Party Lines.

As I mentioned in my last post, I come from a very small, rural community where gossip was a way of life and a favored pastime of most of my neighbors.

One of the best ways to keep up on community gossip was through the party telephone line.  I'm not talking about 1-977-HOT-BABE kind of party lines, I mean the ones where you shared a phone line with your 3-5 closest neighbors.

And... dead silence, since most of you probably don't have a clue what I'm talking about, right?

I Wiki'd it just to make sure I hadn't created a backwoods backstory that didn't really exist, and sure enough, there it was.  Since we lived in a very rural area with few actual lines running to some of the more outlying areas, it was much cheaper to share a telephone line with several neighbors, which was referred to as a party line.  Here's how it worked.  Somewhere between two to six houses would be on the same line.  Only one person out of all these houses could actually have a phone conversation at a time, since the line was actually being shared among the household.  But here's the kicker.  Say I'm on the phone at my house and my party line neighbor picks up the phone at his house.  Well, he can then hear and even join into my conversation.  It was understood that when you heard someone pick up once it was time to wrap up your conversation, and if they picked up two times, you usually just told them to hold on and you'd be off in a minute.

Really.

I promise.

That's really the way it was.

It was always Big Conversation at out house when someone might move on or off our line.  It was possible to pay for and to obtain an private line, but it was deemed an unnecessary expense by most of the folks who were my neighbors.  Occasionally someone would move into or out of the area, and that would also result in a party line change.  Big News.  Always.

I had a bad experience once with a party line call.  I was maybe ten or eleven, and I was talking to my friend Amy.  We were likely talking about boys, and school, and boys, and hair, and boys, and clothes, and boys...  Anyway, I don't remember exactly what we were supposed to have said, but at eleven it couldn't have been too terrible considering there was no cable tv in those days.  But Ms. Peg, who was on Amy's line, not mine (see how complicated and rumor-breeding this is?) decided that whatever we had said was dirty and proceeded to pray for our immortal souls out loud in church the next week.  That was, of course, AFTER she had told the whole community what dirty little sluts we were.

It was quite the talk of the community, at least until something better came along, but it always left a bad taste in my mouth for gossip of any sort.

Anyone else remember (or ever heard of) a party line?

The Fine Art of Talking About Nothing Important.

I'm a notoriously private person (for those of you who really know me, feel free to roll your eyes, gnash your teeth, whatever, at this point).  Ok, private may be a bit of an understatement.  Like, way down deep under the earth understatement.  The thing is, people who are merely acquaintances wouldn't believe it.

See, I have mastered the art of talking about Nothing Important.  You know, like funny kid stories, what I made for dinner last night, or the latest book I read.  But nothing really about me.  I worked with the same group of people for more than eight years, and not one of them know my political party, my religious beliefs, or whether I wore thongs or bikinis or whatever.  Not that underwear is appropriate to talk about at work.  Ever.  Just don't go there.  But at the end of a conversation with an acquaintance, that person will inevitably believe I had a lot to share, that I was open, and warm, and loving.  Ha.

It sort of sounds like I'm bragging, and it really sort of feels like it a little bit.  I come from a pretty long line of Private People, and grew up in a very small town full of Gossip Biddys, and it was like a game or a challenge or something to keep your business out of other people's flapping jaws.  My Mama was very good at it, and I think I inherited some of her talent.

Anyway, I'm also very good at the art of deflection.  You know, asking questions of others when they are trying to get too close to the root of me.  People, in general, love to talk about themselves.  Really, all you have to do is ask most people a question or two about themselves, and off they go, to Grandma's sciatica, their greatest childhood fear, how old they were when they stopped wetting the bed, or their innermost feelings about Lindsay Lohan's recent issues.   People, in general, love to talk about themselves.

My friend Natalie says that I will always answer questions truthfully, but that the question has to be specific enough that I can't dodge it.  She's really good at getting stuff out of me, and I bless her heart for loving me enough to try.  Repeatedly.  Up to the point where I believe that she must be destined for sainthood or maybe the loony bin.

I've always wondered about people who seem to be able to share every little detail about themselves freely and without reservation.  Are they happier than I am?  Is it easier to share than to hoard details about your life?

Anyone out there have any ideas?

Superhero Tuesday. Wednesday. Whatever.

My internet went out for about a minute. It was like the freaking Dark Ages.

So...  It's Friday night.  


Friday night is a night that I can usually count on RJ to go out,  either to play poker or for drinks with the guys after work.  So typically I put the kids to bed at 5:30 and plan an evening of drinking, enjoyment and relaxation for myself.  Typically.  

On this particular Friday night, I had my Sonic Cherry Limeade mixed with rum, my kids in bed by seven, and my night planned.

As I was eating my dinner (Triscuits, cheddar cheese and pepperoni, if you must know) the electricity blinked.  Just for a second.  It came right back on, so I though very little of it.  

I moved on to phase two of my relaxing evening.  I had my fruity rum drink, my trusted Nook, my Ipad, my MacBook, and I was set for an evening of relaxation.


I sat down in front of the computer, opened Facebook, and... nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.


I refreshed.  Silly little computer.  Why would you want to play games with me?  I have some drunk Facebooking to do, and some tweeting, and some Ebaying and some blogging.  I am a very busy girl, and I have things to do.  Surely you are just being silly.


Still nothing.  Then I get a message on the screen.  "Your computer is not connected to the internet.  Check your internet connection and try this page again."


What?


Not. Cool.  


We have wi-fi in our house, but I'm currently plugged into this cool little blue cord that makes my MacBook faster than the speed of light.


I unplugged it.  I plugged it back in.


Nothin'.


I set it to wi-fi.


Still nothin'.


It was ok.  I didn't panic.  I still have my Ipad.  It was ok.


Ipad. No. Internet.


Oh dear, this is freakin' bad.  BAD.


I fired off a quick text to RJ.  "Um, hon, the electricity blinked and none of my gadgets work.  Any thoughts?"


I waited for at least four minutes for a really long time with no response.  Hmm.  He must be really busy.  


Text number two: "There is no internet here.  I either need you to answer my message and TELL ME HOW TO FIX IT OR GET YOUR A$$ HOME. NOW. Please?"  My Mama always said you can catch more flies with honey, you know...


Still no response.  


After gulping most of my rum drink taking a moment to compose myself, I decided that surely I could figure out something interesting to do without the internet.  I pulled out my Nook, and decided to read a bit.  But...  I needed a new book and it's kinda hard to search on that itty-bitty screen and I'll just jump on my computer to find a new one... Oh wait.  I drank some more rum.


Ok, well, I have a fun new puzzle game app on my Ipad.  I can just play that for a while, right?  Gosh, I'm so resilient, so smart, so adaptable.  I can live without the internet...  Ipad out, app pulled up, and I get this message "You must be connected to the internet to play this game.  Please check your internet connection now."  Rum drink refill time.


ARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Third text messageto RJ: "I'm moving.  I hear many hotels have free internet.  It's like the Dark Ages here.  I cannot thrive under these circumstances.  Goodbye."


Within a few minutes, I get a response from RJ with some very complicated, very complex, very hard to follow directions to unplug the wi-fi thingy and plug it back it.  I took a deep breath, drank some more rum, and tried to work my way through all the complicated steps in the process. 


After I was finished, I walked back over the the computer, took a swig of rum, and hit reload.


Facebook - success!


I checked the Ipad.  Internet connection good.


And then I passed out.


The end.

"Well, you must have liked it a little bit."

Up until a few weeks ago, I was a retail manager in a large chain bookstore.  The good one, not the one that sucks.  Anyway, this wasn't a career I set out to have.  It wasn't like one day when I was seven and some well-meaning stranger asked me "Sugar, what do you want to be when you grow up?" and after thinking about it I had an epiphany and answered "Why, a retail clerk, of course."  But after I fell into this career, I liked it, and I kept on it and got better at it, up till the point that by the time I quit, I almost knew what I was doing most of the time. How's that for stream-of-consciousness?

Anyway, about eight years ago, I was offered a promotion into my own store as  "The Manager."  I came into it with a ton of ideas, ideals and expectations, including a few that I learned over the next few  years were completely and utterly wrong.  One of my first lessons in this came pretty early on.  My shiny new store had been open for about a minute and everything was going well.  Better than expected.  Clearly I had it all figured out.  Employees are respectful, customers are right, and everything is always by the book.

Until one day, I got THE call.

"Can you come to the cafe ASAP?  A customer wants to talk to you.  And he's MAD."  This was delivered to me in a pseudo-whisper by a cafe server who was clearly shaking in her boots at the moment.

I had dealt with many, many mad customers over the years, and I was pretty good at it.  But this was the first time someone had gotten mad in MY store.  It felt like a personal affront, but also like a chance I had to set the tone for the staff.  The customer is always right, right?

I took a deep breath, marched myself to the cafe, and was pointed in the general direction of a man who was, for lack of a better word, furious.  His face was red, his demeanor was aggressive, and he was spoiling for a fight.  I introduced myself and asked him what I could do for him.

He was so mad he could barely talk.  He sputtered about for a few minutes, all the time wildly gesturing toward my Cafe Lead, let's call him Ray, and demanding that I fire him and/or roast him on a spit.  Or maybe tie him up and let fire ants have him.  Whatever.  The customer was MAD at Ray.  Finally, after much sputtering and spitting, I got part of the story.  The customer had apparently not liked his drink and politely (at least according to him) asked for a replacement.  At this point in the story, every time he tried to tell it, the customer would get upset all over again, and the spitting and ranting was getting out of control.  I had someone make him a new drink, which he accepted, but he demanded that Ray be dealt with RIGHT THEN.

I asked Ray to come with me back to the kitchen, where we could speak privately, but where Mad Customer Guy could see that he was being dealt with forthwith.  A little background on Ray - he's from New York, speaks with a strong Brooklyn accent, and never wastes a word and might knife you if you look at him wrong.   I asked him to tell me what happened.

"Dat guy, he bought a Mocha, and he came back up to da counter and tole me he didn't like it at all.  When I picked da cup up, it was empty.  So I tole him 'Well, you musta liked it a little bit.'"


I put my best Manager face on, and...  burst out laughing.

I laughed until tears streamed down my face and Ray thought he was going to have to call in the men with straightjackets reinforcements.  After I composed myself, I told Ray sternly "Look sorry when you walk back out there, ok?"  Mad Mocha Dude left, vindicated, sure that I had been in the kitchen chastising Ray the whole time.

I thought I had it all figured out, until I didn't.   But I learned some very important lessons that day. The first thing I learned is that the customer isn't always right, and over the years, I made an effort to ensure my staff was protected against those who weren't.  I also learned that people don't always behave the way you expect them to.  Those were words that I never would have expected out of Ray's mouth, but he was doing what he thought was right - protecting his cafe - albeit in a less than diplomatic way.  Although the behavior was unexpected, the sentiment and  intention was correct. It got easier for me to figure out who among my staff had a heart that was in the right place but who maybe just needed a little guidance about how to put good intentions into good practice.  And finally, I learned that it pays to have a sense of humor when you are in a job that has a constant stream of people careening through it.  People are strange, and do strange things, and act in all sorts of weird ways, and it's ok to laugh about it.

Really.

Naming kids is hard, and right now I have about a 50% success rate. Poor kid.

Ok, let me start with a bit of a disclaimer here.

When I started this blog, I never set out to keep our names a secret.  Using the initials was just a THING, you know, like all the cool kids were doing.  I mean, hell, if you're reading this, you know my address, and if you want to do my harm via the internet, you are probably smarter than my whole "let's just use initials so as to remain incognito" bit.

So anyway, back to me.

Before zj was born, RJ and I did everything right.  We read all the baby books, bought half a dozen books on how to name your kid, debated names for hours, even days.  There were, however, a couple of sticking points that were hard for me to get past.

According to RJ, NO MATTER WHAT,  PUNISHABLE BY DEATH, FOREVER AND EVER AMEN, the firstborn son of the firstborn son was ALWAYS named Robert.  It wasn't up for discussion. At all.  The boy would be named Robert, and it would be good.

Whatever.  I'm sneaky.  manipulative. persuasive when I need to be, and I convinced him that we could name the kid Robert and call him by his middle name.  That way, we were technically in the right and not in danger of being beheaded by the Robert-gods and we got to call the kid whatever we wanted.  That was probably mistake number one.

Mistake number two, which I still feel like was great in spirit if not necessarily in execution, was the decision to pick a second middle name of Vietnamese origin.

Of course, the major problem with that is that neither one of us speak Vietnamese.

So we did what all terrified good little Vietnamese children do, and we asked RJ's mother for suggestions.  She came up with a list.  Most of the names on the list were longish and hard to pronounce.  They would also be hard for this redneck white girl to remember, 'cause none of then rhymed with Earl, or was followed by Joe.  But one name on the list seemed doable.  An_Loc.  According to RJ's mom, this was the name of the city in which she was born.  How wonderful, right?

As I was in the hospital filling out the birth certificate request before ZJ was even born, I had a terrible feeling about the whole thing.  We were going to name this sweet little baby a really long name, some of it in another language, AND we were going to call him by one of his two middle names.  I panicked a bit, but plowed on through, and he became Robert Zachary An_Loc J.  But we were going to call him Zachary, which at about day three got shortened to Zackie and has stuck ever since.

Within weeks of his birth during an impromptu visit from my mother-in-law, as she was dispairing cooing over his round blue eyes, she mentioned again how pleased she was that we had chosen a Vietnamese name for him.  I was so proud.  I had FINALLY done something to please her.  Finally.  Finally.  Then she mentioned sort of offhandedly "An_Loc first Vietnamese city to be bombed and destroyed by Americans, you know."

No, sadly, I didn't know that.

Epic. Fail.

When I was pregnant with cj, the discussion went something like this.

Me: "I think we should name him Cooper."  Cooper was RJ's Grandma's maiden name and also the name of a really hot doctor guy from Private Practice.  "You can pick the middle name."
RJ: "I like Lee" which is RJ's Dad's middle name.
Me: Done.

And so Cooper Lee J came into the world, and his name was simple and pronounceable and the right length and good.  He's never been thought of or called anything else.  And I suspect he never will be.

But I still worry about zj and his name.  He's going to have to spend THE REST OF HIS LIFE explaining it to people.  "No, I don't go by Robert.  I go by Zachary." "Yes, I have two middle names." "Yes, one of them is an unpronounceable Vietnamese word." "Yes, it's the name of a city." "Yes, I know it's the name of a city that signifies destruction to Vietnamese people everywhere."  You get the picture.

I've gotten as far as Googling "legal name change" but I'm afraid to face the wrath of the Robert-gods.  So I've decided to leave it up to him.  Maybe he'll grow into it.  Maybe he'll come to love it.  Or maybe he'll never forgive me for it.

I'll keep you posted.
 

Krauthead*. A love story in two parts.

*I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone with this term.  I like German people, and I especially German food.  They make the best fried potatoes.  And those little dumpling things are to die for.  Anyway...  I also mean no disrespect to anyone out there who may be named Krauthead.  I feel bad for you, but I don's disrespect you.  This is a name I came up with at the tender age of nine when I was sad that I couldn't have a "real" Cabbage Patch Doll.  Nine year olds are not generally known for their creativity, and to me, kraut was just rotten cabbage.  So there.

Part One:
I grew up in the 80's, and around the time I was eight or so, Cabbage Patch Dolls exploded onto the scene.  Actually, they probably exploded years before that, but growing up on a farm in the middle of nowhere with few neighbors and no stores and two channels does not lend itself to being on the cutting edge of toy acquisition.  My friend Karen was the first person who I actually knew who had one.  And actually, she had - GASP! - two of them.  I wanted one.  Bad.  I begged and begged and begged for one for my upcoming ninth birthday.  Of course, and the time, I really had no concept of money, and I didn't realize that we were dirt poor.  Like the Clampetts, before the oil incident.

Around the same time, a lady in our community began to make a homemade version of these dolls that she sold for a fraction of the cost of the real ones.  So ninth birthday comes, and voila! Krauthead came to me, in all her stuffed glory.

I loved her.  I really did.  But it was a grudging sort of love, given only because she was MINE.  Over time, I came to love her completely, sort of like an arranged marriage gone right scenario.  At one point, in  bit of pre-teen angst, I cut her hair in a spike and pierced her ears 17 times.  Madonna and Cyndi Lauper were my heroes, and Krauthead came along for the ride.  K and I, we understood each other.  Finally.

When I went out into the world to seek my fortune, I brought Krauthead along.  I had removed the many earrings by then, and dressed her in a dress  that was mine when I was a baby.  She lived on my bed, or occasionally under it, until she finally found a permanent home in our guest room.



Part Two:
Fast forward a few dozen years or so.  I am a respectable stay at home Mama with two adorable children, one of whom had taken up in an unnatural and uncomfortable relationship with my slipper.  Cj was spending WAY too much time loving it, hugging it, kissing it - you get the picture.  Weird, huh?  Until one day, in a fit of brilliance, I grabbed Krauthead and pried the slipper out of his mouth exchanged it for the slipper.

It was love at first sight.

They immediately became inseparable, and has all but forgotten his unhealthy obsession with my slipper.  I've even been able to wear them again without fear of molestation.

I am seeing a joy here that I have never before seen on my Buddha-baby's face.  

He is completely, utterly, totally smitten.

I am hesitant to be too forward-thinking about this, but an occasional vision of toting Krauthead to the doctor's office, or the sitter's house, or to middle school graduation crosses my mind.

But I can't think about it too much.  

Because my baby has found his soulmate, and Krauthead is finally getting the love she deserves.

Superhero Tuesday. Brought to you by FaceinHole.

FaceinHole is a perfectly good way to waste spend an afternoon.  Right?

'Cause this is important work I'm doing here. 

Clearly.

The Alphabet Exercise DVD totally kicked my butt. For real.

Yeah, so...

I took up running for about a minute, and even though that didn't work out really, I decided that I could do some low impact stuff to keep up with the good exercise habits I was building.

I had some (unopened) yoga and pilates dvds from years ago, and I decided to give them a try.

I. Hate. Yoga.

I. Hate. Pilates.

They are both boring.  I don't understand it.  I can't do all those moves.  I tip over a lot.  They are boring.  I can never, ever, ever find my center.  I don't even know what my center is.

In a completely unrelated move, I bought the Alphabet Exercise dvd for zj a few weeks ago.  It's a nice little deal where a creepy guy in a purple hat and way too much eye makeup does exercises along with every letter of the alphabet.

I is for isometric.  Really?  That was the best you could do?  

I turned it on for zj the other day, and since cj was down for a nap, I thought to myself "Self, you should get up and move around with your kid.  It's not REAL exercise, but since you have a bum ankle, it will be SOME movement, anyway.  Right, self?  Am I right?"  So I went through the whole thing with zj.  All 26 letters.  By about "N" - which is for "nap" by the way, zj was done.  He told me "Mama, I'm just gonna watch, ok?  But you can do it if you want to."  Thanks, kid.

At that point, I was winded, sweaty, and grouchy.  But Alphabet Exercise Guy was NOT going to get the best of me.  He looked like he could afford to loose a few pounds himself.  And he got a little TOO into the "swooshing" that accompanied "F", which is for flying.  But I'm not here to judge.  I'm just here to win.  And if my competition is THAT guy and a four year old with the attention span of a gnat, I can surely win this one.

So I kept going.  

A few times, I got zj back into it.

We both really enjoyed the twist.  And we got to lie down somewhere toward the end, although I can't remember what letter that was, and I really liked that part.

But after it was all said and done, I had been working out for thirty minutes.  I was tired.  It is probably a pretty good indicator of my overall fitness level when a kid's alphabet dvd can kick my ass like that.   Clearly, I have a lot of work to do in this category.

So bring it, creepy Purple Hat Guy.  

I'm ready for round 2.

The treadmill of doom.

Long ago and far away, RJ used to be a runner.  A hardcore, thousand miles a day, faster than the speed of light kind of runner.

But life, as it tends to do, got in the way, and it's been years since he ran regularly.

So, for Father's Day this year, the boys and I (I'm still waiting for them to chip in their share, by the way.  Deadbeats.) got him a new treadmill, so it would be easier and more convenient to take it up again.   

I'm not very good at surprises (or able to lift a treadmill by myself in order to purchase it), so I arranged for a sitter, bundled RJ off to Dick's, and let him pick out his own.  

A very earnest and uninformed young Sales Guy was there to help us.  RJ had many, many, many questions about the various types, models, differences, features and benefits of all 20 treadmills on display.  Sales Guy had no clue, and kept talking about the training he was going to get on THAT model next week.  Next week was going to be a busy week for Sales Guy.  Anyway, we narrowed it down to two - A Sole, and a (according to Sales Guy) fairly new player in the treadmill market, a Livestrong.  I was all for the Livestrong.  It was WAY cheaper.  I mean, Lance Armstrong is an icon, right?  Surely he wouldn't make bad equipment.  Plus, those little yellow bands are cool.  All the cool kids have one...

We decided on the Livestrong.  Good deal, good equipment, harrowing trip home with it tied into the back of the car, even more harrowing trip down the basement stairs because we can no longer use our outer basement door.  But we did get it home, and set up.  RJ could not wait to use it, and went for a brisk two mile run that very night.  

And, he hurt himself.

Badly enough that he had to go to the doctor, who diagnosed a torn Achilles tendon, and recommended six weeks of rest, anti-inflammatory drugs, and frequent icing.

Never one to be wasteful of such a lovely new toy, I decided that I would take up a bit of jogging myself, because after all, I have found myself with a bit more free time lately.  And I'm tired of being fat, but that's another story all together.  

Anyway, I got myself hooked up with the Couch to 5k program, and commenced with the running.  It was fun.  It was exhilarating. I loved it.  I did it every day for a week.

Until the day when I woke up, and my heel looked like this:

So yeah.

Guess what?

It appears that I have exactly the same injury that RJ does.

On exactly the same foot.

 Of course, I didn't go to the doctor for mine.  Google is my doctor of choice, and we diagnosed the same (if not quite so severe) injury that RJ has.

So...

Anybody need a good treadmill?

I've got one for cheap.

Superhero Tuesday. The yard sale edition.

Zj has his Granny and his Aunt B, who are sort of celebrities on the yard sale circuit, on constant lookout for cool superhero-related junk treasures.  This past week was an especially good week.  Seen above are a selection of Batmans? Batmen? Batman figures, a set of walkie-talkies shaped like Spiderman and Wolverine, and a new-to-him Superman costume, to replace to one that he outgrew two years ago but has continued to wear.  Not shown are some Hulk pjs in a size 10, and an assortment of shirts in various sizes and states of repair with various superheroes on them.  Not bad for $3.75.

Fourth of July festivities. In which no one got burned, lost an eye, or had to make a trip to the ER.

Chili Casserole Surprise. Because we're on a budget, you know.

I totally just made this recipe up the other day, mainly because I hadn't been grocery shopping for a really long time and was out of a lot of stuff.  I do that a lot.  But this one was edible, and actually tasted pretty good.  As in, I might make this slop again good.  So, here goes:

WHAT YOU NEED:
4 cups cooked elbow macaroni
1 pound ground beef
1 medium onion, chopped
a bit of vegetable or olive oil
 Some water.  I don't know exactly how much.  Just enough.
1 can diced tomatoes (I learned that even if they expired in 2007, they won't kill you)
some grated cheddar cheese - maybe a cup and a half
a Jiffy corn muffin mix, with whatever you need to prepare it - maybe an egg and some milk? I LOVE YOU JIFFY!!!  
Either: a pack of chili seasoning, or if you prefer to go the do it your self route,
1 tbsp. chili powder
1 tbsp. cumin
1 tsp. onion powder
1 tsp. garlic powder
salt and pepper

 WHAT YOU DO:
Prepare the macaroni according to directions.  Take it off a bit early, so it is still chewy.  Or al dente.  Whatever.

Put the oil in a skillet.  Saute the onion for a minute or two, then add in the ground beef.  Cook until done through.  Add in the can of tomatoes, the spices or the chili seasoning, and the water.  Cook for a minute more.

Mix up the Jiffy corn muffin mix, with whatever you need to prepare it - maybe an egg and some milk? I LOVE YOU JIFFY!!!.  Set aside for now.

In a large baking dish, combine the meat mixture and the macaroni.  On top of that, spoon the cornbread mixture, spreading it out as you go.  You're not going for perfect here.  Just some coverage.

Over that, sprinkle the grated cheddar cheese.

Bake in a 400 degree oven for about 20-25 minutes, until the cornbread part is done and the cheese is bubbly and gooey.

Yum.

Hey, Mr. Kangaroo Man. Did you know that kangaroos can jump weally, weally high?

My friend Natalie and I don't see each other nearly enough.  She knows it.  I know it.  It is inexcusable.  It started many years ago when I decided to move away, and got even more complicated over the years as we added a selection of kids, animals, houses, etc. to the mix.

But yesterday, we decided to meet halfway and to take the kids to a local attraction called Kentucky Down Under.  It's a place in the middle of Kentucky pretending to be Australia, with all the animals, boomerangs, and didgeridoos necessary to fool any four year old.

It's was a great idea, right?  She has kids, I have kids, we'll meet in the middle at a nice park-like atmosphere, let the kiddos run off and play, and catch up with each other.  Right?  Right?

Seems like I kind of forgot what kind of child I birthed.  You know, the four year old.  The fearless one. The super-hyper, extremely energetic one.  The one who cannot be still.  The one who cannot follow even the simplest direction.   The one with a zest for life.

Soooo... the fun began.  We were on the road.  Within 5 minutes of leaving the house, I hear "Mama.  Mama.  MAMA.  I have to go PEE!"  Quick u-turn, right back home, pee-sideline: check.

We arrived without much more drama, thank goodness.

So, the first thing we did was walk up a hill that was approximately a 45 degree incline, uphill, both ways for about an hour to make it to the sheep herding dog show.

We were on a wooden observation deck that looked out over a lovely rolling green pasture full of sheep. Zj immediately began to hang over the edge.  At different points, both Natalie and I were holding onto different body parts in order to keep him from falling 40 feet to the ground.  Good news - the only casualty was an Hannah's earring, which was retrieved later by Christian, who has mad fence climbing skills.

The dog came out.  He was beautiful.  He ran majestically across the field toward the sheep.  He got to them, and promptly forgot what he was doing.  The nice man in the authentic-looking Australian hat had to go herd the sheep for us.  It was quite a show.  We left before the nice man had managed to herd the sheep all the way up to the fence.  Do you clap for sheepherding men?  Tip them maybe?  I am so out of practice with my shepherd etiquette.

Next stop on the walkabout - a lorikeet cage.  We all got these little cups of nectar and the birds landed right on us and ate from our cups.  We almost got kicked out (both times we went through this one) because zj would not stop running, and apparently the birds aren't smart enough to get out of the way and could get stepped on.  Whatever.  Any group of birds that doesn't have enough collective sense not to get STEPPED ON might just deserve what it gets.  Survival of the fittest, you know.  Plus, it really freaked me out that the birds kept landing on and pecking around in my hair.  What did they think they were going to find in there?  What had they found in the hair of tourists past that kept them coming back for more?

Next: an interesting presentation from a man who could not quite figure out how to use his Brittany Spears microphone.  I clearly heard every third word.  Amazingly, zj sat still for this one.  There was talk of spears, and boomerangs, and shields.  All things my hero-loving child could appreciate.  Every time the nice man  asked for a volunteer, zj raised his hand.  He finally got picked and got to play a didgeridoo in front of a live studio audience.  He loved it, and he loved the attention, even if he was not totally good at following directions, and even though he almost hit the presenter in a sensitive spot with the didgeridoo.

After that, we went our pre-appointed spot at our pre-appointed time for our cave tour.  Zj immediately ran across a chain fence and up a not-meant-to-be-climbed-upon rock formation that had many dangerous sharp points and looked like a bad idea to have in a kid-friendly park.  You know that crazy-eyed look you see some Mamas with when they can't possibly seem to control their children?  Yeah, that was me.  All day.  After zj was successfully retrieved from the giant scary rock of death, we got ready to go on the cave tour.  The stroller had to stay outside, which left me carrying cj, a 20 pound lump, and trying to hold onto zj so he wouldn't get away.  I looked at Natalie outside the cave and said "I'm pretty sure no good can come of this."  I'm also pretty sure that was the only conversation we got to have all day.  Anyway, thank goodness for Holly, who kept zj from impending doom in the cave, and who was also the only person who could read the map or remember what time we needed to be anywhere.  Let's hear it for teenagers!!!

Where was I?  Oh yes, the cave of doom.  Have you ever tried walking through a cave, carrying a one year old, trying to keep a four year old from jumping to his death, wearing Crocs on the slippery cave floor,  and all the while, the tour guide will NOT SHUT UP.  It would have taken like 10 minutes max to get through the cave, but NOOOOOO, they had to stretch it out for almost an hour so we can get our money's worth.  Good God.

We made it out, totally unharmed, I might add.  Cj broke off a precious priceless stalagmite from the cave wall, but we discreetly dropped it outside the cave, and no fines were issued.  Lunch was next, and it was uneventful, relatively speaking.

I feel certain that we did some other things at this point, but the crazy-eye had all but consumed me at this point, and the memory is a bit vague.  The next thing I actually remember was the highlight of the day.  The reason we came. The exciting part.  We got to go see the KANGAROOS!

These were, quite literally, the only pictures I took all day.  I was too traumatized to remember I even had a camera until the end.  But don't Cassie, Hannah and Zackie look cute petting the terribly bored, anti-social kangaroo?

Of course, the kangaroos were 70 years old, nearly dead, and all asleep.  But whatever.  The kids liked it.  Of course, during the entire kangaroo presentation, led by an earnest young man who was probably just trying to earn enough keg money for the weekend, zj kept asking questions and interjecting comments.  "Mr. Kangaroo Man, did you know that kangaroos can jump weally, weally high?"  I'm pretty sure he knew.  "Mr. Kangaroo Man, what is that black bird?"  Oh, the one he just talked about for TEN MINUTES?  He's glad to answer your questions, kid.

But then it was over. 

And although Natalie and I agreed that next time we would do something totally non-interactive, like sit on a couch somewhere, I was sad to be leaving my friend.  But I was glad that we all got out alive.

So Natalie, when you read this, let's start planning a real date soon.  Something like this, or if we're feeling like shopping, how about this?  Or maybe something as simple as this.  Ah.  Bloody Marys.  Anyway, lets plan some grown-up time soon, ok?  These children wear me out.