What, Karma?

This past weekend was the Highland Games. We wait for this event all year long. This is our Christmas, Rosh Hashanna, Halloween and Superbowl all rolled into one. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when Delta went on without me after Phee-Phee and Oscar came down with croup. After a day and a night on prednisone, the girls were given the green light to travel so we headed up to NH to join Delta. Everything seemed fine.Until I woke up to the ominous sound of a pig rutting in my blankets. Fortunately it was just Oscar. Unfortunately the rutting sound was a portent of things to follow, quite literally. Seconds after I identified the sound , buckets of meatball red vomit soaked through my fleece pajamas and onto my skin beneath. Oscar was like a fondue fountain, the puke just kept coming. And even after I'd changed our pajamas and our sheets and walked her to the bathroom to brush her little fangs, I couldn't shake the queasy feeling I'd gotten when I tried to pull my shirt over my head. I managed to fall back asleep but when I woke up I was still queasy. I thought about going home, but DElta convinced me to stay. My stomacheache grew worse as the morning progressed. The two mimosa's our friend Jay the Scott brought over did not do anything to abate the pain. A long, hot, 75 cent shower did nothing to improve my mood. Finally, I stood in the doorway of the public restroom, beseeching the heaven's to send me a sign and suddenly a great rolling wave of thunder answered me. If you were to record the sound the thunder made and play it back at a much higher speed, you would clearly hear "Didi - go home - you are sick" but I had no recording equipment so I missed the message and stayed.
"You can go," said Delta, "And bring the camper back with you."
I know what you're thinking, "Whatchou talkin bout, Delta?" right?
Me too. But so strong was the feeling that he knew something I didn't and that if I left I would miss out on that something, that I stayed despite my churning digestive tract. By the time I rolled into my driveway last night and dragged my ass into bed, kilt and all, my fever was at 102. I drifted off to sleep (After Desperate Housewives of course) promising Karma that next time I'll listen and just stay home.

My Delta's as Sneaky as They Come

Today started out a perfectly normal Monday. Ya-Ya stayed home sick from school. We met OHM at Starbucks before Oscar's ballet lesson. After ballet we headed out to Ipswich to this awesome place for my quarterly Polarity/deep tissue massage. (And by deep, I mean she stirred my bone marrow.) Everything was going just fine until Delta called me on the hour and a half drive home.
"Are you going to jujitsu?" I asked, glancing at the clock and noticing he was already 15 minutes late.
"No, I just got home."
"Just got home? It's 7:00. WHere have you been?"
"What am I on parole?"
"If by parole you mean advising Queen Mother as to your whereabouts for the last 2 unaccounted hours than yes."
- wait. I'm making things up again. Let me remember how it really went - ....
OK. Something about jujitsu, then this big, elaborate fabrication about picking earthmoving equipment with his friend The Mouth to do work on Mom and Superdad's house before the wedding. With absolutely NO prompting on my part. And if any of you don't know already, I'll tell you that when someone makes up a whopper before you can even ask what they were doing, something's up. And I KNOW you know that when said whopper is followed by a hissing through the teeth so as to mimic phone static, something's REALLY up. So, I seethed all the way down Route 128. Then I fumed across the Mass Pike. Then I ground my teeth into a fine powder through the backroads of Framingham. Then,when I finally got home and sailed through the house with my chin in the air and my eyes pointedly averted, Delta fell over onto the bed in a fit of giggles.
"What?" I demanded.
"The windows look nice," he giggled. And I have to admit, he took me aback for a moment. He noticed I washed the windows! But then I saw the blue diapers wrapped around his forearms.
"What have you done to yourself?" I cried. "Why have you wrapped yourself in surgical diapers?"
And then I realized why. My sneaky Delta Hotel went off and got himself some more tattoos today. This is the fourth time he's brought me home tattoos as surprises. Why doesn't he just tell me when he makes the appointment? That Delta and his secret tattoo-gettin' life. After the pain from my jaw grinding subsided and the migraine loosened it's grip just a hair, we had a good laugh. And he does realize that this is war. I too will find myself a secret life. I just can't figure out what.

How to Plan a Wedding in Just Three Weeks

On October 8th my mom is going to marry the man of her dreams. This is a second marriage for both of them - my mom is a divorcee and my future super-dad (my mom's alternative to the title stepdad) is a widower. Both of them have kids - my mom has me and my superdad to be has three sons and all of us are married with families of our own. Mom and Superdad are going for the ultra-low key this time around. But when my mom used the words "We're just going to have something simple, us and all the kids and grandkids," I thought that meant everything was under control. Last night she called to ask if my future supersister-in-law had been in touch with me.
"About what?" I asked.
Long, l-o-n-g, looooooooong pause.
"About the wedding plans," answered my mom in her I'm-speaking-this-softly-because-I-can-see-the-end-of-your-life-and-it's-at-hand voice.
"The wedding plans," I said.
"Keep it simple," she growled.
What I'd failed to realize, way back when when they announced their engagement, was the command prompt buried in the exciting exposition.
Do any of you have any idea how long it takes a Libra to plan a wedding with all the choices involved??? Here's an illustration. Delta and I, both Librans, spent 25 minutes at the Toyota repairs counter yesterday with "the man" looking on before we decided to let him remove the door panel of the sequoia to see why the drivers side window would not go up. Twenty five minutes, one decision. We can't even decide where to go to dinner without calling a UN Special Convention. I can't speak for all librans, but when my very limited decision making tank is overloaded, craziness ensues. That's why I sometimes wear Delta's clothes and speak in tongues. So, my mantra - no - my prayer for the next three weeks is that no one ends up sitting round the reception table eating from Pez dispensers, wearing jester hats and drinking windex. Thank God my supersister-in-law to be seems to be quite level headed.

Whoa...

So, you know how we have this cute little Scotty Highlander camper, right? And how we're some camping fools, right? Well, it wasn't always this way. When I first met Delta, I had taken a life vow of not ever camping on purpose again. Something about shelter halves and rifles in my sleeping bag and brown recluse spiders and dirt on any exposed inch of sweaty flesh just did me in. But Delta loves to camp. He's also a champion peer pressurer. So one year I relented and we went tent camping and I was reminded of how much I loathe waking up covered in dew and stuffy nosed because I invariably wallow over some previously unseen hill facedown. I'm always cold and sweaty at the same time and I must be charged with some mysterious Swifter energy because all the dirt from everywhere sticks to the worst possible places on my body. So Delta bought me a pop-up. We used it two, maybe three times, then I decided that it was too much like a tent with wheels and I hated it. So Delta bought the little Scotty. Meanwhile, the pop-up sat in our back yard all old and unloved. The roof had some weird problem and all the snow went inside during the winter so the thing was basically wrecked come spring. Delta was sad. He thought all he could do was give it away on Craigslist to be used as a trailer. So one day this guy came over talking about how he wanted to take his boys camping and showing Delta his tattoos and they got along all right. Delta liked him because he came right out and said he was stuck in the eighties, and anyone who can do that - and actually is - is freaking hilarious. That was months ago. Tonight I was reading through the blogs and I noticed that a friend wrote about the camper she'd gotten from Craigslist for free. "No way," I told myself, "Too much of a coincidence. It couldn't possibly be OUR old pop-up!" So, I went to flickr and found a picture of this girl's boyfriend.
"Delta!" I called. "Do you remember the guy you gave the camper to?"
"What about him?"
"Did he have curly black hair? Was his name Karp?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact it was Karp."
"Did he look like this?" I said, stepping aside from where I'd been blocking the monitor."
"That's him! That's Karp who took the camper! Why is he on your computer?"
How weird is that??? I'm so glad that Karp and Marla got the pop-up. I'm amazed that they actually fixed it up but glad that someone is getting some use out of it and making some memories. I really want to see how they handled that roof leak. Life is so weird. We took out an add in Craigslist and filtered a bunch of people only to give the camper to the boyfriend of a girl I've known since I was 16. Ha.

Don't think I haven't written because I don't love you. It's not you, really, it's me. And it's not that I don't have anything to write about, I do. There was Phee-Phee's luau birthday party where she cried 'cus she wanted too and, well, you know how the song goes. Then there was the camping trip in the wake of the hurricane and the ghost hunt to the top of October Mountain where an abandoned old graveyard can be found, sinking away into oblivion. And Oscar's third birthday party out in the sticks. And I'm wondering why I've heard the concept of parallel universes a total of three times this week from three seperate parties whose words echoed precisely the words of those before them. And then the other concept of serendipity repeated by two close friends who I swear have met each other but insist that they wouldn't know the other if they were "choking on her". And then, of course, the failed root canal and Tiarra's insistence that I shall succumb to brain fever before the rooster cries three times. Lucky for me I'm addicted to novocaine. School started last week in a tidal wave of melancholy. Turns out that stupid tacky homily that everyone who has ever raised a child to adulthood forces into the brain of every new parent is actually true. They do grow up too fast, and you do find yourself looking at the soggy breakfast cereal they've left behind wondering where in the hell you were when it happened. Stupid true cliche. But, one must not continue to pop out children just to fill the lonely hours in an elementary school day. Especially when one's husband has had a vasectomy. Life's full of these little winters I've come to discover. As Delta would say, does say whenever he suspects a whine is about to pass through my lips, Suck it up and something good will happen.

Six years ago, this night, in a nesting frenzy that may never again be equaled, I cut, colored, pasted and embellished sixty Christmas cards while waiting for the pains of labor to grow strong enough. At 2AM I finished the last of the cards, bent over at the waist and sweating, yanked Delta out of bed and headed for the hospital. My little Phi-Phi, two weeks late already, was on the way. She made her grand entrance at 9:27 and she didn't make a sound. Having been there before, I waited, panting, for the doctor to put her in my arms, but nobody did. A hush fell over the room. I looked forward to the doctor, wondering, and in one long, dragging, heart breaking moment I saw my tiny blue baby girl, wet and still, engulfed in the blue surgical scrubs the doctor wore. I looked over at Delta, saw a tear in his eye and wondered again why nobody moved. And then the room erupted in ordered chaos. In one continuous motion the doctor found her scissors, cut the cord and whisked my Phi-Phi over to the NIC cart brought in for high-risk babies. My eyes ceased to function. I could hear the swishing crinkle of the gowns the doctors and nurses wore, murmured instructions,sucking sounds and rubber soled shoes on hospital linoleum. I could feel Delta's hand on my forehead and on my cheek, could feel the shivery heat and emptiness that immediately follows childbirth. But I can't remember seeing a single thing. Then from the corner of the room came the tiniest, reediest little lamb-cry, slow at first but gaining confidence. I don't remember the moment my eyes worked again, but it must have been when the doctor brought Phi-Phi to me, barely wrapped in a blanket, eyes squeezed shut and mouth working overtime. Her entrance was quiet, but in true Phi-Phi style. Full of drama, with a couple of twists, and done completely her way. And that's the way it's been ever since. Happy sixth birthday little one.

I recently discovered the magical world of itunes. That fact, coupled with pounds of cut-rate CD-RW's from a brother-in-law who manages a certain store specializing in such products has turned me into a song burnin' machine. I burn so many CD's that itunes feels it necessary to remind me from time to time that I must pace myself lest I succumb to the underworld of piracy. I've spent the last 2 hours re-discovering all the songs that ever moved me. How could I have ever forgotten them? A forgotten song is truly a vehicle of time travel. Having 26 songs, all from distinctly different instances, is an overwhelming buffet of memories. I can't tell if I'm happy or sad or nostalgic or relieved. Not that I would know or anything, but I kinda feel like the eighth hour of an acid trip. Lord have mercy.

I would write but watching a clip of K-Fed's performance at the Teen Choice awards has left my brain physically and chemically incapable of forming a complete

Besides, I just found out my Phee-Phee, at 5 years old, can add double digits in her head. The Gods have smiled upon

Strange Things Happen to Me.

I was flipping through my dayplanner today, searching for the place where I wrote out the battle plan for Phee-Phee's upcoming birthday party and I noticed that between today and July 20th (Where I eventually located the SMEAC) some pretty weird things have happened.

One day in July I went on a picnic here with OHM. Phee-Phee wanted to see the inside of this chapel on the way back from the porta-potty. I accidentally broke in, set off the alarm, summoned the Framingham Police who came screeching into the parking lot, weapons at the ready, while I stood there looking both sheepish and guilty and Phee-Phee screamed "My MOMMY DID IT!" at the top of her over-competent little lungs.

Then the other day, yesterday actually while we were on our scary book buying errand (thanks ALB) Our new gecko escaped from it's box. (Our old gecko died despite our hand feeding - may he rest in reptile peace) He wedged himself inside the door frame. While I was standing outside assessing the situation (Listening to Ya-Ya wail and watching my father cower like a little girl -sorry Dad, but it's true) a well-dressed, impeccably groomed man walked by.
"Need some help?" he asked.
"Are you afraid of gecko's?" I answered.
"OOOOOOOOOH I wish you'd said that was a dog. No matter. Tell me what to do."
"Well, when I open the door you catch the gecko and put it back in it's little box." I said.
"What is that? A take-out box? Gecko's come in takeout?"
"Yeah, it's the number four lunch special at Lotus Flower."
"Ok. Wait a minute. Let me go all the way back to my car six blocks away and get the special box I use to trap reptiles and snakes."
"Okay, thanks."
***Ten minutes Later***
"Ready. Open the door," he said, positioning plastic shoe box under threshold. I opened the door, the gecko leaped into a puddle and the man captured him in the box.
"HOORAY!!!" We all cheered. (By now a crowd had gathered. Thank God I cleaned my car last week.)
But then our cheering gave way to perplexity. How to get the gecko from the upside-down box to the take out box? The man decided to lift up the box and grab the gecko.
"It is kinda cute, afterall" he said.
BUT, the gecko we bought is a gecko of alarming speed. Perhaps the speediest, shrewdest gecko of all creation. He hauled his little ass across the parking lot, the crowd erupted in shrieks.
"Oh God DAMN IT!!! Shit, shit shit shit shit DAMN!" the man cried. I ran to the next car over, where I'd last seen him go, the man ran to the other side and my father ran to the front. We had the gecko cornered. My own fear of actually having to touch the thing made me chase it with my arms over to the man who was determined not to let him get away a second time. He grabbed him, held him squiggling but triumphant over his head. The sun broke through the clouds, a chorus of angels sang hallelujahs, the crown gasped in awe. The gecko was caught. The I bought the man a tea and a cookie, thanked him, knighted him, announced him to the crowd as a hero amongst gecko's, everyone clapped and we all went on like nothing happened.

So, thanks for not shooting me FPD and thanks for rescuing the gecko, Well-Dressed Gecko Man.

I'm off to get Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark because the Angry Little Bitch said so. And it's wise to obey anything an angry little bitch says to do. I'm really excited, got a good feeling about this one. Usually I make up my stories, but this time I'm going to memorize one from the book. Ya-Ya is excited too because I told her that I'm going to scare her back to the womb. But then I thought about that. Having a nine year old of exceptional height climb back into the womb would be only slightly less comfortable than disemboweling myself with a plastic fork. Probably wouldn't help much with mine and Delta's race to lose ten lbs either. Unless she brought with her a kidney and a couple of ribs on her way back out. Or, in accordance with (K) Angry Little Bitch's comment, my liver.

We're some camping fools now. For us, the word weekend is synonymous with "sleep outside of house." We only say weekend because it's shorter. I realized that my favorite part of camping is the part where I tell a story or two that scares the living shit out of my children. I wonder if this is a character flaw on my part. My girls like what they call "scared silly" stories, the kind that are real scary but then end up with someone shooting off their big toe or finding a pink jellybean and then everyone goes "AWWWWWWWWW" and slaps their forehead. Or they would, but I always seem to forget the silly part so my people usually end up in tears with their hands over their ears. That being said, does anyone know any good campfire stories?? We're going camping this weekend.

Tonight I went on a ghosthunt with the Ghosthunter. I'd write about it, but I think I'm possessed.

Yesterday I went mountain biking for my first time ever. It is, by all outward appearances, deceptively simple. It's just riding a bike, right? Right. Riiiggghhhttttt. Perhaps if one is not towing a thirty plus pound human behind one's bike in a rickshaw built for roads over tree roots and boulders and massive lumps of earth surrounded by four foot moats of hellish sand. A small measure of cardiovascular endurance would also have come in handy. At least Tiarra found ways to amuse herself, most of which were at my expense. "Oh dear," she would lament from time to time, "Didi is in front of us again." Then she would sigh loudly and make a big show of using her brakes.

The kids did remarkably well. My Phee-Phee is supernatural. How else could I explain the cliffs she flew over, completely unseated during the soaring potion yet pedaling strong when the tires hit the rocky earth? (Also, from time to time her head spins. That's the real clincher.)And Ya-Ya? She was nowhere to be seen, off racing into the sunset with her dear friend Tee. Oscar survived too. She was by far the most encouraging person, saying things like "Slow DOWN Mommy!" completely amazed by what seemed like throttling speed to her but in reality was, well, in a word, pitiful.

Also, I am reading the BEST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ IN MY LIFE! It's this one, and I highly recomend it.

Go ahead and try to find scotty dog fabric. You won't be able to because I bought the only fabric left on the planet earth and used it to make curtains for our new camper. And you know, it had to be scotty dog fabric since we are upping the kitsch factor in our scotty highlander camper. Which is really funny since it was made in 1976, the year I was born and Delta's real name is highlander and he's a Sotsman. Kind of like, serendipity.

Inaugural Trip in the Camper

Arrive at "resort" campground. Am fooled by lush acres of waving grass, grazing horses, ripe perennials and heavy maples. Waved through gate and directed back through commune of blue tarp covered, palate decked campers to sliver of crooked land on side of mountain. Surrounded by women with snow plow asses stuck to golf carts hurtling themselves and six toddlers a piece back and forth from nylon camping chair to community toilet. Realize that all the "cool kids" have unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts over contrasting swim trunks with thirty pounds of gut between the two. Hear someone yell "Hey look at that old camper" and realize they are speaking about us. Burst hose for water hookup. Monitor children's honing of the whine and art of the complaint. Try to decipher the fifty different seventies rock songs blaring at once. Neighbor with sun-purpled rawhide skin accosts us en route to pool, tearfully reminiscing about his grandfathers old camper that was just like ours. Pass other scary neighbors who demand we stop and play Texas Holdem. We refuse and move on to community board where we decide whether or not to sign up for Thanksgiving potluck, Christmas in July, New Years in July, Texas Holdem championship or Adult after hours pool party. Arrive at "no", continue on to pool, have much fun. Return to campsite, tearful rawhide neighbor brings wife back to tour the inside of camper. Oscar eats jar of black pepper while man recalls every last detail of camper. Take Oscar to community toilet to rinse mouth out, leave rawhide and wife with Delta. Experience botulism scare while eating baked beans and trying to find date on can. Beans taste botulish. Sit around fire, eat marshmallows and scare living shit out of children for sake of tradition. Ward off ominous night call of "Texas Holdem? Anyone know how to play Texas Holdem?" from our neighbor. Realize that sleep is great campsite equalizer. Feel "in" with the "in" crowd while standing in line for community toilet. Wave goodmorning to rawhide and Texas Holdem. Spend day at pool thinking about coming back for New Years in August. Decide camping is good. Will do again.

This is a Strange Planet

But we all knew that already. We're off to go camping tommorow. Camping is a strange thing to do. At least if you also own a home. Why we willingly go off into the forest to set up a new, much smaller home with no real toilet for me to lock myself into for some bloody piece and quiet for a little while, to eat terrible food cooked over a wannabe stove and sleep on six centimeters of yellow foam that calls itself a "bed" I'll never know. Especially where, in the woods, we are looked upon by some species as dinner. And tommorow is supposed to be skin blistering weather. Inside the tin can movable make believe home away from home, there are heat strokes waiting to happen. Right now. Just waiting.

PArents are also strange. I am not strange, and I am a parent, but most other parents are strange. Mine in particular. Once you grow up and realize that they are actually humans as well, with their own thought patterns and ideas, they become even stranger. Like my dad. But, he's mine and I love him. And I probably seem strange to him, though I don't understand how that could be possible. Maybe because he doesn't think normally. But that makes him fun to be around.

PMS is also strange. I think there must be a purpose for it. But I'm afraid too wonder too deeply lest it involve maiming, fire, and possibly a scud missile.

Anyway, a great weekend.

PT Cakes told me that she saw on CNN it's time for Armageddon. My whole day has been f&^ck#d up since then. It would just figure God would wait till we got our new camper to pull this crap.

***UPDATE: 5 seconds after posting, lighting singed eyebrows still smarting**** Sorry God. Didn't mean anything by it.

Our Contest

Delta and I have a new contest. Whoever loses 10 lbs first wins. If I win, I get a no strings backrub. For more than 5 seconds. The deadline is Sept. 23, weekend of the Highland Games. I lost our last bet, whether Brophy School was on the left or right side when turning off of Temple Street, and I think I lost several before that as well. So, my time has come. Delta better start doing some hand crunches.

Two Wierd Things

Happened over the past two days. One, I saw a giant oval shaped ball of mist hovering over my deck. When I put my hand in it I couldn't feel it or any moisture from it though I could disturb the particles. I thought it was some serious humidity or some other freak meteorological episode but just in case I went to check on everyone in my family, including my dad who has been staying here since Satan invaded his own property. When I opened the door to the room where my dad is staying, I was greeted by the sight of my dad's arms and legs au natural, all bony and coltish and enough to send me into convulsions of unhappiness over my discovery.
"What the hell are you doing?" barked my dad.
"Looking for aliens," I answered then slammed the door and ran upstairs. Back out on the deck, the oval was gone.

Today I decided not to get out of bed at all until my kids were back in it. My own mild form of protest. Of course it didn't work but I did manage to finagle myself a pretty frickin horrible dream. We were at the house in Old Fort, it was wobbly as ever but huge now. Delta had invited people out the yin yang to stay at this house. So big was it (says Yoda) that I couldn't find my way around. (I must add that I do have a recurring dream about a house - I've had it since I was but a wee little Didi. It morphs into other shapes but always retains the same soul. This was my usual house but in Old Fort costume.) Anyway, the house was about to turn into hellhouse and I knew that from experience. The house was angry. I told Delta to get my kids out of there now, but he didn't believe me as usual. I followed him up this b ack staircase and the stairs beneath me crumbled. He had to grab my hand. And then he saw the man. He was about seven or eight feet tall, gray, covered with hairy spikes like those on a grasshopper and his face was plastered in a wide toothy grin. With strangely long arms outreached he came toward us and I shoved Delta down a hall.
"Get the kids out of here," I said again.
"What are you gonna do?"
"I have to find Phee Phee."
So Delta found Ya-Ya and Oscar, brought them out along with the thirty or forty people he'd invited to stay at the house and I went back in to find Phee Phee. But before I could move an inch, the man grabbed me, scraped me with his spiny hairs.
"Miss me?" he asked, still grinning.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," I said, deciding my only defense was to play along. His iris' were green rimmed with blue. "I missed you very much and we have so much to talk about. Just let me get my kid out of here so I can concentrate."
I jerked away from his grip and put my Albannach CD in this old, wall mounted 8 track player and surprisingly it worked. I tried to turn it up loud but it wouldn't go.
I looked back at the man and I saw phee Phee's legs sticking out of his mouth. His mouth had grown large, like a giant catfish mouth, to swallow my child. I yanked the legs,panicking, but they belonged to a cabbage patch doll. He laughed hysterically. Then the real Phee phee woke me up.

And the impression that I was left with was not that the dream was about my kids or even me, but some faint memory of something else.

Curse you, Brain

I just can't seem to get motivated today. Last night I dreamed that my friend Arby hated me so much that she made a collage out of pictures of loathsome things that reminded her of me and took it on the Oprah Winfrey show.

That kinda threw me out of my game today.