Cross Country

I'd been complaining to my husband that what I really needed was about 3 days without my boys. Then I could return completely refreshed and appreciative of their enthusiasm for life. In my dreams right?

Then, my employer announced that this year's annual staff meeting would be held in Seattle. This is a semi-fun little jaunt I've attended a few times--Las Vegas, Houston, Rhode Island. This year would take me back to a place I called home for a good decade. So, I pondered taking the family--a free trip for me, why not bring the kids, say hello to friends. Then the logistics and cost became daunting and my husband reminded me that I'd been clamoring for 3 days off.

So, on September 11th I flew across the country (you can't get much farther in the US from Fairyland than Seattle). After a ground hold, flight delay, missed connector, mixed up rental car, an overbooked hotel and a black cat, I crawled into bed at midnight Seattle time, 3am Fairyland time.

I have to say that despite the hassles, I thoroughly enjoyed remembering what it was like to travel without children. I sat with my small bag, reading a book, snacking on a muffin from the refreshment stand. There was no stroller, diaper bag, infant seat, screaming or whining anywhere (except for the fellow passengers whining about the delay).

In addition to my full-time job as a mother, I'm fortunate enough to have a part-time job I can do from my home. There are many advantages to this arrangement. One drawback I realized is that I rarely get a break. I think this is one of the things that draws moms and dads to working away from home. There is something relaxing even about working, about going somewhere or accomplishing something without little people at your side.

I was glad I didn't bring them. Not just because I was reminded of the simple peaceful life that I could have without them, but perhaps, even more so, because I was reminded of the joy that life is with them.

HO WAITING

Since I married -- just completed 7 years! -- I've had to accustom myself to various aspects of married life. One of which is my married name. It begins with the letters Ho. This is most unfortunate at a pharmacy where they print the first two letters of your name on your prescription: "HO".

However, recently the problem has become much more serious. I brought in a prescription to be filled and indicated I would like to wait for it rather than return. When I got home, I noticed the heading now read "HO WAITING".

I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.

Crack

I may have mentioned that creepy crawlies seem to give me the creeps. I also may have mentioned that we've been occasionally finding unwanted little friends in our home here in FairyLand. We've been unsure just how they've been getting in, though I have seen one slither right on in the front door as I opened it.

No, please, after you . . .

We have noticed that our cat likes to hang out by the fireplace, staring at the little crack between the brick and the built in bookcase. I've noticed that during the day, light squeezes in through that crack. I figured she was hoping to escape and noted it on my to-do list.

"Request maintenance fill crack"

Apparently it was not high enough on the list.

My husband noted one evening that the cat had been staring at the crack for some time. Since it was dark out, I deduced she must not be staring at the light. I've been called "sharp as a tack."

He got a flashlight and shined it into the aforementioned crack.

Snakes in a Crack. I think a movie is in order.

Mild mayhem ensued as we considered our options. Maintenance had gone home for the evening. Neither I nor my husband was about to try to extract the snakes from the crack and I certainly wasn't going to go to bed with live snakes in my house.

I considered spraying hornet spray at them. I considered waking Ethan and asking him to take care of it.

We decided to call FairyLand's resident naturalist. Known as "Mama Kelly" to the locals, she is known for her near-nutty love of critters. She would sooner slice her own fingers off than harm an innocent creature. Mama Kelly arrived with two lovely assistants. We showed her to the crack. We could count at least two snakes, but likely more. We can suppose these are the parents of the smaller snakes we've discovered in the house.

It was a grueling 90 minute operation involving a fly-swatter, a broken yardstick and a cereal box. Daisy, attempting to pounce every time Mama got near to coaxing a snake out, had to be restrained.

I also learned something new. When scared or angry, these snakes, which have no venom, "musk" or release a nasty smelling substance to discourage predation. As Mama Kelly put it "would you want to eat something that smelled like un-wiped butt?"

In the end, success. Three snakes were removed alive, unharmed, and taken in a cereal box to an undisclosed location and released.

I've decided that Daisy has earned her keep. I can put up with the cat hair and litter box duty knowing that it was her that single paw-edly kept the snakes in their crack and alerted us to their presence.

I've also decided it is time to invite Mama Kelly and her lovely assistants to a nice (vegetarian) dinner.

Needless to say "request maintenance fill crack" moved to the top of the to-do list. I think the actual request I submitted read something like this: "Snakes living in and entering through crack. Please fill--IMMEDIATELY.

Squeamish

My recent discovery: FairyLand teeming with life of the non-fairy variety.

The squealing that began yesterday with my successful fishing venture has hardly ceased today. This morning my son pointed out the little dead snake lying pathetically on the carpet. With several squirms, squeals and dropping of said snake, I managed to toss it outside. Now mind you, this snake was all of 2 inches in length and perhaps 2 millimeters in breadth.

The squealing continued as Ethan and I put our noses to the test in order to pinpoint the source of the strange odor that has been crescendoing in our kitchen over the the past couple of days. As I cleaned and sniffed and sniffed and cleaned every part in and near the stove I suddenly got a whiff from the little crack between the countertop and stovetop. I yanked the stove away from the wall only to glimpse the back end of a dead mouse sticking unceremoniously out from under the rear of the range.

Much squealing ensued.

Followed by repeat phone calls to my husband's voice mail.

More squealing and the lighting of a strongly scented candle.

I was standing near a chair in the living room, once again calling my husband when I felt something flutter over my foot. I shuddered--silly me, I'm just a bit jumpy after the rodent incident. I looked down and saw another snake, this one very alive, sliding over my bare foot.

Much more squealing as I managed to corral the thing into the dustpan (it was all of about 4 inches long) and toss it outside.

I called my parents for comfort and was told that perhaps I should try and accustom myself to such things considering I live in FairyLand.

My husband made it home in time to remove the dead, stinky, maggot-ridden rodent from the kitchen, leaving me to squeal some more as I cleaned up the remains.

I'm glad I have cats.

Fishy

I did not realize it, but I am a girly-girl. I never thought I’d admit to such a thing. My tomboyhood is a source of pride. Growing up with four brothers makes me feel strong and provides me with a general disdain of anything overtly girly. Yet, when I took my son fishing today, my inner girl appeared. Ethan tried and tried to rip that squirming worm in half but his four-year-old fingers were just not up to the task. “Mom please?”. I squealed and dropped the thing repeatedly, looking the other way as I tore the poor little bugger clean in two. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I splayed the critter on a hook—multiple times.

I’ve accompanied my child fishing on his only two previous excursions. Fortunately, he didn’t catch anything. More fortunately, both times there was a grown man on hand to handle the fish just in case. So I figured today would be no different.

After a few casts as I skewered another worm for him I thought what the heck, why don’t I give it a try and I cast it into the water. I began to reel it in when suddenly something yanked back. Oh no. As I was reeling in the harmless little fish I had a sudden thought: Who’s going to remove the poor thing from my hook? I considered my possibilities—Ethan? Elliot? I wondered if perhaps I just dropped it back into the water would it just somehow remove the hook and swim away? Then I saw that the thing was pierced deep into it’s open mouth and it’s eyes were panic stricken.

Oh heavens, it’s me and this fish.

So, I waited for it to stop flopping so violently. Grabbed a hold, closed my eyes and pulled out the hook. I squealed repeatedly and threw it back in the lake. I was ready to go home, but Ethan now really wanted to catch one. So, a few worms later I faced the same problem with an unsuspecting little fishy Ethan managed to reel in. There was perhaps a bit less girlish squealing involved the second time around, but not much. I’m beginning to think it’s time for my own fishing show.

Guns & Hogs

I was recently asked if there is a place to shoot guns here in Fairyland--the inquisitor indicating that the presence of a shooting range would make Fairyland the ultimate Utopia. Here I am in Utopia. I'm not sure how I feel about using that as a selling point about the place. What concerns me about our firing range is not the loudness--we're far enough away that I can pretend I'm hearing distant fireworks and I'm reasonably sure my children won't wander into range. What concerns me somewhat is perhaps the motivation of those utilizing the range. One instructor told a group that they didn't have to stick with the oh-so-boring standard targets, but could get creative and create targets on butcher paper. Later it was discovered the group took the advice to heart and had created detailed pictures of smiling people, which I have to assume were somehow related to real-life individuals, at which to shoot. This is disconcerting to me.

And still dear friends, this is not what ruins my Utopia for me. It is ruined by hogs. Yes, hogs. We live near the main road into FairyLand. At the end of this road sits a lovely chapel with an astonishing view. Many people venture to FairyLand solely to glimpse this view. Many others it seems venture to FairyLand to be heard on their way to glimpse this view. They drive very loud motorcycles. I'm told they're called hogs. I've seen hogs at the fair. They smell about as bad as the motorcycle version, but they are certainly less foul. The noise pollution of the mechanical type is certainly much more obscene than the rumbly grunting at the fair.
These hogs can awaken a sleeping child from a mile away.

I am much less disturbed by the occasional weirdo with a gun then the apparently very pervasive complete disregard for the disturbance of the peace. Why? Well, the weirdos with guns seem to be few and far between whereas the hog-riders are legion and I'm confronted with them daily. I can almost accept this on a crowded, already noisy highway, but to drag the stinky, loud, ugly thing up a serene mountain to a place of peace and beauty, cutting through the sound of birds and water as if everyone there had just been sitting around thinking "it's much too quiet up here." I find this intolerable and apparently waste much emotion on the subject when the offenders are and likely will remain oblivious.

I'm hoping at least to ingrain this feeling into my child by way of his general manners training: "Mommy, dat mocycle is 'bnoxious, dey aren't being polite or safe."

Since my father-in-law has decided that for his mid-life crisis he would purchase a hog and ride it around with my mother-in-law, I have had the additional task of explaining to my child (along with explaining to him that he will never, while he is a minor, nor has any sense in his head, be allowed to ride said hog)--that hog-riding is not a mark of grandparenthood. As we discuss the fact that one day he will be a daddy and I will be a grandma, and no, daddy will not be riding a motorcycle when he is a grandpa.

Mythology

I think home-ownership is overrated. When we moved to FairyLand we sold our home and entered a blissful mortgage-free existence called a Housing and food employment benefit. My father-in-law has expressed some serious concern for our future financial well-being. I was concerned briefly. Then I did the math.

We have owned two homes in our married life. The first we sold after 4 years and earned in interest almost exactly the amount we paid in interest and principal in those 4 years. And that was a very good market. Our second home lost us money if you consider the amount of money paid into it over the years against the amount we pulled out of it.

Now, I understand the argument for owning versus renting (though, there is something to be said about maintenance-free living) but I see no benefit in making a monthly mortgage payment and then, somewhere down the road, maybe getting some or all of that payment back over just plain not paying a dime to live. Not to mention living maintenance free. If I'm doing my math incorrectly (wouldn't be the first time), please correct me. For now, I'll live happily debt-free in FairyLand.