A Blue Christmas

The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken has a hobby that's going to get us food. I have a hobby that's going to get us shot by some guy with a chicken in his yard.

See? The-Guy is making a vegetable garden. And he's making compost bins to recycle our garbage and feed the veggies:I, on the other hand, am driving around Houston taking photos of people's misery.

It just flat out amazes me that so many people still have roofs covered in blue tarp. Is tarp really sufficient to keep rain out for four and a half months? And if so, why the heck do we even bother with shingles?






It's actually not a bad look at the bank's drive through. The whole light-shining-through-the-blue-plastic is kind of nice actually, and you know for certain that no one's great aunt Martha's memory chest is getting soaked in the attic. It's probably not even bothering the tellers a bit:


To give credit where credit is due, those pictures which seem to be taken from a moving vehicle were taken by my gal, since I didn't feel like killing us off just so people could see the blue tarps of Houston.

I mean, I've risked life and limb for this blog before, but I figured what the heck, she was already in the back seat and didn't particularly feel like dying either.

Hope everyone is having a tarp-free and possibly not even blue Christmas (although as I understand it, other parts of the country are having their own weather related problems) and a happy Chanukah!

Yet Again We Have Escaped the Public School System for Two Entire Weeks!

Ok, so we haven't totally shaken it - they sent my boy home with a homework packet.

Over break! Isn't there a law against that?

Still, conversations such as this will be way less frequent:

Me - "You need to stop working and go play!"

My boy - "Why?"

Me - "You've been doing homework since we got home! You're not going to have any time to play!"

My boy - "I've got two big projects due!!!"

Me - "When are they due?"

My boy - "Monday."

Me - "Okay. Well, you can work a LITTLE more. But then you've got to go play."

My boy's as playful as they come, by the way. It's just that fifth grade has been a LOT of homework.

And of course, no school for two weeks means no carpool for two weeks. That means no more fun games like, "How can a ______ kill you?"

In this delightful game my boy and his friend take turns naming an object. The other boy then offers some intricate scenario where that object causes an untimely death.

The game is played like this:

Friend - "How can a bottle cap kill you?"

My boy - "You open a bottle and put the bottle cap in your pocket. Later when you're at the gas station parking lot you reach into your pocket to get out money to buy a pack of gum. The bottle cap flies out of your pocket and hits the pavement. It causes a spark which lights the gas tanks on fire and you die from the explosion."

Me - "Couldn't you just choke on the bottle cap?"

Or something like that, because generally I don't take (too many) notes on their conversations. But the scenarios are very intricate and totally bypass some simple and more common ways to die. I'm sure all that exercise of their imagination is good for them. Somehow.

And since I never did put up any pictures from Thanksgiving:
It turns out that for the price of a few cockroaches, interminable traffic, no mountains, a hurricane or tropical storm every now and again, and what some people consider intolerable summers, you may also get to eat outside on Thanksgiving day. Sounds like a fair deal to me.

This is my favorite Thanksgiving photo:Why isn't my grandfather's wheelchair in the trunk? This was the subject of a couple of conversations, ending in one of my cousins calling my aunt's sanity into question. Let's just say that in my family we do things the hard way. Apparently. Or at least I do.

Happy first night of Hannukah!

I'm Losing My Mind (and anything else that comes into close contact with me)

because it's December and that's what I do EVERY December. So don't expect this post to make any sense. I'm only writing it because my blog was getting old and stale, and my daughter sprained a couple more things and got a few more x-rays and besides that, it SNOWED IN HOUSTON!!!!!

So we had to take pictures, because the last time there was snow in Houston was 2004, and it happens the kids and I were out of town that day.



Of course we had to be late to Hebrew school so I could take all those pictures and then we had to have this conversation:

The Gal, "We're late to Hebrew school.
Me, "You're not late."
The Gal, "Yes we are. Look at the clock."
Me, "Oh. Yeah. You are late. But it doesn't count because it's snowing."

The gal had to limp into Hebrew school because she had sprained her thumb AND her big toe. Her foot was too swollen to fit into her shoe, but in keeping with our track record (where my boy was sent into the boy's bathroom to wash out his brain by himself), she was not given a pass and was counted absent from her next class.

While getting her x-rays we were lucky enough to hear a woman say to the nurse behind the desk, "...and then I must have gotten an x-ray, because I remember taking my pants down."

Honest to God, she really said that. I didn't even imagine it, because as we rounded the corner out of sight, the nurse that was walking with us burst out laughing right along with the gal and me.

Also, I got complimented profusely on my arm pit hair last week. That hardly ever happens to a body. Ok, I've NEVER been complemented on my arm pit hair before, ever. And so of course I felt all proud of how fine and sparse it was.

Except, I'm not sure arm pit hair complements count when they're coming from someone whose job it is to yank out the hair by the roots using hot wax. Because basically she's complementing her own work.

See? It's December. Nothing even slightly comprehensible or cohesive here. Hope everyone is adequately surviving the holiday season. And please let me know if you see my brain around. Or my make up kit. Or my boy's cell phone. Or either of my check books.

Ebony Hutchinson Doesn't Live Here

I'm trying to tell as many people as possible, because apparently every third person in the United States is looking for Ebony Hutchinson and they're ALL looking at our house. And they don't mind calling at four thirty in the morning to find out where she is either!

So that's why our outgoing phone message now says something along the lines of, "Ebony Hutchinson doesn't live here. Don't call here any more. If you are looking for (list of names of people who actually live here), please leave a message."

Anyway, if you know ole' Ebony, maybe you can let her know she's got some things she needs to take care of?

Aside from a family member being apparently missing (Ebony MUST live with us! She gets so many phone calls!) the new place has been fantastic.

I learned the same thing I always learn when I move - I own way more crap than any human should. Who'd'a thunk this much crap could fit in a two bedroom apartment?I always start packing with all sorts of motivation, labeling two sides of each box just to make sure the labeled side isn't turned toward the wall. They start out quite exact, "stationary, school supplies, stapler, hole punch." But I can only keep it up so long:
Still not so bad. I can kind of tell what's in there. Later on I had to resort to this:At least I knew it was bound for the kitchen. But finally, you know, I had to get even more general. Because who has time for all that?The crazy thing is, I probably drop stuff off at Salvation Army once every month or two and the crap STILL creeps in at an alarming rate.

So the moral of the story is...I'm not sure what the moral of the story is. The crap that follows you into your house on a daily basis is relentless and insidious? The peeps looking for Ebony Hutchinson are definitely relentless and quite possibly insidious? Jill has nothing better to do than post pictures of her own moving boxes to the internet? Oh well. At least the movers had a little laugh.

The Gulf of Mexico Called...She Wants Her Road Back

We took a drive out to Galveston and points west today. Lots of places are still in full survival mode. This is just West of Jamaica Beach:The photo doesn't really capture exactly how heart wrenching it is. Directly across the street is an entire tent city.

I imagined conversations between the Gulf of Mexico and Hurricane Ike discussing exactly how Ike would help the Gulf get her beach back from those pesky humans.

But we had this actual conversation on the road between Galveston and San Luis beach:

The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken - "Did you see that sign?"

Me - "You mean the one that said, 'Road Closed'?"

The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken - "Yes"'

Me - "It must mean some other road. There are cars coming from the opposite direction. See? Yeah. It's gotta be for some other road"

Uh huh. For some other road. Just because the sign was sitting there right by OUR road (the one that was in perfect condition just about this time last year) doesn't mean a THING. Nope.

So we come upon this first hole in the road and I'm thinking, "Oh yeah. I guess it IS our road that's closed. That's a hole in the road alright."
The holes in the road got bigger the farther we went: Until finally the road was washed out altogether and we were driving on sand: And then, finally, we had to take a detour: No joke - that detour sign points directly onto the beach. So yeah, we drove along the beach long enough to wonder if we'd be on the beach all the way to Surfside.

Luckily we flagged down an AT&T truck driving the opposite direction whose driver let us know the road was okay not too very far ahead. I'd like to say something clever about seeing an AT&T truck driving along the beach, but it was really just too surreal to even try.

Around Houston, recovery is plugging along. Houses are ever so slowly recovering their roofs.

People from out of town get lost a lot more often, but they just think the city's roads are not well marked. They don't realize right away that actually a good number of our signs blew away during Ike.

And, of course, we still have a good number of upside down silhouette people wandering around town:So that's how it's going in Ike-sville. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving!

If I Had An Ice Pick

"I'd pick ice in the moooorrrning. I'd pick ice in the evening! All over this land!"

Oh wait, I do have an ice pick. And a hammer. And a table saw and all kinds of stuff to fix stuff. Well, The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken does.

But that's not the point. The point is, I promised some Halloween pictures and...Devil worship here we come!!! No wait a minute, that's not the point either...

I was totally KIDDING on the devil worship thing. But I did promise Halloween photos. So here's my boy the ninja and my gal the troll:Here's our first pumpkin. My gal carved it vomiting, of course. Because we want to make sure the new neighbors all know we're the friendly type.

The only problem was, even in this picture the poor guy was rotting in addition to vomiting:That guy rotted himself right into a splotch on the pavement, as pumpkins are wont to do in Houston weather. So then The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken went out get a new pumpkin.

Only lo and behold new pumpkin turned out to be an un-carvable gourd. And so then the only logical thing for The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken to do was to chop un-carvable-gourd-guy in the head with an axe. And stab him with an ice pick.

Because, again, having lived in our new home all of two weeks we wanted to make sure the neighbors knew we were the friendly type. And nothing says "friendly" like an ice pick.Which brings me back to that good 'ole Pete Seeger song "If I had an ice pick (or some other implement of destruction)".

Okay! So the song's about a hammer and not an ice pick.

At any rate, that and a party and some trick-or-treating and more candy than any five people need was our Halloween. Happily ever after. The end.

Be Afraid! (of pancake mix, among other things)

I got an email from my cousin that started out like this -

"This is TRUE--Check it out!"

Well, it's sort of like true. In a way, at any rate.

"http://www.snopes.com/medical/toxins/pancake.asp

Subject: Warning-Pancake/Cake Mix

Hi everyone,

A student at HBHS had pancakes this week and it almost became fatal.

His Mom (registered nurse) made him pancakes, dropped him off at school and headed to play tennis. She never takes her cell phone on the court but did this time and her son called to say he was having trouble breathing. She told him to go to the nurse immediately and proceeded to call school and alert the nurse

HELLO! Apparently THIS is the real problem with giving children cell phones. It's not the potential brain tumors - it's that they will call Mom when they should be going directly to the school nurse.

"Hi Mom! Can't breath! What should I do?"
"I dunno honey! How's science class going?"
Besides, do people really make pancakes on a weekday?

Here's more from the email:

"Check the expiration dates on packages like pancakes and cake mixes that have yeast which over time develop spores."

Apparently there's SOMETHING in these mixes killing off these teens and young adults (Snopes says so, so I imagine it's at least partially true), but it shouldn't be yeast. Or if there IS yeast in the pancakes and cake mixes, it's wasted, 'cause last I heard, neither pancakes nor cake required yeast in order to rise.

It's not enough that we have to be afraid of parking lots (poison perfume samples, etc. )and air (yes, the little air bottles you spray to clean your computer key boards can also kill you, or so say the emails). Now we have to be afraid of pancake mix too.

I mean, just for the record, I already WAS afraid of pancake mix, not to mention cake mix. But that was because of the TASTE, not the imaginary yeast. And because God only knows what all they put in there when really all you need for delicious pancakes is flour, eggs, sugar, butter, baking powder, and some milk.

Me, I was afraid of the stuff that's in there on purpose, not the stuff that grew in accidentally. But apparently pancake mix isn't as chock-full-o-preservatives as one might fear.

So anyway, now that I've done my part to raise the general anxiety level about pancake mix, I thought I'd finish up by offering this comforting thought, "At least respect for the sanctity of marriage is alive and well."See?!?! Don't you feel better now?

Twipply Skwood - Grand Reopening Sale...all posts 75% off...

because my ex-mother-in-law says it's not a sale unless it's 75% off and I'm usually with her on that one...

ANYWAY, my computer has returned, finally, from warranty hell and Twipply Skwood is back in business.

Hurricane and moving-induced problems aside, my compaq was the proud owner of a bad motherboard. As far as I can tell, microcenter installed two more bad mother boards in a row so that I haven't had a reliable computer since May. Happily ever after.

I've had requests for pictures of the new house. Unfortunately, my camera ran out of batteries as I was taking the pictures but I got a few before it pooped out.

The front of the house:


The back of the house (as seen through the living room windows):
Yes! It's a pool back there and it's so gorgeous. No, I didn't get a picture because the batteries ran out.

The Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken's study:

Did I mention it's a seventies house? Complete with wet bar:

Kitchen:

My boy's room:

The younger gal's room:

The older gal's room and a cute kitty:
Yeah, so my guess is that The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken's daughter (being almost 21 and all) wouldn't actually want a picture of her room published to the internet without her permission. It's pretty though. And big. As is our bedroom, but again, no picture.

Last but not least, it has a big ole' honkin' garage. Which is good. Because The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken has a lot of tools and crap to fix stuff (swoon):So that's the new digs! Coming up soon: Halloween pictures, moving pictures, and other random pictures.

This Is Your Brain While Moving

Ok, I lied. This is MY BRAIN while moving, or "moving brain" as it is known in certain regions of the Southern half of...oh never mind. At any rate, moving does this to my brain:

Me - "OH! I FORGOT!!"
My gal - "What did you forget?"
Me - "I forgot...I forgot..."
My gal - "You forgot what?"
Me - "I forgot...ummmm...I forgot...ummmmm..."
My gal - "What!?!?"
Me - "I forgot what I forgot."

Anyway, I have not made it totally back from internet banishment. We now have internet at the house. I just don't have access to it because my computer is expensively broken for the third time in just a few months.

I'd like to complain bitterly at this time about how much it still costs even WITH a warranty, but I try and keep this blog as bitterness free as possible.

So...this is just to say that my slow responses and lack of reading have had as much to do with computer problems as with moving.

Well, that and try not to get anything fixed at Microcenter at all. Ever. Because you will be trapped in warranty hell for the rest of your born days. Except I thought you only went to hell after you were dead. But not at Microcenter. Aparently.

Socksville

Hello folks and sorry for the long absence, but internet has been a long time coming to the new digs. We are semi-moved in, meaning we are here, our crap is here, but much of it is still in boxes and unavailable.

As in my last move, I learned a lot. Some of which I actually relearned from my last move (that I own a heck of a lot of crap, for instance) but some of which was totally news to me.

For instance you know how when you look in your sock drawer and it seems like one sock from each and every pair has abandoned ship? And you know how some people say that the wayward socks got caught between the agitator and the tub when you put them in the wash and that's where they all go?

That explanation always sounded plausible to me, but I found out that the sock-caught-in-washing-machine-explanation is urban myth. I know this for certain because I found out exactly what happens to the missing socks of our nation.

This is it: my son has stolen all your socks, folks! It's true! He snuck into your sock drawer and stole more socks than you can shake a stick at. Then he distributed them all over our former apartment.

I'm talking ALL OVER! I'm talking like when you're camping and you lift up a rock and you are just about flat out guaranteed to find a creepy crawly underneath, that's how assured I was of finding a sock under any and every object I picked up to pack up to cart off to the new place. I'm talking if they had been spread out instead of balled up and hidden under various objects, we could have used them as wall to wall carpet.

So I apologize on behalf of my boy for the missing socks folks. And if you'll just give me your mailing address I'll make sure and send them back postage paid...in fact, while you're at it if you'll just put down your phone number and social security number and date of birth and...

KIDDING!!! I'm not really sending back the socks. But I will post pictures of the new place once I find out in which cardboard box my brain is packed. And also, you can all rest peacefully assured that I will be much more vigilant in the monitoring of our household socks from here on out.

But the Rich Are Enjoying the Mildew

It rained last week for the first time since the hurricane, prompting this headline in The Houston Chronicle:

"Rain Adds Urgency to Roof Repairs in Low-Income Areas"

Because people with mediocre or above incomes LOVE water all over their stuff!!!!! Yeah.

I understand that it's a whole 'nother level of desperation if you have water coming inside and you can't even replace your now grungy bath towels. But seriously, I think even relatively well-to-do Houstonions felt a little more urgent about their roofs when that water began pouring in again.

I just got water all over the carpet though. It didn't get all over my stuff, because I got the room without a ceiling all cleared out.

According to the Houston paper there are now 200 people still missing in and around Galveston (200 people having been found and cleared from the list) 23 of which are missing from Bolivar:

"Authorities say they continue to believe many displaced Galveston Islanders and others are on the list in error. Those authorities are openly worried, however, about missing Bolivar Peninsula residents."

The paper doesn't exactly say WHY it's more productive to worry about the 23 from Bolivar rather than all 200. Perhaps worrying about 23 people seems like a more manageable task? One hundred seventy seven less gray hairs?

In other hurricane news (because I'm borderline obsessed, so it seems...either that or because there just happen to be a lot of photo ops), our street signs are a little more accurate than they were pre-hurricane.

There used to be more signs on my road warning of short silhouette people toting silhouette briefcases:
Because those silhouette people can be quite alarming and it's best to know in advance if you're going to encounter any on the road. You hardly ever run into (over over) any of those guys though.

With all the repair that's been going on, street signs are pretty low on the list of priorities. So now some of those signs don't actually warn of what's ahead. They just say "ahead":
Which is really more accurate, 'cause who the heck really knows what's ahead around here anymore? (Or anywhere else for that matter?)

'Cause You Probably Spend More Money If Your Brains Leak Out

I'd like to think that everyone is sick of hearing about Ike. But the fact of the matter is, Houston seems more or less ignored in the news, so the six people reading this are probably the only ones inundated (pun intended) with information about Ike.

I couldn't even find anything in Newsweek at all except this ONE SENTENCE in the Conventional Wisdom Watch section: "Galveston (down arrow) Ike wipes it out. But at least this time most people got out of the way."

Did they???? That's odd because around 300 people are still missing, and almost 30 died (including those that died trying to survive the aftermath) just in Galveston. I can not EVEN imagine why someone would stay on the island with a FOUR YEAR OLD when experts were predicting "certain death". But, y'know, whatever...I guess that doesn't really constitute a large portion of the population. Who knows.

Meanwhile there are still plenty of Houstonians without power (And ceilings. AND phone service!!!!!!!!!!!!) So let's move on to subjects less likely to cause clinical depression, shall we?

Once upon a time I had to brave the Home Depot. There happened to be an employee stocking the shelves with drill bits. I'm not sure what exactly came over me, but since I was in fact looking for drill bits I got a wild hair and asked her for help.

First, she laughed at me for using my electric screwdriver as a drill. Hello! I live in an apartment. I'm not trying to do major construction here. I just hang a picture now and again!

Then she told me that sorry, no. There were no replacement drill bits, I would have to just buy a whole new electric screwdriver set. I thanked her, turned away and practically bumped into a display of the exact type of drill bit that I needed.

The moral of the story is this: giant warehouse department type stores are scary, scary places that suck out your brains if you stay in them too long.

Except for Target. There's still something to be said for Target. I'm not sure exactly WHAT though, because look at this sign on the door of the Sugar Land Target:See? Those people's brains have definitely leaked out all over the store.

It happens, by the way, that I am not among those who are without phone service. I got phone service back TODAY! A mere three weeks post-Ike! So, y'know...just a ceiling here any ole' time and I'll be all set.

How to Buy a House

First off, try and make certain the economy is in total turmoil. A mortgage crisis is not totally necessary but it's a nice touch.

See if you can get the closing date on Rosh Hashannah, one of the most celebrated Jewish holidays of the year.

Then, arrange for the biggest hurricane to hit your area in 50 years to plow through 18 days before the closing date. Check and see if the house is still there.

Once bankers, mortage people and all interested have reached optimum panic, have them appraise the house. Make sure they find it lacking by at least $15,000. This step should only be performed AFTER turning in notification to vacate your appartment and calling for utitilities to be hooked up, preferably less than one week before closing. This is crucial to maintaining stress levels.

Have the closing date postponed to an undetermined time in the distant or not so distant future. Go to morning services on what would have been closing day.

Make certain to turn off your cell phone during services. This is just common sense not to mention common courtesy, but you also want to make certain you are totally unreachable in case the mortage company wants to spring a surprise closing on you THAT DAY.

Skip afternoon services in order to spend three and a half hours signing papers.

Tell seller not to worry about showing up before the end of banking hours. As it turns out, title companies are more than happy to stay open hours late, perhaps due to the current economy. Make sure the seller (who is having all types of simlar fun at his own closing) knows there is no rush to get there before the place closes and the contract has past its date.

Find out at 8:00 at night that the seller just signed and the house is yours.

Yeah. Forget all that. Actually, just pick out a house and see if your boyfriend will buy it. By the way, did I mention I'm moving?

Got Power?

In Houston, "Do you have power?" has totally and completely replaced the formerly common, "How have you been?"

Sometimes it's shortened to, "Do you have it?" or even, "Are you with or without?" To which I answered today, "I am with electricity. I am without a phone or ceiling."

And ALL of Houston is without safe driving conditions. Most traffic lights in my neighborhood are still out (9/25 - 12 days in, Stella Link at South Braeswood):And the piles of debris are taller than most cars, leaving little in the way of visibility at many intersections.

I remind my gal constantly that she absolutely CAN NOT jaywalk under these conditions and yet I still breath a sigh of relief each day upon learning that she has not been squished flat like a bug.

We are getting back on track though! I start back to work on Monday, the school having regained power yesterday. In the meantime, I amused myself by pondering my recent Google searches***:

"who is the lactating prostitute children of men"
I give up. Who?

"male tampon training"
I've been known to give tutorials to strangers on how to buy them. I didn't know males needed actual training though.

"bloody veins in teeth"
Let's hope this person took a peek around and left, shall we?

"what part of your brain vomiting"
I had no idea your brain could even vomit. I've honestly have thought, maybe not my ENTIRE life, but at least since fourth grade, that it is the digestive system that does all the vomiting.

"raising upstanding citizens"
I'm all about that! No really...

"men who love lactating women pictures"
Because it takes all kinds, after all.

"toilet licking pictures"
Sorry, I didn't have actual pictures, just empirical information on the impossibility of suicide by licking the toilet in the men's room at Lola's. Try the women's room. It's dirtier.

"you're taller and cuter than the average girl"
I'm not actually all that tall, but thanks anyway!

"why do lion tamers use a chair to tame lions?"
I've heard that the four equal length legs confuse them because they're used to seeing legs all running away with one or more lifted up as the run. *shrug shrug* Sounds not totally unreasonable.

"playmobil prostitutes"
'Cause who doesn't want to give children a toy that encourages reenacting the worlds oldest profession? If Playmobil does start up this line, maybe they'll mail them to the Bloggess to go with her angry cross dressing Legos.

Anyway, congrats to those who got electricity back yesterday and Thursday!!! In a city that is still getting near 90 degrees three days short of October, I'd much rather have air conditioning than a ceiling!!!!!!

***My mom...I mean my editor would like me to add an explanation here that these are gooogle searches by random strangers, the results of which landed the strangers on this website. Sitemeter collects the searches for me using some mysterious method that may or may not have to do with cookies, chocolate chip or otherwise.

Bloob, Dog Wrongly Accused, Me in a Tree, and other Non-Sequitors

So the gist of this post is basically that my school hasn't recovered electricity after hurricane Ike leaving me nothing better to do than to post inappropriate details about myself onto the internet.

Well...that and to start packing for my move, which may or may not be happening in the near future. I've been trying to tie some random pictures together, but it's a stretch.

It turns out that Andre is a wrongly accused dog. Luc is the psycho dog with good hair, not Andre. Gan, the owner, okayed my use of the label psycho for Luc in exchange for clearing Andre's good name. (Not really. What he actually said was that letting me call his dog psycho was the least he could do.)

And although I still don't have a picture of Luc-the-psycho-dog (nor Andre the sane and friendly dog, for that matter), I do have a picture of my bipolar cat Sugar, reigning supreme over his mattress-dom: He looks quite svelte because the picture hides his bloob, which is what the kids call that flappy fat under his belly.

Why are the mattresses perched against the wall in the middle of the living room instead of happily hanging out in the kids' room being used as bedding? Water damage from Ike.

They had to take out the bedroom ceiling: If you happened to see the the shingles all over the courtyard, that used to be our roof. And as I understand it, you sort of need one of those to keep the water out of the bedrooms. Those two actually make it look sort of fun to be ceiling-less, don't they? But three people and two cats in a now-one bedroom apartment that smells like mildew actually gets old a little faster than you might think, necessitating some outdoor activities. Like tree climbing. See? I said it was a stretch.

Nevertheless, here's me in a tree:That look on my face is either "What the heck was I thinking?!?! I'm FORTY now! I shouldn't even be playing badminton, much less climbing trees to fish out the birdies!"

Or it could have been, "It's taking him FOREVER to snap that picture! Why the heck didn't I teach my boy to use Razor's camera like AGES ago?!?! I'm going to be stuck in this tree until I break my neck falling out!"

Better yet, why didn't I ever teach my boy to climb trees so HE could have retrieved the birdie? I guess that's what comes out of growing up in the city. Especially one where they do stuff like this to hapless trees: I have no idea what they were doing. But I was under the impression that Ike had actually done a pretty fair job with the tree trimming. No need to start pulling them down with a tractor!