For those of you that do not know or remember, I've named my house Milton. It suits him to perfection. Milton is a good little home, cozy and warm, but lately he has been neglecting to carry out his primary responsibility. He is my shelter, and as my shelter he is supposed to protect me from the world outside.

[shel-ter]
–noun

1.

Something beneath, behind, or within which a person, animal, or thing is protected from storms, missiles, adverse conditions, etc.; refuge.

See! I don't think it's asking too much. And really, I don't expect him to shelter me from missiles, but bugs should NOT be an issue. Yes. BUGS! Just this month alone there have been three offenses. First there was the marauding june bug that ambushed me like one of the Japanese bombers during the attack on Pearl Harbor. Then there was the gimungo spider that dropped at my feet when I closed my shower curtain. And finally, the most recent intruder, a homicidal moth.

Late one night I was peacefully brushing my teeth when I heard a bumping from within the shower. No sooner had I turned to look than a moth zoomed out from behind the curtain, bouncing off walls and flying recklessly in a dive-bombing fashion. Fearing for my life, I screamed and ran, closing the door behind me. There was only one thing to do. I had to fight it. I went to get my fly-swatter.

I was afraid to go back in, but knew that I must. Slowly I opened the door, peering around it in search of my enemy. PING! He took off again throwing himself around the room in a frantic manner, no doubt trying to confuse me. The moth was going too fast and I couldn't follow the inconsistent arcs of his movement to go in for the kill. Finally he landed behind my mirror. I waggled the swatter behind the mirror and out he flew like a bat out of Hell.

This pattern of events went on for several agonizing moments.

At last it lighted on my shower curtain. I arched back my arm and hit the unsuspecting insect with all the strength I could muster. I made contact with the moth, but it was determined to outdo me and it tore off at me, obviously knowing it must strike now or never.

But I was too quick.

I jumped back behind the door and slammed it shut. When all was quiet again I peered into the bathroom. It was silent. I waggled my swatter behind the door. Nothing. I banged the door against the wall so as to disturb the moth. Nothing. I knew I had to go in and I leapt inside, flinging the door shut, weapon at the ready. But there was nothing there! I looked all around me, and then, at my feet, there he lay. It was clear to me that the moth had been stunned, but I had no scruples with kicking my opponent when he was down. With one final swing, I smashed it with my swatter, the dust from its wings spattering across my floor like some bizarre chalk drawing. Victorious, I picked it up with a Kleenex and disposed of it, wiping off my hands in a job well done.

I'm hoping Milton will do a bit better in the months to follow.

This story is about an event that marked a major turning point in my childhood. It is my first true recollection of shame and humiliation. I was six years old.

I can remember the whole thing so clearly. It all started on a night just like any other night. My younger brother and I were playing in my Fisher Price kitchen. The kitchen was my own personal Eden. It had an oven, a small table with yellow plastic chairs, a refrigerator, a sink, a telephone, and cabinets. It was my pride and joy. I was an imaginative child, but also I enjoyed things to be realistic. In order to make my kitchen legitimate I began smuggling food into my room, hiding it in the box of Play Mobile toys. I had been doing this for months, slowly accumulating more and more until I had achieved enough ingredients to host a diverse menu of goodies. After I had been put to bed, I would sneak into my closet and eat. One day I got very bold and stole an entire bag of cookies. This is where our story begins.

I was playing with my brother in the kitchen. We were pretending to be Kings and Queens and wore our bathrobes to better illustrate our majesty. I can see him now, sitting in the yellow chair, me standing before him, wringing my hands as I decided whether or not to honor him with the knowledge of my secret.

"Can you keep a secret?" I asked his three year old self.

He blinked at me, solemn as an owl, and nodded.

"I'm about to show you something, something you cannot tell anyone about. Not even Mom and Dad. Do you swear?"

He nodded.

Satisfied with his oath, I went to the closet, flung open the doors, turned on the light, and heaved my box of Play Mobile toys out into the open.

For those of you that do not know what a Play Mobile is, here is a picture:

So I had pulled the box out. It was brimming with delicacies. Animal crackers, yogurt covered raisins, normal raisins, various cereals, chips, peanuts, and the Big Kahuna: a never opened bag of Keebler's rainbow chip cookies.  My brother stared down at the splendor of which I had just unveiled, gazing back up at me in question.

"Here," I said, pulling out a yellow plate and placing THREE cookies on it. "Have some." This was also my first experience at playing hostess. It gave me a thrill of satisfaction to be able to provide for my guest, to keep him happy and comfortable. I pulled out a plate for myself and together we dined, still pretending to be Kings and Queens but now the game made more realistic with the appearance of actual food at our table.

I should never have trusted him.

It happened a few nights later. Dad was putting me to bed and my brother was waiting his turn. In doing so he decided to while away the minutes in my room. I can see him in his blue one-piece pajamas, complete with feet. Dad and I were reading in bed . . . Brother walks in. I watch him with trepidation, my heart clenching in my chest as I see him pull out a yellow plate and set it on the table. It was panic as I've only known it a few other times in my life. I stared frantically from my brother to my dad, praying that the latter hadn't noticed. Dad kept on reading, blithely unaware of the mounting hysteria taking place inside his small daughter.

My brother was on the move again. He pulled open the closet door. This couldn't be happening. Sweat began to creep onto my brow as I watched him bend down to the box and select . . . A COOKIE!!! NOOOOO!! I leapt out of bed and snatched the cookie out of his hand! He stared at me in bemusement, but I had no time for explanations. Instead I tossed it back into the box and closed the closet doors, rushing into bed. Dad apparently found nothing amiss with my behavior and had continued reading. But my brother was relentless. As soon as I was in bed he opened the door again and bent down to retrieve another cookie. I watched in stunned horror. Surely he couldn't be doing it again?

He was.

He had gotten three cookies out of the box this time and was positioning them neatly on his plate. Just as he was preparing to lower himself into the chair I once more sprang out of bed in an attempt confiscate the evidence. This time Dad took notice.

"What do you keep getting out of bed for?"

My brother had followed me over to the closet and was once again trying to get the cookies back. I hip-checked him out of the way, sending him crashing sideways. This immediately roused Dad's suspicions. He set down the book and made his way over to the closet, peering down into the box that held my stash, the bag of Keebler cookies prominent with its red and white packaging.

I was reprimanded.

My brother left the scene unscathed, but my box of goodies had been removed and its contents emptied. I can remember watching as my months of hard work vanished in the blink of an eye. Like an ant that has meticulously gathered all summer, only to have someone come along and stomp on his anthill. I felt hollow and insignificant. Broken at age six. The next day, my punishment was not over.

My grandparents had come to visit and as I went out to greet them, there on the table, sat the rainbow chip cookies. I stared from the cookies to my dad who laughed and proceeded to inform my grandparents that I had smuggled them into my room. In hindsight I can see that they all probably thought it was funny, but at the time I knew they were disgusted with me. To me it was as if Dad was running around telling the entire family I had been hoarding methamphetamine, or perhaps that he had discovered me crouching beneath my Fisher Price kitchen table with one of my mom's nylons tied around my arm and a syringe in my hand. I was humiliated, the shame of what I had done pressing on me like a stone. I couldn't look anyone in the eye for the rest of the day and struggled to remain in the presence of the cookies for more than a few minutes lest anyone be reminded of my crime.

A few years later, I became a repeat offender. My brother's room was being painted and so he had to sleep on the floor of mine. I had smuggled in some fun size Milky Way candy bars. I tried to offer him one, goading him and needling the way teenagers often do when they are trying to coerce one another into smoking pot. When finally my peer-pressure became too much my brother screamed for a parent to come to his rescue and he told on me. That night I got the last laugh. My dad had answered the call and told my brother not to be such a tattle tale. I was left with only a minor chastisement about eating in bed and remained in possession of my snacks. After Dad left, my brother continued to make his disapproval known, hissing warnings from his position on the floor. But I didn't care. I was free. I ate the lot.

This short story was written by my good friend Casey (the same Casey from The Time I Was Stabbed and Pokey Stick Night). It made me laugh so hard that I just had to post it. Enjoy.


I became a first-time pet owner on my 9th birthday. Sure, my family had a dog, a cat, and the occasional fish, but this... this was all mine. My new guinea pig was a real cutie with tufts of white and brown hair sticking up this way and that. From a young age I had heard of the glories that come with guinea pig ownership. My parents had had several and I enjoyed hearing their countless tales (especially Whitey, the not-quite-right result of a inconsiderate mother and an unfortunate lack of oxygen). Well I finally had my very own wiggie and I couldn't have been more excited. But what to name her? 

Eventually it was time for presents and I was geeked. Mom had lovingly arranged all my pink-themed presents in the living room and I sat on the sofa feasting my eyes on the spread of gifts in front of me. As usual, Dad was taking his sweet time and decided it would be the perfect opportunity to refill the humidifier. And since Dad wasn't quite ready yet, Mom figured she'd get something else done too. And since none of the presents were for him, my little brother couldn't have cared less (when's cake?!). 

So there I sat eyeing every present and imagining what could be inside. Eventually even that got boring and I'd had enough. WHAT IS TAKING SO LO----Ohhhh! Now, I wouldn't say our stairs are particularly tricky, but they got the better of me that day.

In my rush to get on with gifts, I had simultaneously taken a running start, skipped the first step, AND not used the railing. Down I went—like a sack of potatoes. I still remember yelling MOOOOOM as I went tumbling down nearly the entire flight of stairs. (Mom claims this is how I got my mild case of scoliosis.) To add insult to injury the door at the bottom of the stairs was closed. It busted open and there I lay, splayed out on the wood floor in a stupor.

There was only one other time when I'd really had my bells rung, and that was when a metal pole fell on me and cracked my head open (this was another possible explanation for the scoliosis, so says Mom). I lay there dazed and confused, when it came to me. The stars had aligned. The heavens opened and I saw the light. Peanut. If Mom had a guinea pig named Zuchini, clearly something in the nut family was a suitable choice. I mumbled her new name and everyone, who had come running to gather around me, just nodded, looking concerned. No objections? That settled it. Little Peanut. 

We had some good times, Peanut and I, until a few years later when she caught a cold. I awoke one morning to find her stiff and lifeless in her cage. Well, that was the end of that. Dad dug as deep a grave as he could in the frozen ground, and Mom and I wrapped Peanut in a towel and placed her in a box. We held our little ceremony and when the ground was replaced and we went back inside, I thought the worst was behind me. 

I was sad about losing Peanut and would occasionally look out the window in the back yard in the direction she was buried. One afternoon I saw something a little off—some brown fluffy stuff near Peanut's grave. Hmm. I squinted. Looks like... hmm, kind of like hair? What?! Noooooo..... 

Not one to make a snap judgement, I knew we must investigate further. I told my brother and on went our coats and boots. Off we went. I imagine it looked much like we were stalking prey. We walked outside and just stood looking in the general direction of the grave. Slowly, we walked a few feet closer. We stopped. Looked. Walked another few feet. Stopped. Looked. REALLY looked. Strain-those-little-eyes, kind of looked. Finally I was convinced it was my poor Peanut's hair that was unceremoniously strewn about. And this was when the mild hysteria set in. 

Frantic, I explained my theory to my brother who just stared at me. I was starting to freak out. Clearly I couldn't leave Peanut unearthed! But what would I find if I ventured close enough? I did NOT want to see a week-old dead animal body complete with missing patches of hair. No thank you. If I didn't want to see it, I don't know what made me think my brother would. So what possessed me to turn to said sweet, innocent 7-year-old brother and ask him to rebury Peanut, is beyond me. But did I do it? Yep. He just stared at me while my voice continued to raise in both volume and pitch as I pleaded my case. Bless his heart, off he went to do the deed.

Eventually he came back inside and we went on with our lives. And that's how it ended. Did he find a body? Or did he simply stuff the hair back in the hole? I didn't want to know, and I never asked. We once had a cat nabbed by a coyote so we all felt it was a pretty safe bet to assume some animal waddled up and well... I don't want to think about it.

A short while later it was my brother's turn to get his own guinea pig. He named it Cashew.