling each other in on the happenings of our days when I told her about Rex's apparent hunger strike. "Oh, didn't Mom tell you?" she asked. "You have to put his food in the microwave for one minute or he won't eat it."

Are you frickin' kidding me? I looked at the dog laying in the middle of the floor, then to his bowl, then back at the dog. He sat up wondering what was going on. "You mean I have to nuke his food or this high maintenance animal won't touch it?"

"Yep. I can't believe Mom didn't tell you that."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered as I got up from the chair and put the bowl of dog food into the microwave. Rex's ears perked up as I closed the door and hit the express cook button. A minute later I placed the bowl of piping-hot dog food at Rex's feet. He devoured the whole bowl of food. It's amazing what people do for their pets. I returned to my chair and finished my beer and popcorn meal as well. And both of us went to bed, satisfied.

The End

September Storm

This is a test.

I've been wanting to try out Blogger's video uploading capabilities for awhile now and have just now had an opportunity to get to it. Last night as I was grilling teriyaki chicken breasts for dinner, a nasty little storm snuck up on me from the north. There I am, grilling away, happy as a clam when these big fat raindrops started falling. That's odd. There's not a cloud in the sky to the south, I thought. A few minutes later, the wind picked up, the skies opened up, and I collected my teriyaki chicken breasts and headed inside.

It was raining so hard that I decided to grab my video camera and get some footage. I love a good storm, and this one was a doozy. It rained so hard that we couldn't see the houses across from us. Of course by the time I got the camera out and headed outside, the worst of the storm had passed. Unfortunately, much of the color and contrast was lost in the transition from the analog signal of my 9 year-old camera to my computer, especially the rainbow. You can barely see it in front of the tree and descending on my neighbor's shed. The girls wanted us to jump the wall and look for the pot of gold. I told them that I didn't think the neighbors would appreciate us stealing what should be THEIR gold.

The girls' response was pretty much the equivalent of "Screw them."

Enjoy the vid.

I Hope My Princesses Don't Have to Kiss A Lot o' Frogs...

I pulled into the driveway the other night when out of the corner of my eye I saw something that caught my attention: a large dark pile resting up against the house along the front walkway. "What the hell?" I thought as I rolled into the garage. It looked like a Bull Mastiff decided to empty the contents of its bowels on our walkway. Nice. But closer inspection revealed the turdy-looking lump to be something completely different...a very large frog. Or toad. I'm not sure which. Either way, it was pretty gross; all moist and slimy and bloated. So I did what any responsible father would do. I ran and got my camera so I could gross out the girls in morning. As I squatted down to take this picture, I realized how big this thing was, easily the size of both of my fists. I thought, "If this thing jumps while I'm down here, I'm going to wake up the whole neighborhood with freakish schoolgirl screams." It didn't, thank goodness. In fact, it looked like it just slept there through the whole ordeal, oblivious to my presence. Either that, or it was so big that it just didn't care, figuring if I gave it any trouble that it would merely jump up and eat my face off.

After completing my toad photo shoot (...tilt your head...YES, JUST LIKE THAT...click...the camera loves ya, baby...), I went inside to check on the girls before going to bed. The whole experience brought to mind the fairy tale of The Frog Prince, where the princess kisses the frog and he turns into a prince. YIKES! I couldn't even imagine HOLDING the turd toad much less KISSING the thing. It brought a whole new realm of perspective to the well-known tale.

Then my over-protective daddy mind kicked into gear, wondering how many frogs will hop their way into the girls' lives before they meet their "prince". Hopefully not many. But the thought left me feeling helpless knowing that I won't always be there to protect the hearts of my little girls; that my little girls are growing up faster than I would like and that they would have to go through their own series of relational trials on their path to womanhood. So that night, in my helplessness, I said a little prayer for Kailey and Kyra as I rearranged their covers and tucked them in. I asked that they might grow to become caring, strong, confident and self-assured young women, and that they would know how to effectively handle those frogs. I think much of that is my role as a father and a parent, teaching them and caring for them and reassuring them, preparing them for life, but a little (or a lot of) Divine Guidance never hurts.

All of this from an encounter with a turdy toad on the front stoop. Man, I need to start getting some more sleep.

Bring on the Monsoon!

It's a meteorologist's wet dream: the monsoon. The rainy season finally hit Tucson with a fury last week, and as a result, we've been cutting in to your favorite TV programming to bring you "Breaking Severe Weather Updates" and covering up the bottom quarter of your TV screen with that annoying weather crawl telling you to stay indoors. Duh. Sorry about that. The truth of the matter is that during the monsoon, we can pretty much expect that severe weather is on its way, every day. Go drive in it at your own risk.

I have to laugh at the whole thing. I grew up in the Midwest, which, when I think about it, had the most eclectic mix of weather. In the summertime, we could have a calm shower followed by a raging thunderstorm accompanied by tornadoes. I spent many summer evenings in my basement as a kid, listening to the weather radio and praying to God for the expiration of the current tornado warning. Ah, those were GOOD times. Then winter could bring a gentle snowfall, or it could blind you with near blizzard conditions, sleet, and freezing rain (which IS different than sleet). In the Midwest, you never quite knew what you were going to get when the clouds began to build, therefore making it prudent to pay attention to the various weather cut-ins and crawls displayed on the TV or broadcast on the radio.

Here in the desert Southwest, everything is extreme and my motto since taking up residence here has become "Everything can kill you". From the piercing desert sun to that spiky plant to that seemingly cute and fluffy animal, everything can rip your face right off. Wildlife and vegetation struggle to adapt in the severe desert conditions from the brutality of the desert sun to the brutality of desert storms, and I'm not talking about the liberation of Kuwait. There is no such thing as a "gentle summer rain" here in the desert. Showers are nearly always accompanied by high winds, awesome lightning displays and knee-buckling crashes of thunder. So I laugh when the meteorologists at the station get all hopped up about severe weather because weather here is ALWAYS severe. If you look up in the sky and see cloud formations heading your way, seek shelter because you're in for a storm!

And what cracks me up is that whenever it starts to rain, everyone (me included) runs to the windows or doors to watch. We're so used to sunshine that it's a novelty to see it rain. And blow. And storm. I love the monsoon. It's new, different, exciting, and a little dangerous. So please excuse all the programming interruptions. Our meteorologists are just a little excited to get to report on something different than sunshine and intense heat, and rightfully so. In another month we'll return you to your regularly scheduled programming...without interruption.

The Price for a Weekend Alone

It was a memorable Memorial Day weekend. Several weeks ago, my in-laws decided they were going to take another trip to see my sister-in-law, and they asked us if they could take the girls with them. COOL! They also asked if we would watch Rex for the four days they'd be gone. CRAP! Kidding. Watching Rex is a small price to pay for a long weekend alone with my honey.

On Sunday, Diane treated the two of us with massages, using the remainder of a gift certificate she received. Diane went with a sixty-minute hot stone massage and a face brightening facial while I indulged in the ninety-minute signature massage, and it was awesome. It sounds crazy, but a sixty-minute massage goes by too quickly. Needless to say, we left the spa feeling happy and shiny. We spent the rest of the weekend utilizing the grill, resting, catching up on some videos, and doing a little house/yardwork. Oh yeah, and watching Rex.

Sunday night, we let Rex out so he could do his busy work, and after a couple of minutes I heard Diane cry, "Oh crap...the sprinklers are on!" I rushed to the window to find that the sprinklers, indeed, were on, and that a thoroughly soaked Golden Retriever was frolicking in the midst of them like a swimsuit clad ten year-old on a hot summer day. I grabbed the video camera and captured the video you see below. It was quite the sight.

All in all, Rex was a good boy. It sounds like the girls had a good time with their Aunt, and I'm excited to have them home tonight. We'll see how long that excitement lasts because I'll spend the next six weeks trying to keep them entertained during their summer vacation.

Brush & Bulky Overload

When we moved into our house a little over three years ago, neither Diane nor I knew a thing about landscaping or lawn care. Sure, growing up in the Midwest, I spent a major portion of my summers mowing lawns, but I had no idea of how to keep them green and weed-free. So the past three years have been a hit and miss crash course in yard care, and my new philosophy has become "when in doubt, hack". By the looks of the foliage growing on our property, the previous owners of our home also engaged in this hit and miss course, and we are now suffering the consequences. Several of our trees and bushes were severely overgrown and no amount of hacking could scale them down to an acceptable size and still look good.

Most of our suspect foliage resides in the front yard. Two of our three "miniature" oleanders tower over me. They're huge. And our fruit tree is something of a hybrid gone very, very, wrong. It consists of two separate trees that share a base. One tree is an orange tree, the other, a gnarly mutant tree that produces what looks like tumor infested lemons. The tumor-lemon tree juts up through the middle of the orange tree and stretches up to the sky like an extended middle finger, mocking me. "Whatcha gonna do? Cut me down?" And I swear the fan palms inhabiting the northeast corner of the yard must have rabbit DNA running through their xylem and phloem because they produce fronds faster than I can cut 'em down. There is simply too much going on.

Suffice it to say that Diane and I pretty much hate the landscaping in our front yard and have been looking for an opportunity for change. Enter Brush & Bulky pickup. Twice a year, the city of Tucson arranges to pick up any brush or bulky items, up to ten cubic feet, that you set out on your curb. We're usually not ready for Brush & Bulky, but this year, fed up with our brush, we're MAKING the time to get rid our property of unwanted foliage. Only there was one problem. When we took inventory of everything we'd like to get rid of, it totaled probably closer to thirty cubic feet. We asked Diane's folks if we could use their ten cubic feet of Brush & Bulky pickup and they agreed. ROCK ON!

First, Diane's Dad and I cut down two dwarf fruit trees in the back yard, loaded them up and dropped 'em off on my in-laws curb. SEE YA! That was Sunday. On Monday, I decided I would turn my attention to that finger-flipping mutant fruit tree out front. I figured special occasions called for special tools, so I stopped by Home Depot and picked out a tree pruner. Best purchase I ever made. Monday night, I took my new tree pruner out for a test drive and was not disappointed. That thing cut through those mutant branches like a hot knife through butter. Oooaah, oooaah, ooaah! I was going to enjoy dismembering finger-flipping mutant fruit tree limb by limb.

Tuesday morning, after taking Kailey to school, I grabbed the tree pruner and a bow saw and took the mutant fruit tree down. It didn't go down without a fight, though. Each of its limbs were stocked with sharp, spiky thorns that tried to gouge out my eyes upon their descent to the ground. But I was too quick for them. Every once in a while, the ones on the ground swiped my legs as I moved in for a better kill position around the tree. Eventually the mutant fruit tree was reduced to a series of piles around the front yard, leaving only the healthy, odd-shaped orange tree behind. I loaded the remains of the finger-flipper into the back of the van and transported it to my in-laws curb. SIONARA SUCKER!

In the coming days, I will arm myself with my trusty tree pruner and turn my wrath upon the three pot-bellied "miniature" oleanders. They will join their finger-flipping mutant fruit tree brethren on the curb for the Brush & Bulky folk. Then we begin the daunting task of figuring out just what in the world we're going to plant in their place.

Desert in Bloom

This is probably my favorite time of year in the Southwest. It's not too hot and the desert bursts into bloom, especially after winters when it's received a lot of rain. This wasn't one of those winters. Yesterday afternoon, I grabbed the camera and headed outside to capture some of the blooms around our property.

The Joys of Dog-Sitting

I was rudely awakened by a pointy-elbowed jab to the ribs at about 4:30 yesterday morning. "Honey? Honey!"

Don't you "Honey" me...I was in the middle of a deep satisfying sleep, and I'm pretty sure I was having a good dream to boot. Was I snoring too loud? Humping her leg in my sleep? Humping HER in my sleep? "What?" I growled.

"Would you go tell Rex to be quiet? He's been barking and crying for the past hour."

I love being a sound sleeper, and, no, it isn't just an act to avoid middle-of-the-night parental duties. I've blissfully slept through dozens of nightmares and peed and barfed beds, although I was usually awakened for peed/barf bed duty. I'll get up in the morning with absolutely no idea that Diane spent the night in one of the girls room because they were freaked out. Oops...hee, hee, hee. I hadn't heard Rex at all that morning. "Why can't YOU go tell him to be quiet?" I groused.

"Because he doesn't listen to me."

I know this defense well. It's the same reason I refuse to learn how to braid the girls' hair: if I learn how to do it, then I'll have to do it EVERY DAY. And I simply don't have that kind of time. This way, whenever the girls ask me to braid their hair like Mommy does, I reply as sweetly as possible, "I'm sorry, Sweetie, I'm just not as good at braiding as Mommy is." I guess what goes around comes around.

I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled to the laundry room where we had Rex penned. We've been dog-sitting for my in-laws the past few days, so far without incident. But this barking-in-the-middle-of-the-night nonsense needed to stop, and I was ready to play the role of alpha male to put the kibosh on it. I rounded the corner where I met Rex's sad, defeated eyes waiting for me at the gate, and discovered what was agitating him: three large piles of puke. Fan-TAS-tic! Being the amazing husband I am, I did not rouse Diane for barf duty, and began the cleanup process. Being the more amazing wife that she is, Diane got up anyway and offered moral support. She doesn't handle barf duty too well. I don't either for that matter, but sometimes you just do whatcha gotta do. I took Rex outside, cleaned up the mess, returned him to his room, and went back to bed.

I woke up again at 6:30 to get Kailey ready for school and found a couple of bile-puddles on the floor in Rex's room. Houston, we have a problem. All morning long, Rex just lazed around, completely lethargic and not at all interested in food, water or play. And when I let him outside to do his business, he'd pick a spot in the yard and strike a pose where his body became tense and rigid, convulsing to produce a half-dollar sized puddle of sludge. As I watched him struggle through his bowel movements, I thought, been there, done that. Buddy, I can FEEL your pain.

I called my in-laws to inform them of the situation as well as to get the number of their vet. Golden Retriever pups are notorious for eating crap they shouldn't, then having near death experiences. And Rex has already gone through this process once. I called the vet and they told me to bring him in, along with a "fresh stool sample". Come again? "A fresh stool sample; the fresher, the better." And how do you suggest...oh, never mind.

So thirty minutes before our appointment, armed with a gallon-sized ziplock freezer bag, I followed Rex into the backyard and waited for him to go through his spastic fece-squeeze routine. I started out with a sandwich baggie, which would easily have handled the volume of Rex's BM. But then I had second thoughts. What if I misjudged the trajectory of the discharge? I envisioned the neighbors calling 911 as they watched me run screaming across my backyard, wildly flailing at my hands while being chased by an 80 pound dog. Gallon-sized...that's the way to go. Rex sniffed around the lawn for a minute, found an acceptable spot, circled and assumed the position. I snuck up behind him and, gulp, slid the bag underneath him. I must have been too aggressive though, and he felt the bag. He twirled around with a "What-the-Hell-are-YOU-doing?" expression on his face. Seriously. "Sorry buddy," was all I could muster.

Rex, looking completely annoyed, moved over to the rocks and, again, squatted. I followed, this time being careful NOT to brush his ass with my oversized bag. That sounded really bad and should probably be rephrased. Anyway, he let loose and I collected every last disgusting, gloopy drop. Then I sealed the bag and ran inside to freak out the girls.

We arrived at the animal clinic where I handed the receptionist what I determined to be the most disgusting fecal sample ever collected. She grabbed the bag without comment or hesitation, albeit by the side rather than the top. She apparently had seen worse. The vet ran a bunch of tests, all of which were negative, and poked and prodded poor Rex. He could find no obstruction in his bowels, but couldn't rule out a bowel obstruction with any certainty without x-rays. He suggested two possible courses of action: an aggressive one which included the x-rays and intravenous fluids, or a conservative approach which included some medication, fluids and a mild diet. Ummm...conservative please. If we need to, we'll cross the aggressive bridge when we get to it.

I'm happy to report that the conservative approach seemed to work. This morning Rex was back to his nosey, playful self. And I'm even happier that he didn't die on my watch. In five days, I'll be even happier still, when Rex goes home. Grammy & Papa, I'm thankful that you let us stay in your home for two weeks while our water situation was being worked out, but now we are even!

On second thought, you never had to chase any of us around with a baggie, waiting for us to take a dump, so I think we may be due some weekend childcare.

The Birds & the Bees...and a Dog

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on the throne, thinking great thoughts when the silence was shattered (as it usually is when I'm sitting on the throne, thinking great thoughts or reading the paper). "DADDY!! DADDY!! BEES!! BEES!! Daddy?"

"I'm in here!"

The door flew open and smacked into the doorstop. It was Kyra. She doesn't knock and I forgot to lock the door. "What are you doing?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Three guesses and the first two don't count," I replied flatly. "Have you forgotten how to knock?" I asked for the millionth time.

Kailey joined her at the door, breathing hard. "Dad. There are bees, lots of them, in the backyard by the rose bushes."

"Can't you see I'm a little indisposed at the moment? I'll be there in a minute."

"What's indisposed?" Kyra asked with that same wrinkly expression. "Does that mean you're pooping?"

"I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE."

They got the hint, finally, slammed the door and ran off. Thinking time over.

This week our house has become a wild kingdom of sorts. On Monday, we inherited Rex, my in-law's ten month-old golden retriever, for ten days while they travel to see my sister-in-law's new condo. Rex is a good dog, as far as puppies go, but he's still a pup, and caring for him over the past few days has been like having a newborn again. Especially in the sleep department. He's been going to sleep fine in the evenings, but he wakes up early, especially since Kyra has been waking up early at the butt-crack of dawn. Rex, at the slightest sign of movement within the house, stirs to life, and if he sees you, it's over. He's fully awake and ready for the day. He wakes up the rest of the house as he slams his huge wagging tail against the doors and walls of the house.

Yesterday, Kyra told me the reason for her early mornings. "Stupid birds," she blurted out of the blue.

"Excuse me?"

"Stupid birds have been chirping in the morning and waking me up!" she explained. It's true that we seem to have an inordinately large population of birds nesting around our house this spring. There are nests on three corners of our house as well as in at least two bushes and a tree in the front yard. When I drive up our driveway and open the garage door, the front of the house explodes with the flutter of wings as birds of all shapes and sizes abandon their posts and head for cover. Cowards. Two finches managed to build a nest right outside of our back patio door despite our efforts to discourage them. We managed to drive them away for a couple of days, but they were persistent little buggers, and one morning I opened the shades to see a pair of beady little eyes peering down at me from a fully built nest. Finches 1, Humans 0.

So I've got dogs going nuts for attention, birds building nests and making a racket that's waking up my children, and now, it seems I have a bee problem. I finished my royal duties on the throne and headed out to the backyard. The girls had the house in full lockdown, and I soon found out why. I made a beeline (sorry, couldn't resist) to the rose bushes in the back corner of our yard, but was soon distracted by movement, a lot of movement, by the small fruit tree to my left. A couple dozen bees buzzed in spastic circles around the tree. I slowly and cautiously moved in to investigate. The Southwest is notorious territory for Africanized bees who will attack for no other reason than you're there. I moved to within about ten feet of the tree where I saw a football-sized collection of bees on the lower branches. That's just great. It was late afternoon, and since I knew bee colonies are migratory, I decided to wait until today to see if they would move on on their own.

This morning I went out to check on the bees, and found they had yet to move on. That brown mass in the upper center portion of the picture? Those are bees. Here we go again. So I got on the phone to get some quotes from bee removal specialists. The first call I made, the guy asked me whether or not they had been in the tree for twenty-four hours. I didn't think they had, and he told me to wait until the day warmed up to see if they would leave on their own and become someone else's problem. He said that if they were still there tonight, they were probably making my little fruit tree their home and to give him a call. I said okie-dokie, thanked him and hung up. I just returned from a trip to the back yard, and guess what? No bees. Whew! I'm kind of bummed though because I really wanted to SEE them leave. That would have been scary-cool. The girls would've lost their minds. And, hey, something's actually gone in my favor for a change! Now if I could only get my hands on some bird muzzles life would be perfect.

End of the Snow Stories, I Promise

I grew up in the Midwest, so you'd think I'd be used to seeing snow. But this is pretty cool, getting snow in the desert, so please indulge my school-girl giddiness. Kyra and I dropped Kailey off at school at about 9:30 and then took about a 20 minute drive to admire the desert winter wonderland. It was beautiful, but the snow is clearly wreaking havoc on the plant life. We saw so many mesquite trees split down the middle or with fallen limbs; they aren't used to the weight of wet snow.

The sun came out around the time Kailey went to school, and the meltdown commenced. Kyra wanted to make a snowman before the snow melted, so we headed out to the backyard to get it done. This guy's been aptly named Frosty the Snowman Jack Frost. Kind of a long name, I know, but I had absolutely NO input on the matter. Hopefully we'll be able to enjoy him for another day or two.

The Day After...

This morning was the easiest I've ever been able to get Kailey out of bed. "Is there still snow?" she asked with a wild look in her eyes as she popped out of bed. There was. Her school is on a two-hour delay, whatever that means. I'm still not sure if they are shortening the school day or pushing the whole thing back. If it's a "delay", then I'm guessing the latter.

Here are some shots of the backyard. It's absolutely crazy!

It's Snowing...In Tucson

Late afternoon rain turned to early evening snow, with big, fat, fluffy, silver dollar-sized snowflakes tonight. It was pretty cool. So far I would say at least an inch has accumulated, transforming our desert backyard into a winter wonderland. Global warming?

The girls are LOVING it. They frolicked out into the backyard in their tennis shoes and "winter" coats, which are basically fleece-lined windbreakers. They had a snowball fight and pelted me several times as I attempted to document the event on video (cowards). Kailey even attempted a snow angel until she realized that snow is a frozen form of H2O and arose with a wet butt.

The frolicking lasted a whole fifteen minutes which is about all we thin-skinned desert dwellers can handle in the cold. The girls are now in bed, snow is still falling, the temperature is 32 degrees, and I don't think Tucson has the resources to clear snow. So I'm thinking tomorrow will likely be a snow day. Oh joy.

Rainbow's Revenge

I think Rainbow is out to get us.

As you may recall, Rainbow was the girls' pet Beta fish that bought the farm back in November. We "cleverly" replaced him with a new fish, Rainbow II, in order to spare our precious daughters the grief of losing a beloved pet. Our plan is backfiring and I'm beginning to get more than a little freaked by an animal that is smaller than my thumb.

There are two possibilities here: either Rainbow II is merely a psycho fish from hell, or he is posessed by the spirit of Rainbow I, who is out for revenge. I'm becoming increasingly convinced toward the latter.

At first it was cute. I would open the lid to his bowl and he would swim to the surface in anticipation of the rock-hard pellet they call Beta food that was about to be dropped into the water. I put my fingers just above the surface and Rainbow II swam right up to them. Then one day, he jumped. Right out of the water. Right off my fingertips. Scared the hell out of me. I think I screamed. On second thought, I'm sure I didn't scream. Now Rainbow II's mouth is roughly half the size of a BB, and I'm fairly certain that it couldn't inflict THAT much damage, but I really think he was trying to eat me.

I know, I know...you think I'm crazy. But it's not just me he's trying to eat. Last week I heard a scream and I ran into the kitchen. Kailey stood next to Rainbow II's bowl holding her hand, a frantic look on her face. "Rainbow bit me," she breathed. That's not all. A couple of days ago, Diane opened the bowl to feed him and as she reached down, he jumped out of the bowl! Yes, you heard me...the little sucker got a running, er, swimming head start and launched himself right out of that frickin' bowl! Diane stood there stunned as she watched him flop around on the counter top. She should have stabbed him through his cold, evil demon-heart with a toothpick, but instead returned him to the comfort of his lair.

I don't know what to do. My logic tells me that he is too small to harm any of us, but anyone who has ever seen any of the Child's Play movies also knows that a little doll shouldn't have been able to go on a murderous rampage either. I'm thinking about flushing him, but then I'd never be able to take a crap in peace again.

I honestly don't think he can be killed. I mean anything that I can think of doing to him is accompanied by a thought of how he can get out of it. I could bury him, but then like Carrie, he would him dig himself out, grabbing me by the ankle with his little flipper as I visit his gravesite. I could drown him...oh, wait, he's a fish. I could step on him, shoot him, blow him up, throw him off a cliff, decapitate him, feed him to birds, any number of things, but no matter what I do to him, I am certain that one day I'd find him in a sink or toilet bowl waiting to get his revenge.

So for now I think I'll lay low, keep an ear open for squishy noises in the hallway, and feed him ALOT. I knew we should have bought a new bowl.

The Day Rainbow Died

I learned something new yesterday: fish don't necessarily float when they die.

I should have known something was up. A couple of days ago, the girls were freaking out because they thought Rainbow, their blue and red male Beta, was spending a little too much time at the bottom of the bowl. This is not unusual behavior for Betas. They lead pretty uneventful lives (unless you put two males together) and their little fins must get tired from hovering in one spot, so they take a little rest on the rocks. Kailey watched Rainbow as he "rested" and grew concerned that he wasn't just "resting", so she shook the bowl. To her relief, he zipped to the cover of the fake green plant suckered to the bottom of the bowl. She told me she was concerned about Rainbow's health and I told her not to worry. "You'll know when Rainbow dies, because fish float when they die." Little did I know that my words would later serve to save my butt.

Well, Kailey must have taken those words to heart, but they still didn't completely alleviate her fears about Rainbow. As Diane tucked her into bed last night, Kailey asked her to go check on him. I was in Kyra's room telling her a story when Diane walked in, usually the cue for us to switch rooms. She grabbed me and gave me a hug as I headed into Kailey's room. "Oooo...me likey," I thought as she whispered in my ear. But what she whispered in my ear puzzled me. If she's trying to get me into bed, this clearly was not working. I pulled away from her and shared my puzzled look. "What?" I muttered. She pulled me close and whispered again.

"Rainbow's dead."

I sighed and headed to the family room to see for myself. I saw the bowl across the room and immediately scanned the surface for Rainbow's body. I didn't see it. As I drew closer, I could see his little body resting on the rocks. I shook the bowl and he tipped over on his side. He wasn't looking so good. Crap. What are we going to tell the girls?

I returned to Kailey's room and tucked her in, then Diane and I put our heads together to figure out what to do. Problem #1: school. We didn't want to inform the girls of the death of their first pet before bedtime or before Kailey went to school in the morning. We didn't want her to be blubbering at school all day long. Problem #2: we would both be at work after the girls finished school, so we couldn't tell them then, either. Furthermore, we didn't want to tell them and then have to pass any post-mortem grief counseling on to Diane's parents, who would be watching them.

OK, maybe we're horrible parents, but this is the best we could come up with. And if there was ever any doubt about where I'll be heading upon my earthly demise, this may serve to clear things up a bit. We left Rainbow in the bowl. If the girls happened to notice his rotting carcass on the bottom of the bowl, then we would deal with the aftermath. If they didn't notice him, then Diane would drop Kyra off at school and make a beeline to the pet store to get another Rainbow. I know, I know...express lane to hell.

Well, the girls must not have been all that concerned about Rainbow because neither of them bothered to check on him. So we executed plan B, full speed ahead. Diane picked out a new fish and I disposed of the evidence. As I cleaned out his bowl I couldn't help but think of all the good times we had: the Pavlovian way he would come to the surface for food whenever I opened the lid to the bowl; the way he liked to lay in the blue rocks lining the bottom; the way he, um, well, that's pretty much it. There wasn't too much more to his life. I'd like to think that he's now in a better place, but I know better, since I wrapped his body in a paper towel and flushed him down the toilet. I can only hope that all pipes really do lead to the sea. Sorry buddy.

Diane returned home with Rainbow II (Electric Boogaloo) and we introduced him to his new home. He's much more active than Rainbow was, and that's not just because he happens to be alive. Like I've said earlier, Rainbow liked to lie around a lot.

Diane later discovered that at some point before bedtime on that fateful evening, Kailey apparently shook the bowl and got no response from Rainbow, which prompted her to ask Diane to check on him. Now I don't know this for sure, but I think that since Kailey saw Rainbow on the bottom of the bowl, not floating, she didn't believe he was dead. So, in essence, my ignorance bought enough time for us to perpetuate a lie to our children. Merry Christmas. The girls are SO going to need therapy. That's OK. They can join me. Maybe we'll get a group rate.

They Continue to Amaze Me

I don't know if this is the time of year when lizards hatch, but lately it seems like there are hundreds of the little suckers running around. They're cute...about three inches long...and FAST. It's amazing how quickly they can scale a wall or scurry across the rocks. I think they're cool, but I could see how some people would be a little freaked out at the sight of them zipping for cover. It also amazes me what freaks out my girls and what doesn't. There is no formula; no rhyme or reason.

My girls hate bugs. The size or shape does not matter...gnat, ant, fly, beetle...they hate 'em. They'll squish 'em, swat at 'em, scream at 'em, scream for me to swat and squish 'em...they hate bugs. But they LOVE lizards. Allow me to introduce you to Peter the Lizard:

He's a cute little guy, huh?

As we headed to the back yard to play and mow the lawn (one guess as to who got to do what), the girls noticed one of these cruising the wall. "LIZARD!! GET IT!! GET IT!!" Scared me half to death. The lizard too. It ran for its life as the girls gave chase, and it quickly darted into the safety of the neighbor's oleander bushes. The girls were devastated.

I consoled them and when I felt like I had sufficiently fulfilled my fatherly duties, turned my attention to the lawn. On my first pass I noticed movement in the river rock that lies between our patio and the lawn. Lizard. I called the girls over and we spent several minutes tracking it, overturning rocks to reveal its hiding place, and generally giving the little guy a heart attack. This time the girls seemed content to merely observe the lizard, so I returned to the lawn.

A few minutes later I heard Kailey scream over the hum of the mower. "Daddy, I got him!! I GOT HIM!!" Never in a million years did I think the girls could catch one of those things without first squishing it. I was afraid to look. Or worse, what if it was still alive. I envisioned the lizard taking off up Kailey's arm and down her body, or into her shirt sleave! I could see her going into a convulsive tirade, screaming, "Get it off!!" I sprung into action.

The lizard was surprisingly docile. It was perfectly content to sit in Kailey's hand. Whew! Either that or it was so freakin' scared that it didn't want to move. Probably the latter. I finished the lawn, and the girls spent the next half-hour taking turns holding "Peter". Why Peter? I have no idea.

We eventually released Peter near the rose bushes in the back of our yard. As we watched him go on his merry way, Kyra noticed a spider web in one of the bushes. They freaked.

Sheesh.

The Drive Home

I drove home with my convertible top down last night as I often do after work. In Tucson, summer days are brutal, but by the time I get off work it's usually cool enough to put the top down. After a hard day of work, it's a nice release to drop the top, kill the radio, and submit to a wind massage that eases away the stress of the day. I take the long way home. It's mostly two lane roads with little light. The sky explodes with stars. Moonlight reveals dark silhouettes of the mountains in the distance. Wildlife emerges from its daytime slumber. It's not unusual for me to see coyotes on the prowl, jackrabbits standing at attention with ill-proportioned ears stretched to the sky, or javalina families doing whatever javalina do. I've even seen a bobcat bound across the road in front of me. The drive relaxes me and on these nights I'm able to let go of the day and go directly to bed.

Now that fall has arrived, the drive home last night was a little chilly. I had to turn the heat on high to keep the chill at a minimum. But I did not roll up my windows as many with convertibles do. I don't get people who do that. Pretty soon it will be too cold in the evenings to drive "topless". I will miss that. Midnight topless-driving will be one of the things I'll look forward to next summer.