October 4th, 1988

When I was stuck in New York for a month, recovering from an emergency surgery in the fall after college, a family friend who was also a Catholic priest, invited my mother and me to attend the feast of Saint Francis, held on October 4th at an Episcopal Church in the village. The liturgy included dancers and choirs and a parade of exotic creatures including amongst other things, a donkey, elephant, llamas, fish, snakes, birds, and a congregation of pet owners.

We sat behind a woman who had two daschunds. The first was in her arms, an obviously smaller and older dog that needed to be comforted in the presence of so many other animals. The second pet, a youthful brown pup, tried to get her attention. He stood on his hind legs. He yipped. He begged. She wasn't interested in switching the old dog for the younger. Making it through the parade of all God's creatures Great and Small and the readings, he was mollified by the occasional doggy treat.

However, the homily ran long.

The dog was tired. The dog was bored. The dog wanted to be petted and picked up and had done every trick he could think of, including licking the hands of those of us sitting behind him. Since we weren't receiving communion, this didn't pose a problem. He rolled on his belly for us to give him a rub. Alas, sitting so close to a priest, he wasn't likely to find that cradle raised Catholics would be able to divert themselves too long in his direction, even if it wasn't a Catholic mass. Admittedly, I felt freed up to pet him after Fr. C did. But we couldn't give him what he wanted, the seat of honor in his owner's arms.

Finally, in frustration, the dog peed on the church floor. It was long, it was deliberate and to make sure she knew it, he yelped to get his mistress to turn her head before he started.

Fr. C. turned to us and said, "Original Sin affects us all."

Happy Saint Francis of Assisi Feast Day Everyone!

Adventures in Pest Control

Every summer, I get to release my inner hunter instinct that must come from my pioneer ancestry. Normally, our family emphasizes a harmony with nature, but there are a few notable exceptions. Any nature that decides to make our home its habitat, foregoes all benevolence from the home owners.

We weren’t always this blood thirsty. It was a gradual corruption of our core values, an erosion of our gentle sensibilities that started with our first apartment in New York City. One day I came home from work to be warned by my husband not to enter. A heavy cloud of choking toxins hung in the air. “I’ve just taken five years off my life.” He explained, looking rather frightening with an aresol can in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. He took me for a walk in the village park to explain while the apartment gasses did their thing. “The roaches were having a family reunion on our stove.”

Bugs freak my husband out faster than anything, so I smiled benevolently and we went out for dinner before returning to a now faintly musky smelling but bug free one room apartment.

When we moved to Houston, it was my turn. I had never seen mice in a home before, even having lived in New York city. The first time I saw a mouse, it ran and I screamed a’la that faceless woman from a Tom and Jerry cartoon. I even reached for the broom. My husband went to the local hardware store and bought an environmentally friendly trap to catch the mouse. He baited it with peanut butter. That idea alone put me off of PB&J for years.

The next day, “Mickey” was trapped in a small green case and well fed. Now we had to release the darn thing somewhere which meant carrying the case with said mouse to somewhere. My husband patiently convinced me to get in the car with the green box, I put the green box in a shoe box and then held the shoe box. I was afraid we had caught the mensa of mice who would figure out how to get out of the humane trap and scurry around the inside of our car.

Releasing it into the park however, turned out to be much more difficult than originally planned. Opening the trap, we waited for Mickey to leave. Mickey didn’t move. Tapping the glass case only further convinced him to stay put. Shaking the trap didn’t work either. In the back of the car, we had a hammer (Don’t ask), and I thought we could maybe smash the side of the polyurethane case to make the opening bigger. My husband convinced me that it looked cruel and that this probably wouldn’t work, so we waited. Forty five minutes later, Mickey finally decided to poke his nose out of the trap. A dog barked. Back inside he went.

Just when I started to think we should start charging rent, my husband sprinkled some cookies he had in his lunch bag from yesterday outside the trap. Mickey was willing to go out to eat. The trap was now ready for additional use the instructions on releasing said, but it would have to be cleaned. Looking at the green plastic cage filled with mouse droppings, I threw the whole thing out. I wasn’t even tempted to recycle.

The next turn of the battle with beasties came at our first home, with our daughter, newly potty-trained. We had purchased a house next to a vacant lot, which gave the whole place an open feeling of being bigger than it was, but also meant we had flora and fauna for neighbors. When our daughter screamed in the bathroom, “Something is slithering at me.” We knew there was only one thing she meant.

My husband captured the snake in a brown paper bag and I praised his man-god hunting skills. Then we worried the whole incident would set potty training back for years. I knew I wasn't going to use that facility anymore.

I have however, finally come into my own, for I am the Samauri exterminator of all flying insects. Flies, wasps, bees and mosquitos, anything with wings that darkens our door doesn’t stand a chance against dead-eye Mom. The kids take my title seriously and have been keeping a running tally. Hunting my quarry, I am known for the quick and merciless strike. However, zealotry in this activity can have its downside. It seems I hit the sweet spot on the window the other day, and now, well, the winged creatures of the world have their own private exit and entrance.

Until it’s repaired, here’s hoping they are as slow to catch on to it as Mickey.

For Pest Free humor, try clicking Humor-Blogs.com , let them know you laughed. I'm number 83 at this point.

Not Named Jeffy's Sports Page Picks

You know how that Family Circus guy lets his comic get taken over by his kids?

Well now it’s Not Named Jeffy’s turn on Mom’s blog!
unedited and unproofd. (obviously)

Being a guy, naturally, I gravitate towards writing about sports.
Specifically, football.
Why?

It’s the most male sport there is. Two hours of eating bad for you food and watching other guys hit each other at great speeds. A perfect world experience for any fourteen year old, or any guy who has ever been fourteen.

As the playoffs draw nearer to Super Bowl (Insert some weird Roman numeral here), Not Named Jeffy makes playoff picks.

Get ready to call your Vegas bookie.

First up: Seattle vs. Green Bay: The Seahawks are losing to The Packers with their quarterback from …what? The late 60’s maybe early 70’s? This is pathetic!
MEMO from Me: to Seattle guys, you are losing to a guy nearly twice your age! That’s just sad.

San Diego vs. Indianapolis: The Chargers and the Colts, who really cares?
We all know Manning is motivated by one of two things: Being a really good quarterback, making a lot of commercials. The question is, can he hock enough products to merit his own channel? The All Manning, All the Time Channel? AMATC for short. At least sponsorship wouldn’t be an issue. Not Named Jeffy’s Picks: Rooting for the Colts on the pseudo perception that they are a purer motivated football team en masse. Can’t name a one.

New York vs. Dallas: The Giants and the Cowboys, you know what I going to pick the Giants, so Eli can get his ring. It will also secure his retirement, as he can then go endorse hokey products that don’t work, following in his brother’s footsteps –like sprint phone, OXY cleaning 123, and other things that can be found easily at either the dollar store or QVC. Maybe Payton will let him do a guest spot on AMATC in the early morning hours.

Finally the New England Patriots and… does it really matter what I say? If Tom Brady broke his leg, the Patriots cover the spread and win. If Brady and Moss break legs they win. If Tom, Randy, and the Defensive line all break their legs, Bill Bellicheck will come in and we are back to square one. Patriots win big.

Now if Bellicheck, the defensive line, Tom Brady, Randy Moss, and some obscure backup quarterback aching for some playing time all break their legs, everyone plays with broken limbs, but the Patriots find out (insert Running Back’s name here) can actually run. Jacksonville is left in full body casts, as Bill beats a healthy player to death for getting his cast wet with Gatorade.


Not Named Jeffy? This is not Bill Keane. Why can't you write like this for your English class?

Umm.....Tune in next time when Not Named Jeffy tries to find his way home on the metro. You can trace the detours and chuckle softly for no apparent reason!

First Impressions

When I first saw my future husband across a crowded room at a Notre Dame Freshman mixer, I decided not to introduce myself. He was too serious. Glancing at my outfit, which I thought I projected cool (Actually, it screamed stuck-in-the-early-eighties, saw-and-liked-Xanadu) he thought to himself, “Look at that girl in the silly hat. Bet she’s pretty superficial.”

We were both right.

In graduate school, my advisor called me into his office to discuss the beginning of my program.

“You’re from Texas.” He said, looking at my papers.

“Yes.”

“Well, I heard all the women down there are beautiful and tall. What happened to you?”

I stood up as tall as my five foot two inches would allow and said, “Well that’s true. Down in Texas I’m pretty average, but up here in Boston, I’m stunning.”

I became his assistant. In retrospect, I'm not sure it was a reward.

Meeting my future father-in-law for the first time, my luggage had made the decision to spend the evening at O’Hare. I had to beg and borrow from girls in my dorm to put together an outfit that did not smell like a three hour bus ride. One friend offered to do my hair and gave me sideburns that matched hers and three inch high curled bangs. I’m still recovering.

Interviewing in New York City for a teaching position, there was a carnival going on that day on the playground. The person scheduled to paint faces had not shown and I had just finished talking with the vice principal. For the next two hours, my fingers were covered in grease paint and cold cream. The principal came by the school grounds to put in an appearance. “Who’s that over there?” he asked the vice principal.

I got the job.

When we moved to Maryland, it was the dead of winter and the roads were coated with ice and the grey snow that always grips February. Alone in our rented townhome, I spied a woman walking with a child close to my then one year old son’s age. They were just following the sidewalk. Running out onto the snow barefoot, desperate to make a connection with someone in the area, I must have been a frighteningly mad sight as I screamed. “Hey! Hello! I’d like to meet you!”

We became friends despite that rough intro.

And speaking of introductions....

Hi. My name is Sherry Antonetti and I’m a freelance writer.

While my background is special education and English literature, I currently stay home and help shepherd our eight children through their various stages of development. I also write. Why? It provides my offspring with an edited version of their childhood that is as honest as those multi-hued elegantly pasted scrapbooks. These stories are mythic in that they reveal truth without being completely factual.

It is also loads of fun for me.

Pass the fuchsia curly cue scissors please.

Thank you for considering my voice amongst a sea of bloggers and I hope I made you laugh.