SUCCESS!!!!!

After weeks of plotting and scheming and planning and failing and wondering why an alpaca kept outsmarting us, we finally have Solomon's halter OFF!!!  It was a proud moment, made even better by the fact that it was a team effort.

While someone, who shall remain nameless, is lounging on the lake today, pretending to catch fish, the girls and I took charge of Solomon's destiny and got that ragged halter off his face. 

It took all three of us to corner the beast, using long lengths of PVC pipe (left over from one wretched pond project or another) as "fences" to restrain him in an ever-shrinking web.  We're SO redneck. 

After weeks of chasing him around the pasture, luring him unsuccessfully with food, and ending up frustrated, dirty, and bitter, the final result was almost anti-climatic.  Once Solomon realized he was caught, he was fairly docile, and we were able to do our task with a minimum of fuss.

Now, he looks like the rest of the 'paca pack.  Except he's brown.  And they're white.  I don't even want to think about the psychological damage he's enduring as an alpaca of color.  The good news is, the other ones don't treat him any differently, just because he's brown.  If they treat him any differently, it's purely because CRAZY transcends color, racial, and gender boundaries.  He may be free of the tyrannical yoke of the halter, but he's still as nuts as he ever was.

He's a little camera-shy, so I don't have a picture of his new makeover sans halter, but I'll find a way to sneak up on him soon.

Golden Update

Our boy, Golden, has had a couple of weeks to settle in.  He's doing well.  He isn't humming as much--in fact, the only time he hums is when he sees me coming with food.  He likes to eat.  A lot.  He and Mizzie prefer a relaxed approach to eating--once the initial hay frenzy is over, they lounge next to the leftovers and nosh the rest of the day. 

Golden also likes to nibble on the fir trees.  Poor tree:

He's making friends, too:

He and Rosie, the Great Dane, have developed a friendship, of sorts.  They sniff at each other through the fence, and they seem to get along.  Except....well, except for when Rosie's dog friends are around. 

Golden is learning the hard facts of life when it comes to friendships--if someone is only your friend when no one else is around, chances are, they're not really your friend.  It's sad, really, kind of like high school.  I think we all had that one friend who was really fun to be around when it was just the two of you, but when their other friends were around, they acted completely different.

I hate to say it, but that's Rosie.  When it's just her and Golden, they're very companionable.  But, the nasty truth comes out when the other dogs come around.  They bark at Golden, and she just has to join in.  Golden says he feels a little betrayed. 

Are you hearing this, Rosie?

I think this is a teachable moment.  Doesn't she look like she feels sad for her inconsistent behavior?

In Which Satan's Alpaca Knocks Jerry Unconscious.....

..............the first time.

Yes, it's true.  This has happened more than once.  Slow learner, or stubborn?  That is the question that haunts me.

The first time it happened, we'd just gotten Atticus and Solomon, and we were trying to get their halters off, because at Dunwill Farm, all creatures deserve to run free and wild.  Within limits.  MY limits.  And people say I'm a control freak...weird.

So anyway, Jerry was trying to be helpful, but recent health issues have interfered with Jerry's formerly cat-like reflexes.  Now, his reflexes are...NOT cat-like.  And that's all I'm going to say on that subject, because he's reading over my shoulder.

Jerry managed to get a hand on Solomon's neck, and found out the hard way that alpacas have very strong necks.  They're not just there for looks, folks.  With one flick of Solomon's head, Jerry went flying--OVER Solomon's back, and onto the ground.  I've never seen someone do a full twist in the air, outside of the Olympics, or an episode of "World's Dumbest..." 

I witnessed the event with a clinical detachment.  I blame the media for my nonchalant attitude toward violence.  Or I blame the sixth grade.  Or something like that.  When I saw Jerry fly over Solomon's back and land on the ground, I didn't have much time to think about it, because with Jerry down, that meant we were one person short in the mob that was going to subdue the alpacas.  And by mob, I mean four people--Jerry, me, and two screaming teenage girls. 

As Solomon and Atticus were thundering around the pasture, I spared a quick glance to confirm that Jerry was showing uncommon sense by staying down and out of the way.  In the back of my mind, it occurred to me that this was unusual for Jerry, to stay out of the fray.  Usually, he's the first one to storm the battlements.  That must come from his Army training in Advanced Party, or, as he likes to call it, Cannon Fodder (no offense to the brave men and women who serve our country selflessly day after day, but in Jerry's case, it was either stay miserable being a mechanic, or be in Advanced Party.  He is the first to admit he's no mechanic, and by that point in his military career, he and his commanding officer had come to a divergence of philosophies, thus making the decision to send Jerry to the front lines that much easier on his commanding officer's conscience and upward career mobility.).  As Jerry tells it, his sergeant's version of their mission in Germany was to: "go forward and find a place for the company to hold off the Russians until the "real" Army can get here from America".  Confidence AND loyalty-inspiring.  And Jerry thought they were just there for the beer....

We managed to subdue the rampaging alpacas, and to remove Solomon's halter.  Atticus was thundering along with Solomon in alpaca solidarity--his halter was already off, and he apparently had nothing better to do.  It was at that point that I saw that Jerry wasn't moving.  I cautioned him in calm (not) tones to JUST STAY DOWN.  A closer look revealed that Jerry was beyond hearing anything.  Solomon had cleaned his clock. 

Jerry would like it noted that when he fell, his head slammed into a wooden fence post.  Solomon did NOT clean his clock, or anything else.  So noted.

I was trying to make Solomon feel sad about his role in Jerry's meeting with the fence post.  I was trying to ascertain whether or not he had a conscience and coud feel remorse.  "See, now you've killed him.   Don't you feel bad now?  Who's a bad alpaca?"  And that's just about when Jerry came to.  He states that it is very disconcerting to hear those words, just as one is trying to regain his senses. 

And you'd think he'd have learned his lesson.....

Satan's Alpaca

That's what Jerry calls Solomon.  Unfortunately, it's true.  He is a wily one. 

You will notice that he still has a halter on.  He is the ONLY one of the boys who still has a halter on his head.  This is because he's a complete and total brat.  You can tell by the set of his ears, and the squint to his eye, that he's plotting hate crimes against all of us. 

Oh, sure, I thought, when he first came to live with us, he's a sweet boy.  He's just misunderstood.  Yeah, he's "misunderstood", in the same way that Ted Bundy was "misunderstood".  Folks, Beelzebub is alive and here on earth, and he is an alpaca. 

At first, I thought I should leave the halters on the boys, so that we could catch them if we needed to trim toenails or give shots.  Then, I learned that alpacas are obligate nasal breathers, which means that they must be able to get air through their nasal passages in order to breathe.  Their noses, like human noses, contain both bone (at the bridge) and cartilage (at the end).  If a halter is placed incorrectly, it can squish down the cartilage, causing the nasal passages to close.

Once I learned this little fact, the halters immediately came off the other boys.  But Solomon's remained on. 

Try as we might, we can't catch Satan's Alpaca.  He hides behind Atticus so that we can't reach him.  He has bat-like hearing, so we can't sneak up on him.  He has more moves and fakes than an NBA basketball player.  Just when you think you've got him cornered, he zigs one way, you zag the other way, and it's GAME ON again.  'Round and 'round the pasture we go.  Through the trees, around the chicken coop, and over (darn it) the poo pile. 

Satan's Alpaca has tossed Jerry around like a rag doll--twice.  He's spit slimy, green goo all over Tabor.  He's screamed every time we corner him, and I'm expecting a visit from the ASCPA any day now, because his screams of rage sound like a massacre.

If he weren't so doggone cute....

Frustration

So the next step in this alpaca adventure is to learn to spin.  Mom bought a new spinning wheel, and I, being a dutiful daughter, assembled it.  The assembly of the wheel was a lot easier than learning to spin.  45 minutes into it, and I'm ready to thorw in the towel, or the roving, as it were. 

I researched the history of spinning, and learned that the art is an ancient one.  It is humbling to know that people thousands of years ago were able to master this, and I can't even get the yarn to go around the bobbin.  Maybe I'm not giving it much of a chance, but right now, it's too hot and I'm too tired to mess with it.   The yarn store owner who hooked us up with this spinning wheel told us that she knows lots of people who use spinning as stress relief.  Riiiight.  We'll see. 

I refuse to become obsessed with it.  I refuse to become obsessed with it.  I refuse to become obsessed with it.....

Hum's the Word

Poor, poor, Golden.  He is so homesick he can hardly stand to be in his own skin.  He stands at the pasture fence, staring sorrowfully off toward the driveway, and humming. 

Maybe that's his normal facial expression.  Maybe he's just trying to see through his bangs.  Maybe he doesn't think Ginger should be digging a hole in the middle of the yard (yeah, sure, YOU tell her).  It's hard to tell, but the one constant is the humming.  It's omnipresent and ominous, like the "Jaws" theme, only with one note: "Hmmmmm.....hmmmmmm....hmmmmmm....."

He is inconsolable.  He stands.  He hums.  He stands some more.  And then Mizzy comes up and tries to bite his ear off.  And they chase each other for a while, screeching and spitting, but eventually, Golden wanders off.....and hums.

He willingly comes to the fence when a human approaches, but there's always a faint look of disappointment when he realizes that the human is unfamiliar.  And ALWAYS with the sad, sad humming. 

I hope that one day, he will come to terms with his new fate, and try to make some friends.  I think Atticus and Solomon (well, maybe not Solomon) would like to be his friend.  I'm not sure if Mizzy wants to be anyone's friend right now.  He's too busy asserting his dominance over the herd to get too friendly. 

At first, I panicked over Golden's constant humming.  The books tell you that humming sometimes means they're happy, sometimes means they're sad, sometimes means they're sick, and even sometimes means they're mad. 

It's kind of like the first time I took my nephew, Tabor, for the weekend.  He was about a month old at that point, and my parents needed a break.  No problem, I thought.  I'm a rational adult.  I can care for an infant for two measly days.  And everything was fine.

Until the crying started.

He cried.  And cried.  And cried.  He wasn't wet.  He wasn't hungry.  He wasn't in pain.  I couldn't figure out why he was STILL CRYING.  After a couple of hours, I was crying, too.  I'd exhausted everything I could think of to get him to stop.  I couldn't understand why he persisted, and I wasn't about to call my parents, because they would get that TONE in their voices.  You know the tone.  The one that says, "See, and you thought it would be EASY.  Not so easy after all, is it, smarty pants?".

So when Golden persisted in humming, I went through a mental checklist.  Food?  Check.  Water?  Check.  No visible bleeding?  Check. 

What it comes down to, I think, is that although he is healthy, well-fed, and uninjured, his soul has been just a little bit squished. 

So I stand, and when he hums, I hum, just so he knows he's not alone.  Someday, I hope he can be a happy and fulfilled alpaca.  Until then, I'll stand by the fence, and wait him out.

In Which No One Likes Anyone

Today has been an adjustment for all four boys.  One minute, they're all hanging out as a herd, and everyone's getting along.  The next minute, someone takes offense at having his tail sniffed, and the clicking and spitting commences.

The loyalties are fairly well-defined--Solomon and Atticus, and Golden and Mizzie.  However, in the heat of the moment, when the spit flies, all bets are off.

Today, Golden and Mizzie were scrapping a bit.  I keep worrying about Mizzie's shoulder, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it.  He goes after Golden and Solomon, mostly.  I was initially convinced that Solomon would be the alpha-'paca, if for no other reason than his Charles Manson-like craziness, but he seems to be trying to stay out of the fray as much as possible.

Right now, I would say Mizzie is ahead in points.  He's the only one so far who's strutted away from a round with wisps of fleece hanging from his mouth.  Sorry, Golden.  It looks like he caught some of Golden's topknot.  Those two tussle much more aggressively than Atticus and Solomon--they aren't afraid to chomp down wherever they can get a good hold.  Atticus and Solomon play fairly roughly, but they don't bite each other. 

It seems like they only argue when we're out there.  Otherwise, they all coexist peacefully.  They're learning each others' personal boundaries, and as a result, everyone's been sprayed with green, gooey spit.  There haven't been any injuries, and as long as nobody's hurt and nobody's being picked on, I'm going to let them work it out on their own.

Me, You, and Scrappy-Doo

I would like to introduce two new family members, Golden and Mizrahi.  The come to us from Mahart Farms (thank you, Marci!  They're sweet boys!), and are beautiful light colored  Suri boys.  Golden is fawn-colored, and Mizzie is white.  I am interested in experimenting with natural dyes, and we wanted to acquire a couple more lighter-colored fiber males. 

This is Golden:

Golden is about the same size as Atticus.  He is very vocal, and hums a LOT.  I think that will settle down once they all settle in to a routine.  He is a Suri, so his fiber will grow in "dreadlocks", whereas the Huacayas (Solomon and Atticus) will have fiber that makes them look like big puffballs.  We're going to call the vet and have them come out and do some dental work on this little dude.

Here is Mizrahi, or "Mizzie":



Mizzie is the smallest of the group, but he's sure scrappy!  He has a bit of a limp--his right shoulder required surgery early on in life, and so he's got some metal hardware embedded.  He's our bionic alpaca.  Being the smallest and having a limp doesn't slow him down AT ALL.  He kind of reminds me of Jerry in temperament and stature--small but mighty. 

We introduced them slowly to Atticus and Solomon, letting them sniff each other over the fence.  Marci recommended taking Atticus and Solomon out, and letting Golden and Mizzie in, so that they could get the lay of the land without being completely dominated.  We tried that.  I was a little worried that the older boys would pick on the newcomers.  That was not the case. 

Golden decided to take an aggressive stance right off the bat and went after Atticus.  Soon, the herd was thundering around the pasture, like cars zipping around a track.  It wasn't particularly warm outside, but I was afraid everybody would overheat, so we got the hose out.

We'd heard that spraying down chests and bellies would cool them down if they were overheated.  It hasn't been that warm a summer, and there is ample shade in the pasture, so it hadn't been an issue.  But, since the boys were all heated up from their run, and it was a tense situation for everyone anyway, we erred on the side of caution.

They LOVED the hose.  In fact, Solomon loved it so much, that he came close enough to me that I could practically touch him.  He kushed down and basked in the coolness.  Everyone finally settled down, and were soon calmly grazing. 

Golden and Mizzie were eager to explore their new home, and were soon nose-to-beak with chickens.  The hens were mildly curious, but were too busy avoiding Harry and his insatiable amorous advances to really care one way or the other.

Eventually, all was quiet, and a good nights' sleep was had by everyone.

Grover Arms

People who have been married for a while develop their own language, based on a lifetime of silly conversations and in-jokes.  Jerry and I are no exception.  Comments like, "I went all Grover Arms over the whole thing", or if one of us isn't understanding the other, saying, "Chicken?" are surefire ways to crack us up.

Today, I'll reveal the origin of "Grover Arms".

When I was in college, aerobics classes were all the rage--I'm talking full-on, Jane-Fonda- leotards-and-leg-warmers aerobics.  And, to my eternal shame, I'm compelled to confess that I, too, wore a full-body leotard and leg warmers.  I had all of Jane Fonda's workout videos, and I was still slim enough to enjoy group classes without worrying that I was the flabbiest person there.

Don't judge me.  It was the 80's.

Anyway, my aerobics instructor was a math professor who did the aerobics gig on the side, because he liked to work out.  He was a tall, gangly, swarthy man with black Einstein-esque hair, who typically wore a black, long-sleeved, full-leg body suit.  He wore electric blue accessories--terrycloth headband, wrist bands, running shorts over his leotard, and yes, leg warmers.  He had the longest and skinniest arms and legs I've ever seen on an actual human being.

He was so exuberant, you felt happy just being in the same room with him.  He didn't care if you were hopping on the correct leg, or skipping in the correct direction.  He just wanted you to MOVE.  "Your heart doesn't care what foot you're on, just keep GOING!!" he'd holler, as we took him at his word and bumped into each other and ran over one another in reckless abandon.  Who knew aerobics was a full-contact sport?

Whenever the routine called for us to wave our arms above our heads, his would flop from side to side, independent of each other, just like Grover from Sesame Street:

http://youtu.be/JOF5s9k-cLA

I wonder sometimes if he deliberately hopped on the wrong foot and moved out of sync to the beat to make us feel better about our clumsiness--no one could be THAT awkward naturally.

To this day, whenever I think of someone getting really freaked out over something, I think of them running around with "Grover Arms". 

A large portion of my job in the real world involves perusing medical records.  One diagnosis that always makes me giggle to myself (not out loud, I'm not CRAZY, after all) is "internal derangement".  This is often used as a diagnosis for knee injuries, if the doctor thinks someone might have a meniscus tear or ACL disruption, but doesn't yet have the MRI to confirm it.  Whenever I see that diagnosis, I think of Grover arms, waving toward the sky.

Whenever my teenagers get on my last nerve, I picture myself running out to the pasture, screaming unintelligibly, waving my Grover Arms, freak flag flying high.  It soothes me.  And it's so much better than dusting off the old Jane Fonda videos and trying to figure out where in the heck my waist went when I wasn't looking.

Reinforcement

There comes a time in every person's life when they need to learn the difference between "in" and "out".  Most often, if things are designated as "in" things, they need to stay "in".  "Out" things frequently need to remain "out".  Walls and fences are a good way to keep "in" in, and "out" out.  But what happens when "in" things need to stay in, and "out" things need to stay out, and SOMEthing needs to be able to move fluidly between the two realms?  This is the express purpose for such inventions as doors, gates, and the like--to make said transfers smooth and seamless.

And therein lies the problem--that transition stage between "in" and "out", and the possibility of "in" things becoming "out" things and vice versa.  "In" things like air-conditioning, parakeets, cats, and dogs do not mix well with "out" things like hot summer weather, hawks, coyotes, and cars.  And "out" things like flies, dogs, and mice do not mesh well with food, alpacas, and MY SHOES.

Just such a conflict has arisen in my peaceful household.  My niece, Kayla, does not understand her fundamental responsibility to participate in keeping "in" things in, and "out" things out.  Reinforcement of these vital principles was necessary.  Her grasp of the concept--guarding "in" from "out" and "out" from "in"--was in jeopardy.  Drastic measures needed to be taken. 

Observe:

We can only hope and pray that the lesson has taken hold, and the fine balance between "in" and "out" will continue to be maintained....

The Boys--Adventures in Alpacas

Once upon a time, our worldview included such livestock as chickens, goats, and cows. Then, my mother received the fateful phone call from our pastor’s wife, who is very involved in a local animal rescue.

You have to understand that my mother is well-known as a softy when it comes to animals in need. Over the course of my childhood, our property played host to a cow, chickens, rabbits, pheasants, dogs, cats, hamsters, parakeets, and two refugee goats. Many of these animals wandered onto the property, and decided to set up housekeeping. Our first cat, Betty, decided to make her home with us when my sister hand-fed her Oreos. She repaid the kindness by promptly having a litter of kittens in our chimney (in the middle of winter), making it impossible to use the wood stove for heat.

So it was no surprise when Mom told us we were acquiring two alpacas. Once we became reconciled to two new residents, it was time to do frantic internet research. What are alpacas? What do they eat? What kind of environment do they need? How much are the vet bills going to be?

For the next two weeks, all I did was internet research. I refuse to admit that I might possess a smidgen of OCD, but it’s possible that someone who didn’t know me very well might just think I’m a little obsessive. I learned enough about alpacas and their physical, medical, emotional, and spiritual needs to be very trepidatious about our new venture. Emotional and spiritual needs, you ask? Don’t get me started.

The arrival of the boys was looming. We needed to re-home them by the end of June. I quickly let go of the idea that we’d have their shelter completed, and satisfied myself with having the fencing done. The pasture they were going to inhabit came complete with a dense stand of evergreen trees, and the area stays dry, even during the winter in Oregon. This would have to do until we could get the new alpaca Taj Mahal done.

The boys were owned by a very nice woman who, due to medical reasons, had to find them a new home. They are 8 years old, and have lived together since birth. Neither of the boys had been gelded, and I began to have daydreams of founding a great alpaca empire, one which would change the direction of our lives forever. Oh, yes, they’ve changed the direction of our lives, all right. But not in the direction of creating a dominating alpaca empire.

So, at the end of June, Mom and I hopped into the minivan to bring the boys home. Yes, I said minivan. My exhaustive internet research revealed that alpacas can be transported in such a way. Ideally, they “kush”, or kneel on front and back legs, and are content to look out the window at the scenery.

Since it was late June, the boys were due for shearing. Alpacas in this area need to be sheared once a year, and the deal was that the owner would call her shearers and do the deed before we took them home. Ostensibly, the shearers would help us get the boys into the van, as well.

What I didn’t realize was, alpacas don’t LIKE to be sheared. And these boys weren’t very socalized, either, so for those of you who have calm, well-behaved alpacas, you probably wouldn’t understand how truly horrifying it was to hear them SCREAM as they were being sheared. It was like someone was killing them. The shearers, bless their hearts, were very efficient and professional, but the boys didn’t make it easy. That whole myth that alpacas don’t spit on humans? Not true. If you make them mad enough, they’ll spit on anyone.

The shearing massacre finally came to an end, and then it was time for the alpacas to get into the back of the minivan. We’d taken the seats out, and the back was completely open. After a lot of wrestling, screaming (some even from the alpacas), and naughty words, the boys were ensconsced in the minivan. Mom had to finalize the paperwork, so I was left to sit in the van with the boys, and try to calm them down.

“It’s okay, guys, this is the worst of it. It’s all downhill from here,” I crooned, trying to convince myself as well as them. I still had hold of their leads, because my fingers wouldn’t unclench from them. Please don’t spit on me, please don’t spit on me…I kept saying over and over to myself, along with, where is Mom? Why am I stuck here with these angry little beasts?

Eventually we hit the open road. The boys eventually got tired of not being able to stretch their necks and kushed. Atticus kept up a very worried humming for the duration of the trip, and Solomon was clearly plotting revenge.

This is Atticus, with a perpetually worried look in his eyes:






This is Solomon, with his typical, crazed-serial-killer look in his eyes:






We got the boys home, and they have managed acclimate, more or less.






But the story is far from over…..

Chickens--The Gateway Drug to More Livestock

I have successfully resisted any and all attempts to add livestock to our property for many years. I didn’t want the hassle, the expense, the clean-up, and the inevitable extra work that comes with additional animals. My streak of successful resistance came to an end this spring. This was the Spring of the Chickens.

My mother was the catalyst. She and my husband have been rhapsodizing about fresh eggs and chicken poo (as fertilizer) for years, and finally it all just became too much. She went to the farm store one day, and came back with three chickens. My husband seethed with envy. Why did SHE get chickens, and not him? It’s not fair!! Not to be outdone, he sneaked out and got four more. My chickenless world had come to an end.

We kept the chicks in a huge storage bin (with the lid modified to cut out the middle and attach chicken wire), until they were big enough to be outside. My criteria for “big enough” was noise and odor-related—once they were too loud and smelled too much, I decided they were old enough to be outside.

The coop was built, which is a story for another day. Then, our friends got into the act—after all, if you’re going to have to build a coop, why not build it bigger, for MORE chickens?

We now have a dozen chickens. A dozen clucking, pecking, pooing chickens.








We soon discovered that one of the “shes” was a “he”. Thanks, Farm Store. His name is Harry.








Harry is a very confused rooster. He can’t tell time, and he has the weirdest crow ever. We hear “Rrr R Rrrrr….Rrr R Rrrrr” at all hours of the day and night. It’s a good thing we don’t have any near neighbors, or Harry would be someone’s dinner.

And if that’s not bad enough, recently, Harry has begun some disturbing behavior. He’s doing…things…to the hens. R-rated things. It’s shocking. It’s disgusting. It’s…..chicken porn.

The very worst thing about chickens, the thing that no one will tell you, is this: chickens are a gateway drug to other livestock. It’s true. As marijuana is to other drugs, so chickens are to other livestock. If not for the chickens, we would never have considered alpacas. If not for those blasted chickens, I wouldn’t be hearing words like, “goats”, and “cows” being bantered about IN MY HOME.

Cute, fluffy little chicks should come with a warning label. It should be government-mandated. Hey, Congress, instead of wasting millions of dollars of grant money for the study of the life cycle of the red-toed dung beetle, why don’t you do something about the unfettered, rampant sale of cute little chicks?

Because I am a civic-minded person, I’m going to do my part and provide a public service announcement regarding the dangers of chickens.

“This is your life before the scourge of chickens:






This is your life AFTER the scourge of chickens:






Any questions???”

Conversaton on the Way to the Sleep Study

Me: So.....you realize that you're only going to be there for about 12 hours, right?
Jerry: Yeah, so?
Me: Well, it's just that you're bringing a really big bag. 
Jerry: I have lots of stuff to take.
Me: It's a REALLY big bag--in fact, I think it's bigger than the bag you brought from Kentucky, packed with all your earthly belongings, when you moved here to marry me.
Jerry: Look, I've got a lot of stuff to carry.  They said I could bring my radio, and my pillow, and I need my pills, a change of clothes, body wash, toothpaste.....
Me: I understand that, but yeesh, it's a big bag.  Do you need help with it?
Jerry: It's got wheels, you know.
Me: But just the fact that you NEED a wheely bag.....that's kind of my point.
Jerry: What's it to you?  You don't have to carry it.
Me: Nooo....it rolls. 

(Silence)

Me: That's a huge radio, by the way.  They do make them smaller, you know.  It's not like the 80's, when the bigger the boom box, the cooler you were...
Jerry: Ha!  You're jealous of my big bag.
Me: Not at all.  I just wasn't sure it would fit in the back of the Bug..........Just sayin'.

(Silence.  We arrive at our destination.  We have a few minutes, so I'm reading through the instructions for the sleep study.)

Me: You had iced tea for dinner.  You weren't supposed to have anything with caffeine!
Jerry: Tea doesn't have caffeine.
Me: Yes it does!  Look, right here, the paper says it does!  You haven't even gone in yet, and you've cheated!  Tea cheater!
Jerry: I'm going to be hooked up to a thousand electrodes, some dude's going to be watching every move I make all night, I'm in a strange bed, and you think a little TEA will be the reason I can't sleep?
Me: What if you have to potty in the middle of the night because of all the TEA you drank?  Will you be electrocuted by the electrodes?
Jerry: I don't think they're going to put electrodes THERE, you know.

(Silence, while we contemplate electrode placement.)

Me: Do you want me to walk you in?
Jerry: No, Mom, I think I can make it.
Me: Do you need help with your rolly bag?.............Hon?..............I love you, sleep well!......Jerry?