Barking Mad

Happy Halloweekend!

From all of us here at the Barking Mad asylum, we wish you a wickedly Haunted Halloween!

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The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same - Invasion '09

This time of year in Maine you can count on several things...the foliage turning from all shades of green into bright oranges, reds, golds, yellows and ambers, the snowbirds retreating to warmer climes, the little dairy shacks that dot the coastline shuttering up for the winter, and our annual invasion of winged beasts.   These kinds of winged beasts in particular...

 

We have several of these "groups" of ladybugs throughout the entire house.  The harder we try to control the invading hordes, the worse it seems to get. I gave up counting when I got to 100.  And what does one call a group of ladybugs like this?  A pod? Pride? Coven? Well, if you're an almost-four-year-old, you call them a "Schnooff of ladybugs."   Don't even attempt to call them anything else because you will be sternly corrected by the small person.  

Frankly I'd be willing to bet we have several little ladybug orgies going on throughout our house...but I dare not speak those words aloud else I'll have a certain little person repeating them at the most inopportune times.

The first fall that we were here at the asylum we got a real taste of what this yearly invasion of ladybugs was like.  Prior to that we'd had a few get in to whatever house we were in, but nothing like that first year here.   Gaby was roughly 21 months old at the time and was intrigued and beguiled by the ladybugs, but still a tad apprehensive...

I love how she says "ladybugs." Cracks me up every time!

Last year the invasion wasn't as um...well, plentiful as it is this year so we didn't pay too much attention to it.   However this year, with the sheer volume alone, it's really hard to ignore.  Oh and then there's the feline factor.  Oiy!  Our sheers in the front room are pretty much history due to the cats shredding them whilst climbing, in order to get to a nice, fat, juicy, red beetle!  Gaby is still beguiled by them, but after watching the first video, and now this one, you can tell that certain things never change - despite growing older, both she and I jump when we're holding one and they take to the air...

I guess I should be grateful for the fact that it's only ladybugs we're dealing with and not an invasion of fiddler crabs, eh CBW?

Don't forget, during the entire month of October, to support the fight against breast cancer, Barking Mad is in the pink!  For every comment left on each post, we'll donate a certain amount to Susan G. Komen for the Cure®.  Read more about it here!

I'm Not Angry...I'm Just a Bitch

 

The last several days have been a monumental clusterfuck of attitude, ignorance, lack of respect, lack of internet (thanks Comcast! You are on my SUCKIT list too!), shit (both literal and figurative - Geronimo had a rotten tummy - crapped all over himself and got a bath; as a result of said bath, I am now sporting some nifty slices and dices along my arms.), and yelling and screaming with a few threats to kick a certain teenager out of the asylum...it all adds up to one big heaping plate of stress. All of this with only 6 days left until Meg leaves for boot camp.

I'd really love nothing more than to just flush the last six or seven days down the toilet!

Oh and did I mention that I stopped taking my anti-depressant?  No? Well, guess what, I did.  I was beginning to feel better, emotionally anyhow, and I thought to myself, "Self, lets stop taking this expensive little pill, because you're feeling better and we don't need it any more!"  My head-shrinker was on holiday and I'd mention it to her when she got back...surely it wouldn't be that big a deal?  So, voila, just like that I stopped taking them and away went my feelings of well being and with it, the last remaining shards of my sanity.  Oh wait, one of the resident teenagers ran off with some of that as well.

Then we come to The Pumpkin.  How can a pumpkin possibly be construed as something stressful?  It is, after all, just a pumpkin.

After you read this, you're going to think I've completely lost it.  Maybe.

So, when is a pumpkin, carved into a Jack O' Lantern and given to a three-year-old, much more than just a nice gesture?  When it's given to said three year old by a person whom the three year old's mother wants nothing to do with and wants her influence clearly out of reach of the three year old.   Did that make any sense?

Remember this post?  Yeah the same one that's now made me one of the most hated mom's in Maine? The one that's gotten one of our cars vandalized, been the impetus for numerous threatening and harassing phone calls as well as emails (some of you imbeciles out there need to learn how to use an onion router and not try and cover your IP with hidemyass.com!), and caused me to laugh hysterically as teenagers drive by my house and flip me off...Well, the "Young Lady" I referred to in that post, carved a Jack O' Lantern for Gaby yesterday and Meg brought it home with her when "Young Lady" dropped her off after spending some time with her in order to say goodbye before Meg leaves for boot camp.  Before I had a chance to protest, Meg had whisked Gaby outside to show it to her and make sure she knew exactly who it was from. 

Needless to say, Gareth was pissed.   He expressed his displeasure with Meg who, in reply told him that the Young Lady was probably pulled over crying somewhere because she couldn't say hello to Gaby and give it to her personally.  My own reply to that is something along the lines of, "Because your mother is a big fat bitch and wants to limit your little sister's exposure to people she has issues with, a fact you are well aware of, I really don't care if the Young Lady was parked at the end of our street crying her eyes out!"  Yes gentle readers, I am as heartless and cruel as it appears and ya know what, I don't give a shit what anyone thinks.  The gesture was completely inappropriate and Gareth and I will not have Gaby used as a pawn in anyone's game. 

If you are sitting there with your mouth agape and in shock that I could be pissed off over something as innocent as a Jack O'Lantern, well, that's OK.  You might be cool with a gesture like that, to your toddler, from someone who you want your child to have absolutely nothing to do with.  Me?  Not so much.  If the shoes were switched, I'd have steered clear of doing anything like that, especially knowing how the toddler's mother feels.  What's the point in doing it, other than to play games and try and ingratiate yourself in the eyes of a three year old? Whilst I don't begrudge Meg her friends, especially those she is very close to, as she is to the Young Lady; Meg is an adult and will do what she will do. However I still have say in who comes and goes, in any manner, in the life of my three year old.

Of course, Meg made it painfully clear to Gaby who the pumpkin was from and now I've got a three year old who is upset with me that she can't see the Young Lady and say thank you.

Now, this little issue of not acknowledging a gift has, I admit, rankled me since last night.  I have always impressed upon my kids that you say thank you...period.  Despite the intent behind the pumpkin, it was still, in the end, a gift, and should be acknowledged.  Gareth and I disagree on this one point. He believes that the intent negates acknowledgment.   We've discussed the issue back and forth and whilst there is still some residual anger over the gesture and aforementioned intent, we have come to an agreement of sorts.  It's more important for us to encourage Gaby to express gratitude over any gift, large or small and to attempt to let go of the anger at the purpose surrounding it.  And, Gaby genuinely loves the pumpkin.  She knows that her mumma hates to gut the damn things and had been planning on bedazzling one this year and calling it good.  Oh yes I was!

So this is our compromise. 

Given that Gaby is learning French in Montessori, we have been asked by her teachers at school to encourage her to use it here at home...so we did.

P.S.  Gareth says this comes across as very angry.  Whilst I'm not as angry as I was last night, I'm still fairly perturbed.  It will pass though.  If I had still been well and truly angry at this point?  Monsieur Pumpkin would have been so much meat for the pumpkin cookies I'm baking tonight.  But now that would have been childish and immature (like a certain segment of you are no doubt thinking this post is...), non?

The Latch-Key Chronicles - The Marshmallow Incident

 

I suppose, before I do any 'fessing up about my days as a latch-key kid, I probably ought to give credit for the impetus for this post to whom it belongs...the beautiful (and I am not joking, I have some of the most gorgeous writers living in my computer and she is one of them!) Bejewell.  After reading this post, I knew I had dovetail off of it and get all this kiddie-guilt, purged once and for all. 

I'm also aware that these admissions of guilt about certain acts committed by a certain someone may very well get me disowned by my parents.  I'm willing to take that risk.

Not only was I a child of the late 70's and 80's, I was the poster girl for latch key kids everywhere.  Both of my parents worked and for about an hour before school and two to three hours after school, I was rockin' the sofa at home.  Oh sure, I had chores I was supposed to be doing rather than watching reruns of I Love Lucy, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, Family Affair or The Monkees.  I was supposed to come straight home after school, get my chores done and then my homework, and possibly after all that was completed, then maybe I could go outside and play, or watch TV.  Occasionally things didn't exactly happen in that order.

I could not have been more than 10 or 11 when The Marshmallow Incident took place.  My mom had stopped smoking only a year or two before this, but we still had lighters tucked in various places around the house...like the top of the fridge...behind a bag of marshmallows.  Originally I was only trying to reach the bag of marshmallows that sat way up high atop the fridge.  I just wanted to snaffle a few of them and then I'd get on with the business of my chores and homework.  Just one or two marshmallows would satisfy me.  Now, how to go about getting them down from way up there?  I stood on tippy toes and reached, extended my fingers as far as they would go and... nothing!.  They were completely out of reach.  So I grabbed a fork out of the bright green (Everybody remembers that green, the 70's green, right?) dish drainer on the counter and once again, stood on my tippy toes and all that attempt accomplished was getting the fork stuck on top of the fridge.  

 

The harder I tried, and then failed, to get to the lovely, soft, sweet marshmallows, the more determined I became.  I don't know why it didn't occur to me to drag a kitchen chair over to the fridge and stand on it, but it didn't.  What did occur to me was a set of BBQ skewers.  They were long, very long and had two tiny pointy ends. Better yet, they were easily in reach -just resting against one side of the stove. One of the skewers would work perfectly.

I stood upon tippy toes once more, almost certain by this point that all of this standing on my toes would certainly get me into any ballerina school, and lanced the bag of yummy, jet-puffed marshmallows.  I remember reading the words, "Kraft Jet-Puffed Marshmallows" and picturing someone standing behind a big airplane with flat marshmallows and then the pilot gunning the plane's engines and a "Marshamallow Man" in a crisp white uniform, standing there with arms full of marshmallows - inflating them with the blasts from the jets.  Don't mock me!  It's how my wee brain worked back in the good ol' days.

At some point my brain made the connection between the BBQ skewer in my right hand and the bag of marshmallows in my left and I decided right then and there that I needed not just marshmallows, but roasted marshmallows! 

I set the bag of marshmallows and the skewer down on the kitchen table and went in search of a lighter. I was able to easily find one on the top of one of the bookshelves that lined one wall of the living room (yayyy for shelves that I could climb!) and set my plan into action.  Once I had the lighter in hand, I placed it in my jeans pocket so that I wouldn't lose it.

I grabbed the bag of marshmallows, the skewer, and the lighter and walked into the living room and climbed into my dad's huge leather recliner.  I think it's important that you remember the words, leather recliner.

I sat cross-legged on the light brown leather recliner and set the bag of marshmallows in my lap so that I could open it.  Once I had the bag opened, I placed the skewer in my left hand, reached in and grabbed a marshmallow and proceeded to pop the first one in my mouth.  Then I grabbed another and placed it on the end of the silvery skewer point and reached deep into my pocket for the lighter.

Not once did it ever occur to my pea-brain that what I was about to do could potentially be dangerous.  All I was interested in was a roasted marshmallow and stuffing that hot, ooey-gooey goodness into my face.

I flicked the lighter on and held it under the white blob.  I just sat there and held it like that for what seemed an eternity.  Then something unthinkable happened...all at once the entire marshmallow was engulfed in flames.  I sat there, mouth wide open, with what looked like a flaming tennis ball on the end of a stick.  So, I did what came naturally.  I waved the flaming marshmallow frantically to and fro, back and forth, side to side; all the while flinging bits of red-hot marshmallow lava across the living room, onto the green carpet (what was the big deal with green back then?) and down, down, down in slowwwwww motionnnnn onto my father's leather recliner. 

In my mind the memory of that ill-fated marshmallow plays back in slow motion...the realization that these pieces of molten marshmallow were now burning holes into my father's precious leather recliner.  The utter fact that my ass was probably going to be as red hot as those burning sugary embers, sat in my stomach like a lead balloon.

I shot out of that leather recliner like a dwarf out of a cannon, sending a spray of jet-puffed marshmallows into the air.  I ran around the living room stomping on smoldering pieces of burnt marshmallow, probably looking a lot like my beloved I Love Lucy in the episode where she was stomping grapes into wine. Thankfully the tiny bits of burnt carpet could be covered if I moved the furniture ever so slightly in towards the center of the living room.  Surely my parents would never notice.  By the way mom and dad...did you ever notice the furniture looked a little "off", after that? Or did you just attribute it to your growing family only making it seem like the living room was getting smaller?

It was then that I noticed a very peculiar smell that hung in the air - like someone had baked sugar cookies but put them on a plastic baking sheet, in the oven.  It was the carpet that was giving off this awful smell and I knew if I didn't do something about it, the smell would be a dead giveaway.  I ran into the bathroom and grabbed an entire bottle of Jean-Nate (remember that stuff?), that had, up until then, been coveted by my young self.  I'd begged and begged and begged my mom to buy me a some, and she finally gave in and bought me a bottle for my birthday.

 

I opened the precious yellow bottle of Jean-Nate Body Splash and commenced splashing (well, "splash" was what one was supposed to do with it!) that stuff around the living room like a Priest with an aspergillum, tossing holy water around at an exorcism.  Well except for the fact that I didn't have an aspergillum and the end result was not the sort of "calm after a storm" feeling one might experience after an exorcism.  But it sure smelled a whole hell of a lot better.

Once I manged to get the acrid smell of burning carpet covered up I remembered the leather recliner. Oh shit! 

Mercifully, I found a lovely brown and beige afghan that my Nana had crocheted for my father and threw it over the back and one arm of the recliner...the very same arm that had a very small, albeit noticeable burn hole. I thought the plan was genius, but then again, I was the very same brain-trust that thought roasting marshmallows in the house, in a recliner, was a good idea to begin with.

Later that night when both of my  parents returned home from work there was inevitably a discussion with a preteen about how it's not appropriate to bathe in body splash to the point of being able to smell it outside.  My mom also said something along the lines of how God-awful smelling that stuff was and had she known how badly it smelled she would never have gotten it for me in the first place and now knew better. Well Mom, anything is bound to smell bad when mixed with the stench of burning carpet.  Just thought I'd mention that...30 years later.

When my dad sat down that night the afghan slipped backwards, off the arm of the leather recliner and the inevitable happened...HELLO!  BIG FREAKING BURN HOLE IN THE ARM OF THE LEATHER RECLINER. 

He asked me what happened, to which I replied, "I don't know, maybe back when mom was smoking she burned a hole in it?" 

Well dad, now ya know...and so does the rest of the world, what really happened to your leather recliner.  Something tells me that you never did really buy the story about mom possibly burning a hole in it. Especially not when there was sticky white residue around the edges of the hole. 

I am thankful for the fact that I didn't burn down the house when my desire for a roasted marshmallow overcame what little common sense I possessed back then and I am also really thankful that I finally 'fessed up to this when I live, conveniently, 2500 miles away...besides, I'm too big to spank anyhow.

   

P.S. The Latch-Key Chronicles - The Turkey That Would Not Be Killed, hits the blog the first week in November!

Don't forget, during the entire month of October, to support the fight against breast cancer, Barking Mad is in the pink!  For every comment left on each post, we'll donate a certain amount to Susan G. Komen for the Cure®.  Read more about it here!

Quote of the Day - Standoff Between Geronimo and I, Who Will Blink First?

 

image credit - I would say me, however Geronimo begs to differ because he feels he should receive all of the credit for this because he is, of course, a cat!

"Cats are dangerous companions for writers because cat watching is a near-perfect method of writing avoidance."

~Dan Greenburg~

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The standoff between Geronimo and I lasted for more than 5 minutes.  I, of course, lost.  Geronimo would have you believe it is because he is cat, I am mere human.  Whatever. At least he doesn't make a jackass out of himself and try to pounce on his own reflection in the granite counters.  That would be Princess Godiva.  That cat is going to drive us all completely batshit insane.  She is everything that you want a kitten to be for about two minutes.  After that it becomes annoying, painful, irritating, frustrating, aggravating, and infuriating!  

We no longer use CFL bulbs in our lamps because of Godiva and how often she climbs on the lamps and then knocks them over.  People, these are brand new lamps that were a gift.  Of course she can't destroy the old lamps that wouldn't even fetch a dollar a piece at a garage sale. If she were to tip a lamp and break the CFL bulb we'd have to call the EPA to get someone out here to clean up the breakage (due to the mercury in the bulbs) and that goddamned cat isn't worth it.

She sleeps in the fruit basket.  Is it any wonder I don't want to eat any of the 40lbs of apples we recently picked? 

She drinks out of the toilet and then dips her tail in the water just to piss me off.  I know she sits in the corner and laughs at me as I follow the trail of water throughout the house in an attempt to dry it. 

She is constantly on the counters and in the sink.  One of these days I'm turning the sprayer on her.  I will!  Or not.  I'm not sure I want to clean the mess.

She gets into boxes, bags, swim and gym bags and anything else she can. If I end up accidentally taking a kitten in with me to the Y the next time  I go swimming, I will not be responsible for the mayhem that ensues. 

She sleeps on the edge of the top of the stairs.  I'm certain this is an attempt to trip us as we attempt to go down the stairs or come up them. 

I am not even ashamed to admit that she's the first cat I've ever not liked.  Seriously.  I do not like her.  Gareth calls her the "spiky ball of fury" and there's a good reason for that.  People, I am not exaggerating when I say that if Satan had a cat, it would be Godiva.  Hell, it probably is Godiva.  Or, alternatively, she could just be possessed...but what are my chances of getting a priest in to exorcise my cat?  Yeah, that's what I thought.

Meaghan says that she's certain, if we were to shave Godiva bald, we'd find a "666" tattooed somewhere on her body.  At this point I'm not likely to disagree.

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So, have any of you been following the Blogger/TSA drama?  I was asked this morning where I weighed in on it and to be honest, I don't know.  I have had very limited interaction with the blogger in question who claimed that the TSA took her baby.  We've commented a couple of times, reciprocally on each others blogs.  I think there may have even been a brief Twitter exchange here or there, but I can't honestly say I know Nic.  TSA refuted her claims and then Nic further refuted TSA's refutation.  I don't know what to believe.  I've read both posts of Nic's and I've read the TSA's statements and response and watched the standard size video and the enlarged video that were posted.   I don't know.  I just don't know whose version of the story I am inclined to side with.

Two things do come to mind after having spent enough time trying to dig through all of this. One...I will say is that I'm a little ashamed of how the collective blogosphere has "piled on" when it comes to this.  There has been so much finger pointing, name calling (some of it really vile and quite crass!), and general mud-slinging that it makes ALL OF US look like a playground full of bullies. Two...what's up with people getting their self-righteous on by bagging on someone with an already admitted anxiety/mental health issue?  Nic has written about some of these issues before and since when is it OK, after she mentions having popped a Xanax that she keeps in her pocket for situations like this, to start denigrating her character because she has a serious anxiety issue?    I'm not going to bother linking to the people that have called her out on this because frankly, it makes me sick.  I'm one of these "mental health midgets" walking around with a Xanax in my own pocket and I think it's deplorable that this part of her character is being so viciously maligned. 

No, it does not mean I am condoning her, if it's proven that she fabricated the entire thing.  And yes I will admit that there are some things that she put out there, especially tweets about wanting to make money off of the situation, that could tilt someone towards believing this was more than just a misunderstanding between her and the TSA.  Having said that though, this has become much more than her allegations about something that happened during TSA security screening at the airport and the TSA refuting her story. 

This is about how we all react once things like this hit the Internet - how we as mothers, parents, friends and sisters, are so quick to judge a situation before all sides have been presented and then pick apart the parties and shine a light on our inadequacies, shortfalls and health issues - mental or otherwise.  It's about acting like a bunch of bullies.  Mommy-bloggers are already called on the carpet  for allegedly "exploiting our children for profit" and to behave as some of us have after this incident, collectively shows us all in a very poor light. 

Again, honestly at this point in time, I don't have an opinion either way.  I think there's a lot we haven't heard yet, and quite possibly the TSA video doesn't show everything.  I also know that in the midst of a severe panic attack, everything in the peripheral is muted and darkened and things that seem real to one who suffers a panic attack might not be exactly as they are for those who remain outside the bubble of fear, panic and extreme anxiety that women like myself, and Nic suffer.   I'm not saying this might be the reason why her version of the story differs so greatly from what appears on the video footage that the TSA provided when trying to disprove Nic's claims, I'm just putting it out there. If you've never had a severe panic attack, then it's hard to understand what happens and how terrifying your world - right in the eye of the hurricane that is a panic attack, is like.

The irony about this entire thing?  If it's proven that Nic fabricated this thing, it shows mommy-bloggers in a crappy light and if it's proven that TSA left out some of the video or that Nic's extreme panic attack altered her version of reality to the point where she wasn't acutely aware of where her child was, then it still shows mommy-bloggers in a bad light because of all the piling-on and name calling we've done.

In a society where people like the Heene family ( Balloon boy anyone? I WANT THOSE TWO HOURS OF MY LIFE BACK!) can take advantage of the world's collective curiosity and emotion, we don't need bloggers showing that we're no better - by virtue of our actions or words. 

  

Don't forget, during the entire month of October, to support the fight against breast cancer, Barking Mad is in the pink!  For every comment left on each post, we'll donate a certain amount to Susan G. Komen for the Cure®.  Read more about it here!