Last night I walked into my house after the Richmond Bizarre Bazaar to find this on my wall.  Yes, that is my desk, and no, I can’t ever find anything.  Yes, that is a vent in the middle of the wall and no, I don’t know what the moron was thinking that built the house.   That calendar, in that slightly odd place?  I didn’t put it there.  I knew it was time for the walk-around.  And I walked downstairs to find this…

I think he wants the rum, but that could just be me.   And then I turned around to find this…

You’re right.  That IS Abe Lincon perched against the IKEA placemats, under the paper towel rack, directly beside the carboy filled with five gallons of stout greatness and covered with my favorite towel-that’s-where-it-was-I-have-been-looking-for-it. 

My mother-in-law is in town.  I don’t think she has ever come to our house without putting up at least two pieces of “art” on our walls, unannounced.  And, bless her heart, I’m sure one day I’ll take one of these to the antique roadshow to find out that it is worth $700,000.  But right now?  I’m a little creeped out by Abe.  And I’m feeling that Jefferson is distinctly missed. 

Ever since he has been about 2 months old, my child has been getting mail. I would like to say that it is from his various college trust funds, informing him that his education investment has been growing at 15% yearly, but who are we kidding? Trust funds?It started with a letter from Robert Kennedy, imploring E to contact his congressman and strongly urge him to vote against drilling in Alaska. I asked E if he wanted to call his congressman, but he just threw up on me. The only thing more apropos would have been crapping all over me. He apparently is precocious when it comes to politics.

Then it was a slew of mail from all manner of wildlife organizations–Save the Whales, Wildlife Land Trust, The Jane Goddall Society, The National Audubon Society, Friends of the National Zoo. You get the picture. He has gotten stuffed animals, pennies, and return address labels.

This seems extremely odd to me. We aren’t animal people here. We have a dog, we love our dog but reality is that we would rather have a night out eating sushi than pay for a stray to get neutered. It’s the cold, hard facts.

So, is E crawling into the bedroom, climbing up onto the top of the dresser, stealing a 20 from dad’s billfold and sending it off to PETA? I mentioned this situation to my friend when we were talking on the phone this morning and she mentioned that she had begun to get a stack of fitness magazines in the mail recently. Appalled at her husband’s insensitivity, she asked him why he was doing this to her. He maintains his innocence and ignorance on the matter. She said that they now think their 7-year old daughter is ordering them online. Probably while she reads the Washington Post in the morning (dear Lord, is this what I have to look forward to?).

My guess is that my mother-in-law, the champion of all four-legged creatures, contributed some amount of money to an animal cause in my son’s name. Let’s just hope it wasn’t ALF or ELF. I can’t wait to see the FBI agent’s face when he comes to interview Ethan regarding his involvement in ecoterrorist organizations.

I’ll take a picture for you.

Every year my in-laws go to the Caribbean for 2 weeks with three other couples. They have been doing this forever. They come home every year and regale us with stories that would make your ears curl up and fall off your head. Tales of costumes, skits, songs. It sounds like kid’s summer camp, except instead of bug juice there is a lot (A LOT) of gin and tonics. And wine. And beer. Enough that my FIL always says that one of these years they are going to swing by Betty Ford for a couple of days on the way home to dry out.

Apparently crazy things always happen at the beach. Just last week they were discussing the nun habit that my FIL got for my MIL to wear this year. He has a monk outfit. But our favorite story is the year my MIL was showing the vacation pictures to a friend and she had forgotten to take out the picture of my FIL, wearing only an apron. I didn’t ask if the view was from the front or the back. I now refuse to look at vacation pictures. You can never be too cautious.

This year the ‘rents decided to swing by our town on their way down. I picked them up from the airport yesterday, with the Boo in tow.

MIL: Can we stop by a department store? We need to buy red bras for FIL and Tommy.

That kind of comment will send you careening off the road. Into opposing traffic. Full of semis. What do you say to that? Part of me was freaking out but part of me was fascinated that I could participate in this psychosis. So off we went to Target. I couldn’t see buying my FIL a Victoria’s Secret bra that he would only wear for 2 weeks. Really. 15 minutes later we were in the Lingerie department.

And there he was. My 6′5″ FIL, trauma surgeon extraordinaire, trying on a lovely red lace bra over his green shirt. It fit.

I could go on about Gonzalo, Target’s Customer Service Representive/Traumatized Checker, but I have already gone too far. These people sure know how to have a good time.