Sometimes I think my life is PROOF that God has a sense of humor.


And you know what? I have a sense of humor too. That's why I teach my kids that no matter what, we can find something to smile about, to giggle about, to crack up over.

So I went to my friend's cabin again this past long Labor Day weekend. And of course, it was lovely.

The angels were with Big Daddy, and honestly, I missed them something fierce. Until my friend's kids started a big whoop-ass contest on each other, and then it was deliciously lovely to be able to sneak into the guest room and let a different Mom and Dad deal with it. But I still missed my kids.

My friend's husband is afraid of dogs. Not like "run away screaming" afraid, more along the lines of "visibly flinching if a dog comes too close". When I was invited up to the cabin, I asked my two dog-sitting friends if Walter could be their guest for the weekend. Neither one could do it, so I was starting to panic a little. I mean, getting away for the weekend certainly wasn't a matter of life or death, but the prospect of spending 3 long days all by my lonesome wasn't super appealing.

So I called my girlfriend and let her know I was having trouble finding a place for the dog to stay. "Just bring him" she said, "and get ready. I'm picking your ass up in 10 minutes." I stammered out "B-b-but what about Steve (her husband)???". She sighed. And then said, "Let me handle him. You're coming, and so is Walter. Now GET READY." Steve's friend was coming up for the weekend, with one of his sons, and my friend was not going to let something as trivial as a dog keep her from having a friend to play with, too.

And so we went. One night, after the kids had passed out and us grown ups were having a few drinks and playing games, Steve regaled us with the tales of his paper route he had when he was a boy. Including the several times he was chased, and bitten, by protective and insane dogs. All the while my own protective and insane dog slumbered on the rug in front of us. And I was grateful that Steve not only acted like having Walter up there was no big deal, but actually went out of his way to accommodate my big smelly travel companion.

We learned a few things that weekend: if you give Jenny a high-five while shouting about how great we are at playing Scene-It, Walter may try to lunge at you. Also, if you are a single woman who has a spoiled, fiercely possessive dog, it may not be a bad idea to introduce some grown men into his life. Walter was positively freaked out by the guys, at first. Of course I used that fact to illustrate the point that I am now close to achieving nun/born-again virgin status. But going forward I'll see if any of the men in the neighborhood will entertain my little "Walter, Meet Man" experiment. Beer may help.

Anyhoo, so on to the part about God and humor and all that. That Friday afternoon, as I was busy packing and getting stuff ready for the weekend away, the kids were waiting for Big Daddy to pick them up for their long weekend with him. And of course, they were pissing and moaning about it. Charlie was the one moaning the loudest, and when he heard me starting to freak out a little over the dog situation, he stepped up to the plate and said, "Hey, how about I stay here and watch Walter?".

When my laughter subsided enough so that I could talk, I explained to him that there was no way in hell, in fact, no way ANYWHERE, anytime, that I would leave a 16 year old boy alone. In a house. For a weekend. He protested, loudly and annoyingly. "You just don't trust me, that sucks" he pouted.

I explained to him that it's not him I don't trust, it's his species. Teenage boys. More specifically, 16 year old teenage boys. Plain and simple. As a precautionary heads-up, I sent a text to Big Daddy informing him that I was going out of town and to be watchful over the plotting boy. I also locked the house up tighter than Big Daddy's checking account. Made sure windows were locked, deadbolts bolted, etc. I even called one of my neighbors and asked her to look over in our direction once in a while just to make sure there weren't pillars of smoke billowing out of the windows or a line of giggling teenagers paying a bouncer at the front door. She laughed and then I'm sure locked her own 16 year old boy in the basement for the weekend.

Bases covered, right?

Yeah, right.

When I got home Monday night, the first thing I noticed was that all of the framed pictures, every single one in the entire house, had been turned around. Turned around so that my smiley faced angels in the pictures were beaming towards a wall, not out at the world. At first I thought, "Amityville" and then I thought "teenagers". I did a mom/bloodhound examination of the house, and found things different than when I had left. Most notable were the 42-odd Go-Gurt wrappers strewn about the mancave. Then there was a light on in the garage. And yes, oh yes...someone had been sleeping in my little bear's beds.

I had made beds that Friday morning, and while my bed-making skills will never win me a prize, I most certainly didn't leave them looking slept in. And one of my mysterious house guests had the foresight to bring his very own blankie, which he had forgotten in my William's bed. I was pissed. And grossed out, what with my head-lice phobia. And I tried really hard to not think about other things that could be left in a bed. Really hard.

At this point, the kids were still with Big Daddy, so I did what any rational mother would do: sent my 16 year old son a single sentence text:

"You are so busted."

Long, long story just a bit shorter: Boy protested, mom presented evidence, boy broke down and admitted to having "just a couple homies" over. Trust: shattered. As of this writing, I haven't notified Big Daddy that his parental observation skills are lacking. I'm still trying to figure out how, exactly, to express my frustration and disappointment without sounding like a bitchy shrew. My guess is that I could say "The sky is blue" to him and come off as a bitchy shrew, but I'm going to try and present the facts in a factual, unemotional way. LOL.

Cut to this a.m.: We had some crazy wind in our city last night, people lost power, patio umbrellas were tossed about like toothpicks, etc. When I went downstairs to start the wake up process with the boys, I noticed a chill in the mancave. A chill and some wind. I discovered that the large egress window in their room was shattered.

Sigh. Was it the wind? Certainly, I would have noticed this the night before. But the paranoid mother in me felt instantly squeamish and wondered if it was tied to my son's Risky Business weekend. I pictured a group of "homies", running around, doing stupid teenage things and accidentally breaking the window. Or worse yet, breaking it in order to get in the house. I went outside in my pajamas and looked at the scene from that perspective. There is a large plastic apron, usually placed over the window, which was a dozen or so feet across the yard. I am thinking that the high winds lifted that sucker and in the process of moving it, broke the window. But honestly, I don't know. I will be placing a call to my angel landlord this morning and see how much he really likes his Poor Little Matchgirl renter and her kids now.

I'm hoping that this was indeed an accident and not caused by my kid and his Potsie Weber clan. I'm hoping that the repairs don't have to come out of my already empty pockets.

I'm really hoping that I find the humor in this situation, pronto.

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