I Teach My Kid to Drive While Covered in (Root) Beer

I mentioned on Facebook last week that between the bats and the bears and my daughter's learners permit, I was sort of terrified to head up North. Which reminds me; it always cracked me up when someone from Minnesota referred to "up North", because Minnesota's pretty North, until we bought a cabin further north than our house, either longitudinally or laterally. (I can never keep those two straight. Heh, heh--straight! Get it?) Thus: up North. Now I understand! It just seemed weird before.

So I was letting my daughter drive, and my son was in the back seat with our two dogs. I was eating A&W onion rings (soooo good if you like greasy food that will kill you, which I do) and "teaching" by which I mean, I was eating onion rings. My son was sucking down his root beer float. And then...I'm still not sure how this happened, though he used the word "haunted" and the word "possessed" and the word "demon". Anyway, he spilled his float. We weren't on a rough road or taking a sharp turn or fending off motion sickness or trying to win a race or taking over the mailman's route for the day or anything like that, he just sort of simultaneously spilled. EVERYWHERE.

So he started yelling. In fact, he proved himself his mother's son with the first word out of his 12-year old mouth: "Shit!" (Given the enormous mess, I let it slide. Also: thanks to me, he knew that word by the time he was ten months old, because I have the self-control of a chimpanzee in the fruit section of Cub Foods.) So I twisted around and saw the kid covered in root beer float, and the dogs covered in root beer float and licking each other. And even though my car is a garbage dump on wheels, I was still horrified. So I started screaming incoherently: "Aggghhh, no...grrrrr! Wha--aaagggghhh! Aaagghh!" Just as when I was trying to tell them to come look at the bear in our back yard, all I could do was sort of grunt and flail around in the passenger seat without actually using verbs or nouns or adjectives or adverbs.

This alarmed my daughter, who promptly twisted around. "What? What's wrong?" This time I was a big girl and used my words: "WATCH THE ROAD, WATCH THE ROAD, WATCH THE ROOOOOOOAD!"

Sometimes you have these moments in your life where you step back and coldly observe and think: "It's time to re-evaluate my life." Also: "Watch the road!" This wasn't one of those times, because I knew exactly where it had all gone wrong.

The best part was, we were a good twenty miles away from even a gas station. And the only thing I had in the car was one of those little portable packs o'Kleenex. So I sort of blotted my son (I didn't even try to blot the dogs, who were still avidly slurping each other's fur) with my grand total total of eight Kleenexes while reminding my daughter that this wasn't England, so she was required to drive on the right side of the road.

Also, unbeknownst to me, while this was going on my body was happily incubating a flu virus or something equally vile. So although I didn't know it, I was due to start vomiting within 72 hours. Although to be fair, I really felt like getting a head start on the vomiting what with root beer spraying everywhere. I love most kinds of pop...my idea of the perfect beverage is a Coke clogged with ice on a hot summer day. But something about root beer summons my gag reflex. It's not a problem with liquid, either, because I hate those little candy root beer barrels, too. I hate everything about root beer. Root beer, you go straight to hell! You go straight to hell and you die, root beer!

The best part is, my son has always been the fastidious one in the family. Messes really bugged him, even when he was still in diapers. In fact, he would apologize if he'd gotten sick or needed a Pull-Ups change. "I'm really sorry, Mom." "You're two. Forget about it." "Yeah, but still." "You haven't been on the planet as long as some of the yogurt in our fridge. Don't worry about it." (Memo to me: clean out the fridge.) He may have only been two on the outside, but he was at least eleven on the inside. So when we made it to our cabin, he had to sort of peel himself out of the back seat, complete with "zzzzrrrrriiiipp!" sound effects. And the look on his face...let's just say that I make my living writing, and yet my powers of description were not up to it.

But all's well that ends etcetera...we emptied the car and then he hopped in the tub and got squeaky clean. Well, he's a pre-teen boy, so kind of clean. Barely clean? Semi-clean? But I've got to do something about the dogs. Bees are following them everywhere.

Like I needed another reason to hate root beer?

An Excepert from WOLF AT THE DOOR

Weirdly, I have the flu. I hate buying Nyquil when it's eighty-some degrees out. I also hate the taste of Nyquil. Oh, and barfing on the hour. I hate that, too. So no blog this week, I'm taking the lazy route. Below is an excerpt from the sequel to DERIK'S BANE, a book I had way too much fun writing called WOLF AT THE DOOR. It's based on a novella I wrote ages ago and finally got a chance to go back and turn into a full-length novel. Readers will get to (or "have to" if you didn't much like DERIK'S BANE) see Michael Wyndham, Eddie Batley and Boo (from the novella "The Misadventures of Boo and the Boy Blunder"), Sinclair, Betsy, and one or two others. Never say you weren't warned.

I gotta go barf now. It has nothing to do with the quality of my work! Probably.

* * *

It was fate that led her to the Woodbury Barnes and Noble that night. Fate, and an urgent need for both a lemon scone and Newsweek. Later, Rachael was unable to remember when exactly she’d spotted Edward in the store, because she hadn’t started to pay attention until the felony assault. But she always remembered the first thing he had said to her, right there in front of the Sweet Valley Vampires display: “The undead really, really dislike being this popular.”

That was odd enough to catch her attention...and he was cute enough to keep it.

Like any werewolf, she had started sorting scents the moment she came through the door, categorizing and filing them away. She did it as automatically as people checked the rearview mirror when they backed up. And when she focused on Edward it was the way people didn’t pay attention to the color of a necktie until they were right in front of them.

So it was with Edward’s scent, a pleasing combo of clean cotton and oranges, with a sprinkling of underarm deodorant; she liked it right away. She also liked the way his light brown hair was a bit shaggy, in need of a trim, and she liked the way the ends of his hair kept trying to curl under. Best of all, she liked his shirt: Your Favorite Band Sucks.

“I suppose they would.”

He was staring at her. She wasn’t sure why; he wasn’t a werewolf. She knew this as people know who was into the Cheetos because of their orange fingertips.

She repeated herself, louder: “I suppose they would.”

“Who would?"

What was he staring at? “Would what?”

“Who would...wait. What?”

“Let’s start over.” Actually, she should just walk away...why draw out this encounter? But she didn’t want to, and she didn’t know why.

Then she did know. He was an attractive, intelligent male and he was in his sexual prime. The beast in her thought the chances with him weren’t just outstanding, they were almost a necessity. She was a creature of instinct and senses, as different from this man as the great apes he’d evolved from were different from the wolves in her old, old family tree. I suppose that means while my instinct is to bring down prey, his is to make tools!

Her civilized side thought it might be fun to go get a Frappucino with this guy. Her beast wanted to lure him to her lair and have sex all afternoon.

“I’m so sorry, I honestly wasn’t paying attention...I have no idea what I actually said. I was kind of in my own head.” He paused, then added with the air of a someone sharing a great, shameful-yet-exciting secret, “I’m in there a lot, actually.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” She extended her hand and almost gasped when he seized it and wrung it, as if he was afraid she’d change her mind about introducing herself. “I’m Rachael Velvela.”

“Vell-vay-luh? That’s neat.” Neat? He thought it was neat? No one had ever said that. People just immediately started mocking it. She’d been Rachael Velveeta from kindergarten on up. “Edward Batley. It’s really nice to meet you.” His pleasure and attraction were apparent, and increased hers. “I come here a lot, but I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“I just moved here from Massachusetts.” She never said Cape Cod. She was startled by how many people had no idea where that was. Most of them knew where Massachusetts was. “I thought I’d come in and pick up a few local guide books, to sort of look around. So I was in the travel section, and then this man told me the undead don’t like all the attention they’re getting.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry. Can’t believe that was out loud. Of course it’s all bull—it’s not true. I mean, it might be true, it would be true, if there were vampires in real life. Which there aren’t. At all. Because if there were—and there aren’t—I’d never be so careless as to wander around random bookstores telling strangers the likes and dislikes of the blood-drinking dependant.”

“The what?”

“Or the breathing-impaired...whichever you think is, you know, not offensive.”

“I can’t tell if this is the silliest conversation I’ve had all week, or the most interesting.”

“You want to get a blueberry scone, maybe sit down with an iced tea or something, try and decide?”

She smiled at him. “Well...yeah. I would, actually. Except that the taste of blueberries makes me vomit, so I will take a lemon scone.”

“Usually when I talk to a girl,” he confided, “she doesn’t use the word ‘vomit’ until we’re trying to pick out which movie we want to see.”

She laughed so hard she nearly walked into the end cap. Guidebooks to St. Paul, handsome strangers using odd pick-up lines, and baked goods produced by the Starbucks Corporation...could there be a sillier, funnier day?

I Don't Get Mauled by a Bear

Sometimes my family and I sleep in an old church in the middle of the Wisconsin woods. No, we don't do this because we lost a bet (though if we did, I'd love to know what we'd have gotten if we had won...would we have had to sleep in a Hilton? A Cape Cod bed and breakfast?).

Because our writer's cabin (Tony suggested 'writers retreat' while I leaned toward 'cabin way way out in the woods by a lake that's Mosquito Central', thus the compromise) is in the the woods, a lot of the local wildlife hasn't had time to adjust to the change in management. Typical. It's not like I didn't post memos all over the place. Animals are just lazy.

Three years ago, the lot was just that...a lot. So the deer and the possums and the beavers and the bears and the loons were used to the run of the place.

Enter Jim Landreth, brilliant architect. He had seen an old church (built in 1857, I think, but don't hold me to the exact date) the town was going to tear down, or blow up, or whatever Americans do when faced with a chunk of their history. (Can you imagine if Italians had blown up the Coliseum because it was old? or because they needed to put up condos?) Instead, he had the idea to take the church, haul it to a lot somewhere in the country, and completely re-do it as a vacation home. He updated it with modern conveniences like air conditioning and a microwave and running water, but kept the cool church-ey stuff...the bell tower, the wood work in the dining room, the hardwood floors.

The result was astonishing. One man's vision, and just look! Now my husband and I sleep (and occasionally defile) the room where the minister's pulpit used to be; our dining room is where the congregation sat, and the guest bathroom is...well, I think that might be new. Still: eerie! And cool.

I couldn't wait to meet this guy at the closing, to shake his hand and possibly kiss him on the mouth. I even had a plan in reserve in case I wanted to put Operation Smacker into action. First, I would distract Tony with a Subway sandwich, because the title company shared a building with Subway, so the entire time we were there signing paperwork, the yummy maddening smell of baking bread was everywhere. And then, when Tony took off to get a foot-long club, the architect would be mine, all mine. As it turned out, the good man was taken, so I was forced to abort Operation Smacker. Tony bought that sandwich for nothing!

So all the i's were dotted and all the t's crossed, and now the former church was our writers cabin. We love it there, despite the admitted weirdness that comes with country living. I've lived as long in cities as I have in the country, so I think I've got perspective someone who only lived in the city or only lived in the country wouldn't have. And by "perspective" I mean "damaging psychological scars".

For example. Road kill. Country road kill is very, very different from seeing the occasional squashed squirrel or smacked pigeons. I never in my life saw a road kill beaver until we came here, and felt real, real bad: "Aw, beaver! Why are you crossing streets? Stay in your lake, beaver, your LAKE!" Nor had I ever seen a dead baby deer being eaten...by a bald eagle. I couldn't decide if I was enchanted or appalled. "Oooh, kids, look at the...um, I mean look away from...well, it IS a bald eagle...eating a...uh..." To which my husband replied, "How about enchanted AND appalled?" Which seemed pretty sound.

Oh, and the bear, Hammock. My husband named him because the first time we saw him was Father's Day weekend last year, and we'd given Tony a hammock, and guess where he was when he spotted Hammock the bear? Yep, his hammock. From which he spied Hammock. Didn't see that one coming, didja? Hammock. Hammock. Hammock. (I really like saying Hammock.)

We knew about Hammock and his brethren before we ever saw him. Our neighbor came over while we were moving in and told us that a bear cub had gotten trapped in our gazebo and spent several minutes yowling and bawling for help. None of the builders were there, so this incredibly ballsy woman in her sixties walked through our house, up the walk to the gazebo, and then held the screen door open so the cub could rush outside. As the cub did so (without so much as a thank you, I might add...these darned cubs today), she spotted his mother. So she carefully and slowly backed up until she was in the house, then watched the bear corral her wayward, gazebo-lovin' cub and beat feet out of there. The builders then fixed the screen doors so they could be open from the inside. Because nothing says "welcome to my gazebo where you will surely meet your doom" better than screen doors that swing both ways.

It's one thing to know you live in the woods and that in some places, bears also live in the woods. It's something else to glance out your kitchen window and see a bear unfettered by fences, or tranquilizers. My husband, also known as City Boy, was enchanted. Me, less so. You'd think I'd be happy to see another omnivore like me roaming the woods, and yet, I was not. As the size of my ass will attest, I'm not used to competing for food.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago...the kids and the dogs and I had come up to hang out; Tony wasn't going to be there until after dark. So I was relaxing and slurping pudding pops (mmmm...pudding pops...) when our two dogs lost their MINDS.

Those of you who have dogs know that they can be snoring one second, then on their feet unleashing deafening volleys of barking the next. Their sudden burst of activity startled the shit out of me; no pudding pop was made to be jammed that far into my mouth. And I was super pissed (while coughing up pudding). "You guys! Quiet!" Cough. Gag. Spit up more pudding. "Knock it off!" Oh, man, was I pissed at those two.

Then I stepped closer, brandishing the now-empty popsicle stick, and got ready to really let them have the full measure of my scorn and hatred. Then I looked up and saw Hammock. In our yard. About eight feet from where I was standing. He was just as cool as a cuke, too: "What? I'm just passin' through. Back off, bitch, unless you want me to use your ribs as a xylophone."

So I screamed for the kids. I wanted them to see this before he waddled back into the underbrush; talk about once in a lifetime! Okay, this time made it twice in a lifetime. Still: pretty cool. Unfortunately, I was so excited and on an adrenaline high, and couldn't articulate. So what the kids heard was this.

1) Furious barking from dogs.

2) Furious yelling from Mom.

3) Furious yelling at the kids: "Kids! You guys! Hammock, it's Hammock, COME QUICK! It's, oh man he's in the yard HURRY UP YOU GUYS IT'S HAMMOCK THE BEAR!"

Both kids were pretty confused. Chris in particular thought I meant that the bear was *after* me, so she went lunging for her bow and arrows (she's a dead shot, by the way, thanks to my superior genetic addition to the family gene pool). To protect me!

So once Hammock had lumbered off to his lair, I told my daughter that her first impulse, to grab for a weapon to protect her mother, was incredibly brave. And I meant it! I doubt at 15 I'd have had the presence of mind to do anything but dive and cower under the bed. Also: it was incredibly stupid. And I meant that, too.

"If I was in trouble," I told the kids, "you are to run as fast as you can THE OTHER WAY."

"But Mom--"

"THE OTHER WAY." "Because if you don't, and I survive the encounter, I'm going to visit upon you the grisly death you were trying to save me from. Repeat after me: Mom's in trouble? Run away. Mom's arm got somehow stuck in a bear's jaws? Run away. Mom starts hitting the red wine and wants to show you her impersonation of Madonna during her breast-cone years? Run away. Mom wants to show you her impersonation of Madonna during her hairy-armpit modeling days? Run away."

So my son looked at Chris and said, "Gee, maybe I should have gotten my BB gun." NO, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE GOTTEN YOUR GUN. DID YOU HEAR A WORD I JUST SAID? I've raised kids with healthy self-esteem and, apparently, no protective coloring of any kind. Hmm, yes, an arrow through Hammock's shoulder followed by him being peppered in the snout with teeny tiny BBs...I can't think of a faster way to piss off something big enough to suck down our satellite dish in one hairy bite.

Hammock looked *good*, too, and I was happy to see it. We had a long, miserable winter this year and until then, all the wildlife I'd seen that spring was pretty scrawny, in particular the yearling deer (the ones born last spring who don't have much experience foraging in wintertime). Not Hammock, though. The fat bastard was sporting a sleek black coat, not hugely fat but not winter-skinny either, and thoroughly aware that he could cross the yard with impunity as we were all cowering inside. At first I was surprised at how small he was, then remembered the Black Bear is not the Grizzly, and then it made sense.

I thought how small he was, how un-scary, then felt bad because he was so few--two hundred years ago, what is now our back yard was probably crawling with bears. Then I reminded myself WHY...he was minding his own business, shitting in the woods like all the jokes say, when some dicks hauled up an old church and plunked it in the middle of his woods, and then they hammered and sawed and made messes and bad smells and a weird cage to trap his cub, all so some asshat writers and their noisy jerky offspring could mysteriously show up and stink up the place and have loud dogs that were even more annoying than the racket loons made in the spring, and more startling than that mean old eagle who liked to eat baby deer roadkill.

So then I was annoyed, pissed, guilty, thrilled, excited, sad, and then again with the guilty. But I won't denyit was a huge thrill, followed by a huge pain in my ass. Because when I wanted to go for a walk that evening, Tony nagged me into taking a knife with me. "I'll be on the road," I protested. "I'm way more likely to get run over than mauled by a bear." (Weirdly, this did not comfort him.) "Plus, what am I, Daniel Boone? What do I do with a knife, let him get REALLY close and stick it in his eye? Fillet him? What?" But City Boy would not be denied, so I stuck a huge fillet knife in my pocket and went for my walk, feeling like an ass.

The good news: Hammock wasn't lying in wait for me. The bad news: a lot of people are now wondering why the writer who lives down the road likes to roam around at night carrying a razor-sharp fillet knife. "What, this? Nothing, nothing at all. Say, do you want to come to my place to get murdered? I mean, get cocoa? Want to? Hmm? And apropos of nothing going on right now, would anybody notice if you went missing? Oh, and could you let me walk behind you? Great, thanks."

I swear, I've got the most skittish neighbors.