Who's Your Daddy...Pt. 3

One night James Bond returned home after a long day of secret agent-ing to find his apartment had been broken into. His living room was a shambles and there was a strange smell in the air. All of his Al Green records had been broken in half, the kitchen floor was littered with empty liquor bottles. Someone had poured his precious spirits down the drain! He spied (pun intended) a trail of muddy footprints leading to his room.

He followed the path and gasped in horror to find his silken sheets covered in mud and suspicious yellow spots. He dashed to his closet. It was empty! Every one of his tailor made suits had disappeared. He glanced down at his shoe rack and sighed in relief. At least he still had his high end shoes. He frowned in curiosity at the single pair of worn out sneakers at the end of the row. James Bond doesn't wear sneakers, he thought.

His eyes were red and swollen as he mournfully sniffed each empty liquor bottle before placing it in a garbage bag, and cleaned up the remnants of his Songs to Get Busy By collection. He decided to let the housekeeper clean up the mud and opted to sleep on the couch. When he went to put on his silken pajamas all he could find was a pair of plaid boxer shorts. He shrugged unhappily and laid down on the couch which suspiciously smelled like cat urine. James Bond doesn't have a cat, he thought as he closed his weary eyes.

The next morning James stepped into the shower hoping to wash away yesterday's cares. As he washed his hair, he realized his scalp was tingling! Too late he realized his toiletries had been tampered with. He did his best to wash out the substance, but as he looked in the mirror, after he'd toweled off, all he could do was stare in disbelief at the bald patches scattered atop his head. He searched through every drawer for something clean to wear, but all he could find were two pairs of worn jeans and a holey Van Halen T-shirt. "C.O.B. will feel my wrath," he vowed as he quickly dressed and then shoved his feet into a pair of black dress shoes only to abruptly withdraw them again. He had found the source of the smell. "C.OOOOO.BBBB!!" he yelled to the heavens as he dropped the shoe, filled with dog poo, to the floor.

To Be Continued...Again

The Timothy Tree...

Once upon a time, I was a kid. My childhood had some interesting twists and turns which make me an onion, apparently. My friend told me the other day that I was an onion after I told her that our house had a parachute roof. True story.

As I was saying, I was a kid. I have three sisters in law (amazing women all three) who have heard the tales of our youth and one of them declared that we were a breed known as bumpkins. I truly had no idea. I knew other peoples houses had solid walls and they pooped indoors, and we didn't, but it never occurred to me that I was a bumpkin. It made perfect sense after she said it.

Anyway, we lived for a time on a ten acre piece of property we called The Farm. We raised cats. To put a finer point on it, we had two male cats and one female cat who had never been to the vet. Our girl cat, Patches, was constantly pregnant and was, at the first, a wonderful mother. Until about the tenth litter when she'd finally grown so weary she'd just drop the litter and walk away. It was very sad.

In every litter there was at least one white kitten and one orange one. My middle brother always claimed the white one and ALWAYS named it Timothy. Every. Single. Time. Unfortunately Timothy always died. Every. Single. Time. There was a tree on the property where he would bury his Timothys (Timothies?). All around the circumference of the tree were little popsicle stick crosses.

By the time my mom took us away from the Farm, Patches and Bartholomew, had disappeared. Bartholomew had always been somewhat feral. The other cat, Nameless, probably died of old age. They were left to run wild at the Farm. I think back to those days and I'm saddened by the lack of care given to those animals. Now, as an adult with pets, I make sure we take care of our four-legged friends. Sometimes they give me a rash, especially the Idiot Twins, but my aim is to do better than the ones who came before.

Which is why my children live in a house with real walls and indoor plumbing. Nothing is too good for my babies!

Who's Your Daddy...Pt. 2

After three days of labor intensive writing, James Bond finally completed his list of former flames and handed the Comprehensive Guide of James Bond Conquests over to M who immediately sent a passel of agents into the field to track down every woman from the multitudinous list.

After several unsuccessful days M called 007 back into her office. "James," she began as she paced the floor behind her desk, "we have been absolutely unable to find even one woman from your list. It's like they've all disappeared from the planet. We are at a loss."

James was intensely studying his fingernails with a dark frown. "I'm sorry M," he finally replied. "Were you speaking to me?" M pursed her lips as she planted her hands on her desk.

"It troubles me that you seem so uninterested in this mission," M scolded. "I do wish you would show more concern. These women are being targeted and you are to blame!" James placed his hands on his knees and shot M a petulant look.

"What would you like me to do?" he sniffed. "I never bothered to get half of their names."

"Yes," M nodded. "I can see that." She took the guide from her desk and flipped to a random page. "Stewardess on flight from England," she read. "The woman from the theater...Really James," she snapped as she dropped the book on her desk. "Must Q create a lock for your trouser's zipper?" James chuckled lightly and M shook her head as she took a file from the credenza behind her desk.

"They call themselves C.O.B," she read as she sat lightly in her chair. James frowned.

"That is a terrible name," he quipped. "What does it mean?" M shook her head.

"We have not, as yet been able to learn the meaning behind the acronym," she admitted, "but they've already burned down the Astin Martin dealership where Q purchases your replacement automobiles, and every case of gin and vermouth in the country has been found to be contaminated." James face was suddenly ashen and he leaped from his chair.

"Those monsters!" he roared. "I will bring them down!"

"These attacks seem to have been personalized for you James," M continued ignoring his outburst. "but the rest of the country is being affected. C.O.B. must be stopped!" A childish giggle escaped James' lips. "How very unseemly," M scolded as he gathered his composure and straitened his suit.

"I apologize for my lapse in behavior," Jame declared as he straightened his jacket. "I will see Q directly to pick up the tools he has prepared."

"James," M snapped. "There are no gadgets! Q has been kidnapped and the lab destroyed. I'm afraid your wits are all that are available to you now." James squared his shoulders and resolutely walked to the door.

"No worries M," he declared as he pulled the door open. "I haven't used even half of my wit."

"Yes, I know," M muttered under her breath as he closed the door behind him.

To Be Continued...

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Names are a funny thing. We don't get to choose them ourselves (normally) thus we are stuck with whatever nonsense our parents pin on us and then we turn around and do it to our own offspring. There are so many things to consider when choosing a name. Do you want traditional or unique? How about spelling? Do you want Tiffany, Tiffani or Tiffanee?  Is the name you are considering one that will grow with the child? Will KiKi work not only for your four year old but also when she eighty? Or should she be saddled with Ethel from birth? Will the name you give her today compliment a married name or will she end up a Stormy Weather or a Golden Graham?

Or what if you marry a man named Joshua and you have a brother named Joshua? I did that, and after I married my Josh I started calling my brother by his first and middle name. To differentiate, see? One afternoon, ten years into this arrangement my brother and I were having a lively discussion when, after using his old/new moniker he tells me, "I hate it when you call me that!? Why do you call me that?"

Uh, cause I sleep with  Joshua.

What if your mother's name is Dianne and you marry a Diana? My husband did that. It has always been mildly annoying when people call me Diane, but after I married Babe, it was downright conflicting.

"I am Diana Davidson."

"Dianne Davidson?"

"No, Diana. Dianne is my mother in law."

"So, Dianne with two n's?"

"No, Diana with two a's."

"Dianne."

"Di-an-ahhhh. Diana."

Little did I realize, when I named my oldest, what a debacle I was creating for her. It wasn't until she was four months old that I realized there might be a problem. Her name is Jacey. My cousin asked if she could hold my baby, P.J. Oh snap! I didn't see that one coming.

Nor did I realize how hard it would be to spell. I've seen:

Jacie (almost right)

Jaycee (not quite right)

J.C. (wrong)

Then there's the difficulty people have when saying it.

"Jay-cee."

"Jacey. Like Stacey."

"J...C..."

"Like Stacey."

"Jay-cee."

One of her friends helped clear up the confusion when she told her mother, "you don't say Dar-by, you say Darby." That cleared it up better than I anything I'd tried.

Here's another. My youngest daughter is names after a song. My mother in law asked me no less than ten times how her name was said. Ten. Times. Her middle name is Merai. This child told me a few years ago that she thought I just didn't know how to spell Marie.

I should have named all of them Ann.

007: Who's Your Daddy...

When last we heard from our illustrious spy, he was mourning the one who got away. After some years, his bottom has melded to the leather of his recliner and he hasn't seen the inside of a shower for over a month when M calls him directly.

"We have a job," M declares. "A new organization has appeared on our radar and it is more deadly than both Spectre and Blofeld combined. We need you James Bond." Remembering there was more to his job than just chasing skirts, he pries himself from his chair and a training montage begins. He tosses his soap opera magazines in the trash, and spends quality time at the gym. Within five minutes, clean shaven and smartly dressed, we find him standing in M's office armed with his trademark smarmy self-assurance.

"So, M," he begins. "Tell me about this new organization." M holds a file folder in her (or his, its up to you) hands and refers to it frequently as she gives Bond the general rundown.

"The organization," she explains. "Is targeting your former lovers." James' slick smile fades ever so slightly. "We need a detailed list of every woman, still living, with whom you have had a relationship." James stares at the bottom of his empty glass.

"It's a long list," he admits. M purses her lips.

"I am aware," she replies, "but these woman are all in danger. You owe it to them. Give us the names and we will protect them until you are able to close down this villainous group." James gives a decisive nod.

"Get me some paper," he instructs as he sits in a chair in front of M's desk. M hands him a sheet of college ruled notebook paper. "I'll need more than that," he says as he takes the paper and begins to write.

"How much more?" M asks.

"Better make it a notebook," he replies as he scribbles across the page at a furious pace.

To Be Continued...

I Adore Being A Girl...

Babe is one of three boys, born to a woman who is very reserved and private. He takes after her in that way. He rarely, if ever raises his voice and even the most exciting news warrants minimal reaction. For instance, shortly after we were married he came home from work one night and told me about a situation that had caused him frustration. "I'm so mad," he said in the most even and unaffected tone I had ever heard. His lack of even a hint of true ire left me to wonder if he even knew what "mad" was because he certainly didn't know what it looked like. He was doing it entirely all wrong.

At any rate, I am the opposite of my mother-in-law in every way except for our names. She's Dianne and I am Diana (when I'm not gallivanting around town as D.P.). She is even tempered, thoughtful and composed. I am emotional, loud and tend to speak before I think, though contrary to popular belief, I don't say everything I'm thinking. If ya'll only knew what I didn't say...

So when Babe and I were married, there were many things he was not aware of because his mother is a woman of dignity. It has been an eye-opening eighteen years for that poor man, and I'm sure he thought he'd seen it all...until we had daughters.

There are three. Eenie, Meenie and Minney. Moe is the only boy child. My daughters are amazing young women. They are feisty, independent, loving and kind. They are also forging through that phase in life known as puberty. It has been hard, at times, for Babe to understand the various and sundry daily, sometimes hourly, changes in our daughters' moods. One day in particular Ennie was upset and he couldn't understand why. All he could do was shake his head and moan like Lurch from the Addams Family as he tried to stay out of her way. It's even harder for him, I think, because they are three different creatures and he really has to think on his feet.

I was certain my oldest would be like the sad drunk, but she is the mad drunk, and the daughter I thought would be the mad drunk is the sad drunk. The third daughter is still an enigma, even to me. You think she's going right, but then she jogs to the left and you end up wondering what happened.

And all the while, Moe is hiding in the corner with wide eyes wondering when the madness will end. It will never end. His young soul has only begun to experience the inner machinations of womanhood and he will never escape unless he hides himself in the mountains for the rest of his life.

Babe thinks life will calm down once the girls have moved out. Boy, have I got news for him. Headline - Menopause!

Obsessed Much...

My favorite movie in the whole entire world forever and ever is Jim Henson's The Dark Crystal. It has been my favorite since it came to the theater when I was but a mere slip of a girl. I watched it in the actual honest to goodness theater and everything. I remember jumping in surprise when Fizzgig jumped out the first time, and how Kira was the most beautiful puppet I had ever seen. I cried when Jen held her close amid the chaos of their world falling apart after the crystal was healed. Aughra's removable eye gave me nightmares and the Chamberlains whimper is forever burned in my memory. I was enamored with the extremes between the deaths of the Mystics who peacefully faded away and the Skeksis who crumbled to dust and then scattered in the wind (in the middle of the castle, but so what). The Dark Crystal was my childhood.

I have other favorites to be sure, but none have held so long as this one. We had a viewing party last month with friends who had actually made it to adulthood without ever having seen this movie. Or Labyrinth. I almost choked on my Diet D.P. when they admitted this erroneous gap in their existence which I endeavored immediately to correct. If there are more of you out there, please don't tell me. My life is far too busy to re-educate all of you.

Anyway, there is a company that makes these figures called POP! They are bobbleheads whose heads don't actually bobble. Which is fine because most of them will never see the outside of the boxes they came in. Babe got me a Glen from the Walking Dead on a business trip. He stood alone on our dresser for many years until he was joined by The Predator, from Alien vs. Predator (another favorite). Babe has Donkey, from Shrek, and Groot, from Guardians of the Galaxy, at work. They excel in keeping him entertained. He has another one there, too, but I can't remember who it is. I swear this is relevant, just bear with me.

Christmas this year will forever be known as "The Year of the Bobblehead" because our collection increased exponentially. Glen and the Predator were joined by Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman from, what movie was that, oh, Batman vs. Superman with a sprinkling of Wonder Woman. Wakko and Yakko joined the crew because even though Babe wasn't a super fan of Animaniacs, it kind of got away from him in high school. No joke, the man had several Animaniacs t-shirts when we got married. It was out of control, ya'll.

And then I opened my gifts.

Why yes, that is the entire cast of the Dark Crystal!

My birthday was less than two weeks later and I got this.

I didn't know this was a thing.

Have I reached my limit of Dark Crystal memorabilia? Nay! I have not yet begun to collect!

Which brings me to a story I find quite humorous. There was woman in our church who collected frogs. When one entered her home, they would find any and all forms of frog paraphernalia from dishes and towels to figurines in different dance poses. One of my brothers brought a coin pouch made from a frog's head back with him when he came home from the Philippines, especially for  her.

He went to her house and gave her the gift. She looked at it and smiled. Then she said, "Can I tell you something?"  My brother nods and then she says, "I hate frogs! My husband started telling people I liked frogs as a joke." 

And that, folks, is how she came to have her home filled with frogs and my husband found himself with a collection of Animaniac t-shirts.