Michael Jackson's Toilet

At first I thought it was because I'm getting old, but then it occurred to me that I've always been like this. I misunderstand things. By things I mean lyrics, people in noisy settings and British actors on BBC sitcoms.

As to the latter, I'm convinced the Brits produce sitcoms specially for the U.S. market, in which every fifth word is replaced by a jabberwocky-inspired nonsense word and then they laugh at us for laughing at it and pretending we understood. Charming though they may be, I think the Brits never forgave us for high-tailing it out of there before the Revolution. If we could have understood you, we might have stayed! Lousy, stinkin' Brits.

But it's lyrics that trip me up the most. When singing along with my kids to bebop, hip hop and in some cases, pig slop playing on the radio, I hardly ever get things right. There's a song which alludes to Michael Jackson's Thriller which for the longest time I sang as Michael Jackson's toilet - and wondered why.

There's also a song in which the singer ponders why her lover is her clarity, which for months on end I sang as therapy - and didn't wonder why because therapy makes just as much bloody sense as clarity. Lousy, stinkin' singers.

And it wasn't until recently, when I read it online, that I fully understood a Jimi Hendrix lyric from Purple Haze, "Excuse me while I kiss the sky." From the first time I ever heard it until I read the actual lyric, I thought it said, "Excuse me while I kiss this guy."

Then there's the Elton John standard, Daniel. One line in the chorus actually says, "Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky." Until a few years ago I thought it was, "Daniel you're a star in a faithful disguise." Even though I knew it didn't make any sense, I was too lazy to Google it, so I don't mind owning that one. But I think anyone could have been confused by the others. 

As I say all the time, the nut doesn't fall far from the tree. When my daughter was about three and sang You Are My Sunshine, she would invariably warble, "You make me happy when skies are grape." Maybe there's a genetic component.

And really, it's a little like the old saws (that's old sayings for those of you under a hundred) that baffled me for years because I was misunderstanding them. Take for instance: He who laughs last, laughs best. I always thought it was he who laughs last, laughs last. Well of course he does; it's obvious that he does. 

Lousy, stinkin' old saw sayers.

Baby Boom

I nearly met my end twice by the time I was four, each time as the result of an explosion. 

Me no doubt asking a firefighter
to help me blow this pop-stand
before it blows again. 

I don't recall either event, but according to my mother, both blasts were real doozies. 

The first happened in our basement before I was two years-old. The furnace blew, the explosion so powerful, the kitchen floor heaved up and the cast iron door on the unit's face flew off.

Firefighters traipsed through the house where I sat in a rocking chair calmly watching. 

"Why didn't anyone carry me out?" I recently asked my mother.

"Well, we looked at you and you seemed fine," she said.

A couple of years later I had a second brush with a blast. My father was a building engineer. Every day, I went with my mother to pick him up from work. My routine: open the boiler room door, scamper over an iron catwalk, bear right onto another catwalk, then run into the tiny office where my father waited.

One day I was sick and my mother's timing was off, getting her to my father's job later than usual. At precisely the time I would have been running up that first catwalk, a boiler exploded. Had I been there, I'd have been killed, with 40 pounds of ragamuffin meat hurled to the cold, hard floor. 

My mother was uninjured due in part to the shift in her arrival time. My father survived because he was far enough away in his office. 

Had I been closer to the basement that one day, or calumphing my fanny up that catwalk on the other, I wouldn't be here now and my children wouldn't exist. 

My ex-husband would never have met me, making him and his mother the only ones to gain anything.

Similar subject matter has been explored before, of course. Consult your television viewing guide during the holidays and you'll see some channel somewhere is airing It's a Wonderful Life, the story of downhearted George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) shown by a fledgling angel how barren others' lives would be had he not been around.

We see that theme of altered existence in the story, A Christmas Carol, too, when Ebineezer Scrooge is shown the bleak fate set to befall that sickeningly chipper Cratchett clan should he not change his ways.  

But what about the good things that never happen to us because we zigged instead of zagged, or worse, the good things that never happen to us because others zigged? We are all the sum total, not only of our own decisions, but of others'. 

What windfalls, career boosts and loves have I missed due to my decisions? Last-second impulses to turn right and not left, polite rejections of would-be suitors, or not sending a resume to that hot little start-up are choices. Those choices, once escorts to alternate futures, stand as vague and shadowed sentries, barring gates they would otherwise open. 

And when things happen . . . or don't happen . . . is it fate, good luck, bad luck, a higher power or merely the simple order of things?

Before I decide that it's all a mess of randomness, I will give this notion more thought. 

I just won't expect any conclusions. 

If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Out of My Kitchen

We haven't had a kitchen fire in my home for almost a week. I know that's not much of an accomplishment for most families, but in my household, kitchen fires are such frequent occurrences that not having one for six days is a reason to celebrate. In fact, kitchen fires happen so often in my home that these days they hardly faze the kids.


The last time we had a kitchen fire was when my sandwich burst into flames. I was pitching it in the sink just as my son strolled by.

"Hey, Mom, what happened?" he asked in the same tone he also says, "Hey, Mom, how are you?"

"My sandwich caught on fire," I explained in the same tone I also say, "Not bad. How are you?"

He looked at the sandwich and said, "Maybe your sandwich took one look at you and you were so hot, it combusted."

When a friend of mine who shall remain nameless heard that, she suggested I get the boy's eyes checked. At first I took that as a crack about my cooking then realized it was a crack about my looks. Not all of us can age as gracefully as you, PATTY!

Another time I was on the phone with someone while attempting the death-defying feat of cooking while talking. A wall of flames shot up off the stove-top, across the microwave and over four of the cabinet fronts. On the other end my friend heard the whoosh of the fire, followed by rapidly repeating clanking noises as I rearranged the pans on the burners and doused the flames with baking soda.

"Holy mother of God!" he yelled. "What happened?"

"Oh, it's fine," I said. "I just had a little fire on the stove. Speaking of mothers, how's yours?"

I recently learned that my own mother had similar challenges. Our circa 1940 "state-of-the-art" stove had a temperamental broiler that set dinner on fire on a regular basis. My father was always at work when this happened and since dousing fires was not my mother's forte, she would scream for our neighbor, Ray who would rush over and knock out the flames.

I'm not sure what it says about my mother that another man had to put her fires out while my father was at work. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what it says about my father. Oh wait - yes I am.

At construction sites they sometimes post a sign heralding their safety record. The signs say things like: 137 days without an accident! I'm going to do something similar in my kitchen. If I posted a sign tonight, it would read: Six days without a fire!

I know what the root cause of my kitchen fires is: multitasking - cooking while breathing, cooking while blinking, and as in my earlier example, cooking while talking. Cooking while not a cook sums them all up, I think.

I should be embarrassed about all this, but instead, I'll stand proudly by my sign: Six days without a fire! 

Actually, it's not going to be a sign exactly; it's going to be a dry erase board I can update every day, and any day now, reset to zero.   

Sam Spayed, Dog Detective

The "murderer" always returns to the scene of the crime.
Photo: Teece Aronin

It was a dark and stormy night in a city of secrets and lies. I hovered over my desk - a hot stove with nothing cooking - and prayed for a scream in the dark, a wailing siren, a ringing telephone - anything, anything to end the boredom, the uneasy sense of uselessness from sitting around doing nothing. Who am I, you ask?

I'm Sam Spayed, dog defective - I mean detective.

I'm a mutt with a nose for crime and no case of mine has ever gone unsolved. But right then I didn't even have a case. And I needed a case. I needed a case like an unscrupulous dame needs an unsuspecting dupe. Yeah, I needed a case that bad.

Just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, the phone rang, its jagged brrrriiiinnng-brrrriiiinnng beating out a hellish tattoo in the dim and dingy office.

I snatched up that phone on the third brrrriiiinnng.

"Spayed here."

The call was from a dame, and a hysterical one at that. It seemed that the cunning jewel thief known simply as the Cat Burglar had struck again - this time in the vicinity of Dogwood and 34th. But unlike the Cat Burglar's other conquests, this was a murder too. I dove into my trench coat, grabbed my faithful fedora and disappeared into the night.

I reappeared ten minutes later at the posh and pricey penthouse doghouse of one Kitty Marmaduke. I was met at the door by the dame who'd called me, the cute little chickie who'd been doing all that yelling. Her name was Furniece Marmaduke and she was Kitty Marmaduke's daughter. 

I'd never met Furniece, but I recognized her from the society pages. She knew me by reputation. I expressed my condolences and we got down to business. She led me across a the foyer to the darkened study where her mother was stretched out on the floor, one ankle daintily crossing the other. Dawn was beginning to break and there was enough light in the room to see that on the floor near Kitty's head was a collar, a collar with a diamond-shaped tag engraved with the initials, C.B. 

Hmm . . . Cat Burglar? 

One look at Kitty proved she wasn't posing for a spread in Dog Fancy Magazine; in fact, she was a little long in the tooth to be posing naked, and besides, she wasn't naked. But she did look to be one dead dog, and none of her diamond-studded collars and her lifetime membership to the American Kennel Club could help her now.

"Miss Marmaduke, have you touched anything in here?" I asked.

"No," Mr. Spayed. "I remembered I wasn't supposed to. The lamp was off, too. I haven't touched that either. Oh Mr. Spayed," Furniece cried, all breathy and fragile-sounding, "Why did he have to murder Mumsy? She would have handed over her jewels without a fight."

"He murdered Mumsy - I mean your mother - because he knew she could identify him," I said, my eyes skirting the room for evidence. Loose pearls littered the floor and the chaise. Maybe the Cat Burglar had yanked the pearls right off Kitty Marmaduke's neck. Or maybe Furniece was wrong and her mother had put up a fight.

Suddenly someone growled and Furniece's wide eyes locked with mine. 

"Hey, don't look at me," I told her. 

"Well it certainly wasn't me," Furniece snipped. 

That growl was followed by another and Furniece and I turned to see Kitty Marmaduke's ankles uncross. Furniece's eyes were bigger than milk saucers, and she gasped as her mother moved again. 

"Mumsy!" she yelled, high-tailing it to where her mother lay. It seemed that reports of Kitty Marmaduke's death had been greatly exaggerated.

"Oh, my head," Mrs. Marmaduke muttered, slowly sitting up. "Someone hit me on the back of my head."

"That was the Cat Burglar," Furniece explained. Then sobbing into her mother's neck: "Oh, Mumsy, thank goodness you're alright!"

"Oh, Furniece, for heaven's sake, get your paws off me!" barked Kitty Marmaduke. Furniece looked wounded and came back to huddle against me. 

It seemed that Kitty Marmaduke also knew me by reputation because she snarled: "Get away from my daughter, Mr. Spayed." Then she shot me another order: "And come over here and help me up!"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, strolling to her in my own sweet time. No broad like Kitty Marmaduke was going to order me around. I started wondering how a doll like Furniece could have a mother who was such a b . . . well, you know. 

I helped Mrs. Marmaduke into a chair. Furniece was at her side again in a flash.

"So, ladies," I said, "You've both had quite a night. Whatta ya make of this?"

Furniece Marmaduke looked at me while dabbing her eyes with a hankie. She appeared innocent and vulnerable. Kitty Marmaduke looked at me while rubbing the back of her head. She appeared disgusted and insulted.                

"I would think, Mr. Spayed, that you're the one who should be making something of all this," she snapped. I had the feeling that staying clear of Kitty Marmaduke's teeth was a very good idea.                    
                                                                                                             
"Sorry, ma'am, and you're right," I said. "And I think I have an idea. But it means staying put, the three of us, right here. Nobody goes anywhere. Nothing personal, Miss Marmaduke," I said to Furniece, "but you're a little upset, and I can't risk you saying or doing anything that might spook the Cat Burglar. He'll likely be watching for you." 

Something I'd said had all the color draining from Furniece's spots. Would I have been that nervous in Furniece's place, thrown into a plot to trap a jewel thief? I wondered. Her mother, on the other paw, didn't bat an eye. 

"Miss Marmaduke, have you talked to the police?"

"No, Mr. Spayed. I was frightened, had heard about you and just phoned. I'm not sure why I didn't call the police."

"That's alright," I reassured her. The police and I don't often agree on methods and since there was no real murder here, I think we can work around them for now. You know what I'm thinking?"

"Of course we don't know what you're thinking," snapped Kitty Marmaduke. "Suppose you tell us?"

Her barb stung a little but I let it go.

"I'm thinking that the Cat Burglar will be missing that collar, the one with C.B. engraved on the tag. I also think he'll be desperate to get it back in his possession. So we're just going to hunker down for the night and wait him out. 

Hearing these words, Furniece was one scared puppy - even more than before - but Mrs. Marmaduke was one ticked off old dog. And the tick who'd had the misfortune of annoying her at that moment hit the Aubusson rug after a quick but merciless death. 

"What? On the butler's night off? I should think not, Mr. Spayed! The very idea is preposterous! Kitty and I would have to fend for ourselves under very stressful circumstances! Why I never!" 

"You did at least once, ma'am," I smirked, my eyes cutting toward Furniece. I enjoyed having Mrs. Marmaduke by the short hairs. "And besides, if you want me to catch the Cat Burglar, it's best you play along."

I hustled Furniece, who was simpering about the butler, into an adjacent room. Of course, the pup doesn't fall far from the pooch, so I had to bring her a bottle of Purrier on ice before I could shut her in. If marrying rich meant busting my tail for a dame as spoiled as she was, I'd rather stay single and poor. 

After I got Furniece settled, I rejoined Mrs. Marmaduke in the study and turned the lights back off. There was nothing for either of us to do but wait. Before I knew it, there came the distinctive clicking sounds of someone picking a lock. I then had the pleasure of shoving Mrs. Marmaduke to the floor where I quickly re-positioned her the way the Cat Burglar had left her. Then I slipped behind a curtain and froze. 

It was darker in that room than the inside of a doberman's heart. I held my breath and imagined the Cat Burglar pussy-footing across the floor. Then I sprang from behind the curtain counting on the element of surprise. 

It worked. The Cat Burglar let out a hiss and then a yowl as I grabbed him and took him down. We struggled for a minute, but cats aren't as strong as dogs, so it was only a matter of time before I had him cuffed. Then I tied his hind legs together to keep him from running. 

When I turned on the light, there he was, a panting, raging little pussycat with his hair standing on end. Then I opened the door to the room where I'd stashed Furniece and hauled her out of there. To be on the safe side, I took my heat out and pointed the gun's muzzle straight at her.

The Cat Burglar took one look at Furniece and hissed, "It's her fault! She's the one who's behind all this!" 

"Just as I suspected," I said.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Furniece.

"Well, sugar," I said, "the first nail in your coffin came when you said you 'remembered' that you weren't supposed to touch anything. 'course that's not proof of anything, but it did get me wondering if someone might have coached you on a few things. Then you nearly fainted when I said we'd all be playing it cozy for the night and waiting for a visit from Puss-In-Boots over there. It wasn't much of a deduction to figure out the rest."

"But why, Furniece?" asked Kitty Marmaduke, and I have to admit, I felt sorry for her - but only for a second.

"Oh, please!" shouted Furniece. "You and I both know that I'm not even your daughter; I'm your niece! My father ran with that horrible pack and one day he just never came home. Then my mother found out she was expecting me, and you undermined her confidence until I was born and she begged you to adopt me. You even named me Furniece as a constant reminder that you would never see me as your own daughter. I hate you! 

"Then, when we argued one night and you threatened to cut me off without a cent, I put feelers out through the criminal grapevine that I wanted to talk to the Cat Burglar. When he got in touch, we made our plan and part of that plan was that I'd give him one third of my inheritance plus whatever jewelry he could nab if he killed you during the break-in. I hate you!" 

Furniece threw that second I hate you in there just in case her mother or her aunt or whoever Kitty was, had missed the first one.

But there was something I hadn't figured out yet. "But doll-face, why did you call me in?" I asked.

"It was a calculated risk," Furniece explained. "Calling you in made me look more innocent. And it did, didn't it, Mr. Spayed? You have to admit that it did. What doomed me came later when I gave myself away."

"And you, pussnick," I said, gesturing toward the cat. "I presume you came back for your tag. Do the initials stand for Cat Burglar?"

"No - my name - Cecil Butterbottom," the Cat Burglar muttered, too embarrassed to say that name to my face.

He had reason to be. I burst out laughing then picked up the phone. I tucked the receiver between my shoulder and ear so that I could call the police with one hand and hold the gun on Furniece with the other. I had to admit, it was pretty sweet knowing I'd bagged two criminals with one trap. 

I guess you could say I'd collared them. 

Rubenesque

Peter Paul Rubens appreciated voluptuous female forms. And as a female whose form flirts with voluptuousness (and has occasionally kissed it on the mouth and even married it), I appreciate him for appreciating it.

Rubens was a Flemish Baroque painter known for his flamboyant oils depicting big and beautiful women. Anyone who took Art History 101 knows that Rubens is the reason we have the term "Rubenesque" to describe amply built women. And actually, the definition of Rubenesque, according to Dictionary.com, is surprisingly complementary: ". . . having the physique associated with Rubens' portraits of women; plump and attractive."

Somewhere around 1626, Ruben's wife died, and four years later, he married Hélène Fourment, who modeled for him several times, including for the aptly titled, Portrait of Hélène Fourment. 

Looking at the painting, you can see that Hélène was Rubenesque. Despite clutching that whatever-it-is around herself, her attempt to cover up seems a bit half-hearted, and she isn't even all that covered. And her right arm, instead of concealing her breasts, seems to shove them up as if she's saying, "Take THIS! I mean, take THESE!"

I can't help liking Hélène who would probably tell you that if you have a problem with her body, including her cattywampus, boosted-up breasts, then you can just get out of the museum. Her husband would no doubt show you to the door. 

I wish I were that comfortable in my own skin, especially when my skin has more than the usual amount of me to cover.

Of course, throughout history, in a variety of cultures, good-sized women have been revered. Being heavier once equated to wealth, luxury, and leisure. Similarly, the reason many subjects of Baroque- and Renaissance-period paintings are pale is that a tan meant you might toil in a field every day. So, Rubens, with his affection for bigger women, wasn't alone. There would have been plenty of men sitting around the banquet table with him, raising a chalice to grand and pasty ladies.

Personally, I feel better when I'm not very heavy. I have more energy when I'm somewhere around a size eight or 10. But if you're a Rubenesque woman, and you feel good about yourself and you're healthy, then I say amen, sister!

But I admit that I'd love to have a modern-day Rubens walk up and beg me to model for him. I'd say no of course, all coy and blushing. 

Imelda's Doghouse

My dog, Hope keeps swiping my shoes and I have a theory as to why. I think it’s resentment over my refusal to buy her any shoes of her own. Now, I have two children to buy shoes for and blessedly, they only have two feet each. This makes buying shoes a much more reasonable proposition than buying shoes for them plus Hope who, like most dogs, has four feet. If I'd wanted to buy that many shoes, I'd have had two more kids.

Not only would buying Hope shoes blow my budget, I would have to find shoes designed to fit those four ugly paws she has. And I'd have to take her shopping where we'd have the issue of her prima donna, Imelda attitude and her constant flip-flops (sorry) over whether the shoes on her back feet should match the shoes on her front or if she should go for two different styles.  If Hope thinks she’s so smart, she should impress me by asking for just one pair and then learning to walk on her hind feet.

Sometimes Hope doesn’t flat out steal my shoes; sometimes she just “borrows” them. Case in point: when she "borrowed" my sandals and had that picture up there taken at Glamour Shots. And we still don’t know how she got to the studio because Hope can’t drive with shoes on.

But anyway, back to the swiping issue. Whenever the kids or I come home and let her out of her crate, she springs out, woofing and howling in what she expects us to believe is delight over our safe return. And I fell for that canine con-job for a while, but have come to suspect it is actually a release of pent up anger over having spent the day in the clink combined with her rotten attitude about the whole shoes thing. 

And she wouldn't have to spend the day in the clink if she hadn't chewed up the sofa when we were at the movies one night. Granted, it wasn't the newest sofa, and it was plaid. Maybe Hope's not Scottish - or maybe she hates plaid. Anyway, as she’s running around like this, feigning happiness, she darts into my room, grabs one of my shoes in her mouth and dashes around the apartment with it, stopping every few seconds to give it a little chomp.

Despite my best efforts to snatch back the shoe or to remember to just keep the bedroom door shut, I now have at least five half pairs of shoes. I didn’t think there was any such thing as a half pair of anything, but now I know there is; there are half pairs of shoes. And where she’s stashed the missing shoes is a complete and utter mystery. I’ve looked under the bed, behind the chewed-up plaid sofa, and even in my closet which with Hope’s lack of opposable thumbs you’d think would be off-limits. Maybe the cat let her in.

I don’t know, I suppose Hope could be right. Maybe I should buy her some shoes. Maybe if I do, my missing ones will mysteriously reappear the next morning, with telltale doggie drool still drying. 

No, on second thought, I refuse to be bullied by a dog who, if it weren't for me would still be at the pound cooling her unclad heels.

Hope, hear this: I’m mad as heck and I’m not going to take it anymore. I want my shoes back now and I want you to ixnay on the “orrowing-bay.” 

Chew on that, why don't you?

One of the Better Mommies

What can I say about the woman who had my hands, my face and even my laugh years before I did? I can say she is a blessing. I can say she's still my friend and I can say she's still one of the funniest people I've ever met. And she's all of that to my children, too.

My mother in her glorious youth.

My mother was and is a rarity. When I was a child, I counted on her to know it all and she never disappointed. She could open every stubborn wrapper, soothe the bloodiest of toes stubbed on the barefoot runs of summer and sing just like Julie Andrews - to my ears anyhow. And in my child's universe, she and I were everything that mattered most.

I remember hiding behind her skirts when my father would come home playfully roaring, "Where's T.C.!" I recall wobbling like a drunken aerialist just trying to walk in her high heels, as if I could ever fill her shoes. And there was no safer place on earth than her lap when J.F.K. was assassinated and all I understood was that John-John's daddy had been so very badly hurt.

A year or so after the death of J.F.K, she took me to see Bambi and I turned and stared at her dumbfounded in the dark as she cried when Bambi's mother saved his life only to die herself and when Bambi called for her, not comprehending her absence. Years later, when I was a mother, I understood painfully well what had made her cry that day.

As I phased into adolescence, I liked her far too much to seriously consider rebelling, and would lie in bed with her at night, the two of us laughing ourselves sick until my father would come in, laughing at our laughing and boot me out. As my interest in film history grew, we went to more and more movies together. She saw to it that I was exposed to theatre, took my brothers and me to museums and lectures and saw me through college and my first foolish mistake of a marriage.

My brother often refers to her as, "One of the better mommies."

That she was, and is, and always will be.

A Perfectly Beautiful Son

Mother's Day will be here soon, so I thought I'd reach way down deep in the memory drawer and pull something out that I wrote years ago and haven't looked at in a while.

A picture of me with my own son

A woman once told me about the day when her son, born with cerebral palsy, came into the house upset because some neighborhood kids had been bullying him. She stood with him in front of the full-length mirror she kept in her bedroom and said, "Look at yourself. That's your body and it's beautiful." 

After she told me that story, I wrote this poem for her. I'm sharing it here for all the mothers of children with disabilities. Your children are amazing, and they have made you more amazing too and probably stronger than you ever thought you could be. Happy Almost Mother's Day to all of you.

A Perfectly Beautiful Son

"I'm crippled and useless; the kids say I am."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son."

"Mommy, how can you say that when you know how I look?"

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. You look like your father. You're lucky, my pet. He's handsome and strong. Can't you see? You belong. Be proud, my beautiful son."

"My feet drag on the ground; I fall down all the time."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And when you fall down, you get right back up. You've never stayed down and I know you won't now. Get up, my beautiful son."

"My hands always shake; I spill everything."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And when your hands shake, I will hold them in mine. It will steady us both; not just you but me, too. Hold tight, my beautiful son."

"My speech comes out funny; people can't understand."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And when I hear you speak, I hear magical sounds. The words are so clear and their meanings so dear. Speak out, my beautiful son."

"People think that I'm weak, just because I'm so small."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And your heart's grown so strong, how could you be weak? To me you're so mighty, sometimes I can't speak. Stand tall, my beautiful son."

"The kids have been saying I'll wind up alone."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. You have so much to give and a great life to live. And when the day comes that a girl sees this too, I'll love her so much - but not like I love you. But I'll love her to pieces, and I'll shout to the world, 'My son's found his true love! What a perfectly beautiful girl!"

If Sr. Martha Was Right, My Kids Are a Real Snooze

I am the parent of two of the brightest candles on the cake, two of the sharpest knives in the drawer, and two of brightest bulbs in the marquis of motherhood. These future captains of industry, United States presidents, Nobel Prize winners, or better mousetrap builders are, in my humble opinion, destined to accomplish great things. Why, just look at their picture!

How is it then, that these two mothers of invention (Sydney, age 15 and Jon, age 13) can’t come up with one simple plan to alleviate their occasional run-ins with boredom? Why is it their mother, not nearly as clever as they, who is expected to come up with the solution?

Jon actually had the audacity to tell me one day that he was so bored, the only thing keeping him awake was the discomfort he felt from being bored.

“Read,” I suggest to them. They say. “Nah.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” I offer. They say, “We don’t feel like it.”

“Go do something together,” I urge. They gasp, “Yuck!”

One day, after an exchange very similar to those above, I shared with my offspring what Sr. Martha used to tell us back in high school: “When you’re bored, you’re boring,” she would say.

As I quoted Sr. Martha to the kids, I thought how cleverly I was throwing the ball back in their court. Throw a ball; no, they'd shoot that idea down. Skeet shooting; hey, how about that? “Too loud,” they’d complain.

Even Sr. Martha’s retort, enough of a verbal slap back in the day to straighten my friends and me right up, was met by my youth of today with sullen, unfazed silence. If Sr. Martha was right, and Sr. Martha was always right, then my kids can be a couple of real snoozers. 

Though their boredom is neither my responsibility nor my fault, I am endeavoring to come up with a list of activities guaranteed to blast out the bilge of boredom and restore the busy bee buzz that happily engaged kids generate. Following is the list I’ve come up with so far and I can be ready to implement it at a moment’s notice.

Mother Teece’s Boredom Busters:

• Make water balloons and use them to play dodge ball.
• Paint each other’s faces with washable markers.
• Groom the cat - a friendly and patient cat (or dog) is required for this activity since trips to the E.R. do not constitute good boredom busters. 
• Script and then shoot a movie using their phones, laptops or cameras.
• Make a house of cards.
• Visit an elderly neighbor and offer to help with errands or yard work.

Now . . . following is an alternate list that I often wish I could trot out. I call it:

Mother Teece’s House of Horrors Boredom Busters

• Force your children to sit through every Barney, Blues Clues, and Dora the Explorer episode you had to watch with them when they were toddlers.
• Make plans together for you to ride the bus with them to school, then coordinate your outfits just to make the trip more fun.
• Hold hands with them and skip past the basketball game the kids up the street are playing.

Granted, my real list isn't very lengthy, nor, you might argue, as inspired as my alternate list, but I plan to keep working on both until they're as long and as priceless as the Mayflower Madame's client register combined  with Heidi Fleiss' little black book. 

Other parents no doubt can come up with even better ideas than these, but if they're ever feeling stuck, they can borrow my list. EITHER ONE THEY WANT.

Juny, We Hardly Knew Ye

Juniper was a Christmas present from me to my daughter, Syd, who joyously picked her out from among all the other guinea pigs at the pet shop. She was still a baby guinea pig and quite small, even as guinea pigs go. She was a funny-looking, short-haired, furry piece of patchwork with white, black, and tan splotches and shiny, beady little eyes.

Juniper

As far as Syd was concerned, nothing was too good for Juny, and with her own money, she bought Juny a roomy cage with a ramp, plenty of toys, and nutritious little treats. Juny, who was no dope, quickly learned on which side her bread was buttered and whistled merrily whenever Syd walked in the room.

But I don't think Juny saw merely a meal ticket in Syd. She seemed to genuinely like Syd, who took a hands-on approach in caring for Juny, including plenty of time exploring the apartment, snuggling in Syd's lap, or nestled in Syd's gentle hands. 

The other day, I was at work and got the kind of call parents dread, the kind where you know it's one of your kids. All you hear is sobbing on the other end, and you can't understand what they're saying. It was Syd, who finally managed to tell me that Juny was dying. 

In the car, my mind flashed back three years to when Syd and her brother, Jon were in the park with their pet rabbit, and a dog snatched it off Syd's lap and killed it right there in front of both kids. It took all of us days to even begin to move past that, and even now it's upsetting to think about. I wondered if Syd was flashing back, too.

At a red light, I consulted my phone and got the address for the closest emergency animal hospital. I called Syd en route and told her to wrap Juny in a towel and get ready to come to the car. When I saw Syd, my heart broke. She was chalk white, her eyes were swollen, and she was holding a tiny bundle close to her heart.

As soon as Syd was in the car and buckled in, I peeled out of there, and once I felt I could avert my eyes from traffic, I looked at Juny lying in the towel, face poking out, nose pale. I reached over and brushed my finger along her cheek.

"What is going on with you, Juny? What are you trying to prove?" As I spoke these words to this so sick guinea pig, I kept my voice very soft because I had this idiotic feeling that she could understand and would think I really was blaming her for putting us to all this trouble and making us feel so awful. And then, of course, I started to bawl.

"Mom, please don't cry," Syd said, her huge, teary, saucer eyes staring hard at me. "I'll lose it if you cry. Please stop." So, I focused on the road and tried to do as she asked. I didn't do it very well.

"I wonder what happened," I said, reaching over again to stroke the little face.

"Maybe I didn't clean her cage often enough," my daughter said, and shame at the very idea hung in her voice. "When I saw her, I took her out of the cage and held her and kept saying, 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'"

"No, Syd. You took very good care of her. It wasn't anything like that."

And then, as it usually does when one comforts children with dead or dying pets, the question of an afterlife came up. But I was the one who needed reassurance.

"I think Juny's headed someplace nice, don't you?" I asked.

Syd's answer was emphatic. "The Rainbow Bridge." She said this as if God Himself consulted her before commissioning it.

"The what?"

"The Rainbow Bridge," she repeated. "It's a bridge where pets go when they die to wait for their owners. When their owners die, they meet at the bridge and cross over together into Heaven."

"Oh, Syd, that sounds like a really great place," I said. "I'm sure that's where Juny's headed."

We arrived at the hospital, rushed Juny in, and were immediately whisked to a room. I was handed a form to fill out while Syd sat, distraught in a chair and Juny lay motionless on the exam table, still wrapped in the towel.

The vet scooted into the room, bent over Juny, and laid a stethoscope against the tiny rib cage. "What happened?" she asked, and since she seemed to be asking Juny, neither Syd nor I answered. We didn't know what happened anyway, so we wouldn't have been much help. The vet straightened up and said, "I think she's gone."

"You don't need to fill out the rest of that form," the vet tech said, relieving me of the form and the clipboard. Suddenly, and more than anything, I, who hate forms, wanted to fill it out because filling out a form implied that Juny still had a chance.

"Would you like us to dispose of her?" asked the tech.

"I don't know. What do people usually do?" I asked.

"Well, some people take them home and bury them," she replied. "Or we can have her cremated and give you back the ashes."

"How much would that cost?" I asked the tech who went away to look up the price. While she was out of the room, I walked to Juny and gently pulled back the towel. 

'How could a newly dead guinea pig look so different from her living self?' I pondered. A spark was gone, some spark beyond motion and breath. Even her fur seemed duller and her body flatter.

I'm sure there are dozens of physiological reasons for all of that and that one would have to be a giant optimist or a pure idiot to find reassurance in Juny's new corporeal state. I'm hoping that it was optimism, but know that at times, I have been a pure idiot.

So, I'm not saying I took Juny's physical transformation as proof that a spirit once inhabited that little form, but I still felt reassured. I stroked the little face some more as if stroking it could give Juny comfort. But Juny was probably already hightailing it to the Rainbow Bridge and couldn't care less if I was stroking her face.

The tech came back, consulting a paper on her clipboard. She was searching for the price category covering Junies weighing less than 12 ounces.

"That would be $100," she said, glancing up at me.

One-hundred dollars? The sum rang in my head. One-hundred dollars to cremate one little guinea pig, a guinea pig that was small even as guinea pigs go? A guinea pig that only cost $40 when she was alive?

"Okay, that's what we'll do," I said, handing her my debit card. But really, one-hundred dollars?

"Mom," Syd whispered, "that's too expensive. I don't mind burying her." But I couldn't expect her to bury Juny, and I sure didn't want to do it. And we'd have to get permission from the apartment managers and then buy or borrow a shovel. I just didn't have it in me to do all that.

"It's okay, Syd. This way you'll always have her with you." The tech left the room then came back, loaded down with little boxes.

"These are your choices for storing the ashes," she said. 

With the exception of a little coffin-shaped box, each tiny container looked suspiciously like a cookie tin from our local dollar store. It crossed my mind to offer up my own cookie tin if it would cut down on the cost, but I chose the high ground and kept my mouth shut.

"Which one do you want, Syd?" I asked.

"That one," said my daughter, pointing to one I had somehow overlooked. It was actually a lovely little metal box and Syd did well to have chosen it.

"Oh, that's a nice one," commented the tech. "That's the Rainbow Bridge design. I like that one, too." 

If the Rainbow Bridge was famous enough that there was even an "urn" named after it, maybe God really had commissioned it.

"The cremation people will come here for her on Monday and you can pick her up again on Thursday." 

Pick her up again on Thursday. The tech said it as though we were just sending Juny out to be groomed, and she'd be back on Thursday all spruced up.

"Syd, if it would help, I'll buy you another guinea pig tonight," I offered.

"I don't know, Mom," she said. "I think I need to wait a while; not just for myself but out of respect for Juny."

And so it was that we came to wait for . . . three . . . whole . . . days. When you're used to having something in your life that you can scoop up and love on a whim, there's a hole left when it's gone. Syd picked out a Netherland dwarf rabbit. So far, she has yet to name him officially, but his working moniker is Prince Charming. He is rather dashing, especially when we try to catch him and put him in his cage. So maybe that's the name she'll keep.

So, as Prince Charming settles in, we still remember Juny. If I'd thought she felt well enough to listen on the way to the vet, I'd have given her a heads up about our other "pals with paws" who'd gone before her, and some advice for when she met them at the Rainbow Bridge.

I'd have said, "Bill and Clawdia are good cats, but Bill will think himself too cool to show any interest in you at first, and Clawdia gets lost easily, so don't let her wander far from the bridge. Thumper is the rabbit who had that unfortunate run-in with a husky, so I doubt he'll be hanging out near the dogs. Then again, he probably has some kind of double jeopardy protection in the afterlife and can't get hurt again, but who could blame him if he steers clear? And please tell him we're sorry he got stuck with such an unoriginal name, but he already had that name when we adopted him."

Some might think it silly to take the death of a guinea pig so seriously, or to write about it with such gravity. To those people I say it's probably been too long since you last held such a tiny creature in your hands, or heard it whistle when you walked into the room.