YABBA! DABBA! DOOOOOO!!!!!

Oh My! Oh My Gravy (as they exclaim on this season's Amazing Race)!
Wonderful Daughter called a few minutes ago with Amazing News...

The soon-to-be-ex husband left her a voice mail message today. How he got her unlisted highly protected phone number remains a mystery and is beside the point right now.

He called to say... wait for it... he will not oppose the divorce any longer. She has been set free!

So, closure on this chapter of her life is imminent. Hopefully now, he will stop stalking her and threatening her with violence. I don't know if I already mentioned this, but the last time (and there have been several times) he violated what you would know as a restraining order and was arrested for it, he was sitting in her driveway, late at night, with a hunting knife in his pocket.

There have been other instances since then but that was the last time he actually got arrested for it. She has been through hell.

Hopefully his latest move is the beginning of an amicable end.

Effective Parenting Tools

My tried and true parenting methods never vary. They must be pretty darn effective too since I have raised a Wonderful Daughter.
#1 Son is still a work in progress...heh.

WD has been procrastinating on a very important job. (No, I don't know where she got that trait from!!) Taxes need to be done on a regular basis. But they are a pain in the nether regions, especially since she does her own, her father's, mine and the business taxes.

So I have decided to pull out one of my two parenting tools to motivate her. Since she truly is Wonderful, I can't use tool number one, Blackmail. Darn. That's a personal fave and always worked with her brother.

Back up plan: Bribery. Since she loves to bake bread (and everything else) we realize she needs a bigger, better mixer. Her kitchen won't hold a Hobart, so we are buying her a KitchenAid stand mixer.
All she has to do is 1) finish, 2) submit and 3) pay those stinking taxes first.

I'm hopeful this will work, although I must admit she is strong-willed.
Case in point...When she was about 12, I decided I had had enough of picking up after the kids all the time so I gathered their stuff into one box and waited until they came home from school.
I informed them I was now the owner of their belongings in the box and they must use their allowance money to get their stuff back. .25 per item.
WD soberly examined the contents of the box. She reached in, picked out 2 hair clips and a library book. Then she informed me, "Keep 75 cents from my next allowance and...I really don't need any of the rest of this stuff. You can keep it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sure wish "someone" would send me an email and tell me how to move pictures down my posts...I hate having them all at the top.

Driving Miss Nana – Crazy.

Last night, Tikki the Toy Poodle decided to push my buttons. ALL my buttons.

When you live in a teeny tiny condo, every inch of space is considered for storage. The electric frying pan is stored in the oven, every shelf has a decorative box o’crud, there are hooks and bins and I keep bringing home innovative ironing board hangers, organizing gizmos and plate stackers.

I can’t afford a Murphy bed so I`ve been diligently working with the grandsons to teach them to sleep in an upright position in the front closet when they come to stay over. Can you blame me? Otherwise I’d have to brave the horror, tidy and restack the cartons o’crud in the spare room so we could open the sofa bed.

The space under our bed is filled with clever Rubbermaid totes, more decorative boxes and some pictures I’ve been waiting to hang once the building settles.
So what if we’ve been here 5 years, it’s too soon to hang stuff up, I tell ya.

It`s been so long since I`ve gotten down to look under there I really don`t remember what is contained in those boxes or what the pictures are of. I only remember it is all Good Stuff I can’t live without. Forget the fact the antique Roadshow never comes to Canada and that none of it is even an antique. It is irreplaceable, valuable stuff and I. Must. Keep. It. All.

Last night when it had finally cooled off to 120 billion degrees, Tikki patiently waited until I had nearly fallen asleep before he implemented his plan to rid me of any vestiges of sanity I might have.

He wiggled a space between two underbed Rubbermaid containers, then delighted me with his Buddy Rich imitations in 20 minute sets. He mixed it up by drumming on first one, then the other, then playing the bottom of the box spring like cymbals.

He was right in the middle of the bed and I couldn’t reach him. And he’s too smart to fall for any amount of coaxing or bribing.

Me: (whispering ) Tikki, what the heck? Get out from under there!

(surprisingly, he does not obey)

Me: (stage whisper) Tikki, c’mon it’s 1:30 already. Get out here.

(more frenzied drumming)

Me: (sugary, wheedling tone ) Ti-key, C’mere sweetheart, c’mon. Who’s a good little guy? Huh, who is? You are, yessss you are. C’mon sweetie.

(box spring solo)

Me: (hissing angrily while peering under the bedskirt) Tikki, you miserable little mutt, get out here.

(predictably, a short intermission is called while the misunderstood poodle retreats further and sulks under the far side of the bed.)

Me: (approvingly) (foolishly) Good Boy!

42.3 seconds later the joyous frenzy of drumming begins again.

Me: (bedside light on) Aw, Tikki...come off it. C’mere. Let’s go to sleep. (snaps fingers in an encouraging manner.

Tikki: What?! Just because I am French she thinks she can click zee feen gares like so and I will be at her side like, like, you would summon a waitare? I am zee arteest and I must play !

Me: (attempting to lie on floor in spite of my broken buttocks and look under bed) Listen dog, or Snoop Dog or whoever you think you are. Knock it off. Come out here now mister

At one point, I even disconnected my C-pap mask and allowed the air to blow beside the bedskirt in an effort to lure him out. He loves playing with (destroying) my machine.

No dice.
Nothing worked and these scenes were repeated at varying intervals.
He’d stop for a few minutes, I’d relax and then he’d think of someone else to dedicate a number to.
I was considering homicide, suicide, pesticide...

Finally as 2:45 a.m. approached, I played my trump card. I engaged the ultimate weapon. It was desperate times, I took desperate measures.

I sicc’d the Wonderful Daughter on him.

Less than 3 minutes after I gently roused her from slumber by flicking on the overhead light in the spare room, she had him out from under the bed, the containers pushed back together to discourage any encores and the Artist Formerly Known as Tikki was confined to his kennel.

In the bathroom.

With the door shut.

And the exhaust fan on.

She is truly deserving of her pseudonym.

*edited to add*
Tikki wanted me to mention he is accepting bookings for weddings, graduations and bachelorette parties