Blending in, Malibu style

Hola all.

Recent back-to-back trips have rendered me temporarily blog-less. After a jaunt to Martha's Vineyard, we dumped our suitcase contents into the washing machine, re-stuffed our bags and jetted off to LA. Specifically Malibu.

I know...rough life. But thanks to a family beach house, Malibu's been one of my vacation destinations since birth.

After all these years, you'd think I'd be accustomed to the locals' botox-bolstered behavior and strange customs. Like the fact that you can troll the Malibu grocery store in your PJs. But attire for the kids' playground is one grade below cocktail party.

I forgot this rule when I showed up at the Cross Creek playground -- your run-of-the-mill tot lot -- surrounded by chic stores stocked with clothes and home furnishings void of price tags. (if you have to ask, you might as well drag your cheap butt out of there.) Cross Creek is a top haunt for paparazzi who snap stars ducking into Nobu for lunch or daring to push their kids on the swings.

But when I show up one day, there's neither paparazzi nor celebs in sight. Instead, the thriving park population is looking at me. The interloper.

The playground attracts two species of adults: nannies and mommies. The vast majority are nannies; hispanic or black, they are intensely focused on their little charges. The handful of moms are clothed in flowing silk dresses, strappy shoes and they clutch cell phones away from their styled hair and make up. They shun any hint of maternal ties; only toys and tiny shoes near their manicured feet give them away.

Neither nanny or mommie material, I'm The Freak. In my blue "larsen's fish market" t-shirt and faded cargo shorts I'm virtually indistinguishable from the homeless squatters on the beach. Except that I'm not nearly tan enough.

And I have all my teeth.

I park Brynn's stroller in a precious square of shade while the Boy and Barbarian shed their shoes. Immediately a little girl loitering at a nearby table pipes up with a tone of annoyance. "Trisha!" she says to her nanny. "Why is that lady trying to share our table?"

Okay, future beotch. I'm not even sitting at your table, much less sharing it. And last time I checked, the shade's still free. But the 4-year-old has got me rattled, so I push Brynn toward another sliver of shade, near the mommie colony on a bench.

The women stare but otherwise ignore me as I push Had and Cayden on the swings and check on Brynn. Finally, a nanny can't resist -- shabbily dressed or not, I'm a mother with three kids at the park, and no nanny.

Shocking.

She fawns over Brynn and we chat. All is going well until I mention returning to work and daycare for the kids. Daycare?! She registers a look of astonishment and revulsion. Like I've just licked my shoe.

Meanwhile, another curious bystander saunters over -- a 6 year old boy. He prattles on about his cousin's baby... I'm barely paying attention and instead focus on the snack he's juggling in his hands. What the heck is the kid eating? Then it dawns on me: this kindergardener is polishing off a Starbucks frappe and sushi roll.

It's about this time that Cayden runs up, tugs my shirt and loudly announces, "Mom, this place stinks!"

One of the Malibu mom throws me a faint smile. Because my kid's right. This boutique-buffered park, beloved by movie stars, faintly smells...

...liked a septic tank.

"Mom, are you listening? I can't stand this smell. Can we go?"

From then on, Cayden renames Malibu's famed playground, "The Stink Park." And Martin stumbles on a new kid-friendly locale on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. A simple, little park away from surgically enhanced mothers. And sushi-wielding toddlers.

Vacation

Well, we survived our summer vacation. With two little kids, and a newborn. And my mom.

Actually, we more than survived. We had a great time on Martha's Vineyard... once the pilgrimage from hell was behind us: an estimated 9 1/2 hours in the car -- 500 miles -- to catch a ferry to the island. With a 6:30 pm ferry reservation we gave ourselves an extra three hours to get there in time.

But I forgot the golden rule: when plotting a family vacation, one kid will inevitably become sick. Right on schedule, at 4:30 am, a barking, heaving seal limped down the stairs.

At least that's what the Barbarian sounded like. "She's got croup," the after-hours nurse explained when I held the phone up to Hadley. "Run a hot shower and let her breathe the steam, then stick her head in the freezer."

Once we had the barking seal tucked in the car beside her siblings, we were plagued by a swarm of giant bees. Martin strapped a couple of bags on the car roof, and either the straps or the bags vibrated, creating a horrible buzzing sound. The faster we drove, the louder it got.

Martin tinkered with the straps at Mom's house. Then he pulled off the highway into a 7-11 to try again. Then in a church parking lot. Then at a truck stop. Each time the humming dropped off. But when we hit top speed, the droning resumed -- a deafening hum that drowned out the radio and any attempt at a conversation.

"HEY! We're losing serious time!" I shouted at Martin as he eyed up another exit. "No more stops. We'll just have to deal."

But we ditched the bees after fours hours when we stopped for lunch and crammed the roof contents into the back. By then, however, the traffic was so thick, we only inched along. It would have been too slow for the bees anyway.

To be precise, we hit New York City traffic. Long Island traffic. Stamford traffic. Bridgeport, New Haven, Providence traffic. By 5:30 pm we'd been traveling 11 1/2 hours and I estimated that we'd miss the ferry by 5 minutes.

That's when Martin poured on his "Cannonball Run" impersonation, with a little Chevy Chase "Vacation" mixed in...

...specifically the scene when the Griswold's discover that Wally World is closed. And Chevy Chase turns into a demented lunatic.

I watched the speedometer climb to 90 mph and everything outside the window blurred. Despite my terror, I buoyed Martin with my optimistic outlook: "MARTIN! SLOW down! You're going to kill us! And for what? You'll never get us there in time!"

Even the kids were quiet that last half hour (no doubt, petrified). I kept updating our iphone map application and it estimated our arrival at 6:34. Martin tried his best to shave a few minutes off our time but we lost a passing lane and were stuck behind a herd of cars. Finally we snaked down the dock ramp. After 12 1/2 hours and 508 miles, our arrival time: 6:28 pm.

The dock-man leaned out the window to check us in. "Cuttin it close, arncha?" he frowned, but astonishingly, he let us on the ferry. We were the last ones aboard.

So in the end we made it. With the sick kid, the maniacal bees, a car crammed with luggage, and two improperly charged dvd players (newsflash: looking out the window is entertaining...or else we couldn't hear the kids complain over the bees.)

We nearly died in a firey crash but it was worth it. I'd do it all over again. Maybe.

Summer Daze

Dear Mom,

We're loving life down here at the Full Moon nudist colony. Everyone's so nice and easy going...we've decided to sell the farm and stay!

No more fights over what the kids are going to wear or about Martin's mismatched clothes.

I'm taking a job as managing editor of Nude Times and Martin's using his sales experience to peddle fruit from the community orchard.

Hope you come to visit us. Just pack lots of sunscreen.

And a towel.

Love,

Me


Back to blog normalcy when we return from our week at the beach.

Vigilante Justice

I don't believe in taking the law into your own hands.

Even when it means saving a hapless animal. Who's been trapped by the state's natural resource agency... who's conducting a re-forestation study to see how trees fare without deer damage. As part of this study, the agency constructed a deer-proof fence in a field not far from the river.

The problem is, that they fenced in a deer in the process.

I'm not the first one to stumble on this snafu. In past months at least two neighbors have ridden their horses by and reported that a deer was trapped within the fence.

And about two weeks ago I called again since the doe -- and her new fawn -- had lost their only source of water -- a swampy area in the woods. It had completely dried up and the situation was dire.

And it was in the agency's best interest to kick the deer out to preserve their study. I realize that the deer might be hit by a car or hunted in the fall. But they deserved a fair shot at life.

"Just cut the fence," Martin said when I complained about the situation. But I didn't want to sabotage the study. Instead I carted water buckets down in the gator and lowered them over the fence with baling twine. Then I called the state office about the deer; they promised to get them out of there.

But they didn't. Because we spotted the doe looking forlornly at us from behind the fence last weekend.

Now I'm not saying that anyone took it upon themselves to rectify the situation. I didn't see anything of the sort. I'll just say this: if I worked for the state's reforestation office, I might want to check the structural integrity of the deer fence for any possible damage.

On the west side.

About midway down.

And while you're there, patching the fence and cursing the vandal who sliced it open, take heart: the offender has been severely punished for his actions.

You see, the fence is home to a lush and thriving crop of poison ivy and right now, a certain individual is nursing a nasty, weeping, painful, itchy rash on his feet, legs, arm, even between his fingers. It's the worst poison ivy he's ever had.

But his wife thinks it was worth it.

Hypothetically speaking.

Go Speedracer!

I now understand the thrill and excitement of watching Nascar. The sound of engines roaring past at 200 mph, that smell of fresh burning rubber. The hair-raising turns and metal-twisting crashes.

I've witnessed it first-hand. On a much smaller scale.

And right in the backyard!


The vehicles: pink and blue Schwinn tricycles
The track: the back deck
The course: 8 yards around our oval outdoor table, including two treacherous turns. Speeds not to exceed 1 mile per hour.
Obstacles: a bench, several wooden chairs, one roving canine, and two track officials reading the paper, who periodically yell "slow it down!" while they free bike wheels from chair legs.

Race season opened Sunday morning when Cayden and Hadley discovered that it was easier to ride their trikes on the deck instead of through high grass. That's all it took. The race was on.

Cayden proved stronger and faster, which offered him the luxury of lapping the table and ramming the back of the Barbarian's bike. But he rolled his vehicle several times with poor speed control around the turns.

Hadley did her best to make light of the "Schwinn quality" insignia on the handle bars. By hooking her bike around the chair legs, she successfully bent, broke and mangled the bike's fenders and the plastic do-hickeys that cover the bolts and screws on the tires.

"Wow," Martin marveled when Hadley took out another chair. "She's a terrible driver. We'll have to watch her behind the wheel."
"Yea," I agreed, "she sucks. You'd expect more from a 2-year-old."

After the umpteenth bumper-car collision and a few incidents involving track officials' ankles, Martin dangled a carrot stick: 100 laps around the table and he'd put Star Wars on TV. It was a prize too tempting to ignore. Officials took refuge inside but promised to count laps from the safety of the couch.

I'm sorry to report that the Boy only completed 55 laps but we turned on the TV anyway....if only to salvage what was left of the bikes and the deck furniture.

Raccoon Revenge

When we last left our cast of characters just yesterday, it was the raccoon's move.

And upon entering the barn this morning I discovered his handy work. He pitched the bags of horse treats from their high-shelf perch and scattered the cookies all over the floor.

They looked salvageable but when I picked them up, they dissolved into a sticky mush. Apparently he soaked them in the dog dish, and then left them for me to find.

Bastard!

The Angry Raccoon

Nocturnal visitors frequently show up in our barn to sample the menu. Just a few months back a fox nearly ran into me as he beat a hasty retreat.

Recently however, we've been visited by an especially persistent and resourceful guest. And, he's developed a palate for other animal edibles.

He's not a possum. Possums are too lazy. And he's not a fox. Foxes are crafty but not especially dexterous. No, what we have here is a raccoon. A raccoon with an attitude. Who's waging psychological warfare with me.

And who might be winning.

He recently started the skirmish by prying open the cat food bin and feasting on the bounty. This, I didn't mind much until --whoops -- he knocked it over, spilling cat kibble across the floor.

So I put the bin in the tack room and shut the door.

After that, he moved into the feed stall where he chewed a large hole in a bag of sweet feed.

So I dumped the feed into a storage bin with a lid.

That ticked him off a bit. So the next night he pried the lids off of the horse supplement containers and sampled his findings (undoubtedly, not very tasty but hey, that raccoon is parasite-free).

I sealed up the containers, closed the feed stall door and latched it shut.

Sunday night the raccoon caught the faint aroma of horse cookies, entombed in a garbage bag stuffed full of laundered horse blankets (the blanket cleaning lady tosses in a bag of treats with the bill). The raccoon chewed through the trash bag, waded through the blankets and gnawed into the oaty-molasses snacks....after dunking them thoroughly in the water dish (I found the soggy cookie remains.)

So I extracted the remaining cookies and socked them away on a high shelf.

Well, that was it. The raccoon was fed up. He wasn't taking my crap anymore!

Last night he swung open the tack room door and squeezed through (in dairy barn-style, the door slides on top runners but swings loose below). He could have just pilfered the cat food and left, but no. He -- was -- enraged! He tossed the place, kicking empty cans off the fridge. He knocked down a riding hat and chewed up a sponge. He dumped over the grooming boxes and hurled the brushes and hoof picks across the room. Then, he tore the top off the cat food bin.

I got the message. He's one pissed-off raccoon.

But frankly I don't care. Every night our house looks like the scene of a toy store looting. You really think you can throw a few brushes around and scare me? Tonight I'm going to secure the tack room door with a concrete block and some paint cans.

Let's see what you've got.

A dry heat

It's July and it should be hot and thunderous. With stifling humidity that holds your lungs hostage and frizzes my hair when I walk outside. We should be ducking summer storms, soaking in sweat, swatting mosquitoes and nursing their welts in the morning. But last night was warm and breezy and dry. Absolutely lovely.

But I feel traitorous just thinking that. I shouldn't embrace the weather, I should curse it. During the day our fields are a bristly wasteland where only weeds and corn flowers thrive. The lawn is brown and the boxwoods are dotted with tufts of yellow. Hope for a second cutting of hay fades away. Forecasters tempt us with storms and occasionally they lurk nearby, teasing us with smudged clouds.

But last night's setting sun softens the browns and yellows of what should be green. The kids splash in the neighbors' pool and instead of swatting mosquitoes, I cup a drink in my hand and watch the hummingbirds silhouetted over the feeder. A chorus of katydids tune up in the trees. It's neither too cool or too hot. It's perfect.

In lingering light we toss the kids in the gator and rumble down the drive. The breeze dries our suits and I tear off hunks of zucchini bread (a neighborly parting gift) and the kids lounge in the gator bed, cradling their wedges.

It's a perfect summer night -- temperate, breezy and bug-less. And the dry vegetation is blotted out in the near-dark. The only hint of drought rises behind us -- a long plume of gravel dust, it's smoky haze rising in our wake.

It ain't book learning

There are some life lessons that seep into your brain or hover around, waiting for that light bulb to glow.

And then there are those that jump right up and bite you.

Like the lesson that Hadley hit on the other day: no matter what the temptation, do not thrust your arm through the neighbors' high-gauge electrified livestock fence.

I don't know what drew her to the wire strands -- there weren't any animals in reach -- and Martin and I had our heads buried in a bush, picking blackberries. But with all of that shrieking and her close proximity to the fence, it was pretty easy to deduce what had happened.

Fortunately, barbarians are loathe to show weakness or pain, so she recovered quickly.

No doubt she stored that lesson on the lowest shelf in her cranium, right next to the volume entitled: "don't grasp the door handle of a wood stove when you're visiting your aunt and uncle in Florida in the wintertime."

Swimming success

At age 4 Cayden has proven he can fight gravity's pull in the pool. The Boy is learning to swim.

Which astonishes me since my best stroke -- my only stroke -- is the dog paddle.

"What is that?" Martin asked, the first time he saw me in the water.

"What's what?"

"That thing you're doing."

"What, swimming?"

"No sane person would call that swimming."

It's true, my technique is not very fluid. I sort of tread water and inch across the pool in a herky-jerky fashion. Like a maimed frog.

It's not your fault, Mom told me years ago. My mom grew up in California, a land dotted with chlorinated blue backyards. So she's proficient in the pool. But my dad was born in Hungary. "So you're half Hungarian," she said. "And Hungarians are lousy swimmers. What do you expect? They live in a land-locked country."

When I was a little kid, my California grandmother would place a few quarters on the bottom stair of the pool, to tempt me to put my face in the water. "If you can get those quarters, you can keep them," she'd say.

I'd pick up the quarters with my toes.

Based on my sad swimming state, I'd written off the Boy and Barbarian.

But I forgot that Martin was born with gills. He swam competitively by age 6 and life-guarded at 14.

He looked at me like I was crazy -- crazier then usual -- when I explained the Hungarian curse.

Don't sweat it, he said. The kids will swim.

And he was right. Last week, with a little encouragement from Martin, Cayden shed his swim vest, plunged his head beneath the water and kicked his legs. And started swimming.

Since then he's been unstoppable. We bought him some goggles and now he holds his breath and shoots under water like a little minnow. He's even able to retrieve sunken toys from the bottom of the pool.

And, he picks them up with his hands, not his toes.

The morning quake

By now the earthquake that rattled Maryland this morning is old news. It got the same coverage that a snow squall in Las Vegas or LA receives -- sound bites and quotes from awe struck residents who've never seen a flake of snow, or in this case, haven't felt the earth move except on a subway platform.

One local TV anchor was visibly rattled. She kept telling viewers that she was "freaked out," even as her sidekick admitted that she didn't feel a thing.

I've been in two earthquakes -- the first in my grandparent's beach house in California. It was strong enough to rattle the quake-proof glass in the windows. Then a few years ago, Martin and I sat through a tremor in Arequipa, Peru that shook the restaurant, right down to our beer glasses. We were too buzzed to care.

This morning I was up with Brynn when a low rumbling burbled from below and the house let go a long shiver. My first illogical thought: the furnace was going to explode... even though it's turned off in the summer. Illogical thought #2: a low-flying jet was about to crash.

Maisie did not reassure me. She gave me her thunderstorm stare that plainly says: "This is it. We are all going to die." I clutched Brynn, not sure if I should flee the exploding furnace or duck a crashing plane.

Martin awoke and wondered if it was thunder. It lasted too long, I told him, but we went outside and squinted in the bare dawn at a clear sky. All around us it was quiet and calm. Just the occasional whoosh of an early morning commuter.

Maybe it was some kind of explosion, he said. Or....an earthquake.

As soon as Martin said it, I knew he was right. We went back in and switched on the local news.

It was a 3.6 quake. Not even strong enough to knock a tree down.

But with enough physical and audible presence to scare me, and momentarily remind us of how small and powerless we really are.

Finally Fixed

Three months have passed since we unsuccessfully launched operation kitten capture. Our plan was to sneak up on Felix, catch him and get him neutered. We never expected him to go quietly but with the element of surprise, we assumed he'd be easy pickings. Instead, he surprised us by forcing open the cat box door and fleeing the scene. Since then, I allotted us April, May and June to win back Felix's trust.

Well, we never earned his trust but over time, he's dropped his guard.

So just the other day Martin, the one-handed-bird-catcher, donned fire-retardant gloves, recalled Steve Irwin's tips on croc wrestling, and pounced on an unsuspecting Felix, whose head was buried in a food dish.

Once he pinned Felix inside the crate, the trick was to remove his arm without letting the cat escape. On the count of three he extracted his hand while I slammed the carrier door and I drove Felix to the vet. He yowled all the way.

That afternoon I retrieved him. I set the cat box on the cool barn floor and unlatched the door. He slunk out, cast a dirty look over his shoulder, and streaked outside.

Well, I thought, that's the last we see of you. At least you won't leave a trail of kittens in your wake.

But since the big snip, Felix has turned a corner. He doesn't bump up against our legs, but we can pet him and he's joined the cat crew that accompanies us on dog walks.

I don't think he'll ever be as friendly as Spook, but he's coming around.

Pitching in around here

We expect all of the kids to help around the house and farm, and to consider the needs of the cats, dog, horses and sheep. Everyone's got to learn how to pull their weight.


Even Brynn.

....especially when she insists on being held all of the time.

Although Martin and I use different Brynn-handling techniques:

Weekend mishaps

With three kids, three cats, three horses, five sheep, one wayward Border Collie and 10 acres, Martin and I barely manage to feed everyone and keep the house in working order. And that's on a good day when we're happy, healthy and hopped up on caffeine.

When one of us gets sick, however, things fall apart fast.

On Friday Martin mentioned that his back hurt. He hobbled about, wincing with each step, but by Saturday it was clear that something else was amiss. He was really fatigued; he couldn't finish mowing the back field without stopping three times to sprawl out on the grass and rest.

And in the house I noticed Martin had slithered off his normal perch. From here:

to here:

In fact he spent most of the weekend on the ground. Two hours after the photo above, he showed little improvement:

Normally, I'd offer a couple of aspirin and some cheerful advice -- something like, "buck up and deal...you'll be fine" but this time I got no response from his lifeless body. Not to mention that I kept tripping over him.

That's when I reevaluated the situation and made a preliminary diagnosis: extreme exhaustion and crippling joint pain sounded like Lyme Disease to me.

But lymie or not, I still need help, especially when Mom's car broke down. I loaned her mine and asked Martin if he felt fit enough to pick me up. He swore that he could drive and drive he did -- right over a sign in a parking lot. By Sunday evening I was cooked. The kids were wired, the Barbarian was exercising her right to be a Terrible Two, and Martin was no longer sick, he was sick and irritable. After finally getting everyone to bed, Brynn tuned up and as I held her in my lap, she unleashed a diaper... of volcanic proportions. Let's just say that she got lava all over my shorts, my shirt and me. After much shrieking (from both of us), I bathed her, scrubbed our clothes and calmed her down.

Around midnight I stepped into the shower to wash away the day. With my hair shampooed, I glanced for the soap and realized that I was sharing the shower with a colony of wasps. They were perched on the soap, climbing the shower curtain and buzzing around.

Martin was in a Lymie coma but even he couldn't sleep through all the hollering. He hobbled in and dispatched of the wasps while I fled the scene.

By then it was 12:01 -- the beginning of a new day. A better day, I promised myself, free of explosive diapers, fender benders and wasp attacks.

And with this new day, Martin will see the doctor and we'll ignore the dent in Big Rig.

And I'm going to stock up on wine.

Two years ago this week...

....we were vacationing in the Canadian Rockies, feasting our eyes on glacier lakes, scrambling up remote mountainsides and pigging out on burgers and beer at night. The days were long, the weather perfect, and the scenery, vibrant and green.

This year we're roasting at home where the vegetation is withered and yellowed. The grass crunches underfoot. The raspberries and black raspberries have shriveled into knot-hard lumps. The apple trees are dying and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. It's dry and hot, and now it's humid.

Instead of coping with the farm and baking in the heat, I'd rather hop a plane and escape here again...

The native woodsman

After 11 years of marriage, I think that I know Martin pretty well: I know the tv shows that lure him into a hypnotic gaze, his choice of beer, flavor of gatorade, the fact that he douses everything in ranch dressing... hell, sometimes I can tell what he's thinking and finish his sentences -- which irritates him. And I know that it irritates him-- and that's why I do it.

Still, he has the power to stun me with his random proclamations. Like the one he sprung on me last week:

"I can smell deer."

Really, I say skeptically. You can smell...deer.

"Yea, I just noticed it the other day when I was outside."

How do you know that you smell deer? What do they smell like?

"Sort of musky, like a fox."

Please, that's like saying that some kind of meat tastes like chicken.

"Maybe it's because it's summer and they're sweating more. Maybe I smell their sweat. But I'm telling you: I smell deer!"


Martin's super-human skill sent me scurrying to the internet where I embarked on an unsatisfying search for answers. As to the deer perspiration question, I dug up an ambivalent paragraph in "Deer of North America" in which biologists suggest that deer, in fact, do not sweat.

My quest for information on humans smelling deer yielded even less, which tells me that with all the ludicrous and idiotic information posted on the web, even the internet has its limits.

So I'm highly skeptical of Martin's olfactory sense. But I'll grant him this: in nine years living here, he's shed his suburban skin. On Friday a bird mysteriously found its way into our kitchen, and bashed up against the window until I called Martin for help. Any able-bodied soul can snag a bird, but Martin approached it with an arm-full of laundry and plucked the bird out of the air. With one hand.

So for the time being, I'll let him think that he smells sweaty deer.

Scenes from the 4th

These photos almost make it all worth it -- the laundry; the dirty dishes; diaper changes; the three times that Maisie ran off -- wait, make that four times -- the temper tantrums (both the kids' and mine, when the dog ran away); the popsicle-stained clothes; the incessant, maniacal Dora/Diego theme music; the times I yelled at someone to shut the door; the colony of flies that came in through the open door; the popcorn debris; the cracker crumbs; the warnings; the time-outs; and the number of times that I impaled my foot on a lego or an army soldier.

Almost....

Roadworthy

It's a Tuesday afternoon and I've made a late start on a road trip to visit Huck, who's summering off the farm and hopefully, working on his svelte figure. Distance-wise, it's not much of a journey but during rush hour, every trip's a pilgrimage.

There's a Diet Coke and a pack of gum sitting shotgun, but I'm not alone. Brynn's right behind me; still I don't feel her presence. At less than a month of age, she's about as lively as a loaf of bread and though I remember snapping her seat in the car, I find myself craning around, to check that I didn't leave her stranded at home, baking in the drive.

A sleeping baby isn't much company but I feel the steady presence of another soul. And I'm reassured between radio lulls, when I hear the rhythmic panting from the depths of the car.

Factor in Corrie, and in my last 20 years of driving, most excursions -- from grocery store runs to summers spent chasing horse shows along the coast -- have included the companionship of a Border Collie.

Corrie -- who strolled into my life after high school, and died four years ago -- was like Maisie in her utter sheep-dog lust for work. But otherwise, their personalities were different. Corrie sedately sat or slept on the floor, on the passenger's side of Zippy, my Honda civic. Sometimes I'd reach down and give her a pat. Maisie, on the other hand, travels standing up, on high-alert, in the SUV.

I imagine the two dogs as people -- like professional athletes on the way to a game. Corrie would have been the grizzled veteran, lost in thought on the team bus, plugged into an iPod and saving her energy for the field. Whereas Maisie is the anxious, effusive rookie who won't shut up and bounces a ball against the seat in front of her.

With the arrival of Brynn, Maisie's been relegated to the way-back, the SUV's trunk area -- a landfill of discarded socks, happy meal toys, squirt guns, diapers and muddy towels.

Somehow she finds her footing amid the debris and stares intently out the window -- like her life depends on it -- and frequently snaps at passing cars, her nose issuing a resounding "thump!" against the glass.

It also leaves an artful streak of nose slime on the window.

She doesn't snap at every car -- I don't know how she chooses her foe -- but she has a system and when the thumping gets too violent, I worry that she'll bruise her nose. "Easy, Maisie," I'll warn, glancing in the rearview mirror.

From my vantage point, all I see of her is one pricked ear peeking above the headrest.

And for the trip down to Huck's farm, just like every other drive to get the kids, or buy stamps, or play softball, Maisie's just a thump and an ear.

Still, she's a strong presence. And it's nice to have company.

Sunset, 8:37

Summer heat and humidity sunk its hooks in a few weeks ago but officially, the season launched its comeback on Monday. We celebrated summer with cocktails, popsicles and a post-dinner leap into the neighbor's pool.

I also provided this picture to prove that Martin is not plagued by narcolepsy, but is mobile and awake during sunlit hours -- contrary to a growing case file of evidence suggesting otherwise...

This means war

We're at constant battle with nature.

Battling the ivy that creeps through our foundation into the living room. The hornets nesting in the barn eves and the pergola. The rodents scuttling in the hayloft. And the never-ending procession of ants, flies, silverfish and spiders that call our home, "home."

While we win a few skirmishes, we're losing the war.

So I don't know why I'm hanging onto some glimmer of hope that we'll keep our new porch clean and pristine...and poop-free.

That last one's the sticking point. I'm determined to keep the front porch free of waste. Yet two cheeky, stubborn barn swallows are foiling my plan.

Normally, I have no beef with barn swallows. When they dwell in the barn.

I've already surrendered that structure to animal waste. There's a well-established bird colony in the barn rafters and they leave plenty of calling cards beneath their nests. Besides, the horses poop in there -- and so do the cats, visiting foxes and God knows what else. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised to see the kids trot out there and drop their pants.

But the porch is different. It's new, it's barely paid off and it's relatively clean. Or it was clean until our little swallow pals quietly settled atop our renovated, snow-white porch columns. They perched up there and defiled them.

We chased the birds away but they came back and hastily slapped together a nest, which Martin unceremoniously knocked down. The birds went postal; they retaliated the next morning, angrily chattering and swooping down on Martin until he retreated indoors.

But before seeking shelter, Martin placed a hefty block of wood on top of the column to prevent future nest construction. That worked for a couple of days but miraculously, the little birds managed to knock the block off and return to the perch....after defiling another porch column.

So the birds are up a match point. And I'm back on the internet, trolling for a solution and plotting our next move.

Oh, to be carefree again...

I have oodles of photos of Cayden and Hadley naked.

Not because I think naked kids are cute.

Or because I'm plotting to blackmail them in their teenage years. Or embarrass them in front of their high school prom dates.

And not because I haven't done the laundry.

But because it's one of the few perks of distant neighbors and rural living.

And because it's hot outside and they're more comfortable this way.

And because little kids are constantly going to the bathroom/requiring diaper changes.....clothes are discarded over the day.

So kids go naked and pictures are taken because pale tots against lush green grass make nice photos.

...Nice photos that we can whip out in 2023 and 2025 when we meet their prom dates and regale them with stories of Hadley eating dog food and stink bugs...