The Biggie thought the word “flatulent” meant “polite.” (She said, “it sounds like gallant!”) If that were true, this family could write the book on etiquette. I’m just sayin’.

What It Has Come To




This note is posted above the controls of my stove. Just a little reminder, though I’m thinking, with the economy down, who would sneer at a little extra protein?

The other day I heard Milo at his food bowl, then realized he was sitting at my feet. Hm. The crunching sounds continued. Tiptoeing over to the bowl, I saw a flash of movement into a teeny weeny hole I’d never noticed before, where a pipe enters the floor. The resident Mouse Killah (not me) set up a trap next to the hole, we retreated to our bunkers, and shazam—within moments we had caught not a mouse, but a vole. For some reason this skeeves me out more than a mouse would—is it the tiny eyes? The fact that cats will kill voles, but not eat them? There’s something mildly satanic about voles, I think we can all agree.

So this morning, I hear telltale lumbering-about sounds at the bottom of my stove (ew ew ew ew) and open the broiler to find…four pieces of Milo’s food and some cotton fluff. It was a stash. My broiler is a vole outpost. So The Husband, god bless him, woke up and even before pouring a cup of coffee-such is his dedication-set up a nice little enclosed trap system (=shoebox with strategic entry holes). Within minutes of closing it back up, I heard scritching, snapping, scrambling. Ew.

Vocabulary of the Day:

Blebitis: Inflammation of the tongue such that its protrusion from the mouth interferes with normal speech, e.g. “Dis blebitis is mekkin it hahd ta tahk.”

Abandoblog

Hey there, good lookin’. Didn’t I know you, back in the day? Say, a year or two ago?

What happened to Quistilton News, you ask. (1) More work. (2) Facebook. ‘Nuff said. Now there’s still more work (thankfully), but Facebook jumped the shark when people like me joined it. (Note that I am still on there, but have learned to wrangle into submission my addiction to fluffy, sugary bite-sized social interaction.)

How are you all? What have you been up to? Wow, this is a pretty one-sided conversation, particularly seeing as how you all probably gave up clicking through long ago. Not that my readership was burgeoning anyway (hi, Jenn and Amy, and that anonymous IP address in Connecticut!).

Big whomping news here: just yesterday, our friend John finished building me an OFFICE. A room of my very own, with a door and everything. It is yellow inside, and red and green on the outside. I told my friend Mary Beth that it looked like a giant multicolored packing crate had been dropped off in the corner of my living room, and she said “Don’t tell anyone that!” Why not? At any rate, it fits right into the wacky Quistilton house, which was built all akimbo in the first place-and, as such, suits us perfectly.

The small people are bigger. The Biggie now steals my socks at every opportunity and has been spotted working her way through my shoe stash. I give myself a year or two more of lording over her, before I have to lord it under her. The Wee One is still wee, but has lost her baby belly (RIP) and is learning to read. She still generally moves at the speed of light, but interspersed are periods of crash-and-burn, with accompanying weepiness. The Big is also prone to these emotional crises, and I’m beginning to understand what people mean when they talk about having GIRLS. I shudder to think of what it will be like having actual teenagers around, when they’re already so volatile at the ages of 6 and 9. Will the house spontaneously go up in flames? (Am I just courting Murphy’s Law here?)

Milo the Wonder Dog has been joined by Angus the Blue-Eyed Beagle Hound. We’ve also managed to pick up a rabbit (Wabooz) and a feral cat (Mr. Bojangles, aka General Motors) along the way. Don’t tell the Husband, but there are rumors of chickens in the spring.

My sisters and I have signed up to do a triathlon together, of all things—it was Jess’s idea. I told my dad, “Jess and Jenn and I are doing a triathlon together,” and he said, “Jeff? Jeff WHO?” Team Quistilton will be burning up the course come August, I assure you all. We just need to teach Jenn how to ride a bike. And my swimming—well, that remains the same as in previous Quistilton News posts. I did, however, make it across Cayuga Lake last summer, for the Hospicare Women Swimmin’ fundraiser. 1.1 miles! And it only took me, like, an hour and fifteen minutes of my patented sidewinding breast stroke doggie paddle flail! (One very kind kayaker stuck with me the whole time. I think it’s because I shouted, “I need you to make sure I don’t go under!”)

2009 was a year of epic financial ups and downs, as the Husband left the company he had grown from 3 to 27 people, and took a looooooooong sabbatical from full-time work, made longer by the simultaneous crash of the economy. We juggled kids, parenting roles and part-time gigs until he founded a company this fall. Things are settling back down-at least as much as they can, with an entrepeneur in the house-and we are all letting out a collective sigh of relief (Knock wood! Cross fingers!).

In October one of my dearest friends died after kicking colon cancer’s ass for four and a half years. She wouldn’t appreciate me getting maudlin, but a post about what has happened in the last year wouldn’t be complete without mention of her. I love her and miss her every day.

I was reading the New York Times Motherlode blog a few days ago, and they had an article on things you never thought you would find yourself saying, as a parent—a blogpost idea which they clearly stole from my “Things I Never Thought I Would Have to Say” series—so I thought I’d end this post with this gem, brought about by the Wee One only yesterday:

“The dog is NOT a wheelbarrow!”

It’s good to be back.

Things I Never Thought I Would Have to Say, Part Four

“Don’t spray sunscreen on the windows!”

Brought To You By Insomnia

The best way I have ever spent insomniatic time--VOTING. I was up early listening to the Wee One cough (hello, asthma season!) when I remembered that the polls opened at 6. As I drove down the road, I encountered my neighbor, letting the chickens out. He was on his way to the polls, too. When I got to the community center, his wife was already there, as were about 15 other people. I was number six in line. As we left, my neighbor's wife, a reticent New England native, burst into tears. Apologizing as I hugged her, she said, "I just want to be able to breathe in this country again."

Here, here. This is the big one, folks--get out and VOTE!

Things I Never Thought I Would Have to Say, Part Three

“Stop licking the bus stop!”