Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Dogcatraz

This is the dog kennel.

Also known as Dogcatraz.

It is a combination of metal,
wood,
cement board,
extension cords,
duct tape
and
rope.

And also a broom.
(It's expertly hidden. Like a ninja.)


Why do we keep her locked in a kennel?

Well....


The dog ate the la-z-boy recliner.



And then she ate the couch cushion.



And then she rearranged my furniture.

And ate magazines.

And some books.

And Big V's senior class yearbook.

And people would cry, "She needs something special!"

So we got her a plush doggie bed.



And she ate it.

Monday, August 23, 2010

The One In Which I'm Pretty Sure My Mom Has Been Murdered

Life would be so much easier for me if my mother wasn't so, well, dependable. For instance, I can depend on her to answer her phone when I call because she almost always does. On those rare occasions when she doesn't, I can count on her to call me back somewhere between minute 1:17 and 2:36 of my rambling, way-too-long-to-bother-with voicemail message I'm leaving her.

But the other day she didn't answer my phone call.

Or the next one.

Or the next one after that.

And I got worried. Mostly because I really needed to hop on line and make a money transfer and I had no way of doing it at my house, but also because my mom always answers her phone. And she always calls back. But she wasn't doing either. And that, in itself, is worrisome.

So I drove to her house because I really needed to use her computer and also there was a part of me that thought maybe she was just avoiding my call because she was afraid I'd ask her to raise my first born. Again. And when the Bean and I pulled up to her house there in the driveway was her car, which proved to me she really had been avoiding my call, and this made me consider leaving the Bean there for a month just to teach her it's not nice to avoid your favorite daughter's phone calls.

Except she wasn't inside.

So I sent her a text saying I'm at your house using the internet to look up porn and infect your computer with viruses. Just kidding. I wouldn't mention porn to my mother; how embarrassing. The real text was I am at your house using your computer to transfer funds. Where are you and should I call 911? But she didn't text back.

Meanwhile, Bean's in her kitchen whipping up a healthy sandwich, telling me that she just loves coming to Grandma's house because she always has good food in her cupboards. I explained to her that growing up we survived on generic bread and Bisquick because that's what's in the How To Destroy Your Offspring's Culinary Childhood manual, so guess what, I'm going to have good food in my cupboards once you live on your own, too! Also, I told her that Grandma probably does cartwheels every time she opens her cupboards because the good food is still there 24 hours after buying it and just wait until you have kids and then you'll understand why we hide the good food in our nightstands and eat it quietly in the middle of the night. All that mmmmm.... mmmmm... this is sooooo good! you hear isn't because we're having sex, it's because we're finally able to enjoy the box of Chicken in a Biscuit crackers without your grubby little paws in it or hearing anxiety laced commentary that someone might end up consuming one more cracker than you.

But I digress. Grandma still had not returned my call. Or my other call. Or the one after that. Nor did she return my text.

So I called her again. No answer.

Now I was beginning to really worry. My mom is, well, my mom. I mean, all she does is work in her office or babysit my kids. Knowing that, one would assume if she isn't watching my kids she'd be in her office. But she wasn't. Logic then stated she should be somewhere in her house.

I checked the bathroom. Nothing.

Bedroom. Nope.

Garage? Nada.

Living room? Dining Room? Family Room? No, No, and No.

She wasn't in the front hall closet either.

That's when I called my sister.

Me: I'm at Mom's house and she's not here but her car is in the driveway. She hasn't returned any of my calls. I checked everywhere but I can't find her. Well, I only checked the main floor. If I leave and someone else finds her bloody, mangled body later will you all blame me for not looking hard enough?

Sister:  Yes.

Me: So I should look upstairs?

Sister: Yes.

Me: Okay. I'm going up the stairs.... I'm at the top of the stairs but don't see anything.... Nothing in the bedroom.... or the bathroom... or the craft room.... or the play room.... Ok.... her body isn't here. Should I check the basement?

Sister: Yes.

Bean: What are you doing?

Me: Looking for grandma's body.

Bean: You're morbid.

Me: I don't want my siblings blaming me for her death. Go look for your grandmother. Do you know how bad you'll feel when you find out she's breathing her last breaths while you're eating her salami?

Me: Ok... I'm going down the basement stairs now.... God, I hope I don't find her body... I watch a lot of CSI, you know....

Sister:  I can tell.

Me:  I don't see anything in the basement.... I don't think she's down here....

(I was really hoping my sister would forget about checking any of the bedroom closets, which I did not open; I totally did not want to find her body. Not that I wouldn't call 911, it's just that if she was still bleeding I'd have to try to stop it by applying pressure, and let's be honest, we're not really a touchy-feely kind of family.)

Me: Where could she be?

Sister: Are her tennis shoes missing?

Me:  Let me check.... I'm by the rug and, no, her tennis shoes are not here...

Sister: Then she's out walking.

Me: Oh! I never thought of that!

Sister:  I could tell.


So I sent my mom another text:  Checked the entire house for your body and couldn't find it. Consulted older, wiser sister & she feels you may be out walking. Hope that's it....

Hours later, after I had expended all that sweat and worry my mom sends back a text. Had phone on silent. Had a meeting.

That's it. No thank you, favorite daughter, for fearing for my safety. No I am so blessed, favorite daughter, to have you willing to search my home in search of my (possibly) bludgeoned body.

It was almost as if she expected that short, concise, very logical explanation to suffice. What was unwritten spoke the loudest: QUIT WATCHING CSI, CRIMINAL MINDS, BONES, THE GLADES AND ANY OTHER SHOW THAT DEALS WITH MURDERS!