Because I'm such a follower...

... I saw all these other blog posts with photos of Halloweens current and past, and, well, I just couldn't resist, even though the day is nigh over.

So:

Halloween 2004



Halloween 2005:



Halloween 2006:

CANNOT FIND THESE! But E-man was a pumpkin (yes, again) and Tootie was a little winged fairy.

Halloween 2007:



I'll now be up all damn night looking for those missing 2006 photos...

What does not constitute a pet?

Aside from the rodent in our house, that is, which remains on the lam.

(Paige, I think you're right about the squirrel thing. Or maybe I just don't want to imagine a rat that size. Anyway.)

Redneck Mommy's story about Dave the Dead Rat ... ahem... Dave the Dead MOUSE brought to mind my stepkids' replacement-carnival fish that just would not obligingly die.

Disclosure: Not a fish fan. Too much upkeep for a non-cuddly pet that croaks if you alter its water makeup by one molecule.

But these fish — they were annoyingly hardy little things.

Pity.

When I started dating Hubs, I wondered about the fish tank in his living room. It didn't really go with his bachelor decor — like the cluster of deer antlers that lay in a tangled heap on the fireplace mantel.

One day, Hubs explained how a few months earlier, the kids had won these things at some sort of carnival. Actually, what happened is that Stepson won one and Stepdaughter didn't, so Hubs had to spend a lot of money on the Fishwalk so that she, too, would get a goldfish in a baggie.

Which died the next day, along with Stepson's.

There was much weeping and carrying on, because the fish *sob* — oh, how quickly the children had become attached to them.

So Hubs went out and bought replacements. And a fish tank. With all sorts of accessories.

And every other weekend, the kids would come over, glance at the tank, and say, "Oh, they're still alive?" and then head to the television so that they could watch the twiglet twins MK and Ashley, who, annoying as they may be, clearly are more interesting to watch than fish in a fish tank.

Hubs and I got married. And after moving in all my stuff, we realized the fish tank was in the way. For the record: I did not suggest getting rid of the fish.

I hated the little fuc — fishies. I hated the fishies. But you know. The children. What sort of emotional damage would I inflict — me, the newly installed Stepmother — if I were to complain about their beloved pets?

So I kept my mouth shut and secretly wondered if one really can overfeed and sicken fish. OK, yeah, I didn't just wonder. I hoped. Not that I fed them. No need to deprive Hubs of the joy in sprinkling stinky fish food.

Just imagine my surprise when one Saturday morning I wandered into the living room and found Hubs dismantling the fish tank.

"Um. What are you doing?"

"I'm getting rid of the fish. I hate them. I hate this tank. I'm done with fish."

"Um. Where are they?"

(Images of little fishes swirling down the toilet danced through my mind.)

"I stuck them in a baggie. I'm not sure what to do with them."

I nodded meaningfully toward the bathroom.

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that. I'll figure out something. I was planning to tell the kids they died of some virus. Maybe I can donate them (the fish, not the kids) to a pet store. Or something."

The children were due to arrive that evening.

Guess who left little baggies of smothered, dead fish on the railing of the front porch for the kids to find?

Yeah, you guessed it — the brilliant man who had concocted a complicated tale of an exotic fish virus and then made me recite it to make sure we had our stories straight.

The man who apparently never made it to the pet store with his "donation."

"Daddy, what happened to the fish?"

"Uh ... "

So I saved him.

"We're pretty sure they caught a virus," I recited. "We found them floating in the tank this morning, and your dad didn't want to just flush them down the toilet. Because it would be, you know, disrespectful."

Guess where the little fish corpses ended up? Guess who flushed them? Not me. Not Hubs.

So much for all our concern about the children's broken, grieving little hearts.

The fish tank sat in our garage for a year. Then I sold it at a yard sale for $5.

And I cackled as my gullible customer and his two kids hauled the aquarium to their car, chattering excitedly about the fish they were going to buy.

I bet that tank's been through five owners since then.

The mouse-rat continues to thwart us

Three times now, the mouse-rat has managed to snag cheese without setting off our three traps.

Then, having feasted on various bits of cheese, he heads up to the attic, pops open a bottle wine and flips through an old copy of Vanity Fair.

Not only is he a pest, he is an increasingly well-fed and clearly arrogant pest.

Furry little bastard.

Last night, Hubs bounded into the kitchen, opened the cabinet under the sink ... and sighed.

I peered over his shoulder. The trap, a huge, industrial-grade contraption that looks like something capable of catching a small raccoon, had been flipped over. The marbled cheddar was gone. (Hubs thought cheddar might be more enticing than plain old processed American. Apparently, it was.)

Foiled again.

Meanwhile, I continue to cringe. It's not just the image of a rodent romping through my house that skeeves me -- it's the increasingly distinct possibility that this thing is not only large, but street-smart.

And -- eek -- what if he has a family? What if there's a wifey-mouse-rat who's knocked up?

(OK, well, there's my disease-phobia. Yes, people, I have managed to keep from Googliong hanta virus. So far.)

Tonight's dinner menu for our mouse-rat: More cheddar. Because he likes it. And hell, maybe we'll even throw in a nice glass of Merlot, so that he'll be able to toast his success in eluding us once again.

Mouse, rat, whatever -- it must go

First, thanks so much for the kind words. I appreciated your comments on my last post more than you will ever know.

And now -- since I have vowed to NOT wallow in my job-related angst all weekend, let's focus on the mouse in my house.

(Which my husband insists on calling the "rat," clearly not understanding that while mice could, maybe, be tiny and cute, a RAT brings to mind the glowing-eyed, fanged creature in Lady and the Tramp.)

Anyway, the MOUSE thus far has scorned the traps underneath our sink.

And today, Hubs called me at work to tell me that when he dropped by the house, he heard something moving around up in the attic.

He proceeded to describe, in way too much detail, the scrabbling of claws.

"It sounded like it was digging a hole in our attic floor," Hubs said, clearly relishing his impending battle with the mutant RAT sharing our living space.

"I could tell it's really big."

Tonight, he proudly showed off a trap large enough to incapacitate a possum.

Big error. Because I immediately visualized a giant rodent with glistening teeth.

I don't mind God's little creatures -- great or small -- as long as they remain outdoors where they belong.

But experience tells me that too many representatives of suburban wildlife enjoy the heated (or air-conditioned) indoor life.

Once, during my years in West Texas, a horned lizard (what we native Texans insist on calling a "horny toad") leaped out of the bathroom cabinet under my sink as I was brushing my teeth.

I screamed, the dog went berserk, and the ... thing ... vanished into the hallway.

I stayed up all night looking for it, to no avail.

It's not that I'm afraid of horny toads. I just don't like surprises.

And then there was the mama possum and her two babies that died in the garage of a house I shared with an ex-boyfriend. Despite the many issues that characterized that too-long relationship, our argument over who had to scrape the carcasses off the floor (90-plus degrees plus humidity -- gross) nearly ended things right then.

In my opinion, there are too many similarities between rats and possums.

Which means if the trap doesn't take care of this rodent, Hubs will not be hunting for deer until he hunts down and evicts the wildlife IN the house.

Because you know -- I'm not altogether convinced Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH was fiction.

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.