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Toad Hall

In all of the letdown over the nonexistent hurricane, I forgot last night’s frog trauma.

George is a generally brave person. While I worry about everything, he’s never afraid of anything. It's actually a little annoying.

But then I learned he does have a secret phobia: frogs. He’s terrified of them.

Last night I brought in all of my potted orchids, so they wouldn’t get swept away by Ernesto, and left them in the kitchen, lined up on the table.

Just as we were calling it a night, we heard a weird chirping sound coming from the kitchen. George went to investigate. A minute later he was back, looking pale. Beads of sweat had appeared on his brow.

“There’s a frog in the orchid,” he said. “Please help.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” he asked, his voice rising with anxiety. “I mean, there’s a frog sitting in the orchid pot. It’s just sitting there, with its disgusting sticky fingers.”

“Just put it outside,” I said patiently.

“The frog?”

“The whole orchid. Just stick it to the side of the house. I’m sure it will be fine.”

So he did. And then, just as he was settling back into bed, we heard it again: more chirping.

“Oh, Jesus,” George groaned.

Another orchid, housing another frog, was dispatched outdoors. George hadn’t actually gotten back into bed when the chirping started again.

“Another frog,” I said helpfully.

Only this time, when George went into the kitchen to deal with it, he let out a yelp.

“There are frogs everywhere,” he shouted. “Please, please come and help!”

And he wasn’t kidding. Teeny tiny frogs were hopping all around our kitchen – on the kitchen table, under the stove, in Lulu’s water dish. Apparently, those orchids were like a high rise apartment building to the neighborhood frogs.

George opened the door, and, one by one, I chased the frogs outside. George even gently picked one up – in his hands – and moved it out.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said, when all of the frogs were safely outside. “You faced your fear! It was very healthy.”

But George didn’t share my optimistic outlook. “Sticky fingers . . . pee when touched . . . disgusting creatures,” he kept muttering. And then he’d shudder.

Link | 30 August 2006 at 08:03 PM |

Whoop-Di-Doo

So much for the big storm of '06. It's hardly even rained today.

Even so, everything's closed – schools, the bookstore, even the parks. It’s as though since we had to go through the motions of preparing for the storm, the whole town is insisting we now hunker down and pretend that it's actually hitting us.

George had the day off of work, so we took Sam and Lulu to the beach (climbing over the barricades the city had put up to keep people out) to watch the para-surfers, which was fun . . . up until the police came and kicked us off.

"The beach is closed, folks," the officer said, waving everyone off.

"Why? It's not storming out," I complained to George. But then I cheered up. "You know, I can't remember the last time I got busted by the cops. It makes me feel like I'm sixteen again, and at a kegger some kid's thrown when his parents are out of town."

"You," George said, “live life on the wild side.”

I do, don’t I?

Link | 30 August 2006 at 01:52 PM |

Battening Down The Hatches

You'd think I would have figured out something was up when I suggested to a friend that we take the kids to the park for a play date tomorrow, and she replied, “Sure, if we don’t get blown away first!” And then laughed.

“Yeah, right,” I said, laughing too, although I had no idea what she was talking about.

Maybe I should have caught on when I picked Sam up from preschool, and his teacher made a point of telling me that when the public schools close, the nursery school also closes. This information was also printed out in large, bold faced font on a flyer in Sam’s cubby.

“Okay,” I said, still clueless.

No, it wasn’t until George called, and left a frantic, “Where are you? And why haven’t you been answering your cell phone?” message, that it began to dawn on me that something was up.

And, big surprise, that something is a hurricane. And it's headed straight at us. Yes, another hurricane. In fact, the seventh one to hit Florida since we moved here a little over two years ago.

Sigh.

At least I got to go to the grocery store during the HORDE!! PANIC!! rush, which is always fun. Right up there with waiting in line at the gas station for forty minutes. Maybe if I’m very, very lucky I’ll get to go to the Home Depot this evening, and fight over the last few sheets of plywood.

Link | 28 August 2006 at 03:09 PM |

Literary Chicks

This week . . . beware of little girls.

Link | 27 August 2006 at 08:53 AM |

A Star Is Born

Lulu's having her fifteen minutes of fame over at Galleycat!

Link | 27 August 2006 at 08:49 AM |

Me Me Me

Ever wonder why I'm smiling in the above photo? Wonder no more.

Link | 25 August 2006 at 07:00 AM |

Wild Kingdom

I know, I know, I've been a bad blogger lately. But I've been editing, and editing always makes me grouchy.

Anyway. My quiet suburban street has suddenly transformed itself into Wild Kingdom.

Lulu and I were out enjoying our morning walk, when all of a sudden, an enormous creature – think Cujo crossed with a pit bull – jumped out of a bush, and threw himself at Lulu.

After a few scary seconds, I realized that he was (a) just a puppy, albeit a really freaking big puppy, and (b) his interest in Lulu was purely lust driven.

Sadly, shows of brute force are so not Lulu’s style. She’s more of a pina-colada-and-getting-caught-in-the-rain sort of a girl. Well, actually, not the rain part so much.

Despite her obvious lack of interest in her suitor – Lulu gave a shriek, and flattened herself on the ground, and refused to move until I picked her up and carried her off – he followed us most of the way home, rudely thrusting his nose into Lulu’s rear end whenever possible.

We finally managed to shake him off, and I managed to calm Lulu down until she was sufficiently composed to recommence her endless quest to find the best poop spot in the neighborhood, when I caught a glimpse of white fur rounding the corner and running toward us. It was one of those tiny dogs that look like cotton balls on legs, and it was dragging an extendable leash behind it, so that the plastic hand grip was going thunk-thunk-thunk down the sidewalk. Whoever had presumably been holding the leash at some earlier point in time was no where to be seen.

I made a lunge for the wayward creature’s leash when he passed by me, but he let out a yip, and took off down the street, turned another corner and raced out of view. I waited around for a bit, to see if anyone would happen by, looking for their lost dog, but nope. No one appeared. Which makes me wonder just what the tiny white dog did with his walker. But I have to admit, I admired his enthusiasm. I even caught myself humming Born Free.

Lulu, however, has been traumatized, and has taken to her bed for the rest of the afternoon.

Link | 22 August 2006 at 02:04 PM |

Thought For The Day

You know that saying, Don’t blow smoke up my ass? Highly overrated.

Me? I wouldn’t mind a little smoke being blown now and again.

Link | 15 August 2006 at 04:58 PM |

Heard Around the House: Part 27

George: I could have been in a boy band.

Me:

George: I mean, what do they have that I don’t?

Me:

George: Other than youth, obviously.

Me: They wax their chests.

George: Okay, youth and waxed chests. But that’s it. The only difference.

Link | 06 August 2006 at 09:19 PM |

Literary Chicks

This week's L.C. blog is up!

Link | 06 August 2006 at 11:54 AM |

Heard Around the House: Part 26

Sam is starting pre-school next week, and I will be responsible for packing him a lunch to take with him.

Now, I know this shouldn’t be a difficult task, except for the small problem that Sam is going through a bit of a picky phase, and will only eat about four different food items, all of which need to be cooked prior to serving (like grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken fingers). And Sam feels free to randomly reject even those foods with absolutely no notice, just to keep me on my toes.

Every summer, the mom’s magazines start featuring back-to-school articles on ways to jazz up the ol’ lunch box, although they all show the same damn thing – turkey, cream cheese and grated vegetables wrapped up in a whole wheat tortilla. Which is great, except that my son, (a) won’t eat turkey, (b) won’t eat vegetables, grated or otherwise, and (c) will only eat tortillas if they’re warm and slathered with butter.

I started to obsess about this potential lunch problem weeks ago, and today, after George and I attended the pre-school’s open house, I expressed my misgivings to him. You know: expecting some spousal support, and maybe – just maybe – some constructive ideas.

ME: I could try giving him a Lunchable. Although, Sam usually just eats the cookies, and ditches the rest. (Ed.’s note: for those not in the know, Lunchables are pre-packaged trays of deli meat, cheese, crackers and cookies. Admittedly, they are a bit junky, but oh-so-convenient.)

GEORGE: You can’t give him Lunchables. That’s wandering into serious Bad Mom territory.

ME: . . .

ME: Excuse me? Did you really just say ‘Bad Mom territory’?

GEORGE: And don’t send in crudités either. You don’t want to be that mom. You know: Trying-To-Hard Mom.

ME:

GEORGE: And definitely don’t be the Hippy-Granola-and-Dried-Fruit Mom. You’ve got to give the boy something he can trade with the other kids. On the inside, a Ring-Ding is like money.

ME:

GEORGE: What? Why are you looking at me like that?

Link | 04 August 2006 at 03:16 PM |

Yuck

There's been a dead cockroach lying next to the printer in my office for three days. I've been ignoring it, in the hopes that George would take care of it.

Isn't that the whole point of being married – that you have someone around to deal with cockroaches and other oogy creepy crawlies? I go through labor (or scheduled c-sections, as the case may be), and he handles the disposal of rodents, bugs and snakes.

And I really don't like cockroaches. They have this disgusting habit of pretending to be dead, right up until you go to sweep them into the dust pan, at which point they suddenly flip over and run at you.

But today, I reached my gross out limit. A dead cockroach is disgusting enough. A dead decomposing cockroach is just that much worse. So I bucked up my courage, and picked the damn bug up myself, using five kleenexes wadded together to make sure that no part of my skin came into contact with the roach.

Does this mean that if and when George and I have another baby, he has to go through labor?

I thought not.

Link | 03 August 2006 at 03:45 PM |

It's Too Hot To Blog

My days go something like this: I look at the weather forecast, shudder, then pull down the blinds and stay inside until the sun goes down. The heat is turning me into a vampire (minus the blood drinking, obviously).

Yesterday, there was a little splash of excitement, when I received my author copies of the Russian translation of TRUE LOVE (AND OTHER LIES). At least, I think that’s what they were. I can’t even read my name in Cyrillic, much less the book title.

I handed the books to George.

“Look,” I said excitedly.

“What are these?” he asked.

“Actually, I’m not sure. I was hoping you could tell me.”

George looked at one of the books carefully. “A translation of one of your books?” he asked.

“That was my assumption. Which book do you think it is?”

He looked at them again. “TRUE LOVE (AND OTHER LIES). Definitely.”

“How can you tell?” I persisted. After all, George can’t read Cyrillic, either. At least, I don’t think he can.

“I just can,” he said confidently.

Gah. This is what comes of having married a lawyer.

Link | 02 August 2006 at 09:14 AM |