Nebulous Mooch

Tiki Kiki Painted Lady died on October 23, 2006. She lived a quiet life. She enjoyed hunting, eating, sitting in the corner of her terrarium, sitting beneath a large piece of bark, and sinking her fangs into anything that was placed in front of her.

The first time I met Tiki Kiki, she was hunting grasshoppers named after political figures–Donald Rumsfeld, Condoleezza Rice, etc.. She was not as interested in politics as she was the sport of the hunt. Sometimes she didn’t even consume her prey, but kept their bodies as trophies.

Her love for the kill was taken to extremes when she killed and consumed her mate, Dada. I never met Dada, but I hear that he didn’t deserve to be eaten. Needless to say, Tiki Kiki was survived by no relatives. She had no offspring, if she did she might have eaten them too.

I remember the time I transported Tiki Kiki in my car to our new home. She chose this time to demonstrate her ability to walk up the glass walls of her terrarium–previously I didn’t know she could do that. At every red light, I twisted around to check on her in the back. The last thing I needed was for her to get loose in my car.

Tiki Kiki enjoyed a meal of crickets and a drink of possibly tainted water before shrivelling up beneath a piece of bark and taking her final breaths. While there were initial suspicions of foul play, those have been put to rest.

Dreams are strange. They seem so real when they’re happening, but when you wake up, you realize how unreal they are. Last night, I dreamt about rain hats. They were tall gray hats that resembled a beehives. Inside each hat was a small storm cloud, that caused a constant downpour. This is why the hats were so popular. The rain could keep your head cool during the hot summer.

In my dream, everyone was very happy about their hats. No one was soaked. I think that under normal circumstances, the rain would run down your head getting you all wet. Dreams aren’t normal circumstances; so the water some how remained in the hat.

My stepson claims to be able to have lucid dreams. I have never had one and tend to doubt that they really happen. If I had a lucid dream, I don’t know what I would do. He likes to fly over cityscapes in his dreams. Flying isn’t really my thing. I’m clumsy and might crash into something. I have a hard enough time not banging my shoulder on the edge of doorways. Flying would be dangerous, even in a dream. I have had falling dreams, and I know I don’t like the feeling of falling. If I did have a lucid dream, I would probably just sleep. This would double the amount of rest I got that night. A dream about sleeping would be boring, I admit. It’s not something that I would tell people about, but at least it would be productive.

My stepson told me that you can find out whether you’re in a dream or not by looking at your hand. If you have too many or too few fingers, then you are in a dream. I promptly asked him where he got this information, and he said that he read it on Wikipedia. It sounds far fetched to me. I see my hands everyday. I should know how many fingers I have by now. If my brain can’t remember how many fingers I have, what other important details might it be forgetting? I shouldn’t get mad when I don’t know where I put the car keys, because apparently, I don’t even know how many fingers I have.

He also told me that he read that if you flip a light switch and nothing happens, you’re having a dream, because lights don’t work well in dreams. The next time you go to turn on a light and nothing happens, maybe the light bulb blew out, maybe the power is out, or maybe you didn’t pay the electric bill. Before you do anything, count the fingers on your hands, because maybe it’s just a dream.

My stepson has a new eating regiment. He must eat vegetables at every meal, and he must eat what we are eating. He’s done well with these new rules. After a month of trying new foods he’s discovered that he likes salmon. The complaining is less intense than it was at the beginning of the month. Now only half of his comments during meals are complaints. Increasing his vegetable intake has done wonders for his complexion. His previous diet of cheese, more cheese, and creamy Caesar dressing was causing pimples to erupt from his twelve-year-old forehead. The pimples are subsiding.

Tonight we had chicken curry for dinner. He had a choice. He could eat with his father or with me. His father had to leave for work about twenty minutes before I got home. He chose to eat later, with me. I was surprised by this decision, but soon discovered the reason. While we ate our salads we talked. He told me about a few stories he saw on the evening news. After the salads he told me about how much he didn’t like curry. Then he asked me if he could have a pita pizza for dinner instead. I told him that there were no pitas, and he pulled a new bag of them from the refrigerator. Of course, I told him no. Curry was what we were eating for dinner. He could eat that or nothing.

He thinks I’m the pushover. I’m the one who will let him have what he wants. I’m about to let you in on a big secret. You are going to be privy to some important information that only a few know. Are you ready? I made the new meal rules. I did it. He doesn’t know. If he reads this, he will know, but he usually doesn’t read my blog. One night when my husband came home from a gig, I had found some articles about dealing with children who are picky eaters online. I asked him to read them. Then I told him my plan. We discussed some ideas and made some new mealtime rules. I let my husband explain and enforce the new rules. I’m the food tyrant and my husband is my henchman. I can try to pacify the subject with the occasional meal of cheese ravioli, but one day he’ll figure it out. If he thinks about it long enough, he’ll figure it out.

Here’s another secret. The new homeschooling schedule was me too. I researched the curriculum. His father enforces that schedule and we both check the work. I love it because it’s like good cop, bad cop.

Sometimes it’s good to laze about in the morning.