And the Cat Makes 5

TURF TOWN

Left: Turf Town complete with grafittit art

Above: Weapons stash in Turf Town

Turf Town, Fight Club, either way you say it, a group of 5-11 year old boys with weaponry like "giant plastic dinosaurs" and rules of engagment being, "if you cry, you're a baby!" Ahh, I love raising boys ... click to read more.

And The Cat Makes 5 ...: TURF TOWN

Boys of Summer

Smilebox Show! Click below!
And The Cat Makes 5 ...: Boys of Summer

And The Cat Makes 5 ...: MY MULLET HUNTING FASCINATON ...

I'm not really sure where my Mullet fascination began ... living in NH, amongst free roaming mullets, my interest has yet again been ignited! Business in the front, paaaarty in the back ... read on

And The Cat Makes 5 ...: MY MULLET HUNTING FASCINATON ...

Where Do Babies Come From?

BRADYN J. ELDRIDGE ...
WHERE DO BABIES COME FROM?
A number of weeks ago Jon and I were discussing in vague details the birds and the bees with Drew. He has come home with some interesting thoughts on the subject, so we have started to open a dialogue about the whole thing ... (to see the rest of the story click below)

And The Cat Makes 5 ...: Where Do Babies Come From?

Boys of Summer

And The Cat Makes 5 ...: Boys of Summer

MY MULLET HUNTING FASCINATON ...

I'm not really sure where the whole fascination with Mullets began for me ... I think it started when my little sister, Kati, introduced me to the "phenomenon" that I just knew as a haircut sported by every football player/cowboy etc. in my school during the late 80's early 90's time frame. My younger sister (10 years younger) informed me that this coif' was not just a way to do one's hair, but a lifestyle with dedicated followers AND hunters. So began my fascination with the mullet, it's mullet counterparts, and all things mullet. Here in New Hampshire, the mullets roam free across their natural terrain,

NH MULLET AS SEEN IN THE WILD ... HUNTED UNDER DURESS

(I think the state logo,"Live Free or Die" should be changed to "Sport Mullet ..or Die".) A NH mullet is often seen in any type of store that sales bait and hot dogs in the same locale. In NH, there is usually also a handmade sign that states, "WICKED GOOD WHOOPIE PIES HERE!".

I have, unfortuantely, witnessed the child abuse of mini-mullet coifs at school functions where the little abuse victims have no idea their mullet (matching mommies AND daddies mullet) is really an indicator that your family loves pork rinds and RC Colas, or whooppie pies and fluffernutters (another blog for another day ... yes, fluffernutters are a food, and yes, only a Yankee could have invented such a foul concoction), as in Yankee land.

I have not hunted the mullet in quite some time, Jon tells me it has something to do with me being a mom now and maybe going to jail and setting an example or something like that. Kati (little sister) has carried on the torch and she and I occasionally will call one another via camera phone to show a particularly stunning mullet worthy of hunt status, roaming free in the wild. Recently, I came across a NH mullet that insisted it was a "shag". The mullet was so obviously NOT a shag and so very stunning that I had to revisit my love/fascination of the mullet via the web to make sure my mullet sighting skills had not been depleted after years of being mullet hunting free. Yes, this mullet was seen in the wild and the picture was taken under duress.

To the web I went. Mullet sites have come a long way in a few years. There are pictures, classifications, descriptions (in detail from the femlet to the mulletino) and many tips and tricks to hunting your own mullet. Please see below some tips and tricks I gathered from the web if you would like to enter to world of professional mullet hunting. The link above will take you to a professional mullet hunter's experience in case you need more pointers.

Happy Hunting ...


Cortney - aka "retired mullet hunter"

Hunting Techniques

These are the techniques that have worked for hunting thus far.

STEALTH: The pic is taken from a distance or behind an object (tree, car, etc.) The mullet usually has no idea you have hunted him. It's a really good technique to use when you sense the mulletude and you need the pic.

RESULT: Pictures are usually too far to be useable (unless you have a good zoom) but you walk away unharmed.

BAIT: (Most common) You have a friend stand next to the mullet and pretend like you're taking a picture of a friend (the bait). This works well because you can get a nice close up of the mullet. You might get a few strange looks from the prey...but whatever, that's part of the fun of hunting.

RESULT:Decent pics with minimal risk of physical harm.

GUERILLA:(My favorite) Walk straight up to the mullet and snap the pic in their face (3/4 head shot is best). This will cause a reaction of confusion and bewilderment. It's totally legal, so don't sketch. It's up to you how to handle the post-hunt reaction. Your main focus should be to somehow distract/confuse the mullet. (Fortunately, mullets are easily distracted and not difficult to confuse) You'll need to divert their attention from what has just happened. You will have to make quick, instinctive and reactionary type decisions. For example, if you're sensing that the mullet is not going for the whole distraction angle, you might have take off running. Keep in mind that every case is different, therefore each post-hunt reaction will be also. Obviously, this is a very dangerous technique that should only be practiced by the most CONFIDENT of hunters.

RESULT: Almost ALWAYS, this technique gets you the best pics. Unfortunately, there is a REAL possibility you could get your ass kicked.

My sister Kati has been known to employ this hunting tactic as seen below... the CALL OUT.

CALL OUT: It involves going right up to the Mullet and Calling him/her out.

Hunter: " Hey Dude, that's a stylin' Mullet"
Mullet: "Huh?"
Hunter: "Yeah man, it takes balls to sport that hair"
Mullet: "Huh?"
Hunter: (Say it fast for confusion) "Oh Yeah, It's the Mullet, Camaro Hair, The Charlotte Mud Flap, The Kentucky Waterfall, Hockey Hair, the 10-90, the Achy-Breaky- Big-Mistakey, the Ape Drape. You know, the only hair style that has web pages devoted to it."
Mullet: "Huh?"
Hunter: "Do you mind if I get your photo? I'm going to put you on the Internet. You will be famous."
Mullet: "OK"
Hunter: "Please turn sideways so I can get a good shot" Click. "Thanks."

DIRTY TACTICS: First hold up the camera, then turn and ask a friend if the flash is on . Your friend answers that he/she doesn't know, and for you to try the camera to see. Quickly aim the camera towards the mullet you desire to capture on film and snap the picture in their face. Say "oops! sorry dude. by the way, nice mull!" Walk away calmly, leaving the mull in confusion, as though nothing ever happened.
Mullet Junkies -Jessica & Liz, VA

* One more thing: Always keep your camera with you. I'm sick of hearing the, "I saw this GREAT mullet at the supermarket, but I didn't have my camera" story.

Happy hunting,
-Me

Boys of Summer

Make a Smilebox photobook

Where Do Babies Come From?

This exchange I wrote about happened during my pregnancy, but I was going through some old e-mails and thought I would share on our blog page ... Bradyn WILL need thereapy in his later years for the stories his mother posts on the family blog page for the world to see. Let's hope his "baby" theory sticks around for as many years as possible. Kids grow up WAY to fast these days!

BRADYN J. ELDRIDGE ...

WHERE DO BABIES COME FROM?

A number of weeks ago Jon and I were discussing in vague details the birds and the bees with Drew. He has come home with some interesting thoughts on the subject, so we have started to open a dialogue about the whole thing (good heavens, he is only 8, I am NOT ready for this!). At any rate, we didn’t want to scare the kid, but wanted to make sure he knew SOMETHING. So, somewhere in the conversation he understood that babies somehow come from the mommy and the daddy and in his mind, “daddies put the babies in the mommies tummy when they hump like Caesar (our Shitzu)”. Okay, that was more information than I wanted to hear from my 8 year-old and we put that topic to rest. Well, somewhere in there his 3 year-old brother was all ears and heard a portion of the conversation. Today I found out where babies come from … according to Bradyn.
Bradyn and I have “car chats” wherein I turn the rear view mirror to the back seat so he can see me and I him. He has been requesting this for over a year now and I oblige. These are the times that Bradyn will be absolutely ridiculous, cute and charming, or even philosophical. Well, as philosophical as a 3 year-old can be. Today was one of those days. Bradyn exclaimed to me in a very serious tone, “When I grow up and get big, I am going to be a daddy just like my daddy.” Okay, so that was cute and I was thinking what a great influence Jon must have on this kid for him to want to be just like his daddy. SO, we went further down the road and I said, “A daddy, huh? So are you going to have babies?” Bradyn again turned very serious and there was a long pause … “well,” he said, “fiwst I have to find a giwl … so she can be the mommy and I can be the daddy.” I responded, “Oh, okay.” I then looked into the rearview mirror to see Bradyn making a stirring motion with his hands like he was stirring a big bowl of something. “Yep,” Bradyn said, “I’m gonna stir up some babies and put ‘em right up in the mommy so she can have some babies!” I almost drove off the road laughing. So, if you ever wondered exactly WHERE babies come from it is apparently a mix that you can get at the store. I will ask Bradyn later exactly where the baby mix is if you really need to know.

SEND ME YOUR BLOG SITES

Alright,
I am starting to make a concerted effort to actually blog on this thing. It might last a week, it might last a month, who knows? The point is that while I am on this upswing of trying to be relatively organized on my blog NOW IS YOUR CHANCE to send me your blog address so I can add you to my "friends" list. I know there are blog spies out there watching my page ... and I would like to add you as friends. Know your enemies, all that. haha! SO, respond here if you would be so kind and let me know your blog site. Thanks in advance!
cortney

Row, Row, Row the Boat ...

Our friends have a boat ... a really fast boat that keeps the boys entertained by dragging them all over the lake on this large tube. The adults stay entertained driving the boat seeing who can knock the boys into the water first. So far, Jon is the best driver, Bradyn is fearless, Drew is learning fear, and Mark is a ham BEGGING to go faster AND trying "tricks". Yes, the adults have been on the tube as well. I think Mark and Jon hold the record for longest time without falling.

The Boys of Summer ... I hate this jacket ... but I love being in the boat!

HOW YOU DOIN'?

When is it MY turn?

"Hey Bosely, tell Charlie the Angels are all here!"

Geez, that last wave knocked it rought out of me ... I'm exhausted!

Yes, AND a movie ... really, I have become so technological, please click play.

TURF TOWN

4th July SPIKED Blue Hairs"

As for this Summer, Mark Magoon has been here a lot playing with Drew. It would seem as an only child Mark has discovered the rigors of brothers to be "entertaining". He also is quite intrigued with the fact that we have a thousand boys per square mile in our neighborhood. He lives in Northfield, rather rural area, with no neighbors. As you know, we have MANY neighbors, some might say to many. = ) Anyhow, he has been hanging out here, pretending he has brothers, doing "chores" with my boys (he was even added to the chore chart, poor kid, but it was his request!), and acting like a city kid playing with all of the other boys in the neighborhood.

The "city children" of pasture drive have been quite busy this Summer... all at the Eldridge household. Now, when I was a new mom I used to think how cool it would be one day to have the house that all of the kids wanted to be at. Yep, I could be the cool mom that passed out cupcakes and Popsicles while the kids played board games and action figures. Uh-huh.
IT'S NOT POSICLES OR CUPCAKES, BUT IT'S THE COOL MOM DUGOUT PLAYOFF TREATS! INSANE!!


MY MOM ROCKS!
I don't know if I'm the cool mom, but I do know the kids DON'T play board games or action figures, (action figures are kind of a joke in our house because Drew had a "man Barbie" when he was about 4 years old AND I used to casually ask him where his man Barbie was just to hear him say, "mooooooommmmm! It's an action figaw!!!!!!!!" Yes, he was surly even at 4 years old) and I DO keep stocked in Fluffernutter supplies (fluffernutter - you know this is a purely Yankee invention ... we would never DREAM of such a disgusting combination out west! Gross - but the kids love them - grosser) and occasionally hand out juice boxes and Popsicles and sometimes Valium cookies, but that's only when the WHOLE neighborhood of boys is playing INSIDE my house on a 90 degree 100% humidity day ... kidding, just kidding.

Back to the busy children of Pasture Drive. Have you heard of Turf Town? Allow me to introduce you if I have not already. Turf Town is the result of a couple of things. The planets in complete alignment, a very 8 months pregnant and miserable Cortney who didn't have the capacity to say "no", and a husband with a "dream" and the inability to finish the basement he started in the fall. So, Turf Town came into existence. Turn Town is the brain child of Jon. I have NOTHING to do with Turf Town. Turf Town is in the basement ... our absolutely enormous basement that Jon decided to frame in and sheet rock 3/4 of last Fall. This was supposed to be his "winter project" ... finishing the basement. When the final sheet of sheet rock was nailed down and it was time to tape and mud Jon lost his wind. So, there was the basement, framed, sheet rocked, open ceiling with exposed pipes, etc. from the first floor, and a cement floor. Months passed. The winter project was soon forgotten as out basement turns into somewhat of a frozen tundra in the New England winter. Nobody goes down to the basement for fear a search and rescue team and sled dogs might have to recover your frozen remains in the Spring. AND, our Shitzu is a lousy rescue dog. He's lazy.

Come spring thaw (end of February or so), Jon got re motivated to finish his basement. Now, some would argue Jon was "nesting" as I was about to "pop" with his third child. Some would argue he was taking advantage of me to finish the basement "his way". I argue the latter. One evening as I laid in bed praying that the monster that inhabited my body and found himself quite comfortable laying sideways on my sciatic nerve would just GET OUR ALREADY, Jon came into the room to make a "suggestion". "So," he began, "how about a new idea for the basement?" Alright, past that I have to say that all I remember is turf, just like a real baseball field, and home depot rolls of turf. The monster had kicked my sciatic nerve just right after the word basement and all I could see or hear was glaring pain. I think, or Jon claims, I agreed with him.

Jon soon left the house after this conversation ... only to return with the biggest roll of artificial turf I have EVER seen. He was grinning ear to ear telling me how cheap it was and how "cool" his basement would be. Of course it was cheap! It was turf for hell's sake. The kind of turf people put on their front porches in trailer parks across America! I just shook my head and he and the boys disappeared to the basement. The next day I was escorted by my two children to their Dad's newest invention ... "Turf Town". Yes, he had laid all of that damned artificial turf in the basement, with the rolls even going the opposite direction like a "real field" (or so Jon claims). The seams of the turf were carefully taped with double stick to the basement floor as to elude the onlooker that this was not real grass. Uh-huh. "The beauty of this," grinned Jon," is that the boys can beat the hell out of the basement and I don't care. I never finished the walls, so I don't care!" Holy crap. He should have just covered the walls in rubber, because he had just unknowingly created an open bay psych ward for every boy in the neighborhood between the ages of 5 and 12 to be admitted to.

Turf Town, as it is now called, is the pride of pasture drive and my private shame. My house is fairly pristine and I am a bit picky (okay, Jon says bitchy, I say picky) about how things look and where things are placed etc. But, Turf Town is off limits to me. Turf Town served as “spring training” for our boys, Jon, Mike St Onge, and his boys. No one cared about the walls, so it didn’t matter that they had a ball pitcher and real balls being hit and slung around with “pop flys” and “grounders to first”. I was busy with a NEW baby, so I didn’t really care.

Now that the weather is warm and school is out, Turf Town has become "fight club" for the boys on Pasture Drive. The boys (imagine Fleming boys, my boys, Chaz, sometimes Mark Magoon, etc.) all go to Turf Town (aka Fight Club) and I hear clambering, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, bangs, thuds, and karate, "kee-ahs!" I don't question. They stay down there for HOURS. The only reason I knew it was becoming a fight club is because one day Donna asked me if I had a car seat in the basement. Uh-yeah, I had one down there for Caden to "grow into". Unbeknown st to Mark and Drew, as they sat in the back of Donna's van one day talking about Turf Town, she was listening. The conversation went something like this, "yeah, Turf Town is AWESOME ... yeah, sometimes it gets rough ... yeah, like when someone takes that stool and wacks you in the head with it ... or the car seat, yeah, the car seat really hurts when someone uses that as a weapon!" I stand by my original mantra, boys are dumber than the family dog ... and we have a really dumb family dog.

When I heard that Turf Town was fight club, I decided to try and steer the boys creative energies another direction. SOOOO, since Jon didn’t care about the walls, (and I had given up, let’s be candid here) I told the boys that they should take their crayons and markers and write on the walls. I suggested perhaps making a Red Sox or Patriots logo, etc. Uh-huh. Remember that part about boys being dumb? The whole “fight club” gang immediately latched to the idea of writing all over the walls and they were down in Turf Town for a few hours. I was so pleased with myself that I didn’t hear any battles, crying, or mystery bangs. After a few hours I quietly went downstairs to see the masterpiece the little darlings had created … boys are dumb. On the wall was not a logo or anything else productive … oh no, there were sentences, phrases, misspelled and grammatically incorrect at that?! I looked around and they sort of stared wide eyed at me to catch my reaction. I took a silent breath of relief and noted that there were no “naughty words” on the walls. Thank the Maker for small favors there. I walked around Turf Town … silently. Then I read aloud one of the statements on the wall, “Bradyn spoons with his stuffed Pandna … hmmm, I don’t think Bradyn spoons with his stuffed Panda when he stuffed shark is so much easier to spoon with AND if you are going to write on the walls AT LEAST spell the words correct! Who spells Panda, “p-a-n-d-n-a”? Geez!” The boys started grinning and I went to the next statement on the wall … “Mark likes to kiss modles.” What the hell is a modle? Then I realized the spelling error and said, “again, boys, who wrote this? HOW do we spell MODEL? We do not spell it “m-o-d-l-e”!” There were a few, “Yankees suck!” here and there (remember, I had the Fleming boys at my house), and a few more mentions of Bradyn and his spooning activities with his stuffed animals, but other than that, ridiculous.

I told them to clean up the crayons and markers … they were done for the day. The NEXT day I thought of another GENIUS plan to entertain them in turf town that did NOT involve writing on the walls, or beating each other. Jon and I had some boxes in the basement from our move (2 years ago, remember, Jon moves slow). Jon had broken them down, and they were just sitting there. I told the boys, “hey, how about you BUILD something with all of those boxes down there?” HOW could they screw that up? They were VERY excited and spent HOURS down there in “construction”. I went down a few hours later to see they had not created a single anything, but rather Turf Town had now become shanty town with boxes EVERYWHERE and little created hamster like tunnels for the boys to crawl into. Bradyn had the family size bag of potato chips in his “tunnel”. He said he needed “snaaaaaaacks!” Whatever, it was harmless.

Caden aka "The Godfather", and Drew discuss business!
The next day the boys headed straight to turf town, aka fight club aka shanty town. I was feeding Caden his bottle and rocking him in the front room. Mark Magoon came upstairs from Turf Town and asked, “can we use the monopoly money?” What?! I looked at him. He was carrying some sort of wild west cowboys and Indians cap gun in his hand. “What do you need monopoly money for?” Remember, boys are dumb … “well, see, Garret is the manager of the apartment building and Griffin is the store owner since they built most of it with the boxes and my job is to get them to pay their rent every month or I shoot them.” WHAT?!?! I tried to remain calm, “so,” I said, “you’re like the Mafia?” “Uh, yeah, can we use the monopoly money?” I just shook my head and gave up. “Yep, you can use the monopoly money, just remember to put it back when you are done AND always keep 2 ledgers for your money records … one for the police to find and one real one with all the money you laundered.” “What?” “Never mind … oh, and Caden is the Godfather.” Mark smiled, rubbed Caden’s head, and said, “so, you come to me for this favor?” The rest of the afternoon was spent with the boys intermittently coming upstairs and dropping monopoly bills next to Caden’s head and saying, “here’s your cut.”
"So ... You Ask This Favor of Me, Eh?"

This was yesterday. I think they are still playing Mafia today, not sure. Caden hasn’t had any monopoly money thrown at his head yet, so who knows. ELLIE ... AHHH, SO CUTE!
PLEASE send Ellie so I can have a tea party and make little sandwiches and invite all of Bradyn’s stuffed animals. The dog isn’t cooperating... he spills the tea everywhere.

Plantnapping in Franklin, New Hampshire

"Have thieves no conscience? No love of beauty ... the plants were powerless I tell you!"

06/30/2008

To Whom It May Concern,
I realize that the mere action of writing this letter is in vain, as the individual(s) who perpetrated the heinous crime on my poor unsuspecting plants undoubtedly is illiterate, and thereby will not read of my outrage. All this being said, I share this letter as a warning to other unsuspecting homeowners in the greater Franklin area … beware, there is a thief amongst us … even in my “nice” neighborhood.

Let me introduce myself. I’m a mom. I have three boys. Yes, three boys. My husband and I assumed we were “finished” after two boys, and I gave up the dream of a daughter … then we found out we were pregnant. Yep, God in his wisdom and unrighteous sense of humor, sent us another son. Even our family dog is a boy. No longer is my life about parenting, it is more about crowd control. Being the mother of three boys, my day consists of phrases like, “put your brother down … leave the dog alone … wait until I talk to your Dad about this one … have you lost your mind, and, no, torturing your brother is NOT okay.”

There are few small pleasures in my life. I endure taking all three, yes three, of my boys to the store. Rarely, if ever, have I gotten everything on my carefully prepared list as I try to get down aisle after aisle without my darling boys killing one another, ripping the carefully organized store shelves to shreds, or generally acting like the poster children for birth control. Often, I stare the other direction hoping people won’t realize they belong to me … but, the town is small, Hannaford is smaller, and the word is out. All three of them, the boys that act like ferrets on crack whenever exposed to the public, are mine.

Given my particular situation (the three boys and all) I have few pleasures. In an effort to stay in fighting form to referee any disputes throughout the average day, I wake up at 5:30 a.m. every day and do one thing I hate and one thing I enjoy. First, I run. I hate running. But, I do it. I do it because I know if I don’t the day will be long, my boys might get the upper hand, and my husband would make a lousy single parent. So, I run. I don’t think about things, my lungs are on fire, and I hate every moment, but all the same, every morning, I run because at the end of my run I know there is a reward. For every minute of running (30 all together), I get one minute for my secret passion … gardening.

You see, when you are a mother of three boys, gardening is a quiet haven. To me, gardening is the small distance between sanity and insanity that separates my day. Despite my relatively young age, I AM the crazy lady that talks to her plants and is visibly shaken when her spring bulbs are tainted by a late spring thaw. I spend hours cleaning flower beds, weeding, fertilizing, planting, and arranging various flowers, plants, and herbs to create that perfect asthetic curb appeal. I get literally giddy at the sight of a flowering bulb, or the first little bud indicating virility in my vegetable garden. I get 30 minutes a day, uninterrupted, to create my own little utopia … free of boys.

I (heart) my flowers ... there is REAL love there ... hello flowers!"
Sunday morning my utopia was defiled. Yes, defiled. My small pleasure in life … no longer. Early Sunday morning as I walked out the front door I knew something was “off”. Initially, I couldn’t put my finger on what was “off”, but I knew something was wrong. Suddenly, I realized what was off … or gone as the case may be. My planter. Yep, the carefully designed square planter with the smaller planter inside boasting the carefully placed English Ivy that I was training to follow the handmade hangar wrapped in gardening tape … was gone. On first glance, I wanted to think that perhaps this was a cruel hoax. After all, this was one of two matching planters sitting on my front porch, and taking one planter would obviously be a noticeable prank. The remaining planter looked sullen, alone, and missing it’s matching counterpart. The yin to it’s yang, the black to it’s white, the balancing decorating motif between left and right, gone. I naively assumed that this must be a hoax because only a DEDICATED and PURPOSEFUL thief would STEAL a 40+ lb planter with various plants. Home Depot and Lowes leave their plants out at night … I think they are safe … why shouldn’t my front porch be as sacred as the parking lot of the local nursery?!

My house, my plants ... my respite ... ho-hum.
I was unable to discover the whereabouts of my planter, despite sending the local street gang (a group of neighborhood boys whom I have befriended following the analogy of keeping your enemies close, and yes, my boys are part of this group) on their scooters, tricycles, and “magged out” bicycles to root out the plant thief and bring them to me. There have been clues … but the planter thief remains at large. I spent most of Sunday depressed and missing my poor little planter. I reminisced about the spring day I filled it with fresh potting soil and new annuals hoping that THIS year would be the year the English Ivy actually grew to maturity before the winter snow. But now, I will never know.

Monday morning I wanted to start fresh. I planned a trip to the local nursery, hoping I could find another matching planter and reinvent the carefully balanced dual décor ruined by the theft of my matching planter. To my horror … another planter, gone. This time it was a hanging basket. The cute little hanging basket that greets people when they drive into my driveway and walk down the walkway to the front porch … THAT hanging basket. The hanging basket that was once such a welcoming sight to visitors and friends has now become the lackluster victim of a plantnapping. Laugh if you will … I called the Franklin police after the second plantnapping. While the uniformed officer that was sent to my home to take a statement maintained a sense of decorum (let’s be honest here, I was calling about plants being kidnapped, how he maintained without laughing his head off of beyond me). I even offered to let him laugh as I was asked to give a detailed description of my kidnapped planters. “Yes, officer, it was a square planter with an English Ivy, very distinct, just like its twin on the front porch … yes, the basket was a black wired hanging basket with little leaves peaking through the sides…yes, I know, those planters ARE expensive!” The officer had me estimate the total cost of said stolen planters and I almost had to hold back tears thinking, “really, is there a replacement for my love?”

I asked the officer exactly WHAT the trespassing laws were in Franklin, New Hampshire and how many years I would have to do in the state pen if I took matters into my own hands? For instance, if the plantnapper presented themselves at an opportune moment, say 2 a.m., stealing another planter from my yard, and I happened to greet them with Jon’s rifle and some housewife indignant rage, how sympathetic WOULD the New Hampshire legal system be? Apparently, all I have to do is put a “No Trespassing” sign on my lawn … then I can shoot at will.

Alright, laugh if you will … but take note. SOMEONE in Franklin, New Hampshire has taken to plantnapping and WHEN not IF I find them, I will make them pay dearly. Yes, I have professional “make your life hell” training. As a mom of three boys, I daily walk a fine line with my sanity … and I have “anger”, as my 5 year-old will attest. If you have any information in regards to the Franklin, NH plantnapper, please contact me immediately … and watch your plants.

Still Disgruntled,
cortney