Alecto's Ophelia

2010 - Coming Home

The last 90 minutes of 2009 frizzled out while I was sleeping. When my contacts are fogged enough I'm stabbing myself with a needle every third stitch it's time to go to bed. I left the girls in front of the television, gathered up my animals, peeled the contacts off my eyeballs (and I do hope I'm going to find them in solution) and went to bed. I wish I'd brushed my teeth. Sometime in the night a small tribe of Pygmies set up camp and decided to have a rain dance on my tongue. It was dry, dry, dry in there. This morning I staggered to the bathroom,spit them unceremoniously into the sink and proceeded to beat the hell out of my mouth until I looked into the mirror and noticed I was just South of rabid. That's usually a good indicator.

The alarm on the iPod went off at 7:30 like it does every weekday morning. I was dreaming it was something else until I woke up enough to turn it off and then climb back into bed warning the dog that it was technically still the middle of the night. Somewhere. I haven't bothered to turn that alarm off because it makes a good 15 minute warning before Little Girl needs to head out to the bus stop (which is the end of the driveway) and on weekends it doesn't go off at all although Simon will generally put his great slobbery face right up against mine (or the back of my head if I'm lucky) and breathe heavily while moaning pathetically about the fact that he's not going to be able to keep his legs crossed forever. Simon has no trouble getting my attention in the morning. He is 79 inches long snout to tail tip, 31 inches at the whithers and his head is massive. Someday I'll figure out how to weigh it. Maybe I can slide the flat digital kitchen scale under his head while he's sleeping. Remind me to try that. The drop from the top of my mattress to the floor is 36 inches and while that's five inches above his whithers we must consider the length between whithers and snout. Unless I'm sleeping in the middle of the bed there's really no escape and if I don't want St. Bernard slobber ON my sheets I need to respond fairly quickly even if it means telling him to lay the hell back down and go to sleep. If his need is not immanent he will. He's a good boy. 

Little Girl let him out this morning. I was out cold. I have no recollection of the door opening and closing again after my baby boy lumbered across the threshold, made an abrupt 90 degree right turn and galloped down the hall coming to his usual skidding stop at the top of the stairs. When he's got his bearings he tip toes down the six carpeted stairs and stands patiently at the front door followed shortly by the manic Rat Terrier. The only time the Rat Terrier is not manic is when he's overslept and slinks up the stairs from the lower level hoping I won't notice but knowing perfectly well he's been caught sleeping on the couch again. Sometimes he hides until I'm back upstairs. He's sly and has great bladder control.

I nuked a cup of yesterday's coffee and here I sit thinking about what to write while my fingers typed out three paragraphs (which I just read) while I wasn't looking. I was thinking about resolutions.

I have no resolutions. I don't do resolutions. The only time I made a resolution was in the first few minutes of the last year of the twentieth century and that was more of an invocation to the fertility gods (it worked too, I delivered Little Girl on December 11, 2000).

I have nothing to invoke this year except maybe patience, perseverance and the strength to let be the things I have no right to control. I know perfectly well what those are too I just have a really hard time not panicking and grasping a float that has no intention of being grasped. The float does like to be grasped at though. I think it makes him feel wanted and needed. I think that's poison for me.However, invoking a negative does not create a positive. So here they are, my resolutions in spite of not doing resolutions (because God forbid I don't keep them):

1. Bake more bread. We lost that in 2009.
2. Order the seeds and actually start the seedlings.
3. Repair the fence and till the garden hopefully one week after the last hard freeze (sometime in March most years).
4. Compost. Everything that ought to be composted. Lost that in 2009 too.
5. Put the seedlings in just after Mother's Day and protect the tomato plants with plastic bottle hot houses. Pay attention to the weather and don't boil them.
6. This year pull UP all the volunteers from last year. That was fun but unproductive.
7. Cultivate early and often.
8. Order more broiler chicks. Maybe even eggs if I can work out an incubator and commit to turning them every day.
9. Get back on the elliptical in the morning at least until the heavier garden work is in full swing. Bikram is not enough.
10. Walk away from 2009 and don't look back. I can't imagine turning into a pillar of salt particularly pleasant.

That's it. I'm stopping at ten because I'm an over achiever and usually bite off more than I can chew without choking. Those ten are probably a big mouthful but maybe there should be an 11th:

    11. Give myself permission to fall down and get up again. You know, permission to be a bona fide member of he human race. The expectation of perfection is a horrible conceit.

Happy New Year, peoples. I wish you joy, love, passion, strength and surrender.

Peace out - Alecto

 
Borrowed without permission from an artist who's name I can no longer locate.

On Patience and the things we can learn from ourselves and animals

My mother says, 'wait for it... wait for it...' You know she's speaking in the context of training horses but she applies it directly to me as well and I'm grateful for that (who doesn't want to be trained with the patience and love with which horses should be worked with?).

Reminds me of my dog. The big one, not the little one. The little one waits for nothing and throws himself about in a terrible froth that only he enjoys. My big dog has been patient since he was just a few weeks old (according to his human mom). He waits, watches and then pounces sometimes. Or he waits, watches, thinks about it and maybe walks away, or lays down to forget about it or maybe wait some more. My favorite is feeding time. He knows he's hungry. He doesn't know exactly when he will eat but he knows he will (big guy has complete faith in me, it's a beautiful thing). When I pick up his water bowl first and then put it back he sits patiently and waits because even if he is thirsty at the moment, that's not the cheese he's looking for. When I pick up his food bowl he looks at me, still sitting, and that is all. When I leave the room to go to the feed bin his eyes don't even follow me. He sits waiting. When I come back with food in the bowl and run the water until it is warm (warm water in the food tends to prevent bloat and we don't want that) he sits very still and watches. And when I put the bowl down in it's place he does not rush the bowl or push me aside (although he sure could!). He waits until I step away and then he goes right to it. With dignity.

When Simon was just a baby (not that he's not still a baby, he's just past 4 months now) we kept him on a six foot leash at all times unless he was in the kitchen with us (gated) or in his pen or a crate. We allowed him no opportunity for trouble and an awful lot of imprinting time. And he only fought the leash once, by the way, and that was the first time outside. He did not want to go and so I waited until he was sure he wouldn't be forced and by his choice he came to me and then came with me.

In the morning when it was the in between time from the early morning outing with husband and then the final release from the crate by me I insisted that he not pull at the leash and that he wait for me at every step. I guided him outside and to where I wanted him to potty and then walked around with him until he said he was done (he says he's done by playing with little dog). When we went back into the house and little dog galloped up the stairs I stopped, waited and then we went up those stairs one calm step at a time. We stopped on the landing and then went up the next set up steps in the same manner.

Recently Simon is off the leash for the most part, even outside (although as soon as he hits adolescence we'll be going right back to the leash and the next stage of his training). And the beautiful thing about Simon is that he waits for me when I release him from the crate regardless of the little dog's leaping about. And when I open the door to outside he walks patiently by my side to the potty choice that is still my decision. And when we come in the door he waits for me at the stairs and the landing and we go side by side.

When he needs to go out he sits at the top of the stairs and waits. Sometimes it's hard to tell if he's just laying there or really needs to go out. If we fail to understand him he goes down to the landing by the front door and waits there. If we fail to come right away he starts to dribble a bit but never just lets it go.

Harmony and Balance through mutual understanding, love and gentleness. And of course, paying attention.

These days I am practicing patience in ways that nearly tear my guts apart sometimes. And I wonder, are his guts periodically torn apart when he waits for me? I must try to remember this. And regardless of how I feel I can choose how I react and like Simon, I can stop, wait, think about it and then maybe just lay down and let it go. Or watch some more. Or try something else. But never, never, never cause harm in the need. Just a dribble here and there and if need be find another way.

But you know what else I think? I think that if I was a less than loving momma or less observant, or less caring or even cruel that he would not be the dog he is today. And if I am not a loving person and observant and caring with myself and others then I too will fail to be the person I want to be.

Happy New Year to all and what I want you to know is that You (We) are the miracle.

Solstice.

 

I just finished a twelve hour tour of duty in my kitchen which came on top of eight hours yesterday. This is Solstice weekend which means every cookie, tomato sauce, jelly, curd, chocolate and loaf of bread, cooked, baked, canned and packaged for the Solstice occurred in the last 36 hours. I did sleep, I watched a movie too. It was I am Legend and it was good (and I LOVE Omega Man, so there).

In the mean time a Christmas tree was acquired and lights and pretty things were hung and the stockings were located and the menorah and the candles and the latkes, sour cream and apple sauce from the last of the wrapped September apples. The Solstice and Hanukkah coincide this year, which is very, very cool.

Last year we lost Sparky on or about the Solstice and it about blew me apart tonight. I wonder how the hell his family keeps breathing sometimes because half the time I feel like I got the wind knocked right out of me and I really just want to know how long it takes to get over someone?

I make things at Solstice. You can call it whatever holiday you want, it's Solstice timewise. I don't like to buy things unless it's something I know you need and can't buy yourself otherwise I'm going to make something and if you receive something I made it's because I give a rat's ass about you.

That's lost on most people these days. A cookie's a cookie, right?

About ten years ago I made my first batch of 1,000 cookies (or whatever), packaged them up and delivered them in person. They were received or not received as a matter of course until I got to Sparky and you know, Sparky got that half assed batch you give somebody you sort of give a shit about but maybe don't know so well. So anyway, Sparky comes all the way over from building one to building two and tells me this story about making stuff for people and how much it matters and all that and how this stupid box of cookies just about blew him away.

And that story he told just about blew me away. Most of the time, really, seriously MOST of the time, we have no real idea that we matter. Not a freaking clue.

I haven't missed a Solstice since.

I love you, Sparky and it hurts a lot still. I guess the way it's meant to hurt.

Waiting

I'm sitting on the couch in my living room with a cat carrier to my right, door right up against my right thigh because it's the only thing keeping my cat from completely losing her shit. Yep, here we go about a cat again.

This cat turned four in October and belonged to my husband's brother Frank who died horribly and alone in his bathroom at home just two years and ten months ago. The last time anybody talked to Frank was Valentine's Day, 2006 and if you want to read about it go here because it's a pretty powerful post and everybody's names are used so please tread with care (I won't edit this post for any reason). Anyway, Nomans found Frank on March 4 and it was as awful as you might expect. It took some time to sort everything out but the net result was a disaster of an apartment full of hazmat that needed to be emptied, the kind of hazmat that happens with a particular flavor of mental illness, and two cats needing homes. Two cats that spent at least two weeks locked up with a body. I'll leave you to work that out on your own.

Shortly after the funeral (and as Jews we should have done this immediately but for what should be obvious reasons, could not) my husband had to go to Switzerland for a week and I, suddenly jobless at that point, chose to stay home. Staying home was the wrong thing to do but half way through the week I put my girls in the car and drove nearly three hours South to bring home what amounted to two feral cats, not much past kitten hood.

One cat made it and one cat did not. By 'did not' I mean he failed to assimilate into the household in any way and had to be removed. His litter mate, named Wicious (because she's 'wicious and fawocious') eventually settled in and did just fine.

A few weeks ago, just as we were becoming painfully aware that we really were in the end game with Chuck, Homer the Dog started behaving badly. He pooped in our bathroom, peed on the couch, peed on our bed and it just went on and on. We assumed Homer (we were right about the bathroom) because it was nearly odorless and Simon can't get up on the furniture by himself to save his life (he just eats it instead). We forgave Homer because he's had a lot to deal with (like a sixty pound baby) and crated him to avoid further issue for the time being. And then there was another odorless puddle on the bed and another after that. You see, she tried the foot of the bed and that didn't work. Then she tried my side and I still didn't pay attention. And then she tried Noman's side when she was accidentally locked in our room and then we knew our last kitty was pretty sick.

And then we noticed that she was always hungry but stopped eating after a mouthful or two and walked away crying. And then we could pick her up and hold her like a baby and she didn't purr and she didn't struggle, she just laid there all snugged up and motionless.

I didn't waste time. I called the vet today, gave symptoms and was told to come in. So the appointment is at 3 and I didn't want to risk not being able to locate or catch her (not like she's moving very fast but she is wicious and fawocious and wiley too. And I'm sitting on this couch with the carrier right against my leg and she's gone to sleep. If I get up and moves she cries like the world might end.

I don't know how this is going to turn out but it can't be good. I only know we love this cat and I will gladly pay the price of fear and pain and possible loneliness to have the right to love and be loved back by this cat. (and the dogs are in the kitchen eating the table legs and I'll probably get over it).

Dogs in the snow

The 22 pound Rat Terrier is on my left. He's almost 8 and has just now learned not to hang himself on his leash and he's proud of the fact. He needs reinforcement but he's working it out. The 50 pound fifteen week old St Bernard puppy is on my right and was leash trained at 8 weeks like it was nothing. This dog on the right side of the body is the wrong way to bring up a puppy but it's working for me at the moment. The Terrier wants to go fastfastfast and the Saint meanders and has to be reminded to keep up. So far nobody's crossed a line and we're moving along ok.

And then two Tasmanian devils come out of nowhere at near warp speed barking like a pair of Michael Vick's children and stop short at the electric boundary spewing hot flecks of badness in our general direction.

You never saw a fifty pound ball of fur and sinew move so fast to hide behind his 22 pound fairy dog father quivering in his fluffy little space boots.

So much for dignity.

On the Art of being Inappropriate

Posting has become very difficult. Commenting has become very difficult but nobody should take that personally; I’m certainly still reading and I have a lot to say but if your comments require authentication I can no longer post a comment during the day and at night, well at night I just haven’t been able to. I’d offer up excuses that anybody would buy in a heartbeat but what the hell would be the point in that? This is a life blog where we strive for honest, forthright communication. Well, I do anyway. It’s my purpose for being here. Here is where I write the things I might not say otherwise. Here is where I document the things that matter in my life in a way that I cannot easily communicate elsewhere.

And it was all good until my family members started reading my blog and I had to start filtering. And then I started having real feelings for the sensibilities of my readers and I had to start filtering there. And then life got hard again and I stopped writing all together because I didn’t feel I could write most of my truths without pissing off or offending somebody and no matter what anybody tells me about people pleasing paranoia and all that, this is real for me. Conflict, real or perceived, makes me curl up under the proverbial bed with my thumb in my mouth and my eyes squeezed shut. That right there might be too much information for some of you.

Anyway, I don’t want my family members to stop reading my blog. It’s pretty much the only way you know I’m still breathing. I do want you to take what I write with a grain of salt and recognize that it’s about me, not you. I don’t want my blog friends to stop reading and if I offend any of you with too much information or a conflicting opinion, belief or behavior I’m sorry for that but I value your presence and your input. Actually, I love that you’re out there. Somehow it all makes me feel a bit more human and connected. So I’m going to try this again, one more time, because most of the time it keeps me grounded.

So that’s it. That’s all I really wanted to say right now except I’ve been looking down a pretty deep black hole lately and I’m doing my best not to tip in and the beloved kitty who has been with me through three marriages and two divorces went over the rainbow bridge on Saturday but the three remaining chickens are good and Simon is cool as hell even though I’m pretty sure he just passed the 50 pound mark (he’s fifteen weeks old today) and I quit my night and weekend job (the one at home that makes me happiest but won’t pay the mortgage) at least until my family pulls their collective heads out of their collective asses and starts pitching in unconditionally and I’ll write about all of it in the very near future. I’m pretty sure it’s a good story.

 

 

Coffee table height

We reached a new landmark this evening. Simon's tail is on par with the coffee table in the living room. He stood up, gave a wag and took out a wine glass twelve inches in. All bets are off, clear the surfaces and down the hatch.

Mr. Fluffy Tinklekins

 

The dog is a beast. He's gaining close to a pound a day with no end in sight. Last checked he was 40 pounds at 12 weeks and 22 pound Homer (on a good day) has lost what little fur like substance he had left due to the constant nomming of the over grown baby.

We were trying not to crate him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, big dogs, fast growing boys, should not be confined and all that. So we installed gates in the kitchen and installed an over sized puppy playpen on the lower level so that he and Homer could cohabitate and I wouldn't have to listen to it all night. And then it became VERY apparent that no one was EVER going to make Simon do anything he didn't actually feel like doing. Ever. His strength is, and will continue to be, greatly disproportionate to his actual weight. The good news is he really wants to please. And we are prepared to make good use of that willingness every second of his very impressionable puppy hood.

So we bought the biggest crate known to man. I swear you could put an elephant in there and it surely will never fit through a door again now that it's been assembled. We assembled said crate and then attempted to insert tab A (Mr. Fluffy Tinklekins, don't worry, I'll get to that) into slot B (door of crate) and failed miserably. He was only 30 pounds at the time. Nomans and I, we are very strong people. Lots of upper body strength and all that. It took two of us. One inside the crate pulling and the other outside the crate pushing. It was very demoralizing to the both of us and not a little disturbing to the puppy.

We bought treats. We bought treats and we slowed the hell down. For the first week it took me an extra twenty minutes in the morning after Little Girl's bus left just to sweet talk him to the door of the crate. But that works, you know, the whole sweet talking thing, because he wants to please so very, very much. And now he's crate trained and goes right in without a fuss and stays in too if you remember to toss in a bit of puppy candy. But here's the kicker, normally you would insert a divider so that the crate was just barely big enough for the puppy. This encourages them not to pee in the crate (or worse). We can't do that too him, I don't think it would be good for him. And in the end I don't intend to use the crate forever, I just need to be able to ask him to go if I really need him there.

Which brings me to the next point. If I ever hope to have friends or family in my house ever again I'm going to have to be able to put him away. Most people do not appreciate 240 pounds of slobbering fur in their lap and as I mentioned above, Simon pretty much does what he wants to do. And that doesn't mean he's not being socialized, he is. It just means I really don't have the physical control to fall back on.

Did I mention he has complete respect for the gates in the kitchen right up until he doesn't?

So here's poor Simon locked up in this cavernous crate and he still wets the bed at night. Not that we would do anything so silly as to leave him a bed in there, it would be consumed by morning. He wets the bed and then rolls in it. Or at least lays about in it. And since we can't wash him easily in the winter and have to rely on baby wipes for the most part he's kind of ripe.

We don't really mind.

We took him to Main Street Westport on Sunday. Main Street Westport wants to be Rodeo Drive East (it's not, that would be The Avenue in Greenwich but please try not to disillusion Westport in these current economic times). We figured that's a perfect place to start socializing him because nobody walking up and down that street has any manners to speak of (including me based on the level of snark in this post). Or sense but don't get me started. He's guaranteed to get a boat load of attention wanted or otherwise.

He was brilliantly well behaved with the possible exception of stopping to have a pee on every possible patch of leaves because that's where he potties at home. You know, on the leaves in the yard. He doesn't know sidewalks from Adam. He was pet, hugged, cuddled, kissed and slobbered on by at least 50% of the population. He ate it up. He didn't even try to climb into any laps although I wonder what will happen when he realizes he can pretty much make a lap happen anytime he wants.

By the time we made it down one side and back up the other he was exhausted and we weren't much better. I looked down at my angelic fluffy white pumpkin and realized that Mr. Fluffy Tinklekins is mostly yellow these days.

About those fermented bananas

OK, Cookie Crumb, here it comes:

I have a banana problem. I buy them on sale for .39 per pound and then I let them sit on my dining room table until they're so rotten and fermented they leak onto the glass (if it was a normal wood type table I would put paper down, honest). Once leaking I pick up the whole mess (careful not to disengage from the stem) and throw the entire lot into the freezer and forget about it. This can go on for YEARS before I get around to dealing with them. This year was a little over the top because I feel a bit squirrelly lately and kept buying those .39 per pound bananas and throwing them into the freezer and it was even better when we had more freezer and then that damn half a cow showed up and I had to, um, do something about it.

Before I go any further I should give some credit to the stolen and seriously bastardized recipe:

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Banana-Bread-108415

(That's how it started but you'll notice they don't say jack shit about fermenting and freezing your bananas first which would explain a few things). Anyway:

Fermented banana bread:

1. Buy some bananas. You need about 7 for a full double loaf recipe.
2. Let 'em rot on the counter until the skins threaten to burst and the fruit flies gather.
3. Throw them in the freezer and walk away.
4. When the mood strikes you or the bake sale people come knocking at your door or it's Christmas and your boss happens to like banana bread and has no IDEA it doesn't have to be dry and tasteless or you're just hungry, take 7 frozen bananas out of the freezer and set them on the counter to thaw:
    
5. While your bananas are thawing have a drink. OK, maybe not. Instead throw 3 and 1/4 cups of flour in a bowl along side 2 teaspoons baking soda, half a teaspoon salt and some cinnamon. I like loads, feel free to indulge in anything else that seems nomable. Make sure you mix it up, OK? I'm not going to tell you to sift, I'm going to trust that you realize you need all the powdered parts equally distributed in the flour vehicle.
6. When your bananas have thawed to the soft and won't freeze off your fingers stage, extrude them right into a bowl making sure to squeeze out all the excess banana liquor (yep, it's probably about 150 proof at this point).
   
7. Here comes the magic part. I discovered this the first time I made brownies 30 years ago (omg) when I was working my way through the Joy of Cooking and followed my first not in a box brownie recipe (I want you to know I was TWO at the time and very precocious)and got to the egg and sugar part. See, if you beat the bejesus out of eggs and sugar this really amazing base forms that you can mix some kind of flavor (chocolate, fermented bananas, citron vodka, whatever), add in some flour and a rising agent, bake a bit and wallah! True moist, tastiness. Noms. You get my point. Anyway, take four eggs from four different chickens (OK fine, if you don't have chickens in your backyard use what you can get your hands on although I strongly suggest fresh and untouched by government hands):
    
   Throw these eggs in a standing mixer with two cups of sugar and set to high. Come back ten minutes later (you don't need the stand mixer, you can use a hand mixer but you can't walk away or you can use a whisk and then you REALLY can't walk away unless you can get the dog or kid or husband to do it). When you see magic:
    
   
8. You should add 1 cup of veggie oil, the bananas, 1/4 cup sour cream or whatever, two teaspoons vanilla or half the bottle if you really like vanilla (I do) and mix it up a bit more.
9. In the mean time, please make some bread for tomorrow so the kid has something to eat for breakfast:
    
10. Mix the dry ingredients with the wet stuff and divide into two buttered and floured loaf pans. Pop into a preheated 350 oven and walk away for another 60 minutes. You'll know when they're done when the knife you stick in the middle comes out hot but still sticky. Not cold and sticky, not hot and dry (in which case throw it the hell out and start over). Also, you'll notice I make no mention of nuts. This is really nomable banana bread. Why hose it up with nuts?
11. While you're waiting go to the monster dog rally and see if your oldest (still at home) can still dance around the kitchen with the ten week old beast which has (finally thank you god) figured out how to go up and down stairs.
     
12. When the bread is done let it sit for a minute or two in it's pan (really, JUST a minute or two, don't over cook it now, you're so close) and then turn it out onto the wires:
     
13. Package and sell at the election day bake sale. Or just eat it and don't answer the phone next time.

(Screw the fired nanny. I don't even want to talk about that little piece of Euro Trash. We're all doing much better now, thank you very much.)

Ah Jeeze...

I had to turn off the new compose editor because based on results I must have a very slow connection. Heh, sucky T3 line.

So here's my dog. Notice he's filling up a monogrammed bed? Notice his name is NOT Homer? Poor Homer. Looks cute, yah? He pees constantly. Almost always where he's supposed to (on the paper) and has only pooped in the house once as compared to the seventy-eight times he's pooped outside since Sunday evening when we brought him home. Might have something to do with taking him out every thirty-seven seconds.

It's been a great week. Or something. On Monday Nanny wrecked the nanny mobile. OK, I exaggerate. On Monday Nanny was in an accident that did just under $6,000 in damage to my $14,000 15 month old Honda Civic that has to live another, let me see, six years. At least. Nanny is fine (she's just mad because the woman who pulled out in front of her wouldn't make eye contact after the fact). Little Girl was not in the car.  All right, so that was Monday.

On Tuesday I found a series of photographs that sent me from hot to right off the deep end. They went like this:

1. Photograph taken Friday night at my house while I was in Vermont. Ten nannies having a party. I can draw the conclusion that the photographer was either my seventeen year old daughter left home alone for the first time ever or nanny number eleven. Before we left Nanny asked if she and four friends could have dinner in my kitchen to celebrate her birthday and could she have a bottle of champagne and the answer was a very polite hell no so I thought I'd better explain no parties and for god's sake no house parties and here are all the reasons why the hell not in my house with my kid present much less in my house even if my kid is not present. Could I be any more clear? Apparently I was clear as mud (do I strike any of you as murky?).
2. Pictures of my kid that while harmless were posted on a public site along side some rather questionable photos and while I don't have a huge issue with my kids on the web, it's um, only if I post them, not you the nanny and certainly not after you've been told by me and Au Pair America that we do not post pictures of the children on the Internet.
3. Photographs taken by my nanny at an over 21 club in Stamford. She's 20.
4. Photographs of what appeared to be my nanny at said club hanging upside down from a, um, pole. By her feet. Mostly dressed.

I wanted to drive my nasty-assed rental car (that I have so that she can drive my car to get the kid to and fro all the places the kid needs to go) home immediately and interrogate her within an inch of her life but Nomans and I had an appointment we'd already put off once and really needed to keep. So we fretted the hours away until we both arrived home at about 7:45 and confronted the poor girl with the photographs.

It went badly. Lets see, how'd it go...

• I didn't know ten was a party
• I didn't invite them all they just showed up, I couldn't stop them
• Everyone goes to Hula Hanks, we just walk right in
• I never drink and drive your car, Nora drives
• Cletus had no idea we were downstairs, we were really quiet

Nomans did a pretty good job finishing her off on Tuesday evening. I refused to even look at her until Wednesday morning at which point I assured her that she was (and is) a wonderful nanny but that she absolutely can not behave this way and live in my house and that flagrant disregard for local laws and custom (especially felonies) shows extreme idiocy and sets an absolutely unacceptable example for my seventeen year old. OK, I used slightly stronger words.

On Wednesday evening we all went to dinner as planned to celebrate Nanny's birthday and our anniversary (because it was actually last night). When we got home she took my car and went out. We stood stunned at the audacity at the top of the stairs.

This evening, after taking over Little Girl's care because Nanny apparently can't get her showered and in jammies and to the table on time, we had the car conversation. The Honda will not be fixed for about a month. That's how long it's going to take to get the parts and settle with the insurance company and fix the mess. My car is a train car. It is my car. It is not the nanny mobile. She has it while I have the rental car. She has it for Little Girl and Cletus and class and required nanny events but other than that she's on her own.

She's downstairs sulking in a state of disbelief. (actually last I checked she got somebody to pick her up so she can finish her sulking at Starbucks with the rest of them)

She's a really great nanny as far as my experience with nannies goes (like I nearly killed the one from last year?). I wonder if she's going to make it? How in holy hell do other people do this?

My dog though, how freaking cute is he?