Words never to be uttered at 6:48 am

"Mom and Dad? I stuffed too much paper down the toilet, but I'm fixing it."

Confession Time

Okay, enough beating up on Martin. It's my turn to get grilled.

I set the oven on fire last night.

And unsure what to do, I simply shut the oven door and observed the fire through the window.

For a while.

Admittedly, when I switched on the oven, I noticed a piece of charred something smoldering below. But I assumed it would just burn off.

I never imagined that it was combustible.

As the little blaze carried on, I phoned Martin in the Mouse House -- as though I had no idea what had happened -- and said something like, "The oven's on fire! Get in here and put it out!"

I didn't photograph the incident, but it looked a bit like this:


I guess it's time to run the oven's "clean" cycle. Unfortunately the knob settings have worn off and half the time, I can't tell if our chicken dinner is baking, broiling or cleaning.

So there, I said it: I started an oven fire and didn't know what to do about it.

While we're on the subject, I also set a toaster oven ablaze in my office 4 years ago. I doused it with a coffee pot of water until it fizzled into a smoky mass.

Then I made myself scarce.

I'm no longer employed there and since then, the staff relocated to another office suite.

But I like to think that the scorch mark on the wall remains.

What's your chicken return policy?

For as much as I harp on Martin's compulsive purchases and his "as seen on tv" impulse buys, it's his yearning to expand the farm's population that scares me most.

He has this way of squeezing remarks into the conversation...

In the midst of writing up a grocery list one evening, Martin announces: "The sheep look lonely in the big field. I'm tempted to pick up a few more."

Or after a pilgrimage to retrieve Maisie, he offers this alternative to fencing: "Maybe Maisie won't run away if she has company. We should get 2 more border collies."

(me: Great, then we'll have three missing dogs.)

And in response to Hadley's habitual wanderings:

Martin: "Hadley needs a job around here."

She's 2. What do you want her to do?

Martin: "We should get chickens. Then she can collect the eggs."

Apparently, more animals will solve all of our problems.

So far, my stock answer to these musings is the same: Martin, don't you dare.

And I've changed my tactics. I'm no longer running interference on trips to Target, Walmart, or Bed, Bath & Beyond. Instead I'm monitoring excursions to Tractor Supply, where baby chicks and duckings are sold by the trough-full.

This weekend there's a nearby sheep & wool festival (no doubt that's on everyone's calendar). In addition to peddling sweaters and knitting supplies --and lamb kabobs-- breeders also offer sheep and sheepdog puppies for sale.

I'll be on high alert.

The Surprise

It might have started with a bite.

An imperceptible bite from a mouth no larger than a pin prick. From a tick no bigger than a sesame seed.

Just like all tiny deer ticks, this sightless creature hopped aboard and traveled north. Instinctively, ticks move opposite the pull of gravity, climbing upward until they can rise no higher. That's how this tick likely took residence in a concealed patch of skin, camouflaged beneath long stalks of dark hair. It latched on with its barbed mouth, ate its fill and left undetected. No harm done, so it seemed.

Had the blood supply's owner known of the arachnid, she would have balked at the blood-sucking bite. That tick would have been plucked off its 8 spiny legs and sent to a swirling, watery grave. To join others wrenched from the dog's skin and flushed down the toilet. And that would have been that.

But, as it turns out, this interloper didn't just dine and ditch. Instead, it left a calling card -- a bacterium that travels through the blood stream and takes residence in various body tissues.

Perhaps a few weeks later, the host felt the bacterium's effects and she hobbled off to seek medical attention. The doctor extracted far more blood than the tick ever did, but confirmed the source of the aches, pains and migraines: Lyme Disease.

When diagnosed early, Lyme can be successfully knocked out with antibiotics. In this particular case, it took a few rounds of pills to erase all symptoms of the disease.

Fortunately, a few months later, all signs of the tick's little gift disappeared. And have not returned.

However, the tick's former host failed to realize that antibiotics can reduce the action of other medications. Including birth control.




Which might possibly account for this


It's just a theory. We'll never know if our "surprise" was indirectly the product of one little tick bite.

What we do know is that in a mere 5 weeks, the Boy and Barbarian will welcome a new roommate to their sleeping quarters.

Gender unknown, thanks to Martin who reasoned, "It started as a surprise, we might as well keep it that way."

Estimated arrival on tick gift: May 28. Or thereabouts.

Ring ring, buzz buzz

We're enjoying an intermission between storm seasons. Winter's winds are a distant memory and summer's walloping thunderstorms are months away.

So there's no reason to lose any utilities. Yet here we are, facing week two without a home phone. Again.

Our land-line cut out mysteriously about a year ago. Admittedly, a couple of weeks passed before we realized it. I vaguely noticed that we were spared the evening onslaught of telemarketers, but I didn't know that the phone was kaput until Mom mentioned it. Even then, a few more weeks lapsed before we bothered to get it fixed.

We toyed with canceling the phone, subsisting entirely on cell phones, but the home number is a crucial tool in our Maisie retrieval network. So we kept it.

Then last weekend I picked up the phone and encountered an off-key buzzing, like an irate insect was entombed inside. Unfortunately, it wasn't just the home phone; Martin's work number was out too. But this much we knew: since both lines were down from two separate boxes and the internet still worked -- the problem was off property.

So another call to the phone company and four days later, confirmation that a technician would be out precisely between the hours of 8 am and 8 pm.

This afternoon the repair guy appeared and made a startling discovery:

"There's a problem with your phone."
Martin: no kidding.
"And the problem with the line is down along the river somewhere..."
Martin: I told you guys it wasn't at the house--
"...so I'll put in a ticket so someone can fix it."
Martin: But we already put in a ticket....that's why you're here.
"I needed to come out and check that it wasn't on the property."
Martin: It took you four days to come out and tell me that you need to send someone else to fix the problem?
"Yup."
Martin: that sucks.
"Yup."

So there you go. No dial tone, no solution, no service. But at least we've reached a consensus: the phone does not work!

Living with Dan Haggerty

Over the years Martin has flitted around with a goatee. Grown it out, trimmed the edges, let it linger, then lopped it off. There's never been any rhyme or reason and that's fine by me. His face, his facial hair.

But what started last year as his traditional stubbly growth has morphed into a goatee-run-amok. It's a full-on beard. And lately, it's been looking a little...unkempt. I finally said something this weekend.

Martin, are you going to rein that thing in?
What thing?
That bird's nest growing on your face. Seriously, creatures are starting to live in there.
(Martin thoughtfully stroked his wavy-wild bristles) I like it. I don't want one of those little trendy goatees.
Well, I think you're well past that point.

Granted, Martin works from home and most days the only beings that set eyes on him are horses, cats and sheep. There's no incentive to fret over wardrobe or turnout. Which is why I've ignored his battered cargo pants, his holey socks and at times, his horsey smell (hey, you can't knock free barn help.)

But recently the beard-tee has grown a braid-worthy length. And as I study it, I wonder if Martin's approaching the on-ramp to some hippie-midlife crisis.

Martin, you look like Grizzly Adams.
Who?
Grizzly Adams -- it was a tv show in the 80s about a guy who lived in the mountains with a bear. I think the actor burned off his beard in some boozy bar incident, so you'd better watch out.
Martin's quiet for a minute before admitting: I don't know how to trim it.
Well, maybe it's time to visit Floyd the barber. He'll fix you up.

So Monday evening, my cargo pants-clad husband fired up Chitty and, with Maisie sitting shotgun, puttered to town, parking beside the red and white pole at the 4-way stop.

And damned if the barber wasn't closed that day.

Just my luck. Guess I'm stuck with Grizzly Adams.

About Last Night

Whatever kind of lousy evening you had last night -- trust me -- ours was worse.

After I stupidly decided to run errands during rush hour, with two cranky kids after a long day of work...after getting stuck in a sea of red lights...after draining the truck to fumes because I couldn't find a gas station with diesel...after a panic attack and finally, fueling up... after I drove home with our brand new over-priced porch furniture in a torrential rainstorm... after I rolled up at 8:30 with unfed kids and water logged wicker chairs...

...the dog ran off.

Martin didn't say a word. He didn't get a coat. He just fired up the gator and drove off in the inky rain.

Thirty minutes later he returned and almost immediately, Maisie ran off again. Because I failed to barricade the dog door.

Martin set out again in the rain. And eventually found the dog. After getting the gator mired in mud and vines by the river. And after he pushed, rocked and shoved the gator free (while Maisie incessantly barked and taunted him). And after he nearly got attacked by a pissed-off, hissing possum who bared his teeth in anger after the dog collided with it. After that, at 10:45, we shed our wet clothes and ate dinner.



Why Martin stays married or continues living on this crazy farm with this nutty dog is beyond me.

Spring Stuffing Season

We may be baking with summer temperatures, but it's still April -- the season for spring cleaning. Time to throw open the windows, air out the house and declutter closets, shelves and attics. But around here, it's spring "stuffing" season.

Old houses are notoriously storage-challenged and ours is no different. There's a decent closet in the master bedroom and a sliver of space in the guest room but that's about it, aside from the attic. Which is why in spring, I heave our summer clothes down the attic stairs and stuff/wedge/cram them into any spare closet nook, dresser or shelf. That's why my wardrobe is scattered among 4 rooms.

That's why I can't find anything.

Adding to storage limitations is Martin's penchant for shopping. Every time I'm out of town, he entertains himself by flashing his credit card at every big-box store in a 30-mile radius (You thought that only chics do retail therapy? Think again.)

Martin's journey begins innocently enough -- an outing to buy batteries -- but he'll quickly snap up some dvds for the kids, tube socks and boxers, and then a few "as seen on TV" items -- a bio-enhanced cutting board the repels germs; an upside-down hanging tomato planter; a hand-held steam cleaner that spits out lavender and lilac aromas. But his true weaknesses? Large tupperware containers, flashlights, throw-blankets, first-aid kits, and water bottles -- guaranteed, he comes home with those on every trip.

These $200 shopping excursions drive me nuts, which is why he hides most of what he buys. Especially things he doesn't want. Because Martin lives by some strange shopping commandment: thou shalt not return purchases.

Instead he shoves unwanted wares -- sometimes with the receipt taped to the box -- on a top shelf, far above my 5'3" frame, where they sit undiscovered. Until spring stuffing season.

That's how I found the hideous electric-blue tea kettle, roosting beside the first-aid kit collection. And a brand-new electric toothbrush (rejected when he found a "cooler" model). Or my personal favorite: the FlipFold -- a plastic board that facilitates the folding of clothes, directions included.

In the past, I've gotten rid of Martin-gear by smashing it to smithereens. I disposed of old furniture and artwork ("artwork," I use loosely) stored in the barn, by hurling it out the hayloft door. Not only did the tv, picture frames and particle-board hit the ground in a magnificent smash, but the journey rendered them unsalvageable.

But heaving plastic containers out of the house isn't as dramatic. So I'll go the old-fashioned yard sale route. Somewhere out there I'm sure someone's thinking: "I'd love to fold my clothes...if only I had a plastic board that could show me how...."

Going it alone

Last night, while dog, kids and husband slumbered, I camped out in front of the TV to watch Butler take on Duke in the NCAA championship. (I wasn't entirely solo -- I had the kids' Easter baskets to keep me company.)

It was during the second half -- sometime after the Cadbury mini eggs and before the peeps -- when I realized that the game's just not the same anymore.

When I was a kid, my Dad never watched college or NFL football, and he'd flip the channels right past baseball, golf or hockey. But he worshiped ACC hoops, especially Duke (where he went to law school). As long as I can remember, his allegiance to Coach K and Duke ball was pure and resolute.

And early on, he molded me into a Blue Devil fan. On weekends, while Mom was at work, we'd hunker down in the rec room -- blinds drawn to protect the TV glow from winter glare. I'd cradle a dish of Doritos while Dad, pitched back in his leather recliner, cupped a beer and periodically rapped his pipe on his ash tray. From there we'd commiserate when Duke lost and gloat when they won.

College put me 450 miles away, but Dad and I still watched games together, tethered by a phone. Stretching the phone cord taut from my room down the hall, I'd perch on a communal couch to watch Duke play. Typically surrounded by Blue Devil haters, I'd plaster the receiver to my ear. Half the time Dad and I didn't talk. We ran up ridiculous phone bills silently watching.

When games got too stressful for me, I'd turn off the TV and let Dad relay play-by-play. The most memorable of these episodes was after college in 2001, when Duke and Maryland were well-ranked and set to play. Martin and I watched at his friend's house with a bunch of Maryland grads and for 39 minutes, I was taunted and jeered as Duke trailed the whole game.

Stressed out, I retreated to a dark, tv-less room where I cowered on the couch and phoned Dad. He calmly described each play while I blocked out the din of Maryland cheers. And in the final minute Dad excitedly described the unthinkable: Duke clawed its way back from a 10-point deficit. They eeked the game into overtime and won. It was one of the best games I never saw.

I don't know when my father stopped caring about ACC basketball -- dementia kicked it to the sidelines and eventually it floated away like everything else -- history, politics, softball, travel. Sometimes I'll throw a Duke score into the conversation but there's no spark of recognition.

So last night I watched the game with interest but without the nail-biting fervor I once had. In fact, after Duke won, I half-wished that Butler had sunk the buzzer-beating shot from half court.

That would have been blasphemy back in the day. And if the old Dad had been watching last night, he would have sighed with relief when Butler's ball rocketed off the rim. "Christ, that was a close one," he might have said. "But my Dukies did it again."

A one-shot deal

On Thursday morning Martin and I were ready.

Appointment booked. Box strategically positioned, door open. Empty food dishes stacked on the hayloft stairs. A single aluminum can held aloft, index finger looped through the pull tab. And a captive feline audience.

Our plan: to lure our quarry -- Felix -- with a can of wet food, a few reassuring pats, and then snatch him up, cram him in the cat box, and deposit him at the vet's for a fun-filled day of castration.

And we successfully executed our plan.

But we didn't stick the landing.

It's hard to say who's to blame -- whether I released the kitten prematurely or Martin shut the box too slowly. But as the cat door clattered open and a frantic mass of claws and fur streaked out the barn, I heard Robert De Niro's trademark drawl, in his role as a police officer in the movie Cop Land: I offered you a chance when we could have done something....and you bleeeew it! You blew it!

We did blow it. One fateful error and Felix is positively uncatchable. Cast your eyes in his direction and he disappears into the cavernous loft.

So I'll give it a month -- 30 days to win him over. After that, it's time to pull out the big guns...and stock up on the rotisserie chicken...