What would you have done?

There are days I wonder whether I'm cut out for this anymore.

I don't know if you've heard about this, but I can't get it out of my head.

(Note: The above link isn't my story. That one came from Dallas.)

On Monday, a city editor put a wire version of that story on my desk, and asked me if I'd seen it. Then he asked me to see if the family would mind if I covered the funeral.

I did not want to go. I prayed I would not have to go. The kids were 5 and 2. My God, I did not want to attend that funeral. I've covered children's funerals. In one case, there were five buried together the same day.

But I didn't have to go to this one. The family didn't respond to my request.

Then the emails from editors started trickling in --

"Hey, what happened with the funeral?" and "Hey, weren't you supposed to be checking on that funeral?"

OK, so maybe they didn't mean to sound so flippant and/or accusatory. Maybe I was being hypersensitive.

But my first thought after getting those emails?

Oh, sure, I'll just be the reporter who crashes the funeral of a 5- and 2-year-old. Yeah, readers will just love that.

We knew you were just a bunch of vultures.


Funerals aren't public events. If people don't want you there, well, you honor that request. As a journalist, I don't feel entitled to sit in on the service, not if I'm not wanted there.

Instead, I wrote a different sort of story, one about the public's response to this family's string of tragedies. I worked hard on it, calling and emailing people all over the nation to ask why this story resonated with them, why had it moved them to reach out to this couple?

That was the gist of my story: Sometimes, people really do give a shit when they see you hurting. Sometimes, they feel compelled to help you.

And the response from two editors?

Did the mom not buckle in her kids?



Actually, it was more like this: By the way, I wish you'd found out how the kids were restrained, if they were.

Can you hear my brain's gears rumbling and shifting?


I looked into that element. But reports varied. Everyone agreed the 2-year-old was strapped into his car seat. But the 5- and 9-year-olds? Not so certain. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. Given the sorry, awfulness of the family's situation, I wasn't about to write anything I didn't feel sure of. Especially when that poor woman and her brain-damaged husband are already going through hell.

What bothers me is that even if I knew for sure about the seat belts -- I don't know how I would have addressed the issues. It wasn't that kind of story. I wasn't writing about what led up the children's deaths or how they died, I was writing about the aftermath, how people reached out to the mom and dad, wanting to cradle them through this dark time.

Besides, what if the kids had unbuckled themselves and she didn't know because ohthankthelord we have four hours still to go and they're finally being quiet ...

But some people need to find a source of blame. Because you know, people can't be forever shattered by pure, dumb, godawful, random circumstances.

On the other hand, if it's true the kids weren't wearing seat belts, maybe by including that information, I might have prompted other people to re-think their practices.

But then again, the mom. For the love of God, the mom. My gut tells me that given the kind of story I wrote, readers would have found an analysis of the family's seat belt practices to be distasteful.

Imagine the mother reading that.

And again, what if they were buckled in? I couldn't find out for sure during a hurried day of reporting. All I know is that the 2-year-old was found still strapped in his car seat.

I feel like a failed journalist. I feel like a failed human being.

I can't link you to my story because our newspaper website is open only to subscribers. Basically, it was a series of very personal explanations from people who had either signed the online funeral guestbook or donated to the family. Example: A mother of two young children in another state describes why this story lingered with her, even though she didn't know the family. I called her after finding a very moving note from her on the guestbook.

This is one of those weeks when I wonder why on earth I didn't take a nice, comfy PR job instead of venturing down this path.

Look at them. What would you have done?

Exhibit A for his future therapist:

Um. Yeah. Still wading through the backlog of photos.

In other news, no dead mouse. Which means the damn thing will turn up one night when Hubs is working. Not. Touching. It. I don't do rodents, not dead ones, not scurrying ones. Ugh.

Repeat three times: I am merely an observer

The last I heard from J., she was at the bedside of a hospitalized friend. She sounded fine. Brisk. In charge.

That was probably about three weeks ago. I called back. No answer. I left a message. She called back. I wasn't at my desk.

And I meant to call again. I did. But our conversations usually last awhile, and I was busy at work and even busier at home ... and I never made that call.

Now here's where things get sticky.

J. was the subject of a couple of in-depth stories I wrote for the paper. She had suffered a horrible loss, and for six months I immersed myself in her life.

The stories came out and reaction from readers seemed to give J. a little peace. And of course, I felt so good about myself because oh how wonderful that all these people care about J.'s situation.

In the months that followed the stories' publication, J. and I stayed in sporadic contact. A reporter often assumes the role of a good bartender. Or a priest. Most of us tend not to judge because we've seen it all and heard it all. We make for fantastic listeners. Because, you know, that's what we do.

Some people, J. included, find it hard to let go of that bartender. And you know, I like hearing from the people I've written about. I like knowing how they're doing, what's going on in their lives.

So I was always happy to hear from J, who would call every so often to fill me in on her life. "Hey, girl!" she'd say. "You'll never guess what happened..."

She told me about the breakup with her boyfriend. She told me about her son and her frustrations with his new school. She told me all about this cute guy she'd started dating. She told me how she'd quit her new job because the place was in financial trouble and they hadn't paid her.

She didn't tell me she was falling apart, or that she'd told her friends she was on her way down and couldn't seem to swim up.

Last week, I'd heard from a photographer that J. had yet another new job. I figured I would stop by, surprise her, see how she was doing.

But then yesterday I got a panicked phone call from a friend of J.'s who lives in another state.

She couldn't find J. Could I help her? Did I have any other phone numbers? A mutual friend of theirs had died. She needed to tell J. There was a funeral to plan for.

I called every number I'd ever had for J.

Disconnected.

I called the new place of employment and was told she no longer worked there.

Odd, I thought.

So I called J.'s friend back and suggested she call J.'s workplace and see if she could get more information.

Five minutes later, she called me again.

"I'm really worried," she said. "I talked to someone who said he's a friend of hers and he said she's in a situation right now that doesn't allow her to contact anyone. And no one can call her."

Oh, God. Jail.

I don't know why I immediately jumped to that conclusion. J. didn't have any sort of criminal history. At least, not one that I or police or prosecutors knew of.

"You know, she could be in rehab," one of my reporter-friends said. "Has she ever had a problem with drugs?"

She's been through hell and I could see her looking to medicate herself into oblivion. But I've got a bad feeling.

I called the county jail.

Yes, the woman said. She's here. Been here since last week.

I'm still not clear on what landed her there, but this is what I struggle with:

This woman was the subject of a story. She wasn't someone I'm "allowed" to get close to. But you can't spend all that time with someone, you can't wiggle yourself into every intimate corner of their lives, and then not wonder or care about what happens to them.

OK, well, fine, that makes me human.

What's frustrating is that because I wrote about her, because credibility and objectivity are mainstays of my job, there's not a damn thing I can do for her.

Those stories? They did a lot of good. And if I were to get too involved now, that would bring into question whether I was too involved then.

If I weren't a reporter, I would write or visit her in jail and say, "Hey, is there anything you need? What happened? Are you OK? Can I call someone for you?"

But I am a reporter. And being her friend isn't -- it can't be -- my role.

And it sucks. Because I know she's in bad shape. And because I really liked this woman, and I wanted to see her make it. I wanted to see her overcome.

I don't know all the details of what landed her in jail. I don't know that I want to know all the details.

Because the truth is, no matter how many stories I write about horrible things that happen to people, I can't help but feel hopeful. I do my interviews and I write the story and then I cross my fingers. Maybe it will turn out OK. She'll get through this dark time and find new inspiration and hope.

But she didn't.

And the whole situation just really bites.

He'll be sorry in the morning

Some women wish a period on their husbands.

But me?

I want mine to experience one bout with allergies and a really good, debilitating sinus infection.

Hubs doesn't "believe" in allergies.

He says otherwise, but I know.

When I talk about the crushing pain above my eyes, or how my nose feels like it was hit by a 90-mph softball, he gets this ... look...

... the same one he gets when he sees me clutching handfuls of Benedryl or hears me asking if anyone has ever had 20 cortisone shots in one year and could they really be that bad for you...?

An Arkansas autumn is lovely -- if you aren't one of the few praying for the first freeze that will KILL EVERYTHING ALL DEAD BECAUSE OMG YOU ARE FREAKING MISERABLE.

But Hubs? He doesn't understand my misery because he has the almighty immune system that exempts him from all colds, flus, bad eyesight, bad teeth, and, of course, allergies.

The closest I ever came to leaving this genetically superior being was the year of the Very Real-Live Christmas Tree.

Foot surgery left me trapped in our house for two weeks -- all alone with the most fragrant tree ever put on this earth. I hated the tree. I fantasized about setting fire to it. Each day, I counted dead needles on the floor, gloating as they grew in number.

"I don't smell anything," Hubs said each night as I ranted and raved and hacked from my spot on the couch.

He smiled benignly as I shook my crutches threateningly.

If it hadn't been for the mind-numbing painkillers -- and the fact that I was totally crippled -- I would have hauled that blasted thing to the curb and made s'mores over its burning remains.

For the past five years, Hubs has pouted as he assembles our artificial, non-smelly tree. For the past week, he's raised annoying eyebrows when I complain about sinus pressure and constant sneezing. This annoying habit of his, coupled with my misery, led to a little argument this evening and I'm currently not speaking to him.

Which is why, at this very minute, I find myself in a bit of a quandry:

We have a mouse in our house. And 30 minutes ago, I could have sworn I heard the trap go off. Hubs is already in bed, presumably asleep. Or maybe just not speaking to me. Whatever.

Pride dictates that I will not break the silence or acknowledge The Allergy Skeptic until morning. But there is, quite possibly, a wounded or dead mouse in the cupboard beneath our kitchen sink.

I do not like mice, especially dead mice.

On the other hand, my principles -- the integrity of all allergy sufferers -- is at stake.

Then again, it might be -- dare I say? -- enjoyable waking up my spouse to inform him of his rodent-removal duties.

I'll think on it. After I take my next dose of antibiotics and indulge in a mentho-scented steam bath.

I'm not the one, after all, who will be able to smell a dead mouse. Ha.

I'm in birthday party hell

My dream last night:

Son is turning 3. In a fit of masochistic insanity, I invite 50 or so children to our house. It is February, too cold to go outside, so we are all crammed inside. The children, of course, are accompanied by their parents because these days birthday parties are a freaking family event.

I have forgotten to buy food. The cake is too small to feed everyone. My house is a sty and I haven't even showered when people start arriving. As 50 hungry toddlers run amok and their parents stand in clusters whispering about my maternal ineptitude, Hubs is making a frantic dash to the store to buy frozen corndogs.

Doesn't take a genius to interpret this one.

Don't get me wrong -- I love hosting adult parties. Hubs throws on a pot of his famous deer chili, I pick out the music and all is well. But the attendees are my newsroom friends. And yes, while several of them are parents, they aren't SCARY PARENTS.

SCARY PARENTS: Non-cussing people who judge.

I've got a few more years before son's birthday is an issue. But my daughter is in preK, which means she and all her little classmates are in the throes of birthday fever.

That means not only do I have to GO to parties, I am expected to HOST one.

Ack.

I keep mulling my options. We live in a small, older house that still boasts the original 1950 toilet. I don't want to fill it (the house, not the toilet) with a bunch of people I don't know. Who don't cuss. Nor do I want the stress of cleaning and preparing so that all these SCARY PARENTS who I'm just positive live in big cookie-cutter houses with lots of taupe walls can come over and judge.

(Not that there's anything wrong with big cookie-cutter houses or taupe walls. It's just that people who occupy them might be a little taken aback by our cramped quarters and the ... cheeriness ... of our kitchen, which is painted a brilliant turquoise. The previous homeowner, reportedly a very jolly gay bachelor who adored blue, went a little color-crazy in the kitchen. I'm too lazy to repaint it. And, besides, it's kind of grown on me.)



Note turquoise wall to the left of toddler tearing apart kitchen. See? Very turquoise.

At the same time, we can't afford a party at one of those inflatable jumplands or *shudder* those places created just for this sort of affair -- Wonder-this-or-that.

I am NOT G*MB**EE material. I hate places that make me sing children's songs and hold hands with all the other adults. And while I love going barefoot at home, I prefer to keep my shoes on in public places, thankyouverymuch.

So I keep wondering, could I send out an invitation that reads like this?

TOOTIE's TURNING 5!!
When: Too soon
Where: Our house
PARENTS NOT WELCOME!
DROP OFF YOUR KID AND GO AWAY SO THAT I CAN CUSS FREELY AND DRINK WINE WHILE TEN PRESCHOOLERS DECIMATE MY HOUSE.




(Oh yeah -- forgot to mention the exceedingly pink bathroom. Welcome, Taupe People!)

Reason No. 1,463,499 I love being married to a photographer

(Yes, still trying to organize all those photos stored on our computer.)

You know the old girls ain't what they used to be...

... when you undress in front of your 4-year-old and she says:

"Mommy, why do your boobs get longer when you bend over?"

*sigh*

----------------

Anyone else seen that new show on NBC -- Life?

Damian Lewis?

Hot.

And, given that his wife will deliver their second child in November, he's probably not freaked out by gravity-stricken boobs.

----------------

Many thanks to Dawn of Alex Year One for this --



-- and this --





(See, Nell -- I'm just hopelessly incurably nice, despite all my efforts to portray myself as a bitchy, chronically premenstrual crank! Heh. I aspire to bad-assness, but I think I'm just too lazy to be convincing. But hey, this bling? More naughty than nice, no?)

-----------------

Lastly, this whole staph thing? It may replace bird flu when it comes to my hypochondria-paranoia.

More effective than pleading a headache:

Office emails between me and the spouse:


TO: Hubs
FROM: Cathy
SUBJECT: Heidi is here with her new baby.

I want another one.



TO: Cathy
FROM: Hubs
SUBJECT: I want a truck.

Update: Hillbilly negotiations now under way. I draw the line at a bloodhound.

Yikes! Was a I carrying a litter?

Ever look at your pregnancy photos and wonder how the hell you navigated sidewalks without mowing down any innocents -- you know, small children, pets...? Hell, I probably could have taken out a Mack truck.

Pregnancy "bump" my ass.

(And I do mean my ass. Looks like something's gestating back there too, doesn't it?)



But no. Only one baby's in there, and he weighed in at only 6 pounds, 12 ounces. Which means I can blame only the vast quantities of Mexican food and peanut M&Ms I consumed, not that sweet, tiny baby.

Doesn't he look as though he duked his way out of the uterus?



I'm finally going through all the photos stored on our laptop, just in case you were wondering why I keep dragging you down MY memory lane. I am a terrible mother. Have found pics of my daughter's SECOND birthday. She turns five in February. And I'm just now organizing photos. Oh, the shame.

Oh, the ringlets!

Since my daughter cut off all her hair, on Hubs' watch, if you'll recall ...



... you'd think I'd be allowed to nurture the other child's locks without protest from interfering people.



But no.

"That boy needs a haircut!" they say.

Much as this annoys me, I'm even more bothered by the speculative stares by those who clearly think I'm the one who deliberately gave my daughter a Wynona do.

Their subtlety astounds.

"Oh. Wow. How ... cute. What made you decide to cut it off?"

For the record: Boy child has had two trims. But he hates them and I like his hair long. So to those who criticize: Shut up. Back off. Go shear your own kids. Buzz them. Hell, Nair them if that's your thing. Whatever. But keep your comments about my children's hair -- or lack thereof -- to yourselves.

Yes, girl child's hair is growing back, excruciatingly slowly to be sure, but at least it no longer resembles Mia on a bad bedhead day. Still, I AM SICK OF EXPLAINING TO PEOPLE WHY SHE HAS A PIXIE CUT.

Alrighty then, with that off my chest, let's move on to something completely off-subject, like my bad manners in not yet thanking Jenny of Absolutely Bananas for this:



I also owe Queeny of It's not easy being queen a big thank-you for this:



And yeah, I know. I'm acknowledging an award for niceness right after a bitchfest about hair. But seriously? HAIR?! Uh-oh. Rage resurfacing. Am heading to the kitchen immediately for the still-warm chocolate chip cookies that will counter it.

PMSing? Why yes. What makes you ask?

My life on candid camera, Part Two

Or --

"Reason No. 47 why I don't always feel terribly alluring when Hubs picks up his camera."

Oh, sure, there are the occasional posed moments, when Hubs points the camera and I have time to suck in, hold the chin in a certain manner to get rid of the doubling effect (hate the chin, hate it!) and to wipe the automatic idiot camera grin from my face...



... and then there are the moments when I have more on my mind than annoying chin fat...



Of course, I did get these two little darlings ...





... so really, I can't complain. Except about the leftover pooch maybe.

(And yeah, Bill Maher, that's a -- gasp! -- teensy, itsy-bitsy sliver of boob you see. And just for good measure, I threw in a hint of ass in the pic above that one. Because I'm guessing you're just as skeeved by childbirth since by your definition, this too, is probably considered an "intimate act." (Guess what, Bill? It's difficult to consider the average birth as intimate, given that it typically involves a crowd of doctors, nurses and family members gathered at your crotch.)

What's that? You can't see enough boob in that picture? Maybe because I, like most nursing women, know how to be discreet? Maybe because the baby's head covers more than a pasty? Here try this one, Bill. Eek. Horrifying, no?)



Yeah, I'm a little late in weighing in on all this. But dammit, I nursed one kid for 15 months and another for 12, and there's no way I could have ensured that each nursing took place where ABSOLUTELY NO ONE would see. Nor did I try to. When my babies were hungry, I fed them. Didn't matter where I was -- mall bench, airplane seat, Fazzoli's, Starbucks, Chili's -- you name the place, I've probably fed a kid there. You can be damn sure I didn't say, "Shush, sweetie, you'll have to wait 30 minutes until we get home because some people in this mall/restaurant/coffee shop might be offended by the sight of your fuzzy head pressed against my chest."

Bill, Bill, Bill... you silly, silly twit. I'm the woman who worries about chin fat. Do you really think that I'm going to haul out a couple of boobs that have been through two pregnancies and now look like two limp gym socks because I'm so eager for everyone to see them?

I promise, each time either of the girls made a public appearance, it was because a baby was hungry. Not so I could sell tickets for my next sure-to-be-sold-out concert.

So, Bill — if you don't like the thought of breasts being used for breastfeeding, when, exactly, is their baring appropriate?

At a Mardi Gras parade, perhaps, when they're put on display for cheap baubles?

Want to share the outrage? Go here.

I lost him, briefly, but still...

I couldn't write about this last night because just recalling the moment makes my heart stop.

Yesterday, we went to the company picnic. After a barbecue lunch, I left Hubs and kids at the table and walked back over to the food line with a friend, who was getting a plate for her teenage daughter's boyfriend.

Minutes later, as Hubs cleaned up the mess, Tootie and E-man headed toward me. I didn't realize it until Tootie tugged my shirt and asked a question.

I glanced down. No E-man.

I looked over at the table where Hubs remained, still gathering up our things.

No E-man.

The table was only 30 feet away. Clear view. No toddler in sight.

"Hey!" I yelled to Hubs. "Where's E-man?"

Hubs looked up. "What?!"

"Where's E-man?"

Hubs looked around. Panic flashed across his face.

I ran to the table.

"He was headed toward you," Hubs said.

We looked under the tables and then Hubs raced over to the food line.

I stayed at the picnic area, quizzing people and calling E-man's name.

No answer. No little boy in the red-and-yellow striped shirt.

In tears, I glanced to the left of the food line. I could see Hubs bending over. When I heard my son's cries, I went weak in the knees.

He had wandered into the beverage line, looking for me. When Hubs found him, he was walking in circles, calling, "Mama? Mama?"

No one had paid him the slightest bit of attention.

I can't describe those frantic few moments when he was lost, when I imagined him toddling to the busy nearby road.

I can, however, describe the disbelief, the anger that no one in that line responded to a child who was clearly lost and frightened.

How do you miss that? How can you ignore it? How can you not reach down, grab his hand and and call out for the parents?

I'm furious with myself, furious with Hubs, that we let him out of our sight for that one crucial second.

But I'm also pissed off that none of those people -- many of them parents themselves -- couldn't be bothered to help.

They say it takes a village. But what if the villagers don't give a damn?

A vomitous day at the Kiddie Amusement Park

My thoughts during a spinning, up-in-the-air ride at the kiddie amusement park today:

Hate the rides that go round and round. Roller coasters are so much better. Speed. Hills. Not this vertigo-inducing endless whirling.

Ugh. Why did I agree to take the preschooler on it a second time?

Oh hell. Here's the part when it rises into the air. Did it go this high last time? Must tighten my arm around Tootie to ensure she doesn't fall out of this damn thing. Wonder when it was built? Wonder how often it's inspected?

Am feeling very dizzy. Why did I eat so much barbecue at lunch? Eek, are we going higher?

Is it normal for this contraption to shudder every five seconds? Oh no, it's going even higher. Feels like it's spinning faster, possibly because our car is about to snap off the cable and send us flying across the park -- yikes! -- there's that shudder again.

An uncertain little voice breaks into my thoughts:

"Mommy? Is this fun?"

"YES! THIS IS FUN, SWEETIE! SO MUCH FUN! I'M HAVING FUN! ARE YOU HAVING FUN? WHEE! SEE? FUN! WE ARE HAVING FUN!"

Oooh. A groaning noise. Was it doing that a minute ago?

I didn't realize this thing went so freaking high. Oh no. Wind.

Should they be operating this in high winds? "They." Ha. "They" is a teenage boy. I have put my preschooler's life in the hands of a teenage boy wearing a cell phone ear piece. And we're on a ride that has been around since the 1950s.

This ride is at least 20 years older than I am.

Why is it taking so long? We've been circling up here for 10 minutes. Where'd that teenager go?

What's he ... whoops, let's wait 'til the next pass. OK, there he is. Oh my God, he is texting on his phone. Dude! Hey, little dude! Get off the freaking phone and stop this ride.

Still texting.

More wind. Eek.

Must not hold daughter in a death grip or she will grow up a fearful child.

Pry the fingernails from her shoulder. Casually rest arm behind her. Surely my reflexes are quick enough to catch her if she starts to topple out.

Maybe not. Resume death grip.

"THIS IS FUN, SWEETIE! SO MUCH FUN! ARE YOU HAVING FUN?"

I am going to vomit.

He's still texting.

Still texting.

Are you there, God? It's me, Cathy, and I really need you to reach down an snatch the evil cell phone from that teenager's text-nimble fingers. But don't injure those fingers in the process. He will need them to MAKE THIS RIDE STOP!

Hey, God? Me again. Kid still has a phone. Could you maybe remind him that there are about 20 puke-ready people circling over his head and that maybe he should return his attention to the ride controls?

Yay! He's pushing buttons!

Oh. With his right hand. He's still texting with the left. Should he be doing that? How can he keep the buttons straight. What if he makes this thing go faster by mistake?

Hey, sonny! Get off the damn phone and pay attention to the control panel. Do it now or I WILL aim my vomit at your head.

There you go. That's right. The RED button. Push it. OK, just push it. GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE AND PUSH THE RED FUCKING BUTTON BEFORE I DIE UP HERE!


I stagger off the ride feeling as though I just slammed 12 shots of tequila.

"Mommy! E-man was watching us! Now he wants a turn!"

My longest relationship

For 13 years, I've been stepping around -- or over -- this furry pile of gorgeousness:



Yes, I'm one of those non-PC people who BOUGHT a dog from a hoity-toity breeder.

That's because my first foray into the world of doggie-adoption ended horribly. A day after bringing my new mixed-breed puppy home, she became violently ill. Turned out she had parvo, which had been making the rounds at the shelter.

Parvo is a horrible virus. People, for the love of all that is canine, vaccinate your dogs.

I haunted the veterinary hospital, wondering whether to keep fighting or put the puppy down. In the end, I didn't have to make the choice. She died on the fourth day.

I was still set on owning a dog. But could I do that again? Adopt from a place that couldn't guarantee me a healthy pet? (Three other ailing pups at the hospital also had come from that shelter. And it was the only one in town.)

No. I couldn't watch an animal suffer like that again. I wanted to know as much as possible about the next dog I brought into my life.

So I researched reputable breeders and found one who was expecting a litter of Australian shepherds. That little mutt I'd adopted had had a lot of Aussie in her. I thought they were beautiful dogs, in both appearance and nature.

In preparation for Molly's arrival, I bleached my back yard like a madwoman. My neighbors stared and shook their heads. But parvo can live for a year on grass and floors, and even after my love affair with Clorox, I lived in terror that Molly would get it too.

For years, at the first sign of vomiting or illness, I would race my dog to the vet, convinced — in spite of numerous vaccinations — the parvo had gotten her at last.

I brought Molly home in the fall of 1994. That first day, I took her to the newsroom to show everyone my new pet. She took a dump right in front of the office belonging to an editor I loathed.

I knew then my dog was a supreme judge of character. Doesn't she look wise?



Years passed. Molly moved with me from newspaper to newspaper. She weathered my many relationships, never quite able to hide her disdain for most boyfriends. Strangely, she seemed to like Hubs, who once had the pleasure of feeling Molly's tongue swipe his ass at a most inopportune time.

She's a patient dog, especially with the kids, who've been known to drape her in Mardi Gras beads and call her a circus elephant. Sometimes they make her part of the Little Pony herd, or appoint her as the mother figure to all the stuffed puppies they've accumulated.



Molly's favorite pastime, however, has always been fetch. Frisbee, ball, doesn't matter. And if she catches something in mid-air, she does what Hubs calls the Victory Lap, circling the yard several times in a jubilant fashion.

Lately, we haven't seen any Victory Laps. My Molly is getting old. And while she's still quite spry, her age is starting to show. Most noticeable is the hearing loss. These days, I have to speak loudly into one of her floppy ears to make her understand.

She's lived a long, full and happy life and appears to be in good health. Still, I find myself fretting lately over when — and how — she will leave me. I'm prepared to make the tough decisions if need be. What scares me is being caught off-guard, of coming home and ...

I cannot make myself write it.

Years ago, I remember a friend of mine describing the death of his elderly dog, Hoot.

One beautiful afternoon, Hoot collapsed and died while chasing a Frisbee.

If I could choreograph my dog's death, that is how it would be.

I would throw the Frisbee and she would leap to catch it, unmindful of the arthritis in her left hip. And then, with her jaws clamped around the prized Frisbee, she would make a final Victory Lap.

I am vindicated

As some of you may recall, I have ... issues ... with germs and illness.

This phobia isn't really in keeping with my personality. In most cases, especially when my job's involved, I can be quite adventurous.

I have flown with a crop duster nicknamed "Crash," gotten my car stuck in a ditch in the city's scariest neighborhood (luckily, a couple of detectives drove by, having just finished interrogating residents about the latest homicide), and traipsed through a patch of woods teeming with water moccasins.

If, however, there ever happened to be an Ebola outbreak in, say, Mississippi, I would run screaming from any editor who tried to send me there.

The same holds true for bird flu. I've already notified everyone in the newsroom that I am perfectly capable of doing my job while holed up in my house with 1,000 cans of tuna and boxes of Saltines.

Hubs has tried to reassure me that if bird flu were to strike, we would head down to rural South Arkansas, far, far away from the germs. (We could live in Grandma Hattie's house, he says, which is ever so conveniently located right smack in the middle of his favorite deer-hunting spot.)

So imagine his consternation when, during our visit to Terlingua Ghost Town in far West Texas, I found a historical marker describing how even this remote area had been hit by the 1918 pandemic.

The marker was here:



I found it while Hubs was taking photos.

We returned from our vacation last night. And guess what was waiting in the stack of mail on our kitchen table?

A handy 14-page booklet from our health insurance providers titled: Preparing for a Pandemic.

Sending something like this to me -- well, imagine a crack addict's reaction if his dealer one day handed him a bundle of freebies.

As I pounced, Hubs groaned.

"Look!" I said gleefully. "My worries have been validated. Even the freaking insurance companies recognize the threat."

The booklet opens with a message from the CEO. After that, it offers lists of instructions:

Comfort food: Buying for a possible pandemic
Family Emergency Health Information Sheet
Caring for those with the flu: Advice from our medical director

I know Hubs will try to destroy it. Or maybe hide it, like he did when the Devil Book of Dire Warnings for Pregnant Women served only to heighten my pregnancy concerns, rather than eliminating them.

That's OK, though. I've already committed the chapter on Shelf-Stable Foods. to memory.

I even have a grocery list.

Beware the wildlife

Behold, the javelina:




A rather comical-looking creature, you might think, with that stout body perched on spindly little legs. I used to giggle when I saw them.

Now I know better.

On April, 30, 2001, the day after Hubs and I wed at Big Bend National Park, we set up camp down by the Rio Grande. A sign, bolted to the picnic table, warned us to leave our tent down during the day in order to avoid javelina invasions. If an encounter could not be avoided: "Do Not Provoke the Javelina!" the sign declared.

Hubs and I cackled.

Until, 30 minutes later, we watched a band of javelinas slice open a tent left standing. Horrified, we watched the resourceful creatures make short work of the tent's contents. They rooted, ravaged and feasted.

Oh, well, we thought smugly. We didn't leave ours up. Things will be fine.

We spent the day hiking. When we returned to the campsite, we saw a German couple circling their devastated tent, clearly puzzled as to what had happened during their absence.

Hubs pulled up next to them. "Javelinas," he offered helpfully, leaning out the window and pointing.

The Germans looked puzzled.

"Javelinas," Hubs repeated. "You know" -- he fluttered his fingers in air piano fashion -- "pigs."

Actually, javelinas are NOT pigs, but I kept silent as Hubs and the Germans continued to waggle their fingers at one another.

I'm not sure that they ever understood. By that evening, they had packed up and left, leaving us as the only tent-campers in the area.

That night, Hubs and I ate a leisurely dinner, toasted our nuptuials and crawled into our sleeping bags. Sometime around midnight, I smelled something ... garbagey.

I heard snuffling. Snorting. And -- was that chewing?

I poked Hubs in the ribs.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

"Mmmm...no..." he mumbled.

More snorting. And that smell.

Suddenly, my side of the tent bulged inward.

"Aaiiiieeee!" I shrieked, rolling on top of Hubs. "They're coming in!"

Hubs grabbed the keys and started pressing buttons on our pickup's remote. The horn blared. Headlights flashed.

The javelinas scattered.

A half-hour later, they were back.

Snuffling. Snorting, Chewing.

I could hear them surrounding the tent. And then -- another jab at my side.

"Eek!" I screamed.

Just then, something crashed from our picnic table. We would later learn it was our box of cooking utensils. No food. Just silverware.

Hubs leapt to his feet, hair standing wildly on end. He jabbed at the bulge. Then he unzipped the tent and lunged through the opening. There was much shouting and clanging. The horn blared. Headlights flashed on.

I fumbled for my glasses and then peeked outside. My new husband was crouched on top of the picnic table, waving -- was that a spatula or a pair of tongs? -- at the 10 or so javelinas running amok through our campsite.

"Do NOT provoke the javelinas!" I yelled, quoting the picnic-table sign.

"What do you want me to do?!" Hubs yelled back as he brandished his tongs. "Pet them?"

Finally, the javelinas trotted off, reasonably certain that the humans at this particular campsite were totally and hopelessly insane.

Hubs clambered down from the picnic table and picked up the pieces of his dignity.

"I guess they won't be coming back here," he boasted.

Nevertheless, after two more sleepless nights involving more horn-blaring and spatula-waving, we fled.

To a motel.

View from our campsite...

... in the Chisos Basin at Big Bend National Park.



Hubs and I both loved this wildly beautiful, desolate place long before we ever met. So on April 29, 2001, we got married on a trail at Big Bend. This was our backdrop. Gorgeous, no?

We spent our wedding night at the Gage Hotel, then headed back down to the park for several nights of camping. In my next post, I'll describe our scary -- yet amusing -- encounters with the wildlife. For now, however, here are a few photos from this trip:

This is where we usually stay before heading down to the park and then again on our way back to civilization. We're here right now, actually:



In the next photo, you're now in Big Bend, looking across the Rio Grande and down on the Mexican village of Boquillas. For many years, the park service turned a blind eye to the many illegal crossings made by tourists. For a few dollars, a Mexican man would take you across the river. For a few more dollars, another would drive you up to the village in a beat-up truck. Hubs and I spent a wonderful day there in 2001, stuffing ourselves on Mexican food and hanging out in a ramshackle bar, downing beers. After 9/11, however, Homeland Security decreed that this was a dangerous practice and the crossings stopped. Boquillas, already poor, was devastated. Many people left, unable to make a living without the tourists. Each time we come back to Big Bend, Hubs and I check check the former crossing, hoping it has perhaps reopened. But the road down to the river remains gated.



Here's Hubs, standing by the Rio Grande.



And here's me:




We saw these *shudder* everywhere. I don't mind snakes. But spiders, especially hairy ones? Ick.



Still, they're nothing compared to the javelinas. But more on that next time. Right now, there's a Mexican beer calling my name...

Those #%*@#$*%$ morning people

Last night, we stayed here, on our way to here.

Drinks at the White Buffalo Bar, a cozy hotel room (with creaky floors and a creaky bed, which wouldn't have been a problem except our second-floor room was right above the front desk)...

Damn it, Martha, I told you not to give Room No. 9 to any particularly affectionate-looking couples. If they're canoodling, they don't get No. 9!

But she was complaining of a headache when they checked in.

Yeah, well now I have a headache.



Ah yes, good times...

... comfy bed, lovely squooshy pillow, a cool breeze blowing through our open window...

... and then this, at 7 a.m.

Hubs: Hey! It's already 7! We need to get moving! (Yes, he speaks in exclamation points)

Cathy: mmmmphfff

The bed creaks as Hubs climbs out. The floors creak as he rummages for clothes, his glasses, his wallet... finally, the door closes and Cathy resumes drowsing.

Ten minutes later, he's back.

Hubs: Hey! I brought you some coffee!

Cathy: mmmphfff

Hubs: I'll put it right here next to you! Why don't I turn this lamp on?!

Cathy: mmmhphff grrr mmmmphfff

Pause. Hubs lingers.

Cathy: Why don't you go down to the lobby and look at some of those photography books or something. Just go ... wander.

Creak, creak, creak. Door opens and closes. Cathy drifts off.

Five minutes later.

Hubs: I'm back! I read all the signs and brochures! Ready for breakfast?!

Cathy: mmmphffff Coffee's cold. Need more.

Hubs: I'll go get it!

He bounds from the room, creak, creak, creak. Door blessedly closes.

Five minutes later.

Hubs: OK! Here it is!

Cathy: mmmmphfff 'mk

How, how do these people function? How can anyone bound from the bed and morph into freaking Pollyanna at 7 a.m. On vacation.

That's OK. I'll get even. When he crashes in the tent tonight, I'll start my grousing.

"It's cold. I'm cold. Are you cold?"

Nudge, nudge.

"I have to pee. Where's the flashlight?"

Nudge, nudge.

"Did you hear that noise? It sounds like something chewing grass. That! Did you hear it?! Do you think the javelinas are back?!

"Hey, mind if I read for awhile? I'll just use this camping lantern. Will that bother you?"

Click.

Vacation! Alone! Must remember birth control...

You think I jest.

I am the woman who ovulates immediately upon arriving in another city. The plane lands, the car slides to a stop, we unload our bags, and my ovaries leap into action:

"Hey, you — on the right! It's your turn to release the egg! Hurry, they're putting up the tent!"

We made Tootie on a weekend jaunt to New Orleans in 2002. After a night of beers and crawdads, Hubs and I awoke in the guest bedroom of our kind hosts, Dick and Rita.

Yes, Dick and Rita. Are those not the perfect party names? How could you be named Dick and Rita and not want to ply your guests with alcohol and cheese dip all weekend? And really, could Dick and Rita live anywhere other than New Orleans? I think not.

Anyway, the guest bathroom was located between our room and that of our other friends, Jo and Staton. At the time of The Conception, Jo was in the bathroom getting dressed.

Now Hubs and I did briefly debate whether morning s-e-x rightthisveryminute was such a good idea. I mean, what if Jo could hear? But then we heard the roar of the hair dryer, and given that Jo has this incredible, lovely, thick hair, we figured we had time.

And presto! The Toot was on her way, likely soaking up the rum runners I enjoyed that night. (Yes, this caused me great worry later. Helpful hint: Getting pregnant in New Orleans will ensure months of wondering whether you damaged your newly fertilized egg with all that carousing.)

Fast-forward to 2004, when I went to New York City to accept a journalism award. The newspaper was kind enough to send Hubs with me, and we spent four blissful days wandering Manhattan. The awards luncheon was on a Tuesday. Our plane was departing Wednesday. And, after two months of taking my temperature and tracking my cycle, I calculated that I would be ovulating right as the plane soared over the city.

"We have to do it right now," I informed Hubs when he collapsed on the bed, exhausted from his awards luncheon duties. (Those included: Giving his wife pep talks in the hours before she had to stand in front of an intimidating crowd of well-known journalists to give a speech; keeping her wine glass full during said event; and reassuring her afterward that no, she did not sound like a stupid, babbling hick.)

"But I'm so tired," Hubs moaned.

Eventually, he gave in — not because I looked especially seductive in my polka-dotted suit (oh my god, what was i thinking?) — but because he can't stand to pass up that kind of offer, not when it's so rarely made. We had a toddler at the time, remember? The marital bed had become a place strictly for sleeping.

And thus, the E-man was created.

This weekend, we leave for Big Bend National Park. Sans children. Lots of Mexican beer, maybe a little dancing...

Which is why we're stopping at the drugstore on our way out of town.

Pee-worthy

My husband is a deer-hunting redneck sort of guy.

He also has two older kids from a previous marriage.

And these two bits of information are related ... how?

Well ---

Hubs considers himself an expert on certain parenting matters. Because, you know, he's done this before. (italics are his, not mine)

Which is why our toddler son now thinks it's appropriate to pee on trees.

Let me back up:

Countless times, countless, I tell you, Hubs has shared with enraptured audiences the story of how he potty-trained Stepson. (After, that is, he tells the one about how he once washed down Stepson at a car wash when the poor child pooped during a road trip.)

Anyway, the potty training. Let's allow Hubs to use his words:

"I showed him how to pee on a tree in the backyard when I was trying to get him interested in going potty. And it worked. When he had to go, he'd say, 'I need to pee on a tree.' Then he'd go in the backyard and pee on a tree."

And life was good and diaper-free, until the day Stepson decided he needed to pee at a local park. "Next thing I know, he's dropped his pants and is peeing on a tree," Hubs says.

Proudly.

He concludes: "It was a hard habit to break."

So you can imagine my chagrin a few nights ago, when Hubs led my little E-man to a tree in our backyard and urged him to drop his Handy Manny pull-em-up and whip out the pee stick.

"You try to encourage them to be aware of their functions," my spouse explains. "Peeing on a tree is a novel idea. And besides, wherever you go, there's always a tree."

But what, I asked, if people are present? You know, like non-family members. People who might not understand Hubs' peculiar backwoods brand of child rearin'?

"Well, then you have to hope it's a big tree," Hubs says, unperturbed. "Then he can hide behind it while he's going."

I've heard men obtain special joy from taking their biz outside. Is this true?

Hubs contends: "All guys want to do it. We just refrain from it. I think it's because there's no target. We can just spray wherever."

This, dear readers, is what I'm up against. It's why we will soon be blacklisted from social affairs, because, really, who wants their cocktail-sipping guests subjected to the sight of a wee tot washing down the oak tree in their backyard.

And now my daughter wants to pee on trees. My 4-year-old, already-potty-trained daughter.

In fact, she and her brother keep fighting over one particular tree in our backyard because apparently, it's the only one that's pee-worthy.

I should make it clear here that, thus far, neither has actually peed. Daughter has yet to drop her drawers, perhaps because she senses the logistical difficulties. But their interest -- clearly, it has been piqued or they wouldn't be in the backyard selecting trees.

It's only a matter of time... And if, what if?

How to explain this bizarre behavior at the next birthday party, when both my kids suddenly dart to the nearest tree, bickering over who gets which spot as they drop their pants. With my luck, one of them will pick the spot right under the damn pinata.

Or, worse -- *shudder* -- one of them will need to go No. 2.

What fashion idiocy is this?

I want names. Numbers. Embarrassing details I can use for blackmailing purposes.

Who *splutter* is responsible for this?

I refer to this horrible trend.

'Tis the season of ambiguity, it seems. Hark! Who's pregnant? Who's not? Who can tell?

Designers: My lingering post-baby pooch already causes confusion.

Is she? I can't tell. Maybe.


I am not pregnant. Therefore, I do not wish to look pregnant.

What are you people thinking?

Are you perhaps catering to the scrawny actresses with protruding collar bones who think looking pregnant would be ... oh, I don't know ... a novelty?

NOTE TO SKELETAL ACTRESSES: The baby belly is typically accompanied by a baby ass. You do not have an ass. You, therefore, can get away with the tunic — although people are going to assume you're an anorexic whose disease is endangering your pretend baby. Now if I were to don a tunic, my non-pregnant (got that? NOT PREGNANT! I'M NOT PREGNANT!) belly and *ahem* healthy ass would take up so much room and cloth that the tunic would cease to be a tunic. It would instead resemble a clingy half-shirt.

The tunic wasn't meant for the masses. Because if you have even the slightest bit of a tummy, people will assume that a happy little bundle of non-sleeping joy is on the way.

Who wants an implied baby bump when there is no baby?

On the bright side, I'm thinking my maternity shirts — if cleverly described as tunics — might do very well on Ebay.

The Suspicious Spouse

Tonight, as Hubs and I sat on the deck with our glasses of wine, he asked, "So you're unhappy?"

"What?" I asked, emerging from my mellow state.

"I found your notes. The ones about being unhappy."

Huh?

"And who's coming to town?" Hubs asked.

Wha?

He started quoting -- from ... something:

"I miss you ... let's get together ... I'm alone ..."

Those words, they sounded so ... familiar.

"... like a lover ..."

And then I realized -- Hubs must have found my jottings for a recent post, When She Calls, in which I compare depression to an old lover who refuses to disappear.

Problem is, my handwriting's terrible, so Hubs could only make out a few incriminating phrases.

Poor man. He really was a little worried.

Needlessly.

In fact, I howled when I finally figured out what the hell he was blathering on about.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I frequently write down my thoughts, just as soon as they flit through my head. Otherwise, I forget things.

I do this when working on longterm newspaper stories -- ledes, especially.

Many a time, I've awakened at night and grabbed a pen on my nightstand so that I could scrawl a thought before slipping back into sleep. If you were to look in my purse, you'd find scraps of paper with seemingly random phrases written on them.

In this case, I'd written down my musings on notepaper from the newspaper. They were even illustrated, as I'd used that same notebook to draw mermaids, clams and fish for my daughter.

No wonder he thinks I'm a raging lunatic. He's finding "evidence" of adultery complete with badly rendered sketches of Ariel.

Sheesh.

My Proudest Moment

I was eight months pregnant with my first child and o-b-s-e-s-s-e-d with food.

On that fateful, dreary winter evening, Hubs and 11-year-old Stepson went to a nearby fast food restaurant to pick up burgers.

I was very specific:

Cheeseburger with mustard, onions and everything else. All. The. Way. Make that extra onions.

What I got:

Hamburger. No cheese. Mayo instead of mustard. And nary an onion.

"This is not what I wanted," I sobbed. "There's ... no (gasp, choke) ...
cheeeeeese... no onion ... They didn't even give me lettuce ... (sob) or tomato -- oh my God, is this mayonnaise?!"

Now try to picture a crazed, gigantic preggo stuffed into sweatpants and a paint-stained T-shirt. Watch as she grabs a slice of American cheese, slaps it on her burger and shoves it into the microwave, ranting about the uncaring fast-food workers and Hubs' seeming unconcern about her dietary needs.

See how Hubs cowers in the living room? See poor Stepson, crouched over his food at the kitchen table, trying to shrink into his chair as the meltdown gains momentum?

"Don't you understand? I wanted cheese. Mustard. And onions... (gasp, sob) How could they get all of it wrong?"

Crazy woman hauls the hamburger from the microwave and examines it.

"The cheese isn't melting! Our microwave is broken. I am STARVING!"

Hubs ducks into the bedroom.

Crazy woman slams the microwave door.

Stepson looks up fearfully from the table. "Um. Here. You can have mine. It doesn't have any onions or mustard, but there's cheese."

Weeping stepmother accepts the offering, and, after scarfing it down in minutes, finally remembers to thank the traumatized boy.

Eighteen months later, she will wonder why Stepson looks so frightened when she announces her second pregnancy.

His and hers and theirs

The other night, Hubs was doing the usual flipping-between-baseball-games-and-cruising-other-channels thing when we stumbled across a sitcom that I assume is new.

I couldn't tell you what it's called, but the scene unfolding involved a woman telling her husband (boyfriend?) that she couldn't sleep in a bed he bought and shared with a previous girlfriend.

Hubs and I looked at each other and laughed.

"The table," we said in unison.

My spouse came with a lot of baggage — an ex-wife, two kids, the ex-wife's husband, and...

... the material remnants of Hubs' life with the ex.

Some of "their" stuff was already in Hubs' post-divorce house when I moved in.

But then, over the next few years, each time the ex dropped off the kids for the weekend, she brought over more things they'd shared during their marriage.

"I thought you might want this," she would say, proffering various dusty items.

A popcorn bowl.

A tea pitcher.

A lamp.

Mind you, by this time they had been divorced for four years. The ex had already remarried. It's not like she hadn't had time to dispose of all these unwanted items.

"Ugly," I said of the popcorn bowl. (to Hubs, not her)

"Already have one," I said of the pitcher.

"Ick," I said of the lamp.

And finally — "How freaking big is their garage anyway?"

At first it didn't bother me. But of course then I started analyzing and wondered, Is she trying to make a point? And if so, what?

In all likelihood, she probably saw the handoffs as an easy alternative to a garage sale.

Or maybe her new husband didn't want all these marital leftovers in his house either.

Whatever her reasoning, I did NOT want our home to be the dumping ground for all the items she and Hubs once shared.

For one, our small house was already cramped.

Second, I didn't really want to be surrounded by things she and Hubs had picked out together — things that were NOT to my taste or liking.

Not wanting to sound like an insecure, crazy-girl new wife (which, of course, I was), I first used the argument that we had no room for all these things.

And I was trying to be diplomatic, because for all I knew, Hubs was the one who picked out that hideous popcorn bowl.

But then Hubs announced that the ex was bringing over their former dining room table.

And I flipped out.

"NO MORE STUFF!" I ranted, hurling the popcorn bowl and tea pitcher into a garbage can.

It wasn't so much the image of them sitting around the table with their two kids — at the time, I had no children of my own, so yes, the image grated — but their refusal to leave the past behind and let me decorate and outfit my house in my own damn way.

Hubs protested.

"But I always liked that table," he argued.

It sat in the garage for months, collecting dust. Finally, he took it to a flea market.

Now it all seems so silly. At the time, however, when I was trying to establish a new and shared life with this man I had married, I didn't want all this stuff getting in my way. Literally or figuratively.

Lord knows there was enough mental flotsam without adding ex-furniture to the mix.

So while I laughed at the sitcom and the couple's bickering over an ex-spatula —

— secretly, I totally got it.

Britney's fat?!

OK, I must take issue with all the criticism.

Because I'm sorry, but if my post-baby(ies) body looked like hers, I'd wear skimpy outfits too.

And frolic — OK, yes, I know, she wasn't exactly frolicsome, but I would be — across a stage in a sequined bikini-thingy front of thousands.

And skip across a nude — nude! — beach totally, awesomely in love with myself.

My youngest kid is older than her oldest (did that make sense?) and I've got at least 30 pounds on her. (probably more *sigh*)

Good lord. What is wrong with all these nasty, judging people? I would weep in gratitude for a "pooch" like hers.

Who's that sleeping in my bed?

So the evening went something like this --

The E-man once again shuns his new big-boy twin bed, announcing instead his plans to sleep with Tootie in her full-size bed. After a few minutes of giggling, however, Tootie declares that she doesn't want to sleep with her little brother.

"I want to sleep alone," she says.

So Tootie heads to the E-man's room and plops onto his bed.

This upsets the E-man, who wants to sleep with his sister, even though she has made it clear he is NOT welcome.

And the compromise worked out between these two determined little souls?

"Let's sleep in Mommy's bed!" Tootie suggests.

"OK! We sleep in Mommy's bed!" E-man agrees.

I stand, confused and defeated, while my tots, armed with blankies and pillows, accompanied by a small army of stuffed animals, make yet another bed switch that, yes indeedy, plants them squarely in the middle of the marital bed.

But dammit, at least they're finally asleep.

Two hours pass.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask Hubs. "Does this mean one of us gets the dog's bed? Remember, she's been scratching a lot lately. Fleas. Ick."

"You sleep with them in our bed and I'll take either Tootie or E-man's bed," Hubs replies.

"Or we can leave them in our room and each take a kid's bed," I say.

"Leave them in our room -- alone? Have you done gone and lost your mind? The last time we did that, E-man came out wearing tiger stripes across his face and head. Your eyeliner, remember? No, they can't be in there unsupervised," Hubs concluded.

"Hmm... you're right. I don't want my lipstick wiped out again either. But if we try to oust them we'll wake them up. Do you want them awakened at this time of night?"

"OK, let's think this one through."

So we wander around with our pillows, aimlessly, passing one another in the darkened hallway.

On our third -- or maybe fourth -- pass-through, Hubs grabs my arm, waggles his eyebrows and nods toward the E-man's room.

"We could both lay in there," he says, striding across the room and plopping into bed.

"It's a twin," I argue.

"So, we'll be stacked. We would be anyway with what I've got in mind."

"We are not desecrating the toddler's new big-boy bed. I want no part of it."

"Are you sure...?" he asks, patting a two-inch slice of bed suggestively.

"Are you telling me you could have sex in your toddler's big-boy bed, knowing that such actions could lead to the addition of another wee wandering non-slumberer a mere nine months from now? Remember, I may have skipped a pill or two..."

"You mean like -- a third baby?" Hubs splutters.

"Yep," I say, cheerily. "A. Third. Baby. A wailing, up-all-night-baby."

I smile seductively. Show a little leg.

"Um. Goodnight!" he calls. And he pulls the red sheets up firmly to his chin.

This time two years ago ...

... we gathered at the beach for a family reunion.

I revisit that time through photos, laughing again at the memory of my children's startled expressions when they licked their wind-chapped lips and tasted the unexpected tang of salt.

Picture by picture, I go back to that weekend by the ocean.

I cup my daughter's face, brushing away sand from wide brown eyes.

I feel the soft, squishy thighs of my baby. I feel his tiny heart flutter as I hold him up against a darkening sky.

I feel the edges of a broken shell, pressed into my hand by my daughter's eager fingers.

And even amid the shouts of children, the rumble of thunder and the constant roar of the ocean, I feel peace.

Yes, it's a vinyl shirt. With a zipper.

I wore it on an August night. In Arkansas. I nearly suffered a heat stroke.

This kind of fashion faux pas, my friends, occurs when a Texas girl decides to move to the Land of the Hogs and develops a huge crush on a photographer at work.

I'd already indicated my interest by running my foot up and down his leg one night, after a few too many fruity little drinks. My prey was unnerved, however, probably because my then-boyfriend was sitting at the same table.

Yes, I know. But trust me, Former Boyfriend does not deserve your pity.

Anyway, stronger measures were clearly needed.

In August 2000, a group of us decided to go dancing one night at the Electric Cowboy (formerly known as BJ's Star-Studded Honky Tonk, back when Paula Jones was a regular customer). I knew, as soon as I found out the photographer was going, that I had to go shopping.

I am ashamed to admit I bought this rat-ugly shirt because of the zipper. I could choose the degree of cleave depending on how the night was going.

Eight months later, I married the hunted-and-bagged photographer.

How could I possibly throw this shirt away? The sentiment positively dangles from that zipper. It was my most effective/efficient makeout shirt ever and I am loathe to give up the last reminder of my days as a skinny seductress. (please note: the photo above was taken last night, not back then)

ALSO NOTE: I have NOT worn this shirt since that fateful night. I am guilty only of leaving it in the closet.

So. Why would I leave you with this image of me on a Friday?

Because I'm participating in this week's Parent Bloggers' Blog Blast.

Want to share my humiliation? Simply follow the instructions issued by these clearly diabolical people, who are asking moms to review a new book called The Little Black Book of Style. (I'm not one of those moms. I just enjoy sharing the scary contents of my wardrobe.)

Back to the instructions:

Tell us how your style has deteriorated over the years and provide some photographic evidence - a picture of the most hideous item that’s still darkening your closet - and ‘fess up to why it’s still in there!

Winner gets a $250 Coach certificate.

Perhaps I should keep the shirt. A Coach might make it almost hip...

Nah.

When she calls

My depression is like an old lover who refuses to fade into the past.

Years go by. And then she calls.

"I'll be in town," she says. A pause. Her voice drops to a silky whisper. "I've missed you. Let's get together."

I demur.

"It's really not a good time," I tell her.

Or, "My husband wouldn't understand."

But at some point I must agree to meet her. Why else would I find her ensconced in my favorite spot on the couch, curled up cozily, waiting to resume our relationship?

She stays up late, too late. Sometimes, she invites Anxiety to spend the night, and we three huddle on the bed together, fretting and worrying and indulging ourselves in niggling doubts.

Through it all, my husband sleeps, unaware that she is intruding, yet again.

Sometimes we drink together, Depression, Anxiety and me. Not a good idea. Their tolerance is higher than mine.

-------------------------

The therapist leans forward, eyebrows raised.

"I don't understand," she says. "Why did you quit taking your medication?"

I laugh nervously, make a few jokes about the side effects.

"Why do you laugh when we're talking about your sadness?" she asks. "Why must everything be a funny story?"

I stammer, try to explain that it's how I cope, that by turning events into amusing anecdotes, I can sometimes fend off my depression's ardent advances.

Although, admittedly, never for long.

"It's OK to be sad," the therapist says. "It's OK to realize this isn't something you can control."

And tears slide down my cheeks.

-------------------------------

"I don't understand," my husband says.

"Why are you so unhappy? Is it me? Is it our life?"

I try to reassure him.

"She's always been a part of me, long before I met you."

My husband sighs. Really, there's nothing else to say.

-------------------------------

On a gray, rainy February day, I get up, put the coffee on.

I open a cabinet and pull out a mug. I also pull out the bottle of pills.

Will I ever not need these? Will I ever know a life uninterrupted by her long visits?

The coffeemaker hisses and gurgles.

I pour a glass of water and look out the window at the dead, brown grass, at the trash cans waiting to be hauled down the driveway.

And I swallow the pill.

I do love me some nominations

I meant to get this --




-- up earlier today, but those pesky editors of mine have a way of dropping by at the most inopportune times.

If you haven't seen this month's Perfect Post awards, you can head over here or here for the full list.

I nominated Mrs. Chicken for her post, Mea Culpa because -- well, even after reading it several times, I still break out in goosebumps.

One picture, two images

I never expected to have a boy.

I'm the oldest of three girls. My mom is one of three girls. Three of my four cousins on that side of the family are girls.

So when the doctor pointed out a penis in the fall of 2004, I was skeptical.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Look," interrupted Hubs, possessor of the sharp photographer's eyes. "That is definitely a penis.

A boy? I know nothing of boys. What happened to my Tootie's little sister?


My only experience with boys involved my stepson, and at the time, as a novice stepparent, I spent much of my time worrying that I had totally bungled things with him.

And then the E-man arrived, a happy-go-lucky little man who crawled into my lap, wrapped his grubby arms around my neck and said, "I yuv you, Mommy."

Suddenly, I was converted.

Last year, fellow Musing Mama Laurie Aucoin Kaiser wrote an essay about her two boys. It began:

Twelve-year-old boys make me want to cry. Not in that “I know they are making fun of me” way I felt when I was a pubescent girl, but rather as a glimpse into my not-so-distant future.

With their baggy pants and bored glances, their skateboards and their video games, they are the “big boys” my sons seem in awe of.

Boys as young as 9 or 10 sometimes hold this distinction, but it’s the 11- and 12-year-olds on the brink of adolescence who really get to me. I know that in a heartbeat Jacob and Sawyer will be among them.

OK, maybe such hand-wringing is a little premature; my boys haven’t even entered kindergarten yet. Jacob just turned 2 and Sawyer won’t be 4 until the end of May. However, the promise of pending adolescence is out there just waiting to grab my heart, so full of little boy wonder and love, and twist it in two.


By the time Laurie wrote this essay, my stepson had become a teenage boy -- a wild-haired boy who wore baggy pants and appeared permanently attached to a skateboard. So I winced when I read about her fears.

I looked at my toddler and tried to imagine him 10 years later, and ... well, yes. It wrenched my heart too.

Today, Hubs came home with this picture of my stepson and my toddler:



You'd think this image would make me cringe, anticipating the day when my baby man will don baggy jeans and let his hair grow wild like his older brother's...

... anticipating how the memory of his warm breath on my neck and a whispered, "I yuv you," will make me cry.

But when I look at this photo, I go back, not forward --

-- and I remember a long-ago night when we got caught in a frightening storm on the way home from a mountain cabin.

I remember an infant Tootie, strapped in her carseat, screaming.

And I remember turning around and seeing an 11-year-old boy -- the one who would one day wear baggy pants and let his dark, curly hair grow wild -- holding the wailing baby's tiny hand in his.

That is the image that makes me cry.

Miss Julia & the Mystery of Al's Ashes

So this morning I checked my email and found notification that my Blogherads code was available -- and the message was from Yvonne!

Of course, I immediately went all stalkerish and emailed her back, carrying on about how much I've enjoyed her Judy posts, thereby giving her yet another reason to be fearful of new, overly enthusiastic acquaintances.

Anyway, her Judy stories have taken me back to the days of Julia, the most faithful source I've ever had in this profession. Well, except for this one Junior Leaguer, who single-handedly brought down a huge nonprofit agency after it failed to pay the band for the Junior League's biggest fund raiser of the year.

(Warning to any unscrupulous people living in the South: Never. Piss. Off. The. Junior. League.)

Anyway, while Julia was not Junior League material by any stretch, she was ... well .... memorable.

I met Julia while reporting for the Beaumont Enterprise in southeast Texas. Her husband, Al, had once worked at the paper, covering City Hall.

Julia called me every day at 4 p.m. That would be at the height of deadline for a small-town newspaper reporter. Still, I couldn't ignore her, even though she talked FOREVER, because every so often, Julia offered absolutely priceless news tips.

One afternoon, after I had seriously contemplated not picking up, Julia informed me that she had been listening to her police scanner -- which she loved just about as much as the dozens of stray pets she took in --- when she heard that a county commissioner had been blasted off his bulldozer by water from a firehose after he had tried to run over some firefighters.

The firefighters were there to put out a fire that the commissioner started while clearing brush on the job -- despite a county burn ban being place.

Which, it turns out, had been secretly lifted by the county judge, who happened to be a good friend of the bull-dozing commissioner.

And now flames were shooting up past the towering pines and the firemen were pissed.

Of course, I raced out there. (Firefighters! Yum!)

And it was all just as Miss Julia had said. Trees were scorched, neighbors were agog and the commissioner had been taken to the hospital to make sure he wasn't injured.

So you see why it didn't pay to blow off Julia.

Twice a year, for Christmas and her birthday, I dropped by Julia's house with a card or gift. She wouldn't let people in her house, so we'd sit at the foot of her driveway in lawn chairs. Julia always offered a leafy branch of ... some plant or another ... which we would use to swat away the mosquitoes.

The one thing Julia didn't talk about was her marriage to Al, which of course, was what I was dying to hear about.

Newsroom legend had it that Al once caused a security guard to just about pee his pants after finding Al sleeping in a darkened area on the deserted third floor of the newspaper. Supposedly, it was Al's vampirish sleeping position -- hands crossed over his chest -- that spooked the guard. From then on, the guard refused to go up there after hours. He said the prospect of stumbling across Al was just too unnerving.

By the time I met Julia, Al was long dead. Supposedly, the pair had split up before his passing, but when Al fell ill, Julia cared for him, a bit testily, but still...

I remember asking Marie -- the editor's assistant who hailed from Cajun Country and longtime friend of Julia -- about Al and Julia's relationship, but Marie just smiled mysteriously.

"Has Julia ever told you what she did with Al's ashes?" Marie asked.

Again, that cryptic smile.

I begged. I fell at Marie's teensy feet and groveled. I promised to never again make fun of her for that time she took home the leftover margaritas from the newsroom party and arrived at work the next morning with her soft, gray hair dyed a glossy ebony.

But Marie wouldn't budge.

My imagination ran wild. Knowing Julia, she could have done just about anything with her ex-husband's remains. And who knew what Mr. Vampire might have specified in his will?

It became a quest, to find out where those ashes were. By then, my fellow reporters were equally intrigued.

What if Al's ashes were stashed somewhere in the newsroom?

One night, after Marie stood on a chair and tipsily sang along to that well-known David Allan Coe song at a local bar, I took advantage of her condition and asked about the ashes.

She told me. And for the next hour, I was the only person to know what became of Al.

Then I got snockered and by next morning...

... the long-sought revelation had been wiped clean from my brain by alcohol.

No amount of pleading could wrest the information from Marie again.

I have this nagging hint of a memory involving Al and a bag of dog food. But then I tell myself that surely, even given all her eccentricities, Miss Julia wouldn't have gone that far...

I don't think.