Where are they now?

Yes, it's been a while - work and school have taken priority over writing - for the moment. Long term, nothing makes me happier than writing, so this is not permanent. However - there are only so many hours in a day - and 12 hour demanding shifts plus intensive courses to finish this degree have taken their toll on my free time. At the moment, I'm on a brief medical leave, and although I arose early to study Statistics (hey, my body had surgery, my brain did not!!) - I find myself here.

Hello, I missed you!

Let's bring you all up to date. We are still in Austin, and although I love it here most of the time, I still hate the heat. Since it's not hot right now, enough about THAT. Becca is working in our home state, where her circle of friends are. She''s about to make a job change that looks good for her, and is doing well, although I miss her greatly.

Brandon also returned to UCLA later that year to finish his degree, and had trouble finding a job in this economy. He stayed in Los Angeles for a few months working and trying to find an entry level position that related to his career goals, then returned to the Bay Area with the same lack of success. The job market is tough out there, and new grads are not only competing against each other, but all the older people that are out of work as well. His father pulled some strings and he was offered a good job, but at the last minute chose to go into the military. Apparently it was something he had been thinking about for a while...he's very driven and motivated, has aspirations and did not want to ride on his father's coattails, so to speak. There were a lot of things that attracted him to the military - travel, learning, making new friends - but this decision leaves me with such incredible trepidation I can barely voice it.

As a child, I spent a large amount of time with both sets of grandparents, since my mother was ill and hospitalized frequently. Thank God, literally, for my grandparents...they were a Godsend to both my parents and to me. As a child in Pennsylvania, I grew up with the ghost of their only son who perished in World War II - his picture in the living room, his Purple Heart framed on the wall, the memories of him everywhere. Their heartbreak was palpable throughout the years. They tried their best to go on, and did go on - but the anguish was always there under the surface. I swore as a child, and continued that vow; watching the Vietnam War on television while in my grandparent's living room, the news reports - that I would never let my son go into the service. I told myself I would never, ever let my son be a soldier. When Brandon was born, I cradled him in my arms and whispered to him I'd always, ALWAYS protect him. I even imagined that if the draft was ever reinstated I'd spirit him away to Canada if necessary. (TMI: By the time I gave birth to Becca and Brandon, I'd already lost my mother and sister - so I was fiercely, frighteningly overprotective!)

I never dreamed it would be HIS decision.

So....since I couldn't talk him out of it, I am now 1000% supportive of him. He's a very smart young man, and the military knows that, and he'll not be on the front lines, I'm told. I'm in prayer.

At his graduation from basic, when they walked out from the forest in clouds of colored smoke in formation, I was struck with panic and fear initially. This was everything I did not want for my cherished son, right in front of my very eyes. Everything I grew up with, right in front of me, in my ears, the noise, the drumbeats giving me a horrible sense of fear...it was just horrible...for the initial few moments. I needed to get a grip on my emotions, right THEN, before he saw what a mess I was. I needed to hold it together and be proud of him, for him, for all of them.

My other Grandfather had just passed in September. I could hear his voice saying "We've got him, Annie". The voice of comfort and reason once again - as always, my entire life growing up. You were my angels in this life, my Grandparents, now please be his angels up in heaven...

I collected my wits by the time the ceremonies were over, and we had a wonderful two days with Brandon and his buddies. I am incredibly proud of him, and of his choices. I will do whatever I need to do to be a supportive military mom. Thank you for listening while I pour my heart out.

In God We Trust

RIP Grant Richard Messenger

Kete (SS-369)

http://www.navsource.org/archives/08/08369.htm

Black Leather and that Little Grey Smile

"Want some?! Want some?Want some?!!?" I swear, I've NEVER seen a bird this excited about ANYTHING! His visible disappointment when the sugary fix isn't forthcoming is almost heartbreaking, tempered by my knowledge that I have to dodge his sharp little black beak. I can certainly understand why the wife gave him the candy to keep him from taking chunks out of her hands....I'm sure she was desperate. The hate in his beady little eyes is clear! When he sees I'm coming to change his food and water, but don't have his candy, he's poised for attack. I try to distract him with a slice of apple or a chunk of orange. No dice. Fresh, natural sugar is not an option for this guy. He's holding out for the real thing, with my fingers as hostages. Since I work with my hands and do NOT need a port of entry for microorganisms that my lovely patients might carry; out come my nice black winter leather gloves. I suddenly feel like I'm about to commit a crime.....*evil chuckle*!


No crime from me, instead Figaro commits the crime, trying to destroy my gloves. I cringe, hating to sacrifice something I've had for years (since the early 90s, but Becca doesn't need to know that or she'll laugh at me, thrilled at the chance to point out yet another "old" item I need to give away...YES, I wear my clothes pretty much until they fall off my body.), something "nice", (but living in Texas, something I hardly wear anymore)....but giving kudos to Nordies, in spite of our little grey meanie's attempts to mutilate the gloves, he doesn't even make a mark. Yay! I can use these for falconry, should I want! (I am kidding. Maybe.)


I consult with De, from Wings of Love Bird Haven near Dallas; the reputable bird rescue that has brought Figaro and myself together. She has several helpful suggestions regarding his nutrition and subsequently, and hopefully, his behavior and acceptance of me. I continue to work with the little gray brat. He tugs at my heart every time I look at him because he looks JUST LIKE QUELA but he is definitely NOT QUELA....as the bite marks on my hands and fingers attest. Fellow nurses at work make concerned noises when I come in with new wounds. I continue to work with him. He continues to respond positively only to Jack.


However, the sounds and vocalizations that are coming out of Figaro are hysterical! In addition to his huge bilingual vocabulary and song repertoire, he has now picked up all three of our dogs' barks, mimics Ruby's phrases, and scolds the two naughtiest dogs in my voice. I must say it's a little eerie when a ball of gray fluff is saying back to you what you don't even realize you're saying...such as when I cleaned his cage, finished laying new paper in the bottom, and as I pushed in the tray, before I say a word, Figaro says..."There you go". And talk about intelligent...I do believe he's even more intelligent than Quela was; judging by the short length of time it takes him to pick up a new phrase or sound. African Greys have the intelligence of a five year old child, it wouldn't surprise me if Figaro had the intelligence of a surly teenager, since he obviously has the attitude! One day Jack and I were talking about taking my car in for an oil change, out of the blue we hear from Figgy: "Volkswagon". We looked at each other in shock - no matter that I drive a Honda - still that he would associate the words oil change and general car banter with a car manufacturer? Wow. Just wow. And THIS is why I love the species.




Several weeks later, however, progress is at a standstill, and De and I confer. We agree that he would be better off at the Haven, where she can work with him more intensively. I am in agreement, as I feel that although he loves the food aspect of living here (little piglet! He eats more in one day than Ruby does in four!), he doesn't like the *me* aspect and he's not adoptable at this point. We make arrangements to meet half-way with another bird volunteer; the lovely and personable Meghan - and off we go. I put him in his travel cage in the front seat for company for the drive to Temple, the half-way point. On the way up, he tries to pick holes in the leather upholstery, change gears, and finally out of fear of him trying to hijack the car itself and take off for parts unknown, I pull over and stick him in the back, his travel cage surrounded by parts of a larger cage. The rest of the trip is uneventful, and I hand him off to Meghan. She chats him up a bit, places him in her car, and he immediately tries to bite her and escape from his cage. She exclaims "Why, he's a little s$^#!!!"

Yep, he is.

Biting Foster Child

Fast forward a few months, Ruby is working out beautifully.....literally and figuratively.
She has such a sweet personality, although I am the only one that can handle her. I almost wish she wasn't so gorgeous. I'd love to have her outside more or take her places with me like I did my Gray or Cockatoo, but she would attract so much attention, not all of it positive. I am very protective of my sweet baby girl. She's been through enough, she had to be given up by her first owner at age 15 and stayed at the avian rescue place for several months before we took her home. Parrots are extremely sensitive and emotional creatures, with the intelligence of a young child. Am I tugging at your heartstrings here....?

So we'd like to complete our little nest (Sorry, could NOT resist) with another parrot. (Just ONE MORE. We KNOW where this has gone before - in my previous life I had four...wait, five! at one time. Some were fosters, two were rescues, but still...too many parrots. All talking in different voices, making different dog barks and cat meows, all trying to out-do each other...Claude used to remark that the house sounded like a locked psychiatric facility. I had to agree. But hey, it was fun! Even if Claude didn't quite think so, and looked upon my avian hobby as an expensive way to keep me relatively happy. Smile, Claude.) So yes, a feathered friend that Ruby would enjoy as company, not competition; one that my husband Jack could handle, since Ruby only has eyes for me and reserves that large biting beak of hers for Jack. We contacted a reputable bird rescue near here, and although they had no African Gray parrots available at the time, I filled out the extensive adoption application and faxed it in. We were approved, and life went on.

I actually forgot about filling out that application, and was taken by surprise when I received a phone call a few months later. A week later, Figaro was ensconced in isolation upstairs. He spent the first week glowering at me and trying to bite me every time I went to change his water or give him food. This bird came with several warnings: (Rescue and foster birds usually do.)

1) He hates women.

2) He might bite.

3) He might have behavior problems.

BUT....he also came with a long list of positives. African Grays are probably the most intelligent parrot out there, and this bird had an enormous vocabulary. Born and raised in Puerto Rico, he was also bi-lingual. I speak a little Spanish, and could understand some of what he said in his native tongue. He also had a nice repertoire of songs he would sing in different voices, his favorite being "Happy Birthday to You" which he would sing several (many, MANY) times in a row, changing it up to "Happy Birthday to Me". "Me,me, MEEEEEEEEEE." Oooh yay, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, in the cage to the right!

This little guy was cute, and since Congo Grays all look pretty much the same, my heart melted when I first saw him. Just like Quela! My attitude is "Love conquers all" so I reached in to skritch his little head, and I promptly got bit. HARD. (Smile, Claude.) Ok, I won't try to touch you or get you out of your cage for a while, Figaro. Especially since your flight feathers are fully grown out, and you're not really ours, either! I have a very good friend who lost a beloved Gray that way. Fortunately, that bird is in Southern California where the weather is temperate in the winter, and we're in Central Texas where it was 17 degrees a few weeks ago. (Which I personally adore for a winter temperature, although these little Texas cupcakes - women AND men alike - all complain about it.)

I decided to concentrate on getting him onto a good diet, since he came with a plethora of horrible food. His previous owners were well-meaning, but poorly informed as to what parrots need for proper nutrition. Salted peanuts and salted sunflower seeds, artificially colored pellets...I wasn't sure if they fed him any fresh fruit or vegetables, but he was about to get them every day. In spite of his poor diet, he looked fat and happy, but I thought perhaps he might feel better and be even happier if he was eating better. Due to being bonded with the man of the house in his previous life, and having to be given up for health reasons, the wife had been taking care of him and Figaro hated her, bit her, and the feeling was probably mutual. Hence the warning that he hated women. True that - he loved Jack's presence. He would sidle up to the cage and coo at him, flirt with him, listen attentively to him....you playah! I'M the parrot person around here, don't you know that? Both of you, stop that now!!

The wife, in desperation to keep from being bitten by Figgy, bribed him with candy. He came to my house with a little bag of sesame candy in his little suitcase, and the minute he saw it or heard the crinkle of a wrapper, he'd start jonesing for his fix. Sugar is one of the very worst things for parrots, as it makes them prone to fungal infections. This bird was ADDICTED. His eyes would bug out and he'd run back and forth on his perch, saying "Want some? Want some? Want some!!?" over and over. I'd break off a tiny piece, out of compassion for the detoxing addict, and he'd focus on his fix and leave me alone while I changed his food and water. Sigh. How to get him off his drug of choice?

Creatures great and small, beaks and all....!

Last summer, we adopted a 15 year old Scarlet Macaw. I absolutely love parrots, but due to their long lifespan and conservation issues, have decided to only have rescues or foster birds in my home from this day forward (well, from that day last summer). I intended to adopt an African Gray, having had one in my previous life (when married to my first husband). Quela was an awesome, amazing bird. I brought him home as a baby and he bonded with me, loved me and lived with us for five years. (I initially wrote "loved US" but that wouldn't be correct, now, - he was definitely a one-person bird and bit anyone else who tried to touch him. To this day Becca HATES birds, thanks to Q.!) He mimicked all of us with eerie accuracy. He made incredibly accurate microwave, telephone, and doorbell imitations, so I sometimes literally didn't know where to turn in my own home! I can't tell you the number of times I came tearing out of the bathroom thinking someone was at the door or on the telephone. Oh, such excitement! But there's more...

This bird was incredibly intelligent. He loved taunting the dogs. Our dogs were smart (well, ONE of them (the Akita) was quite smart, the other, a lovable Pug...not so much....) but Quela was smarter! He had my voice down pat. After dinner, he'd lean out of his cage and direct his voice toward the back door...."You want to go for a walk?" Both dogs would be at the back door, tails wagging...and I'd be still at the sink, cleaning up the dinner dishes, oblivious to the eager canine anticipation building in the backyard. My ex-husband (I love to tease him and refer to him as my BabyDaddy, which elicits the reaction "WE WERE MARRIED FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS!!" Hee.) Anyway. Oh, the memories. I love revisiting this time in my life. R....let's see...what should I name him...? Your blog name shall be..."Claude". Anyway - back to the subject at hand....Claude used to park his car in the driveway, parking logistics being what they were; and I'd pull my car into the garage. Quela would hear the keys in the front door and say "Claude? Claude? ClaudeClaudeClaude??!?" He (Quela, not Claude) would hear the garage door open and my car pull in, and start saying "Mom? Mom? Mom's home!" He would use his vocabulary so appropriately (again, Quela, not Claude, although with Claude being an attorney, he did that quite well also; let's give credit where credit's due. And maybe he'll read this and next time we have to confer via telephone re: Becca or Brandon's latest monetary or existential crisis, he won't be QUITE so...um...negatory. Smile, Claude.)

Now I would STILL have this bird, owning a parrot is a lifelong commitment since they live to be 60-80 years of age, or more. I loved this bird, he and I spent time together every day and he was a part of the household and family. He would eat oatmeal out of a little bowl every morning with the kids before I took them to school. (So CUTE!) His sense of parrot humor was funny - when he wasn't taunting the dogs, he was trying to make Becca like him. (He was well aware she didn't!) One time we were all on the couch watching MST3K - if you remember this show (I HOPE it's still on, it's priceless.... three robots and a nerdy guy commenting on cheesy movies!).....a mummy parachuted down to earth or some such scenario, and Becca HATES mummies almost as much as she does large parrots with sharp beaks. She slunk away from the TV across the room, near the bird cage. Quela came over within view of her, saying "Becca? Becca? Becca?" which only served to annoy/irritate/emotionally upset her even more. Tears ensued, we changed the channel, and of course, she still didn't like Q.

That summer, we had some extensive work done on our home (another entry, another day titled "Be Aware of What Your Contracted Workmen are Doing When You're Not Around" - we had extensive asbestos contamination. FUN. ). We had to move out for the rest of the summer, and I boarded the dogs and the parrots stayed with my neighbors down the street. We had the dubious pleasure of running our lives from the Marriott Residence Inn...you know you're there too long when Claude is asking the morning staff for specific breakfast items and calling them by name....PLEASE, Claude! My lovely neighbors had an African Gray that was a female, named "Doc". (Initially, they thought Doc was a boy, a common mistake with parrots.) Little did I know that sultry Miss Doc would become...The Other Woman. Yes, she and Quela pair-bonded over that summer, and when I brought my Quela home, he stopped eating and started feather plucking. My beautiful pride and joy, who had never featherplucked in his little life, was now completely miserable, unhappy, and lovesick. A few weeks later, I resigned myself to him needing to be with his mate. I was sad, I cried, and I never got over that bird.

So this was what I wanted - another African Gray. For months, I put off going to the local Bird Rescue because I knew I'd get sucked in and come home with something, and wasn't sure I was ready. My good friend was in the process of adopting a Blue & Gold Macaw; and she kept telling me I should go see the Scarlet that her bird was raised with. So I did...and yes, I got sucked in.

OK, Blogger...I'm trying to add a picture here, and you're not letting me.

(To be continued)

Critter!

Short and sweet - just like her:  I walked into the living room to find our smallest Girl... STANDING ON THE COFFEE TABLE.   And looking at me innocently... "isn't this a great place to stand?"

WHAT got into her?!?  She's never done that before, none of the girls have ever gotton up on the coffee table before!  (Unless you count the time several years ago that Paris stood on her back legs, eyed the green apple slices I'd cut up for Becca and me to snack on while watching a movie, and snitched one.)   Perhaps she witnessed the time (just recently) that Kate stormed the back door during our Second Annual Texas Thanksgiving and made a beeline straight for said coffee table, wherein a very expensive layered pesto/cheese/sundried tomato torte resided.  She dived openmouthed into that torte and ate approximately a third of it in one gulp.   Jack swiftly (for a change) foiled her and carried her through the audience right back outside.

We are dog lovers, but we're also medical people, and like things CLEAN.  I don't go around bleaching every available surface the way I did while I was taking Microbiology (sorry, kids and first husband!  I hope the fumes didn't take too many points off your developing IQs! ), but clean is still important.  

Nope, little Critter, you are NOT allowed to stand on the coffee table.  No matter how cute you are.

Back to school.

I absolutely love my job.  I went to nursing school specifically to be a L&D nurse.  (I'm not a huge fan of being around actually *sick* people.  Stop laughing, yes, I am a good nurse, in fact, I've been referred to as an excellent nurse.)  But fifteen years later, it's beginning to take it's toll on my physical body.  (And heart, and mind...as goes our bedtime prayer.)  I spent a good portion of this past summer off work due to having my left foot pretty much reconstructed.  No, it was NOT fun, Texas in the summer is waaay hot.  And now I have a hip giving me trouble...I'm a little young for this, YES, I'm speaking to you, my joints, bones and tendons!  There is nothing as thrilling as being a part of a family's welcome to a new baby.  I haven't kept track of how many births I've been a part of over the years, but it never, ever gets old.  Each delivery is amazing and exciting.  I love that part of my job.  

I used to love the fact that I spent 36 hours a week literally running most of the day.  It kept my weight down - God only knows what I would weigh if I didn't work labor and delivery!   But I ache now, when I come home at night.  I ache walking up the stairs to our bedroom.  My back aches..my feet hurt, in spite of the best shoes I can find.  My hip throbbing wakes me up at night, and I can't sleep on that particular side.  This is not cool, I'm way too young for this kind of physical difficulty.  My family lives forever, trust me, and is in great shape.  My 97 year old Grandfather is getting around better than me, at this point!   So it's time.

I always thought to myself I'd go back to school "when the baby is older."  That baby is now 22, and I THINK he can deal with it.  That is meant quite sarcastically - I hear from him maybe once every two months, unless I track him down with kidding-veering-into-threatening emails, phone messages, and MySpace messages.  Is there a reason he won't add me to his Facebook?  Gee, I wonder.  :)

So - I start in a few weeks....an online RN to BSN program that will take me a little over a year. Of course, the Overachiever Within will probably try to rush that part of the process along.  Nearly five years later after my huge cognitive thinking overhaul, she's still there.   But we get along better now, and she doesn't run the show the way she used to.  After I finish the BSN program, I am going to do some sort of graduate program, and I'm not certain in which direction yet.  I have a year to think about this.  I would love to go into clinical psychology, counseling, therapy...something along those lines.   The other direction I could go into is CRNA, (challenging! interesting! but might involve working nights for a time! which I do not ever want to do again!) but I'd have to go out of town for schooling, and I'm not crazy about that idea.   I had toyed with the idea of being a PA years ago, I'll look into programs for that that are local.  I'm hoping to find a new career that is interesting, challenging, and easier on my body.  I'm praying for guidance and - I've got a year to decide.

Things have changed, greatly.

I've put off posting for several reasons, but the two main reasons I haven't kept up with this blog are that Becca and Brandon are not living here at the moment.  It took a while to get used to, but things are good in many ways even though I miss them both.  No one wants to raise 35-year old children that still live with their parents.   Both have to finish their education and pursue the careers they dream of.   That doesn't mean they won't be here from time to time, or someday live here again.   I fully support their decisions in pursing their individual careers (Brandon,  snowboarding in a Colorado ski resort is NOT a career).    I'm sure they don't miss my motherly concerned not-quite-nagging, and I don't miss the various existential crisis that would occur weekly with one or both of them.   It was a great year, an even better summer, and now on to the next segment of life.....which also means I should change the title of this blog.

Brandon's Road Trip (now with more Indio!)

I always had my doubts about that car he and his father chose...an Audi, maybe what, eight years old? It's rather cool-looking, no doubt (and Brandon has always been much cooler than the rest of us). Black, sleek, shiny, and menacing (something Brandon is definitely not.)When he told me of his plans to drive it from Los Angeles to Austin (in July! Through deserts! And in a car that has a recent history of overheating!), I was naturally concerned. However, the plan was to get it into the shop prior to the trip, get it up to par, and get on the road, pronto. No more fighting with his sister over HER car. And, much as I love him, with his illustrious driving record, he wasn't getting his hands on our three-months-new Honda, either.




I watch his plane take off, just a tiny bit enviously. Don't I wish that the person PAYING for the tickets would get the AAdvantage Miles?? Nope, it's the person that flies, no matter whose dime pays for the ticket. Both Brandon and Rebecca are accumulating a decent frequent flier miles balance. I'll admit that I'm jealous. Between my commutes and the kids flying back and forth from California continually...you'd think I'd be offered a free membership in the Admiral's Club, at least. And when do *I* get to go anywhere FUN!? (Breathe, Mom. Your turn is coming.)




Several days later, (and those days I'm sure included much partying with the former roomates/frat bros) Brandon calls me in the late afternoon to notify me that the car's repaired, and he's taking off for Texas. Right now. Which means he should get to Las Cruces, New Mexico at...1:00am?? The usual motherly nagging/warnings/concerns emit from me, and Brandon reassures me that all will be JUST FINE, MOM.


"Can you drive?" "Are you SOBER?" "Are you SURE?"


He actually sounds just fine, and HAS sounded fine the whole time he's been there, so why am I worrying about this right now? I hang up, say a quick prayer for his safety, and go back to preparing dinner. I don't have a good feeling about this.



A few hours later, another phone call. Brandon has broken down just past Indio, CA. I'm grateful, at least, that it didn't happen later in the night, out in the middle of literally nowhere. He decides to pass the time waiting for Triple A by checking out the stars and seeing how many constellations he remembers. I envision convicted escaped felons patrolling the desert, looking for the vulnerable and broken-down traveller. I just know they are armed and dangerous. I can see them in my mind - complete with missing teeth and oh yes, menacing tattoos. I pray some more. I text Brandon a few warnings and then text something mundane about how Triple A will take the car to a Triple A approved shop and then get him to a safe hotel. He texts me back:


"I was going to take the car to a chop shop run by meth heads and then sleep outside in the Salton Sea, but your idea sounds pretty good instead, Mom."



I can't stop snickering at the depiction...and realize I'm going overboard with the text warnings. I leave the phone (and Brandon) alone for a while. He updates me with a text an hour or so later telling me he's at an hotel that has something to do with an Indian casino. I text him "Don't gamble it all away" and receive from him:

"I'll only gamble enough to pay for the heroin and hookers."

How can you not love this kid's sense of humor? Knowing he's kidding (I think?), my mind is slightly more at ease. It's Friday night, and the car will be looked at in the morning. Hopefully he can be back on the road tomorrow afternoon, and make it to Las Cruces at a semi-decent hour (for a night person).



Famous last words! The car needs a special part that won't be available until Monday morning, because of course, this particular part cannot be found in Indio. Poor Brandon is stuck at a Holiday Inn Express in the cultural and social mecca of the Southwest - beautiful Indio, California. He texts me the news that there isn't a convenience store within walking distance and he'll have to take a cab to go buy toothpaste.


The weekend passes by (quite slowly for the stranded traveller, I'm certain) and he's on the road, FINALLY. I reserve and pay for a room in Las Cruces, New Mexico. This is the second time I've gotten to reserve AND pay for this room! I'm really, really hoping he makes it there this time, as my MasterCard is nearly maxed out. He's paying for his own gas, room in Indio, and car repairs, which I KNOW are going to be in the high hundreds. Plus he just had the engine rebuilt before leaving on this trip, to the tune of several thousand dollars. Actually, this car must have cost approximately SEVEN thousand dollars to repair prior to the trip, since both Brandon and his father (my ex-husband) are swearing that they each paid for the car repairs by themself, "out of my OWN account!" I don't know who to believe, as usual. This is quite an expensive late 90's Audi. Remind me to never buy one.


Long story short..no further incidents, and as I'm walking the two smaller Girls at 9pm, I see a black car streak down the main artery of our neighborhood. The speed limit is 30 mph, and I note, with a sigh, that I get to reiterate that fact to Brandon when I get back from walking The Girls. That is, if a Texas law-and-order police officer doesn't introduce Brandon to the Austin Municipal Court system first.

Twilight Purgatory

It's not TOO bad; really, it isn't. I'm at a Borders bookstore, ostensibly after-hours, trying to remain on the very outer edge of a high-energy crowd consisting mostly of teenagers and young adults - pretty much all female, dressed in varying outfits depicting the Twilight characters and/or sporting vampire teeth. There are LOTS of vampire teeth here tonight. Knowing the event would consist primarily of vampire and werewolf-loving females, Becca tried her best to convince Brandon to come with her, especially since he sort of resembles the lead vampire love-interest, Edward Cullen. Even telling him repeatedly that he'd have plenty of girls after him due to his blond vampire-resembling good looks failed to deter him from his trip back to LA. Purpose of the trip being to drive his car across three states, (and yes, it blows up! Details to follow, in a post coming soon!) so that he would have his own car here and not have to share hers any longer. So, Becca is here with me, her semi-reluctant chauffeur.



I normally am quite enthusiastic about sharing my daughter's interests. As a true test of motherly love, I even overcame my innate fear of horses (big! unpredictable! and don't roll those huge eyes at me and snort!) for a time last summer and learned to ride her enormous dapple gray. I didn't really enjoy it all that much, but I did it to have some working knowledge regarding one of the most important things in her life. And hey, it doesn't hurt to face one's fears now and then.



I just couldn't get into Harry Potter (please shoot me now, it doesn't hold my interest and therefore, I CANNOT keep track of all those characters and plot twists); and I'm thinking this will be a similar situation. Becca is in costume, of course. The splint and crutches lend themselves quite nicely to a plot development in the Twilight series - the main character, Bella, breaks her leg at the end of the first book. Becca/Bella is wearing a blue layered dressy dress, suitable for a dance, with a cream floral embroidered jacket, complete with splint, crutches, and black orthopedic boot. When she walked into the bookstore, there were whispered exclamations of "Bella!" and several people approached her to compliment her on her costume. It's quite a festive atmosphere, vampire teeth nonwithstanding.



This seems to be the cultural Event of the Season! There are young females crowded around a Twilight trivia game, "Team Edward" and "Team Jacob" (whoever they are) shirts on at least one-third of the attendees, and Bella-prom and Bella-wedding dresses waft by. I notice clots of fake blood spattered here and there on various people. I have a moment of maternal pride as I note that no one else is the Bella-with-a-broken-leg persona. Excellent job, Becca! Borders employees dressed up in vampire-esque (or werewolf-esque!) attire hand out stickers and promotional material as rewards for correct answers to trivia questions or clever costumes. There is a good representation here of adult females whom, according to their T-shirts, are "Twilight Moms". Hmmm.



Becca, in pain medication-fueled euphoria over the fact that I get to attend this gathering with her, has suggested I become a "Twilight Mom" once or twice over the last few days. I have no idea what a Twilight Mom IS, and I'm reluctant to commit myself. I imagine that it's a mother of a younger Twilight fan, maybe junior-high age (as a group that exact age catagory run past me, shrieking and giggling) that dutifully pre-reads everything her daughter lays eyes on. A Good Twilight Mom would only give approval to what she has already read and approved of. (I used to do this! There are entire paragraphs of a paperback copy of "Ice Castles" blacked out with a Sharpie somewhere in the garage. The ice skating coach used questionable language.) Is this what a Twilight Mom does?



I feel a nudge at my elbow. "How did you like the last book?" I turn, and a woman my age wearing a Twilight Mom t-shirt is speaking to ME! "Um, I'm here with my daughter, and I haven't read any of the books...yet." I feel mildly like a fool, (but not TOO much like a fool, considering *I* am not wearing vampire fangs like some people present) and smile sheepishly . Becca appears and shoves a thick, heavy book into my hands. "Bought this for you, Mom, it will keep you occupied for a while." The book is black, shiny, and titled "Twilight"; it's the first book in this series. Grateful for any excuse to remove myself from the fanged festivities, I look for a reading chair on the outskirts of the melee, and sink into it. I resignedly open the front page of the book, and......I'm SUCKED IN.



(Is that a poor choice of words, considering we're talking about a vampire story? I truly didn't mean it to sound that way.) I didn't WANT to like it, but having gone through a vampire-loving phase myself back in the day (Dark Shadows, anyone? Pre-Falcon Crest Quentin...mmmHMMM), I was actually enjoying this story of a human girl and her involvement with an atypical, friendly neighborhood vampire. Forty five minutes later, unable to put the book down, I looked around me...no wonder there were wall-to-wall people waiting for this new release. AND it's the fourth book in the series - I hold the first in my hands! Ooooh, three more to look forward to! That fact alone thrills me! There's pretty much nothing I like better than to bury myself in a good book, so happily I go back to Volume One.



Thank you, Rebecca, for dragging me to the Twilight release party! Oh, and congratulations - while I was being swept away (and sucked into) the book, at the periphery of my conciousness I was aware of a crowd at the center of the store and vaguely heard the words "costume contest". Becks won first prize in the costume contest, largely due to her cleverly working her costume around the broken-leg theme. She's beaming, her prize - a large promotional tote bulging with goodies, that announces "Peace, Love, and Vampires" in huge script - is slung over her shoulder as she balances on her crutches. In spite of my initial reticence, we both had a *great* time, after all!

And I can't wait to get home and continue reading this book!

I get to attend the "Twilight" Release?? Oh, overwhelming joy.

Both Rebecca and Brandon have an excellent work ethic, and each of them hold down a couple of jobs. After all, their main objective while living at the Home Base is to work and save up some serious cash prior to returning to school. Recently, while she was at work as a server at a popular Tex-Mex restaurant, Rebecca fell down a short flight of stairs, carrying a tray full of drinks and injuring her ankle. Badly. She was in tears from the pain, and this girl is a tough cookie with a rather high pain tolerance. She rode hunter-jumper horses for years; so falls, injuries, and broken bones are nothing new to her. She was also miffed that the tray full of drinks was for a table full of Hot Guys who happened to also be Red Sox fans, and she'd been bantering with them and enjoying her evening before the fall. Jack and I were at the dog park and received her teary phone call, so we loaded all three Girls back into the car (whilst receiving several confused/irritated looks from the Girls) and drove down the highway to get Rebecca.



Several hours later, after leaving the ER with a splint, crutches, and pain medication, with a diagnosis of "a severe sprain, torn ligaments, and a possible fracture"; Becca was giddy from the pain medication...giggling and starting to flirt with the cute young doctor, and so we hustled her out of there. It was 1:00 am and we nearly ran over a juvenile armadillo (SO CUTE!) as he crossed the hospital parkway in front of our car. (I still want an armadillo for a pet, but according to "ArmadilloOnline!" they carry leprosy. Risk of transmission is low, with the exception of ingesting undercooked armadillo meat - not likely, but still, not a good scenario. ) As we drove her home, I mused that she wouldn't be able to drive with that injured ankle. Then it hit me:



Guess who gets to drive her around for the next few weeks?



Okay, mother-daughter bonding is a good thing, we have a lot of fun together, and I'm off work right now anyway, due to some minor foot surgery. (But honestly now, did we have to get matching big black orthopedic boots? Mine is for the left, hers is for the right, and we have the beginnings of an awesome Frankenstein costume for Halloween this year! This Summer 2008 Orthopedic Boot model is so fabulous, it even has a button in front that lets you pump it up with air for additional ankle support!)



And her activities...one thing she's been looking forward to is the release of the latest book in the "Twilight" series. I have no idea what these stories in the series are about, but I have a feeling I won't be in the dark for long. Apparently there is a release party planned at one of the bookstores in town. She's had her costume planned for this event, but now, from the back seat, I hear slurred speech from Becca discussing how "Now we get to go to the Twilight release party together, Mom!" (Would she be that excited about going with her mother if she wasn't currently under the influence of Oxycontin?) She's also debating the pros and cons of changing her planned costume to accomodate her injured leg. (Why, I ask you!? She's already GOT a costume planned! Obviously, I truly do not get the importance of dressing up in character.) I'm giggling at her slurred words as the memories begin to swirl to the forefront of my brain...waiting in line forever at a bookstore surrounded by people dressed as characters from the Harry Potter books (have I died and gone to Purgatory?)...remembering how, above all, I detest waiting in line for something I can buy the next day with no wait whatsoever; be it Star Wars tickets, Ricky Martin concert tickets, or the latest Harry Potter tome.



THIS is where I'd hand her off to her father, he *never* minds waiting in line for this kind of thing! He has gladly waited HOURS in line with her for the aforementioned Star Wars and Ricky Martin tickets, back in the day! He has accompanied her to each and every Harry Potter book AND movie release! They've had many a good time at such events over the years. Alas, the man is three and a half states away from where we live now, and as much as he loves her, I sincerely doubt that he'd alter his plans and fly out here on the spur of the moment (no doubt missing some important political-type dinner engagement) to attend a book release this coming Friday.



So...I guess it's me.



(To be continued)

Privacy, then and now.

In my past life, I was an open book. Always WAY too eager to tell all, to explain every little detail so that my (unfortunate) listener would have "the whole picture". I prided myself on having no secrets. My attitude was "If I have nothing secret, nothing to hide, then no one can use it against me."


I'd like to think that I'm a little older and wiser now. (Older, to be sure. Wiser - sometimes?) Plus, I have the privacy of others to be concerned with; namely, my family. I don't want my children to be Googled in ten years and be passed over for a promotion due to some young-adult-returning-home-unclear-over-boundaries skirmish. I don't want their prospective dates checking them out on the Web and reading about their mother scolding them for getting a tattoo. Or leaving their underwear in the washer for three days straight. Or not putting away their dirty dishes into the dishwasher (Brandon, that cereal bowl is YOURS, we all know it. Deal with it. And thank you.)



Against my regular penchant for complete honesty, I've changed names, identifying details, and locations; all to protect the innocent. I'm not THAT hard to track down, should you find the need to. But I'd like to make it just a wee bit difficult, for those that have nothing better to do than stalk and harrass. I want to have fun and share our stories with everyone, but not expose the kids to the point of being uncomfortable, or embarassed that their mother shared Personal Details with the Entire World. On the INTERNET!!!



One very good reason for my initial euphoria at having the kids back is that I feel I need to make up for some earlier family dysfunction during their late teenage years. I'd rather not go into all the reasons here, but suffice it to say that I made some bad decisions, unwise choices, and those not only affected me, but both Brandon and Rebecca as well. They had been living with their father since age 16-17. I missed them dreadfully, and though I saw them often, it wasn't the same as having them live with ME. So now - here's my chance to make up some of the time we missed back then, create some good memories; and I think I can share some of what we're going through without thoroughly embarassing them, today or in the future.

They came home with WHAT???

I don't even know what to say. (Words do not usually fail me, in fact, I have been speechless only twice before in my entire life - the last time being when their stepfather Jack proposed to me in 2002. That was a "good" speechless moment, this is not.)



I stand there, my speechless state continuing longer than I want it to, and am obviously dismayed. They are both smirking sheepishly. (Is it a bad thing that my first instinct is to backhand them both? And no, I have never done that. I've made plenty of mistakes parenting, but physical abuse has not been one of them.) I first look at Rebecca's new "artwork". Thankfully it's in a place that is usually covered by clothing, and will most likely only be seen at the beach. Small, tasteful script; a short phrase in Italian. Well, that makes sense, she is definitely part Italian - my doing. But still.



Brandon, however, is another matter entirely.




"Vice" and "Virtue"....in Latin?!? (My subconscious gives a nod of approval to the fact that he at least decided to use Latin, though I promptly squelch the urge to smile.) "..on your FOREARMS??"

Visions of a 45-year-old Brandon trying to hide the larger-than-life markings on his body while maintaining as a corporate CEO make me start to laugh, a reaction I definitely do not want them to see. Why is it that laughter shows up at the most inopportune times? I am MAD. I did *not* raise them like this! All of their lives they have heard "No Tattoos" right up there along with "No Drugs" (I promise to leave you there in jail!) "No Sex" (lengthy hour-long medically *and* legally substantiated lecture ensuing..it's difficult when your parents consist of a nurse and attorney.) "Do Well in School", et al.



"Didn't that HURT?" I ask them both. I examine the markings, noting the raised, darkened tissue. It looks a lot like gangrene to my tattoo-inexperienced eyes. (The inner nurse is emerging, take care of medical issues FIRST!) "Should you put an antibiotic ointment on it? Should it be covered? How are you going to deal with it at work while it's healing??"



Wait..I'm still MAD. Deep breath to center myself, and try to remain calm. "*WHY* DID YOU TWO DO THIS??? Did you think this through? How is it going to look when you're 40 and have a family and career? I should have known something was up, the way you wanted to get rid of us earlier! I cannot BELIEVE you would DO this!" I am *not* calm.



Rebecca slinks away to the kitchen, thankful that my anger is focused momentarily on her brother. "Mom, I've been wanting to do this since I was 18. I've thought about it for four years and designed it myself." Egad. I look at him incredulously. I should congratulate him? I shake my head, still stunned. "You DO know that this is permanent, correct?"



Brandon begins to crack up. "NO, Mother, they didn't tell us THAT! You mean...you mean to say it DOESN'T WASH OFF?" Becca has re-emerged from the kitchen, joining in. "You mean...It's PERMANENT? Oh NOES, what will we do?!?" All three of us are laughing, but I am still MAD.



"YES, we know it's permanent!" Words, sentences tumble over each other as they both try to convince me about how they've "thought this over". And I do remember various conversations here and there, where they would bring it up, and each time their father and/or I gave them the veto. I thought that was successful, until tonight. I'm still stunned.



"You both know I AM NOT HAPPY about this. I'm too tired to deal with this right now, we'll talk in the morning."



Dejected and defeated, I crawl back into bed. Jack has remained asleep throughout. How is that that men can sleep through anything? I lay in bed, sleepless, tears running down my face.

What..you don't need my approval??

Having three dogs and being temporarily unable to walk them due to some minor foot surgery means taking said dogs to the dog park several times a week to preserve sanity (theirs and ours). Since all names have been changed to protect the innocent, I might as well change the dogs' names too...hence, celebrity names that evoke their personalities.

Paris (as in Hilton): Our diva dog..a Bichon Frise, mildly superficial, quite pretty, high maintenance.

Miley: The baby of the family, cute as, well, Hannah Montana (though I am definitely not a fan of HM).

Kate(as in Winslet): Our Aussie, beautiful, intelligent, hardworking, and earnest. Hyperactive as well, but settling down, from a puppyhood best described as "hell on wheels". There is light at the end of this particular tunnel, apparently.

The dog park was created FOR Kate. She needs to run! She needs to be free! She needs to play rough and tumble with the other dogs, and believe me, she is Miss Popular. Kate is primarily my husband Jack's dog. (I have never had a dog like this - and never will again.) After dinner, she knows it's time to pack up and head for the dog park, and she eagerly waits at the door. She is the most intelligent of the three, as well as the leader, and soon the other two are literally underfoot, dogging our heels *cringe*.

I invite Rebecca and Brandon to come along, as I always do. They have both put in appearances there, our friends know them, and a fun time is generally had by all. (Is it sad that the dog park is the main social outlet for us as a couple?) Tonight, however, the kids decline.

"Mom...Becca and I might need to hang out, well, without YOU two always around."

Oh..well, OK! It's date night at the dog park! Jack and I pack up all three of The Girls, and off we go. Carefree evening ensues, all dogs have a blast, and we enjoy our evening, talking with our good friends that we've met there.

We return to the house, and the kids aren't home. Well, I'm glad they went out..after all, we live in Austin and they might as well be out having fun. They most likely went downtown to the clubs on 6th Street. I text them to let them know we're home, and to kinda-sorta find out what's going on. (Texting is a labor of love, I hate it, it takes me forever, but they sometimes they prefer that to an actual phone call. And I know that an innocuous inquiry as to what time they might be home will be better received as a text.)

Jack and I go to sleep, and I hear them come in around 1am. I go downstairs to say hello and goodnight(can you tell this is still a novelty for me?). Smiling, I approach the lights of my life to hug them.

THUD....that was my heart..stopping, and then, once it re-started, sinking.

Both of them have come home with...TATTOOS!!!

(to be continued)

Reaallly trying not to helicopter-parent.

We SHOULD be able to work this out, you think?



Rebecca is rather...terrritorial, shall we say. She always has been, always will be. (Smirk in the general direction of my one-day future son-in-law, whoever he may be since he hasn't appeared yet, and that's fine with all involved. Don't worry, pal, she can be a little difficult, but she's well worth the effort.) "I don't want to share my bathroom! I don't want to share my car! I don't want to share my LIFE!"



Well, too bad, dear. For the next three weeks, your brother is going to need a car to get to work and the two of you can work this out. At the end of the month, he's flying back to LA and driving his car out to where we all live, since he has decided to extend his visit. But for now, yes, he will be sharing your car.



"I don't want him smoking in MY car!"



We don't want him smoking, period, but that's another post, another day.



"He has to buy his own gas"!



Yes, and he does.



"Snarlsnarlsnarl, sharingmybathroom-wet towelseverywhere, mycar-mycar,mycar!!, mylifeisRUINEDsnarl!!!"

And of course Brandon retailates with a well-timed, equally articulate verbal assault.



I'd love to send them to their rooms, and I just might. Shades of when they were around ten years old, when the sibling rivalry peaked. I hated the bickering and fighting back then, and hate it even more now. I try to mediate, to run interference, but it doesn't help matters very much. A calendar with everyone's work schedule in different colored ink (blue for him, red for her) goes up on the refrigerator. It gets duly noted, questioned, and argued over.



Fortunately, after a few days of this, the situation resolves itself (for the most part). I went to bed early one evening, they stayed up (because no one cool goes to bed at 10:30, right?) uncorked a bottle of wine, and sat at the kitchen table and talked things out.



They DO enjoy each other, and have a lot of fun together. And...Brandon will have his car here soon.

First one, now two!

We are officially a "Boomerang" household now. I have been told this by my two young adult (twenty-something, a year and a half apart) children. Until they decided to inform me of this, I was blissfully unaware of this term, just happy that they both wanted to live at home with us for a while and baking chocolate chip banana bread for them until they cried "Stop! We're getting fat!"



(If this were the cooking/baking blog I have dreamed about writing, that recipe would be inserted here. Trust me, you'd love it.)



I had become accustomed to both of them living away at college until last fall, when my daughter Rebecca decided to come home. Having her here with us has been wonderful, tons of fun, and occasionally trying at times. We are supportive of her being here, and know it's been the best decision for her. In June, my son Brandon was flying out for a visit, and after I confirmed his flight arrival with him in the morning, I got a phone call from him an hour later. "Hey, I'm bringing all my stuff, and staying with you guys for the rest of the summer, K?



Well (very brief caught-off guard moment here) YES! Come home! Love having him here, he's great fun, and it will be good for his sister not to be the only person under 45 in the household (not counting the dogs). Plus, I think it will be good for his well-being to be here with us. (Hint: Our home is not a frat house.) He'll have a roof over his head, three meals a day, A/C, and live in a city that's especially fun for young adults. (Yes, I've been worried about him, stories of his couch-surfing and living on day-old pastries from the coffee ship where he worked have gotten back to me. Not to mention the partying in the aforementioned frat house.) I know he's been working hard out in LA, and want to give him a break from the stress of making rent, worrying about his car breaking down, and not having money for groceries.



I can't stop smiling - to have them both home and not worry about them is a mom's fondest wish. I've dusted off my dilapidated quasi-French Country recipe box from the mid-80s and started cooking all their favorites again. And in the process, learned about a couple of dishes they secretly hated all those years, as well.



(Insert Tuna Boboli recipe here.)