"Watch your heads, and sit down over there," said Grandma, motioning to a large trunk beneath the musty slants of the attic eaves. And then the storytelling began....

Antiques were folded into dusty boxes around us, their significance left unlabelled but for Grandma's remembering tales. I listened to the stories of my ancestors from the keepers of their treasures in that damp, dark haven where history and the future came together. And during those childhood hours in the attic, I would hear my calling—the.eternal quest for stories told and untold. I answer it still.
Musty smells and mothballs will take me there again, sitting on a box in my memory, enraptured. I hear knockin' on the attic as voices in my head—whispery phrases that need a turn, stories aching to be told, or simply memories wanting another moment of my time. When I hear that knockin', I know there's a voice to be heard and a story to be told. So, be careful on the ladder, watch your head on that beam, and have a seat on that trunk over there. Lean in, for I have some tales to share...

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Stalker Overtakes 42-year-old Woman

     That’s it. I am So over 42. I have "sucked out all the marrow of life" from this one, my friends.  So I must bid it farewell. Adieu, 42! Adieu!
     It’s official. I am trying on 43. Let’s see if another year manages to slow me down. In fact, I dare it to try. Watch out world. I’m coming to get some more of ya…gathering wisdom, experience, friends, and memories as I charge into my future, weilding my sword. Chasing dreams, disrupting things, and laughing all the way. It’s what I do. In fact, let me share an excerpt from a book I once wrote, the beginning of an early version of my memoir:
     "I was pushed out of my momma ass backwards and screaming, three and a half weeks late. I've been giving Momma trouble ever since. I didn't mean to, most of the time anyway. I suppose I just got right down to the business of stampeding my way through  life. Some might say that's the natural order of things, a girl giving her mother worry. Looking back at my life, I'm not so sure. It seems my little sister never gave Momma a moment's cause for concern. Nope. The first meeting of Momma and me seemed a pretty good indication of the dynamics our relationship would entail. I don't mean to imply that our relationship was difficult or problematic. Momma would certainly never complain or suggest such turmoil between us. I just know that I challenged her, I frightened her, and I wore down her immense patience. Like any self-important child, I took my momma's presence for granted. I fully expected her compassion, forgiveness, and total devotion as simple extensions of who I am.
     Momma would be the first to tell you that I have screamed my way through life. It's one of her favorite stories about the kind of child I was. "She always screamed, never cried," Momma would say to people..."
     Yup. I think that sums me up pretty well...still.  
     While 42 was a blast, I've outgrown it. It’s faded, stained in spots, and to be honest, a little tattered around the edges. I admit it was cozy, a comfortable place to settle for awhile. But I’m a Gemini, and comfortable is usually about the time I start getting nervous. Jittery, ya know? Lately, I have started fidgeting and wondering and daydreaming. The truth is, I’m getting bored, and that is the Worst Kind of State to find one’s self in. Ask any Gemini.
     So, it’s goodbye to the weight I lost, the bad habits I picked up, and that people that didn't stick around to see what I might come up with next. See ya in the next life, Sleep-I-missed-while-having-Fun and the smooth cheeks my wrinkles have landed on. I’ll catch you soon enough, Mischievous Words that eluded me and then I’ll trap you in a pretty sentence. And you sneaky Gray Hairs that keep popping up on my scalp? There’s always another box of red dye on the nearest Walmart shelf to take care of the likes of you!
     I’m on to other things. New Things. Of course, I’ll keep some of the stuff 42-and-under introduced me to. Everyone must keep their loveys about. It’s important to surround yourself with the things and people that make you feel good, challenge you in positive ways, and keep life interesting. So, I’m packing up things like the words that fell into place, the moments that inspired me, Beer Fridays, those shoulders that supported me, and my gigantic basket of vitamins. (Go ahead and laugh, young ‘uns. Your day will come.) I’ll continue to cavort with wine, the neighbors, the children that show up on my doorstep each morning, and the beautiful people who home-deliver me coffee on a rough day. I’ll continue to send out my manuscript and hope to agents, drink my fiber twice a day, and eat maple syrup on eggs. And of course, I can’t move forward without my Peeps. I love my People. The journey is only worth it when shared with them.
     But I’ll also find new dreams to chase, words to tame, and ideas to consider. I’ll accept invitations that come my way, throw parties of my own, and celebrate the important moments of the people I care about. I will apply for Canadian citizenship, meet people, and do whatever I can to help others and/or lighten their loads in any way I am able. I will continue to take Pole Dance Level 4 (and move on to levels 5+), not because I think it makes me look sexy (trust me, I do NOT!), but because it makes me feel sexy, vibrant, and more alive, plus it challenges me to step outside of my comfort zone. And who cares if everyone else in the class is 23 years and under? They may have youth, flexibility, and flat stomachs, but I have hardheadedness, nothing to lose, and the ability to laugh my ass off—even at myself. I will conquer that combination move and split spin!
     This year I will write another book, drive more tractors, wear a hot pink bikini, chill out in my swing, and travel to a new frontier. There will be banana liqueur. There will be lots of laughter.
     And damn it, 43, there will be dancing!!!

Friday, May 24, 2013

Bed Bugs Bite


     A few nights ago, in the dark, late hours past midnight, I was stretched out on the couch reading a book, when I heard from my son’s room a screech and a bumbling scramble. I ran to the room. Keid stood near his dresser, stuffed alligator in hand, gesturing towards his bed.
     “What happened?” I asked, accustomed to the nightmares of this sensitive child of mine.
     “Mommy, it was a giant bug! I felt it on my shoulder, and when I jumped, it ran all the way down my arm!”
     “And?”
     “I swung my arm and it flew off me.” He shuddered.
     “Do you know what it was?”
     “I think it was a giant ant. Probably the queen of an ant colony,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure it was the queen.”
     We checked his room, at half past midnight on a school’s night, shaking blankets, checking under pillows and the bed. Nothing. No signs of an insect of any variety.
     “I see nothing, hon.” I was disappointed I couldn't relieve him of this stress. Of my three children (the other two girls, ages 7 and 4), my 9-year-old son is the most positive in spirit, yet the most easily crushed when the world does not adhere to his expectations. And I knew he’d expect the ant-in-his-room situation resolved before he'd be able to relax enough to go back to dreams. 
     Experience has taught me it was doomed to be a no-sleep-night for both of us.
     A couple of years earlier, my son had declared he wants to be a scientist and travel the world to study animals. I would have to appeal to his love of creatures and seize this as a teaching moment. “Well, Keid, you know that if it was a queen ant that surprised you tonight, you are in no danger. She was probably dealing with the business of her colony and used your arm as a shortcut to get where she needed to go. She won’t hurt you and will be too busy to bother you again.”
     Keid agreed to get back in bed. He asked me to perform the sleep-well ritual we began when he was a toddler (I circle my hands over his head and chant 3 times: “Bad dreams, go away. Good dreams here to stay”). Much to my relief, he fell asleep quickly.
     Deep in my own dreams some hours later, I awoke with a start to find my son staring down at me. I glanced at the clock. It was 3:15 am.
     “What, Keid?”” I grumbled.
     “I got up to get a drink of water and now I can't go back to sleep,” he said. "I think I saw the giant ant again."
     I threw off the covers. “Get in bed. I’m coming.”
     After another thorough search of the covers, walls, and floor, I re-tucked him under his duvet and performed the necessary sleep-well ceremony over his head. I waited with him, as I always do with my kids after a sleep disturbance, until I saw the calm and gentle rhythm of his breathing that indicated he was sleeping. I climbed back into my bed at just after 4 am.
     The next day, after kids were shuffled off to school, the husband off to work, and all the daycare kids delivered to me, I stood in the kitchen, preparing mid-morning snacks for my “littles." I finished filling the bowls, and was wiping the counter with a paper towel when I spotted it.
     The ant.
     It could only be the Queen of All Ants that had so mysteriously and resolutely disturbed my son (and therefore me) the previous night. She marched across my kitchen floor like a woman who belonged there. Like a woman with a mission.
     It was inexcusable-even for an ant.
     And there was a paper towel at hand.
     I thought of how the alarm clock had sounded hours earlier than I had felt was really necessary. The struggle of getting my tired son out of bed, ready for school, and onto the bus—fully clothed, brushed, and fed—raced through my mind. The morning chaos of making lunches, loading backpacks, greeting daycare parents, and accepting six extra children into my home, all while getting two of the daycare kids, my own three children and my husband  off to school (my husband works as a special needs educator), weighed heavily on my mind as I watched that enormous, armored insect cross the crumb-littered tiles of my kitchen.
     I glared at her accusingly, and she lifted her antennaed head, glaring back at me before dismissing me and continuing her journey.
     Yes, we understood each other. This was to be a territorial war.
     While she may have held the power of surprise and fear in the dark of night, I held the power of my foot and the willing paper towel in the bright light of day.
    I frowned down at The Queen and considered her fate, exhausted both from the disrupted night’s sleep and the knowledge of the demanding day ahead of me.
     Perhaps it wasn't long enough—the considering. Perhaps the implications of such murderous thoughts didn't cross my mind when they should have. I admit it. I don't usually kill bugs that aren't sucking my blood, aiming their stingers at me, or moving towards me with teeth bared and fists raised.  But in that moment, I was more temper than compassion. More impulse than caution. It had been a long night, and I was exhausted already-a mere two hours into what I knew would be an even longer day. But that should not have colored my decisions. I like to think I’m better than that. Calmer. Gentler. More forward-thinking.
     But alas, being human in my weaknesses, yet animal in nature, the combination of these traits in such a time as this was foreboding.
     Instinct won out over forethought.
     I dropped the paper towel over her armored body, lifted my foot and stamped it down, snuffing the life out of her. 
     My son would sleep well tonight! And damn it, so would I!
     The day took up its busy pace, as days tend to do. I met the buses (3 in the morning, 3 in the afternoon), cooked the lunch, potty trained the toddler, cuddled the baby, and snuggled the preschoolers. I read books, picked up toys, and played Barbies and trains, blocks and games. I supervised the outdoor play, negotiated turns, talked the big kids into leaving the wii for the great outdoors. I picked up the toys again, changed the diapers, cleaned up the potty accidents, and cheered for the successes. Daycare ended, dinner was gobbled, homework was done, as well as the dishes. We even managed to squeeze in a little family playtime. Through it all, I looked forward to the hour I could retire and catch up on the much-needed zzz’s.
     Finally, time came to tuck in my children. As I stood next to Keid’s bed, I remembered the morning's ant drama. I looked forward to a good night’s sleep for both of us, and was happy to have such good news to report.
     “Keid, guess what?”
     “What?” he asked, as he pulled up his covers.
     “I found your ant today. She was in the kitchen this morning. And you’re right, she was huge! She had to be the queen.”
     “Cool.”
     “So, I just wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about her anymore. She won’t be bothering you again. I killed her.” I grinned at him—the proud mama taking care of her child. The Great Problem-Solver. 
     He frowned.
     Uh-oh.
     “What’s the matter?” I asked.
     He sighed in the heavily exaggerated way 9-year-old boys do. “You didn't have to kill her, Mom.”
     “Well, I thought you’d be happy she wouldn't be crawling through your bed in the middle of the night.”
     He went all future-scientist on me. “It’s just that she’s The Queen! She has a whole colony depending on her, Mom. Maybe she even had eggs. I'm so sad she's dead. You should have just scooped her up and moved her outside.” He turned over, his back to me, and sighed again. “Goodnight, Mom. I hope you sleep well.”
     Well, damn. 

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

The Memoir Critter


I knew I could never bond with a memoir, but I underestimated how determined it was to have me.

I’ll never forget the moment I first met it. I was deep in the snores of a good night’s sleep when I felt that initial nudge. Holding tight to the soft-foggy dream I was rather committed to, I opened one eye to glance at the clock.

2:39a.m.

Satisfied that it was still the middle-of-the-night, I retucked Teddy the Bear under my chin and pushed my face deeper into the feathers of the pillow.

The next nudge was more of a shove.

Sleep bolted and I groaned. I sat upright in the pitch darkness, looking for the sad, lost child that must have woken me, but there was none. I shook my head, and leaned back on one elbow, more than ready to be prone again, when it whispered the first phrase to me.

I nodded. It was a good phrase. I would remember it in the morning.

But no! It repeated the phrase, louder this time.

Sigh. I reached blindly for the pen and small notebook I keep bedside and scribbled down the words that were now running mantra through my mind.

There! I had captured the critter! Now penned, it was safe until morning—the real morning where the sun is up and the children are begging for breakfast. I reached over to set the mischievous prowler down and beckoned for sleep to return to me when the sneaky varmint crawled back into the bed beside me, knocking Teddy the Bear to the floor. Thoughtful moonbeams slanted through the window, improving my vision, and I glanced at my nocturnal visitor. That was when I saw it in its entirety.

The Story bounced up and down on the edge of the bed, grinning at me.

Apprehension filled me, but I reached out cautiously and patted the little Story gently on the head.

It quivered as I stroked it onto the notepad in tight scribbles I couldn’t see. And as it pushed closer to me, I jotted it down faster. The lines squiggled in crooked lines all over the page, but I knew that I would be able to recognize what I needed when I looked it over in the morning.

I finished up and The Story curled up against me, finally nodding off to its own dreams, breathing slow, but deep and steady at last.

My life hasn’t been the same since.

I didn’t like it. In fact, I ignored The Story when it was still there—sitting on the bedside shelf—the next morning. It followed me to the kitchen and begged with wide eyes. I stepped around it. And when it chased me down the drive later that day, I shooed it away with grand gestures and threatening shouts.

I wasn’t having it. I couldn’t.

I knew how it worked with strays. If you let them in and feed them, they never leave. It happens all the time. A career in zookeeping, and my ever-bleeding heart had taught me that over the years.

But why were these strays always so damned desperate? They never show up on your door stoop well-fed, potty-trained and full grown. They are always starving orphans that appear in the dead of winter, on the coldest night of the year. This is exactly how we’d acquired our last cat. It was a sub-zero Canadian night just past Christmas when the skinny little kitten started scratching on our sliding glass door, meowing pitifully. When we opened it, she marched right in, rubbed against our 80-pound hound (adopted from the humane society 10 years previous), let our three kids cuddle her, and immediately set straight our tomcat (found abandoned in the forest, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand...) about who would be in charge from then on.

I knew better than to let The Story stay. 

This was the one Story I could never keep. I would never be able to nurture such an idea—never be able to give it the love, attention, and exercise it deserved. It would starve with me. I couldn’t afford the doctor’s visits it would require, nor the vaccinations necessary to protect The Story—as well as my friends and family—once it was exposed to social expectations and criticism.

But only the truly heartless would leave it out in the cold to die a slow and painful death. So, like the kitten two years ago, I took it in—just until someone else claimed it, I swear. I’d call the neighbors, post signs around town. But under no circumstances would I name it. That’s when you get attached and this was only temporary.

I allowed it to wander through my mind, hanging on my every spare moment, trying to distract me from the ins and outs of my safe and predictable life. I ignored it the best I could, giving it a bit of food—and just the cheap stuff, nothing fancy—a phrase here, and a sentence there. It was really just enough to keep it alive, you know. And when days strung into a week, and then two, well that paragraph didn’t cost me too much, now did it? Besides, I couldn’t have the little critter bored and making ambiguous sentences, could I? It was a baby and all babies needed something to play with. I wasn’t a cruel person. A paragraph or two just made good, plain sense.

To be honest, I’d waited most of my life meet a good Story. In fact, I’d begged for one for years. Although I’d met an Idea or two over the years, it had never been more than a passing acquaintance. I would spend time with the playful creatures, but never seemed to bond with any of them, nor they with me. It had to be the right one—a perfect match.

You see, I never wanted any part of the Nonfiction species. My real love was Fiction. I’d love to get a Novel, or a Short Story—maybe even breed a pair and sell their litters. And my secret desire? A fairy tale. Now that would be a dream come true! I’ve always had a weakness for such magical little fantasies. But Creative Nonfiction? No thank you. Never! They were too messy, and rather ugly, if you want the truth. Plus, I’d heard enough tales about how much trouble they can cause—chewing up families, digging up secrets, and whatnot. Smart little creatures, to be sure, but quite destructive. Nope. That was not for me.

But I am only human, and The Story was kind of cute following me around with big, sad eyes and those tousled adjectives. When it thought I wasn’t looking, it would strut around boldly until one memory or another would startle it back into a trembling mass of nerves hiding under the bed. And I couldn’t help but giggle over the unexpected turns of phrase that would sometimes slip out of it.

Well, the neighbors never did admit to knowing who The Story belonged to, and I never got any calls about a lost Story, so I figured it was up to me to find a good home for it. I decided to feed it a little longer while I asked around if anyone wanted The Story before I had to take it to the trash. I mean, it was a pretty good little Story, with potential to turn into a full-grown manuscript with the right care. I wouldn’t want it to get in the wrong hands and be mistreated. And since I’d gotten better acquainted, I knew its quirks and idiosyncrasies. That face that was so ugly when I first met it? Now it just seems interesting—unique. A face the right mother could truly love. It’s really a rather charming Story when it comes down to it.

That was four years ago, and the Story is full grown and fat now—sitting on my desk as I tap away on the computer. We’ve had our struggles, The Story and I, fighting over who was truly in charge. (The Story won more battles than I, and I grudgingly had to admit it was always right.)
It took me many weeks after that first meeting to finally cave in and give The Story a name. In fact, it was months before I could even say it out loud. As much as I tried to deny it, or change what it was (by making it prettier, easier to handle), The Story had become mine, and I belonged to it. I gave it the only name that fit—my Memoir.

I am proud of my Memoir, the nocturnal little Story that came to me in the throes of my dreams, bouncing with excitement and quivering with fear in turn. We’ve grown together, the two of us, and come to a point where we accept one another and all that makes us unique in this world. I know there will be times in the future that we will face hard times still—for Memoir is ready to go out into the great, wide world alone now—but now I trust that we have each other’s best interests at heart, as well as that of our family and friends. Together we’ve been able to define our goals for the greater good of others, so the struggle has been worth the effort. As my beloved Memoir makes its own way out into society, I will do my best to introduce it to good people, the kind that will be friends for a lifetime and that, like me, only want the very best for my Memoir. I want it to meet people who are in a place to help make that happen. I will protect it to the best of my ability, but also give it space to grow and blossom under the influence of others. I look forward to seeing who it can become, the lives it may touch, and the hearts it may capture, just as it captured mine one night so long ago.

Go forth, little Memoir. Go get your life! 

Friday, June 22, 2012

May I Introduce Myself?


I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met. My name is Kelly, and though you may have read some of my earlier posts (and thank you very much for taking the time to do so, Kind Readers!), I realized I haven't taken a moment (or hour) to tell those of you not yet "in the know" about myself.

I grew up in Greentown, Indiana, a small town hidden among corn and soy fields. Restless and yearning for something—anything—more exciting than I could find in the one-cop town, I discovered a Teaching Zoo program in Gainesville, Florida, and made a break for it. After (barely) surviving college, I started my zookeeping career as a Bat Keeper for The Lubee Foundation, a private facility owned by Ron Bacardi (of the rum, yes. Ever wonder why there's a bat on the label?!). No, I never met him, and much to my dismay, free rum was not part of my benefits package. So I left.

Okay, so of course that's not the reason, but a few cases of free rum might have gone a long way towards convincing me to stay. Just saying...

After bats (flying foxes), the natural progression is...killer whales, right? I became a conservation educator for Sea World...where I did get free beer, thank you very much. Did you know Sea World - at least back in my day - was owned and operated by Anheuser-Busch? (Budweiser, Bud Light, Michelob...Are the bells all ringing now?) Um, even as I write it, I'm starting to see a pattern emerge: I often seem to be gainfully employed by major distributors of alcohol products.

Perhaps it's an instinct...  

Once the Anheuser-Busch bartenders realized I’d figured out their shift changes in the beer tasting booths and had clocked my breaks accordingly, they banned me. (Kidding! I’m better at disguises than that!) But, when I started introducing myself to people at parties or bars by shouting over the noise, “Can I have your attention please? (*clap! clap!*) Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. My name is Kelly and I’m going to be your tour guide this evening! If everyone will please line up and follow me, I’m going to throw you to the sharks in Terrors of the Deep...” (*evil laugh*) Well, I knew it was time for a new adventure.

I surrendered my free theme park pass, tearfully kissed the bartenders goodbye, and off to the Central Florida Zoo I skipped. I started in the Bird department, cajoled my way into Primates, and pestered my curator (The Boss!) until he let me train in felines, bear-care, crested porcupines, and the occasional foray into large mammal care (that’s hoof stock in zoo talk...See? I’m teaching you already! And you thought all I got out of the Sea World job was free beer!). Since animal care by day wasn’t enough, I volunteered to be a wildlife rehabilitator for the injured/orphaned critters people found and brought to the zoo. I had a veritable zoo of my own at home to prepare for life in the wild.  

You may by now, Kind Reader, be catching on to me.

I bore far too easily.

Now that the secret’s out, I can admit that in addition to sticking my nose into most departments of the zoo (with a healthy respect for the boundary at the threshold of the Reptile House...) I also took on the role of veterinary assistant. I managed the hospital and supplies, but the real reason I took it on was the opportunity to assist the Veterinarians and their students from the University of Florida during vet rounds. I donned a thinking cap and camouflaged myself amid the vet students during procedures, exams, and surgeries, in order to learn what the vets were teaching. Plus, I got to do things like strong-arm an adult male mandrill, and cuddle clouded leopards. So what if the mandrill was strung out on tranquilizers and the leopards were bottle-fed cubs? It’s still more fun than sitting at a desk, crunching numbers and stapling papers, or whatever it is that some of you have to do for a living. (Poor you! But seriously, thank you for doing all of that...um, really important stuff that makes the world spin round. I appreciate that you do it, so I don’t have to!)   

So, I spent my days off at the beach (and, let's admit it, I landed there on the occasional hooky day too. Er, I mean "mental health" day, Boss!), many a night in the clubs, and I hobnobbed with Mickey Mouse and “Jungle Jack” Hanna (previous director of CFZ/current animal expert celebrity!). Living in Florida was a dream for this small town girl hell-bent on adventure.

And then, while minding my own business (and that of anyone daring enough to be near me...), I was knocked over the noggin' by a Frenchman and dragged by the hair to the frozen tundra of The Great White North. Or Canada, if you prefer. No matter what you call it, the result is still the same. I spend nine months a year shivering, and the other three defrosting. Twice I made a run for the border and got all the way to the sunny shores of my youth, when the Frenchman came after me and brought me back. So what if it was to pack my belongings for the move the first time, and to vacation the second? What I remember most are the sunbeams...and the final desperate flings I had with the Krispy Kreme donuts I'd cavorted with on the beach for 10 years before French Charming found me.

Ok, to be fair, I was in love. You would have fallen for those smiling eyes, the French accent, and the promise of pet penguins too! I didn't stand a chance and you know it. And yes, yes, he's the best thing that ever happened to me - yadee, yada, yada. I said I was in love, didn’t I?! Fine, I’ll admit it—the man’s a saint. Can we leave it at that? In the summer month - and okay, yes, the three beautiful weeks in autumn - I love living in Ottawa. It's beautiful, there's a lot of history, great architecture and culture, and the people here are So Nice! In those blessedly warm days, I am forced to admit how happy I am to live in the great country that is Canada. I'm living inside the dream of that 360-degree panoramic film at the Epcot Center. Oh, and the beer is even better here than home! Sorry, my fellow Americans, but it’s true.

But the days I'm shivering through temperatures that I’m now forced to use the metric system to measure, when I'm gritting my teeth and looking puffy in pictures wearing a coat (Only born and bred Canadians look adorable in those snowflake-infused snapshots they use to sell Canadian Winters...I can never get my bangs right with the tuque on, and don’t get me started on how many pounds a winter coat adds to you on film...)...on those days, French Charming must suffer endless tales of my reminiscences of warm white sand, frolicking in the ocean, and of course the glorious battles with sunburns at work after my hooky days on the beach. He has it coming, no? And when he suggests I learn to downhill ski, snow shoe, or ice skate in order to enjoy winter more, I ask him to bring me a cup of cocoa and to throw another log on the fire before he heads outside. I might even wish him luck in the snowball fight before I open another book, or pull my laptop closer for a snuggle.

There are no zoos in Ottawa, and even if there were, I would not make a good zookeeper here. I am certain it would be frowned upon if I pushed animals aside to keep warm in their hay. There’s the language barrier as well. Although I’ve managed to train The Charmings and associated friends to speak English to me, I’m finding other French Canadians less accommodating in meeting these needs (They’re so funny about the language!! You know there is an actual Language Patrol that measures the height of letters in French signs?! They’ve made laws about this stuff—business owners can get fines for posting small letters!). I would need to be bilingual in order to communicate with the other keepers/vets/curators/zoo guests. I was surprised to learn that asking people to sleep with me and cursing the Catholic Church in French (the first things that my darling, saintly French Charming taught me to say...) does not make me bilingual after all. Now my 6-year-old is teaching me my “Ah-Bay-Says” and colours.

I’ve given Mr. Charming three heirs...at the time of this writing, the firstborn prince is almost 9, the middle child, and future Queen of the Universe, is almost 7, and the baby princess is almost 4. It’s important to include the almost (or the “...and a half,” or the “just turned...”). Trust me, I know. It’s what I do now.

I run a daycare. In my home. You’re not the first (or second, third, or even fourth...) to make the immediate leap to how I’ve gone from taking care of one kind of monkey to taking care of another, but it still makes me giggle. Truthfully, it’s not all that much of a stretch. Poop? Check! Senseless chatter? Check! Playing with ill-advised objects? Check! Sticking everything in their mouths? Check! Wall-climbing/furniture shredding/mess making? Check, check, check. Pissing on countertops? You bet. I could go on, but you get the picture. Every day is filled with intrigue, potty runs, giggles, and, sometimes, tears (but when the kids pet my hair, hug me, and tell me it’s okay, I can usually stop crying...). As long as everybody uses their words, takes turns being first, and refrains from singing Barney songs, we get along just fine. (Yes, Barney is STILL popular among the 1 to 4-year-old sector! WHY haven’t we passed legislation to ban this purple varmit yet?! The Rascals are gone, Yosemite Sam is an official outlaw, and the Flintstones have been turned into gummy vitamins, but This Guy we still have to find in every book and video store?! It’s sick, I tell you.)    

You may think my life is pretty full—what with the attentive French Charming and three Little Charmings by my side, the influx of spare children dropped at my doorstep most mornings a week, and all that delicious Canadian beer to drink—but remember, Kind Reader:

I bore far too easily.

Therefore, I write. I dance. I read. I cuddle and wander and drink and love. I talk—A Lot—chasing friends as they back out of the driveway, babbling away, and yammering on the phone past midnight with the Far, Far Aways. Embracing the magic of Facebook, Twitter, email, and IMing, I talk. But through it all (and about it all), I write.

And I share. Here. So, ask me no question and tell me no lie, for what we share is a story in my eye!! Unless of course, you’ve asked me not to tell or threatened to revoke my laptopping licence...then your secrets are safe with me! (*wink, wink*)

No! No! Come back, please! There’s nothing you’ve said that a pseudo name or eye color change can’t cure! How about a location move? Fine! You’ve tested me, and won. I’ll only tell the part about the shackles, but not the rest. Promise!!

Whew! I thought I’d scared you off for real that time. Now, have a seat here next to me, let me get you a refreshing Canadian beer, and you can tell me about your day. Put your feet up, silly, and relax. That’s better. Now tell me, did you check out that festival you were talking about? How was the graduation ceremony yesterday? Did you cry? Did he? So what did your sister want when she called yesterday? It’s a long story? That’s okay...I have all the time in the world.

Here, have another beer.

Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything...

Friday, June 8, 2012

Hungry Transient Fatally Wounded in Trashcan Showdown in Rural Ontario

photograph provided by Kelly Shannonhouse Lalonde 
of KKIA (Kelly Knows It All) News




6 June, 2012 – An unidentified male raccoon was fatally wounded as the result of a gunshot in a rural area just east of Orleans, Ontario late Wednesday evening. Though only one raccoon was seen at the scene, it is believed the incident may be gang related. Several raccoons have been known to frequent the area in years past, and have had multiple run-ins with the town’s residents that have ended in violence. Experts say that The Coons, as they are known locally, are aggressively pursuing territorial rights in a historically established area.

“This is a quiet community. It always has been,” says one man whose family and ancestors have lived there for close to one hundred years. “But these Coons are a menace. We can’t just stand by and let them continue to wreak havoc in our fields.”

At the residence where the tragic events unfolded, several people were gathered inside the house for a birthday celebration when they claim to have seen the raccoon dart past their window. Some of them raced outside to discourage the Coon from instigating any trouble, while one man grabbed his gun. By the time they’d gone outside, the Coon was nowhere to be seen. Awhile later, back inside the home, they heard rattling and clanging sounds outside the house, near the trashcans. One man opened the door and yelled at the Coon. The Coon looked at him, but ignored the man’s demand and continued to rifle through the garbage. The other people at the scene confirmed that they could also see the Coon licking remnants of tuna out of a can and looking directly at the man when he shouted. The Coon stood his ground.

“It was clear that Coon wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how loud [the man] shouted,” said one woman, the owner of the home. “I knew [her husband] had his gun and I yelled at him to get him!” She said she was not sure if she would have been able to shoot something herself, but that next time she might try.

The man in possession of the gun had gone outside. When the Coon saw the man come around the corner of the house, he made a sudden movement. The man claims his territory been threatened and took a shot at the Coon. He missed, hitting the ground close to the prowler instead.

“That scared him and he started to run, so I knew I didn’t have much time. I shot again and hit him that time. He exploded—blood sprayed everywhere—and then he ran off into the bush,” the man said.

“I heard this sound outside. It was like [the man] had thrown a glass against something and shattered it,” said an 8-year-old boy who was at the scene. “And then I realized he had shot his gun. That he had shot the raccoon.”

One 6-year-old girl close to the family told reporters what she’d heard about the events. “Yesterday, it was [the man’s] birthday...and he was so happy, he shot a raccoon!”

The Coon’s body has not yet been found, and a search is not expected to recommence. Investigators of the scene report a large amount of blood pooled near the trashcan where the Coon was shot, along with dismembered flesh, hair, and blood strewn across the ground and stuck to the vehicles that were close by.

“With that much blood loss, there is no way that Coon can still be alive,” says an expert upon examining the remains. “He probably hid in the bush and died pretty quick.”

Gang experts say a search most likely would not turn up any of the other members associated with the unidentified murder victim. Though The Coons are known to gather in small groups of 2-4 males, the ties of these groups are quite loose, and members change regularly. They do attend larger gatherings, usually at the local watering holes, where they will meet up with other males as well as females working in the sex trade. However, during violent confrontations, the gangs will scatter and disappear. Since most of the petty crimes they are involved in are nocturnal, it is very difficult to locate and identify individuals of a gang once it has dissolved. The members will find new gangs to join. Experts in raccoon gangs believe the prowler was on the property in search of food and may not have had any ill intent.

“There is no evidence there were any more gang members present, and no signs of violence against the people in the house. It was likely a case of one member suffering nutritional withdrawal symptoms that couldn’t get to his food source. He might have been in an altered frame of mind—we’ll never know for sure unless the body turns up and we can conduct an autopsy. At this time, it appears to be a case of breaking and entering and theft. It’s fortunate that no one else was seriously harmed.”

“The streets are a tough place for these kits to grow up,” says a former wildlife rehabilitator. “Many of these raccoons grow up with absent fathers, and their mothers kick them out of the home when they’re just a few months old. Some of the fortunate kits will be allowed to stay in the home their first winter, but that tends to be more the adolescent females than the males. That’s why these young raccoons join gangs. They see the gang as a form of protection, and think that the only way for them to survive the streets riddled with other gangs and predators is to establish and defend territories. What else do we, as a society, expect them to do? When they're older, they can establish their own territories. But as adolescents, they’ve nowhere to live and have to scavenge for food in order to survive in an overpopulated world. People like to blame the local wildlife, but we’re just as violent. We’re just as defensive of our territories—plus, we are constantly expanding ours. We need to find a way to feed these poor creatures, house them. Violence is not the answer. It only perpetuates the problem.”

Studies have shown that in areas of high mortality rates among raccoons, the animals will get pregnant at younger ages, and produce more offspring per pregnancy than their counterparts living in more tolerable conditions, cites the rehabilitator, formerly of Florida, U.S.A.

When questioned why he shot the Coon, the resident said, “Those Coons cost me close to $8000.00 a year in crop. They destroy several of the outside rows of corn on my property.”

He stated he has no remorse for his actions. Authorities say based on the evidence, it appears he was within his rights to fire his weapon when the raccoon did not heed the warning shouts and promptly leave the property. There will be no charges laid.


Photographs provided by the local chapter of RHU (Raccoon Huggers United). "We'd like to share these personal photos of raccoons we've known in memory of the unidentified raccoon that was gunned down in the prime of his scavenging earlier this week. It was a senseless tragedy. At some time in his life, that raccoon was someone's kit, someone's friend. Our thoughts are with those who are missing him today," says the represenative of the chapter.  














Monday, June 4, 2012

Of Sins and Friends


For those of you not yet privy to the rants and babblings of my Facebook posts, I shall recap briefly the debacle of Saturday morning’s horrors. Complete to my husband’s knowledge, understanding, and supposed support, I have been dieting for many moons in effort to shed
twenty pounds that snuck up and adhered to my unwitting self over the last two years. I had, of recent weeks, begun to succeed in my quest. But upon waking this Saturday morn, I found a large display case of croissants set next to the 7 bottles of vitamins and supplements I habitually partake of at the start of my day. The temptation was excruciating and deepened by the call of orange marmalade I heard echoing from the confines of the fridge not 3 feet away.

I ranted, and received back-up support in the form of FB friends suggesting alternate scenarios that both inflamed my desire for the croissant (one suggestion of pairing it with wine was especially delectable...) and encouraged me to refrain from indulging.

Somewhere in the depths of my shaken soul, I found the courage to walk away from the sinful croissants. I ate my supplements, drank my protein, and then – just to laugh in the face of the terror brought on by those buttery delights- I did a workout. I even skipped my Saturday beer lunch in favor of a healthier sandwich and green tea. That should bring everyone up-to-date.

But then...THEN I accepted a dinner invitation from friends Wayne and Alison Seay, which was to be my undoing. Full of the heady confidence of a diet-gone-right for a change, I pulled my husband out of the doghouse I’d sent him to and herded my already-birthday-partied, fully-sugared children into our rickety vehicle and drove down the country road to the lovely couple’s very clean home.

Entering the home, my hackles immediately rose when I smelled something divine wafting from the kitchen. Upon investigation, I found the source of the aroma, and was much relieved to discover it was a ham roasting in the oven. Ham is protein. Good! Mrs. Seay proceeded to place a salad-bar-sized buffet of fresh fruits and vegetables on the table and suggested we dig in. I smiled. Excellent! I could certainly do that! I ate. And was, in fact, enjoying my carrot sticks when the first of two things happened.
Mr. Seay offered me a beer.
Worry not, kind-hearted readers! I had prepared for this encounter, and in fact, delighted in accepting the proffered treat. It had already been written into the calorie-intake expectations of my day. A frosty beer goes quite well with crunchy vegetables and nature’s sweet fruits, thank you very much. They are the very tastes of summer. And as if God Himself approved, the gray clouds parted and sunshine dappled the newly-sown fields of the quaint, historic farm that surrounded us. I nodded. Yes! It is as God intended. We were there to celebrate The Seays’ successful completion of the rituals and traditions of working the land. I lifted my beer to the heavens in salutation, and tapped it to my husband’s and Mr. Seay’s in commemoration of a job well done.

We chatted merrily, the way good friends do in such gatherings of like minds and simple pleasures. As testament to our jolly good cheer, the five children we had between us were handed beverages laced with more sugar than they should have in a month’s allotment and then sent them forth to the yards to play while we conversed of all things that tickled our fancies.
And then the second thing happened.
Mrs. Seay ducked into the kitchen and returned with a steaming pot clasped between her heavily mittened hands. She set it upon the table and lifted the lid. Like a dog that has happened upon a coiled rattlesnake, I jumped back with a yelp. The cheesy dip oozed over the edges of the little pot, crisped brown where it had slipped down the porcelain side. I watched from across the table as Mr. and Mrs. Seay and my husband in turn dipped chips into the gooey mess and devoured it. In abject horror, I could feel my body moving closer...closer still...to the wicked pot, until—without a coherent thought—I snatched a chip from the bowl, dug it deep into the sinful
glop, and stuffed into my mouth. A halleluiah chorus erupted in the confines of my skull, drowning out the clanging of the bells that might have warned me of what was about to happen.
I reached for another.
And then another.
It was completely beyond my control at this point. From the moment it had first slid past my teeth and made love to my tongue, I knew that cheese dip and I were meant to be together – no matter how wrong it was. I was hopelessly in lust. There would be no turning back.

I wasn’t sure of who was responsible for my reckless stroll to the dark side. Was it Mrs. Seay, who had placed the temptation before me with a suggestion and a wink? Or could it be Mr. Seay who was said to be the night’s chef, and by a reasonable leap in logic, the probable concoctor of the evils that befell me yesterday eve? I could not say. All I knew for certain was that I could not
possibly be held accountable for my actions from that point forward. I had been thoroughly and masterfully seduced. Anything was now possible. Helpless in the face of such unholy persuasion,
I could only hope to make it through the evening unpounded, or in the very least, only lightly pounded.

I was beginning to sense a conspiracy—a plot against me and my dreams of reacquiring a fit and youthful body. My husband was certainly out to get me (let us not too quickly forget the debacle of the croissants earlier in the day...), and now I feared the beloved Seays were party to the task of unhinging me.
I would need a plan.

So, I accepted, with an award-winning smile, the delicious dinner set before me—the aforementioned ham (so tender it fell apart with a touch of my fork), a fresh and crunchy salad (which was certainly there as a decoy to their true intent...), and a mound of cheesy hash brown
casserole (prompting yet another mouth-watering, irresistible affair for my tongue)—and I drank thirstily of the endless deluge of screwdrivers meant to unarm me of my common sense.
And I schemed.

I used their own tools against them, I did. My tongue, now weakened with their liquors and longing with insatiable passion for more trysts with the cheesy outlaws lurking in the ancient
appliances of the nearby kitchen, began to wag.
I had a plan.

The plan was not without dire risks to my person, but I was willing to throw myself at the mercy of the Lord of Weightloss, in order to fulfill my destiny, if it must be so. I said a prayer to the fat-burning supplements held within me, tossed down a few extra vitamins, and carried out my own devious plot. I was forced to use the last weapon in my arsenal.
I would talk them to death.

They would be begging for leniency by the time I was through with them, mark my words. But alas! They had ruthlessly delivered alluring enticements upon my unsuspecting naivety, so there could be no mercy for such formidable opponents.

I drank, ate, and be-merried long into the night. Shadows fell, and then full darkness. More guests came and after sussing out their innocence in the plot against me, I allowed myself to enjoy their company. I used their good will to my own gains, furthering the longishness of
the conversation by propagating topics interesting to the newcomers and then watched in great pleasure as they turned it as stealthy weapons upon the proprietors of the household.

The children, some in the naked splendor of their choosing, were tucked—all five—into the bed spaces available, and the merriment of the adults continued uninterrupted beyond the reaches of their dreams.

Did we get louder as the night progressed? Yes, I believe we did. Did the cheer reach new levels of hilarity as moments became minutes and minutes morphed into hours? Indeed, it did. And when the yawns became more frequent and the eyelids got heavy, I cranked my conversation skills to new heights. Was I sorry it was necessary? Perhaps. But they had brought it upon themselves, this wily couple and my own Mr. Lalonde. Sabotaging my weight loss efforts—when I’d so recently begun to succeed—was almost completely unforgiveable. One day I may be able to forgive them their evil deeds, but only after they’d suffered.

We talked—of family and friends, vacations, music and games...of our silly children and our funnish daydreams. Oh, how I was enjoying myself—and they too, it seems. These were good friends for us, and I did sincerely hope, perchance, they would feel the same.

But as night became morning, and the hours became wee, my husband got sleepy, and I sensed The Seays also wished for dreams.

Mr. Seay’s eyelids kept slamming rock bottom and ricocheting back up again in an ever-slowing pattern, but Mrs. Seay kept up with me, giggle-for-giggle, tale-for-tale. I admired greatly her wit, her charm...her endurance. It was as intoxicating as the blubber-inducing delicacies she had spent an eve foisting upon me.

My own husband impressed me much as well. I came to the realization that in 15 years of knowing him, the only time I had seen him standing erect in the dewy hours before dawn would have been the night I woke him in the throes of labor for our firstborn, and again the night the
third of our progeny had decided to make our acquaintance. (Incidentally, these are two of the very 3 culprits that sent me spiraling into the 9-year fat-bearing sentence I have currently been in the process of appealing...) My husband, Mr. Lalonde, appeared cheerful enough—in fact, he contributed regularly to the conversation of remembrance at hand—but I knew by the shade of red rimming his eyes and the blinky rapport his eyelids were now syncing with Mr. Seay’s that it was only a matter of time before he’d paid his due.
I suppressed the desire to cackle maniacally and rub my hands in glee.
I had successfully exacted my revenge.

As the lovely couple—whom I hoped would one day understand why I had to do it, and find it within themselves to grant my pardon—lit the way and held the doors, Mr. Lalonde and myself transferred our offspring from the little house on the farm to the rusty contraption we affectionately called our vehicle.

We waved a final goodnight as The Seays slipped into comas before our very eyes, and as we bumped along the beaten road we’d come in on, I knew that they had experienced a lesson of their own.

I think it’s safe to assume they won’t make the same mistake again for a very, very long time.

And about five minutes later, at just past 4am, as I tucked Mr. Lalonde and the children snug in their beds, I had another glorious epiphany about the hard-fought conflicts of my evening—a spoil to keep from the battles, if you will.
In a matter of days (on June 11th, in fact), I will be a wizened 42 years of age. That’s...
...5 years older than Mr. Lalonde, the romantically gifted and soulfully devoted French Charming I robbed from the cradle once upon a time in a land far, far away...
...7 years older than Mrs. Seay, the ethereal and gorgeous hostess of the moveable home (the canvas upon which she expresses her art...) and conspiring kitchen sidekick whose charm and reciprocal love of a giggle will endear her to me forevermore...
...and a full 9 years older than Mr. Seay, the mischievous, youthful sprite and chief diet-undoer whose vast knowledge of all things intriguing shall enrapture me until the end of time along the path of my own quest for Knowing-It-All –and-trying-most-too.
My spoils?
I....I had outlasted them all!!! (and without a hangover in sight!)
It had all been worth it in the end.
So, my body may engage me in the timeless battles of hormones and belly fat, and the years may stalk me until I am spewed from the forbidden Forest of Youth.
But my sense of adventure is intact and my love of a life fully lived has been utterly unconquerable.
My Spirit of Youth prevails!!
I remain undefeated in the face of adversity.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Countertop Culprit in Custody

By Kelly Lalonde


29 May 2012 -- Authorities have apprehended C. Lalonde, alleged
perpetrator in the recent countertop urination case. (reference article:
Knockin’ on the Attic blog, 2012 edition 1, 28 May) This ends a 5-day-long
crime spree where puddles of piss have been left in random locations throughout
the household area. Authorities had been on the lookout for a suspect approximately
3 to 3½ feet in height and approximately 32-40 pounds when the final scene was
discovered. Three crime scenes had been tampered with and efforts had been made
to conceal evidence of the wrongdoing.

The arrest was made following a
report to the authorities by an eyewitness. The witness is a known associate of
the suspect and admits to have been in the company of the suspect at the time
of this morning’s crime, but insists she did not take part in the events that
unfolded.

“We were downstairs, playing with
animals! It was wet. Very, very wet. [Suspect] peed! She peed on a floor!” reported the witness who cannot be named,
pending a trial involving the case.

The witness, a female who just
turned 3 years old, immediately went to the authorities for help, but when she
led them back to the scene of the crime, the suspect was no longer there.

After examining the crime scene
and recognizing the MO from previous locations over the last several days,
authorities conducted a split-level girlhunt, leading a high speed race through
3 levels of the house and across several room lines. They finally caught up to
her in the main bathroom at approximately 9:15am.

At that time, the suspect,
almost-4-year-old C. Lalonde, held a stand-off for several minutes. The
authorities blocked her passage from the room while she waved wet underpants
around her kneecaps and threatened to throw the witness’s birthday party
invitation in the trash. She screamed at authorities that she would never clean
up the puddle downstairs and then climbed onto the step stool with the
piss-colored underpants dangling from one finger, and one leg precariously
balanced on the very edge of the slippery surface. While an authority
experienced in negotiations attempted to talk the girl away from the dangerous
stool, the witness, a long-time friend of Lalonde, arrived on the scene. Authorities
believed the friend might be able to assist in procuring a safe descent and
allowed her to speak to Lalonde.

The witness stepped up to the
doorway and yelled up at Lalonde. “You peed all over the floor! You make a BIG
MESS!!”

At that point, Lalonde lost control.
She flung the wet panties towards authorities and screamed again before
climbing on top of the bathroom counter and turning on the hot-water faucet.

When she turned her back to reach
for a bottle of soap that she had concealed behind her, the negotiator was able
to move in and grab her. After a brief struggle over hand washing, the
negotiator was able to bring the girl safely to the ground. Lalonde was then
taken into custody and placed on a 4-minute watch for her own safety.

At her bail hearing, Lalonde
claims she did not act alone, citing that [known associate] kept her from using
the proper facilities.

“I was playing with the polar
bear. He was painting the house. And then [known associate] came over to make
her elephant help paint the house. To make it pretty. I had to go pee, but then
the elephant wanted to play family and go to sleep. So my polar bear went to
sleep. Just a little bit. Right? Just a little bit.”

When questioned what happened
next in the chain of events, Lalonde admitted to pissing on the floor of the
playroom, but insists, “It was all [known associate]’s fault. She wouldn’t let
me go potty. Her elephant made my polar bear go to sleep. See? She wouldn’t let
me go. It’s all her fault.”

The known associate, who witnessed
the final crime, has been questioned and cleared of all charges.
She is cooperating with
authorities to provide information about previous events allegedly involving
Lalonde.

Crime scene investigators have
been able to link three separate crimes that have taken place in the
surrounding area over the last five days. Though they weren’t certain at first
that an earlier incident was related to the recent piss crimes, they have now
been able to link them all. Each incident involved concealing piss, hiding wet
underpants in the dirty laundry, and providing false alibis.

Lalonde became the lead suspect in the crime
spree once authorities uncovered dripping wet evidence in her bedroom and an
excess of clean clothes strewn about the residence. They are confident they
will be able to convict her of all 3 crimes.

Spokesperson for the team leading
the pissicide investigation, a veteran in the childcare field for 25 years,
says, “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen this kind of a pissing spree. I
knew at that first crime scene that this was going to be a really difficult
case. No eyewitnesses were coming forward, and the evidence was contaminated.
In all my years in the field, I’ve never seen anything so disturbing as that
hidden puddle of piss on the bathroom countertop. I’m really happy that we’ve
been able to hunt down this devious pisser. She’ll serve time for what she’s
done, and also get the help she needs so that she will never commit such
atrocious crimes again.”

Lalonde is charged with perjury, odorizing
private property, rude and unacceptable behavior in a private home, evidence
tampering, and leaving the scene of a crime. Other charges may be placed
pending a thorough investigation. If convicted, she faces a lengthy bedroom
stint with scheduled and supervised trips to the potty, potty-training
rehabilitation, and a possible return to diapers. She would not be eligible for
parole for another 14 years.