Three celebrations

Tom celebrated his birthday by making the dinner he wanted--spaghetti and frozen meatballs--and ending it with an ice cream cake dessert. It was a good day.

Every Monday, Darcy and I go up and down the aisles of every store we enter, looking for Clorox wipes. We struck gold in Target, picking up a pack for me and the kids heading back to college, and then we found Lysol wipes at Publix where a sign suggested we take what we needed. We didn't want to be greedy so we took one.

My niece became a teen! The funny thing was she celebrated with a couple friends on her big day, so by the next night when the family gathered for dinner, her cake was missing a few pieces. I thought it made for a funny photo.

At least we got outside

Saturday, three of us agreed to join the hubby in his blueberry adventures. Granted, it was Tom's typical spur-of-the-moment invite thrown out five minutes after I'd awakened and made myself a coffee. He gave us ten minutes.

Me: "Maybe you should call the blueberry place to make sure they are open."

Tom: "Why wouldn't they be open?"

The blueberry farm is a good hour drive from our house, north of where Grammy Mary Anne lives, and I accompanied them only because he agreed to do a social distance visit with his mother after we picked blueberries. Typically, this trip begins in the early dawn hours, and we are usually the first wave of pickers. This time we didn't get there until noon, and I was already regretting my choice of a black shirt as the sun shone through my side of the car window, but alas, I could've saved myself some stress.

I'd like to say that I was kind enough not to point out the obvious, but we all know that didn't happen. Although I did keep it to three I-told-you-to-call (s).

None of us really complained because, well, the drive and conversation was different than our quarantine lifestyle. Yippee!

Grammy met us in her driveway, and we stayed six feet apart for an hour of chatting before Tom suggested we move to the pool area. There, we were able to sit--six feet apart--and we spent another two hours socializing. In between the chatting, Oleg and Tom disappeared into Grammy's house--wearing their masks--to work on her computer since she missed out on the family Zoom call a week ago. A neighbor, on her way back from cutting another neighbor's hair, took their place in our circle.

Eventually, the men returned, and when the neighbor found out they were computer gurus, she asked if they could help her hook up her printer. Darcy worked out an exchange--computer work for two haircuts as both men kept whining about their need for a barber--and off the three went, leaving the girls behind. That gave us plenty of time for girl gossip and men bitching.

It was almost four o'clock by the time they returned, and only Tom had taken the neighbor up on her haircutting. Oleg opted for him to go first, and then decided he'd stick with his professional barber. The women exchanged knowing looks, grateful we'd had our time alone to get things off our chests.

We washed down the pool chairs and table as required, ordered dinner to pick up on the way home, virtually hugged Grammy, and climbed back in the car to head out, waving good-bye.

Mary Anne: "Thanks for coming! Oh, and thanks for the blueberries!"

Darcy and I snickered quietly all the way home.

Ratbusters

My MIL called our house on Saturday. Not because she'd fallen and couldn't get up but because she was positive she heard a rat in her house. Screaming. Shrieking. In her attic.

MIL: "It was LOUD!"

She kept emulating the scream every time she gave new information. She even Googled it to make sure it wasn't something else shrieking in her attic...like a ghost. Google told her it was a rat. As did the chewed ceiling tile covering the opening to her attic.

On Sunday, Madison, Tom, and I headed over in our Ratbuster outfits to locate the shrieker and put him out of his misery. Well, to be honest, that wasn't my intention. Madison and I came for the breakfast Tom promised us first and then we came along to motivate him so that he'd continue on the drive to help his mother.

MIL: "I looked all around while the rat made that noise and then I saw the chewed tile in the bathroom so I closed the bathroom door. Then, because I couldn't hear it screaming from my bedroom, I closed that door and slept just fine last night."

I wasn't so sure that the tile had been chewed but I also wasn't one to take a chance that I knew what the hell I was talking about. Tom, on the other hand, didn't even hesitate.

Which sent the MIL off again on the shrieking. With the addition of crazy, waving hands as an accompaniment.

Me: "OMG! What are you doing? You haven't even assessed the situation! Close the bathroom door in case the rat falls out of the ceiling!"

Him: "If it falls, the toilet is right there and he'll drown. You two are funny."

He saw no signs of rats. No droppings. No chewed wires. But because his mother insisted she'd heard what she'd heard...yep, she gave us another rendition...we went to Home Depot for some traps. I made him close the bathroom door before he left. He humored me and did so.

Several people were in the rodent aisle. Many were eyeing a sticky trap which looked to me to be a large piece of sticky paper like a gigantic piece of tape where the rat walked across it and then BAM all four paws were stuck. Like quicksand without the sinking into a hole.

Me: "Yeah, what? Who wants to trap a live rat on a piece of sticky paper? Because it's more humane? How? Are you going to pull the rat off of the sticky mess? Rip it's paws off when you do so? Who's going to handle a rat? That makes absolutely no sense to me. Are you just supposed to throw the entire thing, rat and all, in the trash? How is that humane?"

I said all of this aloud hoping that those who contemplated this trap would fill me in. Instead, no one spoke or looked at me. Two people reached forward and removed the trap to add to their basket. We did not. We got the type of trap where there was no mistaking our intentions.

Rats carry diseases that I'd rather not catch. I'm good with animals out in their own domain which is outside my domain. When they cross over into my domain, I feel it's fair game. Just as they do when I venture into their territory. Hello, silkworms, mosquitoes, lovebugs, and ginormous grasshoppers I'm talking to you. So, Tom went with the trap that carried his name which he has used with success several times.

Me: "I feel like the shrieking rat (cue the MIL) is a rat that wasn't healthy. This is way more humane."

So, up went the hubby and the traps. Up I went. For blogging purposes. I only went as far to stick my head into the hole. I did not see signs of rats. Nor did I hear them.

My MIL has two attics so Tom set traps in both. The other is in the garage and several days prior my MIL had found a baby rat in one of her plastic containers sitting in the garage.

MIL: "I picked it up and threw it outside and then ran inside and shut the garage door."

Tom: "And the rat probably rolled its eyes and went around the side of the house and back into  wherever it is that the rats are using as an entry point into your garage and/or attic."

MIL:

Stay tuned. At some point, someone has to go up there to check the traps. I, for one, will be in CA.

More on Christmas 2018 and pics

It will go down as the Christmas Grandma got taken down by the Christmas tree. Oh, there were runner-up shenanigans but nothing that toppled Grandma Mary Anne's saga. 

I mean, how often can one say that she broke her back by being felled by her very own Christmas tree? I'm only sorry that Madison and Teddy never finished their song on the incident sung to the tune of Oh, Christmas Tree, because it would have just added some spice to the story.

Grandma likes real trees for Christmas, and last year she had the tree up and waiting for the grandchildren to decorate. She decided that would be a tradition, and my husband took her out this year to get her tree, setting it up for her and stringing some lights. He left it sitting like that for the arrival of the grandchildren. The date for decorating was set for Friday.

Thursday, Grandma got knocked over by the Christmas tree. Friday, the grandchildren deemed the tree unworthy of decoration. A punishment I'm not sure the tree minded. No heavy ornaments to bend it's branches? Score.

The tree was bare with minimal lights but still part of the holiday. As soon as the new year rang in? The tree was disposed of. Off came the lights, and in one fell swoop, the tree hit the curb to be taken off to wherever it is that discarded Christmas trees disappear.

I picture them carted off to Santa's acreage where they're replanted and reborn. I'm not sure what Santa will have in store for this very naughty tree, but perhaps there is redemption. At the very least, it will live on in our retelling of Christmas of 2018.

As for the rest of the holiday, it was terrific. Always great to spend time with family and friends. Our Christmas morning was quiet and un-hectic. We slept late, awoke to cinnamon rolls, opened gifts, and then hiked to Grandma's for the rest of the day.

Nancy and Beth created and cooked a delicious Christmas meal that was then consumed in the amount of time it took to open a bottle of wine. Certainly faster than it did to prepare and make. Dessert was eaten, and our traditional Yankee Exchange occurred. Tons of games were played, including our family favorite with this group: Mafia. 

After Christmas, the days were spent on trips to the beach, the children's museum, and Darcy's campus. Oh, and more gaming and tons more Mafia.

Also, there was some rearranging of Grandma's house so she could maneuver the walker in case a Christmas tree jumped out at her.

We were sorry to see everyone head back home. I was sad to see my girls return to college. But all good things come to an end, and we put 2018 to bed and got back into our routines. 

Here's hoping 2019 is just as exciting!

Christmas 2018

This is my husband's family's year for the holidays. It started with Grandma getting knocked over by the Christmas tree, but has escalated into a more relaxed state. We've consumed copious amounts of food. We've played the game Mafia so much that none of us trust each other as we go about our daily lives. Throw in card games, outings, and lots of talking, and it sums up our week of fun and very little sleep. I hope everyone's holidays were as fantastic. Thanks for reading me!

Warning....Ahead

This sign was at the entrance of an area we explored. I made mention of it as we drove past it.

Me: "What does that sign mean? What are those things? Are those bees? Or flies? I can't tell what they are, but that is certainly a dire warning. Are they rampant in this area? So much that we shouldn't exit the truck? I'm a tad worried about this. I didn't Google first aid for this type of creature."

We decided they were bees due to the striping on the body, and because I had a friend who raised bees, used to help her extract the honey, and once wrote a research paper on bees, so I got out, assuring my relatives I was well versed on the insects--leave them alone, and they won't bother you. Well, unless you're slathered in soda or something sweet, then they might try to pollinate you.

BIL: "But are you versed in killer bees? I think those are different than regular bees."

Me: "I'm not afraid of killer bees either. Bring them on!"

We walked, posed for pictures, and enjoyed the mountain and the beauty. We welcomed the breeze and then made our way back to the truck.

Tom's sister took a detour to visit the bathroom down the hill, and because I believe when one sees a toilet in the middle of nature, one should use it, I tagged along. Nancy made mention of it most likely being a "hole," but I had seen the building, and it had four walls and a roof, and that was good enough for me. I followed her down the sidewalk, across the parking lot, and down to the little restroom.

As we came around the corner, Tom's sister told me to go first. She claimed to have a stomach issue and made it sound like she was doing me a favor by offering up the first use, but as we got closer to the doorway and noticed the huge amount of buzzing bees flying in and out of the opening, I suspected she was using me as a guinea pig.

But I had already made the above proclamation about not fearing bees, and so I hopped into the outhouse like it was nothing and shut the door.

The noise inside was overwhelming. Please, click on this link and hit play because this was the exact noise in that bathroom, and actually, the video is pretty true to life, give or take a few bees. The shack was a wooden structure built in Little House's days, complete with gaping holes that let enough light shine in, so I got a good grasp of the room.

In the middle was the "hole." Over the hole was a plastic, scratched toilet seat that needed a good wiping down with antiseptic wipes, a can full of Comet, and several sponges. The odor was that of a porta-potty only without the deodorant cakes and scented pine strips, and the noise was everything in the movies or on television or in that video regarding killer bees.

The noise was deafening. Bees were everywhere. Flying. Buzzing. Looping. They were on the walls. On the roof. In the rafters. Mainly, they were in the "hole," flying up and out and out and in. They swarmed the "hole" like flies on turds, and it was like a scene from a horror film, and I the idiot that the viewers yell "Don't go into the house!" at when she arrives home in the dark to find the front door wide open. And just like that idiot, I went inside and proceeded to do my business--because I am a middle-aged, menopausal, fat girl with a bladder that needed emptying. 

Who knew when I would get another chance? But mainly, I went because I was not afraid of bees and made it perfectly clear to my husband's sister and brother and mother. I could not back down now. 

So, I pulled down my pants, covered my hands in toilet paper, and held my body inches above the nasty seat. Up until this point, my bladder had been on vacation mode, that mode where concentration plays a big part in expelling? Yeah, not now. Now it was like I had turned the knob, and the liquid poured. I peed like a faucet, amongst the sounds of buzzing wings and killer bees. Flying in and out, around my head, and through my legs. And as I peed, I prayed.

Me: "Dear God, please do not let any killer bees take advantage of my position. Please do not let them be annoyed at my stream. Please do not let them venture up into my precious, sensitive body parts. Please do not let them do any severe damage that will warrant my OB/GYN BIL to provide medical care to me so soon after his 60th birthday party. And please do not let me drop my phone. Amen."

Or something along those lines. In my head. Because my phone was in my mouth.

And as I dangled, precariously on my shaking, only-skinny-portion-of-my-body arms holding up my overweight torso over the "hole," I realized that I needed to record this moment because this would be a great entry for my blog! But I knew I couldn't balance on the one hand and take a photo, so alas, there are no photos or recordings. You'll just have to take my word for it.

I was in and out in record time with zero bee stings, and as I exited the bathroom with killer bees circling my head and body, I felt like a Superhero that had survived the worst apocalypse, complete with every villain known to man. I smiled at my SIL and said:

Me: "I do believe the sign we saw was for this bathroom. Those animals are killer bees. Good Luck and God Speed!"

And when, hours later, we saw the sign at another area of the park, coincidingly not far from another wooden four-walled structure, and someone in our group inquired as to what the heck those insects were on that sign, my SIL and I assured her they were killer bees and we suggested she water one of the many Joshua Trees in the park instead of entering the bathroom.

Because there are only so many Superheros in the world, and Nancy and I are two of them.