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!