I want to give you all an update on the Fiesta de Insanity at the Bright Compound this past weekend.  I realize I set you all up for tales of mayhem with the impending sleepover and such, and then I didn’t tell you anything yesterday.

I was remiss and I apologize.

The sleepover went remarkably well.  All the children got along and they even helped pick up the toys scattered all over the house.  I’m telling you,

This is in no way dignified

 between the five of them, they played with every single toy my children have ever had.

This was the most eventful thing that happened honestly and, since it happened to the cat, none of us were very concerned. You can see here that he was completely demoralized. At least the girls only shoved him in a doll highchair and didn’t try to make him wear doll clothes.  That’s something. 

Look how sweet he is

Another note – I thought I’d share with you all the most pathetic teddy bear in existence today.  If that damn dog of mine can’t get control of himself, this poor bear won’t be in existence for very much longer.

This is Super Duper Snuggle Bear or, more affectionately referred to as, Snuggie. This is really the only stuffed animal that Roscoe absolutely can not leave alone.  I always try to remember to put Snuggie on the top bunk when he’s not actively being cuddled so Roscoe can’t get to him.

As you can see, Snuggie has no ears and no tail.  His entire left side has been

ear-less

 stitched back together more times than I can remember.  Last week he went to Dr. Grandma’s house for more stuffing because he was darn near flat.

This evening, I had to put him back together again and it’s getting harder and harder to do. The Bandit is remarkably stoic about the bear and his life

No tail either. Poor Snuggie

threatening injuries.  Each time he brings him to me with no tears, simply hands him to me, and I put him back together.

But have no doubt, dear readers, this bear is the One.  Bandit sleeps with Snuggie every night since he was six months old. When the day comes, and I dread this day, that The Bandit thinks he’s too grown up for the teddy bear, Snuggie will retire with me, to my room. I can’t even stomach the thought of losing Snuggie forever.

A great quote from the daily calendar.

I don’t agree with feminists.  I saw a feninist on T.V. saying, ‘If women ruled the world, there’d be no crime, no pollutin, and no war.’ I’m thinking, ‘Great.  What happens if there’s a spider?'”

-Livia Squires, high-estrogen hellion

Men kill the bugs.  End of conversation.

My best conversations with The Bandit happen while I’m cuddling with him when I put him to sleep. The problem is, I always get him to giggling which is not conducive to going to sleep.

“Guess what I want for my birthday,” I told him.

“A kiss?” he suggested.

“No, but I’ll take one now.” He pecked a quick kiss on my lips. “That was very nice, but that’s not what I want.”

“Oh. A hug?”  Then he promptly gave me one of those, too.

“I love your hugs, too, and I’ll love to have one with a kiss on my actual birthday, but that’s not what I want for my present.”

He thought for a second. “A butterfly kiss?” Apparently, he was going to go through our repetoire of kisses.  Next I’m certain he’d suggest an Eskimo kiss.

“No. I want an actual present. Guess what I want that is not a sign of affection.”

“Affection?”

“I mean a present that doesn’t involve kisses or hugs.”

“Oh. I bet it’s a puppy.”

“Bingo! That’s what you tell Daddy any time he asks. In fact, even if he doesn’t ask you should bring it up.”

“We already have a puppy.” Obviously, his father is working on him from the other angle.  Drat. I’ll have to undo all that brainwashing.

“I know, but I want another puppy.”

“I thought I couldn’t have another puppy because I don’t take care of the one we already have.”

“True, but the new puppy won’t be for you. I’ll take care of it just like I take care of Roscoe.”

“Oooh, then I just get to play with it.” He giggled with glee.

“Nope.  It’s my puppy and if you don’t help take care of it, then you can’t touch it.”

“What if it wants to touch me?”

No, you can’t. You’ll have to go to your room when the puppy wants to play.  It’s my puppy.”

“Oh come on!” That’s The Bandit’s new phrase: Oh Come On! He says it all the time and with great enthusiasm.

“Listen you, just do as you’re told. You tell Daddy what I told you to tell him and maybe I’ll let you pet my puppy.”

“Can we get a German Shepard?”

“I’d be very happy with a German Shepard. I’d be pretty darn happy with just about any puppy.”

“OK.  I want a dalmatian.” I read him 101 Dalmatians for his bedtime story.  That’s what gave me such a great segue into our conversation.

“Whatever.  If you guys get me a puppy, I’ll let it kiss me for my birthday.”

I love puppy kisses.

He wouldn’t let me go until I sang him a song.  I sang How Much is That Doggy In the Window.  Twice. I’ve got a month to pull this off.

I posted a review this week for Waking Up With the Duke by Lorraine Heath.  If you’re so inclined, click on the cover and check it out.

It rained again today – a fact that pleases us dry desert dwellers to no end. I had the windows and front door open to let in the cool, clean smelling air.  The temperature had dropped from around 106 degrees to 78 and it was simply beautiful. Sassy and The Bandit wanted to go outside to play in the rain and, since it wasn’t raining really hard, I let them.

That was one of the best things about summer when I was a kid growing up in the desert.  When the rain would finally come relieving us all of the stiffling summer heat, playing outside in the soothing rain with the smell of creasote cooling everything off.

I was making dinner (spaghetti don’t you know) and talking to Kelli on the phone about the edits that need to be made to Book 2. At one point, The Bandit came in and asked if he could have my umbrella out of the car.  I told him no because he would just break it and I need the stupid thing for when the rain is torential.

While Kelli and I mulled over how to fix this and that issue in the story, I heard my car alarm chirping on and off.  I was busy so I didn’t do anything about it at the time.

This part feels like I’m taking a crazy left turn into story Tourettes but I’m not.  Even though Ava has had me on this crazy diet for the last three days, she decided that tomorrow would be a great time for a dessert pot luck at work. I whole heartedly agree.  What could be better, right? I found a really great recipe for s’mores cupcakes and everyone unanimously voted I make them for the party. I knew I would need to go to the store for some of the ingredients.  For example, molassas and buttermilk.  Who has that in the house all the time?

After the kids were put to bed, I gathered up my list and told My Honey I was off to the store. Only, my keys weren’t in my bag. Or on the table. Or on the floor. Or behind the couch. And I remembered the alarm chirping on and off while I made dinner.  I glanced around and the umbrella wasn’t around either. I gathered My Honey and two flashlights and we headed out to the front yard to search in the dark puddles for the stupid keys. They weren’t in the driveway, in the street, in the mailbox (we’ve found things there before), in the yard or under the boat.

My Honey suggested we wake The Bandit up and ask him.  It seemed like a relatively good idea. I was hoping that if he was half asleep he’d just tell us their location instead of getting cagey and thinking up lies like he would if he was awake. Only we couldn’t get the kid to wake up.  He laid there like a dead person even with us turning the lights on and shining flashlights at him. I took the covers off and shook him, saying his name louder and louder. I pinched his nose closed. Nothing. He never did open his eyes, but he finally roused enough to form words.

“Where are my car keys?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are my car keys?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dude, where are my car keys.  I’m really gonna need those.”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is the umbrella you were using?”

“I put it over something.”

Over something? “Over what?”

“I don’t know.”

This theme went on for quite some time with varying degrees of hysteria and frustration in my voice. I finally got mad and stormed off with the flashlight to search in a few more places. My Honey came out to the car where I was peering under and between all the seats.

“I didn’t get anything out of him. I even demanded, ‘Where are the codes for the Russian nuclear missles?’ but all he said was, ‘I don’t know’.”

Ha ha ha. He’s a funny man but he wasn’t helping.

It was now 10:00 and I still hadn’t been to the store yet. I took My Honey’s keys and stormed off to the store in a fit. I talked to Kelli again on the way and told her my tale of woe. Of course, she laughed at me. She also made the appropriate noises of sympathy, but there was still laughing. I got all my ingredients and headed home. I toted my bags through to the kitchen and out of the tiniest flicker of my eye, I caught a glimmer of my keys poking out of a hidden cubbie in a step stool. A freakin step stool. I could kill him, honestly.

At 10:15 I started on the cupcakes and thought to myself that I should check the status on cupcakes liners. I knew at one time I had a bunch of them. In the recesses of the pantry, I found said cupcake liners. Each and every one of them was ruined. The boy had filled them all with chocolate syrup and cake sprinkles.

At what point does a normal person throw up their hands and just decide to visit a bakery on the way to work in the morning? I blame my mother.

So at 10:30 I was back on the road to the grocery store for more cupcake liners. Kelli texed me the following:

I know lots of other little boys and none of them do this shit. You either have a genius or a sociopath.

I hope the jury is kind.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. Do you remember what happened when I allowed Sassy to have a slumber party for her seventh birthday? Let me just summarize to remind you. Things did not go smoothly. There was chewing gum, loss of varnish on the dining table, vomiting and a recalcitrant guest – to name a few of the joyful events.

I wasn’t so insane as to allow that to happen again. Seriously, if I post anything along the lines of suggesting that I plan on permitting that to happen, you need to call the authorities on me right away.  Clearly I need help.

What I did allow was for Sassy to invite a friend from camp to spend the night.  AND THEN one of The Bandit’s cronies mom’s texted to ask if we could watch her boy the same night because their sitter fell through. I happen to really like this child and his mom, so I agreed. However, this is the first time The Bandit has had a friend spend the night.

Did you just feel the shiver run down your spine?

My thinking (I thought this through – really, I did) is that if they each have a friend over then, Bandit won’t feel compelled to pester his sister incessantly. That makes sense, right? God, I hope so.

There is a very real possibility I will look like this come Sunday.

I feel like this most evenings by 9:00 pm so I should be a real charmer come Sunday morning. I get to spend the next few days pondering why I do these things.

The Bandit has been making lists of activities.

Be afraid.

The following is Article 26 of Chapter II: Quarters, Food, and Clothing of Prisoners of War of the Third Geneva Convention.

The basic daily food rations shall be sufficient in quantity, quality and variety to keep prisoners of war in good health and to prevent loss of weight or the development of nutritional deficiencies. Account shall also be taken of the habitual diet of the prisoners.

I’d like to be considered a Prisoner of War.  I’m willing to sit in a tribunal to obtain that designation because I am fairly confident that, if properly explained, anyone with any sense at all would agree that working in the banking and mortgage industry during the current economic climate is like being in a war. I certainly get yelled at enough by strangers when they find out what I do that it feels like boot camp only without the excessive sweating and bad haircut.

Specifically, I’d like the POW designation as it pertains to food.  Ava has me on another one of her God-awful diets.  She read about this one in a magazine. Of course she did – I wouldn’t be surprised, honestly, if one day she came in with a copy of the National Enquirer and insisted tomorrow we’re starting the Neptunian Be-Thin-in-Thirty-Days Diet because the women on Neptune are ridiculously svelte.  I often find Ava to be surprisingly gullible for someone as intelligent as she is.  Everyone always asks why I go along with these stupid, demoralizing diets of hers and my answer is because, quite frankly, I can’t take the haranguing.  It’s easier to just appease her for the few days she’ll actually follow the diet before she caves in and we head over to the Church for cupcakes and lattes. Besides, it gives me something to complain about and I do love to complain. 

This particular diet has a cleanse for the first two days and then you can reintroduce foods into your regular diet as you test each one to see if you gain weight when you eat them.  Sounds stupid, right? You have no idea.  The first day we were allowed to eat admittedly good granola cereal with blueberries. Lunch however was another story all together.  Carrot & Ginger soup.  When I tell you it’s abhorrent don’t think that I am exaggerating. Even Ava thinks it’s like eating death in a bowl. One of the ladies at work suggested I pretend that I am on The Amazing Race and I have to eat it for a million dollars. Look, if there was a million dollars at the bottom of that bowl, I’d happily eat a gallon of the stuff, but there isn’t.  There isn’t even a congratulatory cookie at the end. I literally gagged on this soup. Then she made me eat grass with bizarre vinaigrette dressing and garbanzo beans. I hate garbanzo beans.  I really, really hate garbanzo beans.  I was rewarded with watermelon. Not watermelon flavored ices. Just watermelon. It was not worth it.

I’d like to remind you all that the Geneva Convention article 26 states: Account shall also be taken of the habitual diet of the prisoners.

I have never, nor will I voluntarily again, eat carrot & ginger soup. That is NOT a part of my “habitual diet.” 

I would like to file an official protest. What’s the area code for Geneva?

So the other evening I was home alone with the Idiot Dog. I was working on 1st read through of my 1st draft of the 2nd book.  Did you follow that?  The paper copy I have is riddled with red ink in the margins and there are various color-coded tabs sticking out of the pages. However, for the 1st draft, I’m relatively happy with what changes need to be made.

That is at least from my perspective.  My Sisters haven’t read their copies yet to give me their opinions.  That frustrates me – especially Ava since she has been hounding me to finish for months, but that is not the point of this post.

The point was Idiot Dog.  I was sitting on the couch making my red notations when Roscoe came up and gave me the look.  You dog owners know “the look.” I assumed he needed to go outside to perform some doggy business, but when I got up he didn’t actually want to go outside.  What he wanted was to play.

He asked so nicely and it’s hard to refuse his hound dog eyes. Besides, I needed a break so I indulged him in a rousing game of Hide & Seek.  You know, for a hound dog, he was remarkably bad at it. I don’t know if he gave his nose the day off or what, but I shouldn’t be able to hide in plain sight and have him not be able to find me. You’re probably thinking he was pretending he couldn’t find me, and that’s what I initially thought as well.  The sad truth is, we’re both giving him way too much credit. Not only could I hide in plain sight but I could also sneak up on him and scare the living crap out of him.  I’ll freely admit that was quite satisfying.

He was racing around the circle: kitchen to hall to living room to dining nook to family room to hall to kitchen again. He was baying like a lunatic and running like he was working on the hound dog land speed record. He actually corners pretty wellbut, when it’s an especially sharp turn, he’ll inevitably bounce off a wall.  He never lets that slow him down though. He’ll just pinball off the wall and continue on running. One of these days I’m afraid he’ll break a hip – let’s just hope he eventually turns into the sleeping-on-the-porch hound dog we were all hoping for when we got him. I’m certain that eventually his DNA will come out of its latency and he’ll realize he’s not supposed to have so much energy.

But for now, I was having fun with him.  He’d come riping around the corner and I’d  jump out of hiding. He’d flip out and spin in the air and take off the other direction crowing with glee. Once or twice I stayed “hidden” in one of the corners on his race course.  He’d run by me two or three times before I’d jump out at him.  You wouldn’t have believed how funny it was to see him practically pee his little puppy pants in surprise.

It was a rare moment when the dog who came into our family as a gift to me was willing to have anything to do with me.  I’m usually ignored completely in favor of his one true love, but his daddy wasn’t home and I was willing. I might have scored a point or two.

I am so exhausted. I spent four and a half hours cleanin

g the boy’s bedroom today.  Way back in November I did this with Sassy’s room.  I had been frustrated by The Bandit’s bedroom for a really long time and today was the end of my rope. 

You know those really disturbing shows like Hoarding: Buried Alive where people are so averse to throwing anything away – even garbage – that they live with crap stacked literally to the ceiling and skinny little paths through their houses. Well, obviously, the Bandit’s room wasn’t that bad – it just felt that way with all the McDonald’s happy meal toys and action figures with missing arms and Lego’s and Matchbox cars and broken squirt guns and various other forms of flotsam and jetsam inherent in a boy’s room.

He had so many baby and little boy toys there was no room left to put anything away.  Anytime I asked him to sort through and donate those toy’s he’d grown out of, just as you’d suspect, he’d suddenly claim that each and every toy I’d suggest was his absolute favorite toy of all time.

I snuck five garbage bags of puzzle pieces, happy meal toys, games with missing parts, loose marbles, decks of cards with only twenty-six cards, and torn stuffed animals. I tossed out the dominos and the checkers because so many were missing. There was a free-for-all expunging of debris in his room.  I even made him slither under his bed and fish out the orange peels, various fruit gummies, wrappers, and one random peach pit. I don’t know why that garbage was under there, but I shouldn’t be surprised because his father and I find his food remains everywhere.

Now every Lego has a home, every Bakugan and Pokemon have a box, all the train and race tracks are in their place.  It’s nice.

So it was only that much more unfortunate when I had to kill him.

I told him to put his toys away and get ready for bed. I didn’t expect anything to happen when I went back in there to give him a kiss and a cuddle.  Sadly, that wasn’t the case. I found the toys he was last playing with shoved under his previously pristine bed. They weren’t even shoved well or I wouldn’t have seen them.  The boy’s too lazy to even be a decent slob.

After his beating and he put those toys in their prescribed places, I made him take an oath. He had to put his right hand over his heart and raise his left hand in the boy scout sign.

I, The Bandit, to hereby solemnly swear

“What does ‘solemnly’ mean?”

“It means you’re not kidding and that you understand this is very serious business.”

To always put my toys away where they belong.

“No giggling, Bandit.”

“OK”

I understand that every toy has a home.

“Mo-om, the toys don’t have homes.  That’s silly. They have cubbies.”

“The cubbies are they’re homes.”

I promise to put away every toy before I take out another one.

“I don’t think I can say that part.”

“You’d better.”

And I promise to never to go sleep without putting  away every single toy.

“EVERY TOY?”

“Yes.  Say it.”

The oath was said. I will admit I delivered it in the dark so I don’t know if he had his little hand over his heart the whole time.  I don’t even know if he took it seriously.

Well, it was beautiful while it lasted.