Northwest Arkansas Crime Report 11/07

Nov. 22 - 11:34 a.m. A man at 12230 Rose Cemetery Road, Prairie Grove, reported exhaust fans to a chicken house turned off and about 1,500 chickens died.
Is it too late to add chicken to the Thanksgiving dinner menu? Waste not, want not.

Nov. 24 - 12:29 p.m. A man on South 19th Street reported his brother-in-law standing outside with a club saying “blood will be shed.”
If my husband stepped out of line, I wish my brother would come get all Braveheart on our front lawn, but he probably never gets that drunk.

2:57 p.m. A woman at 706 Dewoody Drive reported a turkey fryer stolen from the back of her pickup.
You know, you can get one at Wal-Mart that isn’t already coated with used grease and turkey fat for, like, fifty bucks. Seriously.

10:53 p.m. A man at Buffalo Wild Wings, 2707 Moberly Lane, reported an intoxicated man punching vehicles and the mailbox and refusing to leave.
Oh, he’ll leave all right, once the buzz wears off and he notices his hands are hamburger.

Nov 26 - 5:49 p.m. A woman at 16801 U.S. 71 in Winslow reported her neighbor shot her dog again.
It’s the “again” that kills me.

7:05 p.m. A caller at George’s Hatchery, 402 W. Robinson Ave., reported a car stolen.
Go, baby chickens, go!

Now I lay him down to sleep

"Paolo Joseph, I love you."

"That wasn't very exciting."

"No, I guess it wasn't very exciting."

"I thought you were going to tell me something special."

"It's always special when someone loves you."

"..................."

"Okay, goodnight, bud."

"I'm trying to sleep."

Please won't you be my neighbor?

At the park on Saturday, I was accosted by a stay-at-home mother or Mommie, as I think of them. Usually my avoidance of the playground benches and focus on my kids ensure these weirdos leave me alone. Unlucky for me, it was a game day, so the playground was almost empty, and Ellie (Notice how her name ends in 'ie'? They all do.) was determined. Ellie chatted brightly about how her family had moved to town the day before, and she had come to the park to find mommie friends.

Her third question, right after establishing my name and how long I've lived here, was "And what does your husband do?" I was so thrown, I answered before I could process the implications of that question. I was as surprised as if she'd just asked me my shoe size, but I thought there would be some follow-up information that would justify the inquiry. Like if I answered size 7 1/2, she'd give me a pair of shoes. But that wasn't the purpose of the question. She was "getting to know me" and, apparently, my husband's occupation defines not only him, but me as well. Once my brain caught up with my mouth, I felt like I'd taken a swig of sour milk and swallowed before realizing it had gone bad.

Now I'm not very good at small talk, but if I want to get to know people, I'm interested in their hobbies, their taste in books and music. A person's career as a realtor tells me nothing about whether we'd get along, but a scrapbooking obsession speaks volumes. I don't walk up to a man and ask how he earns his money, and I sure as hell wouldn't approach a woman and ask how her husband keeps her. Seriously, who thinks like that? A job, no matter how much you love it, is WHAT YOU DO, not WHO YOU ARE.

As I walked away, I realized that I must have blown my new-mommie-friend interview because Ellie didn't ask for my number or try to give me hers. Or maybe I was supposed to initiate that. This sounds an awful lot like dating, and I never did that either.

Fright Night

My family deserved a quality Halloween experience. All previous Halloweens have gone poorly, and by "poorly" I mean they made us wish we had never had a child. For Paolo's first Halloween, we took baby Wizard to my boss's Halloween party, where Sam spilled a beer all over her granite countertop, making a huge mess for her Honduran maid to clean up. Halloween II entailed carrying little Frog Prince around crowded, miserable Malloween to procure smashed Tootsie Rolls and luggage coupons. Halloween III was epically terrible. Paolo's gorgeous dragon costume had puffy feet that rested on top of his actual feet. Paolo could not be persuaded that his actual feet still existed because, looking down, he could not see them. Screams of MY FEEEET echo to this day in the dark recesses of my memory. We had to carry Paolo around this Halloween, too. He refused to walk because he had no feet. And also, he threw up the teeny bites of candy I allowed him. Last year Paolo invented the character of Super Tiger Boy. You can read about that debacle here.

Which brings us to Halloween V. Sam and I went trick-or-treating with mini-Superman, and my mom stayed home with the pea pod. The experience couldn't have been more perfect, strolling through a historic neighborhood of big Victorian houses, teeming with giggling, costumed kids racing from door to door. I was thoroughly enjoying this idyllic slice of small-town America until we spotted two tween-age girls dressed up as Mammies. That's right: faces painted brown, slave clothes padded to form giant bosoms and bottoms, kerchiefs knotted around their heads a la Aunt Jemima. Holy lynch mob, Batman, I'd almost forgotten I live in the South. How, HOW did they think that was a good idea? Where were their parents? Probably out burning crosses. Sam tried to help me stop hyperventilating by assuring me that, at some point during the night, those idiot girls would run across a black family, preferably some hard-luck New Orleans transplants, and get their heads kicked in. That Sam, he always knows the right thing to say.