I got a call from someone yesterday that started off our interchange by clearing his throat (in a foreshadowing manner). It was the principal at Chandler’s HIGH SCHOOL. The conversation went something like this:

- Mrs. Short, I regret to inform you that your son, Chandler, is sitting in my office.
- Oh really? Why?
- Chandler has been involved in an altercation this morning in the gym with another male.
- (???) What happened?
- Chandler bounced a dodgeball off the back of this young man’s head.
- Really? That doesn’t sound like something Chandler would do.
- Well, actually, the ball ricocheted off of the wall and onto the boy’s head. The boy is not hurt, other than his feelings…

At which point I started laughing. I mean, I didn’t mean to laugh but I did. The Principal clears his throat again loudly. “Which leads me to the crux of why your son is in my office, Ms. Short.”

“Why is that?”
“Because he laughed about the situation.”

Shane, seriously, I avoid showing up for Chandler’s parent-teacher-principal conferences for fear of someone trying to pop me in the mouth with a cake of Irish Spring, you know. It’s a third-baby thing… You just seem to not obsess over the little things anymore. Most people seem to be with this program, except for these Career Public School types.

Today I will be cooking at home. You know, bracing for the long-term effects of “doing more with less.” I am making Chicken-Fried steak, smashed potatoes, brown gravy and green beans – all cooked in bacon fat and butter -- exactly as God intended it. I am sorry that you are not here to enjoy. There is no better food on the planet than the aforementioned combination prepared in such haphazard manner -- and you can write that down, brother. Amen.

Kevin is doing exceptional, except early this morning, while he was preparing for a business meeting, I had hopefully the last conversation of its type with Kevin… ever… “Listen to me. Listen to me, Kevin. Stop wearing vests.”

Kevin rocks. Kevin balances my universe. Amen.

As for me?? …at the end of the day, all I want is an official Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time! This will never happen, Shane, yet perhaps you see my point?

Hurry up.

I’m sure that the Big Bend trip will unfold in such profuse layers of hilarity and awesomeness that I simply need to just send pictures and let you interpret for yourself.

And now I’m ready for a warm vacation. I’ve been poking about online, on the lookout for some ridiculously cheap tickets to Mexico…you know ( to go visit the tequila…) except someone has recently removed most of the awesomeness from Mexico and put it somewhere else for a while (think drug lords -- hapless tourists caught in the middle-- gang wars) There are international warnings to travelers considering Mexico now. Especially with Spring Break coming on. Which sucks about as much as anything could suck, I suppose. I must remember to warn Kris to stay the hell out of Mexico.

Life is good back home, though. I’m sipping on my favorite morning beverage: A piping-hot coffee, dark-black roast. This is all that I require at the moment. I’m smiling. I feel like Oprah today, minus the millions of course. (Golf claps all around.)

I am at the peaceful point in my life that my kids have outgrown the need to have me go places and watch them do sh*t – and I absolutely love it. I am now (seriously) pondering things such as 26-yr-old men, mammograms and bone density tests. Nain’t funny either.

Dakota, my precious little one, is staring at me through double-paned glass. She has been left outside this morning, which means she’s not been in her rightful place MY LAP during my morning ritual of dark-black roast and bone density ponderings. Her frantic barks at my back door translate into… OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF???!

Dakota is obviously stressed/spoiled. Her little eyes are crusted over. She’s had a sleepless night. EVERY SINGLE night she wedges her little body up under MY ASS in my king-sized bed. If I need to move, stretch or shake out body parts that have fallen asleep, she growls at me fiercely and lunges blindly at me with her little teeth for waking her up.

Don’t hate-on Dakota. Obviously she has it way better than all you poor doods in jail. There are now psychologists, hotels, spas, play and focus groups, bakeries, bookstores and couture boutiques dedicated to DOGS! They’re everywhere, I tell you. The world has moved on, Shane. I swear, if the Apocalypse happens tomorrow, and renders this planet into a barren, windswept Thunderdome, the dogs will be eating us. You can write that down.

Mere’ is getting crazier by the nanosecond. She is indecisive and moody. I want desperately to kick her out of my home. She has already started accumulating baggage. Jesus, if only there were a delete button for problematic, real-life packages, huh? She doesn’t have the common sense yet to attempt to act normal for at least the 90-day trial period it takes to acquire and indoctrinate a new boyfriend. Which is a mixed blessing, ya know?

She is moving to Denton. She has been promised a job by a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin’s nephew. My only prayer for her is that speed and hygiene be optional requirements of this new job.

Yesterday I asked her to not be so selfish and to consider other people’s feelings... And tonight I will be swinging a dead cat by the light of the waning moon, an act entirely more gratifying than having any expectations of Mere’.

Yesterday I caved in to shoe-lust and bought a pair of expensive, pink superheroish boots at Dillard’s, which go with absolutely nothing that I own – as simply reward for being Mere’’s mother.

I have problematic teeth, which is why it should not surprise me in the least that Chandler has problematic teeth as well.

“Ms. Short (ahem) Chandler has very thick saliva. Thick saliva is indicative of lack of oxygen, leading to proliferation of bacteria. We understand that he really shouldn’t be chewing gum, given the very expensive orthodontic appliance and all, but please allow him to chew sugar-free gum… 24-hours a day… as it aerates the mouth and flushes out the crevasses.”

I made a great show of berating my son publicly in the lobby of the dentist office (think Piggly-Wiggly mom minus the slapping) – EVEN THOUGH every time I walk into the dentist’s office, they look at me like I’ve been sleeping with hard candy in my mouth.

I can sum up our dental hygienist in one phrase: She is the scary den mother of our life. We are afraid of her. Bad teeth is a curse that we just can’t seem to get away from in this family. Our mother doesn’t have any, and our father’s poor mouth is spangled with decorative, colorful nubs. Very bad juju indeed, handed down from both sides. I assume that you suffer from the same curse? I just found out that the dentist is recommending that Chandler’s braces be REMOVED in order to address the cavity situation and the REINSTALLED. Is that legal? I’m sure Blue Cross will take issue with the exercise. I was also apprised of the approximate cost of this endeavor, which is why I hope to drink heavily this weekend.

Hello, Brother. Forgive me for my lack of correspondence. I’ve been traveling through a Russian winter… naked… carrying a basket of kittens. And that’s all you need to know.

I hope all is okay-ish there at The Big House. It finally started raining here in parched H-town (Houston,) which means we gon’ find some roof and wait for the FEMA copters to come save us…

As you probably know, the world is bracing for the long-term effects of “doing more with less.” I am seeing the fallout all around us and am just battening down the hatches. Kevin is one of those doods who simply has a spreadsheet mind and is way too intelligent and in-control-of-himself to be let go. Now please excuse me while I go find a piece of wood to knock on. The threat of a hefty fine from the FCC meted out public broadcasters is a nice insurance policy that keeps me working. But who knows. I am so thrilled that Kristopher is in the Navy. He appreciates this phase of his life, as well. I am encouraging him to please, please, please get his college behind him while Rich Uncle Sam is paying the tuition. Please pray. He just spent a few days with me and is now in San Diego.

Seriously, this week I get a bounty of text messages on my phone from all of my ex-husbands, plus Jerry and Randy -- wishing me a Happy Valentines! Nina (our mother) one-upped me this year by getting a new puppy, a new website and a new president!

I've been filling in all of my free time lately with cleaning my own grout. That's right. Grout. The reason I am doing this myself? Because I know that even the professionals will not crouch atop the slate, wielding a toothbrush and a mixture of vinegar and baking soda. (Wait a minute... that must mean that I will be doing the crouching and toothbrush-wielding, ahem) Also, I will be saving myself a considerable amount money in the exercise.

I may become a cripple over the project, but damn my grout will look nice. I plan on sealing it myself as well. Not sure about the technical level required to handle floor sealant either.

I'm a do-it-myselfer. Every damn time I tackle a project, about a third of the way into the project, the delayed wisdom of rethinking a professional occurs to me. Alas, too late. I still cannot stop myself from, say, walking outside, gazing up at my 4,500 square-foot home and saying, I really need to paint my house. I just need to go to Sherwin-Williams, pick out some pretty paint and rent a sprayer...

Not sure that my way of thinking makes much sense, but perhaps you see my point?

Well... the mosquitos and love bugs are starting to make an appearance. My hibiscus and bouganvilla are starting to bud -- and I am atremble at the glory of it all.

I am tricked every... single... damn.... year into prematurely planting bulbs, pulling out the pool furniture, trading my heavy-bodied red malbecs and cabernets for lighter, fruitier (poolside) ingulgences and apertifs. I've even started wearing yellows and vague pale pastel ensembles. (sigh)

You can't blame me. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes are starting to poke up out of the weeds alongside the roadside. My gardeners have started showing up every Friday, and I am in a state of freshly-mown heaven. Really.

Every year I get tricked into spring cleaning, organizing my pantry and clothes closet. I throw away all of the cans of pumking puree' and evaporated milk that I did not use up over the holiday cooking blitz. I start planting rosemary, basil and fiddle-head ferns in the "garden". I feel deep in my heart that this will be the year that I will be able to keep the fuschia New Guinea impatiens alive through summer. (sigh)

I stash away all of my heavy Houston winter gear (long-sleeved t-shirts, blue jeans, footwear not in the flipflop category) and start contemplating renewing my subscription to Martha Stewart's Living magazine.
Martha's great empire has made it such that creative types like me never need again to conjure up an original idea... and I see the value in that. I'm a Very Busy Woman.

We will have a final, wicked freeze within a week or two, nipping away all of the buds and glory, screwing up my seasonal urges. I gawdamguarantee it. Such is life in Houston, Texas.


One of the major differences between my daughter and myself: I am a woman who solves my own problems; my daughter is a woman whose problems always seem to resolve themselves. As I am her mother, I am learning to accept this and just be grateful.

After her latest crisis, she is back to her footloose and fancy-free days of absentmindedness, slovenly living and feline debauchery. At this very moment the smooth stylings of Tom Wait are vibrating the rafters over her bedroom.

I have much (secret) admiration for my daughter. Lately, though, much of the admiration has been cancelled out by all of her shenanigans. However, I figure I am paying my Karmic rent, ya know? It is my prayer that she wake up and adjust to what is required in order to get by in this life, and I'd do just as well swinging a dead cat by the light of the waning moon as wasting my breath on any of that. There I go again, being an old-fashioned parent.

I am no longer in the captain's seat when it comes to my daughter, and that feels strange. I am rearranging my prayers for Mere', assuming that whatever is required for her to get by in this life will simply come to her.

Maybe I should take my feelings to a therapist, or a chat room full of well-meaning non-experts. (sigh)