Sometimes things happen to you and you contact the proper authorities but they don’t do anything, and that’s when you have to handle the matter yourself.
Of course, when we woke up last weekend and found our mailbox crushed in a manner that appeared to be more purposeful than accidental, we chalked it up to rowdy teens, hoped someone would step forward, and went ahead and replaced the wooden beam and box.*
The next day I saw a mailbox down the street destroyed in precisely the same way, and it turns out that a neighbor witnessed the demise of her mailbox and called the police with a description of the vehicle. (A dark Toyota Tundra type truck with brush guards). I don’t know what a brush guard is, but apparently that narrows down the list of suspects quite a bit. I contacted the police as well, and they promised to get back to me, but as of now I’ve not heard from them or the perpetrator. I’m a bit ticky, as I get the feeling they know exactly who it is. I’d appreciate an apology and reimbursement for the new mailbox and its installation.
In the interim, however, Porter and I used the occasion to film CSI:Birmingham, which is obviously a takeoff on CSI:Miami. It’s about 3.5 minutes long (not 12, like the screen says– apparently I have a long tail on the end of the movie that I can’t delete!)
and sums up the case pretty well, except for the Lego.
Enjoy, and I’ll keep you posted on the investigation:
CSI:Birmingham– Mailbox Mayhem from anneglamore on Vimeo.
*I replaced the box quickly because I was expecting two pounds of worms to be shipped to me via the Postal Service, and our mail lady dislikes us. I was sure she wouldn’t get out of her truck and walk the worms to our porch; she’d just return them. I need those worms because I’m starting a vermicomposting project, which promises to be great fun as well as extremely bloggable.
**************** One year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Looks Like I Won
I’ll let you visit this site your ownself and find out what your name would be if you were one of Sarah Palin’s kids. I just want you to be warned, however, that my husband would be Gripper Palin. That’s a handful!
But wait– meet my three lovely boys, Fowl, Stinger and Churn. And that’s me, Yukon. Let me know what your name is in the comments– they’re sure to be a hoot. I’m totally covering Churn’s face in an attempt to remove Fowl’s hat.
Who are you? I hope you aren’t one of those moms who thinks the worst of boys and yells at them for no reason. That happened to Churn the other day and he’s still recovering. You can read about it here.
Fortunately, we’ve all recovered from the nastiness on the playground and we’re laughing again.
*****************
Dude! We’ve been taking these pictures on the beach every year since 1998. Here’s our 2004 attempt. Drew and Porter were about to be six and Finn was nine and a half. It’s a sad commentary that we were better behaved back then than we were this past August.
I have no explanation for the atrocious mom hair other than maybe the stress of wrestling three boys into collared shirts affected my judgment when it came to my own looks.
There’s no polite way to say it.Porter, one of my nine-year-olds, talks too damn much.He narrates his actions as if I’m blind and can’t see what he’s doing.“I’m going to make an omelet with ham and eggs,” he’ll say, pulling the eggs and butter out of the refrigerator.“First I’ll mix up the eggs and scramble them,” he’ll continue, as he cracks the eggs into a bowl.“Now I’m waiting for the cheese to melt a little.Is it melted?It looks kind of oozy…”
I’ve learned to ignore most of the running commentary.But Porter’s also exceptionally curious, and his questions would drive even the most enthusiastic teacher to the brink of insanity.
“What would happen if the sky fell?What Mom?”
“The sky isn’t going to fall, Porter,” I’ll say tiredly.
“But what if it did?Just say it did?Would you feel it hit your head?If you looked up, would you see blue?Would the clouds fall, too?Would we be able to see straight into heaven?”
It had been a hot and dreary day.I’d been juggling Finn’s baseball schedule and trying to mark Drew’s clothes for camp.In between, Porter had followed me around, asking, “How many seeds do you think fit in Feather’s bird feeder at one time?Why do we have grandparents?What would happen if we didn’t?Who invented summer camp?”
By dinner I was spent. I could feel the symptoms of PMS creeping up on me like a cagey leopard.Across the table I saw Finn wielding his fork with surgical skill to extract the onions from the Bowties With Peas & Prosciutto I had prepared.
“Dude, just eat it all in one bite,” I snapped.
“I can’t eat onions,” he whined.“They’re like, really nasty.”
“They’re not nasty,” Porter said, stuffing a quarter of an onion into his mouth and chewing.“They’re actually quite delicious.What makes onions so delicious, Mom?And why can’t you eat the skin?Why do they make you cry when you cut them?What if everything tasted like onions—do you think Finn would starve?”
I slid my chair back abruptly and stood up.“I can’t take it anymore,” I said.“The questions, the criticism of my food, it’s all too much.”I looked at Bill.“Honey, y’all take care of this kitchen.I’m going to bed to read.”
I had barely taken a step when Porter asked, “What are you going to read? Can I read with you? If I bring a book, will you read to me?”
I was shaking. I got in his face and yelled, “Porter, if you want to continue to live in this house, The Questions Have Got To Stop.”
Then I got in bed and wept, over my picky eater, over my nutty schedule, over my cruel remark.
A while later Porter tiptoed in my room and handed me a piece of paper.It contained one last question:
My story “Hot Enough For Ya?” is up at Lipstick. It has nothing to do with the temperature. The tagline describes my situation well: Life isn’t all a bed of roses when you marry a stud muffin.
You would think that everyone would have STOPPED the sports-related snack madness, but they haven’t. My third graders’ soccer team is STILL having after-game snacks. Nothing like Oreos at 10 am.
At least I’m not on my friend’s 4k T-ball team. They practice TWICE A WEEK from 4:30 to 5:30 pm and the team mom has commanded “healthy” snacks for each practice. Not games, PRACTICES. Who needs that kind of extra work, or food?
I don’t care if they’re shooting wheat grass
and chomping alfalfa sprouts;
I don’t want my kids doing it right before dinner twice a week. Nor do I want to have to provide it.
Don’t EVEN get me started on the ridiculousness of kindergarteners practicing twice a week and having a game on Saturday. It’s nuts.
It occurred to me that’s part of the reason everyone’s so over scheduled. When we were growing up, ballet was once a week. Now an activity is two or three times a week. That’s fine for a sixth-grader like Finn, who’s deep into the “learning to manage your time” lesson, but it’s ridiculous for six-year-olds.
We need to take it down a notch!
That will never happen in the Tiny Kingdom, at least with sports.
I'm Anne Glamore, wife, mother, lawyer and blogger. I have three boys, and I'm desperately trying to train them to become Southern gentlemen, but that may be an unrealistic goal. At this point I'd be ecstatic if they'd quit farting at the dinner table.
If you're new here, check out the Readers' Favorite Posts below or browse through the Categories. I write about my attempts to teach the boys about peckers and sex (which we call "making googly eyes"), my struggles with hepatitis C and spine surgery, the boys' adventures with fire and pets, my mom's death from ovarian cancer, my love of cooking (with plenty of recipes) and anything else that crosses my mind. Join me on Twitter or StumbleUpon or Email me.
To Use the Pickle Player: Click the show you want to hear, press play, sit back and enjoy. To read the show notes click HERE.
In "It's Natural" I will tell your kids about the birds and the bees, but YOU must stay in the room and perform the coital finger movements.
