NO YELLOW LIGHTS!

This year's "traditional" Tree Day came and went with the result pictured here for the world to see. There was much discussion amongst the males in the household for days leading up to the big event. But, this year I declared I would not go under any circumstances. (If you want to know why I refuse to participate, check out my blog archives from last year's Tree Day.) No one seemed very upset about my not going, and no, that didn't bother me at all. I was happy to have the house to myself. However, the usual enthusiastic participants couldn't coordinate their schedules. So, in the end, only Kong and the Princeling ventured out into the tree farm wilderness to bring back this year's timber victim. The Princeling wasn't the least bit coy about why he was going. He didn't care so much about the tree. He wanted the traditional diner breakfast. And, as I noted last year, the lure of a diner breakfast is hard for even me to resist. Ahhhh! Diner hash browns! I don't even like eggs, but somehow, diner eggs are always appealing. Yet, I resisted the stainless steel temptation of the Pennsylvania diner.

So Kong and the Princeling set out last weekend in search of THE tree. Middle Monkey and Baby Monkey kept their unbreakable commitments elsewhere, and I enjoyed peace and solitude at home. Several hours later, I heard van doors slamming in the driveway, and yes, I was a little excited to see what was brought home. Strapped to the rails of my custom Yakima rack was this year's evergreen sacrifice. It didn't look too bad lying horizontally. The Princeling stood on one side of the van and carefully snapped off a bungee cord, which not so carefully snapped his father in the face as he stood on the other side of the van. Pain was ignored, and the tree was brought indoors and propped up in its stand. It was lopsided, because that's what Kong has done to each and every one of the 22 Christmas trees we've had during our marriage. I then told him in the traditional fashion, "It's lopsided."
"No, it's not," he said in his traditional man-of-the-house voice.
"Yes it is."
"No, it's not."
"Yes it is, just like every tree you've ever put up. Is there something wrong with the tree, the floor, or could it be YOU?" I ask sweetly. (OK. Not so sweetly.)

We then discussed the placement of lights. "I'm not putting the lights on that thing, " I warned him.
"I'll put the *$)%#()# lights up!" The traditional Christmas cursing began. I left the room. Three hours of cursing later, Kong finished putting up the lights, but by that point, I was too tired to worry about it or even look at the tree. So I went to bed.

The next morning, after all but the Prince had left the house for their day's work and schooling, I wandered into the living room to survey the Christmas tree scene. It was still crooked. I set down my coffee, walked over and inspected more closely. Wires were clearly visible everywhere. Clumps of lights seemed to be thrust into the tree with no real purpose or sense of light and shadow. I plugged in the extension cords. Sheesh! White and YELLOW lights! I know that Kong and I have discussed this before. I really only want white lights on the tree! Just white lights! But, no! He put yellow lights on the tree, too. He later told me that I wanted yellow lights, and didn't I always put yellow lights on the tree? UGH and GRRRR. Well, there was the ONE time, back during the Christmas of 1990 as we were gearing up for the first Persian Gulf war. Out of patriotism, I put yellow lights on the tree that year. Yellow lights and yellow ribbons. That's the one and only time. And now, every year since 1990 he attempts to put yellow lights on the tree.

So, maybe I'll chalk it up to the insomnia of the night before. But the yellow lights, the 22nd crooked tree, the exposed wires, and the fact that in recent years very decent, pre-lit, perfectly shaped artificial trees came onto the market all roared to the forefront of my brain. I just couldn't take it. I just started yelling at the top of my voice, "NO YELLOW LIGHTS! NO YELLOW LIGHTS! I'VE TOLD HIM YEAR AFTER YEAR AFTER YEAR!" I began grabbing lights and pulling them off the tree. I formed them into a cat-o-nine-tails and whipped them furiously across Kong's closed roll-top desk. Over and over and over I whipped and pounded, screaming my NO YELLOW LIGHTS mantra. Picture "Mommie Dearest" and wire hangers. You get the picture. The Princeling heard the noise and stayed upstairs. He later attested to the fact that mom "wigged out on the tree". Kong has declared he'll never light a tree again. But, I felt instantly better after thrashing the yellow lights.

Do not worry about our Christmas tree, though. Eventually, I'll get around to putting on some Bing Crosby music and decorating the tree, with or without lights. After all, he's dreaming of a white, not yellow, Christmas.

Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful

Actually, it's not really that frightful, but it's a tad unpleasant. Just a tad, but only if you aren't prepared. As I check the thermometer mounted just outside the window behind me, I see that we're dipping just below 40 degrees at 5:00 p.m. It's also pitch black outside. Ahhh, winter in the mid-Atlantic states! I actually like the cold. A week ago on Friday we enjoyed a lovely 70-degree day. Well, ok. We didn't enjoy it. It happened to be the day of my father-in-law's funeral. But, it was uncharacteristically warm. That is, it was uncharacteristically warm until about 3:00 p.m. when a gust of wind blew through, and the temps tumbled into the 40s. All was right in the Philadelphia world. That's our weather here. One minute it's quite comfortable, the next it's freezing ... or it's boiling hot with humidity of 99 percent. I know a lot of people who talk about going to Florida to enjoy the lovely year-round weather. That's just not for me. I don't have the attention span for unchanging year-round weather. True, every now and then a good hurricane blows through to really mix things up in the Sunshine State. But we get hurricanes now and then, too, along with ice storms, blizzards, flooding rains, baking droughts, and I've even heard tell of a swarm of locusts coming through once. It's interesting. Really. I promise you. And in the fall, we enjoy beautiful crisp air and sparkling colors. In the spring, the green is greener than one can imagine, and the daffodils dip and sway in soft breezes. Spring in Philadelphia is my favorite season, by the way. It usually lasts several hours as we transition from freeze to oppressive, sticky heat.
So in about an hour, I'm going to venture out to Mass on this holy day of obligation. I'll put on my brand new down jacket and enjoy the cold air on my face, and I'll say a little prayer of thanksgiving for a pretty, sparkling cold evening just outside of Philadelphia. Amen.

More Than Words

My father-in-law passed away on November 28, and I was privileged to be there with him, along with his wife, children and his grandchildren when he passed away from this life. I have never seen anyone die before. My own father, who was the most kind and generous man I've ever know, died alone in a hospital room some 23 years ago. I've always felt regret that such a giving man died alone in the middle of the night. What a wonderful thing it was that my father-in-law had his family around him, talking to him, hopefully hearing them say good-bye and telling him that they loved him.
But there was sadness in that room, a sadness due to reasons other than his passing. I stood in the corner of the room, letting his wife and children be closest to him. For the first time in the 24 years that I have known this family I heard them say "I love you" to one of their own. I was fascinated and saddened. My first thought was, "Why have you never said these things before?" But quickly followed the thought, "Thank you, Lord! Thank you for softening their hearts and letting them speak the words!"
I have to admit that my own family was not very huggy, very say-I-love-you-all-the-time, either. We were loud, to be sure. We fought, we laughed, we carried on. My dad was always quick to say "I'm proud of you." But, I can't for the life of me remember him saying "I love you" to me even once. It may seem strange, but it just never mattered to me. My dad loved me, and of this I am absolutely sure. He showed it every time I walked into the room and his face lit up with a smile. He spent time with me, talked to me, and was interested in everything I did. We loved being together. He taught me to show people how I feel. I happen to think that the words are important, as well. But, one can live without the words if actions have already spoken. It doesn't work the other way around, though. Nope. Mouth the words all you want, but if they aren't backed up with action, they are meaningless.
In that hospital room, as my father-in-law lay dying, I know the words were heartfelt. I'm glad they were said. I really hope and pray that my father-in-law heard my husband tell him that he was loved. I hope he heard and believed his daughter tell him that he was a good dad. I hope he heard us pray for him.
Both my sons were there in the room as their grandfather died. But at the very end, the youngest was just too upset to stay. I gathered him up and took him down the hall to the waiting area. His eyes were red and swollen, but he only sniffled. He was trying so hard to be a man! I wanted to gather my baby in my arms and rock him through the pain, even though he's 6'3". Eventually he was able to calm himself and speak to me. We talked about Pop-Pop and how very, very proud he was of his grandsons. How he loved those kids! My son and I talked about saying "I love you", and we talked about Pop-Pop's love for his grandsons. I asked my son if he ever had a doubt about whether or not his grandfather loved him. "No!" Of course my son never doubted his grandfather's love! Anyone could see it on my father-in-law's face when his grandchildren were near him. His face lit up. What a joy they were to him!
I told my son that he knew Pop-Pop loved him because of the way his grandfather acted with them. They laughed together, he joked with them, he gave them bubble gum. They enjoyed being together. I told my son that he witnessed an important life lesson at his grandfather's death. Love is more than the words, but the words are important, too. I said that it was a wonderful, wonderful thing that his fathercould finally say "I love you" to his father. There would be no regrets. But my son must have been deeply touched, because now, each morning as he leaves home he tells me, "I love you."

Welcome Home

It's nearing 1:00 a.m. here on the east coast, and I've just checked the Korean Air website to see that the Princeling's flight is in the air and has been for a few hours. After nearly 14 hours aloft in the atmosphere, he'll touch down in New York, where I, his devoted mother will be waiting to welcome home. Little does he know that I've spent his vacation mucking out his cage. And I do not use the term "mucking" lightly. As a teenager, I was enrolled in riding school. When you learn to ride horses, you also learn to take care of them. I mucked out plenty of stalls, and there really was no difference between mucking those horse stalls or mucking out the monkey cage.
There are now two large trash bags on the curb full of cage muckings. A good deal of this was candy wrappers, old socks, tests from ninth grade, and bits and pieces of pencils, crayons and erasers. His mattress has been turned (not an easy task on a double sized loft bed), and bedding is in the washing machine. Earlier in the week I raked up the dirty clothes left on the floor, washed and folded them, and then wrestled the clean items into drawers. The poor clean clothing items were frightened by the dark recesses of the bureau drawers since they had never been inside. Shoes danced happily with mates long lost to the deadly clutter. Dust mites and spiders ran for the windows at the sound of the vacuum. It was amazing.
I'm sure none of this will be appreciated by the Princeling. I will have to listen to a rant about invasion of privacy. Even Kong asked if I should be in the Princeling's room. I just smiled and asked him, "Did you send in the mortgage check for this month?" It's OUR room after all. He just lives here. Rent free. And now, after great risk to my own personal health, the monkey cage is passable. I could have continued to the point of immaculate cleanliness, but I couldn't. My skin was breaking out in rashes and my eyes were tearing. I will have to call in a toxic waste removal team to finish the job.

Back to School

Yes, the school year has just ended, and so the title of today's entry may be just a little confusing. But it's simple enough to understand. I spent Saturday morning at Temple University, my fair alma mater. As it happens, Kong is also a Temple alumnus. Baby Monkey is just beginning his college search, and the Temple University General Alumni Association hosted it's first-ever recruiting program for the children of Temple alumni on Saturday. Kong and I thought this would be a great thing to do early on a Saturday morning. Why not show Baby Monkey the place that is so near and dear to his parents; the very place where we first met! Let's spend the morning dragging Baby Monkey around campus while walking down memory lane. Surely, he'll love it! The Princeling, too, is interested in Temple. Kong and I are happy to hope for a Temple family in the future.
Because Kong is anal about arriving on time, we left home way too early and were nearly the first to arrive for the event. The event organizers were ready and waiting. I could tell they were nervous about this first-time gathering. As we entered the beautiful new Tech Center, the two enthusiastic hosts greeted us as though we were the guests of honor. I'm sure they were happy to see someone show up. "Hello! Welcome back to Temple University! Which parent is the alum?"
"We both are," I said, rolling my eyes slightly as I looked toward Kong to show her that I wouldn't have dragged Mr. Cranky Morning with me unless he had been a Temple graduate, too.
"Oh, wow! You BOTH went to Temple! Did you meet here?"
"Uh, huh." It was really early, and the last time I had been on campus at 8:00 a.m. was in 1984. In those days, I was definitely a morning person. Twenty-two years has taken it's toll on my morning moods.
"Wow! I wonder how many people from Temple married each other?" our hostess mused. I wondered if she was always that silly, or was it just too early in the morning for her, too? Temple University is a BIG place. There were close to 40,000 students at Temple when I attended, and it's pretty much the same these days. With a nod to those statistics classes I took my senior year, I'd have to say that given the size of the student population, it's statistically probable that more than a few alumni found each other and married. Surely, she had met married alumni before. But, she seemed not to have, and begged for the story.
Since there was no one else to talk to at the moment, I related my unromantic first meeting with Kong. On my very first day of my freshman year I ended up in the student activity center, and there he was, sitting in a corner surrounded by very animated people. They were laughing and talking, but he was completely disconnected from the group. He had a transistor radio with an earplug, and he was waiting for an announcement about ticket sales for an upcoming Led Zeppelin tour. I went on to tell her that the tour never happened because Robert Plant's son drowned in a horrible pool accident, and the tour was cancelled. Her eyes glazed over. I think I lost her at "transistor radio". She was about 25 years old. She had no clue what a transistor radio was. She said she knew Led Zeppelin. But I could tell she didn't know who Robert Plant was, and certainly didn't know about his tragic loss. I decided not to tell her about John Bonham. That could be too much for her.
Now, I should stop for a moment, because my more alert audience will notice that I mentioned I was on campus back in 1984. Some of you may have gone back to the first paragraph to check. Now you're thinking: Did she say 1984 and now she's talking about transistor radios? Yeah. Kong was never one to keep up on technology. Even if you give him some leeway and take the story back four years to 1980, my freshman year, we're still about 20 years past the heyday of the transistor radio. But he had one in 1980. All I can say is, he's a man of classic taste.
The shorter version of this story is that Kong did not strike me as anything special for three years. He was a senior who wore really bad polyester suits to on-campus interviews while looking for a job as an accountant. He wasn't quite my idea of excitement. And as if that weren't enough, he was a member of the Temple University track team -- a middle distance runner. He stood 6'3" tall and weighed all of 155 pounds. He looked like he had just escaped from Auschwitz. I didn't pay him any serious attention until 1982. I occasionally saw him at parties of mutual friends, and finally, one night he called me for a "safe" date. He needed someone to go with him to his high school reunion. He didn't want to go alone. I said, sure, I'll go, what the heck. He asked me nearly three months before the actual reunion. Yep. That's him, always planning ahead. After he asked me to go to the reunion, he then asked me to go to a party with him about two months before the reunion. Again, I thought, sure, why not? I'm not the planning type. I'm more a spur of the moment kinda gal. But, it's a good thing he lined up the second date before he asked me on the first date, because that first date was the worst first date I had ever had. I was bored to tears. He barely spoke at all. Had I not committed to go to the reunion with him, I would never have gone on another date with him.
Obviously, we got past all of that. We dated for three years, and then one evening he asked me to meet him after a class I had up at the Ambler campus. He proposed, and in my last semester at Temple, I became an engaged woman. I graduated a few months later and went to work for the husband of a Ph.D. student I knew through my on-campus job. My first real job after college was a good one, and on the day we married, I actually made more money than Kong. Because we started out with a decent financial situation, Kong and I were able to buy the house where we still live, where our degrees hang side-by-side on our living room wall, and where we've raised our children -- the children who want to go to Temple University. Ahhh! The circle of life!

3 - 2 = how many?

On Monday, I put the Monkey Prince and the Middle Monkey on a big ole' jet plane bound for South Korea. Middle Monkey spends some of his summer vacation visiting with his parents there, and this year, the Princeling went with him for a two-week visit. It's a graduation present from Kong and me. We all thought it was a great present. Afterall, travel is education, especially when one gets to go to a place so very different from what one is used to. For the Princeling, it's even more valuable. He's living with the Middle One's family for two weeks, so he gets to really live in the culture. Add to it that the Princeling has a great interest in ancient Asian history, and you have one happy Princeling.
So that leaves me wth just one of the three monkeys at home. To add to the equation (or do I subtract?), the day after the Princeline returns, he leaves for his job at a summer camp, where he'll live for the rest of the summer. I have only the Baby Monkey here, and he's loving his time as an "only child". Only, he's not only.
On the very day after the Monkey Prince and the Middle One left for Korea, there were six teenagers in my house. I surveyed the situation in my family room which was crammed full of teenagers, one of whom was the Princeling's girlfriend. They were consuming all the soda and snacks left from the Princeling's graduation party while alternately playing video games and watching "Pirates of the Caribbean". It was noisy. It was messy. It was fun.
The mother of one of the extra children stopped by to pick up her son. At the door she smiled and asked, "Are you enjoying having an only child?" I just led her to the family room. We even sat down amidst the chaos and had a conversation.
I'm not sure how the math works here. I sent two of my kids away for an entire summer, but I still ended up with more than I started with. I think I might call the guys at M.I.T. to ask if they're doing research on this particular mathematical equation.

I Am the Parent of an Adult

Yeah. I know. I haven't updated this blog in months. I don't have an excuse. I just didn't do it. I fell out of the habit. Or maybe I got bored. (I have a short attention span.)
In the meantime, I reached a milestone in my life. Please note the self-centered nature of that statement. The Monkey Prince turned 18. But this is not about him. Well, it is to a degree. It would have to be. But it's more about how I feel about the whole situation and how he got to be the wonderful young adult that he is.
As you can see from the photo of the Princeling and his beautiful girlfriend, he's very grown up. They went to her Soph Hop a couple of weeks ago, a prelude to the senior prom which is soon to be upon us. Aren't they adorable? I certainly think so!
On the morning of my son's birthday, he wandered into the kitchen with a bright expression on his face. Well, perhaps not bright-eyed. He had just awakened and rolled out of bed, afterall. But he had a happy, bleary look about him. I jumped up and down and hugged him, and he actually laughed at me as I giddily crowed, "You're 18! You're 18! I'm so happy for you! How exciting! Now you really get to take responsibility!" Then I added, "I'm done! I'm done! From now on, everything comes back to YOU!" I felt such a feeling of liberation! It's fairly indescribable, but it was as if a weight was lifted from my chest and shoulders. I could breathe!
O.K. I know there are many of you who are tsk-tsk-ing at me and saying to your computer screens, "Poor misguided mother. You think you are done? Ha! You're never done." Well, yes, of course that's true. But I no longer cling. I cut the apron strings with a large ceremonial axe on April 13, 2006 at 6:58, the precise moment of the 18th anniversary of his birth. And I'm not kidding you or myself about that.
You see, I'm a bit unusual. I've finally come to realize that. Once, as I was jawing at my husband about the assinine decision-making of a fellow mother, my husband stopped me in my tracks with a simple statement. He said, "All mothers do that." And then he said, "Do you have any idea how different you are?" He said it with just a trace of affection. Or maybe it was 20 years of weariness? But he was right. I'm really different; not from every mother, but from most. I think I walk the very, very fine line between uncaring neglect and the Blessed Mother, herself. (You may not believe it, but there IS a fine line.)
Let me give a few examples by listing some of my parenting philosophies.
On fighting children: I do not intervene unless there is bloodshed, and the bloodshed must be of a significant amount to either warrant a trip to the emergency room and/or stain my carpeting.
On feeding children: Parents are legally required to provide food to their children. We are not, however, required to cook it for them. Teach them to cook. Especially the boys. There was a time when a man could expect to marry a sweet young thing who would stay home and cook for him, perhaps even make an evening martini and place it in his hand as he walked through the door at the end of a long day at the office. I don't think there are a lot of cooking/bartending women being raised these days, so I taught my boys to cook.
On backtalk: It's not allowed. I'm serious. If you think this rule is impossible, then you have a big problem. It sets the tone for your entire household. Children are not small adults. They don't know what they are doing yet. That's why they are called children and they are not called adults. They don't get to mouth off and tell parents what to do.
On manners: Children must have them. "Please." "Thank you." Introductions, hand shakes, making eye contact. All of the general manner issues apply. There should be nothing controversial in this. So why have so few children mastered the basic rules of conduct in society? I'll tell you why. Self-absorbed parents raising self-absorbed children. This is a subject for another blog.
On responsibility: Give children age appropriate responsibility, and allow them to suffer the consequences if the responsibility is not met. If the consequences involve the health and safety of the child and or other people, then the responsibility is not age appropriate; and therefore is the parent's responsibility.
On dating: We subscribe to the "Rule of 16". No one-on-one, out-by-yourselves, unsupervised dating until the age of 16. Admittedly, this is a harder rule to enforce if you are raising girls. I haven't raised female children, but I was once a boy-crazy girl, and I have friends with boy-crazy girls. Even today, girls are still deriving a feeling of self-worth from boyfriends. I think that's wrong. I think 16 is reasonable.
On "picking and choosing" your fights: Oy! This concept irritates me. It should be called, "picking and choosing what your children get away with". I'm the parent. Whatever I choose is worth fighting for. Lots of parents will just roll over and play dead as their poorly mannered, self-absorbed, backtalking child argues with them. No. That's wrong. It makes your child more poorly mannered, more self-absorbed, and more disrespectful.
So how does this all relate to my feeling of lightness and to my happiness at being the parent of an adult? Because all those opinions I listed above were not at all uncommon just two short generations ago. Today I'm "different", as my husband calls me. But my old-fashioned parenting has resulted in a fine young man who I trust to make good decisions. Of course he still has a long way to go, but his life is completely in his hands now. I will always be here for him, to offer advice when asked. But it's his time now, and it's so very exciting to see him at this point. He's confident, well mannered, and charming. He knows what he wants and he's prepared to work for it. He cares and respects other people. His father and I get to pat each other on the back for a job well done. Kong and I can continue to provide no-cost housing in the form of a small bedroom and shaky loft bed to the Princeling. We can choose to throw some financial assistance his way now and then, too. But by and large, we're done. And having completed the phase of legal responsibility as parents, I feel entitled to my opinions.

So NOT a Snow Day

One great relief to me here on Monkey Island is that each day the monkeys leave for school for a minimum of six hours. It's nice. I have total quiet in my home. It's just me and the kitten going about our business in a quite home. Departures are staggered. Baby Monkey gets on the big yellow ferry, better known as a school bus, at 6:30 a.m. The Princeling, now a responsible driver, shaves a little time off his commute by driving himself to school via the direct route. He leaves at 7:00 a.m. The Middle Monkey then is the last to leave at 7:10, when he begins his cross-country trek to his school. I try to lay low in my room and not emerge until all the early morning preparations are done, and the sound of screeching has subsided. That was not the case this morning.
A winter storm was approaching, and for the previous 24 hours our local t.v. "meteorologists" predicted doom and gloom. People have been mobbing grocery stores in search of milk, eggs and bread. We've been told that by morning drive time our entire world would be iced over, and death and destruction would rain down upon us. Everyone anticipated the apocolypse.
At 6:25 a.m. I awoke. I groped for my eyeglasses and lifted my head from my pillow. Lucky for me, I have a window right next to my bed, so I reached over and pulled back the curtain to check the weather situation. It was cloudy, but nothing more. Hmmmm. The storm was set to begin at 3:00 a.m. I guess the storm's clock was running slow. But this was a good thing! If the storm arrived later, the chances were that temperatures would be warmer and there would be no ice storm. No ice storm, no closed schools. I rolled back onto my pillow.
I heard Kong moving along the hallway and checking into the monkey cages. I heard him tell the Princeling that he may not drive his car to school today. It's better to take the bus than have a teenage driver on an icy road . . . just in case. The Princeling moaned, and I heard him begin calling friends on his cell phone to inform them that he could not provide transportation to them this morning. All was well, I thought to myself. I attempted to fall back to sleep, but before long I heard a yelp come from the Princeling's cage. In fact, it wasn't so much a yelp as a primal sound of happiness. I knew that sound. No. NO. NOOOOOOOOO!
The Princeling announced to no one in particular that school was closed. I heard him call his friends on his cell phone and confirm the news that they had all just read on the school website. NO SCHOOL. I raised myself up and looked out the window again. There was nothing but a mildly wet road outside. What was going on in the minds of the administrators at the monkey's Catholic school? Was this their way of forcing pennance upon us as the lenten season begins? Dear Lord, what did I do to deserve this? My only hope for a tiny sliver of peace today was that Middle Monkey would have classes today.
I was about to get up and begin zookeeping when I heard the Princeling run into the cage shared by the Baby and the Middle monkeys. The Princeling was announcing loudly to Middle Monkey that indeed, he had school today! "You have school! I don't! You have school! I don't!" Such juvenile behavior from someone who is nearly 18! But, I thought, at least I'll only have two home today. Middle Monkey prepared to leave, and as a special treat, the Princeling drove him to school, saving Middle Monkey the 1.5 mile hike. That was nice of him.
But now, as I sit here typing this, I can hear the Princeling and the Baby begin their teasing and taunting. Rather than going back to bed and at least providing me with some peace while they lay unconscious, they have decided to fire up the television and turn on the Testosterone Network. That's the Cartoon Network to you and me. These are 15 and 17 year-old young men, by the way.
I wonder what it's like in Florida? No snow days. Well, I suppose they do have the hurricane season. Maybe Georgia, then? It's warm. They have virtually no snow. They are relatively well protected from hurricanes. Ugh! Enough fantasizing. I have to just face my reality. Perhaps if I light candles and say rosaries, I will be granted the miracle of a peaceful day.

Stinky Shoes or Stinky Cheese?

As a mother, discipline and control are very important to me. I'm quite proud of the fact that in our household of teenagers there is no backtalk, and there are no dramatic tantrums. I'm serious about that. Not even eye rolling. Most people don't believe me until they see it, but it's true. People ask me how I manage to do that. I'm not sure exactly. If I knew what the magic technique is, I'd write a book and make millions of dollars. My best guess is that it was our parental attitude as the children were growing up. We just didn't tolerate disrespectful behavior. So maintaining a serious attitude while asking a child, "How long ago did you put Cheez Whiz in your brother's shoes," can be very difficult.
This interrogatory was posed to Baby Monkey just the other day. It wasn't a question that I thought of out of the blue. I had my reasons. Middle Monkey has been in some deep do-do for not following rules. He also managed to lose his cell phone, and in order to pay back the expense of a new phone, he's had to do some heavy cleanup work in the basement. He worked like a day laborer breaking up a heavy but crumbling shelf in the basement. I then asked him to take all the broken timbers into the backyard where we would cut them into manageable pieces and stack for trash day. Everything was going along just fine. We had pretty decent weather for mid-February in Philadelphia. The sun was shining brightly, and the temperature was in the mid 40's. I set up saw horses and a power saw and was about to show Middle Monkey how to safely use a power tool when I spotted an odd sight. Just a few feet away in my carefully designed shade garden, tucked up against the walls of our house, lay all of Baby Monkey's bedding.
The centerpiece of this garden is a small statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the infant Jesus in her arms. In the spring and summer, she is circled by ferns, hostas and bleeding heart plants that I've carefully tended for years. But as I looked toward the garden, I could see that Mother Mary was surrounded by a bright red comforter, a twin-sized feather bed, and various sheets, blankets and pillows. I had never seen her napping before, so this situation seemed a bit odd. It took me only a moment to realize that all of this belonged to Baby Monkey. I looked up to the second floor window above. Closed. But I knew someone had opened that window and flung all of the bedding into the garden below. I had a good idea who had done it, too.
I looked at Middle Monkey. He had a bit of a smile on his face. I asked him who rearranged my garden, and he indicated that the Princeling and the Baby Monkey had a fight earlier today. "So what else is new," I thought. It took only a minute or two to discover that Baby Monkey had started the fight by spraying Cheez Whiz into his eldest brother's shoes.
I called Baby Monkey to the back door and asked him to go outside to the garden. He saw his bedding lying there, but he seemed not at all surprised or angry. In fact, he laughed. He thought it was pretty funny. I told him he had to wash all of the bedding, and Baby Monkey was actually quite pleased since the back door to the basement was open, and all he had to do was carry the bedding a few steps to the laundry. In fact, he positively crowed about not having to carry everything down two flights of steps to the washing machine. This has me a bit concerned that he may be plotting to throw his dirty clothing out his bedroom window on wash days from now on.
I next went to the Princeling, who also freely admitted that he flung the bedding out the window. I asked him why, and I was told of the heinous Cheez Whiz attack. I was concerned about the expense of replacing a pair of Addidas tennis shoes and how many weeks of allowance-docking would account for the new shoes, but I thought maybe, just maybe, the shoes could be salvaged. The Monkey Prince has a very decided problem with foot odor, and his shoes generally stink to high heaven. I'm not so sure that Cheez Whiz could cause much damage to those shoes. In fact, there was a slight chance that the aroma of old Cheez Whiz would actually improve the shoes. But exactly how long had the Cheez Whiz been in the shoes, and how firmly had it solidified? These were questions that needed to be answered.
That's when I heard myself asking Baby Monkey, "How long ago did you put Cheez Whiz in your brother's shoes?" As I heard the words leaving my mouth, I realized how very ludicrious this all was. Cheez Whiz? Shoes? Laundry flinging? I just couldn't keep a straight face. I had been good about it up until that moment. In truth, I had wanted to laugh from the very moment I realized that the bedding had been flung out of the window. It was funny. I can't help it. But I needed to maintain discipline and control, and it's all in the attitude. It's all about how you look them in the eye. It's all about the children believing that I'm angry and that their lives will be unpleasant if I am angry with them.
But I just couldn't maintain it. I started to laugh. I started repeating the question over and over again. "How long ago did you put Cheez Whiz in your brother's shoes? How long ago did you put Cheez Whiz in your brother's shoes? How long ago did you put Cheez Whiz in your brother's shoes?" Each time I repeated the question, more laughter bubbled up and I was soon in hysterics. I managed to tell Baby Monkey that he had to clean the shoes, which he did. But none of us could keep a straight face about it.
Yes, discipline and control are important. But so is a sense of humor.

Unclean!

I need to do some serious house cleaning around here. The debris from the monkey cages has spread throughout the entire house. It's awful. If someone I wanted to impress came to the door today, I'd have to say, "Go, away! We are unclean!"
I had the beasts under control for a while, but I don't know what wrong. I mean, it was never Martha Stewart-ish here. It's always out of kilter a bit, and I don't mind. . . too much. Life is way to short to be worried about whether there's a half-inch of dust under a piece of furniture that hasn't moved in 20 years. But the clutter has spread, and it must be addressed.
Middle Monkey, for example, has developed some sort of strange disability that prevents him from opening a closet door. His work station, located literally inches from the coat closet, is covered with jackets, sweatshirts, and various other clothing. Or maybe it isn't a true disability. Perhaps it's just sheer exhaustion. After he's walked home from school, perhaps the poor thing can't possibly go the extra six inches, open the door and actually hang a jacket. I guess I should be glad that we've had a mild winter, otherwise, there'd probably be down jackets piled to the ceiling.
And then there are the deadly sock poops. These belong to Baby Monkey. Baby Monkey has the biggest feet in the house. Size 13. There is no mistaking ownership of anything that covers his feet. He also has a disability. Apparently, he has a rare neurological issue which causes severe irritation when anything is worn on his feet. There is no rash, no itching, no pain, or redness. But he just can't keep anything on his feet once he comes into the house. His shoes come off and are flung in two different directions. The moment of shoe disrobement is accompanied by a very loud thud, similar to the sound of a body falling approximately ten feet, I would imagine. (Do you have any idea how much size 13 Skechers weigh?) Shortly after flinging his shoes, he pulls off his socks -- very long, very smelly size 13 socks. He pulls them off in such a way that they are turned inside out. And then these long, smelly things lay in a little clump on the floor. Hence, they become "sock poops". Try as I might, it seems impossible to housebreak Baby Monkey.
The Princeling hasn't been too messy these days, at least not in the public spaces of the house. Now that he has a girlfriend, he spends most of his time in his cage sending instant messages and making phone calls to her. We know he's in there, because as he talks on the phone, his booming voice can be heard, even though it is slightly muffled by the mountain of laundry sitting in front of his door.
I'd like to get a start on all of this mess. Last week I attempted to begin. All the monkeys were threatened with great physical pain, and they scurried about the house, chattering and screeching while picking up all of their personal belongings. Last week I went on a three-hour quest in search of a new vacuum cleaner belt. I went from store-to-store searching for the very rare Dirt Devil Platinum Series belt, a $6.00 item which was only located after much frustration. So while I now have a functioning vacuum cleaner, I can't see the floor for all the debris and sock poops.
And I'd really, really like to clean the family room, but KONG HAS NOT MOVED THE COFFEE TABLE YET! (In bold letters in case Kong's office mates read this and can help me in the nagging process.) We moved our 100-year-old coffee table from the living room to the family room back in December in order to make room for the stinking Christmas tree that Kong insists we have each year. This coffee table was made by my father from an old kitchen table we had lying around the house when I was a child. I love it. But it's fragile. Yet, now it sits in the middle of the most occupied room in the house. It sits in front of the sofas where the monkeys are sorely tempted to crash their large, heavy feet upon it. The poor table is already shaky, and it can't take this kind of abuse. I've asked Kong several times to move the table. He says he'll do it. IT HAS YET TO BE DONE! So there the fragile table sits, amidst a room full of monkey debris. If it should break, Kong will be the one to suffer, not the little monkeys!
Let this be a warning to all who come to Monkey Island. We are unclean!

Got Milk?

I went to the refrigerator this morning to get some milk for my cereal. All the monkeys and Kong had left for the day. I had been up until 1:30 a.m. working. I was tired. All I wanted was a little cereal and milk. According to my Weight Watchers plan, I'm entitled to 3/4 cup of cereal and a 1/2 cup of non or low fat milk. Just a stinkin' 1/2 cup. That's all I needed.

Ha! Not a drop in the house! It was all gone. Where'd it go? Into the monkeys. Teenage monkeys swill milk. On monkey island, the milk is mostly consumed via the cereal route. Most days I'm lucky if I can find cereal, but that's for another posting. When it comes to male monkeys, it's all about the cereal and milk diet. We average 1.25 boxes of cereal and 1 gallon of milk consumed each day on monkey island. Of that, I'd say the largest percentage disappears down the gullet of the Monkey Prince, but I doubt Baby Monkey is far behind. Middle Monkey, being Asian, is not as addicted to milk, but he can have his cereal moments from time to time.

Over the years, I've tried to slow down the milk consumption on monkey island. Early on I stopped buying whole milk. No one really noticed the change to 2%, and even 1% had little impact. So I switched to nonfat milk. That's right. White water. My father had heart disease, and when I was growing up, my mother was obsessive-compulsive about fat in our diets. Most of my childhood was spent drinking skim milk, so I've never had a problem with it. I thought, skim milk would be the solution to my milk-depletion problem. I like skim milk. I actually prefer. But the monkeys? I was sure that they'd hate the stuff. Everyone does. The first time I introduced skim milk at the table, the monkeys set out a screech and chatter like you wouldn't believe! "What is this stuff?" "Is there something wrong with this milk?" "You can see through this glass of milk!" "Did this milk really come from a cow?" I thought I had done it. It seemed that they did not like skim milk. I actually had a gallon of milk last about two days. I was elated! Milk on my cereal whenever I wanted!

Oh! But it was not to be! Their palates quickly adapted to the lack of slick milk fat sliding down their throats. Not that monkeys have highly developed palates to begin with. Afterall, it was the Monkey Prince who invented pepperoni and marshmallow fluff roll-ups.

I don't know why I remain hopeful after all these years. I've considered buying a cow, but I think there are zoning restrictions in my residential neighborhood. Instead, I make nearly daily trips to the dairy aisle at my local grocery store. Why not just buy several gallons of milk at once, you ask? Oh, sweet, innocent reader! Because, whether I buy one or ten gallons of milk per day does not matter. All will be consumed before the stroke of midnight. The milk consumption rate is directly related to supply. It matters not whether there is one gallon or ten in the refrigerators in our home. (Yes, we have more than one refrigerator.) The monkeys can't help themselves. They are addicted to milk. They cannot control themselves.

In the meantime, I've had no breakfast. I'm hungry. I will probably fall off my points allowance for the day, because without my planned cereal and milk, I will resort to something fattening and decadent for breakfast, causing me to become depressed and hopeless by lunchtime, causing me to further over-indulge at the noon hour, mid afternoon, and at dinner. By the end of the day, I will be 348 points over my daily allowance of 26. By tomorrow's weigh-in, I will be 10 pounds over my previous charted weight, and I may be suicidal. And it's all because the monkeys swill milk.

Monkey Food

Do you have any idea how much food three teenaged monkeys and one Ape King can consume in one day? It's amazing the amount of food that slides down their throats. I've become something of a grocery physicist. I've developed my own theorum called the "Theory of Monkey-Food Relativity". I've theorized that the amount of food consumed by three teenaged monkeys is directly proportional to the amount of food in the refrigerator at any given moment. I also theorize that monkeys must be born blind, because no matter how much food is in the refrigerator, they will stand before the refrigerator holding the door wide open and exclaim, "There's nothing to eat!"

There is also mystery and intrigue involving food consumption on Monkey Island. Usually, these are of a Whodunnit nature. "Who ate the last (insert mystery food item here)," is a basic, daily mystery. This weekend, we had a more complicated mystery. The Mysterious Apple Pie Caper.

The girlfriend of the Monkey Prince, in gratitude for the hospitality extended to her on our recent ski trip, baked a lovely apple pie for the monkey family. Unfortunately, the Princeling did not make this bit of information known to anyone else. On Sunday evening when we drove the Prince's girlfriend home, Baby Monkey and Middle Monkey waited patiently in the car while the Princeling walked the charming young lady to the door. No one paid much attention until the moment when the Princeling turned toward the car and began walking with a tantalizing foil-wrapped package. What could that be? The younger monkeys were intrigued. They sensed approaching food. The Monkey Prince got into the van with the delicious little package and declared that he had been gifted with an apple pie. Pie! Oh, my! The other monkeys were excited! However, they were also very, very tired from their day of skiing. By some unimaginable grace from above, they did not claw or grab at the pie. In fact, they fell almost into a stupor, and a few minutes later when we pulled into our driveway, they simply got out of the van and went inside.

Yet, the pie was not quite forgotten. The next morning, Baby Monkey asked me if there was still pie. I didn't know. I had forgotten about it, and the Princeling had the pie anyway. I thought it was for him. An entire pie for one monkey seemed a bit much, but it was his pie afterall. I didn't think about it again . . . until Tuesday.

I had been out most of the evening at yet another scout-related meeting. When I returned, I found an empty pie plate in the sink. I thought the Princeling had finished off his dessert. I came across Kong who proceeded to tell me that Middle Monkey and Baby Monkey had consumed the pie. "Does the Monkey Prince know this?" I asked. Kong said he didn't know, but he wasn't going to be the one to tell him. The Prince's girlfriend rides the bus home with Baby Monkey, and earlier that day she had asked him how the pie was. Baby Monkey was shocked, I'm sure, that he had completely forgotten about the pie. He was also very interested to learn from the girlfriend that the pie was for the family and not just for the princeling. At some point in the evening, while the Monkey Prince was in his cage upstairs, busily sending instant messages and talking on his cell phone, the other two monkeys explored the refrigerator for probably the first times in their lives. The pie had been hidden in the lowest recesses of the refrigerator nearest the vegetable bin, in a spot rarely visited by the monkeys. But had discovered the treasure! According to Kong, the two monkeys must have decided that the pie was for the family, but didn't bother to consider if it was for ALL of the family. They being family members, were entitled to pie. And apparently they were entired to ALL of the pie. I never even saw the pie unwrapped! It must have been delicious.

And poor Kong. I do sympathize with him. He can't cook, and so he's left to forage when no food has been prepared for him. Kong is also an accountant, and tax season has begun. At the beginning of January each year, I do feel a bit of pity for him and prepare food for him to eat when he arrives home late in the evening. Last night I made a lovely dish of baked Tilapia and cous cous. I had my portion before leaving for the scout meeting. It was delicious. Middle Monkey, who loves fish, had some, too. The other two monkeys ate Hamburger Helper. They can cook, but they aren't gourmets. Baby Monkey made the meal, but neglected to drain the fat after browning the meat. Still, the Princeling and the Baby ate the greasy stuff and were satisfied. While I was at the meeting, Kong returned and foraged for dinner. Later when I came home and finally had a moment to discuss the day with him, I asked how he liked the fish.

"What fish?"

"The baked Tilapia that I left for you."

"For me? What? I threw that out."

"What??? Why did you throw that out?"

"I thought that was leftover from Christmas Eve."

"Dear Lord! Why would I still have leftovers from Christmas Eve, and why would I heat them up and leave them for you now?"

"I dunno. But I ate a lot of Hamburger Helper. I thought maybe you were trying to kill me and collect the life insurance money."

Now, that's a thought, and maybe the greasy Hamburger Helper will take care of that eventually.

Boards of Death

I don't ski. I have been skiing, and I may very well ski again someday, but it doesn't light me up, so I don't ski. The monkeys, on the other hand, enjoy skiing. Their scout troop offered a family ski trip this past weekend. It was a bargain rate at $25 for lift, rental and lesson. Add tubing for $8.00 and you have a really cheap day on the slopes. Yeah, it's the Poconos and not the Rocky Mountains, but it's still slippery, and gravity behaves the same way in Pennsylvania as it does in Colorado. The monkeys love it. Everyone wanted to go, and so we signed up, and I volunteered to be the "Lodge Mom", the person who sits inside where it's warm and keeps an eye on all the stuff. The Monkey Prince decided that his girlfriend should go, too. Since it was a family trip, we adopted her for the day, and waking at the crack of dawn, we loaded lunch, monkeys, and monkey admirer into the minivan and headed for the mountain. This was the third year that I've done this, and I actually had quite a nice time. We have a lot of friends through this scout troop. In fact, the other scouts can be a lot like monkeys, too. Well, let's face it. They are BOY scouts. Boys = Monkeys. The scout troop is part of a large archepelago of monkey islands.

We arrived at the appointed time to find other scout monkeys and their parents getting ready to hit the slopes. The Monkey Prince, very taken with his new girlfriend, was such a gentleman, helping her gather her rented equipment and then taking a beginner lesson with her. He's skied before and has had varying success at the sport. Last year, for instance, he was removed from the mountain on a backboard. It was just a precaution, but it's now a legendary event around our dinner table and was recounted over and over during this particular ski day. Given how his ski adventure ended last year, I was quite happy that he took a lesson this year. Everyone needs more than one. Unfortunately, his girlfriend had pretty much the same reaction to skiing that I had. Eh. Nice. Gave it a try. Been there. Done that. They ended up switching to tubing in the afternoon. Other members of our scouting group were doing pretty much the same thing. You see, they are skiers, and so they belong to their own little cultural subgroup.

What makes these people want to attach long boards to their feet, ride to the top of the mountain in a contraption that suspends them 20 feet above the mountain, and then drops them onto an ice flow of death? Are they insane? Is it the altitude and lack of oxygen? I watched as one of our scout dads put forth a somewhat nervous, yet brave face to his three sons, telling them how much fun they'd have on their first ski experience. But he confided to me that he hadn't strapped on the boards of death for over 21 years. Not knowing much about skiing, I assured him that it certainly had to be like riding a bike, and it would come back to him. He didn't seem to believe me, but he smiled, gathered his progeny and headed out to meet the challenge. I saw him some 45 minutes later standing outside the lodge with a face lit up as though he had seen the face of God at the top of the lift. "This is great! We're coming back again next weekend!" Apparently, it really IS like riding a bike.

So, am I missing something? At the age of 42 (that's a mere two years ago, by the way), I spent the day in a private lesson with a very good friend who happens to be a ski instructor. I had an excellent lesson, and she had me headed down the bunny hill within 20 minutes. I have to admit that I did enjoy it. I apparently took to it pretty quickly and was able to at least control myself on the little hills. I even managed the intermediate slope once, though not smoothly and not quickly. But, I had fun and a great sense of accomplishment. So why don't I want to do it again? Simple. Fear of pain.

Look, I'm 44. I'm female. I'm overweight. I have female musculoskeletal anatomy. From about the age of puberty, those swaying hips that once caused men to admire and drool have also inflicted stress upon every joint below my waist. The joints are stressed from walking, running, bearing children, carrying children, chasing children, picking up after children, and occasionally throwing shoes at children. Stuff hurts. And if I fall, I tend to suffer some sort of injury. With injury comes the problem of "Who will take care of EVERYTHING that I do if I can't do it?"
If I had learned to ski when I was younger, I would be a confident woman on the boards of death. I would love the sensation of flying too much to give it up when faced with the possibility of aches, pains, and even serious injury. I understand that beautiful sensation of flying. I have been a figure skater since I was 6 years old. I wasn't very good, or even remotely graceful. But, I could jam my foot into the ice and make a passable single Lutz jump based on what I saw on t.v. I could skate on one foot, do mohawks, swizzles, and long, swift curves over frozen ponds. I could even manage a spin that traveled further than a skipping stone, but I could spin. And it felt like flying. Today, I still put on the little blades and head out onto the ice. I do less maneuvering, but I still love to just stroke my way across a frozen surface and feel like I'm flying. Can I fall and hurt myself? Oh yeah, I certainly could. In addition, in some skating situations, I could break through ice, something that I have, indeed done before. Do I care? Well, a little. But it feels too good to not do it! I HAVE to skate! And now I've added kayaking to my flying repertoire. Ahhh... to glide along nearly silently, to float! It's wonderful!

And, you can do it sitting down! It only hurts getting in and out of the boat! Woo hoo! Something even old people can do!

I doubt I'll ever put on the boards of death again. I might be persuaded to take another lesson and play around on some baby slopes, but I won't ever be a "skier". I won't ever be one of "them", but I'm happy for the people who love to ski. I can relate.

Feeling My Age

I've been thinking a bit about getting older, and not just because another birthday thwapped me on the back of the head. I turned 44 on December 26. I'm not upset about it, either. I like it. It's a matched pair of 4's, and 4 is my lucky number. I have embraced my 40's and I'm loving them. So far, so good, and I'm liking this much better than my 20's or 30's. Well, as long as I stay away from mirrors as I step out of the shower I like being in my 40's. The physical decline aside, I like being older and smarter. I had my first-born when I was 26, and then my second when I was 28. For a good number of years I was dealing with small children and had a hectic life. I have teenagers now. They really are pretty independent. I can come and go from the house whenever I feel like, and I can go ALONE. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of my next door neighbor strapping her two children into car seats in order to set out on an overland expedition to the grocery store, and I smile. I like the teenage years better. There are a lot of folks out there who dread having teens, but I'm enjoying it.

I'm feeling the march of time more acutely not because of my own advancement, but mostly because the Monkey Prince is getting older. He will turn 18 in April. I'm very ready for it, and I know he is, too. Every day some other little episode just points toward the threshold of his adulthood -- at least by civil law standards. Our health insurance provider recently sent out cards for him to carry. He had a dental checkup, and scheduled his next checkup for himself. He'll be 18 and won't need me to accompany him anymore. His cell phone contract is soon to expire, and guess what.... I'm not renewing it! He's a little miffed about that, but when given the choice to pay the $1600 or so for his car insurance or the lower cell phone bill, he backed down very quickly.

And now he's brought a girlfriend home. I know that lots of kids date well before age 18. In fact, the Princeling was given official permission to date at the age of 16, an age which is still considered prehistoric by many of his friends. But he never complained, and in fact, age 16 came and went. He had girlfriends, but no one exclusive, at least to my knowledge. But he must like the young lady he brought home to visit us this week. He's certainly never brought a girl home before, and he's got a very different "air" about him. He has a silly little grin whenever we mention her, and his face indeed lights up. I have to admit that I was a little nervous at first, but the overwhelming feeling I have is pride. This truly is a step toward adulthood. He seems so grown up, and his young lady is very sweet and charming . . . and I might add, properly dressed. If he had brought home a girl in a mini skirt, crop top, and hooker shoes, I might not be so calm.

I have to say that I'm quite pleased. Time marches on, and I'm enjoying the parade.

Happy New Year

Just a little late. It's now officially January 3, and I haven't posted for a while. It's been a busy week with kids on vacation from school, but thankfully, they'll all be back at school tomorrow morning. I enjoyed having them home with me this past week, except for Middle Monkey. He spent three days on a church retreat. But the other two were here, more or less. The Monkey Prince and I went to a play downtown on Dec 28. We saw "Shakespeare in Hollywood" at the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. Clever show. We enjoyed the day out together, I think. I do like spending time with him. In just four months he'll be 18, and at least by all laws of the land, will be responsible for himself. Maybe he'll not want to spend time with me anymore once he's a man. I'll be sad if that happens.

I'm trying to be the wonderful mom since the Monkey Prince finally brought a girlfriend around to meet the family, a nice young lady. The Princeling has always said I was too weird and evil to bring a girlfriend to visit, but I can't be that bad if he actually risked it. Or, she is very important to him. And I was nice. But I have to admit, I have some mixed feelings about my firstborn growing up. But I'm proud at the same time. He needs to be a grown up, and I need to let him be a grown up. I'm also tired of being the parent in control. I'm ready and he's ready to move on. One thing I'm happy about is that he's "old" by teenage dating standards. We have a no-dating-before-age-16 rule in our house. It seems positively prehistoric to other parents these days, but I stand by it. I was raised by immigrant grandparents and old school parents who had the same rules for me. It worked, so I don't see any reason to do otherwise. I hope the extra time he's had to think and mature will help him to continue in his usual good decision-making. Nice kid. Nice girlfriend.

At the moment, I'm enjoying just a little bit of a buzz from some very excellent wine we had leftover from a gathering we had yesterday. I just had to consume the last two and a half glasses left in the bottle! I mean, if I didn't, air would have gotten into the bottle and the lovely elixir would be "off". No. Can't have that happen! It's 12:09 in the morning, so I think I'll take advantage of the buzz and crawl off to bed. Now that my employment status has changed from statutory employee to part-time, I have to actually report to my computer at a specific time and complete specific tasks in a specific time frame. Sheesh. Just like a regular working person! I better get some shut-eye and wake up completely sober!

Happy New Year!