The Ritual

"Are you ready?" the P-Dawg inquires every night at eleven.

"No! I'm still brushing my teeth!" I tell him through a mouthful of foam. He stops in the doorway, adjusts the drawstring on an ancient pair of hospital issue scrubs-turned-pajamas, and waits.

When we have both completed our nightly hygiene routines, activated the security system, and dimmed the lights, it is finally time. Hand-in-hand, we make our way down the upstairs hallway to perform the ritual that has been bookending our days for the past six and a half years . . .

The Checking of the Kids.

We enter the V-meister's lair first. She is nearly always lying flat on her back and so still that I'm compelled to lean in close enough to let our molecules mingle. A pink flashlight and a copy of The Grapes of Math rest on her warm, narrow chest. For kicks, the P-Dawg takes one gravid little hand by the wrist and lifts it high into the air, then lets it drop like a weight onto the mattress. V-meister could sleep through the apocalypse. I brush tendrils of sweaty hair away from her forehead as I kiss it.

We close the door and cross the hall.

Some nights we find J-dog slumbering on the floor, some nights on his mattress with derrier in the air. And sometimes he's kneeling at the side of the bed with his face planted in Dr. Seuss's Dictionary. There is a never ending procession of items to be removed from underneath his sheets: a Twilight Turtle, a walkie-talkie, a city of Legos, an armada of matchbox cars. The P-Dawg whispers subliminal messages into his ear. "You will poop on the potty . . . you will not wake up before seven o'clock." I kiss his forehead and he flinches, swatting at my greedy love.

We close the door gently and pad off to bed. At least for one more night, everyone is safe and accounted for. Our day's work is done.

******************************************************************************************

When my brothers and I would return home from college for the holidays, our mother never failed to state how good it was having us all together under one roof. I could never understand this. What difference did it make where we were sleeping?

Oh, I get it now. And even though I still think it's creepy, Lord help me I am starting to identify with the old lady in the childrens' book Love You Forever.

You know, the one who would sneak into her grown son's house at night to watch him sleep?


The V-meister, three months old. We could
not figure out why, the first night we brought
her home from the hospital, stuck a pacifier in
her mouth, swaddled her burritolike and set
her down in the middle of a vast expanse of crib,
she would not fall asleep.

Why My Children Are Bilingual

People are often surprised that J-dog and V-meister, who were born here of two American citizens, are bilingual - fluent in both English and Lithuanian.

It's not the easiest or most utilitarian of languages to learn (hello, seven noun declensions!), and really only comes in handy if you are, for example, traveling in Lithuania or wanting to talk about someone behind their back. So I often find myself fumbling to explain why a relatively obscure Indo-European tongue, one of the oldest living languages in the world today, is J-dog and V-meister's langue maternelle.

Lithuania was first mentioned in the annals of history about a thousand years ago. It saw its heyday during the Middle Ages, when, with all assorted fiefdoms lined up and standing on tiptoe, its borders briefly stretched from the Baltic to the Black seas. This was and still is Lithuania's greatest claim to fame, with the bronze medal winning Olympic basketball team of 1992 sponsored by Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead coming in at a close second.

Later, there were a few hundred years of great might through an alliance with Poland, but the country's fortune began to change when it fell under the rule of czarist Russia during the 1800s. There was a brief period of sovereignty and cultural renaissance between World Wars I and II (the shining period of Lithuanian history into which both sets of my grandparents happened to be born), but in the summer of 1939, Lithuania was annexed to the Soviet Union against her will as part of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between Russia and Germany. It was punted back and forth between the two countries a few times during the course of World War II, but when the dust finally settled, it was Soviet occupied.

The Soviet Union worked carefully and deliberately to eradicate Lithuania's national identity (as well as that of the other two Baltic states - Latvia and Estonia) for nearly fifty years. Thousands of "anti-communist subversives" (read: journalists, artists, clergy, educators) were deported to prisons in Siberia, Russians were encouraged to relocate to Lithuania in an effort at homogenization, and Lithuania's culture and history were systematically "russianized." Outgoing mail was routinely intercepted, and people were beaten up and thrown in prison for offenses as seemingly trivial as the possession of a typewriter. (Typewriters were prohibited for private use because they could be used to disseminate anti-Soviet propaganda outside the Iron Curtain.)

Because of the looming specter of cultural obliteration, Lithuanians like my grandparents and parents living abroad made it their mission to ensure that the language and cultural traditions of their homeland would survive in exile. It's why they taught me - a second generation Lithuanian and American born citizen - Lithuanian from birth.

Growing up, it was the only language spoken in our home. Throughout grade school, I attended language immersion classes on Saturday mornings, (reluctantly) read Lithuanian literature as well as The Baby-Sitter's Club series, raced from Brownies to junior folk dance practice on Friday nights, and took back-to-back piano and Lithuanian lap harp lessons - all in the name of a tiny spark of hope that the country my grandparents had reluctantly fled some thirty years before would someday be free again.

In mid-January of 1990, Soviet tanks stormed Lithuania's capital city of Vilnius, zoning in on the area around the national TV tower where thousands of citizens had gathered in peaceful protest against the U.S.S.R.'s half century long rule. And while the international media's eyes were trained on the Gulf War half a world away, the Soviet Army killed 14 Lithuanian civilians and injured hundreds more in a last ditch attempt at snuffing out a grassroots freedom movement that had been slowly gathering momentum for years.

And less than two months later, on March 11th, 1990, Lithuania declared itself sovereign, the first of the Baltic countries to do so. To their utter joy and disbelief, my grandparents were alive to witness from afar the day they had no hope could arrive during their lifetime.

On the weekend when this occurred, it was my great misfortune to be stuck in town for the SATs while my entire extended family traveled to Washington D.C. along with thousands of others to rally for independence. So when news came at dusk that Lithuania had finally, finally declared itself free, I was home alone in a darkened kitchen, eating a bowl of Ramen noodles. And I, who only knew Lithuania from books, song and lore, stood in front of a flickering TV set and wept for her.

Lithuania went through a difficult time of transition from a communist state to a free market economy. And during the fifty years of Soviet occupation, its language inevitably evolved towards a distinctly Russian dialect. So much so, that my accent and vocabulary is two generations out of date and often deemed antiquarian by current native speakers. What's more, after fifty years of tireless efforts to keep it alive and pure, there is no longer a need to defend it.

And yet.

I continue to speak Lithuanian with my parents and even with my adult siblings. When the P-Dawg (who is not Lithuanian) and I decided to get married, there was no question that we would do the traditional Lithuanian wedding dance during our reception. And when the little V-meister was born, the words I spoke to greet her, the ones that flowed most naturally from my lips, were Lithuanian.

There was no question when I first laid eyes on her that Lithuanian would be the little V-meister's mother tongue. Though I had not shed blood, sweat or tears for the tiny homeland of my parents' birth, it felt as much a part of me as the wrinkled, warm bundle that squirmed in my tired arms.

Lately and understandably, it's getting more and more difficult for V-meister, and especially the younger J-dog, to express themselves in Lithuanian. English vocabulary is quickly replacing many of their Lithuanian words, and rightly so. My children are third generation persons of half Lithuanian descent living in a country - America - that changed their family's fate.

Make no mistake - we are American. I love America and will always call it home.

And yet . . . I will go to great lengths to bind my children to the vestiges of the long suffering heritage that is only half theirs.

It is the least I can do.




"Attack of the Killer Lithuanian National Doll"


(Click here if you want to read my family's emigration story.)

Vocabulary Lesson

As the J-dog was staring out the car window en route home from a weekend road trip, something magical caught his eye:

J-Dog: "Mama! I see a MackDONALD ovah dare! Right dare I see a MackDONALD!"

P-Dawg, feigning blindness: "I don't see a McDonald's, do you, Rima?"

Rimarama: "What is McDonald's?"

V-Meister, clutching her stomach and moaning: "I'm soooo hungry! Can we go to McDonald's, Mama? Puh-leeeeeeeeze? I think McDonald's would make my tummy happy. Because my tummy is very sad."

Rimarama, sighing dramatically: "Don't you guys remember what Daddy and I were just discussing? We are not going to eat at McDonald's today. It is not healthy. We are going home for lunch, and then we are going to visit some schools, capische?"

V-meister, resigned: "Cupeesh, Mama." Then, turning to her brother, "We can't go to McDonald's, J-Dog, because Mama and Daddy were disgusting, and they said, 'No'."


(Note: This picture is from a previous road trip - they did NOT get to go!)

Plant Whisperer

I inherited a mess of plants from the former owners of our house. My family scrambled to place bets on how long they would survive.

When the P-Dawg and I did a final walk-through before receiving the keys just over one year ago, the former lady of the house lovingly introduced me to each plant by name and gave me explicit instructions for its care and nurturing. I followed her around, scribbling in a spiral notebook which I promptly lost.

A few months ago, the family had gathered for a cookout at our place, and while the rest of us were chillin' on the patio, my mom and mother-in-law stepped into the sun room to inspect my plants, as is their custom.

I could see them through the windows, making their rounds.

After visiting the Hawaiian ginger and the cymbidium orchid, they lingered in front of my Christmas cactus with bent heads a-murmuring. There was some sad nodding and hand gesticulation, and then the two of them emerged with long faces.

"I hate to tell you this, Rima," my mother said with a glint in her eye, "But your Christmas cactus is dying, if not already dead."

"Yep, it's a goner!" my MIL gleefully interjected. "There will be no reviving that one. Have you ever watered it?"

"You guys!" I rolled my eyes. "It's a cactus! It will bounce back."

The mothers exchanged knowing looks.

"It's a succulent," my MIL corrected. "It does need water from time to time."

"You said succulent!" I snickered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I continued to water the Christmas cactus whenever it occurred to me, which is to say almost never.

And last week, this happened:



It bloomed.

The next time they came over, I flaunted my cactus and taunted the mothers with my stoopid-fresh plant cultivating skillz.

"Have you noticed how beautifully my Christmas cactus is blooming?" I asked. "And a full month ahead of schedule, no less?"

The mothers circled my plant with arched eyebrows.

"Well if you want to know the truth" my MIL said, "Even a rock could thrive in this sun room of yours."

"Dumb luck" said my mother.

Then they sauntered off arm-in-arm to identify hidden safety hazards in the basement.


Plants-a-plenty

A Fairytale

Once upon a time, in a kingdom called, "Ohio," there lived a little girl named V-meister who wanted nothing so much as a goldfish and for all girls to dress up as princesses on her sixth birthday.

On the birthday morning, she woke up and . . . there was an empty aquarium on her dresser.

Later, her mama took her to Petc0, where she picked out two fish:


"Valentine and Clementine" (Someone is going to have to remind us to change that filter in a couple of weeks.)

The princess's second wish came true the next day, when her grandparents, two uncles, brother, cousin and closest friends gathered for a birthday feast at Chateau Rama.



It was the V-meister's heart's desire that her mother, Queen Rima de la Rama, wear her wedding gown to the ball.

The Queen negotiated down to an old bridesmaid's dress and a tiara:


Princess V-Meister and Queen Rima de la Rama

Queen Rima de la Rama was a "beta mom" who normally snubbed themed birthday parties that would require her to lift a finger and only spoil the children more, but the idea of a princess party was somehow appealing.

Even Grandma M. and Uncle M. came in all their finery:



While there were no bouncy castles, red carpets, or hired court jesters, the princesses did do a craft and played several party games.


It was a foam craft.


(Some princess identities have been protected.)

Queen Rima de la Rama's friend, the Duchess of V, (wearing a black turtleneck and jeans) regaled the assembled princesses with super scary L1thuanian fairy tales featuring nine-headed fire breathing dragons and an assortment of cats, foxes, and roosters:


She was the hit of the party.

Afterwards, it was time for refreshments. Some princesses announced that they do not like pizza, turkey roll-ups, hummus, carrots, grapes, pretzels, or chocolate cake with ice cream.

Queen Rima de la Rama suggested that those princesses drink water. Does she look like the sort of queen who makes grilled cheese sandwiches on demand?

Then there was much present opening, wand waving, shrieking, and prancing throughout the kingdom as the princesses oohhed and ahhhed over gifts and began burning off their sugar highs.





Throughout the proceedings, the little Prince J-Dog (who refused to wear his knightly helmet for any length of time), was quite a trooper.

. . .Until the assembled princesses began chasing him all over the kingdom and calling him names, at which point he flipped out and had to be redirected.

He cannot be held accountable for his actions.



After the princesses partook of a delicious C0stc0 cake and some ice cream, they beat the living crap out of a pinata and stuffed their little pink polyester princess purses full of party spoils.

And they lived happily ever after, forever and ever,

THE END.

Hands Free

Next week, after the J-dog completes his neverending Montessori orientation period, both my children will be in school together all morning.  In other words: the moment I've been anticipating for the past six years of my life has arrived.  This post isn't about me not knowing what to do with my time now that I finally have some to myself, or about how much I want a third child now that two are flitting about the periphery of my nest.

I am happy.

But it's increasingly difficult to remember now how their baby bodies felt: the V-meister spare and birdlike; the J-dog pillowsoft and round with a steady, humming core. I lay in bed this morning post dream, chasing the essence of their infantness as quickly as it receded in smoky wisps from my morningscape. There was an ache, as there always is, and then a quick surrender to the reality that I am best as mother of two.

I'm still occasionally startled by this fleeting, vicelike grip on my gut, a selfish longing for their baby selves. It's not another child that I want - just the J-dog and V-meister for a moment fresh and new, unsullied by the desperate, anxious imprint of a new mother and her constant longing to have two hands free.

I want, of course, to correct my naive babymothering mistakes. But also, just once again, to lift their soft, malleable, diaper-clad bodies into the air, little toes and feet ensconced in the pods of footed pajamas, to walk with them feeling warmth nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and to hold them there with full knowledge of the moment's brevity in time.

Rimarama Recommends: The Outdoors

My kids are Outdoor Kids but I am an Indoor Mom, which can be problematic.

In grade school, one of the worst punishments you could impose upon me was to send me outdoors until dinnertime.  If Chrissy Long was not available to play Mary Lou Retton with, I'd just roller skate around and around the cul-de-sac, hoping for the salvation a wipeout could bring.  Once back in the comfort and safety of my bedroom lair, I could rejoin Ramona, Beezus, and Nancy Drew OR resume the work of molding Barbie-sized wedding cakes out of wads of wet toilet paper if I so desired, AND I DID.

But like I said, J-dog and V-meister?  Outdoor kids.  They love dirt and sunshine.  And back when I was pregnant for the first time and busy planning my stay-at-home-motherhood fantasy, frolicking outside was not accounted for in my short-sighted daily itinerary of: nurse baby and read books until dinnertime.  So it was kind of a shock when all of a sudden I had these two kids for whom I was expected to provide, you know . . . fresh air.

Well, I don't know what happened - maybe it's the fact that I actually like our new backyard, maybe it's old age - but I'm slowly coming around to this Spending Time Outdoors concept.  On more than one occasion last week I daresay I experienced an intense desire to go on a hike.  (Has anyone else had this happen to them?)

I even put on sneakers and packed a picnic lunch, for crying out loud.  And you know what?  It was lovely. There are some really nice things outdoors, readers.

And do you know what else?

Nothing beats meandering down a mossy trail on a cool summer's day with walking stick in hand and two wonderstruck little human beings tripping along beside you.

It's Not a Cult

I have been to L1thuan1an camp and back!

There is no air conditioning at L1thuan1an camp. There is no Internet and no cell phone service. You share a bathroom with ten other families, you sleep in a bunk bed, and you let your children run rampant sporting Kool-Aid mustaches. All in all, it's a jolly good time.

I've told you a little bit about my family's cultural background, yes? But I can't recall whether I mentioned that V-meister and J-dog are bilingual. I've been speaking L1thuan1an with them since they were babies, so they are both fluent. And, see, there's this total immersion sleepaway camp in Michigan that I used to attend as a child where we conversed in our mother tongue, drank Tang, sang ballads, folk danced, and occasionally re-enacted ancient pagan solstice rituals. It was always the highlight of my year.

I loved it so much that I used to be inconsolable for weeks after returning home. When I became too old to attend as a camper, I signed up to be a counselor. So, when the opportunity presented itself to attend a weeklong family camp, the Ramas were among the first in line to attend - even the P-Dawg who has not a lick of L1thuan1an in him, went with us.

He was quite a trooper, eating cold beet soup and kugelis (potato and egg casserole) with the best of them, teaching a childrens' juggling class, participating in a campfire skit, and learning a few choice L1thuan1an phrases ("Let us drink ale.")

Now we're back, fighting off a summer sickness and digging out from underneath a mountain of laundry. But it was definitely worth it.


Me, running an obstacle course - and moving very quickly, I might add.


Obstacle course, leg two: pile diving off a picnic table


The V-meister and I performing in front of the campfire.


The V-meister and her cousin dressed up for L1thuan1a's one thousandth birthday party. (Can I get a what? what!) It is actually older than that, but was first mentioned by name in the annals of history about a thousand years ago.

So we had a birthday party. The kids dressed up all medieval-like, ate pizza and cake, and later watched Shrek II dubbed over in L1thuan1an. And while they did, we adults drank mead and ate whole chickens with our bare hands in the next room over.

Okay, not really, but we had a beer pairing dinner featuring everything from maple cured ham, to Lithuanian garlic bread with Havarti dip, to cured salmon finger sandwiches, to shrimp gumbo, split pea soup, black bean chili, and sour cherry pie. It was a pretty sweet birthday party.











Some other scenes from our trip:


The P-Dawg posing in front of some nature and a couple of SUVs.


The P-Dawg, preparing to juggle raw eggs over my mother's head as part of a campfire stunt.


Thorn Lake ("Spyglys")


The beach at dusk.


A cross. L1thuan1ans were one of the last in Europe to convert, but now they're as Catholic as they get.


That's all for now. I hope to be back on a fairly regular posting schedule soon!

I Took a Vacation

I've been on vacation, my peeps. As you may have surmised, I went AWOL on the blog, but I also took a couple of trips, including one with family and a group of good friends on Lake Michigan:


The blue house is where we stayed.


V-meister on the beach where we played.


J-dog reveling in the feeling of wet sand between his toes.


Rima and P-Dawg Jolie-Pitt-Rama


Rima "Baywatch" Rama.



My friend Vida at the dinner table, eagerly anticipating the evening's repas of wagyu steaks, lemon chive smashed potatoes and fresh greens. Her husband, Chef V, cooked our fabulous dinners. While the men gathered 'round the kitchen island to keep him company, we ladies sipped adult beverages out on the deck:


"We don't cook, but we do chill."

One day we went cherry picking, and V baked this pie:

It was the best pie I ever put in my pie hole.

Evenings, we'd sing by the fire pit while Derek played guitar:





We made wreaths out of wildflowers.


And danced ancient Lithuanian folk dances by twilight.

It was the kind of vacation I've wanted to take ever since V-meister and J-dog were born: a large house, a beach, good friends, good food, good drink, and sunkissed children scampering about. Bliss!

In short, I've simply been enjoying myself and seeing to it that my kids have the lazy, unregimented kind of summer I remember from my own childhood - full of slow as molasses mornings, picnics, sprinklers, sandboxes, sidewalk chalk, afternoons at the pool, ice cream, and morning cartoons.

It's been good. But I've been thinking . . .

"Perhaps I should dust off the old blog."

Some photos in this post were unabashedly pilfered from the Facebook pages of my friends.

No Cause for Alarm

My mother always qualifies bad news with a statement like, "Now, I want you to know that there is no cause for alarm, but . . . "

It is her heart's desire that, whenever possible, she not cause undue stress. Usually she'll go on to tell me that a family member is in the hospital, but regardless of whether they are awaiting an organ transplant or having their appendix removed, there is no cause for alarm. I'll bet even if she had firsthand knowledge of our imminent nuclear demise, my mom would say, "Rima, I don't want you to worry, but . . . you are going to die in fifteen seconds."

I got a call from my mom on Friday afternoon. There was no cause for alarm, but my dad was in the hospital. There was no cause for alarm, but he had gone to the doctor's after experiencing chest pain and the doctor had sent him straight to the cardio ICU. Also, he went by ambulance. They're about to do a heart catheterization - she'll call me back as soon as she knows something, there's no cause for alarm.

It turns out my dad had a heart attack, but he was very lucky - the blockage wasn't in any major arteries and he didn't need bypass surgery. In fact, my dad was insisting that he could have driven to the hospital himself. When I went to see him later that night, he was having dinner and looking very nearly like his usual spry self. By Sunday afternoon, he was pacing the halls with his IV pole in tow and wearing street clothes under his hospital gown to indicate discharge preparedness.

He's home now, feeling fine, and looking into heart healthy menu options he can live with. There was no cause for alarm. Except, of course, during those long hours on Friday afternoon when I started imagining a world without my father in it.

I Am a Card Carrying Curmudgeon

I always thought a trip to the zoo meant shuffling obediently from one wildlife habitat to the next, whining about having to go to the bathroom, and begging for a Sno-Cone. But now they've made it all fun and stuff, with rides and jungle gyms and a Ben & Jerry's stand every twenty feet. I don't know where they put the elephants.

We went last week and instead of feigning interest in some impossibly far off and partially obscured animals, J-dog and V-meister spent the afternoon frolicking and running away from me in the labyrinth-like play area. There was a jungle gym, a five-hundred foot long tunnel slide, and a swamp with a mechanical alligator that would periodically lunge out of the water to give me a heart attack.

But I had driven across town, parked three time zones away, and spent a bazillion dollars for an EDUMACATIONAL FIELD TRIP. We were going to see some animals if it was the last thing we ever did.

We located the "African Savannah" habitat and while I made a great show of ooo-ing and ah-ing over some baby giraffes, the V-meister fiddled with the brakes on J-dog's stroller and asked if it was time for ice cream yet. We got Sno-Cones and ate them near the "Savannah". While my daughter was busy trying to jerry-rig a coin operated view-finder, a flesh and blood giraffe walked by right under her unsuspecting nose.

Before I knew it, it was time to go home.

But I remember when the zoo was a place where you went just to see some animals and maybe climb on the big boulder over by the primate house. The gift shop was nothing but a tiki hut where they sold T-shirts, bumper stickers, and the occasional troll pencil. I also remember a time when the childrens' section at my local library had more books than toys, and when my backyard entertainment consisted of a ball, some dirt, and my own spit. And I think there's something to be said for that.

I'll bet my local art museum is the only holdout without an interactive "kid zone," a place where you might actually get Tasered for climbing into a display. And I rather like that. Because I don't think we're doing our children any favors by manufacturing all of their fun.

Memory Lane: Busier Than It Used to Be

With a little time to kill on our way to a christening, we took the kids for a drive along the lake shore yesterday and passed the spot where P-Dawg proposed to me almost ten years ago. With a captive audience buckled up in the backseat, I started waxing nostalgic about the glory days.

"Hey, V-meister, see that field over there by the water? A long time ago before you and J-dog were born, Daddy and I went for a walk here, and he got down on his knee, gave me this ring, and asked me if I would marry him!"

"Mama, J-dog is looking at me. Tell him to stop."

"There's no law against looking, V-meister. On the day Daddy asked me to marry him-"

"And he keeps talking! The J-dog is talking when I'm talking!"

"Just ignore him. Anyway, when your father proposed-"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaa! He KICKED me!"

"No! V-meister kick ME, Mama! She kick me!"

(commence stereophonic wailing)

P-Dawg: "Don't make me stop this car, kids. And quit kicking my seat back, J-dog, I mean it."

"Daddy, I can't stop crying."

"Why don't you take a deep breath and count to ten?"

"One, two, three, Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! I just can't stop!!!"

"Hey, kids, look at the lake. Isn't it nice? We used to hang out here all the time and-"

J-dog: "We go swimming, Daddy?"

V-meister: "Daddy, J-dog wants to go swimming in the ocean."

Daddy: "It's not an ocean, it's a lake. And no swimming! Church. We're going to church."

V-meister: "Daddy said no swimming in the ocean, J-dog. Maybe tomorrow."

Daddy: "J-DOG! I told you to stop kicking the seat back. You do that one more time, and I'm pressing the EJECT button. You got that? The EJECT BUTTON!!!"

J-dog: "I see funpark. We go funpark, Daddy?"

V-meister: "Daddy, J-dog wants to go to the funpark."

Daddy: "What are you talking about, "funpark?" There is no funpark. Church! WE. GO. CHURCH."

J-dog: We go church, Daddy? Is funchurch, Daddy? Is funchurch?"

Daddy: "YES! FUNCHURCH! WE GO FUNCHURCH AND WE LIKE IT!!!"


And so we did. Ah, how times have changed . . .

What's Up, Doc?

In my family, garden pest control is serious business.

My dad is a gentle soul by nature, but he keeps a professional grade slingshot always at the ready for his rabbit nemesis. You never know when that doggone rabbit is going to turn up in the garden, and the last thing you want to be is caught unprepared.

One time it showed up during a family Scrabble tournament and my dad forfeited the chance to score a triple word score using the letter "Q" for what he saw as his golden opportunity to take Bugsy down once and for all. One minute he's sitting at the dining room table, rubbing his palms together over his trophy prospects, and next thing you know, he's crouching behind a rhododendron bush out back.

I can't even tell you how many times I've popped in on him standing stock still by the back door with his slingshot poised to shoot, but as far as I know, the rabbit and all his progeny are still on the premises.

Then there's Uncle Vic, whose been fighting the chipmunk family in his backyard for going on ten years now. After trying every method known to man to rid his vegetable garden of the chipmunk contagion, my uncle finally resorted to smoking them out with fireworks. But those chipmunks are still partying it up under his lawn, and my uncle's got a deck of cards in his nightstand with a picture of their leader on the ace of spades.

With the arrival of the P-Dawg into the Rama clan, however, a new age dawned in the realm of man-on-rodent combat - the age of technology.

When we were first married and living in the hut, the P-Dawg and I discovered a skunk family living under our back porch. After placing several unanswered calls to our city's pest control department, my husband decided to take matters into his own twenty-first century hands. And that meant "internet research."

Luckily, I happened to walk into the computer room just as the P-Dawg, his index finger poised above the mouse button, was preparing to click "Confirm Order" on a batch of powdered fox urine.

Rimarama: "Tell me you are not ordering urine over the internet, P-Dawg."

P-Dawg: "Just hear me out, Rimster! According to the extensive internet research I've been doing, fox urine is the very last word in skunk control."

Rimarama: "Are you freakin' kidding me, P-Dawg? For all you know, some dude peed in a cup and you're about to send him $39.95 for it! I can't let you do this! Please step away from the computer now."

The skunks were eventually exterminated using more conventional means, but the P-Dawg's war on pestilence was just beginning.

I got a UPS shipment this afternoon. Hoping that my new flannel sheets had finally arrived, I tore the package open to find a load of these:



"The Pestacator": A solar powered, underground rodent repellent. The P-Dawg plans to use them to wage war on the mole colony in our front yard.

Let the games begin.

Deep Fried Twinkies Is Where I Draw the Line

When your family hails from the Old World, one thing you're not often exposed to is traditional American holiday delicacies, like Jello mold.

Now, we always make turkey with all the trimmings for Thanksgiving dinner, but it's also not uncommon for someone to show up bearing a plate of, say . . . venison jerky or smoked eel, as well.

So these little Oreo turkey favors that adorned the BeanPaste holiday table this year? Almost caused me to die of jealousy on the spot when I read Melanie's post. Back in the day, I would have traded my entire sticker collection, plus both my little brothers for the opportunity to wrap my lips around a culinary specimen like that.

Of course, I was far too lazy to trick out my own Oreo turkeys this year, but in an effort to make Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' place as all American as can be, I decided to contribute the green bean casserole recipe straight from the back of a Campbell's soup container, and mashed sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping as my two side dishes.

If it was good enough for the pilgrims, it would be good enough for us.

Alas, I wimped out on the marshmallows at the last minute. There was already a whole cup of maple syrup, a stick of butter, and a heart attack waiting to happen in those sweet potatoes, readers. I just couldn't do it.

But I did empty half a container of French's fried onions on top of my green bean casserole, and this received rave reviews. Not to mention it paired nicely with my mother-in-law's Heath bar and Cool Whip topped trifle.

Next year, if I get my act together in time, I'm going to kick it up a notch and make Oreo turkey favors. But deep-fried Twinkies is where I draw the line.

And I think the pilgrims would have, too.


"The Carbohydrate Fueled Post Holiday Dinner Mosh Pit: A Cross-Cultural Tradition"

(By the way, you should check out Melanie's food blog - BeanPlate - for frugal, yet delicious recipes that include, how do you say? ingredients slightly more organic than oreos and candy corn. I can personally vouch for the shoyu chicken thighs. Dee-lish.)

And while we're on the subject of food blogs, it wouldn't kill you to also swing by Ezra Pound Cake, which not only has the most kick-ass name ever in the history of food blogs, but good recipes and entertaining writing, as well.