Boys are weird

I have been having weird experiences with boys all afternoon, and I am puzzled as to how boys can evolve from total morons to reasonably acceptable adult males. (I mean, at least some of them do. Not all, of course - but some.)

First let's start with my son. He is a sweet, sweet boy. He is also a charmer. AND a total and complete schmuck. Can I say that ? I mean, I have other words in mind, but I settled on schmuck because it encompasses the range of moronic crap he can pull down.

For instance: I told him he had to pick up his room before we went to get his friend for a sleepover. This is his first-ever sleepover at our house with a friend from school. He went into his room. He came out of his room. He said his room was clean.

I went into his room, and i am not kidding you, there were piles of crap E V E R Y W H E R E. Everywhere. Dirty laundry, clean laundry, books, toys, legos, stuffed animals, action figures, tinker toys, lincoln logs, the list goes on and on. I looked at his room, then I looked at him.

"How is THIS clean?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Clean your damn room, that is what I want you to do - are you KIDDING ME? You must be kidding me."
(sigh) "all RIGHT, all RIGHT mom, I'll clean my room."

20 minutes later, his room was once again pronounced "clean".

Are you surprised that the piles of crap were still there? I have to admit, I was surprised. I gave him more credit then he deserved. SO this time, I got down on the floor, and pointed to every individual thing that needed to be picked up. "Let me explain it to you like this, Max. I don't want anything on your floor except furniture. You get me? The next time you call me in here, everything better be off the floor. Because this is your last chance to clean your room by yourself. Next time, everything is going in a trashbag. I'm serious."

(I should insert here that I freely acknowledge that I am a slob. My laundry is never put away. There is usually stuff on my floor. Yes, I am a hypocrite. But I am trying to teach him better habits then I have - like putting away laundry and putting dirty clothes in the hamper, and putting away his crap so I can actually vacuum in there without breaking my vacuum.)

Eventually, he got his room relatively clean, and we went to get his friend. As we approached his friend's house, I spotted our sleepover buddy in his front yard, swinging a plastic grocery bag around and around over his head - until it broke and all of his belongings went flying everywhere. He was jumping up and down and screaming and hooting, right up until he threw his underpants into the back of his dad's pickup truck. I swear to you, I almost kept on driving, had Max not gone ahead and opened the car door while the vehicle was still in motion.

It is now 9:30pm. They are in Max's room, and to their credit, they ARE being quiet. But they are still awake, and GOD KNOWS what they are up to in there because (and I don't think I have mentioned this yet) Boys are Gross.

They are probably showing each other their private bits and having fart contests and picking their noses and wiping the boogers on the sheets, or on the underside of the bed for me to deal with later.

But while gross, at least they aren't menaces - like the other two boys in this neighborhood, who have slingshots and BB Guns, and have taken to sneaking onto our property to try to lure our dog out into the street where they attempt to either hit him with something fired from one of their assorted weapons, OR engage the dog in a dog fight with another neighbor's pet german shepard, who is probably 12 years old and can barely stand up any more. Trust me, they wish they had a better selection of dogs to choose from, but all they have around these parts is our GDD the Happy Humper, and the senior citizen across the way. Regardless, they are doing their damndest to stir up trouble, and I am at a loss. These boys just have a meaness in their hearts that will lead to all sorts of terrible behaviors, probably criminal, if someone doesn't step up and fucking PARENT them in the near future. And by parent, I mean at least requiring that they keep the BB Guns at home unless a parent is with them. Or maybe, stay within eyesight of their homes when wandering the neighborhood with a slingshot. I mean honestly, in a small, residential neighborhood, what good can come of having a slingshot or BB Gun? I caught one of these little shits climbing the stairs to my deck this afternoon, softly calling my dog in their sweetest voice. I am sure that kid was mighty surprised when I appeared at the top of the stairs and asked him WHY he was calling my dog. Had to repeat the question before he would answer - and then his only explaination was "We wanted to play with him." Yeah. Right. Go play with yourself, asshole.

Know when to fold 'em

Las tnight, just as I drifted off into deep, peaceful, restful sleep - I heard a cough in the bathroom. Now, based on my experience of last week when Lucy coughed and then threw up all over the house for 8 hours, I responded as though someone had stuck me with a cattle prod. Up and out of bed and halfway down the hall in one swift motion. If it had been an Olympic event, I would have taken the gold. I rounded the corner into Max's room, where the lights were all on. Sami was standing there surveying the carnage and turning green.

Let's just say (to keep this as vague as possible) Max had an upset tummy, and there was quite a mess. And smell.

And since this was a redux of last week (which I sheilded you from because it was so incredibly awful) I had a clear plan in my head - one I formulated as I washed every item in Lucy's room 3 times last week trying to clean up after her vomitfest.

I looked at Sami and said "put it all on the porch - we'll deal with it later."

Once Max's room had been decontaminated, the porch door opened and the ceiling fan fired up, it was a lot more bearable. We made the executive decision to simply throw everything away that had been affected by the evenings festivities. Before you chide me for being wasteful, let me share one teeny tiny detail.

Max had eaten a lot of fresh, ripe red strawberries for dessert. Everything was stained so terribly that really, it wouldn't have recovered.

So, everything got thrown away in one swift move, and we congratulated ourselves on re-starting the trash service last month. We were all back in bed in under half an hour, though the dog was so worked up he took a while to settle back down. I mean after all, there was excitement, and people, and lights ! We were up ! Lets go for a WALK !

The GDD was bitterly disappointed.

Pizzle, my nizzle

We have a dog - Boston. AKA GDD (Goddamned Dog). Our dog, unfortunately, would be categorized as a "chewer" and a "digger". He is, in fact, many different things - some cute, some not. Housebroken is not one of them.

So, when it rains, Boston hangs out on our covered porch - but not in the house. Which makes him very sad. And he whimpers, and whines, and chews on things to express his loneliness and displeasure with his station in life.

This morning, he ate my welcome mat.

So I sent Sami off to the Feed and Farm supply store, to find something ELSE for the GDD to chew on besides my home accents.

He came home with an assortment of bones and chewy things - one of which was a "Pizzle Stick". I asked him what in the hell a pizzle stick was. I read the ingredients, which consisted of two words: Bull Pizzle. Sounded ominous.

Sami said he wondered the same thing, and when he got to the register he had in fact asked the salesperson that very question - what is Pizzle ?

The clerk looked around, then leaned in and told him in no uncertain terms, mano a mano, what Pizzle is.

"Dick. It's dick."

Then he helpfully asked if Sami would like a bag, to carry his pizzle more discreetly, I guess.

"No need" said Sami cheerfully. "It's wrapped in plastic for my comfort and protection !"

Turns out, Boston *really* likes Pizzle.

When the hell is this vacation going to be over

Seriously.

The State of Hawaii adopted a year-round school schedule.....which would be SWEET except it's a total pain in the ass to have the kids home for such long periods of time, several times during the year.

Max doesn't go back to school until sometime next week (Tuesday, I think) and I just don't know if I can take it. And then the following week, I think he has another day off for MLK day or something.....and then a few weeks after that MORE time off for something else......the whole thing is a hassle and I am annoyed. I like the concept of the year-round calendar, but the reality is tough to live with.

Moving on...... I am signing Lucy up for nursery school this week.
Yeah.
It's time.
I am kind of freaking out, because it is a lot of money.....but she is ready (more then ready) and I think she will really enjoy it, so......yep. School. I just have to come up with the money for the deposit. HAH !

IN other news.......Sami built a fence this weekend, for the dog that he didn't really want, but secretly takes pictures of at any opportunity. He finished everything but the gate - it is currently closed with a piece of plywood. Last night, the plywood blew down, the dog got out, and RAN RIGHT TO OUR BACK DOOR AND SAT THERE.

I love him.

When we didn't go get him (it's a long story, but we didn't go right out there - let's just say we had some ghosts and we were trying to get Lucy to go back to sleep in her own room) he took one of my slippers from the doormat, and went back into the fenced yard (stepping over the fallen plywood) and resumed his post under the house, eating my slipper.

I hate him.

But the fact is, he is awesome, and he loves car rides, and I think that when my baby goes off to school next week, he is going to keep me company. He'll be my sidekick (I just typed "sidelick" and almost left it like that on purpose. Freudian.)

And she's back.......and she's gone again......

Sorry, bear with me. It's nuts right now. (Derfina, I said "nuts").

I am resurfacing briefly, but I have two more days of head down, ass dragging work ahead of me. And I am totally dealing with an internal struggle, I just wrote a column about how hard it is to live with tourists in your space all the time - and I am a god damned travel agent. My JOB is to make people tourists. A bit of a conundrum, let me tell you.

So with the outer struggle (work at the cafe) and the inner struggle (um, my entire life right now) I am really FEELING it - all torn and confused and bewildered and conflicted.

And the real blood and guts of it is something I touched on recently. I have too many jobs. I am totally torn between different (and conflicting) roles. Thus my feeing of inner conflict mentioned above. It's not just about mental anguish - I am physically beat. I have spent most of my adult life trying to rein in my commitments to work, to friends, to family (and you notice the order those appear in, it's not accidental). With the marriage to my adoring husband (who enables me to live my freakishly accelerated life) and the arrival of my two kids, and now the dog, I have been slowly trying to get a grip. And failing miserably.

So my big challenge in 2009 is to pare down. Minimize.
I am going to work at the cafe.
I am going to write my column.
I am going to work as an independent travel agent.
I am going to freelance.
I am going to develop the business I started a year ago, that has basically been on hold for 10 months.

Oh. Wait. See, dammit. Too much stuff. SHIT this is hard ! I think part of it is fear that I am gong to miss something. An opportunity or experience that is unknown right now, but will become clear later. And part of it (most of it ?) is my completely ADD personality. I am either running around like a crazy person, or asleep because I am so completely fatigued (like, bone deep exhaustion) that I HAVE to stop and rest. And neither of those options is good for me, my kids, or my marriage. The dog can roll with it, he's a terrier for christsakes.... Come to think of it, he and I have a lot of similarities in our personality.

Hm.

Imagine that

Today we took Boston the the vet. They tried to take his temperature. He was not impressed with their method.

Turns out, our dog - who is constantly rolling over to show other dogs (male and female) his business - does not want anyone touching or sniffing or inserting anything in his ass. Smart little bugger. He also doesn't like having things put in his ears. The vet decided, based on his reaction to the exam, that they should muzzle him for the shot he needed. Three of us held him down for the injection, and he really didn't even flinch.

As Sami says "I don't like people sticking things in MY ass or ears, so why should a dog be any different ?"

I think Boston just earned some extra brownie points with Sami, just for having some good common sense, and a healthy dose of self-preservation.

Oh. My. God.

No, seriously. I think that now, my legs might actually fall off.

It has been a 48 hour marathon, filled with bitchy customers, lovely customers, and customers who are challenged by the concept of tipping - and a few who know EXACTLY how to tip on Christmas Day.....100% ? Spank you very much ! Mister 5% ? Fuck You.

I have two stories for you today. I was going to dole them out, one at a time, over the next few days, to buy me an extra day of entertainment for the masses - but I'm just gonna go all out, and hope to god something interesting happens tomorrow for me to write about.

First, Boston the Dog.
Boston the Dog has found his bark, which is actually a very cute RrrrUFF RUFF kind of noise which doesn't really bug me at all. He keeps shitting on the porch - which bugs me a lot. We are trying to work on that. He is scared to death of Sami, which we are also working on, because honestly Sami is probably the gentlest man ever and the last person Boston should be afraid of. Max, on the other hand, Boston should keep an eye on. Boston also needs to keep an eye out for the neighborhood dogs. Because he is seriously pissing them off. Someday, someone is going to get out of their yard, or off their leash, and really mess his punk self up. He is cruising for a bruising.

Last night, I let Boston out. We have a number of dogs in the neighborhood, and as Boston ran down the steps, he got a wild hair and decided to visit all of them. So he takes off like a shot, while I run behind saying totally ineffectual things like "Boston come HERE" and "Boston GET BACK HERE" and muttering some very not nice things about what a bastard he was. First he runs across the street, into the yard of a large German Shepard. The German Shepard is extremely territorial, and has an invisible fence type of system keeping her in the yard. What that means is, anyone can go IN the yard, but she cannot go OUT of the yard without getting a shock from her collar.

Apparently, Boston figured this out. He tore up her driveway, and into the garage where she sleeps. He then comes galloping back down the driveway, looking over his shoulder at the huge German Shepard bearing down on him. She hits her boundary, stops short, and he keeps going, totally taunting her over his shoulder like "Neener Neener Neener, you caa-aan't get meeee" and runs around the street in circles, just out of reach. Torture.

The dog across the street now HATES Boston, and she is preparing herself for the next time he comes prancing into her yard. He is going to have his ass handed to him next time - I hope he's smart enough to figure THAT out. But he is just as cute as he is smart, and I have a feeling he'll find a way to talk her out of tearing him to shreds. Maybe he'll try to hump her or something....

He went on to visit several other neighbors, before I finally grabbed his collar and dragged him home. I was wet and muddy and pissed - but definitely NOT as pissed as the German Shepard.

Lest you begin to worry, let me reassure you - Boston isn't the only one leading a life of excitement and adventure this busy holiday week. I have another story for you - the tale of the yogini.

I observed a yoga class earlier this week. It should go without saying that there are more then a few yoga instructors on island. Maui is a very touchy-feely kind of place, people are all "in tune with themselves" and shit. And yoga is a very popular activity here.

Oh the stretching and the twisting.

So anyway, back to my observation class. I was trying to be discreet, and unobtrusive. I didn't want to distract anyone, or make anyone uncomfortable. I sat at one end of the studio, quietly watching. I did not take notes or photos, even though I was there because I am going to be writing about this instructor and notes would have been helpful.

A few minutes after class began, a man entered the studio. His presence created quite a stir. He was tall and handsome, and well, sort of the perfect physical specimen. I mean, if you are into a tanned, toned, chiseled sort of physique. Not really MY cup of tea, but I suppose some people might find that appealing..... Sorry, back to the story. This guy comes in, and rolls out his mat RIGHT in front of me. He was blocking my view of the rest of the class, as well as being, well, a foot away from me and totally in my personal space (which I guard with the zeal of a german shepard). So I move down a bit, in order to see the length of the studio. And that is when the man bends over, and starts grunting, with his (ahem) nether regions right in my face. He did have pants on - pants made of a very thin fabric, but pants nontheless. He did not, however, have any UNDERWEAR on. This was, well, distracting. Things were swinging around in a pendulous fashion, while I was trying very hard NOT to look. It was hard. It was very, very hard.

Adding to the swinging and swaying I was trying not to look at - He is one of those guys that just is never still. I cannot understand why yoga appeals to him, because seriously, he was always MOVING. He was never at rest. He never held a position. And he never seemed to be doing what everyone ELSE was doing. Either he is so A.D.D. he can't follow along, or he is so pompous and self absorbed that he didn't feel the need to go along with the program. Either way, he certainly didn't belong in a class, because he wasn't actually TAKING the class. He was doing some sort of crazy free form bullshit, throwing in weird poses where he was all twisted sideways and supporting his entire body with one arm, or doing headstands while everyone else was meditating. Plus, he was sweating so profusely, the mat and the floor around him was wet. I felt like someone should put up a cone to warn others of the puddle. He was fucking ridiculous. AND distracting to me and everyone else in the studio.

It was especially distracting when the instructor handed out straps, and demonstrated what was to be done with them. Of course, she chose this lovely man as her partner for the demonstration. So he bends over in a downward dog sort of pose, and she places the strap across his hips, with the ends of the straps hanging down on either side of him. She stood right behind him, and REACHED DOWN BETWEEN HIS LEGS to grab the straps and pull them through and out behind him. As she went to stand up with the straps in her hands, she said "you'll have to help me here" and he grabbed his package and moved it between the two straps, then re-assumed the position. I just had no idea where to look. I consider myself to be pretty open minded, but DAMN it was hard to keep from laughing with her all bent over, face in his ass, and her hands between his legs, and him holding his junk all bent over and sweating.....

Blessedly, the team exercises didn't last too terribly long, and then we went back to the more traditional yoga. Which is when Mr Excitement popped a boner.

Good. God. I almost had a stroke.

I have no idea how this happened

Today, we are dog owners. Not borrowers. Not trier-outers. Owners. I signed paperwork and everything.

It was a REALLY hard decision. Not choosing the dog - that part was easy....but actually COMMITTING to the dog. Because I take pet ownership very seriously. This was not an easy decision. Sami is not thrilled with being a pet owner, and I am very hesitant. But the kids are old enough to understand and take on some of the responsibility of caring for the dog......and I think after two years of basically begging for a pet they might have actually really wanted one.

So with their infinite requests for a pet ringing in my ears, I have been browsing ads, Craigslist, bulletin boards, and the website for the local Humane Society. To make sure the kids understood how much work is involved in pet ownership, we brought home Twyla for a 24 hour trial run while she was waiting for her forever home - she was only 6 weeks old though, so she was tiny, cute, non-smelly, and portable. The dog we brought home today is not a baby. More of an emo teenage boy with orange bleach highlights and a scrabbly beard. I love him.

And the deciding factor, really ? The one that convinced me this was "our dog" ? The name on his cage. Our hometown. Boston.

He's a one year wire haired terrier mix. Sort of a smaller medium sized dog. He is extremely mellow right now, but god knows how he will behave when he gets comfortable. He has spent his entire life with foster families and at the shelter. He really needs some love - and we are ready and willing to provide lots of it. Maybe more then he was hoping for. Maybe more then he actually wants. Lucy is anxiously awaiting the day that she can dress him up. Max just wants to walk him everywhere. Except that by "walking" he means "being dragged around by a 30 pound dog and squealing in protest, while simultaneously giggling and panicking."

I wish I had something witty and intersting to say today, but have been obsessing and debating and freaking out ALL DAY LONG about this - so I am kind of brain dead. While I collect myself, here are some pictures. I'll be back tomorrow with something of interest to report. In the last photo, you can sort of see his very kick ass new collar - it's got a pawprint and cross bones pattern. Arrrrr.

Introducing, Boston.