Can you please just play outside? For a minute?

I am in dire need of a parental deflection device.

I've been relegated to the duty of watching my two children and the three children of our best friends today. The children range in age from five to 13. The good thing is that I can yell at their children exactly the same way I yell at mine. The bad thing is that they ignore me, just like mine.

I love all five of these children, but somehow that doesn't mean they're easy to supervise, especially in a group. Individually they're each precious, in a group they become animals. They exhibit pack-like behavior...

I've just been told that my toilet is overflowing.

I've just been told that my $120 Bose headphones and my ipod are in the yard, on the ground.

Before that I was told that there are approximately five mismatched shoes hanging in my oak tree.

Before that I was told that I'm "the world's meanest Mommy" because I won't let them swim. And my reasoning is not because it's too cold, which it is,....it's because I don't want an extra load of towels to wash today.

This group goes through towels like, well, ummm.......toilet paper.

Or yogurt cups. Or Capri Suns. Or Doritos. Or Diet Coke. Or gum.

Or my patience....

What would my parental deflection device look like? What would it be?

I keep kicking them outside and ping....one's back instantaneously. It's almost always a small one. They know I cannot deny them the bathroom or water, yet once on the inside....that's usually not what they're after...

Here is a list of things that do not work well as parental deflection devices:

Me explaining to them what a beautiful spring day it is outside.

Me making up a game for them to play outside.

Me telling them how much fun I used to have playing outside when I was a kid.

Me arming them with chalk to draw something in the driveway, which is outside.

Me reminding them of all the suitable (the word suitable being highly important) outdoor toys.

Me meeting them at the door with "what now?"

Me meeting them at the door with a dirty look on my face.

Me meeting them at the door telling them to "stay outside or else...."

Me meeting them at the door and denying them entry.

Me meeting them at the door and yelling at them.

Me meeting them at the door and threatening to call Frank.

Me locking the door.

Of course the trampoline being somewhat out of commission is not doing me any favors.

An interval of more than 15 minutes of no kid at my door means they're into something poisonous, sharp, toxic, downright deadly or just plain stupid.

Or they're throwing things down into the sewer to see what happens.

Or they're removing the top from the manhole.

Or they're setting something on fire.

Or they're ding-dong-ditching Lisa just to see how many new cusswords they can learn when she comes out chasing them.*

Nah, I'd put my money on setting something on fire, although hearing Lisa scream the "f" word has lots of kid appeal....and so does seeing all kinds of plastic toys in the bottom of the sewer.

The only thing that's considered worthy of fun or attention has always got an element of mortal danger or complete destruction to it, otherwise they'd be in my house, begging me for something that they've already begged me for, 30 minutes ago, usually along the lines of food.

Now they're all five in the pool. All five of them heard me tell them that they could not go in the pool...Now one's gotta go to the bathroom, she's dripping wet. I've denied them towels, they're gonna have to dry in the sun.

Now somebody's crying...

A argument has ensued next to the pool.

Crying is getting louder, accompanied by some yelling.

Now I have five freezing, dripping children who all need to get in the hot tub to warm up.

Better go fetch some towels...

from the yard, because they managed to sneak some out.

Oh, and while I'm out there, I better get my lawn furniture out of the street. The UPS truck just dodged it, I'm not sure how.

I have just un-stopped the toilet...

Oh, and let me just have a little meltdown real quick and dole out some discipline...

Again....I am in dire need of a parental deflection device,

a.k.a., the ability to say "no" to a child,

and a really, really strong cocktail...

*I need to add that the sewer, setting things on fire, the manhole and the ding-dong-ditch are all things that Scott usually does with his friend, Ian, thank goodness none of these were done today.

For more of my parenting advice, please "follow" me here or go to my facebook

blog page and become a fan.

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You Better Lie and Tell Me How Skinny I Look....And I Better Believe You.

I was told Saturday by a “fan” that she checks every other day just to see what Frank is up to.

And get this….Frank sucks at Facebook, yet he is a Facebook Rockstar. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s an everything rockstar. He’s not even showing up for the party, yet he’s theguest of honor here…

If it were possible, I’d change the name of the blog to Life With Frank….(which, essentially is the exact same thing as The Latest Observation of the Decline of My Sanity…) but I can’t because fan pages work differently from regular pages on here. You can change your name every day, but fan page names are set in stone, so if you write a blog, you better like the name, it better be spelled correctly and God knows it needs to be grammatically correct, which I’m not sure mine is, but it’s too late now.

I’d like to tell you a little something about yourselves: This page is international. Frank has fans in Mexico, The Netherlands, Germany and England. There are five different languages spoken by Frank’s fans and one of them is Pirate English. (Whoever speaks Pirate English, please, please leave me a comment sometime…)

I know the top five cities for Frank’s fans and Tallahassee, sadly, ranks second. My friend, Jeanie, in Panama City is at the helm of the Frank ship much more often than I am and between her and Pam and Cindy, I don’t have to do much to promote him.

Out of 438 of you as of today, only about 80 are Facebook friends of Paige Flynn and what’s funny is that I like this page as much as my regular one. I live for the comments, and am holding my breath waiting on a “you suck…” but am thrilled when people write me who don’t know me and if you want to, please send me a friend request on my regular account. Several of you already have and I love it. It’s shocking to see me listed as a Public Figure, when in reality I am one of the shyest people you’d ever meet.

Unlike stupid pages like “I hate it when my van runs out of gas…” or “My dog didn’t really eat my homework, I just said it….” or “I hate it when people ignore me…” unlike these, I feel like I have to work to keep you here and work to get more of you on here, so let me get to “work” (non-profit, of course…) and give you the latest observation of the decline of my sanity…

Or let me tell you about the weekend…..

Details of Life With Frank…

Because that’s really what you want to hear, right?

Thank you for being "fans," for suggesting this page and for hitting the "Share" button, it means the world to me...now on with the post:

~~~~~

Okay, last week I told you that Frank and I were locked in negotiation over an event Friday night that I didn’t want to attend. I blogged it and if you haven’t read that one, read it if you get the time, it’s called 25/75 Lie to Truth Ratio or Marital Warfare. It’s one of my favorite posts so far. He won the negotiation, but gave me a shopping pass for a new outfit as a consolation prize. So….

I went to Talbot’s. I love their new spring colors, I love the music they play in there.

I bought a new outfit, perfect for a March night out at an outdoor wine festival.

Ladies, you know when you put on the new outfit and show it to your husband and he getsthat look? You know the look…the, I hate it but I better come up with something good to say right this minute and at the same time I hope she didn’t spend much on it or possibly, I hope the tags are still attached….have you ever seen those looks on your husband’s face?

Frank had that look. Frank had all of those looks. Simultaneously.

This outfit was not flattering on me.
This outfit’s tags were in the trash can.
This outfit wasn't cheap.

It was an epic fail as my son would say.

The wine festival started at 7:00, was over at 10:00 and in true Flynn fashion, we were still at home at 7:45.

I am now standing in my closet, nearly naked, outfit at my feet, shoes thrown across the room, I am pitching a world class temper tantrum.

Clothes are flying off the hangers in a frenzy as I try to come up with something else on very short notice. I had nothing to wear.

Nothing to wear.

I know you don’t believe me, but please do, I have nothing to wear because I’ve gained about twenty pounds entertaining you on Facebook. Nothing fits. But....when a woman says she hasnothing to wear it means she has nothing to wear. Period. So don't be looking in the closet pointing out all those things we have to wear, because we can't see them.

I want to cry, but time constraints limit the amount of things I can re-do, wardrobe being the only luxury I cannot afford right now. Makeup’s not an option.

Frank is looking at his watch…A glance at his watch is the only thing he can do to imply there’s atime issue…he knows that if he says something out loud, that I will attack him like a starving and pissed off velociraptor and take his head off. He’s made his point…yet his head is stillnicely attached to his body. Well done. (Of course, he knows this because of all the events he’s attended in the past….headless…)

The only thing he can do in this situation is fetch me a glass of wine, have a seat and be prepared to lie and say it makes me look skinny and he better be bringing his A-Game to the closet tonight because it's gonna be a bad one. He comes back in with a LARGE glass of wine and has a seat and after a tornadic wardrobe experience that left our closet in a shambles, my hair a mess and the rest of me slightly sweaty, I decided on an outfit and he got me in the car.

As soon as we arrive, I am greeted by his people. They’ve been waiting on him, he’s on the board of directors for this event…

A very nice woman approached me and introduced herself. She proceeds to say the following inconceivable and horrendous remark:

“Do you know how wonderful this man is?” (A reference to Frank…)

All I can think here is that…”If you bottled that shit we could call it Wife Repellant.” but what I actually say is…

“Please don’t say that within earshot of him. He doesn’t need to hear things like that.” I have the demeanor of a mother whose kid was just privy to the “F” word.

She’s a little surprised by my response, so I save myself from being The Bitch Of The Night by saying….”Of course I do, he is amazing.”

(Yes, it was painful…I took a giant gulp of wine…a faux pas at a wine event for sure, but I found myself in an emergency and they do not offer it intravenously.)

“Thank you so much for lending him to our event, he is so important to us, we couldn’t have it without him…”

I’m getting the impression here that time he has spent on this committee has not been work for him. Instead of being at home, helping with dinner, taking the trash out, helping with homework, combing tangles from his spawn’s three foot long hair….as his spawn screams….he’s been here, being told how wonderful he is. Where is the justice in that? Where? Where?

“He is an interesting character. I know this because I’ve made him a character. I write a blog.” For once, just once can we talk about me?????

“Oh, how wonderful.” she says. No, we can't talk about me...

“Yeah, he has lots of fans.”

“I can see why.” (No she can’t. She has no idea….)

“He’s rich in material.” I say and that’s the absolute truth…

“Well, we think he’s just fabulous….” Okay. I have now not just been sprayed with Wife Repellant, I’m pretty sure I just took a hit to the face with it. I’m outta here…

I’m kidding. I love to hear how great he is…

Really…

Truthfully, I agree with her, he is fabulous, she’s right. He worked his behind off on the wine festival but this blog wouldn’t be funny if I told you how fabulous he is. You don’t want to hear it and frankly, I just don’t want to say it. But I appreciate her saying it…

So thanks for saying it…and I’ll probably lend his wonderfulness to you again next year…there’s plenty to go around….

But mostly I say thank you to my fabulous, wonderful and amazing husband who is funny in a good way and has a fabulous, wonderful and amazing sense of humor, so he lets me make fun of him.

Isn’t he just fabulous?

Wonderful?

Amazing?

Where’s the wine…

For more of Frank’s amazingness, please join my blog page at this link:

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Marital Warfare and the 25/75 Truth to Lie Ratio

Today Frank and I are having one of those married days that you don’t think about when you’re planning your wedding… We are a couple in deep negotiation with each other. Although I am trying hard to be the winner, I’m not gaining much ground. Both of us have very sharp matrimonial battle skills. We are worthy adversaries…

He’s trying to get me to attend an event that I’ve attended with him for the last two years and have hated. It’s a big deal…a networking thing…a “meet and greet.“ Frank is like a movie star in this scenario and I’m, well…..not.

He has the personality of Jay Leno. Or Ryan Seacrest. Or Steve Martin.

I have the personality of a wet mop.

He works a crowd like a stripper works a pole.

I avoid a crowd…..like a…. manuscript….or taxes….or anybody with the stomach virus.

He and I are having this discussion while each of us is in the car. He is driving to an appointment and I am driving home from the gym.

As women will often do while in battle, I am pretending to be on his side while secretlyattacking him. I am going for the kill by making false promises that he and I both know I’ll never keep. The odds being 75 (a lie) / 25 (the truth), but...the promises are so good that he’s willing to take the risk.

Again.

And again.

And again….

And you know what’s a sad state of affairs? When you’ve been married so long that the promises are not even physical anymore. No, the only currency we deal in these days isfreedom. Freedom is our most valuable commodity so the trading of freedom is highly regarded and carefully executed. It's more along the lines of….I’ll give you Tuesday night and Thursday night to go ride your motorcycle after work while I get the kids fed and ready for bed….

But of course I could always throw in a massage or something, and even though he'd wager it's a lie, it's worth a try and worth the risk for him...

Either way, massage or freedom, he’s 51 years old and not falling for it the way he did ten years ago…we’re locked in battle and guess what happens?

Just guess what happens?

What’s the worst thing that can happen to you, from a strategical perspective, when you’re arguing on the phone, in the car? No, not a wreck. A slight fender bender actually puts you in a better position, it goes along the lines of “NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!!!” which, essentially translates to both of us as “game over, I’m the winner…” You become the winner by default. It's an unfair advantage... I know this because it’s actually happenedto us.

No, the worst thing that can happen during a phone battle in the car between spouses is….

You pass each other on the road….

Not our neighborhood road. A big road. It's a surprise....an ambush.... A mechanism of disarmament...

Passing your spouse on the road, during an argument, is the kiss of death, for one of you…

It’s “BLAH!! BLAH, BLLLAAAHH!!! BLAH BLAH, BLAHHHHH!!!! (I feel like I’m winning here…I’m about to lure him with fake bait, seduce him with lies….then all of a sudden it’s) oh HEY!There you ARE!!!!

“Oh yeah, I SEE YOU! HEY!”

“Can you see me waving? I’m waving at you, HEY!!!!” And I put the phone down and am mouthing the word “HEY!” while I wave…

“Oh yeah, I SEE YOU WAVING, I’m waving AT YOU TOO, HEYYYY!!!!” He says, waving back, smiling big, just like me….

Then I’m gone, he’s gone, I see his car vanish in the rearview mirror, I see his familiar bumper stickers disappear…yet we are both still on the phone.

It’s silent…

What am I supposed to do here? There’s no script. My mother can’t pass on her “how to win any fight against any man” advice as this is a modern problem. This wouldn’t have happened to my parents back in the 70's and '80's, nor would it happen to them now as they are horrible with cell phones and my Dad pretty much just admits defeat before a fight even starts.

It’s uncharted waters….

We re-adjust to get back into battle mode, even though we were so happy to see each other by coincidence. Clearly we must really love each other, yet I can’t let the realization of that minor technicality cost me the fight. I have to keep my priorities straight. I’ve gotta stay focused here.

This has set us both back at least ten minutes…and for me, at least five lies….

Neither of us knows what to do.

Another pause before I break the silence.

“Where’re ya headed?” I try to tread into neutral territory while I reorganize.

“Triple-A Travel to drop off a tape for their commercial.” He does the same thing, he’s reorganizing, too..

“Oh.” I buy three more seconds…

“I thought I’d ask her about cruise rates while I was in there.” Frank’s back in the war already. He regains his composure faster than I do, he doles out the first blow.

“Oh.” Now the tables are turned. Is it a lie or not? What if it’s not?

“Wow!” Is all I can say…

“Yeah, I was gonna surprise you.” A little guilt added to the lie, he’s really getting his mojo going, yet I continue to tread lightly as it may be the truth. I give it 75/25 odds, dammit, dammit, DAMMIT….

“That would be wonderful.” I’m now losing….and I know it.

“Yeah, I thought so. The kids’ll love it.” and he’s winning….and he knows it…

Silence from me as I lay my weapon on the ground. I’ve given up Tuesday and Thursday nights, am about to give up Friday night, all for a 25% chance of going on a cruise in August…he’s aware he’s won, he goes for the kill:

“So, Paige, you really don’t think you could go Friday, for me?” I detect a note of pity, as it was just too easy for him, half skill, half luck, he feels a little guilty…it's a moral dilemma...but not too much of a moral dilemma...he keeps his focus...

“I guess…” It's all I can say...

“Why don’t you go to the mall and get something new to wear.” Guilt really weighing heavily on him, he feels he has to offer a consolation prize, which I take.

“Yeah, sure, that sounds good.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“No it won’t.” He might be the winner, but nobody said I couldn’t be a sore loser.

And this battle's not over….I’ve got to come up with a new plan. I'm just reorganizing.

But not before I go to the mall and get something new to wear…

***Just a footnote to say that the one time he was involved in a fender bender during a marital negotiation, he was rear-ended at a stop light. It was not because we were, umm,negotiating. And not only was nobody hurt, his car wasn't even dented. Hell, maybe it didn't happen at all... I think I just caught him in a 75/25 lie...good lord he's good.

Procrastinating The Tax Man

I actually sat here staring at the blinking cursor after I typed the title of this post. I didn't even want to write it....um....right now.

I am not a procrastinator in most ways. I make my kids lay their clothes out the night before school, I make lunches, snacks, arrange backpacks, shoes, coats.....I even put dishes on the counter for the morning, I religiously make my coffee, even put the creamer and sugar in the cups all on the night before...

However,

there are a few things that I regularly procrastinate....

bills
bathrooms

and I know it's coming...It's not like either is a surprise, it's not like I just woke up on the 16th and have three mortgages to pay....it's not like I don't notice that the kids' bathrooms look like a fifth grade science experiment....gone wrong...

....but....I will procrastinate taxes more than anything on the planet.

Nobody likes taxes, well, except maybe accountants. This is like Christmas season to them.

I'm not assuming that my dislike or procrastination of my taxes makes me unique in any way. I'm just gonna make fun of myself for a minute or two, because, um, I'm procrastinating my taxes....

~~~~~

Beginning in November, I start getting all kinds of annoying mail with the word "tax" on the outside. These letters go into a handy stack in the back of my paperwork basket. The stackgrows and grows and grows and by February I can no longer pretend it doesn't exist. At this point the now very messy and very large stack is transferred to a box.

And in the box I throw all kinds of correspondence that I don't recognize as being familiar mail. i.e. all "tax stuff" and a good bit of junk mail....

By March the box is huge and out of control and beginning to give me nightmares. It won't be long at this point before Frank utters the words I hate more than "Will you give me a foot massage?" and that is: "You need to organize the tax stuff."

Let's see, what other things do I hate to hear almost as much as that?

Hannah (in the middle of the night): "Mommy, I think I'm about to throw up."

Scott (pretty much anytime...) "Mom, I think there's something you need to know..."

My mother: "Have you been to confession lately? I'll bet you haven't even been to church at all..."

My father (on December 23rd...): "Hey, do you mind going out and buying your mother's Christmas presents for me?"

Christi: "Paige, I really don't mind touching up those roots....I think it's been a while..."

Max (my trainer): "I've never seen anybody hold fat through the middle like you do...what on Earth are you eating?"

Good times, good times, all of it....some of my favorite stuff, but none as fun as taxes.

One year, about five years ago, Frank asked me to accompany him to the accountant's office. I was thrilled about this because the only official "dress up business appointments" I get invited to are this and real estate closings. These things make me miss working. I love the opportunity to look smart, dressed up, not haggered....

Anyway....I was excited to go to the accountant's office. The first thing I did was choose what I was gonna wear...and since I, being a housewife, didn't have anything "official" enough for the occasion, I had to go buy something...

Which I did!

So fun!

It was like shopping for work clothes... It was shopping with a purpose...

So after I'd acquired my outfit, I decided to use the excellent new red Coach tote bag I'd gotten for Christmas to hold all that tax crap. I shoved all those unopened letters in the tote bag, pushed them down to the bottom, then on top added a brand new leather-bound Daytimer (completely empty and now it's March) and a fancy ink pen and a calculator, I guess I thought there may be a shortage of these at an accountant's office...

And so I wouldn't create the hideous fashion faux-pas of not matching shoes with bag, (I had no red shoes...) I took my much smaller brown handbag to house my cell phone, checkbook, driver's license, lipstick and credit cards.....

I was ready for business....

Frank even took me to lunch in my snazzy and smart outfit. I thought I could really get used to this "business" business... It floors me that Frank gets to do this kindof stuff every day...

Anyway....we had our lunch, things were great, I was following him in the van to the accountant's office, we parked and went inside...

We sat down in a very fancy office across from our accountant, who was sitting at a very tidy, very organized, very large desk. He asked for our "tax organizer."

Frank looked at him and said "Paige has it..."

I felt a shred of alarm as I do not know what a "tax organizer" is. I say nothing and Frank can sense my slight panic and he tries to help me by saying: "I'm sure it's in that red bag."

"Oh, yeah, I think it is...." I say, taking out my leather bound, yet empty Daytimer, fancy pen and necessary calculator....At this point, Frank looks down at the bag between us. It's on the floor, so the accountant cannot see it...Frank sees all the crumpled up, unopened, giant mess of envelopes. There is one giant white one that I've wedged down next to it because it wouldn't mash down with the rest of them. It's bent and unopened, a legal sized thing, Frank picks it up.

"I think this is it," he says, opening the organizer that has our accountant's name and address on the return label. They'd spent about $3.50 to mail it to us, I'm sure he's noting that this money could've been saved by just handing it to us when we showed up...

"Yeah, that's it..." the accountant says....

Frank opens it and lo and behold, this was something that I was supposed to have "filled out." There are lots of questions and boxes and last year's figures....it was prepared especially for us to help us prepare our taxes, which is pretty much all that other junk that's all unopened in the bottom of my giant red bag...tax stuff and a bunch of other miscellaneous junk mail, that may or may not have included Ed McMahon and Publisher's Clearing House...My "tax box" had come in quite handy for housing all kinds of stuff I didn't care to open.

So, after they open up the handy organizer and throw away the envelope and attached letter...the accountant says to Frank (he's done with me....) "I need your property tax figures."

With a fair amount of fear, Frank looks at me and says "You paid the property taxes, didn't you?"

"I don't know...." Is all I could squeak out, avoiding eye contact because what I know for sure is three things:

I know that I did not pay the property taxes because....
I don't know what property taxes are....
and....
I wish I were anywhere else on the entire planet right now than right here.

~~~~~

Let's see, where would I rather be right now?

Cleaning up Hannah's throw up in the middle of the night...

Rubbing Frank's feet.

Working out with Max.

Getting my roots done.

Shopping for every single one of my mother's Christmas presents on December 23rd.

In confession.....

Actually, I rather be in confession, with my mother on the other side of the confessional....

~~~~~

"Paige, you did pay the property taxes, didn't you?" From the tone of his voice I can tell that we are no longer on the same side. We are no longer a team. I'm beginning to think that this "business stuff" pretty much bites and even though I look the part quite superbly, I'm perhaps,not cut out for it...

Time to admit defeat....

"I don't think I did." Well, almost admit defeat....

"Good Lord..." Is all he can say.

"Look, I've never 'been in on' this 'tax stuff' before, Frank."

"Hey, Paige, it's fine." The accountant says, even though it's clearly not fine...

"You should've explained it to me, I'm sorry, Frank." We'd been married ten years at this point, he was aware I'd never been in on the tax preparation. Of course, in his defense, had I put half the time into tax preparation as I'd put into wardrobe preparation, we'd be set...and very, very organized....

So, admitting complete defeat, I picked up my bag and exposed the dirty little secret I'd been hiding inside.

I dumped all the "tax crap" onto the accountant's very large, very tidy and very organized desk.

And with a little laugh to myself, I couldn't help but notice two things:

His very large, very tidy and very organized desk was no longer very tidy or very organized and with all my crap spilled out onto it.

But now my Coach tote bag was...

My Coach tote was now very tidy and very organized....and very empty. Then I had a thought...

I remembered how close this office is to the mall and, looking so sharp, admitting defeat, I leftall that tax crap with them and went shopping.

I now had an hour to kill and a tote bag to fill.....

Dale and Casey, Pets with "Peoples' Names..."

My animals are good fodder for blog for two reasons:

* They're both interesting in sort of similar ways and
* I can't piss them off by blogging them.

They just don't care, unlike my friends and family, who don't always appreciate the exposure...

~~~~~

Our dog, Dale, is a 13 year old Golden Retriever. We adopted Dale from Tallahassee/Leon County Big Dog Rescue. Dale's previous owners had some sort of problem and couldn't keep him, so at the age of three, Dale went up for adoption.

Scott was also three at the time, and because I (as has been stated before...) was delusional, I thought our perfect nuclear family needed a dog to complete us and being the practical people we are, we thought adopting a grown dog would better serve our needs.

We just weren't into the puppy stuff, like chewing, barking, urinating or pooping in our home. We thought we'd bypass this step, and we did.

Dale was perfect. And beautiful and slightly short, which translated to less hip problems in his future, my Lord, we were so smart...

It didn't take us long to figure out that Dale did not have an affection for cats.

Or small dogs.
Or old dogs.
Or puppies.
Or mamma dogs nursing puppies.
Or any dog with a cone around it's neck.
Or rabbits.
Or squirrels.
Or people on bicycles.
Or some children, but we could never isolate the personality or physical "defect" that annoyed him, so we basically had to assume he hated all children, with the exception of Scott.
He wasn't crazy about old people, either.

Dale was not a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Dale was a serial killer in sheep's clothing.

But he liked one kind of dog. One dog. One dog only, and that was a black lab by the name of Rex.

If Dale was Ted Bundy in a previous life, well, Rex was Houdini. There was nothing he couldn't escape from. He had perfected his craft and willing to teach it to others.

In contrast to Dale, Rex was huge. I don't know much about dog weights, but, say, if Dale weighs 70lbs, then Rex was about 100. He was gorgeous.

Rex longed for adventure, and liked a little company on his escapades. He'd come to our back gate and proceed to "lure" Dale out of his prison by saying things in doggie language,appealing to Dale, that must've translated to:

"Dude, have you seen what's out here?"

"Dude, what is it?"

"Oh, man, you wouldn't believe what all's on the other side....I just broke out! I can't believe it!"

"Tell me what's out there, man!"

"ALL KINDS OF CATS, Dude, there are tons of them!"

"NO WAY, DUDE! What else?"

"There's a yorkie and a peek-a-poo across the street..."

"TELL ME MORE!"

"There's two cats three houses up!"

"WHAT ELSE?"

"A CHIHUAHUA UP ON PRESERVATION AND IT'S ON A STAKE IN THE FRONT YARD!!!"

"I'M LOSIN' MY FRICKIN' MIND HERE, GET ME OUT, GET ME OUT!!!"

"Sure thing, dude, and when we're done, we can cool off in your woman's fountain....it's awesome! Feels great!"

"I never thought about that before!"

"And when your woman comes out her door screaming 'Get the *********** out of my fountain you ********* ***** dog!' That's when I run past her, into the house, shake in the foyer and she chases me out through the garage! IT'S SO MUCH FUN! Like a frickin' maze! IT GIVES ME SUCH A CHARGE!"

"LET'S DO IT!"

~~~~~

I am happy to say that Rex's nomadic lifestyle took him a different direction and we never saw him again. Dale has never "busted out" since and unbelievably, Dale has never killed anything and will live out a long and happy doggie life, albeit, in prison, in our back yard. Sometimes when he's asleep and I see his little paws twitching, I wonder if he's dreaming about Rex...and those wild and crazy days gone by...

~~~~~

Our cat, Casey, is an eight year old male Persian. He is The Fancy Feast Cat. He is Snowbellon Stuart Little. This is his exact breed. He is a Silver Shaded Persian, a variation of The Chinchilla Persian breed. He is fabulous.

About once a year, I will strip Casey of both his fur and his dignity by having him shaved. Casey doesn't like this because he struts all fall and winter long, operating under both theillusion and delusion that he is quite large.

Once shaved, which I do because we live in Florida, he is visible, without his grandeur, a full seven pounds of teeny-tiny white cat. The fur makes him look twice his size, which matches his opinion of himself, a confidence and bravado only equaled by his hunting skills.

Casey looks spoiled, prissy, lazy.... it's part of the seduction. It's just an act.

In contrast to his much larger house mate, (Dale,) Casey IS a killer. We've come to know him by his alter-ego, Chuck Norris....

Now we just call him Chuck, but only when we're not inserting "Casey" into Chuck Norris jokes.

Wonder why Dale's never killed him? It's because even at ten times Chuck's weight, Dale is no match.

Sometime last fall, I was putting on makeup in my bathroom. I had the window open. I heard the following:

rarrrrr.................rarrrrrrr.............rarr...........rarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr......RAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR............

Half dressed, I ran outside and around the side of the house to rescue the cat.

I don't know what I was thinking.

After a quick search through a tangle of azaleas in my neighbor's yard, Casey appears, walking slowly out of the brush. When he sees me, he sits down.

He just sits and looks up at me.

His eyes are mere slits and he looks a little perturbed.

I have interrupted a slaying.

Something's limping off...to lick it's wounds...

Time for Casey to take a little nap. Fun's over...

And he's not limited to lizards, beetles and mice like you'd think.

We found quite a large snake over there last summer. It was an oak snake, which was kind of sad, because we like the oak snakes. Chuck's not afraid of nothin'. It might as well have been a water moccasin, the outcome would have been the same...

So, these are my pets, Dale and Casey (Chuck).
Both have human names.
Both pretty.
Both killers.

I wouldn't try to break into my house, unless you want a roundhouse kick to the face.

Shake and Bake, The Family Dinner Experience

Exactly how many of my posts take place at the dinner table?

Too many, unfortunately...

Why is it that TV commercials talk about families having "family dinner" and how it strengthens them? It gives us all a chance to talk about our day, catch up on what's going on in our children's lives. It's a time to slow down. Get back to basics...Reunite at the end of the day as a family.

And I believe in that. I buy into it lock, stock and barrel.

This was the cozy scene around my dinner table last night:

I had prepared cream potatoes, english peas and pork chops. I had given them two choices on the chops, bar-b-que or extra crispy, both shake and bake. We sat down. We prayed. Time to eat.

"What is that?" Hannah says, pointing to the meat.

"Pork chops, you'll like them, they're really good." I say, with false enthusiasm.

"I don't want that." She won't be fooled...

"Me, either." Neither will Scott.

All they have on their plates is potatoes and peas, the peas having a large pat of butter on top.

"Pick bar-b-que or crispy, you're each having a meat." Frank says, as he's scraping the crispy off his. "Paige, you might want to scrape this crust off yours." He doesn't give an explanation why. I'm pretty sure I put it on there on purpose, but apparently he thinks it was to disguise the pork chops for the children. It's high calorie and downright nasty.

For what it's worth, I like shake and bake. The kids refuse to touch it, but they dig into the potatoes.

Then Hannah refuses to eat the peas because the butter has melted and she can't see it so now she thinks they don't have any butter.

"Okay, Hannah, let's start with you, how was kindergarten today?" Frank asks with genuineenthusiasm.

"Fine."

"Any details you'd care to elaborate on?" Frank asks.

"No and I'm not eating these things." and she points at the peas.

"Yes you are or you're not getting any dessert, I don't care what Mamma says."

Hannah starts crying. Time for me to intervene, as Frank has just predicted I would:

"Frank, they're a carb, same as potatoes, it doesn't really matter." And here I am arguing that in spite of the fact that I've worked so hard to provide this meal and I'll work really hard to clean it up, I am arguing against them actually eating it.

Dinner table politics and strategy are a ridiculous mind game.

"These kids are just too spoiled..." Frank says, voice beginning to rise...

Scott, interrupting Frank, says: "No, we're not..."

Frank, now interrupting Scott "Yes, you are, do you know how much the kids in Haiti would enjoy Mamma's pork chops?"

"No, Daddy, they wouldn't enjoy them. They're nasty." Hannah adds.

"I'm enjoying them...(crust and all....)" I thought I'd interject.

"Dad, just because we don't like pork chops doesn't mean we're spoiled." Scott argues.

"Yes it does." Frank argues back.

And at this point there's a knock at our garage door. All three of them bolt up to get it causing a Flynn traffic jam in the hall and laundry room. I don't move. I'm now alone at the table. I hear a voice from the door.

"Oh, sorry, Frank, I didn't mean to interrupt dinner..." Dave, one of Frank's bicyclist buddies says. The smell of delicious shake and bake pork chops wafting through the air... "I just wanted to come by and show you my new bike rack...(recall previous post Idiot Convention... There's now a Mini Idiot Convention going on in my laundry room. Four people, crowded in there, two of them escaping family togetherness, two of them idiots. They all disappear into the garage. I eat alone.

The kids don't give a flip about a bike rack. It's 45 degrees. This is the hardship they'll endure to avoid dinner. I hear Dave's truck crank up, they all file back in and take their seats. They all have the demeanor of someone sliding into a church pew at a funeral.

And we now return to our regularly scheduled battle, I mean family meal, already in progress:

"Okay, so that was Hannah's day, (which was, ummm....nothing...) So Scott, how was your day?" Frank is back on track...

"Fine."

"And would you care to elaborate on that?"

"Not really. Dad, do I have to eat the pork chop?" At this point, Frank has put a very small piece of meat on Scott's plate. We've handed him a knife. He begins cutting it, but he has his arms all contorted, elbows are everywhere because of the incredible hardship we've put on him. Not only does he have to eat something totally disgusting he has to work for it. Oh the injustices a 13 year old must endure....

"Turn your knife around, Scott, like this." I say and I demonstrate, he follows my direction and the elbows are now magically down by his sides.

At this point, Frank's phone must have vibrated in his pocket because I didn't hear anything, but he takes it out and looks at it, then puts it back in his lap. This is a dinnertime no-no, but I let it slide. At least he didn't answer it.

"I had an okay day, up to 355 fans on my site and returned a lost poodle to her family this afternoon." I offer...not that anyone asked. "How was your day, Frank?"

And before he can answer, there is a knock on our front door, again, a mad dash by all three of them to answer it. It is the doctor from up the street, inquiring about the lost dog that I just mentioned. The kids left a note on his door, they thought it was his, he'd come to say it wasn't.

Shake and bake just getting colder and colder, it is now congealing.

Hannah's now crying because she has decided to forfeit dessert in lieu of no pork chops. Scott is choking his down, he wants dessert. This action satisfies Frank, so he moves on...

"Who wants to go to Skate Inn sometime?" Frank says to the room at large, it's a strange question.

"I do!!!!!!" Comes a small voice out of nowhere. I barely heard it. The kids didn't hear it at all, Frank didn't seem to either, I am now convinced that I am, indeed losing my mind. Damn fan site, damn blog title, karma has never been my friend....

One kid was crying, the other one was choking down pork chop (the family togetherness that is the evening meal.....) so neither answered. Frank asks the question again.

"Who wants to go to Skate Inn sometime?"

"I do!!!!!!!!" Then tiny-tinny voice says again. It's tinny, like an AM radio or something...I swear it might be a ghost.

And again, no one seemed to notice it but me, and before the kids can answer I say:

"What THE HELL is that?" Sorry for the cussword, but I am at my wits' end. If someone's gonna take my sanity, (Frank,) then I am damn well gonna put up a fight for it...

"What?" Frank says.

"Ask if anyone wants to go to Skate Inn again." I tell him.

"What?" He doesn't understand why I want him to ask the question again.

"Just do it and kids, do not answer, everybody be quiet..."

"Okay....Does anyone want to go to Skate Inn?" Frank asks, reluctantly.

"I do!!!!!!" The tiny-tinny voice says. Someone is dining with us, yet I can't see them rejecting the shake and bake. It's a roller-skating ghost.....I am, indeed, going crazy.....

Oh no I'm not.

I now realize what it is.......

"Oh. My. God. It's the idiot. Frank, you let the idiot have dinner with us?" I know the idiotcan hear me, yet I just don't care....He's the one who called over five minutes ago and Frank let him have dinner with us. Of course, he's such an idiot that he just sat there holding his phone.... listening to our kids begging not to eat....listening to me brag about my 355 fans....listening to the doctor at the door...he was probably talking as "one of us" the whole time, probably agreeing that shake and bake sucks.....we just didn't hear him until he said he wanted to go skating...FRANK KNEW THIS....THE IDIOT LOVES THE SKATE INN!!! He takes his kids there twice a week! I should've known he was in the room!

"Yeah, so?"

"GIVE ME YOUR PHONE!"

He hands it over and I snap it shut. "The Idiot" is the "King Idiot Of All Sweet Time," which is a person who also rides bicycles and motorcycles, is aggravating and doubles as both Frank's best friend and worst enemy. The Idiot and Frank the other idiot have a dangerous relationship both with each other and the telephone.

Of course....

and no, I do not make this stuff up...

unfortunately....I don't have to.

So, this concludes our family togetherness over shake and bake. Just us, a poodle-less doctor and some idiots. Family dinner just fills my heart with joy...

Shake........

and Bake...

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