From North of Here: November 2005

You Can't Go Home Again

Thomas Wolfe wrote You Can't Go Home Again. I thought I knew what this piece of work meant: everything changes - you change, people and places at home change, so "home" doesn't really exist the way you remember it and it never actually feels like "home" again. I thought that is what the piece meant. I was wrong. I found a whole new interpretation.

"You can't go home again" for our family means that you can no longer go home again if you bring 50 lb black puppy. Here's the score card thus far:

Callie 3 - New Hand Towels 0
Callie 5 - Door Jam 0
Callie 1 - Amber's expensive new blanket 0
Callie 8 - Mom's dog toys 0
Callie 2 - Wrapping paper 0

We thought gas would be the most expensive part of this trip. It wasn't. Callie has moved over the house like a natural disaster. If I put her under the tree with a red bow on her as my 10 month old niece's Christmas present...

DVD's Bringing Generations Together

Chris went to pick up some groceries this week. The groceries are on one side of the store – electronics are on the complete opposite side, but somehow he managed to bring home a DVD with the groceries. Funny how that happens…

I didn’t care too much. The DVD was $1.00 and if it’s only $1.00 you have to buy it. Seriously. This DVD is of the Superman cartoons that aired when my dad was a boy. I won’t give specific years, but it was a long time ago – the cover indicates these are “vintage episodes”. Vintage is a word used when “oldies” no longer works out.

Wilson thinks these are great. And from what I’ve seen these are such innocent episodes. The “bad guy” in one is a robot. This is funny to Wilson because the “bad guy” robot is normal technology – Wilson loves those toys that are robots and respond to commands. This was another time, back when technology was the enemy, not some raving psychopath who will unleash a dirty bomb in a subway – that’s what we contend with on current cartoons.

DVD releases are such an interesting thing. The idea that my 3 year old is now watching the very same cartoons that my 58 year old dad watched when he was a boy amazes me. Funny that the “bad guy” technology in those cartoons is the only reason grandfather and grandson have watched the same cartoon – and both loved them.

The only concern I have is that I vaguely remember a story from my father’s childhood that involved the viewing of these cartoons we are showing Will. I remember hearing that, upon watching Superman, Dad decided he, too, would give flying through the air a go. He climbed out of an upstairs window and jumped. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t tied a rope – around his neck – before jumping. (Before you think this was an attempt on his own life, he was wearing a cape and was only about 5 years old). The truly disturbing part is that my grandma saw it from another window while she was in the kitchen. She ran out to free him with a knife. Oh, well, we live in a one story house. What are the chances he’ll try to do what Poppy did 53 years ago?

Take Your Second-Born to Work Day

Chris works a lot of nights leaving plenty o' Mom-n-Boy evenings for Will and me. When Wilson was a newborn Chris worked during the day and took classes for his master's degree at night. You do what you have to do to support your wife and kid - so we appreciate the sacrifices Chris has made for us over the years. And we reserve the weekends just for the three of us to spend time together, so it all pays off.

These evenings have been fun for the two of us. We walk. We go on "nature hunts" (I have enough individual bird feathers to create a whole new flock). We color. We watched American Idol one year. We read. We've had a lot of good Mom-n-Boy moments. Apparently I'm not the only one who has enjoyed these special nights where it's just the two of us. Here's a scene from dinner when Chris was working over in Dallas last week:

Boy: "It's just us again Mommy."
Me: "Yes, but Daddy will be home around bedtime."
Boy: "We have fun, don't we?"
Me: "Sure. I have fun with you. I like spending time with you."
Boy: "Yeah. That's because I'm your boy."
Me: "Sure are."
He eats his ice cream. He thinks.
Boy: "When Reagan comes it won't just be the two of us anymore."
Me: "No, it won't be. You can be my big helper and the two of us can take care of Reagan."
Boy: "Reagan will be here with the two of us."
Me: "That's right. It will be the three of us instead of just you and me."
Boy: "It won't just be you and me?"
Me: "Well, no, but we'll still be together and we will have Reagan."
He eats some more. He thinks some more.
Boy: "Maybe Daddy should take Reagan to work with him."

Temporary Highlights

No, they are not just for your hair. You can also use temporary highlights to end the "when are you ever going to post something on your blog?" e-mails you get from readers...

How to Become Unprofessional in under 30 Minutes: I have spent five years working my rear off to have an aura of capability and seem "with it" as an assistant. Five years of hard, hard work beating deadlines, organizing, keeping afloat - all ended in under 30 minutes. Here's how you, too, can do it. The boss and I had to go to storage in the basement to find something. I opened the door, flipped on the lights. I started walking back to our corner of storage when it happened. Something brown and furry with rodent features came out from behind some shelves on my right, ran over my kitten-heeled clad foot, and scampered under some boxes. Normally I do not mind rodents. But if the rodent startles me after I have given fair warning (aka lights, speaking audibly) I'm going to loose it. I jump and scream. Loud, girly scream. Very girly. The boss asks what is going on. I tell him about the rodent. He shakes his head. He did not see it. Strike one. He kids about it for the rest of the morning. That afternoon I put the final nail in the coffin of professionalism by electrocuting myself while unplugging our paper shredder. Again, girl scream. He shakes his head again. Professionalism is dead. I will forever be "that assistant who screamed like a girl".

To the Doghouse: A/C quit working. Now, some of you in the northern part of our readership may not understand why this was a problem in November. I mean, who needs A/C in November? Well, here in Texas you have to have the A/C available at all times. No, it doesn't make sense. We called the realtor. The A/C repairmen come out, again. They know us by name. They went to the outside unit and showed us what the problem was: "Looks like some poor animal chewed through these wires. It probably got electrocuted and died." No, no it didn't. Chris and I both knew "some animal" was in our living room probably up on the furniture where she is NOT supposed to be. We pay for the repair ourselves. I ask the repairmen if we throw in an extra $50 will they take the 50 pound puppy and "take care of her". I was only half joking. By that evening we had forgiven Callie, I suppose - all 50 pounds of her was up sleeping between us in our bed. But I promise you the next time she chews through a wire it's over for her. Probably.

Washed Up: Washing machine gave off a funny smell. I called Chris in to confirm funny smell. He grabbed everything from the vicinity of the washer and moved it to a "safe" place, then he sat on the stairs next to the washer with a fire extinguisher. Apparently that funny smell is the smell of electrical meltdown death. Decomp of washer parts. Repairman visits the house. He assures me the 50 pound puppy had nothing to do with the washer. Lucky girl. Repairman fixes washer. Wallet is almost $200 lighter, but we have clean clothes and no threat of future electrical fires.

So, what else around here can break? Don't ask. We're searching to find out if the sacrificing of a black 50 pound puppy will appease the cosmos and keep us from paying any more appliance repair people. If we hadn't just spent $200 on her last trip to the vet.... We should have named her "Money Pit" instead of Callie.