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toothy

Dear One Day You'll Be Grown Up Josh,

When you were a little boy your two front teeth came all the way in before the teeth besides them fell out. For the longest time your big front teeth stuck out all by themselves. When the teeth next to them finally started coming in I remarked to you that your teeth were finally coming in. You looked at me so sad and you reached up with your hands and started pushing on those teeth as if to push them back into your head. I asked what you were doing and you told me that you didn't want those teeth to come in because you liked looking like Sponge Bob.

I love you more today than yesterday,
Mom

fuh reaky

Dear boys and girls,

Sit down right here and I will tell you the tale of freaky Frank. Be warned, this tale is not for the easily creeped out or the already stalked or paranoid.

Once upon a time there was a regular old family who got lucky and managed to scoop this totally awesome chunk of land (which is actually an island in a lake) called utopia. The family loved utopia and started spending all their summers in utopia. But one unfortunate aspect of utopia was the previous owner did not take very good care of his house. It was a sweet old house with lots of history and a fabulous vibe, but it also had toxic mold and was structurally unstable after all the years of neglect, so it had to come down. And down it went in November 2006.

But before the house came down the family got a call from a "neighbor", which seems hard to have when you have an island, but this "neighbor" lived close to the causeway that attached the island to the main road. His name was Frank. And the neighbor Frank asked the family if he could have the shutters from the old fabulous vibe house, and the family was happy to give Frank the shutters because they were happy to know that the sweet old house would live on in bits and pieces somewhere nearby. And then Frank asked for the paneling. And the family said ..."Uh, sure"

And then someone gave Frank the phone number of the family and he started calling them in their regular old home. And Frank started talking about documenting the construction and how the family might want his photos. And Frank even called himself a photographer and when the family mom said she was a photographer too, Frank got freakier and when the family mom asked freaky Frank what else he photographed besides her house he said "Nothing". And the family got officially creeped out. The mom asked him to please not go onto their property as she could not guarantee his safety during the construction. And the kids were told to run away if they ever saw a guy with a camera coming down the causeway.

So the family asked freaky Frank not to go on their property and the family went around posting "No Trespassing" signs that they bought at the hardware store on all their trees. But the freak didn't listen, only he was sneaky and he was watching the construction guys so freaky Frank knew when no one was at the house and that is when he snuck over and took pictures. He also circled the house in his boat and took pictures from the water and he also took pictures from different places on the shore. But it was freaky Frank's little secret. And then the family went back to Utopia even though the new house wasn't finished. And the family rented a nice old guy's (with horrific housekeeping abilities) place because he was broken hearted and didn't think he wanted to be in such a happy place when he felt so sad. See the old guy's girlfriend of 7 years dumped him.

And after another blissful utopian summer in a rental, freaky Frank stopped the family mom one day and whipped out a photo album. The freak said he thought the family might want it. And the mom grabbed some garlic and a cross and waved her arms frantically while she backed into her car and managed to call out a friendly "Thanks" as she peeled away for the safety of her kids. Once safely in the nice old guy's place the mom locked all the doors and windows and opened the photo album. Guess what she saw! There were photos of the family's house from after they bought it and before they got furniture. From the inside. The freak had been in the house. gulp. There were photos of the demolition of the old house and the raising of the new house. Each photo was dated and captioned. And the mom got all goose bumpy and went directly to (her neighbor who usually looks out for them) the sentry and asked what the deal was with freaky Frank and the sentry advised the family mom to stay away, far far away from F. Frank because of his eccentricities (which the family mom suspects just might be related to a border line IQ, but I'm not a pro, so draw your own conclusion)

It was a very quiet winter as far as freaky Frank was concerned. Which was a good thing because the family had their plate full of older family members with health issues.

Spring rolled around and all the little birdies returned to their summer homes. Even the cuckoos.

"Oh fuck" the mom was heard saying "freaky Frank is flouncing around our flora again and now it's more than photos, it's the phone!"

Can you believe it? We can't either!

The family mom's cell phone rang and she answered because she recognized the utopian area code and it ended up being freaky Frank. Are you wondering how freaky got the mom's cell phone number? Well, since all the old people in the family's family are sick and dying the answering machine says something like (we don't call ourselves very often) "If this is a doctor, hospital or emergency please call this cell number..." And freaky Frank decided he was as important as a docotor hospital or other medical emergency!

It was so horrible to hear the freakster's voice the mom almost had to swerve into a tree and end it all!. Except she couldn't because then who would make dinner? Are the crazy people of the world ever going to leave her alone? It's a proven fact, the mom attracts the crazy like shit attracts the flies. I know, I know, obviously the freakster is a fly and that makes the mom the shit. Let's not dwell on that. The mom doesn't think a crazy person break is ever going to come her way. So the mom, who did not want to talk to freaky Frank said in her firmest of firm voices "(freaky) Frank, I can't talk right now because I am driving so I'll have to call you later."

Then it was later and the mom made the dad be on the phone at the same time when she called freaky Frank back. Except he wasn't home. So the mom left a short message and vowed to not pick up the phone without consulting the (freak) caller ID. Which is precisely what she should have done but forgot to do an hour later when the phone rang and it was the freak himself. The freak wanted to know if the family was going to be in utopia because, he said, fishing season had begun and something about low water levels and he wanted to sit on the rock at one edge of the family property. And the mom said he could not. And the mom told freaky Frank that no one is allowed on their property because it is still technically a construction site and the contractor will not be liable for trespassers. And the mom told the freak to please stay off the property and the freak said "What about my photos?"

And now the family mom has a new saying. When ever something does not make sense, the family mom is going to say "what about my photos?" until the family has her committed. But the mom figures it is only a matter of time before the freakster ends up in the looney bin too, so she already packed his photo album of her house so they can while away the hours chatting about the good 'ol days.

And now boys and girls, a question for you. What is the moral of this story?

blowing the whistle

Dear Dr. Putz,

Now that I have gotten grandma back into the OFH (cue the horns and throw the confetti!!) and away from the neglectful rehab (shivers) I had a meeting with Natasha (Na-nausea) to go over grandma's "care plan". (Otherwise known as the plan in which the OFH plans on charging me more money for providing even less service) During that meeting we discussed grandma's medications. I requested that topic because I had noticed that you had taken grandma off her blood thinner. Which I thought was an interesting (ie: Do No Harm doc, sound familiar?) choice for a 96 year old with a current Deep Vein Thrombosis. Upon review I see that you had also stopped giving grandma her cholesterol medication and her therapeutic antibiotic which was keeping her recurring urinary tract infections at bay.

You know, Dr. Putz, I am going back and forth, back and forth in my head about deciding if I want to call up what ever watch dog organization keeps an eye on nursing homes, I mean, after the not bandaging grandma's amputation site slip, and the night nurse taking grandma for walks before she was cleared for walking on her amputated foot slip, and all the other little neglectful potentially dangerous oversights I just don't see how I can go on with a clear conscience if I don't report you and your rehab. There are other unsuspecting families trusting you are your organization to attend to the medical needs of their beloved parents and family members. I can't let any other of those innocent poor old people suffer.

Honestly, I am right now sitting here shocked, that after a six week sentence in your rehab grandma got off so easy with only another frigging UTI. Because while sitting in that meeting at the OFH discussing grandma's current state of elevated confusion, and then finding that the very same medicine that I had on at least 4 separate occasions informed the nurses that grandma must remain on due to her pre-existing rectal prolapse and tendency to UTI had been removed from her pharmaceutical routine. Dr. Putz, do you even know how confused an older person becomes when suffering from a urinary tract infection?

Dr. Putz, I only hope you live to 103 and are treated with the same callous disregard you have shown my grandmother.

See you from the witness stand,
Clickmom

Update: Just got off the phone with NJ Dept of he@lth & hum@n services. (Don't want any google hits) The rehab and the doctor have been reported. I did this for all the other sweet old men and old ladies who are still there. They deserve better.

zzzzzz

Dear Bed,

I love you.

Seriously, I Love You. You are exactly what I need when I am tired, sick, cold, lazy, loungy, sleepy, smelly or clean, lonely, happy, sad, stressed, relaxed, whenever. You are always there for me day after day with your cushy back supporting goodness and you even come with a variety of weather appropriate blankets for all my seasonal needs.

I wish you were a man.

Ready or not here I come! Ready to dream about cats, revenge, paintball guns and cats, bb guns and cats, traps and cats, ransom notes and cats, mob style kitty toe amputations and cats, foam hair removal products and cats, poisoned tuna and cats (kidding! no jail for this momma!). Sweet dreams to you too!

Love, Clicky

dear kitty kitty

Dear Cat Owning Neighbors,

Funny thing happened around here, and that is that my back yard became quite the foul smelling stench pit of all odors vile. And I was confounded, for I have owned dogs for a couple of decades now and I had never experinced any dog related odor so obnoxious repulsive and downright nauseating. But being a responsible dog owner, I enlisted a small army of chore slaves children and we de-pooped the yard. Looked great, still rather odius.

Today when the gardener came I mentioned the fragrance funk and the gardener said he was pretty sure he knew the source of the smell. "Really?" I innocently asked. "What do you think it could be?" and the gardener asked back "Are you a cat person?" After I threw up in my mouth a little and convulsed from my head right down to my toes, I calmly said "No, I would rather live in an infested with tarantulas rotting cardboard box don't care much for cats." "Well, says the gardener, I have cats and that smell is most definitely of cat origin. I'm pretty sure the neighborhood cats are using the wood mulch in the play area as a giant litter box."

pause here for effect

keep letting that sink in

review

play area=litter box

children's play area=litter box

for neighborhood cats.

If I had a gun I am sure I would use it.

You can take that as a warning,
or a threat,
keep your cats inside,
I am not kidding you,
Clickmom

trashy

Dear Garbage Men,

Seriously?

I mean really and truly SERIOUSLY?? Did we actually some how offend your trash collecting sensibilities with our garbage and to show us how your delicate feelings were ever so slightly dented (much like my rubber plastic cans have managed to become at your hand) you felt it was necessary to leave my trash can in the exact center of the driveway making it not possible for me to pass after coming home from an exhausting day of visitng my depressed grandmother in the rehab, straightening out grandma's bank records, dealing with Natasha about getting grandma back to the OFH, finding and paying for an aide to sit in grandma's room while she sleeps once back at the OFH just in case she gets up in the middle of the night to pee because Natasha said that was a prerequisite for grandma's return and also fighting the crowds in Whole Foods because when I did my shopping yesterday and thought I was coming home prepared for today's nourishment requiremnts since I bought the pickles, onions, tomatoes, and lettuce for the burgers I planned on serving up tonight and I forget the meat? And I was only coming home for a quick and purposeful 20 minutes to throw a load of grandma's laundry into the washer and put the meat in the fridge before I had to pick up the kids from school. So you can imagine the light and airy mood (Who me? Stress?) I was in when I drove up and saw the can blocking my entry.

Because I am the scientifically minded kind of gal that I am I took a glance up and down the block and (survey says!) all of my neighbors trash cans stood conveniently by the side of each drive way not blocking each respective homeowners from driving all the way to their own overcrowded garages. WTF trashman?

While I am at it trash guy why can't you lift a trashcan? Aren't you supposed to be all strong and manly and be able to pick up a can so that the few discarded drink containers that had been removed from my vehicle and are now at the bottom of our drag to the curb trash can, the one you are supposed to empty (empty being the operative word in that sentence) so said beverage containers can rot within the confines of your stinky truck instead of in the bottom of my trashcan alongside my pristine manicured (by "professionals" who just happen to winter below the equator) lawn, and stink up an otherwise picture postcard side yard. Why do you lift each kitchen trash bag individually and oh so gingerly one at a time and toss those light weights into your truck? Wouldn't it be easier to lift the whole can up and do it all in one thorough dump? That's how they do it on TV. (When they aren't discovering murder victims, babies, and a whole plethora of case solving evidence)

I hope that when you close your eyes and fall asleep tonight you dream about the can you left in the middle of the driveway and somehow your conscience tells you that while you were being mean and vindictive, for what reason I do not know, I was helping grandma out of her wheelchair and into her rehab bed while wondering how in the world we are going to pay for all the additional charges they are sticking us with at the old folks home. But probably not, because I am sure that in reality you are more likely to be thinking "Wow, only two quarts of cheap whiskey and the room is spinning" or "Hello righty, looking good tonight." or even "I don't smell! I told my wife I didn't need a shower after work. She's just hassling me again!"

Also, I wouldn't put it past me to take time out of my busy schedule to wrap up a few cinder blocks in some spare bubble wrap and hide them in some industrial strength contractor bags with the rest of the household trash. Also, maybe some broken glass and rotten eggs. Just saying. Call it a truce man.

Don't tempt me.

Mrs. C.Mom

baseball letters-weekly winners

Spring sports are here! Hurray the shooting is outside again! Since there has been much baseball in my agenda for the past two weeks, I thought I would do an all baseball (yeah spring sports!) all letter (hello NaBloPoMo) weekly winners. Hello sarcasticmom!

Dear Twitches

Dear Twitches,

You have got to go. It isn't you, I mean you guys, really, you are good company, reliable and steadfast, it's me. It's all me. I am more of a loner, even in these times of incredible stress and possible low grade depression. It is just that I would rather do it on my own. I know, at first you made me smile and laugh how every time I could just say the word "scumcle" (oh look.... you . are . doing . it . now) and my eye lid would start fluttering away. Or how when I had to see Natasha for the first time in a month and my lip developed this very Elvis kind of twitchy beat to it and I showed it to the desk lady at the posh club. And then the two of us laughed that "Eeew gross Hahaha What is up with your face?" laugh. Except I was really crying on the inside and she just might have disinfected the desk when I walked away. And the other day, when I was thinking of every trouble all at once and my neck and my cheek both started to twitch at the same time... well, that may have been kind of on the over board side. And now I am officially over you.

So, you aren't funny or cute anymore. As a matter of fact, the very same things that were kind of endearing and charming for about a minute and a half are now the same things that make me want to stuff you in a plastic bag and dump you into a fast moving river. So, just leave before it gets ugly. Ok? Saying goodbye is never easy, so let's just say "Shake you later!" and go our own ways. Really, it's the grown up way to do it. We are adult here, no? No need for scenes, or botox (sorry, didn't mean to sound threatening there...), or other nerve paralyzing procedures. Right? Cause you are just going to pack your bags and slip out the back Jack. Make all the plans you want Stan, as long as they don't include me.

So, listen stress related twitches, or even possibly a hemifacial spasm (oh yes, I have done my internet research), just go away.

Please.

This isn't fun anymore.

In despair,
Click

Dear Friday

Dear Friday,

You can't imagine how much I welcome you each week. It's not the lack of homework battles on a calm family oriented Friday evening, it's not anything special on the schedule, it's not a regular Friday night meal or anything like that. It is going to bed when ever I happen to go to bed on a Friday night and knowing that I do not have to wake up at 6 o'clock Saturday morning.

Oh yeah Friday baby. Come and get me.

Love,
click