Friday, September 30, 2011

Parents Say the Darndest Things

The other day, I called my parents from Bed, Bath and Beyond to ask what color wood, walnut or black, was the furniture at the condo.

For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space.  Sort of like a giant collage.

"Don't get too many," my dad warned me.  "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."

Umm.  Hellooooo.  I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something?  Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?

I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture?  Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait.  Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall.  The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.

I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait.  Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.

 I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag.  And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic?  And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year?  Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!

It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.

Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity.  The last attack was about a month ago.

Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder.  My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."

Slam!!!  An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot.  The best part is, he wasn't even trying!

"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal.  "I meant because of the scars.  Not that they're bad, they're not.  You can hardly notice them."

Wow.  Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery.  Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public.  You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.

Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late.  It was out there.  In the universe.  And I was texting even as we were speaking.  Hehehe.

Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own.  The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.

We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour.  Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.

As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."

As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation.  "Thanks.  When I was thin.  Before I became Tillie the elephant.  Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."

My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse. 

"No, you were young then."  she protested.

"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?"  Pat sputtered.

Tim and I, of course came to her defense.  NOT!  And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get.  Hehehe.

Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Just Another Manic Monday

Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

Sunday night, I was brushing and flossing before bed when I guess I got a little too vigorous with the floss and...pop! Out came a crown.  Super way to start a week.  I love looking like I am the mayor of  Dogpatch.

So, first thing in the morning, I called the dentist while I tried to suck my coffee through a straw in order to avoid scaring Tim and Chloe by screaming every time the hot coffee met the exposed nerve (I probably could've skipped the coffee, but that just would have led to a really ugly incident when Tim spoke to me, breathed too loud, or entered my line of sight.  Believe me, the straw was the way to go to avoid massive bloodshed.)
Naturally, I got the dentist's voicemail, so I left a message and then proceeded to have my usual Monday fun cleaning and doing laundry.  Yea Monday.

Somewhere around 10:30 or so, the dentist called back to say he could see me at 12 or...hmmm, nope, noon was pretty much my only option.  Great. I guess unless I want to pick up some cement at the hardware store and have a go at it myself, I'll see you in an hour!?!? Yikes!  I think the wicked witch had more warning that a house was going to fall on her.

Now normally, this wouldn't have been an issue, but at that point, I had made some poor choices. 

First, I had decided to try my hairdresser's advice and put rollers in my hair instead of blow-drying it, since standing out in the yard with the dog eight thousand times a day had reduced my hair to a flat, yet frizzy mess due to the humidity/constant rain (when did I move to Seattle?)

Chanting, "I think I can, I think I can", like the little engine that could (ha! What did he know, he only had to climb a lousy hill!), I began ripping rollers from my hair, flinging them hither and yon around the bathroom, only to discover that I had solved the pesky flat-hair problem by giving myself a bouffant!  Aack!!!  Unless I wanted to break out the pearls, memorize Harvey Fierstein's songs and join a local production of Hairspray, I needed to do something fast.

Frantically, I grabbed at my head with both hands trying in vain to deflate the hairdo from H@**, while eyeing the spray bottle of water I was using to train the dog.  Hmmm.  Big hair or flat, frizzy hair?  So many decisions, so little time.

Catching sight of the clock, I realized I was running out of time, so option A it was.

The second mistake I had made was to let the dog crawl under the bed for a little snooze instead of running her outside fifteen minutes earlier.  So now I had to quickly dig her out and take her for a potty call or else I would return home from my trip to find Lake Superior in my living room.

"Chloe, Chloe," I called in my 'happy voice', trying to coax her out.

Unimpressed, she yawned, stretched and rolled over, burying her head under her tail.

"Come on, girl.  Let's go outside."  I clapped my hands and fake-ran toward the stairs.

Nothing.  Not so much as an eyelash flickered.

"Chloeee,"  I begged desperately, dangling a toy in front of the bed, even while I silently acknowledged the utter futility of such actions.

"Come to mama."  I made kissy noises and rubbed my fingers together like I had a treat.

Sadly for me, the little dickens is as smart as she is cute, so all my efforts came to nothing.  Finally, with precious seconds ticking away, I had to resort to running down the stairs and pretending to go outside to stir the little monster...er, I mean darling, into action.

So back up the stairs I dashed, grabbed her majesty, and tore outside, depositing her in the "potty" spot.  Standing over her, I invoked the magic words, "Hurry up!" and waited.  And waited.

Hey was that a squirrel?  "Hurry up!"

Oooh, is a person walking by?  "Hurry up!"

A doggie! A doggie!  I wanna play!  "Hurry up!!!"

Finally, when she had nothing better to do, she obliged me, but not before the humidity and done it's job and I no longer looked like a refugee from the sixties, but more like a home perm experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.  Super great.

With the clock ticking, I jumped in the car and took off, keeping my fingers crossed that I would get a parking space.  At lunch hour.  In a shopping plaza located near the courthouse and multiple businesses.

I do believe in miracles.  I do.  I do.  And I also believe in an invisible six-foot rabbit named Harvey (old Jimmy Stewart movie).

And all of this was before I chose a route with construction.  And drivers who had apparently failed their test sixteen times in a row.  And...Ahh.  I love Monday.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Alarmed

Yesterday morning, we decided to sleep in...till 7am.

The alarm clock in the spare bedroom had other plans.

At 6am, I was pulled from a perfectly lovely dream about eating all the cookies I wanted and not gaining an ounce, by an annoying buzz coming from the other side of the wall.  As I stumbled from my nice, cozy bed, Tim and the dog both rolled over, opened one eye and mumbled something about it being the middle of the night before burying their heads in their pillows again.  Rat Bas@#*ds!

Now, at the best of times, after a really good night's sleep, I wake up slowly.  And grumpy.  And sleepy.  And dopey.  And unless the other dwarves are names cranky, unhappy and miserable, I have nothing in common with any of them.

As I child, I would burrow under the ninety-two blankets plus the sheepskin rug I dragged back from Ireland while my disgustingly cheerful, morning-person father stood in the doorway of my bedroom and whistled "Revile."  If I could have pulled myself from the bed before he cantered happily downstairs, I would have beaten him to death with my pink and purple giraffe-shaped clothes tree.  But I digress.

I lumbered into the room, trying to locate the source of annoyance without A. opening my eyes or B. turning the light on.  Luckily, I was able to find the shrilling siren, but had no idea how to turn it off, which necessitated in me turning on the light, actually opening at least one eye and pushing every button until the darn thing shut up...temporarily.

Is there some reason why manufacturers have stopped putting a simple on/off button on things.  Seriously.  They all have buttons with symbols that are supposed to be intuitive and international, therefore easily understood by everyone.  Just like some of the labels on clothing.  News flash.  I have NO IDEA what a triangle with a line through it means!  Does a trapezoid with a zero in the center mean wash in cold water, or lay flat because if you put this in the dryer, it will come out the size of a postage stamp?  Does a semi-circle with dots mean iron, don't iron or have a nice day?  But I digress.

Apparently pushing all the buttons on the stupid alarm in varying combinations does not turn it off, it just resets it for an hour later.  Not that it mattered, because at that point I was wide awake anyway.  I briefly contemplated just throwing it against the wall until it shut up, but with my luck, the only thing that would accomplish would have been setting off the burglar alarm, and I'm sure I have no idea how to turn that off.

So much for a long, restful night's sleep.

Which was why, last night, I was so tired ad looking forward to (finally) a good night's sleep.

Our smoke detector in the hallway had other plans.

At 4am this morning, we were awakened by a short blip, then a longer beeeeeep from the smoke detector.
This time, both Tim and I sprang out of bed (the dog put her paws over her ears and retreated to the back of her crate) and ran out into the hall to find...nothing.  Total and complete silence.

Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, nose twitching, I hit the lights and made the rounds looking and smelling for smoke, flames, anything.

Tim grumbled about needing to replace the batteries, tucked himself back up in bed, and nodded off again before my blood pressure had even dropped to twelve times the normal rate.

He was conditioned by our first apartment building where the alarm went off about every other night.  After the twelfth kajillionth time of tromping down seven flights of stairs to mill around the lobby in our pajamas at 1, 2 or 3am, along with every other poor slob in the building, he had had enough.  The next time the alarm went off, he called down to the front desk.

"Is there really a fire this time, or is it another false alarm," he demanded.

"No sir, it's really a fire in someone's kitchen," the night clerk affirmed.

"What floor is it on?" Tim barked.

"Three," came the response.

"Wake me when it reaches five," Tim snarled, hanging up.

But I digress.

I was finally able to drift off again and get a whole, solid hour of sleep before our alarms went off.  Yea (read with deep sarcasm, not joy).

As I sat on the couch, sipping my decaf coffee (who needed more excitement?) and wishing I could slip into a nice, peaceful coma, I heard it again.  The alarm in the guest bedroom was going off.

Tonight, I'm thinking of finding a firehouse to sleep in.  It will almost certainly be more quiet.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

My Hero

Tim and I love to walk.  Rain or shine, hot or cold, we walk.  At home, on vacation, visiting family or friends, we walk.

So when we were away for the weekend awhile back with some friends of ours, the four of us went out for...a walk.

It started out nicely, strolling through a neighborhood much like ours--wide streets, no sidewalks, houses far apart, lots of trees and other green stuff.  "The country" as Rose likes to call it.

As we approached this one house, we noticed some dogs in the yard.  Three dogs to be exact.  Three really big dogs, who, when they spotted us, all went on high alert and began barking, and not in a "goody, goody, we love people" sort of way.  More like in a "Ready boys?  Let's get'em" sort of way.

But since they were at the top of a really really long driveway, and the owner was out in the yard, we weren't too worried.  Deciding to err on the side of caution though, we shifted over to the far side of the street.  Which only ticked off the dogs more.

Suddenly, as though someone had shouted, "Release the hounds!", 8000 pounds of Cujo and company came racing down the driveway, barking, growling and snapping like they had just spotted the fox...and it was us.

At first, we didn't panic, thinking that surely they would stop once they reached their property line.  Surely they were trained, or there was one of those invisible fences, or...something, anything to save us from the jaws of death headed our way.

Time slowed down as we watched, horrified, while they seemed to be gaining speed as they neared the end of the driveway, instead of slowing down into a nice, non-threatening trot.

Pieces of Discovery Channel shows began flashing through my mind.  Shark Week, Hogs Gone Wild, Man vs. Wild, those guys who live in a swamp.  There had to be some useful bit of survival information that applied here.  Why oh why hadn't I paid more attention, maybe Tivo or DVR'd it, taken some notes  when I had the chance.

What did they say to do?  Climb a tree, cover your head, swim fast, get under a table, carry a taser?  I couldn't think.

"Stand still,"  someone said.  "Don't run."

Yeah.  Okay.  The small part of my brain that wasn't running around screaming, "We're all going to die!" knew that that is what the so-called "experts" say, but when you are looking death in the jowls, that advice seems, what is the word I'm looking for?  Oh yeah.  STUPID.  Sure, I'll just stand here and do nothing while the Hounds of the Baskervilles gnaw on my leg and rip off my arm.

Of course, the thought did cross my mind though that Tim was on my left, between me and Jaws, so maybe I had time to shimmy up a tree after all.

As we all stood there, petrified, a miraculous thing happened.  The dogs skidded to a sudden halt at the edge of the driveway...or at least two of them did.

The third slowed down and looked over his shoulder at the other two like, "Come on, we can do this.  What're you wimps stopping there for?  Look.  It's a four course meal and they're just standing there waiting to be eaten.  Those fools have clearly fallen for the old "don't move" slogan our PR people put out.  Saps.  They should have run for their lives when they had the chance.

He then flew out into the road and headed straight for Tim, teeth snapping, spittle flying, ears pinned back.  Hitchcock couldn't have come up with anything more terrifying.  This dog made his birds look like they belonged in a Disney movie designing dresses and sweeping out the attic.

Tim apparently felt the same way, because the next thing I knew, he had completely discarded the common "don't move" wisdom and put a shield between himself and the dog.  A human shield.  Me.

One minute, he was on my left facing down The Beast.  The next, he was waaay far on the other side of me.  Wow. Somebodies fight or flight instinct kicked in.  Way to go Galahad.

Before I could shove him in front of me once more though, the dog seemed to tire of the "terrorize the people" game he'd been playing, and with a final snap of teeth that really needed to be filed down, or pulled, he trotted off back to his buddies, tail in the air, chest all puffed out, patting himself on the back for a job well done.

Tim, of course, denies his actions to this day, and when we were once again "threatened" by a vicious monster a few weeks later as we walked around our neighborhood, he made a point of putting me behind him to alone bear the brunt of the deadly attack.

"Gee," I quipped, peering over his shoulder at the fearsome monster bearing down on us, "what was your first clue we were in danger again?  Was it the way the poodle was wagging his tail as he ran over, or the slobbering kisses he's giving you?"

"You never know what will happen when a dog is charging," Tim defended himself, scratching "killer" behind the ear.  "I didn't want you to get bitten."

My hero.

Friday, September 16, 2011

The Invisible Woman

Last year, Tim and I spent a weekend at a very nice, small inn/resort where the staff makes an effort to learn your name.  Or at least Tim's name.  Mine, not so much.

At first, I didn't notice that I wasn't there.  After all, Tim is the one who made the dinner reservations, selected the wine, paid for the meals.  He also likes his food prepared very simply, so he was always rearranging the menu items, which I'm sure made him stand out in the the staffs' minds.

"Welcome, Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd say as we sat down.  "What would you like?"

"What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd offer.  "Mr. Sinclair, can we get you anything else?"

It was kind of like being married to Norm on Cheers.  What was her name, Vera?

By the end of the weekend, I expected to hear them shout, "Tim!" when we entered a room, and have his drink ready before his bottom hit the chair. 

Gradually, I noticed that he got the big meet and greet, and I got.....nothing.  There was the hanging on his every word as though he was Einstein explaining relativity for dummies. There were the blank stares I encountered when I tried to alert them to the fact that there was a Mrs. Sinclair.  There was the subtle way the waiter stood with his back toward me when taking our orders.

Tim, naturally, was in complete denial, even as I transitioned from solid, to transparent to totally invisible.

The staff would rush up as we entered the lobby, concern etched into their faces.  "Mr. Sinclair, are you aware that there is some strange woman following you?"  they'd ask, casting dark looks my way.  "What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair?"  It only got worse as the weekend went on. 

"Is this woman bothering you, Mr. Sinclair?"  I could hear the unspoken question when I dared to sit at his table our final night there.  "Would you like us to call security?  We can have her removed.  No trouble at all.  Now, what would you like to eat, Mr. Sinclair?"

Umm.  Helloooo.  I'm his wife.  See the ring?  I would waggle my finger at them.  Sometimes it actually was my ring finger that I put up.

Finally though, the weekend was over, and Tim once again had to acknowledge that he had a wife.

A few months later, we had the opportunity to go back to the inn, this time with another couple who clearly thought my  stories were an exaggeration of the facts.  Until we got there.

"Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair," the woman at reception gushed as we checked in.

"Ahem,"  I cleared my throat.

"Be with you in a moment, ma'am.  Please step back until we finish with Mr. Sinclair, our favorite guest of all time, and the handsomest man on the planet."

Well, okay, maybe I exaggerate a little.  They didn't actually say that he was handsome.

But seriously, as skeptical as they were at first, eventually, our friends began to realize that I had been telling the truth.  And worse, my disease was contagious.  They were becoming invisible too.

"Afternoon, Mr. Sinclair," the staff greeted the four of us as we headed out for a walk.

I arched my brow at our friends.  "See?"  I silently asked.

They dismissed it as Tim simply being the first one out the door.

"Wine, Mr. Sinclair?"  the bartender asked whipping out a nice bottle of white to present to Tim with a flourish, as the four of us sat down for a pre-dinner drink.

I arched both brows, and confiscated Tim's glass since it was the only way I was going to get a drink without stomping my own grapes.  The other two were on their own.  From the slightly dazed looks on their faces though, they were beginning to come around to my side as they faded from view.

Tim, of course, protested vociferously that this was all in our collective imagination.  He insisted he was treated no differently than the rest of us peons.

But the clincher came when we sat down to dinner.

"Mr. Sinclair, I don't know who these people are that have somehow managed to sit at your table, but what would you like to eat?  You usually get the fish.  Shall we prepare it with a side of seasonal vegetables?  And I know you don't do bread, so I won't bring over the basket.  Also, here is a bottle of sparkling water which I know is your favorite.  Now, can I get you anything else?"

Somehow the waiter managed to avoid eye contact with any of the rest of us during his spiel, and successfully insert himself between the three of us and Tim by the time he was finished.

By now  though, it was clear to our friends that they had suffered my fate and ceased to exist.  They sat, mouths agape as reality sunk in.

Satisfied that my point had been made, I leaned past the waiter as he hovered over Tim, just in case "Mr. Sinclair" should need anything like an extra napkin, refill on his drink, more salad dressing, his chin wiped, to be burped.

"Perhaps you could ask him, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if the people with Mr. Sinclair might actually get a little something to eat and drink too?"

Tim finally had the grace to at least look a little chagrined.  Not that that changed anything until after we checked out.  The three of us and Mr. Sinclair.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Suit Up

Last week, we were in the Bahamas where I had an unfortunate incident involving my bathing suit and my sunblock.  Apparently, the higher the SPF, the more corrosive the lotion.  Who knew?

It actually ate my suit, which makes me sooo happy that I have been slathering it on my skin for the last umpteen years.  Hmm, so I guess I can either opt for skin cancer or having the top six layers of my skin dissolved by helioplex.  Great.

When the (new) lotion began attacking suit number two, I figured it was time to either look into purchasing a new suit or find a nude beach.

Finding a bathing suit in the Bahamas;  how long could that take?  Two, three minutes?

Yeah.  Right.  If you have the ability to tan, are sixteen and weigh sixteen pounds and/or love bling, you're in luck.  Otherwise, not so much.

I began at the hotel gift shop.  Where they had a huge selection.  Four.  Three of which could have been sewn together and still not have made a large enough suit to cover what needed to be covered.  The fourth suit was a one-piece;  however, it looked as though it had been designed by a five year old who had been left unattended with a Bedazzler and a stack of Disney princess movies.

So we walked down the street to the little shopping area where I felt sure I would find a suit.  And I did.  Lors and lots.  Of  itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikinis.

I get that for most people, the purpose of lying on the beach is to get a deep, dark tan with as few tan lines as possible.  More power to them.  They are fortunate enough to have shades of beige and brown among their skin color choices. 

I, on the other hand, have two choices:  white and red.  For me, the purpose of lying on the beach is to see  if I can get someone to bring me many frozen drinks with little umbrellas in them to help me forget that I am baking in the sun under an umbrella, awning, three towels and a big hat.  I need SPF 60 just to make it from my room to the chair without resembling a lobster.

So when it comes to swimsuit style, more fabric is definitely the way for me to go in terms of sun protection.  Actually, more fabric is pretty much the way for me to go regardless.  At my age, there are just some things that are better left to the imagination...or left to someone with a severe astigmatism who has lost their glasses.  Something that I could fold up and stuff in my pocket with room left over for my wallet, keys, cell phone, ipod, tissues and make-up was not going to cut it.

My next stop was a neighboring hotel where they have a shopping arcade.

Bingo!  I found a suit right away, and it was on sale.  Oh lucky day.  So it was bright orange and I would look like a traffic cone, but at least it was made with more fabric than is in a Barbie outfit.  So it was four sizes too big.  Wait.  Surely, there must be other sizes or colors.  Frantically, I pawed through the racks.

How about yellow, and I could look like Big Bird, or bright green and I could be a beanstalk?  Nope.  All they had was the one orange suit and then lots of bikinis and a few one-piece suits that glittered so much I would feel like the mirror-ball trophy on Dancing With The Stars.

Finally realizing that I was going to have to bite the bullet and go into Nassau, we hopped a cab and decided to make a day of it.  And it did take pretty much all day.

Shop after shop, it was the same.  Suits that were made for sun worshippers or someone with a lot fewer inhibitions than I have.

No, I did not want to look like a french maid, cowgirl or pole dancer.  Seriously, do you have a lot of call for this stuff?  Are people flocking to your store to buy something that when you get it wet is going to look more like body paint and less like something you can actually swim in?

And what's up with the big gold medallions and rings and decorative chunks of metal replacing good old-fashioned ties and straps?  I wasn't aware that Mr. T was competing against Esther Williams in the swimwear business.

Not that there is anything wrong with a little style and flair, but how about when all that metal heats up in the sun?  That's gotta feel good.  Sort of like a cow at branding time.  I can just imagine hopping out of my suit in the middle of the beach as the neckline begins to glow red hot.

And didn't I read somewhere that sharks were attracted to shiny things?  What sick designer thought it would be a good idea to wear something that would attract a predator?  Perhaps they also have a line of clothing made of raw meat for people who go on safari, or one made of fresh sheepskin for those who like to go hiking in wolf country.  Pass.

And so, at the end of the day, I left empty handed but with my modesty and skin intact.  We did make one final stop though for a bottle of Woolite so that I could help my two remaining suits survive our vacation. 

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

We Should Have Called Her Houdini

Our dog, Chloe, is crate trained...more or less.  Less than more.

Every night she goes contentedly into her crate (okay, we put it on the edge of the bed where she can't get a toehold, duck her head, tuck in her paws and try to shove her into it while she somehow manages to grow eight more legs and cover herself in grease.  Imagine trying to stuff a giant squid into a thimble and you're halfway there. 

"I was framed, I'm telling you.  I'm innocent,"  she protests vehemently.

Every day, her first order of business is to liberate every item in her crate.  "Run and be free," she tells Bedtime Bear and Mr. Winkles as she tosses them hither and yon around the bedroom.  "Quick, everyone over the wall!"

Oddly enough though, given her feelings regarding anyplace with walls and a door, she allows herself to be put in her playpen during the day with nary a peep (okay, so we have to leave treats, toys, the TV remote, phone, laptop and gold Am Ex card).  Which is why I was excited to find a travel version made of canvas and mesh.  No need to worry about our precious bundle of hair frying herself on a lamp wire or ingesting a couch, bed or other tempting and tasty hotel room paraphernalia that they have for the sole purpose of luring good little puppies down the wicked path of ruin.

Chloe was not quite as excited about it as I.

Where I saw a safe and familiar environment, she saw a network game show challenge.  It was like watching Win It In A Minute as she charged the sides, teeth, hair and paws flying about in a frenzy while she hurled all six pounds  of herself repeatedly at the sides until it resembled a No. 2 pencil instead of an octagon.

She proudly looked up at me from atop the mound of pee pads, dishes, toys and bed crammed into a six-inch space at one end as I surveyed the damage that hurricane Chloe had caused.

"Look what I did, mom,"  she panted excitedly.  "And for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"

Believing myself able to outsmart the dog, I wedged the playpen between the bed, nightstand, ottoman, four chairs, eight maids amilking, seven swans aswimming and a partridge in a pear tree.  Satisfied that would hold her, Tim and I went out to dinner.

Upon our return, I put my finger to my lips and shushed Tim as we silently crept back into the room and peered down into the playpen...to see nothing!

"Chloe, Chloeeeee," we called imagining masked marauders dog napping our precious baby and holding her for a ransom.  Quick, where was the number for the navy seals, the green berets or the A-Team?

Suddenly,we were hit from behind by a small, fuzzy projectile of joy.  "Aren't you proud of me?  See, I escaped!  Watching all those David Copperfield specials really paid off, huh?"

Incredulous, we examined the playpen, looking for the escape hatch.  It seemed improbable that she had scaled the four foot sides, and the zippered door was still firmly zippered shut, but upon closer inspection, we discovered that one of the velcro straps joining the sides had been opened.  What we still can't figure out is how, since it was closed on the outside of the playpen with a buckle!    Like any good magician though, she refuses to share her secrets.

Still thinking I was maybe at least as smart as she, I brought the playpen with me to visit my parents two weeks ago.  This time, I not only surrounded it with massive pieces of furniture, I sprayed all the velcro closures with a bitter apple dog deterrent.  Ha!  I win!

Yeah.  For about five minutes.

I should have just dunked the whole pen in bitter apple, because when she found she couldn't push the sides or bite the velcro, she simply latched her sharp little puppy teeth onto the mesh and pulled.  Faster than you can say origami, she had twisted the shape into something beyond all recognition containing about four inches of real estate.

"Help!  Help!"  she yipped, looking balefully at me as though this were all my fault (the mother always gets blamed)."Maybe I should have said  bibbidy bobbidy boo instead of abracadabra." 

Totally defeated, I was investigating other options like crying, calling Tim up and whining, calling the Super-Nanny and whining, or sending a note up the chimney for Mary Poppins to find, when my father declared he could contain Chloe.  Foolish, foolish man.

"We'll close the baby gate to the family room(which is at the back of the house)"  he rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist, "unfold the pen, brace it against a few chairs, the bookcase, velcro it to the floor and tie it off.  There.  That ought to hold her."  He stepped back, overly pleased with himself.

"I don't know..." I shook my head.  He clearly didn't understand who he was up against.

"She's a dog,"  he scorned.  "If she can figure out how to get out of there, I'll shake her paw tonight."

She met us at the front door when we returned, paw extended, head cocked to one side, superior little smile on her lips.  I just wish we had bet some money on it.

So now the challenge was on.  Chloe vs my father.  They each took it as a personal challenge to thwart the other.  It was kind of like watching Wile E Coyote trying to outsmart the Roadrunner.  You just knew that whatever he's ordered from Acme is going to blow up in his face.  I kept warning my dad that he was outgunned, but he was nothing if not determined.

In the end though, my father did win.  He only had to rearrange the family room furniture, add the kitchen chairs, table, stove and refrigerator as reinforcements, tie off the playpen with kitchen twine, put the lock on the baby gate, and bolt a few things down to the floor.  Chloe was finally safe, and trapped in her playpen.

Victory came at a price though,which was that while she couldn't get out of the family room, we couldn't get in.  No family room.  No TV.  His system made Fort Knox look like it was was secured with a flimsy latch and a battered "Beware of Dog" sign. 

Even though she was well and truly trapped, somehow, I think that putting him to so much trouble might have been Chloe's next trick all along.