Playing Possum

A possum just walked through our backyard.  Man are they ugly, all crooked, and pointy where they shouldn’t be.  Then it walked by again, this time with one of its babies in its mouth.  Poor kid, has no hope of ever looking any better than this hideous mother.

Stacy was the first one to see it.  I was quite shocked when she said she just saw something bigger than a cat walk through our yard.  Bigger than a cat?  That requires something really creepy, because it would have to be able to navigate over a six foot fence, which only leaves coyotes, bears, and yes, possums.  Meanwhile, hubby Hank was actually in the backyard at the time, “fixing” the sprinkler system.  When I stuck my head out the back door and told him what Stacy said she had seen, he chose the wrong path for his reaction.  “I can’t believe that,” he said.  “I’m right here, and I didn’t see anything.”  Of course, he had his head buried in a how-to book and his arm wrapped around a cracked thing-a-ma-jig, but he still was sure he would have seen any intruder lumbering through the back forty.  OK, Hank, I’m sure it won’t be long…and it wasn’t.  A minute later, ugly  mommy was back wandering through with her baby in mouth, apparently she was moving without the aid of a U-Haul. Is it my mother’s instinct to know never to question a kid who says they’ve seen something big in the backyard?  Well, Stacy ended the moment with one final comment to her father…”Dad, have you ever known me to cry possum?”  I think we have mixed our animal metaphors, but the point was well taken.  When normally quiet, not prone to the dramatic, Stacy, says she’s seen something, you might want to start running, because the answer is no, I have never known her to cry possum.  As for ugly momma and her offspring (I’m talking about the possum here, not me)…I think they’re going to stay a while, because warrior Hank armed with his six foot tree trimming pole, never located the squatter’s newest homestead.  So, welcome ugly beasts, one and all.

A memorial day

Stacy’s home again, this time for Memorial Day weekend.  She says I only blog when she’s home.  That’s not true, I want to tell her, but it is true; at least so far, that has been the case.  How do I deny the written truth?  (I could make a politician or lawyer joke here, but being as I have one of each in my close family, I think I’ll just move on, because neither of them deserve that kind of derogatory remark, though I know they have had to hear quite a few in their years of trying to live a good life helping others.)

Stacy is working on her “artificial intelligence computer class” project.  I wish I could help her, but as soon as her projects stopped consisting of sugar cubes and glue, I’m afraid I have been left behind.  Oh sure, I’m full of tidbits if she’s writing something, for example, always throw in a semi-colon if you want to impress your teacher, but you’d better learn how to use it correctly first.  But now that she’s studying computers, I don’t even understand the names of the classes, never mind what they’re learning in them.  As I glance over at her sitting on the opposite couch, eyes focused intently into her laptop, she still looks like the little girl who, just about a decade-and-a-half ago, looked just as intently into a “Little Golden Book.” The only difference is that back then she would have been sucking her thumb, no wait, she’s sucking her thumb now… just kidding.  The only difference is that this time, I know she’s not going to head over here, climb up on my lap, and ask me to read it to her.  Whew… pass me another sugar cube, and do we have another bottle of glue, this one’s running low. And no, I’m not making a snack, although it does have possibilities.  (Don’t tell Dorothy I said that.)

Stacy’s Mom’s Stacy is Gone

Back to school… it’s so quiet here without her.  We sure have fun when we’re together.  Her friend Dorothy is so incredible.  She has such an enthusiasm for life, and she can’t decide what to do with all her talents when she graduates from UCLA (in a year).  One minute she’s opening a business inporting and exporting with China, the next she’s authoring a cook book.  Personally, I think she should become a teacher.  I’m an example of her teaching abilities.  Yesterday I didn’t even understand what a blog was, and today, after spending time with Dorothy, I’m not only blogging, I’m enjoying it. Thanks Dorothy. I know that whatever you do, you’ll be the best!!

I’ve never really had a problem with the ole “empty nest.”  My husband and I filled it with birds, no pun intended.  We have a Molluccan Cockatoo (I’ve spelled that wrong, but Dorothy never showed me how to use spellcheck in this program, so go with me on it). We also have two cockatiels, Bo Bo and Yeller.  The Cockatoo is named Peaches, and is indeed, peach-colored.  She’s huge, with a scream to match.  I think I’ve gone a bit deaf in that pitch range, because it doesn’t seem to bother me anymore, but it sure clears out a room.  All Molluccan (there’s that misspelled word again) Cockatoos are peach colored, and from what I’ve read and heard, a majority of them are also named “Peaches.”  I probably would have named her that myself, but the truth is, she came already named. And she says her name, so we kept it.  Pet names don’t really need to be original, they just need to fit, and this one does.  Well, I have to put Peaches to bed now, I can hear Hank saying “No” more than once from the other room, which means Peaches is acting up because she wants me.  Our birds’ wings we clipped, our children, we taught to fly.

getting started

I’m sitting here watching my daughter, Stacy, and her wacky friend, Dorothy, bake a cake. It’s been a disaster.  I think the oven was set to “broil.” But wait, that wasn’t the first mistake.  I didn’t have vegetable oil, and Stacy couldn’t believe we could use olive oil for a cake.  Well, maybe we shouldn’t have.  Anyway, Dorothy has a blog already, (check out dessertobsessed.wordpress.com) and it’s all about cooking.  No, baking, she  just corrected me.  And while we were burning our chocolate-olive concoction, I began telling the girls how I was  reading  about  these people who travel in their RV and write about where they  visit, and they make money from the ads on their blog page.  OK, so I’m several years late figuring all this out.

Dorothy showed me her blog, and now, here I am, blogging myself.  But what do I have to blog about?  What am I good at?  After we got past the word “nothing,” and several laughs, I decided I was pretty good at parenting.  I have two daughters at UCLA, and a son who is a successful attorney.  I have one granddaughter, and a second grandchild due any day.  (No, silly, not my daughters, my son and his terrific wife).  Therefore, I’ll blog about family, which includes the Episcopal Church, and high school teaching (that’s what I do when it’s not Spring Break.)

Where did we get the name Stacy’s Mom?  Well, Stacy is sitting here, and my other daughter is in Washington DC, and there’s no song called “Amanda’s Mom,” hence…

By the way, the cake is done, it looks like two mountain tops with lava flowing freely.  We got three forks, and opened a can of frosting.  We ate the puffy tops, and put the cake together.  It looks pretty amateurish, but Dorothy has another talent, she can photograph food and make it look delish.  (see Dorothy’s blog sometime when she returns to UCLA, where her cord can connect her camera to the computer, and she’ll show you.)  Maybe she’ll call it the disaster cake.  Hopefully she’ll send her readers to my blog.  Then we can both become millionaires and retire young.

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