"Letters to my brother...in jail"

(First in a series...letters to my dear brother (in jail)

Dear brother, I have a funny story:

Late yesterday evening I was grilling chicken breasts. Zero, my homosexual cat, goes streaking by with a “squealing” something or other in his mouth. I caught a glimpse and believed it to be a mouse. How appetizing, I’m thinking, and started feeling queasy -- and I just can’t have that -- so I went inside and poured myself a glass of wine. 15 minutes or so later I go back out to inspect the chicken (I can‘t stand overcooked chicken), the mouse incident is now just a blur -- and I hear that awful squealing again. Mercedes, our basset hound puppy (terroristista) corners Zero in the ginger bushes. Zero opens his mouth to hiss… and the tiny little critter makes a break for it at break-neck speed and launches straight…into…the…swimming pool. Didn’t even make a splash. Just kind of walked on water for a few seconds there, ya know. The pool light was on and I just stood there, scratching my head and thinking…it’s a toad! Looked just like a little fat-bellied toad swimming around, except it was blazing around the pool, much faster than any overboard toad I’d ever seen. More like a fat little bullfrog. I grabbed the pool net, reached over and dipped it out. Holding the net underneath the porch light, I cautiously looked over into the net and saw….the tiniest baby bunny I had ever seen…ever…in my whole life!

Grandmother taught me that there are some things that we just do not burden our husband with, and since my husband had presented to a new client in an 8-hour meeting -- and also came through the door looking like he’d just been dipped out of a pool also, or something -- I decided that I would not mention the rabbit just yet. Instead, I fed him his very dry, very overcooked chicken over a bed of angel-hair lemon picatta with a bleu cheese wedge salad.

New animals in the house are a source of extreme stress to my husband, especially wild animals, so I just didn’t mention the rabbit.

My next worry came with a realization that baby wild rabbits almost NEVER survive. I started thinking about that and wondered why that is. The thought occurred to me that if I had been snatched by a cat out of a warren (rabbit nest) full of 12, warm, cozy little cotton-ball siblings, I might go into shock, then I would freeze from lack of body warmth. (before even being eaten alive)

I do not have a heat lamp. I use florescent bulbs anyway (no heat) and I do not have a heating pad…hmmm. I couldn’t go around all day holding it, could I? Could I?….And then my brain farts and out poops a great idea. I went into my dresser, strapped on a sports bra and stuffed the little rabbit down into my cleavage. Voila! Nice and warm!

I pull on an old Steely Dan concert shirt, and then some soft sweatpants, and all was well with me and sweet little Basil (I named it Basil because we were watching Sherlock Holmes, and Basil Rathbone plays Sherlock Holmes.

As an afterthought, I thought it might be a good idea to pry open its little mouth (literally the size of a mouse’s mouth) and see what kind of equipment I was exposing myself to. The lower little nippers were only a fraction longer than the top ones. It was still teething!!! (Awwwwwwww….) So I do a few more chores, fold clothes in the bedroom while we are watching Sherlock -- and the little thing hasn‘t moved once. I mean nada. Did I smother it? Possibly. It’s pretty tight in there. I’m thinking, you can do anything you want to do in my sports bra, little Basil…except die.

I’m getting a little emotional here just thinking about that…somebody please hold me. So I finish up the laundry, my husband is fussing because I can’t be still and stop “doing stuff”, so I get out of bed and do a few more things, then crawl back into bed. The rabbit is still not moving. In fact, it feels like it has slid upside-down. Holy Mother of Beatrice Potter!! I’m going to have to get up again and do something with this dead bunny -- and my husband is going to flip out if I so much as even move my big toe. Remember…he’s had a really, really, reaaally difficult day.

20 minutes go by and my brain is torturing me… it’s dead, gross….it’s dead, how sad…it’s dead, please don’t cry.

So…I slowly reach my under my shirt and give it a little poke, just to see if it will wiggle around a bit.

(*&*()_%%%#&!!!!

I feel little sparks of fire on my chest, and out of the top of my shirt blasts this little rabbit -- and starts running tiny little circles all over the top of the comforter, doubles back, dives under my husband's sheet (he’s always hot and has his legs poking out) and wedges itself under my husband's a$$.

Well, he screams like a little girl -- and I do mean a real-life little girl -- and nearly has an ass-plosion in bed. I won’t tell you what he said in this letter, but the gist of it…he thinks at that point it is a rat that our homo cat has brought in and let loose in our bedroom. The dogs go frikkin‘-maniac-ballistic and feathers and fur fly.

Once my man stops clutching at his chest, I patiently tell him the whole scary-sweet adventure; the magical, meant-to-be story of the rescue of the bunny rabbit. Well, have you ever looked at Andrew Jackson’s expression on a $20 bill? That was exactly the expression he was wearing.


Dismissing the blow-up last night, Basil has been tiny and unobtrusive. Trust me when I tell you that it is wedged into my sports bra and no one knows. Today Basil went with me to take lunch money to school (Chan had left on the bar), to the dry cleaners and also to Petco, to see if I could find (?) to feed it.

I started out by asking for advice on feeding baby rabbits. The young man said, “I dunno, let’s walk over here and ask our rabbit expert.” We walked over to the rabbit expert, who was cleaning out a snake tank (!). Immediately two more associates joined us, and we had a whole discussion panel lined up. The first question the “expert” asked was, how big is it, to which I replied by reaching into my shirt. They all jumped back, like I was about to pull a heist or something.

Once they realized it was a teency-eency rabbit, they still stayed back, like I was a little loose in the head. Why these places hire “zitsters”, I just don’t know. They need to hire steady, old hippies for that particular sort of job. Like Doyle, heh-heh. I actually think I could have robbed the place, holding up that little rabbit like that. On my way out of the store, an older cashier appears and comments…“ma’am, it looks old enough to be on its own, you should just release it. (wha?!) I made eye contact, just to gauge her sincerity and knowledge on the subject-- and one of her eyes seemed to be looking over my shoulder; the other eye was rolling slightly to the left. So much for aging hipsters, and so much for Petco -- and so I walked out empty-handed.


I’m turning into our mother. I once captioned a news program, one of serious tone, concerning people that “collect” cute little animals -- even though they don’t necessarily have time or appropriate accommodation for them. They are called “hoarders”. Mom just hates it when I call her a “hoarder.” Speaking of hoarder, I’ll have to mention the humming bird adventure.

(The next day)

Well, I buried another body in my backyard today…Basil the bunny. You know what did it? I took out of my teats for a few hours so that I could get a nap in, and gawdammit…

I’ve had it with trying to save poor little helpless things from the resident homosexual. It is just heartbreaking, and a part of life. My lesson, I suppose, is to let the wild things be wild and stick with domesticate’.


In case you have been wondering if there is some malicious intent behind my lack of letters, let me assure you that there is not. For many years I have always been the type person who is “so busy,” just trying to manage an unorganized household. The act of placing a stamp on a letter has to go through Congress around here. My little world looks great when guests/family come over, but look in the off-the-beaten-path rooms…disaster. Those rooms are filled with total nonsense from prior marriages, novelty vacation art that doesn‘t make sense once you get it home, cheap crap mixed with nice things that could be useful, if only I could remember that I own them.

Dad has always tried to teach us…a place for everything. It actually does take time to make a place for everything. And a lot of work too. It isn’t just physical crap, but it is also household finances, mail organization, computer organization (I.e. pictures, bills, upgrading virus protection (they should call that “goofy teens will download anything” protection) backups in case computer crashes -- and believe me, ours do. It also involves a cleaning routine that makes sense, help with the yard, when to exterminate for bugs before the bastards hatch, when to fertilize the yards in order to choke out weeds, (and if you miss that window, all summer long the weed problem turns into an ass-whippin’.)

I realized something. I have too much to do (when I do it all myself), and a whole group of tasks seem to be fall on my head every morning when I get out of bed. I can either just work myself into the ground while bitch-preaching to the children how lucky they are (I really showed them, ha-ha), or change my way of thinking about how things need to get done.

So about nine months ago, I started throwing stuff away. I mean a rampage. My husband nearly shat himself but didn’t dare step into my path. Rationalization was, if we don’t touch it….gone. If it messes up my overall sense of feng shui….gone. Guess who helped me load the trailer and truck down to Goodwill without a single complaint? Haha.

85% of our “stuff” now has a place to call home. I have enforced a new rule with my kids (after adopting a stern and necessary new parenting perspective -- think Aunt Don.) I shed the old -- I think it was called condoling -- and put on the new, and it is all good.

The new rule, which I enforce like a mad dog with the children is: I had better not know that you have been in my kitchen. I better not know that you have been in my living room. I better not know that you have been anywhere downstairs. This is my space and I don’t need your filthy evidence lying around. In other words, feel free to come and go -- just tread lightly and don‘t drop crumbs.

It sounds harsh, but it’s gotten their attention nicely. I’m not wasting my whole day “chasing my tail” or their tails. I am starting to have time to be a human now. Kids need framework that is palpable. I have learned, unfortunately after Kris left, that being sweet and making pliable and negotiable framework just turns your kids into vigilanties -- or lawyers -- and makes parenting very insecure.

I also have another great new rule: If you treat me like crap, I will treat you like crap too, for days... I will no longer try to understand your moods and the reasons behind your crappiness anymore: aww, maybe you’ve had a tough day at school; awww, maybe you are not getting enough sleep; awww, maybe if I bake you cookies to lighten your mood. No more, you little terrors.


Perhaps the coolest new way of thinking I’ve taken on is that…tada…I am the CEO of my own home. It is amazing what that will do for your attitude, going from being condoling, to giving yourself a promotion to CEO.

CEOs command respect. CEOs don’t have time for your petty little excuses (unless you are bleeding or crying, of course) CEO’s look ahead and forecast potential problems and take dramatic steps to avoid them. I have put in an order for my custom corporate jet. I’m not holding my breath, yet still I persevere -- and keep on doing everything a good CEO has to do to run a very stressful but hopefully successful company.

And there you go. My family --dogs included-- is starting to respect their new CEO. Pass the beer nuts.