They come in threes...

or so I am told.

Loved ones in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, just down the road from Biloxi, discovered today their home is completely missing. They lived a couple of miles from the coast on a small bayou. All that remains is a piling or two.

They had just finished the house after three years of renovation and rebuilding.

I visited with them in February after the birth of their second son.

Fortunately, they and their small sons are well and fine. They have insurance, both vehicles, and the clothes on their backs.

May God bless them.

Secondly, my colleague and good friend, Cynthia received notice today her contract expires in 30 days and it will not be renewed. Thus, she has been given thirty days notice of the termination of her job.

This is the first time in my nine year tenure a contract has been allowed to lapse. She is an excellent and dedicated employee and in the one year and eleven months she has worked with me, she has taken exactly one vacation day.

This situation is not one of her competence, reliability or work ethic, but a pissing contest with incompetent fucks higher up.

Well, that's two.

Where the hell is the third one?

I'm all for Interesting

"Sanity calms, but madness is more interesting." ~John Russell

Heatin' Some Buns

Different people deal with stress in different ways. All this hurricane coverage made me nervous. When I have nervous energy, I sit still less than I normally do anyway (which isn't much to begin with).

Today my nervous energy found me with the munchies.

In my pantry I found a box of Betty Crocker's butter recipe yellow cake mix. On the back of the mix was a recipe for Honey Bun Cake. Oh, freakin' MY!

Here's the recipe with one modification, I switched the vanilla for Amaretto.

HONEY BUN CAKE:

1 pkg yellow cake mix
1/4 cup milk
2 sticks (1 cup) butter
4 eggs
8 oz. sour cream
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup chopped pecans
2 tsps ground cinnamon
1 cup powdered sugar
1 TBS milk
1 tsp Amaretto

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Generously grease bottom of 13 x 9 -inch pan.

Remove 1/2 cup dry cake mix, reserve.

In a large bowl, beat remaining dry cake mix, 1/4 cup mild, butter, eggs, and sour cream on medium speed for 2 minutes.

Spread half of batter in pan.

Stir together reserved dry cake mix, brown sugar, pecans, and cinnamon; then sprinkle over batter in pan. Carefully spread remaining batter evenly over pecan mixture.

Bake 40-45 minutes or until done.

Stir powdered sugar, 1 TBS mild, and Amaretto until thin enough to drizzle, stirring in additional mild, 1 tsp at a time, if necessary.

Poke top of warm cake with fork, spread over top of cake.

Sit back with a huge glass of cold milk and get fat like me.

Enjoy!

Close

The city of New Orleans appears to have weathered the storm in good fashion.

There does not appear to be the widespread death and destruction predicted; however, the parishes to the south and east of New Orleans have suffered the brunt of the storm, much like the Mississippi coast around Biloxi, Ocean Springs, and Gulfport.

The southernmost inhabited place in Louisiana is called Grand Isle. There are reports that seven refused to abandon the island. They are now unaccounted for.

I have no doubt in the days to come images from these areas will reveal the extent of nature's fury. I only hope the devastation is not accompanied by body counts and flyers of the missing. I hope people heeded the warnings and evacuated for high ground.

Nature is a bitch; however, homes can be rebuilt and toys can be replaced, lives cannot.

Sobering Thoughts

"I'm expecting that some people who are die-hards will die hard."

~Aaron Broussard, Jefferson Parish council President, when asked about residents in his parish which includes majar suburbs and juts all the way to the storm-vulnerable coast who elected to stay, despite the evacuation warnings.

"It all really makes you wonder what the French were doing when they built this place."

~Stevan Spencer, the Orleans Levee District's chief engineer, as he described the 129-mile system of pumps and levees, which still needs $50 million to complete, that was designed to resist a fast-moving, dry Category 3 storm -- in short, nothing like Katrina. Spencer further opined: "If the levees hold but the water spills over, the water will be almost impossible to remove, considering the pumps will be swamped and shut down."

Hurricanes and Louisiana

Hurricane Katrina has my beloved home state of Louisiana and my favorite city of New Orleans in her cross-hairs.

Betsy came through and hit New Orleans on September 9, 1965.

On August 17th and 18th, 1969, the worst storm to ever hit the continental United States landed on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Her name was Camille.

Betsy was blamed for 75 deaths in the United States, which ranks it 18th among the deadliest U.S. storms from 1900 through at least September 2003. The only storm to kill more people in the USA since 1965 was Camille, with 256 deaths in 1969.

What those statistics do not tell are the other casualties which result from storms like these.

In addition to the weather-related casualties, there are the dangers from contamination of the water supply from raw sewage and chemicals, as well as the threat of poisonous snakes.

Most everyone knows there is a good deal of low-lying wetlands in Louisiana, particularly around the coast. With a semi-tropical climate, the state is host to a variety of poisonous snakes which seek high ground in order to escape not only the rising waters, but the salt water of the storm surge.

As odd as it sounds, after each of the major hurricanes of Betsy and Camille, there were hundreds of deaths due to snakes because the freshwater snakes seek high ground, just as humans do, to escape the salt water. In contests between humans and snakes over small pieces of dry ground, the snakes win.

Surviving the storm itself is only one of the major dangers these people face.

My thoughts and prayers are with all.

Say What?!

The twelve-year-old spent most of yesterday with her best friend.

After the best friend's mom brought her home last night, she told me she was watching the chick flick The Wedding Date when the girls sat down to join her. Uncertain of the rating of the movie, the mom asked my daughter if she was allowed to watch Rated R movies.

My sweet child nodded her head and told her: "Yes, ma'am, I've watched triple x with my mom."

The mom told me she was taken aback until my daughter added: "You know the one, it has Vin Diesel in it."

Oh, my!

That Time of Year

August is usually a particularly ho hum kind of month.

Most everywhere I have lived the summers actually begin in April with scorching temperatures from May through September.

As far as heat and humidity, August is usually the worst.

By the eighth month, the newness of summer has long since worn off and the monotony of hot, rainless days drones on beating the body and will into mindless submission. Keeping plants and animals watered is nothing short of a Herculean task.

However, August means the children are getting ready for school. My favorite part of preparing for school is shopping the office supply store for new and fresh school supplies. I love the feel and smell of fresh notebooks. I love looking at all the new gadgets and gizmos for home, work, and school productivity. I am near faint when I inspect all the new kinds of writing instruments.

I am insane, I know, I just have this thing for new office supplies.

Then there is the glow of beginning anew at the start of a school year. There are new teachers, new classes, and, sometimes, new friends.

There is something rewarding and challenging about a clean slate.

There are few times when opportunities are without bounds.

Four-year-old Little Bit has another year before she officially starts Kindergarten, but she and I have been working in Preschool workbooks. She is on the cusp of reading. She can "read" some words, but that is more word recognition than actual reading. Her excitement and enthusiasm for learning is infectious.

There is a part of me that would very much like to return to college and obtain a degree in Architecture.

As often as I could not wait to be done with school, particularly after law school, there is a significant part of me misses the life of a student.

Just Noticed Something

At my last performance review/evaluation my boss cleaned out my personnel file and returned a bunch of copies to me. Included in this batch of paperwork was the request for maternity leave when Wee One was born, as well as the application and cover letter I prepared over nine years ago to go to work for this outfit.

I was glad to see the cover letter was replete with attachments because the writing sample included a brief I was particularly proud of, but had since lost sight of.

One thing that caught my attention as I was flipping through the application package was my signature has changed dramatically. In April, 1996 I signed my name with nearly vertical, firm strokes with each letter neatly and perfectly formed and the spaces between my first name, middle initial and last name all deliberately spaced.

My current signature is legible, but only barely so. Instead of three separate parts of my name, I start with the first letter and continue until the last letter of my surname with no breaks or spaces.

Instead of nearly upright, my letters now all slant to the right. The letters are smaller, more angular and more nondescript than they once were.

Years ago a friend of mine studied graphology and for a Christmas gift took a sample of my writing and prepared a thirty-some-odd page analysis based on that sample. Her results mirrored an assessment made on me using Myers-Briggs typology.

I always wondered how much of her analysis of my handwriting was actually an analysis of what she already knew about me.

Assuming there is some stock in not only the graphology business, but also the Myers-Briggs, does the obvious changes in my handwriting equate to similar changes in personality or personaltiy type?

Who knows.

Cheap Thrills

Mobile phones are great.

I love being able to reach out and chat with whomever, whenever.

I've got that part down.

As to text messaging, I admit, I am a recent texting convert and only really know how to read and reply.

As to the texting shorthand, I am slowly making my way up the bell curve and still have a lot of ground to cover.

This morning I grabbed the phone from it's charging cradle and threw it in the purse as I ushered Wee One out the door. It was not until I arrived at the office did I bother to check for any messages, voice, text or other.

Imagine my surprise when I found FOUR messages for me.

Woohoo!

I felt so important.

Most recent message read: "sweet dreams."

Penultimate message: "i'm sorry i didn't notice that you were talking to me."

Second message: "talk to you later."

First message: "i'm back."

Hmmm.

I thought I was off to a great start with the "sweet dreams," but it went downhill from that.

First of all, the messages were all from mely (melu_pr@*******.com).

I have no clue who this person is.

My response: "WRONG NUMBER."

{{sigh}}

The Zone

During my second year of law school, I went out a time or two with a guy named Mark. He was cute, in an introverted, quiet and bookish kind of way, extremely intelligent, and a great conversationalist. When I got to know him a little better, I discovered he was wickedly funny and could find dark humor in almost every situation. Above all, he was a nice guy and I liked him.

On our first date we took a chartered bus, along with a bunch of other law students, to New Orleans to watch the Saints play football in the Super Dome against the Dallas Cowboys. I remember the Saints squeaked by with a last minute field goal and won 13 to 10.

Mark had had several beers during the outing and I discovered he and another guy had the unique talent of having memorized each and every jingle from every commercial ever made, even in multiple languages. As corny as it sounds, most everyone else on the bus and I found it hysterically funny to see these two guys singing all these stupid songs all the way back to Baton Rouge from New Orleans. And, yes, alcohol was involved.

The second date involved a quiet meal; however, while my memory fails to tell me where we went, I do remember we stopped by one of the favorite watering holes after dinner. It was a place called Fred’s Bar in Tiger Land, not far from Tiger Stadium. It was a Thursday night and the LSU basketball team was playing with its star player, Chris "Mr. Fifty Points a Game" Jackson who has since changed his name to Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf.

Fred's was THE place to be during any LSU sporting event. The bar featured screwdrivers with freshly squeezed oranges, as well as plenty of TVs and pool tables.

After the basketball game was over, I convinced Mark to play a game of pool with me. I have to admit, I was a late bloomer in the pool playing department and did not actually "learn" how to play until I was in law school; however, I like to think I took to it quickly.

It was then, much like it is now, my pool game is pretty much all or nothing. Either I am on and in the zone or I absolutely suck.

My only advantage at the game is I am primarily right-handed with a dominant left eye. Thus, I'm a switch-hitter. I make power shots like breaking with the right hand and finesse shots with the left. Nothing special or remarkable about it, but it has taken an opponent or two by surprise when he believes he has left me with a "bad leave" thinking I could not reach a shot with my right hand.

Mark was very good at pool and admitted he had a pool table at home growing up. As soon as we started the first game or two a couple of very drunk frat boys came over and wanted to challenge us for the table, despite the existence of at least one other open table at the other end of the bar. It appeared the table at which we were playing was the favored frat boy table.

Suffice it to say, I was not then nor have I ever been a frat boy fan, drunken or otherwise.

While Mark was content to relinquish the table and attempted to cajole me into walking the length of the bar to resume our game at the other open table. I was not. I was in the zone.

Before he had the opportunity to do anything other than shake his head, I piped up: "Okay, pretty boy, you're on. You and your girlfriend (nodding toward his buddy) gonna play teams?"

Well, that damn near incited a riot.

I had three males pissed off at me simultaneously and one of them was my date for the evening.

The challenge was accepted and as table defenders we were allowed to break. Being neither meek nor mild, but the lesser player, I bade Mark to take the first turn. Unhappily, he did so. Two stripes went in. With a bright smile, I turned to the Frat duo and announced: "It would appear you two are low balls this evening."

While the wit may have been questionable, my timing was definitely off because the words "low balls" coincided with contact between Mark's cue stick and the white ball. He missed a perfectly easy "duck" shot because of my mouth. At that point, he was even less happy with me than he had been just moments before.

The first half of the Frat duo was a bruiser who stood well over six feet three or four inches and dwarfed both Mark and me. He had huge hands that reminded me of the fella in that Kenny Rogers song: "Lucille." You know the part: "The big hands were calloused he looked like a mountain…You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille." That was the guy I had just referred to as "girlfriend."

As big guy was preparing to take his shot, I started to say something else when Mark turned to me and put his hand over my mouth. With absolute seriousness, he looked me in the eyes and with great conviction said to me what many a man has said to me in my life: "Be QUIET! Do NOT say another word. I will leave you here with THEM if you say another word. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes, but we can take them." I started to reply from beneath his hand.

Mark shook his head vigorously. "Do NOT argue, just keep quiet!"

With that he took the pool cue from me and made short work of the rest of the game.

When all was done, he won the game, but relinquished the table anyway and quickly marched me outside to take me home.

He was another one who didn't ask me out again.

Men.

Go figure.

The Past

There have been a myriad of thoughts running through my mind these last several days. While I have been thinking about things I have done and things I did not do, thoughts of people I have known have been most prominent in my memories.

I know not whether others tend to remember the good before the bad, but I do. I never really relinquish the memories of bad times because I think they serve purpose: they help me appreciate what is good before me and remind me that even when I do not think I was strong, I must have strength to have endured parts of my past.

Looking back, I wonder if I had known how difficult some things would be, if I would not have given up somewhere else along the way.

Could it be ignorance is not bliss, but a ruse which allows us to endure?

Cripes

Just when I think it's safe to go outside...

My twelve year old is quite the young lady. She begins seventh grade tomorrow morning and I'm so very proud of her.

She's tall (five feet, six inches) and looks every bit of nineteen.

In addition, she's responsible and mature for her age and this summer has learned very well how to run and manage a household. She has also been handsomely paid for her services.

After we picked the wee child up from day school today and stopped at the mail box, I thought it was time to teach the older daughter how to drive. On at least one occasion, I believe her father has allowed her to drive down a country road in his truck, but I have never taught anyone how to drive.

With the four-year-old secure in the back seat, I moved onto the passenger side and allowed Sweet One to get behind the wheel. She adjusted the seat, tried out the controls, and fiddled with this, that, and the other. The whole while she had an enormous smile on her face.

With brief instructions, I guided her through putting my new car in gear and eased her onto the suburban streets of our neighborhood.

She was a little rough on the stops and starts, but understood the rudiments of stopping at stop signs, looking both ways, and staying on the right hand side of the road.

Turns are something altogether different.

Jesus.H.Christ.

Who in the hell guns the engine in the middle of a ninety degree right turn?!

Fortunately, no harm was done, at least not to the car or anyone's yard.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to kiss the ground again and, perhaps, throw up.

One Upped

Last night the wee child was taking a bath and called me in when it was time to wash her hair. Jokingly, I told her I had to potty and was going to “pee” in her bathwater.

From her supine position floating in the bottom of the tub, she sat up, gave me a sly smile, and said: “That’s okay, Mommy, sometimes when I forget to go potty before my bath, I pee in the tub, too.”

Looking at her face and the glints in her eyes, I was uncertain whether she was teasing me back.

I choose to think she was joking.

Ish.

In the Pink

The four-year-old is quite the little character. She is sassy one moment, then demure and shy the next.

No matter the mood or time of day, there is always a sparkle in her eye. It is more of a flame when she is mad, a glisten when she is sad or tired, and a thousand little lights when all is good and right in her world.

Hands down, pink is her absolute most favorite color. While she is partial to fuschia, she turns her nose up at pastel, and craves everything that is that shade of Pepto-Bismol pink. (Instead of coating and soothing my stomach, that shade gives me the heaves.)

The wee child awoke, as she normally does, with a laugh and smile this morning. I heard her feet pittering and pattering through the house to my bed first thing.

Breathless, she arrived with day school calendar in hand and after a very brief "Good Morning, Mommy," shoved it in front of my still closed eyes and asked me what was scheduled at school today.

It's a good thing I am near-sighted. A one-eyed perusal of said calendar revealed "Bubble Day" in celebration of things beginning with "B".

Panic-stricken, the wee child announced: "I don't have any more bubbles. I'm all out."

A non-response from me resulted in rapid shaking of my head and shoulders by very small hands with a pleading: "Mooommmmy! What are YOU going to do?"

Finally sitting up in bed, I took the calendar from her and looked at it properly. Pointing a finger to the appropriate date, I explained it did not say we had to bring bubbles for bubble day.

Satisfied, she stated: "Well, that's a good thing, otherwise, you would have to pick up bubbles this morning."

Rubbing my eyes and dragging myself from bed, I decided to let that one slide and merely instructed her to get dressed.

After a shower, the imp returned wearing no less than four different shades of pink. Quite proud of the ensemble she was sporting, she sashayed here and there around my bathroom; however, she was very careful not to ask: "How do I look?"

As I applied the obligatory war mask for the day, I asked: "Did you brush your teeth? your hair?"

"Yes, yes, Mommy, I did all that."

"Why don't you put on a white shirt and white socks, then you will look pretty with your pink shorts and pink shoes."

"White doesn't match what I'm wearing, Mommy."

"It matches your pockets."

A rapid inspection by little hands and little eyes showed she was not seeing what I saw.

"What pockets, Mommy?"

"Your shorts are on inside out, sweetie, white pockets are hanging out on your behind."

Her face then matched the rest of her.

Sincerity

A thoughtful evaluation of the people with whom I surround myself reveals they are one freaky bunch; however delightful, intelligent, and individualistic each one is.

I have often wondered how it is such a diverse group of people come together and what is the one, ever tenuous, but cohesive thread that precariously binds them all.

For each group it is different, I have no doubt.

For my group of friends and confidants I do believe that thread to be sincerity: The quality or condition of being sincere; genuineness, honesty, and freedom from duplicity.

So, what is it that connects you with your friends?

From Memory Lane to Warp Speed

As a four-year-old I do not recall spending a great deal of time with inside activities.

We definitely had television, but as has been said so many, many times before, we only received three network stations, my sister and I embodied the remote control, and cartoons were left primarily for Saturday mornings. Of course, there was that thirty-minute time slot after programming resumed at 5:00 a.m. and the national anthem was played on weekdays for the brief black and white cartoons, as well.

I remember watching Bugs Bunny, Tom & Jerry, and my favorite Wile E. Coyote. I also remember Captain Kangeroo on occasion and singing the Colgate song as he turned the crank on that oversized box of toothpaste.

The only other remarkable television events from my childhood were Sunday's Wild World of Disney on ABC (Wait a minute, wasn't that Wild World of Sports and Wonderful World of Disney?? Hmmm. They do say the memory is the first to go...) and the Peanuts holiday specials.

Not a lot of television in the grand scheme of things.

Most of my time was spent running around outside following behind my mom as she tended to the critters, playing with the dogs, fishing, and doing other old time kid stuff.

It's a Sunday morning around here.

My four-year-old got up this morning and decided there was nothing on the 263 channels cable provides that she was interested in watching. She announced she wanted to do something. I suggested she get dressed and help me water the plants and set up the sprinklers for the grass.

Nothing doing, she said that sounded too much like work.

Instead she asked: "Can I get on your big computer (as opposed to the notebook)?"

While she is able to write her name and recognizes most letters of the alphabet, she can not quite read. Nonetheless, she can surf the net with the best of them due, in large part, to her older sister's assistance in setting up a bookmark folder for her favorite sites: barbie.com, pollypocket.com, nickjr.com, and poundpuppies.com.

I see it for what it is, but there's a part of me that insists: this can't be good.

Agendas

It is work you know, subduing the voices inside my head.

Reason and intellect are paired to maintain an unsteady alliance to achieve relative success in the realms of comfort and security.

Competing for attention and energy is the two-headed harpy of lust and desire which courts passion's embrace in the excitement and chaos of the unknown.

Caught in the middle is the soul looking for balance and peace through something called moderation.

They are all illusions.

Comments

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Sorry, previous blogger comments have been replaced by Haloscan. I'll try to import them when I have an chance.

UPDATE: Had a little difficulty importing the existing blogger comments. I lost a few and the content of those moved are the same. I'm a techo-retard, but I tried. (big smile)

Maximum Density

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to look in the mirror and finally decide to either accept herself for who and what she is or vow once and forevermore to make that change for the better.

I understand all those nice little sayings we exchange with one another to appease our sense of self when it comes to appearance:

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Beauty comes from within.

Beauty is only skin deep.

Yes, well, we have all heard or said those platitudes time and again.

I am no longer amused.

Neither am I the least pleased with myself or my appearance at the moment.

According to the scales this morning I am "officially" eleven pounds heavier today than I was a year ago.

That sucks.

Seriously, that really sucks.

While not quite ready to rummage through the attic in a recycling effort to pull out those garments stored behind the stroller, baby bed, and multiple containers of baby things in search of those boxes labeled "maternity clothes", as I peruse the dwindling choices of appropriate attire that actually fits, the thought has become a recurring one.

Oh, and I'm NOT pregnant, just becoming not so pleasantly plump.

Some days I actually wish I were a man.

But then again, nah, not really.

I've heard some men actually prefer women with a little meat on their bones...

Hello Life, Chaos Be Thy Name

For a number of reasons, this has been a particularly stressful and emotional week. Admittedly, more than a fare share of it has been unleashed by my own hand. That is, in fact, the way it goes on occasion.

Fortunately, Thursdays are actually my Fridays. I am one of the lucky few who is able telecommute and work from home on Fridays.

So, this afternoon I abandoned the office with a big smile and much relief.

It was short lived.

Traffic was horrific (more so than usual). Moments after leaving the office I remembered that I forgot to run by the ladies' room on my way out and I was pressed for time to pick up the four-year-old from day school.

Good news, though, I did make it with just minutes to spare, but due to my tardiness, did not have time to avail myself of the facilities.

After I collected the precocious child and as we continued the drive home she asked if we could take the "long way" around.

Now, the long way home involves just a few more miles and entering the lane to the subdivision from the opposite direction.

The purpose of taking the long way home is to avail oneself of the undulating hills from ascent to descent. If one only slightly exceeds the posted speed limit by ten or more miles per hour, one can experience the momentary thrill of feeling airborne by "flying" over the top of one hill followed by the rapid approach of yet another and another.

I have to admit, it is kind of fun and from a very early age, my younger child has always referred to these events as Wahoos. Since the time she could speak, I've heard from the back seat: "Wahoo, Mommy, Wahoo?!

Seduced by the double demon of speed and Wahoo, I succumbed to my inner child and mentally checked off the list of possible problems with this proposition:

Wet roads? Nope.

School buses? Nope.

High traffic area? Nope.

Possible pedestrians? No way.

All I heard in my head was: "Houston, launch is clear. Let the countdown commence."

Then, "Five, Four, Three, Two, One...WAHOO!"

What I did not expect to see or hear was a County Mounty at the base of the second hill hit his sirens the moment we launched over one of those hills.

Crap, crap, double crap.

I pulled over and before I could completely roll my window down, Mr. Officer was stooped over and asking me: "What is the rush, ma'am?"

Before I could think of anything even remotely coherent, I heard myself babbling: "So sorry, deputy, I have to pee."

Yes, it's true. I have no shame. And, I really did have to pee.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"I really, really have to pee and I'm almost home. I'm quite sure you have some paperwork to do and all, but if you could follow me home, I live just a mile from here, I'd be happy to help you with that paperwork, if you just let me pee first. Please."

{{Insert pleading brown eyes and a sweet, but desperate smile.}}

Thank the good Lord, the wee child in the back seat remained quiet.

The stars were aligned and all was well in the universe for that brief moment because the benevolent and kind peace officer winked at me, stepped away from the car, and instructed me to slow it down and have a nice evening.

With a huge smile, I quickly bit back the incredulous "No, Shit?!" formulating on my lips, put the vehicle in gear, and headed home.

Hang with me folks, the story isn't over yet.

Moments after we tore into the garage, I hopped out, abandoning the four-year-old for my urgent date with the porcelain. As I flew through the garage, I noticed the cat's litter box was empty, disassembled, and laying about the garage.

I made it two steps inside the house when the significance of THAT hit me.

If the litter box was empty and laying in the garage, what the heck had the cat been using inside.

Okay, now were we up to triple crap!

I continued into the bathroom where the litter box should have been to determine whether something had been substituted for the cat. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Well, hell. I couldn't go to the bathroom before I filled the litter box and returned it to its rightful place because any tinkling would certainly alert faithful cat to do his business.

I don't know, I call it bonding because I usually cannot enter the bathroom without faithful cat in tow. No matter what time I decide to take a bubble bath it is the exact moment he has to potty. Who knows, perhaps the smell of bubbles stimulates his bowels. All I know is that it is damned annoying.

Anyway, I really, really had to pee, but decided to forego that endeavor until after the litter box was secure.

Back out to the garage I scurried. I grabbed a liner, put it in the box, clamped down the top guard, and filled the damn thing with kitty litter.

A glance at the vehicle demonstrated the child was still in it. I tried to open her door to help her out, but she had locked the doors.

I advised her to open the doors and get out of the vehicle.

She defiantly informed me she was not going to get out.

Perilously close to rupturing my bladder and with eyes floating, I stepped up to the vehicle and peered in the tinted windows. As menacingly as I could possibly sound I advised: "Open this door NOW or when I rip it off its hinges I will hang you from the trees by your toes. DO.YOU.UNDERSTAND?!"

Click.

The door opened and a child emerged with hands covering her posterior.

Satisified with the result, I put it in high gear again, grabbed the now full litter box and ran inside.

I made it halfway through my bedroom before I tripped over one-half of a flip-flop combination, belonging to the wee child, no less, and down litter box and I went.

That stuff went everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE.

I had kitty litter in my freakin' hair and up my farookin' nose.

Only after multiple very deep breaths did I finally make it to pee.

Older daughter, the one responsible for the absence of the litter box from its rightful place of honor, later explained she had cleaned it as instructed and left it in the garage to dry, but had forgotten all about it.

For those who are wondering: Younger daughter is alive and well. Older daughter is also well and fine. Faithful cat is very much relieved.

As for me, I've traded in the word "crap" for much more colorful language.

So, how was your day?

Personality

Usually when the personality of a particular female is being discussed, it is an indication the woman in question is rather unappealing and unattractive physically. This phenomenon usually begins to occur in early adulthood.

When speaking of children, personality means, well, personality, those qualities and quirks which form one's character.

At birth I thought my older daughter was going to be a handful. Good Lord. She screamed, she cried, and she wailed the first hour of her life. She was absolutely inconsolable. I was completely miserable.

I kept asking: "Can we send her back?"

Heck, I don't know what her problem was, after all, she was one full month post term. Believe me, ten months was long enough for a pregnancy or "period of confinement", as I prefer to describe it.

Fortunately, once she reached the ripe age of one year, she was a much more agreeable human being. At twelve, she has become rather delightful, considerate, and possesses that "willingness to please" gene that agrees quite favorably with my disposition on most days.

Eight years after the arrival of the first blessing in a diaper, the long-awaited second child was born. Because the first child had to be forcibly removed with scapel via Cesarean section, the second little joy was scheduled to be induced two weeks prior to term with hopes this child would not be too big to make her way through the birth canal.

Apparently, my stomach was the place to be because second child was no more willing to greet me or the world than the first one had been. So, after a second Cesarean, my younger child was finally placed in my arms.

She was as beautiful and perfect as the first with ten fingers and toes; however, she was very different. It took half an hour or more for the drug-addled mind of mine to figure it out, but I eventually did.

Second child was quiet after she was born.

Oh, bliss, oh, ecstasy, this baby was quiet.

Things being what they are and human beings being born with innate personalities all their own, the younger child rocked along quietly content for the first six months of her life. On day one hundred and eighty-one, something obviously clicked and she decided not only did she have a personality, but a will of her little own.

From that day forth, she has gone to supreme lengths to enforce that will, even challenging the will of mine.

First child loved to be tickled and giggled and screamed with pleasure at that kind of attention.

Second child hates, hates, hates to be tickled (and I do not blame her, it drives me insane).

When the wee child was almost two she toddled into the living room where her father was watching football. He had just finished a bottle of soda. When she walked up to him, he began playfully popping her and "tickling" her with the empty bottle. She giggled for a half a second then decided she did not care for that activity.

She expressed her displeasure, but being a man with two younger sisters of his own, her torment and rage only encouraged him to continue, despite her screams of protest.

Watching intently, I intervened and snapped: "Leave her alone. I would not piss her off."

He merely laughed at me and her and continued.

The first opportunity she had to escape him she did. Only when she was out of range, did she stop, turn, and give him a hard glare. She was pissed.

As a child after my own heart, I could see the wheels turning inside that young brain. She was biding her time.

Half an hour or so later, the husband fell asleep in his leather recliner with the football game still playing on the television.

I watched from the kitchen as the wee child cautiously approached.

When she was abreast of his head, she watched his face intently to ensure he was, indeed, asleep. Satisfied she was undetected, she walked over to the side table and retrieved the empty soda bottle.

Horrified of what I thought might be her intent, I merely watched.

She walked back up to his head, checked him closely, then with one quick motion reared back and the bottom half of that soda bottle cracked upon his forehead.

In an instant, he was up and bellowing.

Not quite two, but no fool, she was in motion headed my way. Just as he moved to snatch her fleeing body, I stepped in between them.

He stopped short and with one hand on a hip and the other pointing a finger in his face, I told him: "YOU were told not to piss her off. YOU got exactly what YOU deserved. I'll take care of it from here."

My tone left no room for protest as a red and angry goose egg appeared on his forehead.

He backed off and I disciplined the child with a stern scolding. However, I was secretly pleased and proud of her ability to take care of herself.

Yeah, personality, my daughters have that in spades.

Warts and All

It is easy in this relatively anonymous and somewhat ethereal space known as the blogosphere to don a mask, no matter how seemingly comfortable, to present to those we probably will never meet.

No one is one thing, ever and always.

The face with the eternal smile is nothing more than a mask. Its sole purpose is to hide those thoughts and feelings one wishes not to share or expose to the harshness of light.

We each harbor secrets of sin, lust, betrayal, and bitterness, sometimes, even love.

The question is how comfortable in our masks we truly are.

Mere acknowledgement that the mask exists is not enough, not nearly enough.

At the moment, mine only has a slight smile. The eyes are bright and hint of sadness. The faint humor in the expression belies the darkness surrounding the heart.

It is all there: the full range of human emotion in varying degrees for all to see, just behind the mask; the trepidation of revealing too much struggling with the fear of not revealing enough; the need to share, and the desire to be heard and understood.

Too much, never enough.

So, here I am, warts and all.

The Scoop on this Coop

Legend has it the phoenix is a male bird with beautiful red and gold plumage.

When the end of his life is near, this fabled creature is said to build a nest of cinnamon twigs which he ignites. It is then no surprise the bird and nest go up in a fiery blaze of glory. From the ashes, a new young phoenix is suppose to emerge.

Well, that's all very nice, I suppose; however, I am no male and I'm not wildly crazy about setting myself on fire.

Hence, no phoenix here.

Just us chickens.