Northern Noise

At last I'm home after being gone for 3 days. The meetings were good, productive, but it sure is nice to be home. My son was happy to see me, as were the dogs. The husky welcomed and reprimanded before sniffing once and heading back out of the rain. Now I'm spending a day snuggling with the men in my life, although one as left me now to turn the love seat into a P-38 Lightening. It sounds cheesy, I know, but while it's raining outside the sun is shining in my house today.

I've decided the definition of true love. True Love is when your partner agrees to do the dirty jobs and not make you take your turn. True Love is when you partner throws his back out shoveling dirt so that you'll save yours. True Love is when he rubs your feet -even when they're nasty dirty. And what do I do in return? I make him a martini, bring it to him on the porch, give him a kiss, and ask him to do the dishes. Gosh I love True Love.

So now comes the dilemma. We're supposed to be searching for the magnet. It's apparently very important to confirm that it exits the boy in one piece. My husband has been doing a very good job, and the girls even saved yesterday's poo so he could search it when he returned home. No magnet in the poo however. Today, the boy was out of the house and had to poo. There we were, in a public restroom with no special poo collector bucket and no popsicle stick spatulas. So, he went, I gave a cursory glance, no visible magnet, so we flushed. So where's the dilemma? The dilemma is actually borrowed trouble at this point. The dilemma will arise if the husband can't find the magnet. Theoretically the magnet was hidden in the gigantic poo which was flushed. If that's the case, we have no confirmation that the magnet exited in one piece. So then what? Back for an xray? Do we just let it go like the oldtimers would have? I mean, as long as he's not eating ot

According the the website koko.org/friends, "Note that while Koko is well known for her communication skills, she is not unique. Koko's late male companion, Michael , was also fluent in sign language, a prolific painter, and intelligent beyond anyone's wildest expectations. And Koko's current silverback companion, Ndume , is equally personable, empathetic and intelligent. Koko's species is remarkable indeed." What most people don't know is that the spirit of Koko, though not her love of kitten

When I was a child, and one of the kids did stupid things, it was simple. Mom would call poison control in there was ingestion, and that would decide if we were all taking a road trip to the hospital for a stomach pumping. I can still remember my brother crying, and trying to reach the rest of the solid room deodorizer as my mom called Poison Control. I thought Mr. Yuck (remember him?) was a relative - his number was right there next to Grammie's. If there wasn't ingestion, it might be a trip to the fire department instead of the hospital. For example, when I got a fish hook through my finger it was decided that the firemen were closer and cheaper. Nevermind that I thought the Betadyne they poured on was blood, and passed out in front of one very cute fireman. The hook was removed and mom made me do chores when we got home. Nowadays however, we have the dreaded Internet. This means that when a child does something, like swallow a magnet, the initial reaction is "He

I know that's a cliche, but it's appropriate today? The little redheaded girl graduated from high school. I'm trying to look at her with the same "adult" respect I give my students who cross the stage, and it's hard. It's also exciting. Now she has choices, now she has steerage of her own course (to a large extent). wow.

So I got my book, and I read the story of "The Patchwork Monkey." It's by Beverly Butler and in the book Baleful Tales and Eerie Creatures . Once I read it, I very much remember reading it as a child. It's the damn scariest story I've ever read. Seriously. I once read The Shining all alone is a friend's apartment in the dark on a rainy winter's night, while I could hear cockroaches in the kitchen. (It's a night I'll never forget and to this day topiaries make me nervous.) The Patchwork Monkey has it all beat. So why is it so terrifying. #1, it's aimed at children. Children should not read this story. #2, it plays on every fear I had as a child - old people, stuffed animals, teasing your siblings, and being left alone in the house. #3, the story is very well written and down right twisted. I had my husband read it. I didn't tell him anything, just a "read this and tell me what you think." He made me put the book away

Husband came out of surgery fine. Daughter in DC got her debit card working. Oldest submitted the housing application; youngest got his library books returned. Now, if the grading fairies will visit, all will be well.

I've always had a huge (and I thought irrational) fear of sock monkeys. They smile their red mouthed smile but secretly they're waiting to suck your soul and leave you dead. Recently, thanks to the joy of FB quizzes (5 things I'm terrified of) I've discovered that there is a basis for this fear. A friend reminded me of a short story "The Patchwork Monkey" by Beverly Butler that must have scarred me for life; she is scared also, to this day, as a matter of creepy fact. So I set out to find the story. No luck on the Internet, although they've made it into an award-winning short film. I did finally find the title of the collection and started searching. I think I got a deal buying an old used copy for $99. That's right, one hundred books for a used children's book that I think may be responsible for my terror. Needless to say, I'm not telling my husband I just spent an ungodly amount of money on this book. (Luckily for me, he avoids all b

things can change. From all is well, to all is hell. From great day to "great gods!" Do expectations automatically accompany love? This idea that "because I love you" than "I can have expectations for how you spend your time (your money, your life, your mind?)." On one hand it makes perfect sense, on the other, it might make a sane person want to run away. It's all one can do to live with her own expectations, and the expectations of dependent children, and the expectations of the boss who signs her paycheck. To add the expectations of anyone else might push her over the edge. Every day, every date, every night is a treat to be savored and enjoyed. To bemoan the loss of such, or an evening spent apart seems to put a lot of pressure on weakened seams.