The Suicidal Snail * or * The Cockroach Was Watching

So my sweet kiddo is half way across the world at the moment, and after three really fantastic days, she had a bit of a rough one today.

It's tough to be a mom to your kiddo who is having a rough time when she's half way around the world.  Not much you can do, but give advice, send virtual hugs, and try to cheer her up with SNAFIA!

Snafia? you ask?  Why, yes!  Snafia!

Snail mafia!

And what, pray tell, is Snail Mafia?  Well......

So it all started with a lovely conversation regarding the French word for praying mantis.  *mante religiuse* aka religious insect.

This led to the following texting conversation:

me: I always thought the praying mantis looked like a guy in the mafia getting ready to count his money... or kill someone.

me:  mwah ha ha

me:  as he rubs his hands together

her:

me: Prays to the devil that his wicked evil ways are being plotted without error!

her:

me:  Yes!  I've changed my mind. I am now going to write murder mysteries with bugs as main characters. Like picture books for grown ups. 

her:

me: South Park is a huge hit bc the cartoon characters swear. Mine is all about murdering bumblebees and plotting praying mantises

 me: Mwah ha ha 

her: 

me: One cicada to rule them all!!!

her:

me: Love it!!

her:  

me: The Suicidal Snail.  I think that will be the title.

her:  The snail mafia.  (Snafia)

me: The praying mantis will frame the lady bug.

me:  Yes! Snafia Wars!!

her: Vengeance will be had...slowly

me:  One foot at a time.... And for the centipede, that might just take a while.

me:  They could send pieces of the centipede back to his wife in a box as a threat.  But it's taking too damn long because he has so many feet.

me: And don't even get me started on the snuff films involving the koi pond and the evil raccoon.

me:  Turns out the skunk framed him.

me:  I might just have to put this in my blog.  Maybe I'll even write it up.

her:  I'll put up screenshots.

me: Send out the hummingbird to rough up the bad guys

me: That quick flapping can do some serious damage to the potato bugs.

me:  And don't EVEN get me started on unleashing the robins on the earthworms who were trying to eat the praying mantis's apples.

me:  Just a quick nip, they said.

me: It won't hurt anyone, they said.

me:  Little did they know...

me:  The cockroach was watching.

me:  Ooooh! Another great title!

me:  We could have those creepy crawly millipedes with the pincers on the front hold the suckers down!

me:  Mwah ha ha

her:  Omg

me:  And the tabby cat is their overlord.

her:  *ofc (of course)

*The tabby cat overlord is not amused.*

Her tumblr post:



Now I must put off my chores for the day and head off to write *The Suicidal Snail* or *The Cockroach was Watching.*

* * * * *

Raising teenagers -- it's all about the math

Raising Teenagers

It's all about the math

So, as is normal in the lovely Pacific Northwest, it rained on Friday.  Rain in Oregon is nothing like rain in the midwest, or even on the East Coast. Here, the rain is more like walking through a foggy cloud.  It's a wet misty drizzle.  Or, as we like to call it, a mizzle.

And even though Autumn has finally settled in (if you don't count today's beautiful, sunny 75 ˚ day), and starting tomorrow the rains are coming to stay until, oh, say, mid May, the children are in complete denial.  On Friday, the rain rain rain came down down down, so I sent them both to school with their raincoats.  They were prepared.  I was a good mom.  I was.  Really.

And yet, when we picked up our daughter at the end of the school day, her raincoat was no where in sight.  Standing in the drizzle, her hair growing bigger by the moment, she looked less like the dazzling, well-put together fabulous young woman we dropped off, and more like a half-drenched, pathetic dog.

Thank you to: https://www.flickr.com/photos/nerdvin/372908560/in/photostream/

When we asked why she wasn't wearing her coat? Her answer all came down to math.  "Mom, I think you underestimate how lazy teenagers are."  Yes.  I guess we did.

As she dripped dry in the back of the car, we got in the car line to pick up our son.  Not long after, he came trotting out to the car, hand over his head, raincoat tucked under his arm, trying to avoid the raindrops.

As he dripped all over the back seat, buckling himself in, we asked him why he wasn't wearing his coat.  His answer also came down to math.  "Mom, I think you grossly overestimate my common sense."

Yes, raising teenagers all comes down to the math.

* * * * *

So my daughter thinks I'm a serial killer...

When I set out to write a murder mystery manuscript, it never occurred to me that doing so might negatively affect the way that my daughter describes me to her friends.  I thought, perhaps, she might say something to the effect of, "Oh my mom?  Well, she writes murder mysteries."  But alas, no.  

In the midst of performing my parental obligations of the daily carpool run, my daughter asked if we could give one of her friends a ride home from school.  Absolutely.  Be happy to. (Thus satisfying the requirements for POSIL#1 (Parental Obligation Self-Imposed Law or POSIL): always say yes, whenever humanly possible, when my daughter asks for something in front of one of her friends.    

I immediately performed the second self-imposed law of my parental obligations (POSIL#2) when driving my teenager and her friends around.  (*A quick side-bar:  My daughter has never asked me to do these things, but I once was a teenager -- albeit a million, billion years ago -- and I should like to consider myself a "cool" and "awesome" mom who is so considerate as to think of these things ahead of time.) 

So, in accordance to POSIL#2, I turned down the music, vowed not to speak unless I was spoken to, and basically pretended like I don't exist.  Of course every time I invoke POSIL#2, I giggle, because, alas, I immediately get Harry Potter's voice in my head, responding to his Uncle Vernon about hiding upstairs in his bedroom when Uncle Vernon's boss comes over, promising not to make any noise, and pretending he doesn't exist.  But I digress.

Normally when I pull out of the carpool lane, I stifle my giggles, and eavesdrop as loudly as I can to my daughter's intriguing conversations.  I actually learn most about what goes on in my daughter's life when she talks to her friends in the back of the car.  When it's just to the two of us, I typically get answers like, "fine," or "some," or "not much."  I get the juicy gossip and interesting information like who is asking whom to the winter formal when and only when she's willing to share, if she's had a decent day, isn't too tired, has had enough to eat, or (because those things are so rare these days), when she has a friend with her in the car.

But on this particular afternoon I had been a bit distracted, having just finished a difficult scene in my manuscript.  I wasn't really following their conversation, and had truly tuned them out.  My daughter, ever the observer, was surprised by my lack of curiosity in her conversation with her friend (because let's be honest, I have never actually been able to succeed in POSIL#2.  I inevitably interrupt her conversations with her friends, ask what turn out to be embarrassing questions, and inevitably embarrass my daughter -- which truly is the last thing I want to do.).  She asked me how my writing had gone that day.  Absentmindedly (because my brain was still focused on my manuscript, and really not on anything else -- as I'm sure those of you who write and are forced into a PO that disrupts and disturbs your writing flow are keen to understand), I told her that I killed three people that afternoon.  Two of which I knew about.  The other one was a complete surprise.  

An odd, uncomfortable silence followed.  Silence, when there are more than two of us in the car, is a rare event.  I turned my head to figure out if I could see what was wrong when I noticed the look of pure horror on my daughter's friend's face.  Confused, I turned to look at my daughter, trying to get an explanation.  Her brick red cheeks screamed mortification.  My daughter cleared her throat and croaked, "Um, my mom writes murder mysteries for a living.  I don't think she actually killed anyone today."

Needless to say, her friend hasn't asked for a ride home since then.  And I'd like to think that I'll do my best to stick with POSIL#2 in the future.

* * * * *