Tripping the Lampe Fantastic...

A little over a month ago, I decided to halfway cave in to Didgeridoo Boy's insistence on refusing to comply with my request that he not smoke in the house. Tired of popping out of bed at 4am, having been awakened by the smell of smoke wafting from the living room, and beyond sick of repeatedly asking him to take his cigarette back out to the sealed-off dining room (where he was to then open the door to the deck), I did a couple of hours of research into how to establish a smoking area. Didn't necessarily want to do this, but the situation was deteriorating into one that was going to result in Didge living in a pup tent in the creek bed behind the house, and me in a nice, restive, resort-like hospital with soothing music and intravenous sedatives.

Naturally, I didn't tell him what I was doing - - I've learned that with Didge, the way to implement anything pertaining to the house is to just do it. He resists change *and* rules, so things have to be fully plotted out and then done with amazing swiftness. This is a man who seemingly lives to undo and destroy anything he perceives as someone trying to make a space "nice". I am almost convinced he has a phobia or resentment of attractive, pleasantly-scented homes. (Don't even get me started on his "pranks" before company arrives. Just don't.) He was not with me when I bought the big bag of charcoal, and he slept while I divvied said charcoal up between concealed containers around the dining room. He seemed pleasantly surprised when I'd finished that step and told him that smoking in that room was officially cool - provided the door was open. But I wasn't quite finished.

Didge was asleep the morning the Lampe Berger arrived. Having heard of their miraculous capabilities for a few years, I was keen on adding one to my anti-smoke arsenal. I set it up and got it working, and damned if it didn't clear the lingering cigarette smell out of the room in about fifteen minutes. Just one hitch: The starter kit I ordered came with a fragrance that's not exactly to Didgeridoo Boy's liking, but he didn't let me know right off the bat. It took him a month to ask, "What the hell is that smell you keep.....what is that? That?" (He waved his hands.) I explained the wonders of the Lampe Berger, and he said it smelled very much like a very enthusiastic redneck going out for a fancy night of line dancing. Assuring him I'd be changing the fragrance after this round did no good; he raised utter hell and claimed I feared the house smelling like people live here.

The Lampe Berger is now used daily in not only the dining room, but also the living room and Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom. It's part of my everyday housework routine - once I've run the vacuum, I light the Lampe Berger and let it rest in each of those areas for a bit. Sometimes I close the door to Didge's bathroom and just let it be for five or ten minutes to maximize its effectiveness. I swear to you this isn't about getting at Didge, this is about burning through the last bottle of default fragrance oil in a way that brings maximum benefits while being responsibly frugal. In order to do that, I have to put the lampe to use thoroughly and often in areas where it will have the greatest effect.

We must be mindful of finances and the best use of resources in this economy, now, must we not?

I might regret this....

We're on Tumblr now, too.

Why? Because I am a nerd, that's why, and so is Didge. Sometimes it's hard for me to convey the chaos that can erupt at Casa Didgeridoo in mere words. And...we're geeks.

Sensing a trend...

While cleaning the bathrooms earlier this week, within the space of one hour, I experienced two near-disasters:

First - while trying to get up from crawling around cleaning corners in mine, I lost my balance in such a way that I wound up performing a damned fine double knee slide. (Tile floors and yoga pants really love each other.) Ducking into it in an attempt to stop wasn't the best idea, because I very nearly slammed the top of my head into the side of the tub.

Second - perched atop the toilet while reassembling the shower curtain in Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom, I spun a little. Just a little. However, it was just enough to have me lose my balance, resulting in a reflex hop to the floor. The momentum from the hop launched the shower curtain rod into a spin that culminated in its whacking me in the head.

Later the same day, I dropped a coffee cup on my foot while unloading the dishwasher and sucked a corner of the dog's blanket up the vacuum (usually it's the sofa throw). While trotting down the stairs after blowing out my hair, I launched and landed a couple of steps down. The high point of my day, however, was walking right smack into a wall while trying to figure something out on my phone.

One day, people. One. And those are only the highlights. It puts almost melting my tongue with hot soup yesterday into not-so-bad perspective. The whole week has been a bit Tilt-A-Whirlesque. So - - have some music. I'm a bit motion sick, and need to hide somewhere to get my bearings.

The Didgerifurbee...

You've probably gathered that jackassery tends to abound at Casa Didgeridoo. Yes, darlings, our life really is a wild and highly varied cartoon - one never knows what a day might bring. Didgeridoo Boy is highly creative and extremely hyper, and his life revolves around a series of games, antics, loud noises, and pranks.

Sometimes, Didge pops into what I call "Furbee Mode". For those unfamiliar with Furbees, they are furry (get it?) electronic toys that develop a vocabulary over time, and wind up spitting out some of the most random things imaginable. Last week, Didgeridoo Boy had an entire Furbee day; fueled by a frightening amount of caffeine and sugar, he spewed incohesive little bits of nonsense from the time he woke up until sleep finally got him. This round even saw him answering normal, everyday questions in Furbee speak, testing my patience to its frayed limits:

GKG: "What would you like for...."

Didge: "SCHNEEEEE?"

GKG: "What would you like for dinner?"

Didge: (whispering) "Schnee."

GKG: (glaring) "Might that mean that you would like a sandwich?"

Didge: (danced in a fashion bordering on lewd while flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth)

GKG: "I f*****g give up. I'm done, and I'm going to the grocery store. You can sit your schnee butt right the bloody hell here or you can come along."

Didge: "SCHNARRRRRRT!"

GKG: "DINNER! DINNER! F***ING DAMN DINNER! WHAT?" (I actually jumped while I said that.)

Didge: "Bootsch. Schnikendozzle. Schneet."

And so it went. Blessed Didge came along, resulting in a fine time at the grocery store. My brain has pulled a mercy killing on most of the specifics, but suffice to say he Furbee'd to and fro while I tried to keep my wits. One instance stuck with me: I asked if he needed snacks, and he got very serious, answering, "Hocksennz." in the most matter of fact manner I have ever seen him muster. He went back to English during the checkout process (thank the gods for that little smack of mercy), but the moment we got everything into the house he stood stock-still in the middle of the living room, fists clenched, and hollered, "SchneeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEE!". Then he did his Green Giant laugh and had another little dance.

"Schnee" became his word for the evening. He schnee'd his way through dinner, every single television channel change, each and every commercial, every time he stood up, and every time he sat down. He shouted it while he was in the bathroom, and performed an opera of it while showering. Once, he timed it with every single step he took up and down the hall. When I kissed him goodnight, he said it again, and instead of replying, "I love you, too" - - yep, "Schnee." He woke me up a couple of hours later just to say it again.

You might say I was a little schnee'd out by that point. He almost got to schnee right out into the yard to sleep.

Other than when we were at the grocery checkout, I think he prattled in Furbee for a solid thirteen hours. Being a somewhat literal person (Didge calls me "Annaseriously" as a pet name), I found dealing with his new language highly vexing. He's cute and adorable and immensely lovable and all those good things, but that nonsense pissed me right the hell off. But would you like to know what I found most trying?

I got to where I could understand him.

No words necessary...

Do it for the squirrels...

Watch this.

Try as I might, I can't find the version with the explanation that someone trained a squirrel to do this by setting up the obstacle course gradually, allowing the precious to master a section at a time. According to that description, the process took two weeks. Naturally, I want to do one - we have an unfenced area of our yard that would be perfect. Just one problem:

The HOA. I might have to get HOA approval for something like this.

Actually - - that's more of an opportunity than a problem, isn't it? I might have to present it at a board meeting. Even if it doesn't require their okay, I think I might work up a proposal and present it anyway, just to see the looks on their faces. DAMN, I wish I would have thought of this before I declined to attend the annual breakfast. (Actually, that took place Saturday, the same day of the Hyland's Calms debacle. Wouldn't that have been a treat for all involved?)

And I think I might try to involve this woman in the process as much as possible, even though she has no say-so. Wouldn't it be nice of me to be the one to finally humor her? I'd be willing to wager we wouldn't have to remove our info from the contact list, because she would *never* call us again after I explained, in great detail, that I wanted to train wild squirrels to run through tunnels and ride little rockets down chutes. I might even go so far as to expound on how I think it would help the squirrels lead more productive lives, as feelings of accomplishment can do great things for the psyche. I could present a business card calling myself a "Small Wildlife Occupational Therapist", that would feature a sympathy-inducing image of a squirrel who has, at long last, made something of himself. And, of course, I'll need a pastel hoodie upon which I've scrawled "I'm Nuts for Squirrels!" in puffy paint. (Or perhaps, "I'm Nuts.......FOR SQUIRRELS!" Maybe a front/back rendering of that, actually.)

How could they possibly turn that down? Even if it's something that violates every single conceivable neighborhood bylaw and code in place, they'd probably be scared to. One never knows what a crazy squirrel lady might do.

Squee...

So, a little more about Saturday's very brief and fussy entry.

Friday night, Didgeridoo Boy and I went downtown to see Adler's Appetite. *Amazing* show. If they come your way -- GO. Just do it.

Not surprisingly, though, I woke to a persistent and highly damnable squee Saturday morning. My ears were ringing so that it was hard to hear anything else. After an hour or so of this, I got a brilliant idea: I decided to take a Hyland's Calms tablet. Would it help with the tinnitus? No. But it would knock me out so I wouldn't have to deal with it. So I popped my little pill, grabbed a cozy blanket and a pillow, and settled on the couch to wait to nod off.

But I didn't nod off. I got dizzy and started to feel *really* strange. Once I was good and violently ill, I realized I'd taken the thing on an empty stomach. Understand that I'm one of those medicinal weaklings who can be knocked out for sixteen hours by a pediatric dose of Benadryl. After several hours of sailing around the world on the couch, I got it together enough to make a big cup of ginger tea, and noticed so many interesting things about it that I'd never noticed about ginger tea before. At one point, I was staring into it with such interest that I almost dunked the tip of my nose. A little while later (not sure how long, but the little blue dude that was sitting on the couch at that time said it was about another hour, give or take), I was finally able to eat something besides the blueberry PopTart I'd been trying to nibble all damned day.

Yes, Saturday was, in fact, just a little bit south of being pure refried hell. Thanks for asking!

Didgeridoo Boy had a nice, long nap through the entire ordeal. He stumbled into the living room some time after 5pm, after my conversation with a Mountain Dew bottle about how great the sandwich I was finally able to eat had been, and just at the point that I most looked like a wild-eyed wraith. "What the hell happened to you?", he asked. It took a good while to explain it to him. He moved my feet over for me and sat down on the end of the couch. And there we stayed. I think.

I finally drifted off right at the beginning of a movie I'd really wanted to see, and woke up to the closing credits. Staggered (literally) off to bed shortly thereafter, and went into the blackest sleep of my life. Woke up Sunday morning wondering what the hell had happened and why there were lights on, thinking it was only a few minutes later. I walked around the house for a bit trying to put Saturday back together, got a cup of coffee, and firmly resolved to never take another of those little pills again, with or without food.

It should go without saying that I'll just deal with the squee if that ever happens again.

Squeeeeeeeeeee.......

Yesterday was so busy I forgot to post an entry. And today, my ears are ringing with such force that I can't think of anything beyond....well, that. All I hear is the squee, my life is all about the squee, and I have popped a Hyland's Calms tablet to knock myself out so maybe, just maybe, I can get the hell away from the squee.

Full update on Monday, when this damnable squee has stopped.

Officiously unofficial...

The Neighbors I Am Refusing to Talk About Again (ahem) haven't been our only source of suburban frustration this week. I had a brief, but lively, discussion with another neighbor Saturday morning; a woman who only recently moved in but seems rather excited about being here. (I know HOA board members. She shows up at meetings with ideas, and enacts projects on whims. Oh, yes.) Some weeks ago, I received a letter asking whether or not I would be attending the annual homeowners breakfast at a nearby country club. I answered that I would not, and sent it back to the board member responsible for taking care of such things.

The annual breakfast is a neighborhood "thing". Unfortunately, it's also a neighborhood "thing" for everyone to have a contact list with everyone else's names and info right there for easy access. Mrs. Enthusiasm called bright and early Saturday morning, sounding very official. I thought something was wrong, judging by her tone, and wondered if I'd forgotten to mail the garbage people their pickup fee. Once we'd gotten past the initial, introductory hello/self-identification part of the "conversation", here's how it went:

"I am calling about the breakfast - I don't think I have an answer from you, and want to know...."

I told her I likely would not be attending.

"Well, I need a definite answer from you. You see, I feel it would be a good idea to give the place we're having it at an exact head count so they will know how much food to prepare."

I tried to speak. She cut me off, and I don't remember what she said. It was something about the head count again. I was growing confused by this point, as I have never been pressured into an answer about the breakfast before. I told her, again, that I probably would not be attending.

"Well.... I just need to know for sure so I can let the people who are doing the food know."

I mentioned that I thought I had already given an answer via a letter. (Hint, hint, lady, the people who need this info have it. It's a done deal!)

"Oh, well, this is just something, you know, that I am doing because I thought it would be a good idea to....." (You have GOT to be ******** me....)

And that is when I said, "If this is so urgent for you, then just put me down as a definite no."

She didn't like that. "Oh, well, I am sure if you change your mind that there will be enough food, I just thought it would be a good idea to, you know, have, you know, a head count...." (Cue "Twilight Zone" theme...)

I said, "Okay. I understand. Just put me down as a no."

She stammered, "Well....okay, but we really need to have a head count and I am sure there will be....if you change your mind just let me know and I'll get in touch with the people who are doing the food and let them know of the change."

I said, "No, no, it's fine. Since it's so important that you know right now, just put me down as a no."

She thanked me in the same way a teacher who had just scolded me would, and I said (in that forcefully polite, smiley-sticky-sweet Southern way), "BYE!" It actually reverberated a bit throughout the living room, that "BYE!" I heard her go, "Uh!" as I clicked her into phone oblivion. And I should note - I maintained perfect, charm school manners through that entire, strangely circular ordeal, even during the bye/click part at the end. How, I don't know, but I'm rather proud of myself.

We will be having our information removed from the HOA's contact sheet. I want her to come knocking with her next self-assigned task and officious attitude, so I can have Didgeridoo Boy answer the door in a sexy clown suit and a jet pack, holding a magic wand, and looking like he's in the middle of putting on a gas mask.

A public appeal from Totsi the Dog...

Totsi the Dog is a tad concerned about something, and feels the issue warrants a public appeal.

Hello, everyone, this is Totsi again and I need to discuss something I find distressing.

Look at this picture, please. Mommy is going to be very mad that I have posted this picture showing Daddy's papasan chair without its slipcover, since it was in the washing machine. But she will have to come to terms with that because I am so worried about this situation:

That's me, of course, with Daddy and Foot Foot. Would you like to know what he is saying? He is saying what a sweet little kitty she is, all sitty in her box. Look at the little kitty, sitty in her box. If she is sleeping in the box, he says she is sleepy in the box. Actually, he pronounces it like "seepy", and I think we can all agree that no one wants her to be that way in that box.

Anyhow, I mean no disrespect to my daddy, but that cat is not sitty or sleepy in that box. I don't believe she is seepy, either. What she is, is plotty. She is plotty in that box. She plots, she plots about when to plot some more, and then she plots about how to not have anyone find out she is plotting. Just look at her staring up at Daddy - my poor, deluded Daddy. I do believe she is staring at the location of his jugular vein. If you will notice, I am keeping my safe distance, simply observing her being plotty. But I am also wondering just how in the name of most things good my seemingly intelligent daddy is missing the mark. Sitty, indeed.

So I would like to take a moment to ask you all to wish a healing upon my daddy, that his delusions may fade and he may not hold his throat over that little fiend's plotty box again.

Thank you, and I do hope you find the rest of your day enjoyable. Take the time to dance some.

Totsi Tatertot Didgeridoo

You will be assimilated...

I have finally figured it out. I know what he is doing. Yes, yes - - I'm on to the whole shebang.

Lately I've noticed a pattern of being reminded of things I've agreed to. Mind, I have no recollection whatsoever of these things, but Didgeridoo Boy insists I agreed to this, that, or the other. I'll say he's full of it to the brim and suggest he try out the dominant form of reality for a spell, and he'll say I need to do something about my forgetfulness - once, he even suggested gingko biloba. I won't tell you what I suggested for him in return.

Truth is, we're both right. I have honed my disassociation skills to the proverbial "nth". Overwhelm me, and DING! I'm gone. And while I'm away, I will uh-huh and okay my way into allowing things like nuclear reactors in the back yard, blissfully unaware of a lick of it. Shutting off when I've not had peace and/or quiet for quite some time is my norm - - it's a defense mechanism that I treasure, and can switch on and off at will.

Didgeridoo Boy moving in meant a greatly increased level of hellaciously manic activity; he likes the television on, he needs help with creative projects, he clowns for cardio. Everything is of his will and happens according to his timing. Hell, since his arrival in September of 2009, for the most part I've not even heard music of my choosing. Sometimes, I get a break - when he decides upon it. (He was traumatized when the woman he was seeing before he and I got together played John Mayer, evidently, so now he must have *complete* control of musical selections. At least that's what he says.) The only time he is still and quiet is when he is sound asleep; once he wakes, it is on. And when things peak and become too much, I do precisely what I have done since childhood: I tune out, and hard.

But I think I'm tuning out too hard. I never knew I told him it was okay to snip the speaker wires to one of my stereos completely off - - the last I recall, I told him he could use the speakers. Evidently, I said several things about the awful ugly Manly Wall of Entertania (its new name) that meant he could make it just as sky high horrific as he desired. I don't recall refusing to travel to certain concerts - in my memory, it was his decision - but somehow, I made the call and it's my fault he missed something. Evidently I walk around "functioning" in this state, because things have been messed up that I don't even remember touching. I do, however, remember that I did housework. I think.

So what is this thing I have figured out that Didgeridoo Boy is doing? He's figured out how to trigger a disassociative state in order to get me to agree to anything and everything he wants. That we don't have heavy military equipment in the driveway and an amusement park in the woods behind our house is surprising - - and I have a bad feeling I might have uh-huh'd my way into allowing the living room to be nothing but a giant display space for his dream diorama of Star Trek meets World War II. I almost know for a fact, as paranoid as I might sound, that he thinks something along the lines of, "I'm going to drive my wife so nuts that she tunes me out and says this is cool!" That has to be it. Has to be.

Evidently, I have married something akin to a mad scientist. He knows how to induce a form of assimilation similar to that of the Borg, but without the cables and latex clothing.

And if that's not the case, I really am going completely senile.

Monday morning Stupid Honky rant...

For anyone who's been reading this blog for a while, or is familiar with us in everyday life, when I say the words "jackass" and "neighbors" it's obvious who I'm talking about and that yet another event in the madcap saga has transpired. So (ahem) - Jackass Neighbors! If you're not familiar with the Jackass Neighbor nonsense, here's a very brief entry that will familiarize you with the subject. That was actually our last real encounter with them. (We learned through a neighbor who knows their landlord that the female part of that equation took a job out of town, and is only here on weekends now. ) A couple of times, she's glared if our paths happen to cross on the times that she's in town, but she does that to everyone. Once you've been yelled at and had things thrown into one of your cars, a glare? Meh. I'll have some coffee to go with this piece of cake.

Yesterday morning, bright and early, we had engines revving in our ears and heard many car doors slamming. Car alarms were brought into the mix, too. I had planned to sleep in a bit - Sundays are good for that - but got up and peeked out the bedroom window. (I should mention that since we've moved back to the master bedroom on the ground floor, our bedroom window is down near the driveways.) Someone's battery was, evidently, dead. Both of their vehicles had the hoods up, and were joined by jumper cables. Both ran for quite some time after that. Okay, fine. Maybe she was about to leave.

No. But let's wake the neighborhood early on a Saturday morning. You know, just because.

At about one o'clock this morning, musical cars started. Their very bright outside light came on, the beepity beep of car alarms being armed and disarmed started, and back they went to slamming car doors. Didgeridoo Boy suggested we shout out the front door at them and tell them to shut up. I told him we were going to rise above such nonsense as I spied out the blinds. It took a good six tries to get her car backed into the driveway. For a brief spell, the man responsible for moving her car ran back and forth, in and out of the front door of the house. I don't know if he was forgetting keys repeatedly or not, but he slammed both his car door and their storm door every single time. (It was like a remix.) Didgeridoo Boy suggested we call the police, as that's what she would do to us. I told him to hush, because I didn't want them to hear us and know I was pretending to be Gladys Kravitz. NEVER FLIPPING MIND that my silhouette could be seen against the blinds because we had a light on. Just forget that part.

I'll be honest with you - this morning, I am ticked the hell off. How is it not cool for us to come in at about 10.30pm from a party, making almost no noise, but it's perfectly fine for them to first wake their neighbors with the battery-charging escapade and THEN have a door-slamming musical cars fest at 1.00am? And, in yet another episode of their blatant jackassery - they had a guest who parked behind our driveway yesterday evening and last night. Have I mentioned that if you park behind their driveway they freak the hell out? They have repeatedly parked behind ours, and allow their guests to park behind ours. Lo and behold, in keeping with the full-on crap trend they insist upon perpetuating, the silver car belonging to their guest was right smack dab behind ours. Why do they not have to give a shit? They consistently do not give a shit while we have to live on eggshells, and this puzzles me greatly.

You're probably thinking that she was leaving town late last night, which would explain the flurry of activity at 1.00am, right? No. She's still here. The guest is apparently gone, but she's still here, with her car backed into the driveway. I swear it looks smug. Actually, it might be glaring.

I am seriously considering putting a sign in our bedroom window that reads: BEDROOM WINDOW. SHUT UP. LOVE, THE STUPID HONKIES.

"One"...

Didgeridoo Boy has taken to referring to himself as "One", and is making requests for things as if he is a little lord. What was a now-and-then happening that I found cute has intensified, and over the past week "One" has increased his demands and his tendency to address himself as such. So, written in the way "One" has chosen to address himself, here is a very generalized summary of one of "One's" days. (That was seriously confusing to type.)

"One" deems it is time to wake now, and "One" requires his beverage. "One" would like ice in his beverage, perhaps, or perhaps not - that is not to be known. "One" cannot decide. "One" requires his lighter, because "One" would like the cigarette that is his custom upon waking. "One" cannot find his lighter. Help! Help "One"! Just help "One" find his lighter. Oh, it is on "One's" desk, where "One" left it. Of course, "One" did not put it there, even though "One" did. But "One" did not. It was moved.

Now "One" requires his Monster Energy Drink. "One" must find his keys so "One" can drive to the store. "One" cannot find his keys. Help! Help "One"! "One" needs his keys! Oh. They are in the pocket of "One's" jeans, where "One" left them. Only "One" did not put them there. Someone other than "One" must have moved them. Where is "One's" hat? "One" cannot find his....oh. There is the hat that belongs to "One". But that is not where "One" left it. Again, someone other than "One" is surely responsible.

And, so, "One" tarries to the store. Wait a minute, "One" needs his wallet. Help! Help "One"! Where is "One's" wallet? Oh. That, too, was surely moved in order to inconvenience "One".

Upon returning, "One" requires several hours of silence so "One" can make noise. And then "One" requires his bath, which he blessedly needs no help in obtaining, which is to be followed by his supper. Yes, "One" would like his supper now. "One" requires his supper. "One" does not know what supper should be, though, for that is a great mystery. "One" will consider this while he makes a phone call. But, wait! "One" cannot find the little phone book. Help! Help "One"! Oh. There is the little phone book, on the floor beside the chair where "One" last sat while on the phone. But "One" did not leave it there. Oh, no. Not "One". And now, "One" knows what he wants for his supper, and will take it. Yes, "One" should like his supper now.

And, so, "One" has his supper.

And then, "One" would like a blanket and pillow so "One" can relax on the couch. "One" might like to be awakened in time for his favorite television program, but "One" will not wake. "One" will grunt, and go back to his sleep, which he requires. And once "One" has napped sufficiently in front of the television, "One" retires to bed, where he takes his rest.

And then "One" wakes, and thus begins another day in the life of "One". Today, we are going out to buy "One" a little black shorts suit with a lace collar, and a cute hat to go with it.

We've got the fever...

Cabin, that is.

Monday, Snow came. We were delighted, and spent a fair amount of time entertaining him and sitting around letting him call the shots. Since it's not often we have a visit from Snow, we decided to let Snow rule the day, and he seemed to appreciate it. It was such a nice visit, but then Snow called a friend, Ice. He invited Ice over. Not wanting to upset Snow and jeopardize the tone of our rare visit, we bit our tongues and told him this was fine. Ice arrived.

Tuesday, Snow and Ice showed no interest in leaving. Being Southern, I am very keen on being the perfect hostess, and said nothing. As I said, we don't see Snow often, and since his visits are so much fun we saw no harm in adding to the party. This was not wise. Ice began taking liberties and indulging what he considers his sense of humor.

Yesterday, Wednesday, Snow decided it was time to go - he could see it, too. Ice, frankly, is a little bit of a bastard. He likes to trip me, mainly on the back steps, and has had a great time spooking Totsi the Dog enough to where going potty outside isn't high on her list of priorities. I suppose it's to his merit that he's never tripped her and has stuck to making popping noises every time she takes a step, but the poor dog has really been freaked out. He has glued Didgeridoo Boy's windshield wipers down, resulting in an interesting drive to the store in a pelting drizzle. We have yet to get them loose. He somehow made it to the roof, where he stomped and slid, sounding very like a large, angry man and nearly giving me a heart attack. Snow is saying he had no idea his friend would go this far with the pranking, and has been deeply apologetic. He honestly tried to leave yesterday, but Ice ran enough interference that he finally gave up.

So here we are - Thursday morning. Snow is going to make another try at getting them out of here, and thinks he's figured out a way to convince Ice that it's time to hit the road. Since neither of us have much faith in that working by tonight, there will be a grocery run later today to restock the snack supply, and possibly a stop for some adult beverages to help us tolerate this jackass should he refuse to leave. (Actually, scratch the adult beverages. Let's not find out what he's like with a buzz.) I'm trying not to resort to pouring boiling water on Ice, as I know that would not be polite and I'm still trying to be a good hostess.

All we can really do is relax and make the best of it, right? Right?

Boxed In, featuring Foot Foot Kittycat

This would be Foot Foot, our cat. She has thoughts.

Damned right I'm Foot Foot. And damned right I have thoughts. To tell the truth, most of the time, most things make me mad, furious, even. I cannot stand this damned dog, I cannot stand the loud thing that sucks my essence out of the floor coverings, I cannot stand the doors I can't get out of, I cannot stand birds or squirrels. A lot of the time, I hate everything. So I stay in boxes. Boxes contain my seething anger enough so that I don't do things that will get that crazy lady running after me with that damned water bottle. I will just stay. In my box. Until the anger passes.

At first I thought that crazy lady wasn't going to let me write. I stared at her until she figured out I was mad about the dog getting to, and I think she was so scared I might pee on something that she agreed to let me do this. We have to be fair, don't we? So I told her I wanted a column, and that it should be called Boxed In, because that is both how I feel and what protects the crazy lady, the silly man, and their infernal, prancing fool of a dog. Make sure I've got my boxes, and nobody gets a little surprise. I know you know damned well what I am talking about.

And don't you dare move a box. I taught the crazy lady a lesson about that a few weeks ago. Move my box, and I will pee on your floor. I will pee on your floor in a spot you didn't know I knew about. And if you dispose of my box, you had damned well better be ready with a replacement. That kind of thing is up to me, not you. I decide. I am in control. I have powers that I will use, and I store them in my boxes.

I'm finished with this for now. I want my box, my catnip, and to be left the hell alone until these thoughts go down. Now feed me, fools.

Love, bunny rabbits, and all that pink fuzzy crap that the crazy lady said I have to sign these things off with.

Foot Foot Kittycat

One more time...

Snow! Again! Where we live, snow is rare enough, never mind the "again" part. (Had I mentioned we had snow the day after Christmas?) Here's what we woke up to yesterday morning:

I took that standing in our back door in my pajamas, barefoot. A couple of seconds later I realized that wasn't at all wise, and ran for my coffee and some socks. Didgeridoo Boy called me a dunce, and I agreed.

After coffee and Pop Tarts (blueberry), we took Totsi the Dog for a walk. Didgeridoo Boy whacked me with a snowball. I gave chase, kicking snow at him and exciting the dog, who I then took on a calming jog around the neighborhood while Didge went inside dry off. Guys? If your wife has proper snow-worthy outerwear from having lived in a snowy place in a past life, hitting her with snowballs and having her retaliate means *you* get sent home while she stays dry and warm.

Naturally, as soon as we came back in, Totsi wanted to go back out. She stayed in this position for about fifteen minutes, not even blinking.

So Didgeridoo Boy obliged her. See them off in the distance? I'd changed back into loungey clothes again, and was standing in the door trying to snap pictures of them. Barefoot. (Again.)

He returned home so excited he danced, a state I call "disco excited". A sled was what he needed, he said, and Totsi could be his (wait for it) sled dog. We bandied the yes and no of his idea around for several minutes, an exchange that culminated in Didge finding a laundry basket, lighting up, and saying, "Oh, yes!" with me responding with yet another, "Oh, HELL no." I hid her leash and explained the dynamics of, "Oh, HELL no." That wasn't going to happen, although I told him he could slide around using his own power, and that I'd be happy to join him. Never mind that I had no way of getting us to the emergency room post epic slide down the big hill and failed Knievel laundry basket sled jump into the ten-feet-deep creek bed - - and you KNOW that would have happened.

Luckily by that point sleet had started to fall, so we settled in for a peaceful (!!!) day of semi-hibernation. There's still snow on the ground this morning, but it's frozen into a lovely sheet of ice that's rather difficult to maneuver with any amount of grace or stability. To step out the door is to bust your ass, pretty much, so we're staying put again today. Yes, I realize the snow's being frozen solid also means it's the perfect surface for sliding around on in a laundry basket. If you don't hear from us tomorrow, it's likely we're in traction.

I'm glad I didn't see that, too...

For the past week, Didgeridoo Boy and I have been back into overdrive with regards to working on our house. We've moved furniture, upgraded our electronics, moved more furniture, and have generally made a huge mess of things in the process. So now I'm working on cleaning all of that back up. Didgeridoo Boy? He's tweaking his new stuff.

And that tweaking damned near resulted in something bad. As I was prepping dinner on Saturday, Didge was trying to remedy a strange situation with a turntable he's working into his stereo system. While we had a turntable on hand, Didge decided to recover the one he'd left at a friend's house. The friend took the needle off for some reason, and offered a replacement that he said "should" work. I could probably stop here, because you can probably imagine what kinds of things wound up happening. But that wouldn't be as much fun, would it?

He had me pop the replacement needle on - my hands are smaller than Didge's, and I have an easier time of such things. What should have worked did not. For a couple of hours, almost all I heard was speakers humming, very muffled music coming from the turntable, and Didgeridoo Boy swearing. This was interspersed with the sounds of a turntable being taken apart time and time again - he was checking the belt, fiddling with some kind of switch, checking the needle's placement. He called a friend. I heard the words, "What kind of wire would I need? Yeah, I think that's it, man, I need to ground it." I tried to make myself look smaller, as I didn't want to be noticed and dragged into something with that kind of potential. Luckily I had dinner to look busy with.

He called me in once, and I pulled the dingbat ruse. I was told to stand in a particular spot while he tried to play a record. He asked me how it sounded. I told him it sounded like crap. He told me to stay put. I said, "You've got a really bad humming." He stopped everything, turned around, and asked, "Oh. Ya think, Einstein?" I answered that I thought he liked for me to tell him everything, and he sent me back to the kitchen. Victory feels nice, no?

I'm amazed at how busy I can make myself look stirring chili and whipping up cornbread. Hearing Didge swear again, I peeked into the living room to see him disassembling the turntable on its shelf; he was standing over it with wires in both hands. And then I head what can only be described as a loud, humming pop. It was like an explosion of hum. I didn't ask, and I damned well wasn't about to look.

"Whoa. I hope you didn't see that." I stopped pretending to be a chef. "What the hell happened?", I asked. He wouldn't tell me. Told me to keep cooking, that he was going to try to call someone else.

I overheard him telling the friend he called that there had been sparks. After trying a few more things, he finally settled down and decided to give the matter a think. He went back to thinking he needed to ground it, resulting in my keen desire for a soothing cocktail and a trip someplace calm and tropical.

He slept on the issue, and started working on it again yesterday afternoon. After only about five minutes, it worked - good, this, because I was starting to worry like mad over what might happen. And what was the issue?

The needle. The needle that I put on crooked.

Scrap that...

I had a post all written up for today, complete with a picture, but yesterday killed it. Actually, Wednesday and yesterday killed it. Today's entry is a scrapbookesque list of these events and their lessons, as my brain's a little too fried from it all to generate anything even remotely cohesive.

We'll start with Wednesday.

- Didgeridoo Boy woke me at 7.30am. On the agenda? The purchase of a new television and blu-ray player. Lesson? I'll be damned. He *can* get out of bed early.

- My debit card has a daily spending limit, imposed for my protection and our inconvenience. Lesson? No lesson. Just a flippin' migraine, frankly, and a bit of embarrassment at a checkout counter.

- Didgeridoo Boy decided to wait there while I drove home to get my checkbook. The first lesson? Actually, it's more of a confession. I can drive his car. The second? Even in a parking lot in the midst of frustration and flusterment, with lots of people staring, while I'm soaked with rain, I can figure out how to turn his car alarm the hell back off.

- Combination happening and lesson: It's good to have your checkbook where you can find it.

- An excited man will damned well want to get his new television and blu-ray player out of the box, and quickly, and then he will damned well want his lunch. Lesson? All else must wait when new electronics are involved. And I do mean *all*. The earth must stop. And then there must be lunch. Damned well.

And then there was peace.

Let's discuss yesterday.

- Mattresses have handles. Lesson? You don't need to use a fitted sheet to help move a mattress from one room to another.

- Stairs are fun to navigate while trying to move a mattress. Lesson? If you drop the mattress while using the fitted sheet as a handle, the stair rail might catch it for you. Your sheet will rip, but the mattress can stay in place long enough for you to run for something to cut it loose if it is held by a swearing man.

- Sheets, when ripping, make strange sounds. Lesson? That popping/ripping noise is only the sound of fabric splitting. It's not electricity. There is not about to be a FIRE HOLY SHIT FIRE! Hence, there is no need for a woman to scream like a little girl. Nor is there reason for a man to shout, "WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM! WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM!"

- The weight of a mattress might take a stair rail off the wall. Lesson? It is perfectly fine for a man to shout, "GET A KNIFE! GET ME A DAMNED KNIFE!!! QUICK!!"

- In such moments, things taught to you in childhood stick with the utmost tenacity. Lesson? I can walk quickly with scissors and live, but I'm not ready to try running. My life's already exciting enough without such risks.

And those are only the highlights. Today, I feel like I'm waking up from a dream in which I was sucked into a swirling vortex of constant, but mild, chaos. And that vortex swirled right through our house, evidently, because it really looks as though a tornado's been through. I'm honestly hesitant to move and clean it all back up, because I don't know what I'll set loose if I move anything.

I'm considering indulging in the Southern ladies' tradition of taking to my bed for the next week or so.

A Very Didgeridoo Anniversary

One year ago today, Didgeridoo Boy and I eloped.

Best decision ever. Damn, I love him.

And he just told me he's going to start calling me "Fumbles".

Much like Donkey Kong, it's now on.

It's been an educational year. I've had to let down my perfectionist, princess guard and come to grips with things that used to profoundly confuse or gross me out. (I'm still working on it.) I find myself in WalMart on a regular basis, sometimes at night, when it's really scary. Frequently, I lose him in the grocery store, only to find that he's been following me at twenty paces for thirty minutes. The serious answers my overly-analytical mind craves don't happen; if I ask what he would like for dinner, for instance, he will likely tell me that he wants barbecued donkey. One couch-based, peaceful day, I heard a giggle, looked up, and saw this:

(It has since been solidified in the house rules that he will not do that again or jump from there, and especially that he will not even consider trying to jump from there onto my rebounder.)

But since I really don't like dull moments, it works. How could I not love the guy? Yeah, I have to do a lot of calming breathing exercises, but I love him so much I can't see.

But..."Fumbles"? What did I do to deserve that?

And now, a word or two from Totsi the Dog...

Totsi the Dog's thoughts on things might just improve the overall quality of your life.

Hello. I am Totsi, resident canine of Casa Didgeridoo and all-around seer of most things good. And today, I would like to speak on the topic of sauced treats. They're a special favorite of mine, and, in my opinion at least, require a special approach in order to achieve maximum enjoyment. And isn't that what we're all here after, anyway? I do believe in enjoying.

So, with regards to sauced treats, anytime you are presented with a treat that's covered in any kind of sauce, be that barbecue sauce, steak sauce, sweet and sour, mustard, cheese, any kind of sauce, I believe it's best to take it out of your dish (carefully, for it's not good form to waste good sauce) and far away from any linoleum surface. You want to put it on carpet. Right smack dab in a good, visible spot, too - just place it somewhere that you enjoy being. Let it sit there while you do your dance of gratitude. This is something I do every time I eat, and I'll speak more about it later. If you don't do a dance of gratitude, try it. If dancing isn't your thing, let the sauced treat sit in its special place on the carpet and ponder it thankfully. What we're going for is a spot that will remind you of having such a joyous moment; sauced treats are truly a cause for celebration. Once you're sure there's a spot in the carpet, you can wolf down your treat (no pun intended) knowing there might always be a little reminder for you. Try creating several of these; if you work at it, you can make a pleasing pattern that your people might like, too. It can be like your scrapbook, or memory board if that's more your style, something you can be proud of.

I hope you find this helpful. If not, have some cornbread. It's my firm belief that cornbread helps most anything.

Have an enjoyable day, and dance some.

Totsi Tatertot Didgeridoo

The Didgeridoo Flu...

I think I mentioned the fact Didgeridoo Boy was sick all day on Christmas. Tucked in bed with his head under a pillow, a vat of KoolAid and bottle of aspirin on the bedside table, he stayed cooped in the bedroom while I went to my parents' house for dinner and presents. I know, I'm such a heartless wench of a wife, right, to leave my sick and bedridden husband all alone on Christmas with no one to nurse him? Well, consider this conversation:

GKG: "We need to leave soon. Are you going to get up or do you need to stay here?"

Didge: "Pphhug. Uhmeel ike git."

GKG: "Do you need anything?"

Didge: "OWER! PHARK!"

I came back in an hour.

GKG: "Alright, I'm ready and I have all the gifts in the car. Are you able to go?"

Didge: "PHARK! UHMEEL IKE GIT! EEEV ME UH BONE!"

GKG: "Well. Alright, jackass, there's no need to cuss me out."

Didge: "Foo mins. Gim mee min."

GKG: "I'll be back in thirty minutes."

Didge: "Oo."

I went downstairs, called the 'rents, told them Didge was sick and in bed with a fever.

GKG: "Hey. I'm going. You need to stay in bed."

Didge: "PHARK OOOOO! PHARK! UHMEEL...... PHARK! Huh?"

GKG: "I'm going without you. Everyone said to tell you to feel better soon."

Didge: "Meemee?"

GKG: "Yes. I need to go so I can help with dinner."

Didge: "Mm. Eev phark wone."

GKG: "I'm out."

Didge: "I love you, Sweetie!"

(Yes! An instant of plain talk!)

GKG: "I love you, too, Grouch."


And off I went. I considered doing so self, and sanity, preservation. Besides, I wanted my presents. Sometimes it's best to leave the man alone, and leave. (And get your presents.)

Of quick fixes and semi-sconces...

Have you ever had a harsh, sudden realization that prompted an emergency fix? Didgeridoo Boy gets cardio in his sleep. It's how he loses weight so fast on a diet of junk food and Monster Energy Drinks, and I've come to accept it as one of the many wonders involved with being in his company. But part of said cardio involves knocking the same thing, rolling, out into the middle of the bedroom floor every single morning. (It's not me or the dog, although he's come close.)

Perhaps you'll think it's very dorm room, but Didge and I have a thing about mini lights. Our house is festooned with them all the time; they're draped over the mantle, stuffed into vintage spaghetti lamp globes, suspended under kitchen cabinets. We're not old-school heads or too lazy to buy proper light bulbs - we just dig mini lights. And what Didge keeps knocking, rolling, out into the middle of the damned bedroom floor every single morning at what I am sure is a designated time is one of the light-filled, vintage spaghetti lamp globes. (Absorb the bit that says, "vintage") He said he needed a bedside lamp, and this is what I put there. He liked it.

Didge is not a careful man, not even in his sleep. He thrashes about like a goldfish that's hopped out of its bowl; I swear, I have seen him kick and hurl himself through a sidelong flip in order to turn over. And that poor DIY lamp has taken a beating. Saturday morning, it crashed harder than I've ever heard it crash, and when I went upstairs to pick it up, I noticed that it had flown/rolled further than ever before. I'm not keen on having one of my *vintage* spaghetti lamp globes broken, and hadn't realized that as a possibility until then. I'm a chick - I'm wired to be careful, so it takes me a while to even conceive of such things. Who chucks lights in their sleep, anyway? Am I married to the only man who does this?

It dawned on me: What if it smacked the dresser and shattered? So I took the lights out of the (vintage) spaghetti lamp globe and put it far, far away from him on the other side of the room. And then I came up with a non-chuckable, TEMPORARY fix:

Yes. That would be a string of lights hanging from a 3M hook on the wall above his nightstand. Let's hope he doesn't get his hand caught in it doing his sleepytime calisthenics. Any ideas for sturdy, unbreakable bedside lamps that can withstand such things?

Wonderfully not so rockin' New Year's Eve...

Every time I say this, I think the earth is about to move: We did not party last night. We had an old-school steakhouse dinner at home, did an Indiana Jones marathon, discussed unreleased material in the Alien flicks, did some online electronics shopping (we want a slick, new television), and then settled in for some Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City and Coast to Coast AM. It was the perfect ending to what's been a rather interesting year. (Yes, we're nerds.)

Last night was like saying, "Whew!" after one wild ride of a year. Have you ever gotten on a carnival ride that looks like it's going to be fun, and is to a certain degree, but roughs you up so much and takes such scary flips and turns that you're glad when it's over? And then, you brag a bit about having ridden it while staying firm in the position that you don't want to ride it again? That was 2010 for us. Last night found us back on the ground, recovering, searching for the nearest place to get a corn dog or a Lemon Shake Up, and excitedly deciding what to ride next.

I've been in a beautifully semi-vegetative state all day, and am now off to dork out on documentaries, listen to the cat form words as she snores, and try to recover from this sudden craving for vinegar fries. Here's to fabulous things on the horizon!