Queen of the Squirrels

Before we talk about squirrels, I want to make it clear that I do not have a fascination with squirrels. I do not want to be a squirrel. I do not envy all the scurrying and twitching and tree-jumping and nut gathering. No one ever brings a squirrel a latte which is one of the many reasons that I am not cut out for squirrel life. However, I think about squirrels from time to time. Tuesday morning was one of those times and I began to ponder the squirrel community. I began to think of the squirrels not as long-tailed rodents that watch me suspiciously every time I leave the house but as "a people". Do squirrels play roles? Do they have jobs? Do they make fun of the squirrels with the fucked up tails? I knew that I could look all of that up on the internet (well, not the tail part) but I was interested in these complex issues in a more abstract sense.

Of course, you can only think about this for so long before you begin to wonder what role you would play in the squirrel community. Right? Everyone does that right? At first, I thought I would be Queen of the Squirrels. Squirrels should definitely have a queen. Bees have queens and they are smaller and buzzier. I allowed myself to imagine myself as Queen for a few moments. I didn't picture myself in a teeny tiny squirrel crown or anything - that would be silly. I just imagined being the head of all the squirrels and them coming up to me and asking what to do next.

"Queen, should I grab that bagel and drag it up the tree even though I'll look ridiculous?"

"Queen, what do I do now? Huh? What do I do now?"

"Queen, shall I brush your luxurious tail?"

I briefly enjoyed the imagined power. I could see myself instructing my furry minions to chase and terrorize the humans while I laughed but, in the end, I realized that I would never be the Queen of the Squirrels. I would more likely be the Queen's right hand squirrel. I would totally be the kind of squirrel to do the queen's bidding. I would order people around for her and diffuse situations for her and entertain her with my nut themed humor.

I wondered if there was something wrong with me. I mean...who creates an entire imagined Land of Squirrels and then doesn't even want to oversee it? The right hand squirrel - that's who.

By now, you are probably expecting a point to this discussion of squirrels which is weird because - at this very moment - I'm realizing that I don't have one. I guess we can just all think of squirrels together. Or maybe we should all buy a squirrel a latte. Or maybe I'll throw that bag of leftover Christmas nuts out for the squirrels and be Queen for a day.

photo credit: Tomi Tapio via photopin cc

Don't Give Me Your Number

For years, I had a Blackberry. Luisa had a Blackberry, Kristin (my work wife) had a Blackberry and Deborah (my blog wife) had a Blackberry. So, I would while away my days sending them Blackberry messages or BBMs. Not BMs - that's a totally different thing. Being connected to me comes with a price and that price is LOTS AND LOTS OF WORDS- many of them unnecessary. I try to restrain myself with Luisa because she has to live with me and my words in real time. Most of my messages to her were something like, "I'm home" or "We need ice" or "Can you bring me a glass of water?" Kristin and Deborah got all the extra words.

I wish that I had saved all of those BBM messages because some of them were hilarious but - alas - most of them are lost and the world is a sadder place as a result. When I knew I was getting my iPhone, however, I saved a few between Deborah and me. It gives you a feel of what it's like to get messages from me although there are usually a lot more random Nicki Minaj lyrics thrown in.

V: The guy is grunting a lot in the kitchen and I find it disconcerting.

D: I can't imagine why.

V: I want another cup of coffee but the coffee is in the kitchen with the grunting man!

D: You should be a detective!

V: Well, I kinda am for my job.

D: Yeah, except for normal people whose houses don't look like Grey Gardens and people who don't eat cat food.

V: When I write my book about what field social work is really like, I will say, "Never look in the bucket. Never. Just no."

D: Good advice about the bucket.

V: I blogged. It's shitty but the chute is cleared.

V: And that last bbm was unintentionally rectally metaphorical.

Deborah and Kristin and I all got iPhones. Luisa still has her Blackberry (hers is through work) so she had to get an app that would allow us to do the iMessage/BBM thing. We are now a technologically bi-cultural family. It has its struggles but we're making it work. I am happy because I can once again share my every ridiculous thought through iMessage! Because, apparently, doing it on Twitter with hundreds of people isn't enough. I told you - LOTS AND LOTS OF WORDS.

Honesty Is Such a Lonely Word

Honesty is the best policy. I truly believe that. I am like Honest Abe Lincoln who, when confronted about chopping down the cherry tree, shouted "Give me liberty or give me death and I'm really sorry about the tree but Babe the Blue Ox told me to do it!" Growing up, I may have kept things from my mother but I only really lied to her once.

I was 17 and wanted to go to this party that didn't start until 10 p.m. I was certain she would never let me go. I called my sister and told her my dilemma and she advised me to tell mom the truth because "Mom always finds out". I knew she was right so I told her that I would be honest with mom about the party.

My mom got home from work and, despite my intention to be honest, said, "Can I go to a midnight show at the mall with Lisa?" She said yes and I was elated. I left around 8 to go out to dinner before going to the "movie" and, while I was gone, my sister called and asked my mom if she had let me go to the party. My mom said, "What party?" and my fate was sealed.

I came home around 2:30 a.m. and everyone was asleep and I was thrilled that I had not been caught in my lie. I woke up late the next morning and there was a note on the kitchen table that said simply, "Call me at work". I called and my mom said very calmly, "I know you lied to me last night." I started to explain and she stopped me, "I don't want an explanation. I just want to tell you that you are grounded and, since I'm going to the cabin this weekend, you'll be going to your father's house and I have already informed him that you are not allowed to go out while there. I will talk to you on Monday."

And then she hung up.

I dutifully packed my bags and went to my father's as instructed and I spent the weekend pouting.

I never lied to my mother again.

Given that I was, for the most part, an angel all through my childhood and adolescence I think the universe owes me. I should have been given the world's most honest children. However, my children are sneaky little rats.

Over winter break, Miguel was heading to his room with his hands clenched in front of him and I yelled, "STOP RIGHT THERE!" He turned to me and said, "What?" I said, "What do you have in your hands?" He opened his hands and they were empty. He said, "What did you think I had?" I told him I thought he was smuggling candy to his room. He said, "Mom, if I wanted to sneak candy to my room, I would do it. When I was 8, I used to sneak candy to my room in my nut cup and you never figured it out."

That's right - my son admitted to smuggling candy in his jock strap. Not only is he a liar but he's gross.