Hey There, Little Red Riding Hood, You Sure Are Looking Good

My dad reads my blog and emails his comments to me periodically so I decided to set up his account allowing him to post directly. I found his last comment to be hilarious (refer to the previous post, comment 4). Maybe that means I come by my plans to avenge legitimately. However, currently Herr Schwein is out of town. And although we should be rejoicing, Chelsea said to me earlier today, "Wouldn't it be a shame if we're both out of town at the same time?" She has a point. We leave for Boston tomorrow night and will be gone for 2-3 weeks. If he's made his annual trip to the Fatherland at the same time we will be sorely disappointed as that means we won't be here to enjoy the peace and quiet. This is crazy thinking, I'm sure, but it makes sense to us.

In truth, I've been working on becoming more of a peacekeeper of late, trying to avoid contention if possible and not poking around in ant hills if unnecessary. So included in my DNA let me now recount how the last name of Wolf or Wolff or Wolfe became Woolf. (Which, no matter how many times I spell it as "W-O-O-L-F...two O's, one L, one F, no E," people still spell it either Wolf, Wolff, Wolfe, or Fox. So.....

Back in the 1700's during the Revolutionary War period my esteemed ancestor, Anthon Wolf, (Wolff, Wolfe) was, at the age of 17 years old, forcefully abducted from his farmland by the Hessian Army and conscripted to fight in the war. He was not allowed to say goodby to his parents or even tell them where he was going. Being a resourceful and friendly young man with no desire to fight a battle that wasn't his, he made friends with the Dutch families on board the ship, and upon landing in New York, added an "O" to his name to fit in and hide out with his newfound Dutch friends. A draft dodger? Yes, indeedy! And we're very proud of that fact.

By now you are saying, "Oooooooooooooo, so that it explains it!" What it explains I'm not exactly sure but I think it's a little bit of interesting information in the Woolf respository of trivia.

So It's Come Down to This

We are going to have to move. Our German neighbor, Herr Schwein, has won. His incessant loud rude behavior is causing us to react poorly. I no longer take responsibility for my attitude or actions. When a good night is one where you sit around plotting all the ways to destroy the man across the patio, then you know it's time to skiddaddle. Rotten eggs and incoming water balloons are too lenient. Slashing tires and keying the side of his car all seem within reason. His drunken parties with his foreign friends and St. Regis wait staff are never-ending. The loud guffaws, shrieking cackles and booming techno music cannot be drowned out by our TV, washer, dryer, dishwasher, or multiple area fans. I am on the other side of the apartment and with my bedroom door closed can still hear him through my bathroom vent. We've asked him to tone it down, complained to the office, called the cops, and have questioned the sanity of my giving my Walther PPKS to my brother, Bill. All those years I carried a concealed weapon in TX never knowing I might have reason to use it in sunny CA.

We are waiting for approval on a condo we've looked at. If that doesn't come through then we will find something else.

So far Chelsea has had two really good ideas:

1. to sit on our patio opposite his and repeat back to him, in a strong German accent, everything he says through a bullhorn. Bill has promised to mail us the bullhorn.

2. to drive by late at night after we've moved and still call the cops on him.

All of this seems like very reasonable mature behavior. I have not entertained or plotted such delightful revenge for many years. I'm going to the library tomorrow and look on the "Inspirational Reading" shelf for The Count of Monte Cristo. Au Revoir.

Happy Mothers Day

Chelsea, Sawyer and I have been sitting for our Mother's Day portrait. Fortunately, Reggie the Dog was able to join us. It was finally completed and I post it here:

I've been thinking about Mother's Day. I mailed my mom a box of See's Nuts & Chews on Wednesday and called Dad to remind him to check the mail lest it become a runny dripping package of melted chocolate in the heat. I'm heading off to Trader Joe's to pick up a bundle of daffodils for Sawyer to give to his mommy. This will be Chelsea's first Mother's Day--an interesting place to be as a single mother with a 5-month old baby. I enjoyed a movie with a friend last night. Afterwards she was telling me that she hated Mother's Day at church and wouldn't be showing up except that two of her adult children asked if they could go with her. I told her that seemed to be a common feeling. When prompted I remember very well a certain Mother's Day back in the 80's when my world sort of came crashing down. This was after the cold pancakes and fried eggs served to me in bed by my kids, after church, and before we were heading to my folks to celebrate the day with a big dinner that I'm sure my mom prepared.

When I was a child I loved making pink construction paper cards in grade school to present to my mom on the 2nd Sunday of May. I was proud of my artwork of flowers and faces and sure she would be, too. I thought it was magnanimous to tell mom to stay in bed while we seven children destroyed the kitchen. I never once thought about how Mom might be feeling...overwhelmed, exhausted, or worn-out. I always assumed she was thrilled with all the hand-made cards and cut roses from our house and the neighbors' and was touched by the congregation singing the obligatory "Love at Home" during Sunday School. Maybe that's why, before the consolidated schedule, she often stayed home Sunday mornings saying she had to get the roast in the oven. Maybe a great Mother's Day for her was hiding out with all of us gone, enjoying the peace and quiet, and reading the funnies and rest of the newspaper while lying on the sofa with the sun streaming through the front window. Maybe the great invention of self-timer ovens wasn't so great.

Fortuntately, sometime back, I'm not sure when, I discovered I liked Mother's Day again. I could enjoy the church service without guilt, remorse, anger, frustration, anxiety or tears. I didn't care if I got a wilted carnation, a piece of chocolate, a package of flower seeds. It didn't matter to me if I lived alone, went to church alone, and came home alone. I figured out that Mother's Day had nothing to do with ME as a Mother, but everything to do with me celebrating my mother, my grandmothers, my aunts, my sisters and nieces, my daughters, and my girlfriends as women and mothers, Mary as Christ's mother, Mother Eve, and my Heavenly Mother. These are all the best mothers I can think to celebrate. I love listening to the primary children sing their hearts out to their moms. I tune out when the talks begin and focus on the women I love and admire. I'm just so very grateful that I've been allowed to be a mother, that my daughters have been, too, and that my incredible mother is still with us and celebrating her 85th birthday on May 28th.

If you're celebrating Mother's Day tomorrow I hope it's filled with joy for you and those you love. When we used to ask Mom what she wanted for Mother's Day and she'd say, "Just be happy" I now know what she meant. With all the challenges life throws our way I think I've become a happy mother anyway, which means "Happy Mothers" Day is about me, too, as I've joined the Happy Mothers club.