Chapter 3: An Unexpected Development

Just returned from the park with the Tiddy Diddy ('diddy' is short for 'diddums' for those of you who don't speak the language Ridiculous), where I met a MOMMY FRIEND! Yay for MFs. This particular MF was so friendly, in fact, that I almost made her an assistant detective in the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency. Except I don't think she's P.W.T. What gave it away you ask? Maybe it was the big Lexus SUV, but it could've been any number of things: her stroller, which I just saw in BabyTalk magazine for about $450, the designer-clad kids, or simply the statement, "I'm not a snob, but ..."

It started with me oohing and ahhing over her three-week old, who is suffering from acid reflux disorder (and a bad case of baby acne, I might add). I resisted the urge to say that maybe if she were breastfed this would not be an issue (yes, I asked if she was breastfed and I don't care if that's a nosy question to ask someone you just met). Anyway ... the MFAAPI (mommy friend almost assistant P.I.) was also trying to reign in her 2.5 year old, who was running around eating ashes from the barbeque grills while she said, "Shew-wee, yuck! No eat! That's gross and dangerous! Shew-wee, yuck!" all while describing the various childcare options in the area (seems daycares even in the ritzy suburbs are "scary places where the help's hair is always at least three different colors and they don't pull their pants up high enough so they can show off their tattoos."). It's a good thing I had on a hat and was standing behind the stroller.

Then the MFAAPI started talking about how her husband has pneumonia and is home sick from work and how it's just awful having him there while she's trying to live her life and how she can't wait until her maternity leave is over and how this is the first day they've ventured out of the house and "SHEW-WEE AUSTIN, GET THAT OUTTA YOUR MOUTH!" and how she's definitely waiting the full six weeks to start back on her diet and walking program and isn't it just too bad about my son's eczema and look at his cute little Gap outfit from last year's summer collection and then she took a breath and asked about me.

I mentioned that we live in the park, husband's a ranger, just got chickens, I'm a blog whore & P.I., etc.--you know, normal playground conversation. She replied, "Oh yeah, I used to walk at that park when I was pregnant and trying to go into labor and once we saw an owl there, isn't that right Austin?" Cue 2.5 year old wildabeast to begin mimicking an owl call and flapping his wings wildly. "And," she continued, "then we saw another owl at the baseball game the other night didn't we sweety pie?" Repeat scene with loud hooting and flapping but this time on top of the picnic table.

Now at this point, I am trying to remain composed and be subtle: "Oh really?" I said leisurely, "Was it a barred owl, brown with white bars, brown eyes, approximately 15-years old, about 1'2" and 11.7 lbs., with a hurt right wing, a yellow band around it's left foot, and covered in panty-nesting, human-attack mites?" Understatement and restraint are the keys to undercover work.

But before she could answer, she noticed that Austin had hitched their dog to his baby sister's stroller and was attempting to chariot-ride up the slide. I thought the interrogation would be cut short before she could make a positive I.D., but don't you dare underestimate the multi-tasking abilities of my MFAAPI. She never missed a beat: "Yeah, the lady said it was a barred owl."

I am now attempting to cover up my hyperventilation by doing the fake sneeze and hiccup which gets Big Laughs from The Goose but can also mask embarrassing public problems such as hyperventilation from various causes (usually wasp encounters, but this time from sheer disbelief at the serendipitous events unfolding before me).

"What lady?" I asked.

"The lady who had the owl there at the game."

"What did she look like?"

"Well, she was about your age, sorta nondescript, auburnish hair ... LET GO OF THE DOGGY AUSTIN ... actually, she sorta looked like you."

And then ladies and gentlemen, I was speechless for the very first time in my entire life. I had NOTHING to say, because not only did this totally undermine my original theory (which was that Ann Uno was the owlnapper), but also I was appalled that someone thought I resembled the alleged thief.

I thought and thought while I watched the MFAAPI coax the dog down from the top of the slide and Austin ran around yelling, "TEDDY GRAHAMS NOW TEDDY GRAHAMS NOW NOWNOW NOWNOWNOW!!!!!!!!!" It couldn't have been Ann Uno at that game because she CERTAINLY does not look like me. I mean, my hair may be coarse, but I use Aveda products to tame it, and I simply refuse to believe that I'm nondescript. Not knowing what else to do, I exited (gracefully of course) and wished her luck with the acid reflux acne baby and the wildabeast.

OK, so now I need your help dear reader, because not only am I at a loss about how to proceed with the investigation, but more importantly, there is the issue of what we can only call a KIMPOSTER on the loose.

If you have any advice or clues related to the Kimposter or the owlnapper, please contact the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency immediately.

Get Eggcited about PWT Poultry

CHICKENS 005.JPG...,
originally uploaded by Kimmy Crack Corn.

As if we needed something to make us official, here is a shot of a section of our backyard, complete with the unfinished coop and ramp going into the chickens' room (which has a freakin' ceiling fan for crying out loud so don't be gettin' all uppity and thinkin' you're better than me -- MY chickens have a ceiling fan ... do yours?)

They are filthy but they have popped out six eggs in three days so I forgive the mess. Each time they lay an egg, they dance around clucking wildly. Actually, so do me & Husband. It's very eggciting, this egg laying.

Surpisingly, the eggs themselves are not filthy; rather, they are light brown and beautiful. And for those of you who didn't major in biology, you don't have to have a rooster to get eggs. You only have to have a rooster to get eggs with baby chicks inside.

FYI: My parents are coming this weekend, so I may be on hiatus for a while. But I'm sure everything out of my dad's mouth will be fodder for a post. In case I'm not back for a while, have a great long weekend and be on the lookout for Ophelia.

Chapter 2: The Gathering of Evidence

Report of the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency Regarding the Gathering of Evidence in the Case of the Missing Owl

Between May 19 and May 24, 2005, the following notes were taken during interviews with suspects and/or persons otherwise related to the missing (if you are not familiar with this case, you can read more about on the post entitled "Chapter 1: The Missing" -- see sidebar at right):

Interview 1
Name: Jefe (the) Warden (pronounced Heff-ay)
DOB: about 1970
Occupation: Park Manager
Notes: When asked about his opinion of Ophelia's current whereabouts, interviewee replied, "I believe the owl has been stolen for the purpose of spectator entertainment at an amateur sporting event, namely, a minor league baseball game." Interviewee also indicated that one of the suspects in the case, Ann Uno, had keys to the bird cages from when she was employed by the park and thus had not only the motive, but also the means for taking Ophelia. When asked about efforts to strengthen security, interviewee replied, "We've locked down the barn and posted 'Neighborhood Watch' signs around the area. We do believe this was an intentional owlnapping by a human, but just to cover the bases* we have loaded up on no-kill varmint traps so four-legged critters have about the chance of a turd on a buffet line of making it into the rental cages."

*Investigator's footnote: Pun intended?

Interview 2
Name: Ann Uno
DOB: about 1964
Occupation: Naturalist (previously Ann Uno was a park ranger at the park in question; however, she was moved "downtown" to the state office building after an altercation with Interviewee 1 over no-kill mouse traps.)
Notes: Interviewee maintained a smirk throughout the questioning. Interviewee was sullen and didn't even ask about the investigator's prize baby (which she good and well knew about) or say thank you for the Barbara Kingsolver book (Prodigal Summer, which involves a lady park ranger getting involved in a steamy relationship deep within the mountainous forests of Appalachia -- prime reading material for someone in interviewee's position) that investigator had given to her some 3 years earlier in exchange for a Sibley's Guide to Birds of the West. Interviewee repeatedly decried her status as suspect and claims to have a strong alibi. Investigator needs to follow up on the alibi, who can supposedly be found ushering on Saturday nights at the Grand Ole Opry.

Interview 3
Name: Ann Dos
DOB: about 1965
Occupation: Park Ranger
Notes: Ann Dos was interviewed during one of her daily park-combings in which she desperately scours the land for tracks or remnants of Ophelia. On this particular day she was out by the old barn where Ophelia was renting a cage. When asked why she thought Ophelia was still alive (rather than believing the popular owlnapping for spectator entertainment theory), interviewee replied, "Well, see there's this woman at the church that teaches the 4th grade Sunday School class. I teach the 5th and 6th graders and we bring them together for prayer time just before they go to Children's Church. During this time I mentioned the owl as a prayer request and she told me that just the night before, she had had a vision of an owl, alive, well, and eating chipmunks roasted on an open fire."

Interview 4
Name: Mary Katherine Lewis
DOB: about 1985
Occupation: President, Vanderbilt University chapter of Chi Omega
Notes: Interviewee made it clear from the get-go that she did not have time to be bothered with matters being investigated by the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency. Detective replied that she is friends with Vandy's Panhellenic/Greek Advisor, having once gotten drunk and peed side-by-side with her in a Jewish cemetary while being watched by the Director of Student Affairs at a small Methodist college in Jackson, MS. Interviewee then complied but only said that she didn't know anything about the missing owl and that the last thing any of her girls would ever do is to steal "that offensive creature whose parasite made its way back to the Chi Omega house via the underwear of one of the pledges participating in the environmental project." Apparently the pledge was attacked by an owl parasite, a screaming fit ensued, and she fled to the visitor center bathroom where a ranger helped her search (to no avail) for the moth-like creature. The parasite had taken up residence in her panties and then revealed itself in the dining room of the Chi Omega House at dinner that night. The detective is also familiar with these parasites, having once brought one home and enduring repeated assaults in the shower, where the parasite is STILL living out its days because detective's Husband refuses to exterminate. Due to the traumatic nature of these kind of parasitic attacks, detective concludes that the Vanderbilt chapter of Chi Omega is indeed innocent.

Interview 5
Name: Randy the Raccoon
DOB: about 2003
Occupation: Pest Control
Notes: Interviewee failed to show up for scheduled interview.

Investigator's Final Remarks:
From these three interviews, it seems that Ann Uno is still the prime suspect given her shady history, lack of etiquette, and coarse, in-need-of-Aveda-products hair. But before the final judgement is passed, Uno's alibi will be tracked and interviewed.

Tune in next time when the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency reports from the Grand Ole Opry.

Let Me See Your Cock-a-Roach!

What's that you say?

I said "Let me see your cockaroach!"

What's that you say?

I said, "ooh, aahh, aahh, aahh, oohh, aahh, aahh, aahh, ooh."

Ok, if you knew exactly how to chant that then you MUST leave a comment admitting this because it's now my theme song.

Thanks to my mother-in-law (a.k.a. The Queen Mum Janeious), we just received an Ultimate Advanced Technology Pest Repeller (ultrasonic, electro-vibrawave, ionic, night light with AC pass-through) to deter critters from setting up residence in our household. It emits digitally processed intermittent vibrating magnetic waves designed to travel through the wiring deep into the walls where pests nest and breed. The directions say that it is designed to make the pests uncomfortable and drive them out. They also explain that the ultrasonic pest control device "Delivers a powerful high pressure sound unheard by Humans and Pets" (I'm using their exact capitalization by the way) "yet frighteningly loud to pests. Comparable to a loud siren or a home security alarm The Sounds are designed to safely and silently drive them out."

But y'all: I CAN HEAR THE INTERMITTENT VIBRATING MAGNETIC WAVES!

I put it in my kitchen and I couldn't even stay in there because my ears were ringing and then me and a millipede nearly crashed into a wall trying to escape and now I have a headache.

Does that mean I'm a pest? A cockaroach? A spider who may eat her mate? Or does that mean that my brain is like deep wiring where pests nest and breed?


Aside of the Week:

My mom has a friend named Betty (not her real first name) Aycock Roach (that is her real maiden and surname -- sorry Betty -- because if I changed them these reader people would miss the point). Ok, now read it again:

Betty Aycock Roach.

This should've been the impetus for the keeping-your-last-name movement in my hometown, but sadly it wasn't, and now we also have a Holly Wood.


Annoyance of the Week (totally unrelated to this entry):

Whenever you go to publish a post, there's a message from the Blogger team that pops up and has a comma error. It says, "This may take a minute, if you have a large blog." Hello? The part that follows the comma is a subordinate clause and those are only separated by a comma when in initial position.


Quote of the Week (also unrelated to this post unless you can count my mama's cat -- or my dad -- as a pest):

"Darlin', I want you to pray for my friend Bill. He's in the hospital undergoin' open heart surgery and I done already told him that he was in the hands of the almighty surgeon ... uh-oh, here comes your mama's cat wantin' to be let out .. but I know he shore would 'preciate it if you'd say a prayer or either send him one of them cards you make with the stickers ... that damn cat is still cryin' to be let out." ~My Daddy

PWT Purchase of the Week:
Impression of Angel Parfum
$1.99 Walgreens

Blog Whore

It's like a crack whore, but less brain damage.

My entire house is jeering at me: the cheerios crushed on the floor, the piles of laundry, the dishes with crusty leftover Fusilli with Swiss Chard. And yet here I sit. Again.

And if I'm not writing, I'm reading. However, the blogs I read are what I consider to be some of the most hilarious writing this side of cyberspace. All of my favorites are on my sidebar, but right now I have to give kudos to Mamabird & Master of None. There's a link to their sites over there to your right, but just in case that's too far to look or reach, here you go: www.deltabirds.blogspot.com and www.nonesramblings.blogspot.com.

You asked for it

This is for you, Master of None:



Shameless, I'm shameless.

Here I am in all my RED HOT Tammy Faye glory. And this wasn't even posed, so don't be commenting about how I must must must become a model at my earliest convenience. I'm just too busy these days what with two blogs, a REALLY part-time job, and a REALLY full-time baby.

Sin-a-berry ...

... Is the new color of my hair. It's supposed to be "cinnaberry" (like I'm kissed by cinnamon and berries), but it turns out that the folks over at Natural Instincts are big liars. So I prefer the name sin-a-berry since it should be a sin to do this to your own hair. That in addition to my double application of Almay self face tanner has got me looking like Tammy Faye Baker dipped in melted red hots.

Additionally, my shower curtain, bedroom carpet, and several towels can now be referred to as pokidot cinnaberry (it's a good thing my child was asleep or we may have had cinnababy). And it was all an attempt to cover up the three gray hairs that keep popping up in the middle of my scalp.

I'm sinking deeper people ... the P.W.T. quicksand is sucking me up.

Yesterday I blew up the swimming pool that I expect will be a source of much entertainment for me and the prize baby (and possibly the husband -- chickachickabowbow) and then promptly had to retreat into the house because of wasp invasion. I did take the baby with me though, which is good since the side of the blow-up pool has a picture with a woman and a baby and a dotted line connecting the woman's eyes to the child. I think that means that you're not supposed to leave babies out there in the pool while you go inside to entertain yourself by posting more ridiculous entries on your blog. Uh-oh, then I better go.

Freak Zapper

You know those tennis-racket-like things that zap bugs? I've decided that I may need one for freaks since I seem to attract them. I guess when you're weird (or charmingly quirky, as I like to call myself) you can't really expect not to exert a pull on other weirdos. But I can do this without even leaving the house for crying out loud.

Yesterday I wrote about the mental patient I met in Michael's. Well today I met someone (through email) who topped her. I have been sending out my resume to various places around town looking for part-time teaching and have finally gotten in touch with one particular non-profit whose director and I were emailing back and forth trying to set up an interview time. In his last email, where he confirmed the time and day, he put a post script that said this:

"I'm hoping to have time today to get the hay bailed and maybe even get in a game of tennis if I'm lucky."

Is it me, or is that just a titch off topic?

Then, earlier today I found myself inadvertently doing a little more undercover work for the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency simply by taking a walk (again, the freaks were just drawn to me). I did some interviews and uncovered a few more clues in the narrative of the Missing Owl, the details of which are forthcoming. I have a lot of forthcoming stuff by the way. So you have a lot to look forward to. But just to give you a taste, the next chapter in the story includes a psychic Sunday School teacher and the manager of a minor-league baseball team -- you guessed it -- they're both freaks.

Who has a Wal-Mart upper-management connection? I'm thinking the freak zapper could be a big seller there.

I'll leave you with a recent photo of me and my goose. He's scrump-dilly.

Delinquency & Oreos

OK, before I explain where I've been and what I've been doing (forthcoming post will provide details) I have to ask WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE OREOS?!?!? Apparently, they have a vendetta against my butt.

We have been in the Wild West for a wedding. Before we left I thought, "Wow, what a nice way to spend a vacation -- hanging out with friends, hiking in the Grand Canyon, etc." Well, if you want to hear my child laugh, just tell him my plans. He decided to stay on Central Time rather than adapt like the rest of us to AZ time. As a result, I slept approximately 4.5 hours in 4.5 days. Plus I ate a lot of sugar (including oreos from the Southwest Airlines snack packs) and drank a lot of coffee & wine. This has all conglomerated into one big mental illness festival.

When I returned there was another letter from NWA about my demolished breast pump ... my contact there has discussed the matter with her manager and together they still maintain that the airline is not responsible. Astonishing. Now I'm threatening small claims court, so I'm guessing that that will be another forthcoming post. I plan on showing up in court barefoot with the baby on my hip to plead my case.

Also when I returned there were Brown Recluse Spiders all over my house. They had a hobo party while we were gone, hatched a bunch of eggs, and provided yet another venue for my mental illness (OCD). So I spent all day today running around town buying glue-traps and eucalyptus leaves for the spiders. While in Michael's getting the eucalyptus, I ran into my biggest competitor in the the Ms. Nashville Mental Institution Pageant, who tried to give me advice about growing fake flowers and avoiding poisonous vermin (this included a story about Jesus, her brother-in-law, and a lemon meringue pie recipe, which are somehow related to her own version of arachnid invasion).

By the time I finally made it home, I couldn't do anything but crack open a beer and the rest of the Southwest snack packs. I polished off the oreos and have now started in on the Cheese Nips.

So that's where I've been. I know you were all just standing on your heads wondering what happened to me. I hope to stay close to home for a while now. I was having blogger withdrawals. And now I'm having snackpack withdrawals, so I better go find some more hidden oreos.

Mother's Day

Recently there was a scare: my hot-shot lawyer father-in-law somehow found this blog while perusing my family-friendly blog (www.sweetgoosebumps.blogspot.com). The events that ensued were on the level of Nixon discovering he had been unveiled. I don't mind if my in-laws know about this side of me, but my parents are another story altogether. In fact, my life's work has been about hiding my true image from them. Maybe you think that's so sad. But then again, you are not me and you do not know my parents (see previous blogs for verification). I would be disowned. So much for my detective aspirations. I am a total and complete undercover failure. Oh well, there's always my tap-dancing abilities.

Here is an article I found written by someone after my own heart ...

What to Do When Your Mom Discovers Your Blog
By Biz Stone
"With the raw materials in my blog, [my mom] could actually construct an accurate picture of who I am. This is f***ing serious." —The Onion
Do you blog about stuff that you would never tell your Mom? Does your Mom surf the web? Don't panic, we've got answers. Deleting your blog and abandoning your loyal readers is a last resort and should only be undertaken under dire circumstances. Our experts here at Blogger Support have come up with a list of suggestions to help you navigate around the dreaded 'Mom Scenario' (or prevent it altogether).
Use a Pseudonym
Join the prestigious ranks of literary superstars like Samuel Langhorne Clemens (Mark Twain) and Eric Arthur Blair (George Orwell) who, just like you, required pen names to keep their Moms blissfully cloaked in ignorance. To do this, you can edit your Blogger user profile and change your name. If you make an alias out of your pet's name and the street you grew up on, (for me: Bruce Upwey) be aware that your Mom will see right through that. Be creative.
See: How do I change my user information?
Go Multi-Lingual
Put those high school language classes to good use - obscure your true self from your Mom. Blogging is widely known to raise I.Q., so think what it could do for your as-yet-unexercised language skills. Blogger supports Unicode which means you can blog in a wide variety of languages.
See: Can I write my blog in a language other than English?
Change Your Blog Address, Keep Your Readers
This method may only work on Moms who are dazzled into confusion by the word "subdomain" but it's worth a try. If you change the URL of your Blog*Spot account the old address will remain. Simply post: My new subdomain is "nomom" (or somesuch) before you switch your subdomain name. Your regular readers will know to type "nomom.blogspot.com" but you will have thrown the person who gave you life into frustration and confusion. Good work!
See: Can I change my Blog*Spot address?
Search and Destroy Modify
Censorship is generally thought of as a negative thing, but this is not always true. You know how faces are sometimes blurred on news programs to protect peoples' privacy? You can go that same route with your blog by searching for potentially incriminating keywords and editing for a softer, more Mom-friendly vocabulary.
For example: "I got really drunk last night" becomes, "I got really marshmallow last night."
It may not make sense, but it does give you plausible deniability, which could help. Every little bit counts.
See: How do I find an old post?
Pull a Tony Pierce
Another good way to dupe your mom - include a disclaimer on your blog. Prescient blogger Tony Pierce claims "nothing in here is true." Feel free to write your own disclaimer and include it as a permanent part of your blog's sidebar. Just tell your Mom that your blog is an experiment in fiction and she need not worry. If you choose this technique, be careful not to blur your own understanding of the difference between fiction and reality. That could lead to even bigger problems. Placing a disclaimer in your blog's sidebar is much the same as editing your link list (common on most Blogger templates.)
See: How do I edit my link list?
Go to the Source
Like most of the world, your Mom may use Google to find your blog in the first place. If you suspect this is the case, you have an option. You can remove your blog from Google's index so that your Mom (and others) cannot find it. Again, this doesn't only keep out your Mom, so think about it first. Every Mom is a different case.
See: Will my blog appear in search engines?
Blogger employees love their Moms as much as you do. We also strive to understand the needs and concerns of our users in these complex times. Be nice to your Mom and call her at least once a week. Take her out to lunch once in a while, show some respect. And most importantly, don't give her more to worry about than she already has — if that means steering her gently away from your blog, so be it. We're here to help.
Biz Stone works at Google on Blogger and is the author of two books about blogging.
Phillip E. Pascuzzo is a designer and illustrator living in New York.

Chapter 1: The Missing

This just in ...

MISSING BARRED OWL

Name: Ophelia Butts
DOB: October 13, 1990
Height: 1'2"
Weight: 11.7 lbs.
Feathers: brown with white bars
Eyes: brown
Last seen: Monday, May 2, 2005

Distinguishing Features: capable of rotating neck 350 degrees in either direction; covered in mites that will fly off and attack prize babies and their mamas; one hurt wing

Details of events surrounding the disappearance: Several days ago, the rangers of a certain state natural area in middle Tennessee found Ophelia's cage open during a routine feeding. Strangely enough, there were no stray feathers in the area and none of the other owls had heard or seen anthing.


Known Suspects:

(1) Ann Uno

Relation to the missing: former ranger at the natural area where Ophelia was in captivity. Had key to cage.

Motive: Very attached to Ophelia--"She's like a long lost cousin." While employed with the natural area, Ann Uno was in the habit of taking Ophelia to minor league baseball games, "for the kids." Additionally, Ann Uno has vendetta against park manager, who had her moved to state office building downtown after an altercation over no-kill mouse traps.

(2) The Chi Omega Chapter of Vanderbilt University

Relation to the missing: Chi Omega pledges were introduced to Ophelia several weeks ago when they came to the natural area to do their required "environmental project."

Motive: The owl is the state bird of Chi Omega (Duh. Everyone knows that.)

(3) Randy the Raccoon

Relation to the missing: known opener of cages and predator of hurt owls

Motive: Vendetta against manager of natural area because of incident involving Richard the Raccoon (Randy's brother) ... incident involved manager firing four shots into Richard ("to put him out of his misery") after an unfortunate fall from a tree.


If you have any information regarding the disappearance of Ophelia Butts the Owl, please contact the #1 P.W.T. Detective Agency.

A different kind of posting

Last night I watched Hotel Rwanda and nearly logged on to www.peacecorps.org to apply. I find it difficult to believe that I hardly knew anything about the fact that 500,000 Tutsi Rwandans were murdered in 1994 when I was a senior in high school and Bill freakin' Clinton was President. Eighteen is old enough to know about mass genocide and a democratic president should've done at least SOMETHING to either prevent it or at least try to stop it before it went as far as it did.

After watching a movie like this, I feel so ashamed for using this blog (or any other medium) to complain about my easy little life. I don't know how to deal with my feeling that it's not enough just to simply do what I already consider to be an impossibly difficult task: raising a child to be compassionate about the tragedies of people all around the world while we sit here in Land of the Lucky blogging away.

If you haven't already, go watch Hotel Rwanda and then say thanks (to whomever you pray to) that you are so damn fortunate.

An Homage to Rhonda the Honda

Rhonda the Honda in all her PWT glory,
originally uploaded by Kim Laden.

When Husband went back to the dealership today to get Suzie Q.'s oil leak checked (nothing major, don't worry -- just some idiot changing the oil and not screwing on something in the right place or some such nonsense), he saw Rhonda there on the lot. Either Darla hasn't come to pick her up or Troy is a lying sack of shit. Husband didn't even go and rub her or speak and for that I may never forgive him.

In this picture, there are numerous personal belongings of mine strapped on top, including but not limited to a floor-model glider rocker (which, by the way, I nearly threw out the window of the nursery the other night because it was squeaking like owl talons on a chalkboard), a bike, and a big bin of books on how to push out babies without drugs (thanks Jen!).

In this picture, Rhonda is parked outside of some closed-down office building and I am in the passenger seat nursing the Tiddy Rat. It literally took us twice the time to drive from Wisconsin to Tennessee due to our inability to cope with his bloody-murder screaming for the ENTIRE 1,011.28 miles. Now, of course, we are accustomed to this melodrama and are quite good at totally ignoring it or putting him in a safe but soundproof place (like our new chicken coop -- don't freak out, he loves it in there ... there's a ceiling fan that he is totally obsessed with and plus we haven't actually gotten the chickens yet and that snake in there isn't poisonous anyway).

Farewell Rhonda. I loved every single one of our 167,421 miles together.

Things that change one's life

Look what I can do!,
originally uploaded by Kim Laden.

They say that there are four major events in any person's life:

1. birth
2. death
3. marriage
4. moving

To that I would like to add the following:

5. your baby learning to crawl and pull up

And I would also like to nominate myself for a special award for living through two of the original four at once ("birth"--not my own, mind you--although I did live through that (YAY) and "moving"). NOT RECOMMENDED.

There is a forthcoming entry on that story, by the way, complete with pictures of a placenta and Rhonda the Honda loaded down with the glider rocker (see previous post "My Evolution into a P.W.T.P.I.").

p.s. Blogging is addictive.

p.p.s. drinking only worsens the addiction ... in fact, I think drinking is a gateway drug to blogging. Not that I'm drinking at 1:50 in the afternoon. Of course not.

Kim Laden's Growing Technological Literacy

going for a hike,
originally uploaded by Kim Laden.

(yes, I realize it's not the right size and I'm working on that)
From left to right:
Kim Laden, The Goose, Husband

Oh my goodness ... I did it! I added a picture! What's next ... a site meter that measures how many people visit this blog? Or possibly just me figuring out how to get the right side even with the left. Who knows? Goose is now crawling, so I'm more limited.

This morning there was an EGGSPLOSION in my kitchen which nearly burned the house down. Husband got very angry at my airheadedness. This has happened eleven times before (not kidding) and it all starts with a simple desire for boiled eggs.

Speaking of eggs, we are getting five laying chickens next weekend. The coop is our latest family project. It promises to be the biggest mess in the history of my life.

Another problem I am having: failure to remember to pull up the crib door. This, along with my spheksophobia and eggsplosion habit is the single biggest danger to my child right now, but please do not call Nanny 9-1-1 as we are anti-TV.

Husband is out today with Suzie Q., who has an oil leak. I knew that I would get bad karma for posting all that stuff about Travis and using his real name. If you know the answer to the question, "What is wrong with me?" please post a comment.

Even if you don't know the answer to that question, please post a comment because it is really fun to get comments!

Gotta run ... there is a rat snake in the chicken coop and I am not even kidding.

p.s. A new family-friendly blog is in the works with more pictures and updates on the Goose. If you have any ideas about what I should name it then please let me know (post a damn comment, for god's sake!).

p.p.s. Site meter successful (see below)! Results of site meter show that absolutely no one reads this blog. Shocking.

My Evolution into a P.W.T.P.I.

Note to reader: This has absolutely nothing to do with HE.

When did I become white trash? Will somebody please tell me when I evolved from “she’s from a small town and doesn’t know better” to flat-out “P.W.T.”? Don’t most people move up in the world?

The following is a list of things I have done which provide the trail of evolutionary evidence:

• Strapping a floor-model glider rocker (wrapped in Saran Wrap—no, make that the generic brand of plastic wrap) to the top of a 10-year-old Honda named Rhonda.

• Strapping a used crib and mattress (fully assembled) to the top of the abovementioned Honda.

• Becoming obsessed with pairing red shoes with any outfit. OK, so maybe this in itself doesn’t qualify, but keep reading …

• Wearing the same two pair of yoga pants for my entire pregnancy and continuing to don them postpartum (even when they are covered in spit up) because they have elastic waist bands and I’ve convinced myself that they go well with lots of different tops and red shoes … like red sandals, red mules, & even red cowgirl boots.

• Going barefoot most of the time I was pregnant (give me a break, I had this weird, hormone-induced, lava-rock foot condition wherein I would wake up in the night with burning feet and the only relief came from using a spray bottle of water and a battery-powered personal fan (which, by the way, was all in one piece and came from Walgreens and only cost $3.99) so that when I was awakened by my feet burning like Krakatau, I could relieve them.).

• Having one goal for this summer: to get a plastic pool set up in our backyard.

• Habitually yelling out of my car window at people who talk on their cell phones and nearly crash into me and my prize baby.

• Making Husband take me to Christie’s Cabaret during our first year of marriage because I had never been to a strip club (this comes into play later).

• Spending approximately $300 at aforementioned strip club, $40 of which was from ATM fees. (While Husband was teaching 8th grade science, TN passed a tax hike and he got some weird raise which came as a separate $300 check. I just wanted to clarify that we didn’t spend $300 of our regular income.)

• And finally, living in a house that contains processed cheese and Franzia (VERY cheap wine in a box that is equivalent to five bottles).

I was thinking about all of this recently as we drove away from the Subaru dealership at a small town north of Nashville (this also comes into play later), where we bought Suzie Q. Subaru, a 2003 Forester. We traded Rhonda the Honda, who had been with me since 1995. While we were cleaning out Rhonda, I started crying and continued to sob all the way to the Olive Garden, where we had a celebratory meal. Oh, there’s another one:

• Celebrating major purchases over pasta alfredo at the Olive Garden.

Anyway … besides the crying fit about giving up Rhonda, I was contemplating the discussion we had with our car salesman about Christie’s Cabaret, his coffee mug, and his wife—all of which are related. Let’s call this salesman Travis, since that was his name.

As we sat in Travis’s “office,” while he was appraising Rhonda, I was pretending like I was Mma Ramotswe from The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in Botswana (a FANTASTIC book series in case you’re interested) and was looking around for data about Travis’s background. I thought that this information might come in handy when we entered into our negotiations.

My eyes came to rest on a silver travel mug with “Christie’s Cabaret” engraved on the side. I pointed this out to Husband and he just grinned. I’m not sure if he was having good mental images or if he knew what I was thinking about this being good detective work.

Travis returned after about 10 minutes to find The Goose gumming his business card, The Husband using his calculator to determine our final offering price, and me staring off into space wondering what I would name my detective agency … “The No. 1 P.W.T. Detective Agency” is in the lead so far.

“I like your coffee mug,” I said.

“Oh,” he replied sheepishly, “my wife gave me that, she used to work there.”

HUH? A salesman at a Subaru dealership in a Bible-Belt town in Tennessee who has a stripper wife? Can you say Travis-tee? This dude was going down.

It didn’t take me long to get Travis to confess that while he was working at his previous job as the manager of a pawn shop, he met the girl who is now his wife while she was trying to sell a cubic zirconium ring given to her by an ex-boyfriend. At the time of the CZ selling, she was working at Christie’s although she isn’t now, having just given birth to Travis’s son—let’s call him Tristan, since that’s his name. (As an aside, I’m happy to report that Tristan is breastfed.) Since they have been married for several years now, Travis has collected lots of Christie’s paraphernalia, which he used to display in his “office” until the sales manager (let's call him Troy, since that's his name) decided that this was not appropriate and may have been costing them some business. Travis was impressed by my P.I. work and said that he had slipped the mug past Troy that morning.

Cha-ching.

We ended up in Troy’s office pigging out on pizza purchased by the dealership and telling the story about the time that Husband and I went to Christie’s and spent his entire extra paycheck on lap dances and liquor. And just for the record, it was not Travis’s wife who was our lap dancer, because I saw a picture of said wife in his “office” and she didn’t look anything like our lap dancer—who, by the way, was moonlighting as a secretary at State Farm Insurance (further proof of my skills as a P.I.).

Let’s just say that we walked out of there very pleased with the final price of Suzie Q. and to top it all off, I got a verbal agreement with Troy that Rhonda would be given to his niece ... let's call her Darla because although that's not her name, I'm sure she is a grown-up version of scary Darla from Finding Nemo. But at least she's Troy's niece, and not some unknown P.W.T. owner who may or may not be a P.I. and who may or may not lead as exciting a life as me. I wouldn't want Rhonda to be disappointed, and Troy assured me that Darla is (like me) a safe driver with high aspirations for her (already exciting) life.

If you find yourself in need of a P.W.T.P.I., I’m available by appointment only.