• You Know You’re The Mother Of Boys When

    your stack of stocking stuffers includes this photo of the family goldfish in the midst of producing the longest, most vibrant big job ever.  Each boy is getting a printed copy, and I’m still congratulating myself on grabbing my camera and snapping the photo before the moment was lost.



    The best gift guide for boys from 2006 is here.  I’m working on my gift guide for all recipients so if you have fantastic thoughts let me know!

  • Who’s My Favorite Wormy?

    Drew made up a song several years ago that has just one lyric:

    Squirmy Squirmy Squirmy, He’s my favorite wormy!

    He marched around the house singing it in one note, then a higher note, and so forth until he was screeching and I locked him out of the house.

    Last week two thousand worms came to my house on purpose, and I named the first one Squirmy.  Now we’re singing the song again,  but very quietly, so as not to hurt the other wigglers’ feelings.

    This all came about because a friend who’s quite earth friendly, and has enough devotion to the cause to drive a car powered by the grease discarded by various Los Angeles restaurants* told me that she composted inside and used worms to speed up the process, in a method known as vermicomposting.

    Up until then I’d been a composting wannabe, and went to far as to keep a large pot outside into which I threw all my fruit, peels, coffee filters and some grass clippings, but I never turned it, and it attracted flies that zoomed into the house and ended up in my bathroom at night, zigging and zagging from one side of my bathroom to the other, delirious with the light.  I kept a swatter under Bill’s sink and regularly murdered three or four flies a night, and I knew there had to be a better way to achieve a loamy humus to spread on my herbs.

    The next day I ordered a composting kit (you can make one, but if I was in such dire need of speedy composting, I damn sure didn’t need to waste time crafting a worm bin).  The worm hutch came before the worms so that I could get it all prepared for their arrival, and Porter and I went straight to work.  We put a couple of sheets of damp newspaper on the bottom of the box, and then covered it with shredded paper mixed with coir and the decayed matter from under a bush.  Apparently this is the equivalent of a decadent spa environment for worms.

    We finished it off by putting a handful of food scraps in one corner and then waited for our new housemates to arrive.

    You’ll recall that when the local high-schooler annihilated my mailbox I was pissed not only because of the destruction but also because I was awaiting a package I was sure our crotchety mail lady wouldn’t deliver unless we had the proper postal receptacle in place.

    As it turned out, having the mailbox replaced so quickly wasn’t all that helpful.  The lady shoved the box o’ worms into our mailbox with such force that I was sure I’d open it to find stressed out red wigglers (a common malady of those who’ve been shipped long distances) or worse, worm custard. The prospect of a clump of deceased invertebrates drove me into such a fury that I photographed the box from every angle so the post office would not charge me to re-ship live worms, but I’m sparing you and posting only two views of the damage.


    (You know that I have a bad relationship with the post office in general, don’t you?  And BTW– I haven’t yet located the mailbox marauder.  I’m beginning to lose my faith in the blogosphere.  The point of filming my tragedy (other than amusement) was to snuff out the MBHS teen who drives a Toyota Tundra or similar dark truck– with brush guards– and get an apology and restitution for the damage. So far, I’ve gotten nada.  But I digress.)

    Ladies’ fine shoes and purses sometimes come encased in a thick papery materiel, and my worms were so special that they were packaged in the exact same fabric.  It was an elegant touch, Happy D Ranch!


    When I opened the bag, instead of a shiny Coach purse I found the equivalent of twenty plastic tubs of bait, (all wiggling happily as far as I could tell) with nary a squashed worm to be seen.


    From there, all I had to do was spread the worms carefully over their new habitat, cover then lovingly with a layer of shredded newspaper, and let them adjust to their surroundings.



    Late that night, after I was already tucked in bed, I remembered that I had failed to leave a lamp on in the ping-pong room for the worms.  That’s an essential part of the process which encourages them to burrow far down into the bin.

    “Honey, would you mind getting me some more ice water?” I asked Bill.

    “Sure.”  He got up, and then I added, “Hey, while you’re up, will you turn the lamp on in the ping-pong room?”

    “This better not be about the worms,” he muttered.  He’s skeptical of the whole idea, but just wait until he sees my fertile soil next spring.

    “It’ll just make me feel safer, what with the burglaries and mailbox bashings we’ve had around here lately.”  That was true.  I’d feel lots better if I knew that 2000 worms were tunneling down, away from the light, not seeking escape.

    It’s been several weeks now and the worms are doing well.  They’re growing big and healthy and I couldn’t be more proud!  I think I’m a grandmother, too, but it’s hard to be sure.

    I’ve fed them coffee grounds and filters, shredded used paper towels and junk mail, crushed egg shells, fruit and vegetable peels, dryer lint, and a host of other crazy items you can read about on the Happy D web site.  The other night I had some mushrooms and a banana that had gone bad, so I pureed them in the Cusinart and plopped it in the bin.  There’s a reason you don’t see “Paillard of Chicken Infused With Mushroom Banana Coulis” on menus and that’s because it’s a rancid combination for humans, but Squirmy and his friends are digging it.

    That’s just me and Squirmy having a little fun!


    One year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: My Mac Daddy And Me (Yep– the inappropriate Halloween costume issues pop up with boys, too!)

    Sarah wears rocking clothes and talks about going grease hunting in L.A.  Jimmy Kimmel should have her back to talk about worms!

  • The Love Affair Is Over

    A while ago I wrote about Porter’s infatuation with our current president.  I don’t, and have never, shared his love, but I didn’t feel that it was my place to prevent Porter from exploring different types of friendships.

    In this month’s Lipstick magazine I have an article that updates the story a bit.  You can read it here at Porter’s Pen Pal.  (I’m having a bit of trouble with the link; I hope it works for you.)

    I wrote that article several months ago, and in the interim there’s been a marvelous development.  Porter’s best friend moved to Mississippi (that’s not marvelous; that was tragic) and began writing him letters.  And just like that, Porter switched his attention from W and began writing Mac, asking about his new school and telling him the latest adventures with Feathers.  I’ll admit it’s a relief not to receive those glossy pictures of George and Laura every week.

    In other household news, for years I’ve told the boys they’re responsible for putting their needs on the grocery list.  Need a poster board for an upcoming project?  Don’t tell me– write it on the list.  Every so often we discuss “wants” vs “needs” and they’ve pretty much quit writing Cocoa Puffs on the list.  My mom didn’t buy chocolate cereal for me, so the law of irrational parenting says I cannot give it to them.

    The list in its current state contains a strange request:


    which Porter hastened to assure me is a need.  It’s October, after all, and time to get used to the sight of blood.  As long as it doesn’t end up on my furniture, I’m okay with it.


    Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Crime & Punishment

    (This one still breaks my heart, and some people were critical of our parenting in this instance, but looking back, I think we made the right decision).

  • Texas Ranger: The Rest Of The Story


    No one has asked why I’ve written plenty about Feathers lately and nothing at all about Texas Ranger.  For a while TR was part of the family, attending our version of the Grammys and engaging in all the other ornithological activities Porter could create.

    All good things must come to an end.  TR wasn’t a particularly pleasant bird, but he, too, met his end.  His dramatic demise is recounted here.  (Click on Texas Ranger’s Last Adventure.) Grab a hankie and a fire extinguisher before reading– you’ll need both.


    Three years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: The Odd Child Out (it’s interesting that this post came up now– I’m now addressing these issues with Porter in a much healthier way and hopefully will feel comfortable writing about it soon.)