Fauna at Casa Flamingo

Here at Casa Flamingo the wildlife flourishes. We have deer (sorry, no pic). We have coyotes (sorry, no pic -- I was so freaked out when I saw it I couldn't move). We have osprey (see my second post in November). We have water moccasins (sorry, no pic, but Chance, who's been bitten and lived to tell can vouch for me on this one). We have fruit rats (trust me, you don't want to see a picture). We have squirrels (do you really need a pic?). We have coral snakes (again, no pic and I understand if you're starting to doubt my depiction of Casa Flamingo as some vast nature preserve). We have alligators (I ought to be able to get a pic of that for you, but we live in Florida, so why would you doubt me on this one? People living in subdivisions here wake up with alligators on their lanais all the time). We have otters (my favorite, and I keep trying to get pics of these guys, but they aren't cooperating). And of course we have all the other usual birds you see in Florida.

But we've had some new arrivals and for the past month I've been wanting to share pictures of them with you because they're so pretty. You've seen my pictures, so you won't be surprised that this is the best I could do:



M R Ducks.

M R Not.

O S M R.

M R Hooded Mergansers. See the long thin bill and the wacky axe-shaped head? See how fast they're swimming away? Dang ducks won't sit still long enough for me to get a decent picture.

About 6 weeks ago, those two showed up and I had a hard time figuring out what they were. Up close (that is, looking out the kitchen window so they can't see me watching them), they look like this:



(Heavens no, I didn't take that picture) I'd never seen this particular species of duck in our creek before, so I needed to look them up. Those two were joined a few weeks later by two more who were much prettier, but who also wouldn't let me close enough to get a good picture, so I had to find a picture of them somewhere else:



That's one good looking duck. That's what he looks like with his crest lowered. Here he is in all his "I'm looking for a hoochie-duckie-mama" glory:



Apparently, female ducks find big foreheads attractive. That's what I learned in my research about hooded mergansers -- the females are the ugly plain ones and the males are the gorgeous ones with the big foreheads. Figures.

It also appears that word has gotten around in the hooded merganser community that Casa Flamingo is the great new singles bar for mergansers because in the last week or so, we've had a regular merganser meat market going on here:



It's a shame they won't let me get any closer before they swim off in a panic. I'm not a nature photographer, that's for certain. It requires two things I don't have a lot of: stealth and patience. I suppose I could sit really still on the bank and wait forever and ever for them to glide past me, but I'd probably fall asleep while I was waiting or get bitten by a water moccasin. The shameful truth is that I couldn't hold still that long unless I was sleeping, so I guess I would need a duck blind. I think that's what duck blinds are for, right? Sleeping while the ducks glide by? Though I was watching My Great Big Redneck Wedding last weekend and there was a couple on there that thought duck blinds existed for something else entirely. It wasn't sleeping. And it wasn't for shooting ducks.

It makes me laugh to think that people surfing the internet looking for information on hooded mergansers are going to find this post.

Ice Cream Dance

Just thought you all might want to see the ice cream dance. Have I told you about the Flamingos and ice cream? The Flamingos (meaning, those individuals in my immediate and extended family whose genetic material comes from Joe's side, not mine) have this thing about ice cream. They love it. They must have it. Every night. And do you see that little bowl Joe is holding? That's the baby-sized bowl. When the other Flamingos eat ice cream, it's in bowls big enough to fit three or four large scoops. Joe is still on the P90X diet and exercise program (sorry honey, I meant "lifestyle change"), so he is trying his best not to partake in the nightly Flamingo ice cream ritual. You'll note, however, that he has control of Mace's bowl so he can sneak a few bites when no one is looking. The disadvantage to passing on a genetic predisposition for ice cream addiction to your children is that they expect ice cream every night after dinner and this tends to counteract any positive physical benefits said children would have received by spending three hours earlier in the day running around like banshees at Rolly Pollies. But the upside to ice cream addiction in young children is this:

You can get your table cleared in seconds if no gets any ice cream until the table's clean.

A Very Trashy Post

First, I know you've been waiting and waiting and asking your friends, "When do you think she'll post it? For the love of pete, WHEN?"



Trashy Pirate speaks for herself. But. I must point out a couple of things so that those of you (Joe) still defending this plastic woman's virtue can no longer pretend that you don't know she's the trashiest thing chaining herself to flagpoles these days: 1) lace gloves, and 2) fishnet stockings. Surely everyone agrees with me now -- if not on the trashy point, then on the fact that this is the strangest apartment marketing scheme you've ever heard of. Times are tight and all that, but wouldn't a sign that said "One month free rent" be a better sales hook than a mannequin chained to the flagpole at the front of the complex?

Let's move on. Joe came home Friday afternoon -- yay!! There were hugs and kisses and much wallowing all over him! (And the kids were glad he was home, too.)



Joe asked me to do only one thing for him while he was gone -- take the trash out to the street. The trash truck comes on Mondays and Thursdays. So I had two Mondays and two Thursdays -- four opportunities -- when I could have driven the trash out to the street and avoided this embarrassment when Joe and I drove up to the house after I picked him up from the airport:



That's all of our trash for two weeks. In my defense -- it's difficult to get myself ready for work and a kid ready for school and out the door by 7:00 and also find time to drive the truck out to the gate, unlock it, and haul the trash across the street bag by bag in the dark. It's not difficult so much as it is impossible. Friday morning, the day Joe was coming home, Grandma Elsie offered to drive the trash to the dump so that Joe wouldn't have to know I had so completely failed him. I told her she absolutely couldn't do that because then not only would I have not done the one thing Joe had asked me to do, I would have allowed his elderly mother to drive the trash to the dump to cover up for me. How low is that? But she insisted she didn't mind and that she was sure when she got there, some man would hop up into the back of the truck and throw the bags in the dumpster so she wouldn't have to. In the end, she couldn't get the truck started, so I had to face the music (in case you're wondering, it sounded like Oscar the Grouch singing "I looooove trash!").

Let's move on. After dinner Friday night, Joe and Mace bonded over laundry. Joe doesn't actually do the laundry (usually -- there are some exceptions). He pretty much thinks he's doing you a favor if he brings all the laundry to the washing machine and makes three or four large piles right where you need to walk to and from the back door. This is not something that really bothers me because I just kick it all to one side and continue to ignore it until I'm ready to actually wash it. On Friday night, though, it was harder to kick out of the way:



(And no, I never wipe my kids' mouths after a meal. I just let the food wear off or stay on there until bath time.) Joe is laying there thinking, "I can't believe she couldn't take the trash out even once while I was gone!"

What's That Button?

Oh my lands it was cold this morning! There was ice on the windshield when Casey and I were leaving for school. We were running a smidge late, so when I saw the ice I had to run around the outside of the house looking for something to scrape it off with. I found a pack of little lightbulbs in a plastic package and scraped furiously at the ice for two or three minutes until I'd made a hole large enough to look through. We were still a hazard to other drivers for at least 8 minutes, however, due to poor visibility. Then, on the way from school to work, I saw this button:

We've had this car since early 2003 and I have not once pushed that button. Ever. I had forgotten that such a button existed in my car. I love Florida.

[If you were hoping to see a picture of Trashy Pirate's wardrobe change today, I'm sorry you're disappointed. Two days ago, she had added an actual eye patch to her ensemble and a racy little black jacket complete with lace. Today she was back to just regular old Trashy Pirate clothes. I missed my window of opportunity and worse, failed you. I feel terrible. I'll make it up to you. Not sure how, but I'll think of something.]

Thinking Inside the Box

Understandably, you have a lot of questions about this picture. I can't answer them. Just don't call DCF -- there was plenty of air in there.

This day has just been eye-opening for me. My laptop is officially unfixable, but The Computer Guy is making me a new one and it will be ready on Thursday. I didn't realize that there are people who make a living by building computers for other people. Is that naive? I thought all computers were mass-produced somewhere in a very clean factory and then shipped to the Best Buys of the world and you just had to pick one of those. But you don't have to be one of the huddled masses when it comes to computers, apparently. You can pay someone to make you your own computer and it costs the same (or less, if you can sell your old computer's components on E-bay -- did you know you could do that??).

And did you know (you probably did) that even if you apologize to someone, say what you did was inexcusably rude, own up to your rash and inconsiderate behavior, etc., -- that the victim really won't feel better until they bless you out for it? You still have to sit there and take it and apologize some more and tell them they are absolutely right some more, etc., etc., until they are done. Because you were wrong and you deserve it and now you get to experience some of those consequences that you are always droning on and on to your kids about. Life lesson for you. Good to know.

And one more thing just to give you something to look forward to -- trashy pirate had a costume change today -- but I didn't have time to take her picture as I was racing up and down Hillsborough Avenue trying to balance my work life and personal life today (from work to the school, school to Rolly Pollies, Rolly Pollies to downtown, downtown to Rolly Pollies, you get the idea). I did a better job of it today than I usually do -- I actually arrived everywhere on time and didn't leave my son on a curb anywhere waiting for me. Anyway -- I'll try to post TP's picture tomorrow for you.

The Unfunny House

I know, I know. It's been, like, three whole days already and I haven't posted. I'm starting to twitch, too. But I can explain.

See -- Joe is out of town, so Grandma and I are holding down the fort. Holding down the fort looks alot like this:

Cute, but a little boring. Sigh.

For some reason, when Joe's gone, the fun is just sucked right out of the house with him. This is counterintuitive, I know -- I'm the fun one, right? Why should Joe being gone matter? But it does. It matters.



When Joe's not around, we hang Star Wars characters from fishing poles . . .



and tease the dog . . .



. . . and the toddler.

But it's still not as fun as it would have been if Joe were home.

It's not really that Joe has a higher standard for humor -- on our second date we went to see Wayne's World and Joe laughed so hard he cried ("Good to know" I thought). But it took me years and years to figure out how to make him laugh -- see, in the seven years we were married before Casey was born, he never laughed at my jokes. Really. Never. We would have conversations like this:

FF: Why don't you laugh at my jokes?

Joe: I do.

FF: No you don't.

(Who needs therapy when you can work your own problems out with this type of heartfelt dialogue?)

But once Casey was born and started with the disgusting sounds in his diaper, Joe started laughing. It's not that Joe is really into potty humor (he's still going to leave a comment about how insulted he is that I implied to all the world that the only things he laughs at are flatulence and burping), he just thinks the kids do and say funny things (though he does laugh really hard at flatulence) (not mine, though, cause I never do that, no matter what he says in the comments. I'm a lady). So I know whenever I want to hear Joe laugh, all I have to do is repeat some crazy thing Casey said in the car on the way home from school and he'll crack up. Just a funny look on Mace's face will get Joe going. And if Joe's laughing, all is right with the world.

Casey is six now, so I've been listening to Joe laugh for six years. When he's not home and laughing at the kids with me, our house is cute, but a little boring. Other people's basic needs are food and shelter. Mine are food, shelter and giggling. This does not bode well for our retirement years, I know.

Wait. I forgot there would be grandchildren. I hear that grandchildren are even funnier than children.

So I'll be fine.

We'll be fine.

So I'm sorry, our house is not going to be funny again until this time next week. I will try not to bring you to tears in the meantime.

The Flamingo Flu and Thomas the Tank Engine

You'll be glad to hear that the Flamingos are feeling better, but have some apologies to issue to everyone we infected along the way: the four Bunco players here Sunday night when Mace yakked into Dez' hands, everyone at Church at the Bay who came into contact with Mace and squeezed his cute little face or patted his sweet little head Sunday morning, and anyone on the Northwest Airlines 5:00 flight from Tampa to Memphis Sunday night. If you're not puking yet, you will be. The Flamingo Flu is vicious and no respecter of rank or those who regularly take vitamins. For this, I sincerely apologize. I'm still waiting for an apology from the person who passed it to Casey (you know who you are).

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out why my computer isn't working (I'm having to borrow Grandma's to write this). I suspect the answer lies here:

Sure, he looks innocent enough -- just watching some train videos on YouTube that his Pop-Pop got him hooked on.

When he gets to the prone position, though, you gotta watch out. Something about those videos gets him all crazy eventually and he starts pounding the keys. Maybe the trains aren't moving fast enough. Maybe he can't figure out why real trains don't have faces like Thomas.

And while we're on the subject of Thomas. We have watched no less than 28 hours' worth of Thomas and Friends videos over the last two days and I cannot watch one episode without getting bogged down in the absurd underpinnings of this show. I get that it's a show that's more boy-oriented and that it is supposed to teach little boys lessons about not teasing each other and not being "cheeky." But how did these engines with the faces get here? Were they born? Do they have parents? How do they propagate? If one of them falls off a high enough cliff (they are always falling off embankments and into ponds, so it could happen) and they get crushed to smithereens, would they actually die? Would there be a funeral? And why can some of the freight cars they run into get smashed to pieces, but we're not worried -- it stands to reason that if some of the freight cars have faces and feelings (though they are naughty pretty much all the time) wouldn't they all? And in the age of Pixar, why on earth is anyone filming plastic toys?

These questions bother me nearly as much as wondering where Max and Ruby's parents are?

Are they workaholics? Are they invisible? Did they leave one day for a vacation and "forget" to take their children with them? Who on earth would let their seven year old daughter be the full time caregiver for their two year old? And worse, let said seven year old daughter babysit little baby Huffington with no adult anywhere to be seen? Sure, there's a grandmother, but she has her own house across town; she can't be relied on to monitor the craziness at Max and Ruby's house! I have to admit, though, Ruby is much more patient with Max than I would be. I would not be nearly as calm with Max after he dumped juice into his bath for the third time and stained himself purple. Apparently those two are better off as orphans.