Tag: mischief

Leaves

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Friday was a windy day. As we say in New England, it was wicked windy! All afternoon, I watched from the window of my basement office as the leaves swirled in the sky above me. Then again, being in the basement, pretty much everything was above me.

But with all the wind and the drop in temperature, things had taken an interesting turn back at home. The leaves in the area had been cleaned up just about a week ago, but they always do the “fall clean up” just a little too early. As happens every year, when the wind starts blowing, all the leaves that remain on the ground, on the trees, and pretty much in the entire neighborhood, collect right in front of my house. Every year. It has something to do with the way the townhouses are staggered and the fact that mine is set back from the ones on either side, I suppose. The alcove by my front door is the perfect repository for the residual leaves.

By the time I got home–with the recent time change–it was dark out. And seeing as I am a creative person, I have an over active imagination in the daylight. So when I arrived home (in the dark) and approached my front door, I was well aware that the leaves that were mounded in front of my steps were the perfect size and shape to be hiding a body. Or a live person who might jump out at me. Granted, said person would have to be lying flat, and would have to stay very still, but it was possible. Anything is possible.

I pushed the thought out of my mind and walked quickly to the front door, carefully stepping over the leaves rather than in them, as I do in the daylight.

The next morning, I told this story to my daughter. “I thought the same thing!” she exclaimed. We creative minds think alike. Then again, in this neighborhood (and with my neighbors), there is no telling what might be hiding under a pile of leaves in the dark.

On a positive note, because the wind brought all of the remaining leaves in the neighborhood to my front door, my back deck is now leaf-free!

Stash

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Over the weekend, I was vacuuming the kitchen when I got the idea to vacuum under the stove. This is not something I do on a regular basis for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that I don’t have the time, and if I can’t see the dust bunnies gathering under the stove, they might not bother me. The second reason is that if I remove the stove’s storage drawer, the cats will hear the commotion and come running. They know that in their overzealous play, they often carelessly chase their toys under the stove, abruptly ending any play session in progress. They also know that when we pull the drawer out, they will re-discover a veritable gold mine of lost toys.

Anticipating a sudden influx of cats, I pulled the drawer out and set it on the floor. A cat ventured into the space where the drawer had been and began sniffing around. I peered under the stove. “Huh,” I said aloud, surveying the array of formerly hidden items. “I wonder what made them put those under there.”

J heard me musing. “What’s under there?” she asked from her spot on the couch in the living room.

“Um… you’ll have to come look,” I responded. I wanted her to see what I was seeing. This was not the usual collection of cat toys and pompoms, and part of me was in disbelief.

She got up from the couch and came in. I was bent over looking under the stove, and she looked over my shoulder and smiled.

“Isn’t that funny?” I asked. Under the stove was a stash of those plastic tags that come on bread bags—the ones that are used to hold the bag closed. I could not imagine how the cats managed to not only get them, but to chase them all under the stove.

“Wanna hear something funnier?” she asked as she raised her iPod to take a picture of the colorful pile.

“What?”

“C and I have been stashing those under there for months waiting for you to find them!”

Ha! They got me!

But of course… you know what they say about payback. You never know when (or where) those tags might make a reappearance!

Thoughts on Gorillas

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The following is a snippet from the conversation between three of the teens in my car on the way to the movies on Friday night:

“Did you know it’s illegal to have a lady gorilla in your backseat in Massachusetts?”

“Well, what if I smuggle the gorilla into the front seat? Would that be illegal?”

“I’m pretty sure any time you use the word ‘smuggle,’ it is illegal.”

Wait… what? Was this covered in Drivers Ed, or do they only cover this particular law in Massachusetts?

Regardless, me being me, I had to look it up—the dumb law, not the word smuggle. And guess what I found? According to dumblaws.com, in Massachusetts, “No gorilla is allowed in the back seat of any car.” Who knew?

What do you think the lawmakers were thinking that day? Were they testing their constituents? Was there a reason for them to make this law? Or perhaps they were having a horrible disagreement on a particular part of some bill they were trying to pass, so they agreed only by throwing in some completely nonsensical clauses (just for kicks, of course).

And then, I got to thinking… perhaps it actually is legal to smuggle a gorilla into the front seat for transport. I’ll bet that’s a yes! Not that I’m planning to transport a gorilla (at least not in Massachusetts) any time soon….

[Image credit: Freeimages.com/Kalysha McCarthy]

On a Mundane Grocery Trip…

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I took my daughter to the grocery store on Saturday, through a bit of reluctance and dismay. Teenagers like to eat and they like to shop, but they do not like to shop for what they eat. Then again, neither do I, but I digress….

A third of the way through the store, she’d had enough. She jumped on the front of the grocery cart and perched herself on the front edge of the wagon, sitting so she had a bird’s eye view of where we were going, but I definitely did not.

In each aisle, I struggled with the steering challenge involved when 95-ish pounds perches itself at the very front of the cart. There is no going around corners in a quick and efficient manner.

As I carefully steered around other shoppers, we attracted stares from curious children who contemplated my daughter’s seat on the cart. Perhaps they thought what she was doing looked awesome, but clearly weren’t sure it was something a kid should be doing. I cringed and turned the cart in the other direction, trying not avoid locking eyes with their parents, the ones who likely would not approve of a teenager—even a small one—riding around the store perched on the front of a grocery cart.

But then we turned into aisle 9. We passed two men shopping together; they looked to be around 30, I would say. One was pushing the cart when he noticed my daughter. “Oh,” he feigned surprise, his face remaining dead serious—almost disgusted. “I didn’t know we could ride on the wagon.” He looked at his friend. “Hop on!” He commanded, and his friend—easily twice the size of my daughter—assumed a position on the front of their cart.

They took off down the aisle. “We’re going to race you in aisle 12!” the cart pusher called out over his shoulder. “That gives us a couple of aisles to practice!” The two men careened around the corner and were gone.

For a split second, the competitive impulse in me was awakened, and I wondered if my daughter and I could really beat these men in a race down aisle 12. And then I snapped out of it. This was the supermarket on a Saturday. There was no way aisle 12 would be clear enough for shopping, never mind a race.

I sighed, abandoning my reverie, and put some muscle into pushing my cumbersome cart. Yet in that ten second interchange, an otherwise ordinary grocery trip had been transformed. My mood had lightened, and I had a renewed sense of fun. Maybe I would meet up with these two in aisle 12… if not today, maybe another day!

 

[image credit: Freeimages.com / Suzanne van Hattum]

Crazy Thoughts

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By a stroke of pure, dumb luck, college drop off for my son dovetailed beautifully with a weekend camp program we typically attend as a family. While it was unlucky that my college son would not be able to join us at camp, it was lucky that I wouldn’t be spending the weekend at home, where his absence would be most pronounced. A weekend at home would mean I would notice that that house was one quarter less full… that there was an empty bed… that the food wasn’t disappearing from the house as if being consumed by a powerful vacuum. Instead, I would be away, occupied by (most of) my family and some long time friends.

Even away from home, I found myself frequently wondering what my son was doing, who he was with, and how he was navigating his new life in the college environment. Camp was merely a partial distraction, but my son was still in the forefront of my mind.

On the second morning, as we slogged out of the dining hall after breakfast, the sun caught the shape of an incredibly industrious spider crafting a web in the corner of a small alcove near the doorway. The creature was quite large and conspicuous. Had it fallen on someone, there is no doubt a scream fest would ensue.

A small group of us stood transfixed, watching the spider spin its web, carefully attaching silk strands one to another as it wove its deadly trap. It was working on the center of the web, maybe a repair from a recent struggle—there was no question this spider had been eating well in order to achieve its current size.

As I watched the spider, a thought began to creep into my head, eclipsing—no! joining with the thoughts of my son. This spider would make the perfect dorm pet! After all, there were rules against four-legged pets, but the students could have fish. Why not a spider?

A spider would live peacefully in his room, right over his bed, taking care of all the tiny bugs that enter the room. A spider would not take up much room; it would live quietly, weaving webs in the corner over his bed, repairing its web and possibly making it bigger each night. Eventually, the web might interfere with the bed, but by then, my son would be used sharing his space with his unusual pet….

Yes, these thoughts did enter my mind as I watched the spider weave its tangled web, pulling me in to its weaving. For a brief moment, I thought about how very much my son loves spiders (or… not). And how he might be perceived by his dorm mates if he kept a pet such as this in his room.

And then I turned and walked away. Because even though bringing this spider to my son is humorous in theory (or maybe just in my head), the same humor would not be present if I actually appeared at my son’s dorm door, spider in tow. In fact, I might be banned from the campus. Forever.

And as far as the spider goes, it is much better off right where it is.

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[image is a photo of the camp spider, used with the photographer’s permission]

Spiders

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I was in the shower when I spotted it, which means it must have been fairly big since I was wearing neither my glasses nor my contacts. As it moved across the ceiling at a brisk spider pace, an idea blossomed in my mind.

I finished my shower, shut off the water, and wrapped up in a towel. I grabbed my tablet and snapped a quick close-up picture of the spider. I sent the image to C, who was sitting innocently on the couch, one floor below me. “Can you come kill this for me?” I messaged, knowing the obvious answer.

“No. That’s scary,” he messaged back.

“Please?” I responded. I received no answer. I waited. By this time, the spider had moved to the far corner where it seemed to be setting up shop. I snapped another picture. In this one, the spider was far off, just a spot on the ceiling in the corner of the room. “See?” I said. “Not so scary.” Nothing. “I can’t reach it,” I lied. Still nothing. “Are you ignoring me?”

“No.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am more than capable of taking care of the spider myself. I have dealt with every spider in this house since we moved in over twelve years ago. But seeing as C is now an adult, I want to see how he will handle this. And it’s actually quite funny.

“Why aren’t you up here killing my spider?” I ask him. Since historically, it has been him asking me to kill the spiders, I am expecting him to jump at the chance to repay the favor. Not.

“I tried to send W, but he refused,” he admitted.

And there it is, friends. Passing the buck to see if someone, anyone, might take care of the spider for him.

In the end, I trapped the spider and carried it outside where it will live a much happier life than it would in my bathroom. However,  I am not sure what C is going to do when he is on his own. I just hope he knows how many babies one spider can produce. To kill the spider or not to kill the spider? Adulting can be complicated.

Knots

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One morning last spring, W was practicing his knots (because Scouts do that kind of thing when they’re bored…). He was using a long length of climbing rope, and somehow, he thought that tying one end to the couch and the other to himself was a good idea. Hold that thought….

J and I were in the kitchen having a conversation about the day. We were preparing to do some community service, and we were reminiscing about previous experiences at this same site in years past. I had started my breakfast, but as usual, I had twenty-five different projects I was also tending, including the laundry in the basement.

W kept calling to me, wanting me to know just how far (or not) he was able to stray from the couch. He was, quite literally, on a relatively short leash.

I popped a bagel in the toaster, cracked two eggs in a pan, and took a quick trip upstairs to gather laundry. When I returned, the bagel popped up, and I removed it from the toaster. However, because the bagel was frozen when I put it in, one particular part just didn’t seem to be done, so I pushed it back down. I didn’t plan to leave it for the entire toasting cycle. I flipped the eggs and went down to drop the sheets in the laundry room. I started the washing machine, poured in the detergent, and added the sheets.

When I got to the top of the stairs, W made sure I saw his knots as I walked through the living room. “Nice!” I complimented as I gave him the thumbs up.

The acrid smell of burning toast hit my nose just as the smoke detector screamed a piercing bleep. Darn! My first thought came through the screaming of the smoke detector. A good bagel, ruined!

But then from the other room, interspersed with the beeps, I heard a small, pathetic, voice. “Help? Help me!”

And then a splay of laughter erupted from the child who had tied himself to the couch. Clearly, he had approached this knot-tying activity with a false sense of security. Because after all, what if…?

I looked at J and tipped my head, indicating our escape through the door. She smiled in conspiracy. We took off running out the front door (safety first, you know) where we stood on the front walkway laughing so hard we were doubled over. The bleeping of the smoke detector stopped as abruptly as it had begun. We were deeply amused with ourselves and the situation.

Back in the house, W remained in the living room, expertly tied to the leg of the couch. He, too, was laughing. Of all the times that the smoke detector could have gone off, it happened when he was unable to leave his spot in the living room.

Of course, if it had been a real emergency, I would have grabbed the scissors and cut him free from the couch before I ran out the door. He would have been mad, initially, that I had ruined his rope, but he would have been grateful that I had saved his life.

Burnt toast, however, does not constitute a real emergency, but a valuable lesson was learned that day. The thought of tying oneself to the couch to practice knots… maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Monsters

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There is a monster under my bed. Really. A monster.

Remember when you used to think there was something under your bed? You used to be afraid to get out of bed (or maybe you still are) because you felt that something might grab your ankles as your feet touched the floor? Perhaps this is an unreasonable fear from childhood that has carried over into adulthood.

And you can’t get rid of it. No matter how hard you try.

In the middle of the night, when all is dark and quiet and your mind is racing from some crazy dream you had, you think about getting up to use the facilities, and you can feel that hand closing around your ankle.

Rather than venture the few steps to the bathroom, you snuggle more deeply under the covers, avoiding the inevitable confrontation with the monster.

This morning, I awoke to find that my normal nighttime companion had been abducted by the monster under my bed. I am deeply thankful that I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night, as the monster might have chosen me instead of my much lighter companion. The evidence left behind by the monster was more than obvious, and I have recognized that this is a warning for the future.

There is a monster under my bed, and I (now) have evidence to prove it!

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Necessities

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In the living room, my son is trying to convince my daughter that some colleges don’t provide toilet paper. I’m not completely sure, but she doesn’t seem to be buying his story.

He and I had this discussion while she was in the shower. It started like this: he decided it would be good to add paper towels to his college packing list. That naturally devolved to the need to bring toilet paper, as well.

“I think you’ll find the school will provide that,” I stated, amused at the ludicrous thought that such a necessity would be overlooked.

“I hear some colleges don’t provide it,” he pushed the issue, spinning this new story as he spoke.

“Really?” I asked, recognizing he was going to make up something. “Like what school doesn’t?”

He threw out the name of an institution that one of his friends will be attending. Since his friend recently returned from his orientation, he would know first-hand if the school didn’t provide such a thing. It was a plausible story, but my son was joking, and I knew it.

“Can you imagine paying all that money for college and having to provide your own toilet paper?” I snickered. “That would just be ridiculous!”

Not to mention how that might work in a shared dormitory bathroom….

Yes, we have some crazy conversations in our house. And yes, I end up thinking about things I most likely would not otherwise consider. Sometimes, that would be a good thing.

Graduation Gift

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I’m stumped on a graduation gift for my son. It seems he has everything he needs right now. And the things he doesn’t have, I can’t afford. Actually, I can’t afford much at the moment, so it’s good he has what he needs.

I put this issue in the hands of my fourteen-year-old as we walked around the mall Wednesday on a mission to return a purchase. We were browsing the electronics store and the game store, and I thought maybe he would spot something worthy of a graduation gift for his brother.

As we strolled, W suddenly veered into the mall chocolate shop. “I think I found a graduation gift,” he said, as he walked toward the display of colorfully wrapped truffles. The display was full and nearly spilling over. There was a sign that boasted the current “deal” on a bag of these sweet chocolaty treats.

“We can get him a bag of 50 truffles,” W told me, pointing to the sign. I read the line to which he was pointing, and I read it a second time. I cocked my head slightly, perplexed by the discrepancy between what I was seeing and what he was saying. I read the line above W’s finger, and the line below.

“That says there is a deal on a bag of 75 truffles,” I told him. “Where do you see ’50 truffles’?”

“Well, I don’t,” W admitted. “But by the time we give it to him, it will be a bag of 50!”

Ah, always thinking, that kid—50 truffles for the graduate, 25 for the little brother. What a perfect graduation gift!