Category Archives: Humor

Digger

My mom once saved a hamster from being roadkill.  It was a fall evening, and my mother, my sister, and I were on our way to Montgomery Ward, which for those of you under the age of 50 was a discount department store.  There was a major intersection near our house, bordered on three corners by pear orchards, with a shopping center on the fourth.  As we waited at the stoplight, we saw a small critter in the streetlights, skittering back and forth in the middle of the intersection. 

“What is that?  Is that an animal?”

“It’s a hamster!  Mom, it’s a hamster! It’s going to get run over!”

So Mom pulled over, grabbed an empty black paper Montgomery Ward bag, and made her way to the middle of the intersection.  Somehow she managed to shoo the rodent into the open bag and avoid being roadkill herself.  We folded down the bag, and Mom drove us home.   To me and my sister, this was all perfectly logical.  Something needed saving, so we saved it.

“Daddy, we found a hamster!”

“Mom saved it! It’s in this bag!”

My poor father was beleaguered his entire life by the shear number of non-human living beings that found their way to our home.  He just hated it, and we ignored his hating it.

With a heavy sigh he took the bag, and looked in.

“Oh for criminy sakes, that’s a gopher!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, the teeth!”, he cried, making a gopher face with his front teeth hanging over his lower lip.  “You risked your life for a damn gopher!  Get rid of it!”

“Oh.  Rats.”  Lisa and I were disappointed.  We thought we had a new pet.

We drove to one of the pear orchards, and set our rescued friend free, before continuing our journey to Montgomery Ward.

Fast forward about fifty years. 

Montgomery Ward is history,, but I have a gopher in my backyard!  He’s really cute, and he does look a lot like a hamster, except of course for two huge long teeth.  

I don’t begrudge the gopher a little space.  Our dog Ziggy, however, thinks Digger, as I call him, is here to play.  At first, there were just one or two gopher holes.  But then Ziggy would stick his nose in a hole as far as it would go, and start frantically digging.  At one point he dug so deep his entire head was in a hole.  Digger doesn’t like the intrusion, so every time Ziggy digs, so does Digger.  Add to that Roy, who is much like Ziggy, maniacally running around shooting airsoft pellets down the holes, and you’ve got one very busy gopher.

There are two problems with this.  One, my lawn is a mess of holes.  And two, Ziggy keeps bringing a ton of mud into the house and it’s a heavy job keeping up with the transfer of topsoil indoors.

He actually caught Digger once, and we all frantically ran outside to rescue him from Ziggy’s jaws.  Well, Julia and I were on a rescue mission. Jackson and Roy were just bloodthirsty.

“Drop it!” I commanded in my mom voice.  Ziggy does not like my mom voice.

He did drop Digger, it was my mom voice, after all, and one of the kids corralled Ziggy and locked him in the house.  We were terrified Digger was mortally wounded.  His fur was wet, but we couldn’t tell if he had been punctured.

“You should have just let me shoot him!” Roy said hopefully, lifting his airsoft gun.

“Let me put him out of his misery,” Jackson said, grabbing a shovel.

“No, it wouldn’t be quick, you’d have to keep hacking at him!” I cried.  “Let him go home and die in peace.”

So we watched as Digger dug just a little, then stopped and stared at us, although I understand gophers have very poor vision.  Then he turned, and dug a little more, stopped, dug some more, until pretty soon he had a small depression, and he hunkered down in it.  Then he frantically dug at one end of his little depression until he connected with one of his tunnels, and disappeared.

Ziggy still sniffed the holes, which we tried to fill in, but Digger was gone.

Until…he was back.

Digger was only gone for a few days before he returned full force, and Ziggy was on the prowl.  As Ziggy dug into Digger’s fresh holes, Digger would just move along with new holes, thus spreading the destruction, and the dirt, like before.

Jerry bought a “Gopher Hawk”, a trap that drives a spike through the gopher like a stake through a vampire’s heart.  I forbade him from using it.  I didn’t want to kill Digger, I just wanted him to move along.  Instead, I bought two live traps, baited them, and set them outside fresh holes. Following the instructions, I was careful to use gloves so the traps didn’t smell like human.  Every couple of days I moved the traps to whatever holes looked freshest.  Jerry had also bought stakes that make noises only the gopher can hear, and moved them periodically. 

This went on for some time with no progress, and Jerry was foaming at the mouth to use his Gopher Hawk.  Then, we saw fresh holes on the far side of the lawn, quite a distance from the original mess.  Ziggy was immediately sniffing and digging for gold.  Um, gopher. 

And that’s the last we saw of Digger.  I was pretty sure the new holes were just a stop on his way under the fence to our neighbor’s yard.  The old woman who owns that house had a major stroke a couple of years ago, and no longer ventures outdoors.  Her pot smoking grandsons and their girlfriends have moved in.  No way they will even notice any holes in the yard. 

Well, so long Digger.  Maybe the neighbors are growing pot back there and you can get yourself some good cannabis roots.  Mellow out, chill in your tunnels.  Party on, dude.

Except…it was a clever gopher ruse.

Observe along the rose bushes that border the house in the other direction, through the weeds and to the other fence. 

Little piles of dirt in a line.  Then, a perfect gopher hole, and another, closer and closer to the fence.

No, Digger, no!  Abort, abort!

Not that direction!

Because on the other side of that fence, is the most perfect yard ever.  If I took a photo, you would think it was photoshopped. Pests don’t dare cross the line.  No weeds dare grow. Nobody will be furtively trying to return a Gopher Hawk to Amazon in that house.  They probably have an entire arsenal of extermination weapons.

I put out the humane traps again, but obviously Digger’s tiny brain works better than I gave him credit for. 

Ziggy showed no interest in these holes, not even sniffing, so it could be too late.  I’m still keeping a close watch, however.  Because in that area of our yard are raised vegetable beds.  You see where I’m going with this.  If I find vegetables being eaten from the roots up, we are going to have a problem, my little friend and I.  Don’t mess with my food source, dude.  I have food aggression.  There’s still an unopened Gopher Hawk in my entry hall. 

Don’t make me use it, Digger.  Don’t make me use it.

Wrapping Up Christmas

My kids ruined Christmas for me.

Or maybe they just ruined me for Christmas.

When they were small, I made a concerted effort every year to remind my children of the true meaning of Christmas.  We had an advent calendar with little pockets.  I drew an outline of a stable and taped it to the wall next to the advent calendar.  In each little pocket would be stickers I had made to complete the scene: stars, the star, sheep, shepherds, angels, Mary and Joseph, and of course, baby Jesus.  They each would remove a sticker and stick it onto the make-shift nativity scene. Naturally, they fought over who got what sticker, or who removed a sticker first.  “Christmas,” I would say, ‘is a birthday party for Jesus, where everybody gets presents.” Santa? He was a good soul who loved Jesus and children so much that he flew all around the world to help good little children celebrate.

We had a real nativity scene, too.  By “real”, I mean little clay figures.  Not real people.  But those little clay figures look like toys to kids, and mine were no exception.  They couldn’t keep their hands off, and frankly, I was happy they noticed it.  Unfortunately, the inevitable happened, and baby Jesus broke.  I glued Him back together, but He was never the same.

Regardless of how I phrased it, there were presents to look forward to. So, three kids.  Maybe 10 presents each, plus stockings.  Five or so for my husband, gifts for my sister, my dad’s sister Niki, my mother’s brother Joe and his wife.  Every year, we spent Christmas Eve at Niki’s house.  This was a lifelong family tradition, but it meant getting home late and still having to wrap presents, even though I always tried to get as much done before Christmas Eve as I could.  I would literally be up all night trying to finish the wrapping.  I’d get an hour or two of sleep before the greedy little bast….uh, little darlings came in to wake us up to see what Santa brought. 

I wasn’t willing to let some fat old man take all the credit, so there would always be three presents each, wrapped in different paper, and placed away from all the others, that Santa would leave in the living room.  Of course, all the coolest stuff came from Santa.  But the rest came from Mommy and Daddy.

Christmas day would be spent first at church, then cooking and cleaning, since the family came to our house Christmas day.  It was a formal meal with fancy tablecloths, real napkins, china, crystal,  and silver.  That’s how my mom always did it, so that’s how I did it.  I don’t have a large formal table, or even a small formal table, but I would set up folding tables and chairs in the family room, and bring out the finery.  

In between all that fancy stuff, I helped Jerry wrestle toys out of packages, and assemble. Have you tried helping a kid get a toy out of the box it came in?  There are endless plastic sheathed wire ties.  It takes forever.  Heaven help you if the thing then needs to be put together.  And you’re in deep doo-doo if you forgot to buy batteries.  There is nothing like a kid getting the toy of his dreams Christmas morning, and not being able to play with it because his exhausted parents forgot to buy batteries.  Hell hath no fury.

My aunt eventually passed away, and then everybody also came to my house Christmas Eve, although it was casual, since I would still host a formal dinner the next day.  Nevertheless, it meant a late start on finishing the wrapping.  Up all night.

Add a couple more kids to the mix.  We are talking some serious wrap loads, now.  Over fifty gifts every year, kids, husband, parents, sibling combined.  Eventually the Christmas Eve tradition fell away as my parents became too elderly to come to my home, and my sister and I split Christmas and Thanksgiving duties.  But I started moving slower, too, and caring for my parents filled the hours I would have spent wrangling little ruffians, so it never seems I have any more time.

I also have a little cottage industry, sewing a product for ice skates.  It all started when my daughter was figure skating, and it makes a great gift.  A great Christmas gift.  So I get a ton of orders from November 1-December 20, and I’m exhausted every year.  And all the sewing makes it hard to keep up with the wrapping.

My point?  I’m still working my ass off right through the Christmas season! 

It ends a little earlier, though.  I can come home from Christmas dinner and not have to wash china or build toys.  I can sleep.

But I long for the day when I can sit back and enjoy Christmas.  When I can slow down, enjoy picking out a reasonable number of gifts, sip a hot toddy by the fire Christmas Eve instead of being up until dawn wrapping.  I don’t know what’s in a hot toddy, but it sounds good.  And our fireplace doesn’t draw well, so unless we renovate, there won’t really be a fire.  Not even the fake yule log on TV because we ditched cable service as an unnecessary expense.  I guess I could find it online.  And if you read “No Place Like Home”, you know the seating options here are limited…

So we are really talking about sitting at my computer at the kitchen table, sipping something that isn’t as cheery as a hot toddy, but hopefully alcoholic.

Except what does that mean?  There is no one to give gifts?  All the kids are grown and gone, and we are alone?  There are no grandchildren?  Santa isn’t real?

And if I’m honest, I really, really miss having little kids, and not just at Christmas. 

And I miss the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, the fancy kind my aunt always had.

I miss hearing an excited little voice cry out, “Just what I wanted!”

I miss fighting over the advent calendar stickers.  I even miss broken baby Jesus.

I guess I don’t really want things to change after all, but they already have, and they will change more.  However, I have five children.  And one can assume they will each have children.  I’m going to have a heck of a lot of grandchildren.  Which means a lot of gifts.  And parents who would be happy to have some help wrapping, and fighting toys out of boxes and putting them together.  The wrap load isn’t going to get lighter, it’s going to increase exponentially. 

So fix me a hot toddy, and make it a double.  I’ll drink it while I wrap. 

No Place Like Home

My children come from a broken home.

Literally.

Our home is broken. 

The microwave doesn’t micro any waves.  The glass stovetop is held together with duct tape.  The washing machine sounds like a freight train, and it costs less to buy a new one than it would to repair this poor thing that has lived such a hard life.

All but one of us uses the guest bathroom to shower because the master bath is almost exactly the same as it was in 1964, except no longer new and shiny.  Try old and nasty.  We did change the toilet to a Toto many years ago, since the company’s claim it could flush a golf ball erroneously made us think it could handle this family’s output.  Toto toilets have different insides than the standard chain and valve toilet.  There is some sort of plastic tube shaped gadget that is responsible for the flushing.  Something is wrong with ours because when you flush it, it sounds like a fog horn, and is just about as loud.  Or maybe it’s just howling in distress.

Six people using the tiny guest bath with poor ventilation has led to the entire bathroom rusting.  The faucet handles are rusted and can’t be removed without breaking the porcelain.  Same for the pipes that lead from the wall to the pedestal sink.  All around the edges of the medicine cabinet mirror is, you guessed it, rust.  The bathroom window is cockeyed and the seal broken between the double panes, so there is something funky living in that space between.  However, it is very easy to open if you forget your keys and need to break in.  I can attest to that personally. 

There are two pocket doors in the house but the tracks to both were broken years ago by boys roughhousing.  Since fixing them means cutting into the sheetrock to replace the tracks, the doors remain stuck forever between the walls.

I don’t have enough chairs to seat people at the kitchen table even if the table were available for seating.  The matching wooden chairs broke one by one over the years, and then most of the folding chairs.  In the living room, our lovely sofa made it through three cats until Toby came along and shredded it to pieces.  I keep covering the shred with a throw blanket, and the should-be-grown kids keep pulling it down to use as a lap blanket, and never replace it.  The matching chair started to fray at the arms and someone who refuses to confess picked at it until all the stuffing is exposed.

In the family room, the sliding glass door has no handle.  There’s a finger sized whole where the handle should be that works great for opening and closing, unless you have sausage fingers.  Then you have a problem.  The lock is a 2×4 cut to just the right length to fit behind the closed glass pane.

The box spring on my bed has also been shredded to pieces by my fat cat, and the mattress has a Jerry-sized valley on one side.  I cuddle up to my husband at night but then I roll downhill into his valley and can’t get out.  It’s safer to stay on my side. 

The decay has spread from major installed appliances to small appliances.  I took out our blender when preparing desserts a couple of days before Thanksgiving, and it was broken.  I bought a new one at Best Buy, but the motor burned up as soon as I plugged it in.  And it didn’t even blend first.  Thanksgiving morning, our trusty coffee maker wouldn’t make any coffee.  The green light came on but the machine moved no water.  I ended up boiling water and pouring it slowly through the filter. 

We had so many plans for this fixer of a house when we bought it almost 20 years ago.  We fixed some things right away, but those things now need to be fixed again.  Five kids and years of crisis after crisis have taken their toll on the house and on our finances (not to mention our psyches, but that’s another story).  No repairs are in sight.

My kids don’t care; they have friends over with no shame.  But me?  If you come to my door, I’m going to block your entry.  We can chat on the porch.

I know it’s all surface nonsense.  The roof is sound, thanks to my dad paying for a new one once we could see daylight when we looked up in the attic.  The walls are solid and the doors all close (well, except the pocket doors).   

This house has raised three kids which became five, seen the birth of a child, four high school graduations (fifth pending, he’s a senior), been home to many beloved pets, and witnessed untold laughter, tears, celebrations and arguments. 

It’s been a home.  And really, what more could I ask?

That’s Right!

My husband said I’m a “know-it-all”, but he’s wrong.  A know-it-all is someone who expounds with great detail on every subject as if he (and I say “he” because, let’s face it, they’re usually men) were an expert, regardless of his actual expertise.  I, on the other hand, do not claim to know much about very many subjects.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  My husband has arrived at his misguided conclusion not because I present myself as an expert on all things, but because I’m always right.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I’m always right.  Not that I never make mistakes!  No, no, I’m hardly perfect.  I’m just right.  This is the privilege bestowed upon wives by God as compensation for all the stress, frustration, hurt, and anger that are the by-products of  loving a man.  It’s also a little salve on the wound from that whole apple incident.  The snake was a male, after all, who talked a woman into doing something she wouldn’t have done otherwise, all with false promises.  Sound familiar, ladies?

But let’s get back to my being right.   You cannot win an argument with me, especially if you are my husband.  I stick to my subject, I do not enter the battlefield unprepared, and I never surrender.  And because my husband constantly antagonizes the enemy without even realizing it, I usually also have the advantage of surprise.

Now my husband, on the other hand, will stray from the subject, and go for the personal attack.  Wrong, wrong, wrong!  Silly man.  That tactic simply strengthens my stand, and adds to my arsenal.  If the argument is about subject XYZ, then stick to XYZ.  Don’t attempt to disarm me with arrows to the heart.  I will simply pull them out and use them against you. 

Even when I’m wrong, I’m right.   If I am in the midst of discussing an issue about which I feel strongly, and my husband points out an area of weakness in my stance, I can accept that, and I will.  And that, my friend, is his mistake.   When I admit fault on one aspect, but do not concede the battle, my sincerity makes the rest of my argument even more convincing. 

But truly my greatest strength is stamina.  When I am passionate in my belief, I will not surrender.  Men are stronger physically, but when it comes to pure endurance, us ladies have ‘em beat.  Literally.  My poor husband will eventually become so exhausted he will simply concede.  So therefore, even if I were wrong, which I never am, I would be right, by default. 

Fortunately, I never use this privilege of right for wrong.  I only exercise this right to be right when my husband is clearly wrong.  Which, of course, is any time he disagrees with me about any serious issue.  Also, any time he does or fails to do something that results in my feelings being hurt.   But I never, ever abuse this privilege just to puff up my feathers.  That would be wrong, and because I’m never wrong, that would make it right, and making something that wrong right, would be wrong.

Right?

Ziggy

My “dog” Ziggy is a little…well…he’s weird, OK?

I say “dog” in quotes because we’re not really sure he is a dog. 

Think Lilo and Stitch.

Dog?

Ziggy is a mutt.  To our knowledge, he is part pit bull, dalmatian, and Labrador.  White with very pale brown spots, except on his ears where the spots are prominent, he has a huge black nose, and is fair skinned.  His neck is oddly long, sometimes making me think he might be part Loch Ness Monster, too.

A little over a year ago, we said goodbye to our dog Maggie.  She was a one hundred pound black lab, very smart, and so sweet.  This was the dog my children grew up with.  It was obvious she was growing frail and nearing the end of her life, but I kept praying nothing catastrophic would happen while our oldest son was away at college.  It was not to be. 

When she could barely walk one morning, and her always thumping tail was down and still, we knew we had run out of time.  My daughter rushed back from San Francisco, my other daughter skipped class, and we all gathered around Maggie at the vet’s to say our final goodbyes.  We said a prayer together, thanking Jesus for the years of joy she had given us, and asking him to welcome her into his kingdom.  I whispered into her ear, “My grandfather will take care of you.  He loves dogs.  His name is Joe.”  She raised an eyebrow, and turned her head to look me in the eye.  And we pet her softly as she passed from this life.

Now, Maggie was a couch potato.  But Ziggy?  Ziggy is constantly on the go.  It’s exhausting. We think he has ADHD, hyperactive-impulsive type.  His favorite thing of all time is to chase the damn ball, chew it to pieces, and chase it some more.  He won’t exactly bring it back to you, but he will drop it nearby.  Then he takes off running before you’ve even thrown it.  Jerry says that’s cheating. Ziggy will scratch at the door, go out and immediately turn around to look at you, crouched, ready to take off.  If you don’t throw a ball, but shut the door instead, he scratches at the door again.  When you open it, he looks at you and gets into position to run.  So you close the door.  And he scratches again.  This can go on indefinitely, so we often end up just leaving the dag-burn door open.  It’s easier.

Jerry got so tired of going out and throwing balls that he would throw the ball out the open door from his armchair.  Except he kept missing.  There were ball marks on the ceiling, on the wall, and any number of times I thought he would break the glass door.  For Christmas I bought him a dog ball shooter, so he can sit in his chair and fire a more precise aim out the door.  Twice Ziggy ran so fast chasing the ball that he didn’t pay attention to where he was going and ran headfirst into the fence, breaking a board.  Twice.  Twice, he hit his head so hard against the fence that a board broke, kung fu style.  Then he returned with his ball to play again.  He was completely unaffected.  How could that be?  Is his skull really that thick? Was he trained to use his head as a weapon?  Is he a genetic mutant?

Sometimes Ziggy is so happy when he goes outside, that he leaps for joy, like a gazelle.  He launches himself into the air, front legs forward, rear legs stretched out behind him, and floats through the air in pure joy.  It’s odd and beautiful.  I want to feel that kind of joy!

Another activity he enjoys is spying on our neighbors.  He peaks through a crack or knot hole in the fence, and just stares, not moving a muscle.  It’s like he’s catatonic, he becomes so entranced.  He doesn’t bark or pace back and forth, he just freezes and stares.  I’m tempted to find my own knot hole to see what’s so interesting.

Ziggy’s ears are bent at the top, but sometimes his left ear pops up straight.  And he winks his right eye. There’s a message there, but I’m missing it.  Katie studies American Sign Language, ASL.  Is this some sort of dog sign language, DSL?   I asked her what he was trying to communicate, but she just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, Mom.  He’s weird.”

But by far the strangest thing this guy does is sit on his bucket.  There is a large green plastic bucket with a lid in the backyard that is now officially his.  He likes to knock it around, then when it is on its side, sit his butt down on it, with his front legs on the ground, like a person would sit on a bench.  He has done this many times.  We have seen him playing with his ball, then stop to sit on his bucket, gazing lovingly at the ball in front of him.

Now, Ziggy came from Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation (ARF), which is within walking distance of our home.  Just down the street from ARF is the Joint Genome Institute.  Originally this organization was the Human Genome Project, but that Rubik’s Cube has been solved, so they have moved on to other mysteries of DNA.  The Joint Genome Institute is part of the Department of Energy, but I’m pretty sure this is just a ruse.  Does anybody really know what they do?  Their website uses a lot of words to tell you nothing specific.  Wikipedia says “the JGI has been a user facility that advances genomics research in a broad range of disciplines where DNA sequence information is likely to drive scientific discoveries”.  Well that leaves the door wide open, doesn’t it?

Supposedly they work on plant and fungal genomes, and I’m sure they do.  As a cover.  But I think there’s some really strange shit going on there, and my dog is proof.

We are convinced Ziggy is the result of some weird-ass DNA experiment.  Maybe he escaped, maybe they send their living lab rats, er, dogs, to ARF for further observation in the human world.  Maybe when the dog is staring through the fence, he’s being controlled by another source we cannot see, that is downloading information from the pet microchip implanted in his neck that they told us was to identify him if he were ever lost.

We may never know.  We are all probably participating in some larger purpose for humanity. Or warfare.  Or something.  But it’s big, and it’s important.  Probably.  Or he’s just a weird dog.

He fits right in.          

Welcome home, Ziggy.  If that is your real name.

On Second Thought

Apparently there is a serious sexual crisis in the country.  I am inferring this from the amount of emails I receive offering to help solve the problem.  Since I get about 40 of these a day, and have never responded to a single one, I can only assume that somebody, lots of somebodies, are responding, or there would be nothing in it for all these “companies”.  

Well, let’s crunch some numbers.  This is purely unscientific, mind you.  I receive 40 a day.  There must be more providers that do not have my email address.  I am going to guesstimate that out of the entire country, my 40 are only 1% of the total.  Therefore, there are at least 4000 email providers of this sort of service.  This is excluding legitimate medical services, commonly referred to as “doctors”.  I found companies on the internet willing to provide email lists containing from 1 million to 300 million consumers.  So being conservative, let’s say our 4000 providers each email daily, 5 days a week, to only 500,000 prospects.  That would be a total of 2,000,000,000 emails daily!  Now let’s say that each provider gets a purchase rate of only  ½  % on average each day, or 2500 purchases per day.  For all 4000 providers, that would be 4000 x 2500 = 10,000,000 purchases daily.  That is 50,000,000 per week, or 200,000,000 purchases of medical aids for sexual dysfunction per month!  Just from spam! 

Holy smokes!  The future of humanity is at stake.  If that many men, and I say men since most of the products are directed at male sexual dysfunction, can’t get the horse out of the barn, we are looking at the eventual extinction of the human race.  I am so fortunate to have found my husband before all the working models were taken!  My children are an even greater miracle than I realized! 

OK, so that is all fun and games, and we know the numbers cannot be right, but clearly somebody is buying these drugs, and a lot of it, or all these people wouldn’t be peddling it!  It is interesting to note the different approaches used.  Some of them have misleading subject titles, like “your application”, and then when you see the email, it is a list of prices for Viagra, Cialis, etc.  Others are truly odd.  Try “overtask repugnant”, or “don’t blame on me”.  Clearly the foreign market has caught on to the vast opportunity here. 

Other subjects are cleverly disguised spelling of the drugs, to fool our spam blockers.

V!@gr@, for example.  And then there is the soft porn approach.  “Don’t be humiliated.”

“His buy apparatus.”  “Enlargement for you.”  And, of course, the direct approach, which cannot be reprinted here. 

I’m sure I am not the only stay at home mom, of the female variety, receiving such messages.  Obviously these entrepreneurs do not know how to sell drugs to tired mothers and wives.  Why not try a subject line like “Make husband hire maid”, or “No cook, eat out”.  I’d click on those links.  I might even buy!  How about “Husband help kids, mom sleep”.  Wait a second…now that I think about it, that might really work.  I mean, consider it, if my husband was as chemically wired as these ads claim, I could get him to do anything.  Dishes, dust bunnies, homework, field trips, foot massage, change the litter box…the possibilities!  The whole family could benefit!  Yes, yes, I think I like this idea…worth a try… 

I need to go get my credit card.  I have a purchase to make.

Beware Old Men with Sporting Goods

Travel with my family is never uneventful.  There is always a story to tell, and usually a pretty good story, too.  Living it isn’t so great, but the telling is good.  I am going to have to take a trip soon, to Anaheim, for a synchronized ice skating competition.  I’m remembering last year’s trip to Anaheim, and thinking maybe I should just stay home.  Holy smokes, that one was for the record books!  Read on, and you’ll be glad we are not related (unless you, the reader, are a family member, in which case it’s too late for you).

          I made friends last year with a very nice Japanese lady, whose daughter was skating on the beginning synchro team.  Even though Chizu has lived in the U.S. for many years, her English is still halting, and she struggles sometimes for vocabulary.  Chizu’s family lives in the same city as mine, and we carpool to the ice rink, which is a 30 minute drive on a good day.  She asked me about travel plans to Anaheim, and I told her just Julia and I would be going, not the whole family.  She decided to book the same flight so that we could travel together, since I was the veteran skating mom.  I was renting a car, and I also offered to transport her to the hotel.

          We met at the airport gate around ten in the morning.  I had my Starbucks, a book, and a magazine to pass the time.  I was an old hand at this.

          “I am so nervous,” Chizu told me in her heavy accent, “I check Ayane suitcase many time for skates!”

          I smiled reassuringly, and as I flipped through my magazine, thought back to my crazy morning.  I remembered hurrying to cut new skate guards to fit Julia’s blades.  She had lost so many pairs at the rink that she rarely used them anymore, but they were needed for the competition, where the skaters would have to walk a good way from the locker room to the ice.  My boys had been interrupting me every two minutes, and I was pulling my usual super-mom routine (which has been steadily going downhill), trying to do everything for everybody, all at one time.

          I pictured in my mind Julia’s skate, and dropping it into her suitcase along with the new guards.

          Wait.  I could only picture one skate.  I put the other one in there, too, right?

          We have to pack the skates with our luggage, because they usually won’t let you take them on board, although I hear some security agents are more lax than others.  To be safe, we unload the skate bag into the suitcase for travel.  I was sure I had packed both skates, but of course now I had to worry about that, because it wouldn’t be a day in my life if I didn’t worry about something.

          Just to be sure, I called my husband.  He was returning from a trip to the batting cages with the boys (sheesh, they didn’t waste any time starting their bachelor weekend, did they?).

          “Just check Julia’s skate bag and make sure both skate pockets are empty, okay?  I left the bag in the kitchen.”

          We boarded, and the plane was being pushed back from the ramp when my husband called.  I wasn’t supposed to be using my phone, but I had left it on hoping he would call before we took off.

          “Yeah, it’s here,” he told me calmly.

          “What?!!, “ I cried.  “It’s there?  There’s a skate in the bag?  A skate there at home?”

          “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

          “Oh, crap! Oh my God!  Jerry, you have to get that skate to Anaheim.  You have to find a way to send it down overnight!  I need that skate!”

          “Can’t she just rent a pair?”

           Okay, how long has this guy been a skating dad?  Does he pay attention to anything the females in his household do?  No, you big oaf, you cannot rent a pair!  Skates are fitted precisely to your feet, and it takes weeks to get used to a new pair.  Get with the program!  We’re in full blown panic mode!

          “NO!  NO! No, she has to have her skates, or she can’t compete, and the whole team will be in trouble!  She has to have that skate!”

          By this time, my husband was really annoyed.  Hey, he didn’t expect the ladies to take a trip without somehow involving him, did he?

          “Fine, get off the phone so I can figure out what to do.”

          That was the worst flight of my life.  I cried like a baby almost the whole way, because I just couldn’t believe how stupid I was.  I was so tired, and I worked so hard, and here was the result.  Total meltdown.  Chizu offered me tissue, and kept looking at me with a worried expression.  That poor woman.  Her Japanese upbringing just didn’t teach her anything about overtly emotional Greek-Italian peri-menopausal women.  I can’t even imagine what she was thinking.  Okay, I can, and it’s not pretty.

          As soon as we landed and were rolling toward the gate, I pulled out my phone and called home.

          “Okay, it’s taken care of.  Your dad is on his way with the skate.”

          What?  My dad?  Was he kidding me?  What about Fedex, or UPS, or what about my husband flying down with the skate, or loading the kids in the van and driving it down?

          “Nobody will do it overnight, I tried everybody.  I panicked, okay?  I couldn’t think of anything else.  He’s already in the air.” My husband’s tone was turning nasty.

          “Okay, okay,” I backed up. “Thank you.”

          My poor dad was 76 years old, and walked bent with a cane.  Not that he wasn’t up to the challenge, but making him rush onto a plane for us…well, it just wasn’t right.

          My daughter hadn’t spoken to me since I told her we only had one skate.  Now at 13 years old, she really could have checked for her own gear, but I was the one who had made the mistake, and I couldn’t have felt worse.  Her attitude, however, was making the mom police come out in full force.

          “Wipe that snotty look off your face!  Your poor grandfather is flying your skate down!  You’re old enough to pack your own gear, for heaven’s sake.  Everybody’s doing what they can to fix things.  Stop being such a brat.”

          Julia stomped off like she usually does when she’s ashamed, and walked ahead of us as we all headed toward baggage claim.

          I found our bags, and looked for my daughter.  She wasn’t there.

          “Where’s Julia?” I asked the air in general.

          “I think she went to the bathroom,” one of her skating friends said helpfully.  “Upstairs, before we came down here.”

          Great.  Julia was still by the gates, and we were downstairs by baggage claim.  You can’t go back up once you come down.  Well, you can, but security gets very uptight and takes you away to a locked room where they do a cavity search.  Or something like that.

          I knew my daughter had not been paying any attention to what we were doing or where we were going.  She never pays attention.  She probably had no idea where we were, and I couldn’t reach her.  She didn’t have a cell phone, and pay phones are alien to her generation.  Now what?

          By this time I was hyperventilating.  I mean, come on, was this a hidden camera stunt?  Wasn’t the day bad enough already? Nervously, I crept part way up the stairs.

          “Excuse me”, I called to the guard.  “Excuse me!”

          The guard turned.  “Get back down, you can’t come up here!”

          “Okay, I know,” I said, backing down a step, “but I need help.  My daughter is up there and she doesn’t know where I am.”

          “Get back down the stairs!’

          “Okay, okay, but can you help me? “ Tears sprouted again.   “I’m separated from my daughter,” I said chokingly.

          “Get down!”

          I backed to the bottom of the stairs, and looked imploringly up at the security guard.

          She relented, looking annoyed, and called another guard over for assistance.

          Just then my phone rang.

          “Hello?”

          “You have daughter, Julia?” a heavily accented voice asked.

          “Yes!”

          “Mom?  Mom, where are you?  Why did you just leave me?” Julia’s voice came on the phone.  Apparently she had looked distressed, and a stranger had taken pity and lent her a phone.

          I told her where I was and how to get there, and soon Julia was back with us, no longer glaring, now acting silly with Chizu’s daughter.  Wish I had that kind of rubberized rebound in me.

          Deep breath.

          “Okay,” I said.  “My dad is on the next flight.  I need to get you to the hotel because Ayane has off-ice practice,” I said to my patient traveling companions.  “Then I’ll come back for my dad.”

          “Your father come next flight?” Chizu asked.  “We stay for when he come.”

          “But I’ve made such a mess of things already,” I protested.  “I don’t want Ayane to be in trouble because of me.”

          “We stay, okay?   We stay your father.”  Chizu nodded her head, smiled encouragingly, and reached for the tissue in her handbag just in case I started up again.  I thought she was being nice, but in retrospect, she was probably afraid to get in a car with me until I had that skate and had calmed down!

          So we went and got the girls a snack, and when it was time for my dad’s flight to arrive, we returned to baggage claim.  I saw his flight number come up on the carousel light, and people began coming down the stairs, waiting for the baggage to be off-loaded.  My ordeal would soon be over!  I didn’t see my dad, but I figured he probably was waiting for others to get off first, to make it easier for him.

          The luggage started arriving.  I watched each bag, but never saw my daughter’s skate bag.  Soon there were only a few left, and my dad was nowhere to be seen.  I checked the remaining bags, but none had his name.

          And where was Dad?   Oh my God, please don’t tell me something bad happened while he was trying to bail me out!   Like a traffic accident, or a stroke on board the plane!

          I called his cell phone, but there was no answer.  Panic rose again in me.  Had he even made the flight?

          I tried his cell one more time.  This time he answered.

          “I’m here,” he said.  “I’m in the airport.  I’ve got a little problem, but I’ll be there soon.”

          “Are you alright?” I asked anxiously.

          “I’m fine, I’ll explain later.  It’s kind of funny, actually.  Just stay put.”

          Well, I was relieved he was okay, but I knew my dad.  If he had fallen or had some sort of accident, unless it was life threatening, he was going to make light of it.  I put my head in my hands and silently berated myself once again for my harried, hectic ways.

          We waited, and about 20 minutes later, my dad slowly limped down the stairs, carrying my daughter’s skate bag.

          Well, that was unusual.  It never occurred to me to tell my husband you can’t take skates on board, because he already knew that.  I had no idea during that first panicked call that somebody else would be in charge of the skate.

          “I have the skate!” he said proudly, holding the bag high.  “Sorry it took so long, I was arrested.”

          “You were what?” I exclaimed.

          “I was arrested by the TSA,” Dad explained.  “When we got to the gate, the pilot asked us to remain seated because there was a passenger issue.  Six guys in suits came on board, and asked for Mr. Caldis.  I got up, and they escorted me off the plane.  I was being searched and questioned when you called.”

          No way.  No way!  Arrested?  For what?  For not checking the stupid skate bag? Come on, what was he going to do?  I could picture my dad standing crookedly in the aisle of the plane, all 5’ 6” of him, leaning on his cane and waving my daughter’s skate above his head.

          “Everybody sit still and nobody will get hurt!  I’ve got a skate, damn it, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

          I must have woken up in the Twilight Zone that morning.

          As my dad explained, I learned what really happened:

          He barely made it to the airport on time.  He went through security, they took out the skate, examined both the skate and the bag, then put the skate back and returned the bag to the conveyer.

          My dad’s gate was the farthest it could be from security.  He could walk it fine, but he needed to run if he was going to make his flight, so he paid a skycap twenty bucks to grab a wheelchair and hightail him down to the gate.

          He made it as the flight was boarding the last passengers, and rising from the wheelchair, he saw that the skate bag was not hanging off the back as he had thought.  The skycap told him to get on board, and he would run back and get the bag.  Soon the flight attendant was putting the bag in the overhead storage, and they were on their way.

          Well, apparently a skycap running full speed, grabbing a bag from security, and taking off again full speed is not a usual development for the TSA folks.  They didn’t like that.  They didn’t know which bag that was, and were not sure if they had checked it or not.  So, they made a report of a passenger boarding with a bag that had not gone through security.

          But here’s what I don’t get.  If there was something dangerous in that bag, what good does it do to wait until the plane has reached its destination?  I mean, if the bag had explosives or something, the plane would never have made it to its destination!

          Still, it’s comforting to know we will never be hijacked by an old man with an ice skate.  Blown up by a guy with a bomb in his underwear, maybe, but we’re safe from old men with a single skate in a pink and purple skate bag

          Good to know.

          To continue in style, I got completely lost on the way to the hotel because the freakin’ LA freeway system is so difficult to navigate.  Fortunately, Chizu used to live in Anaheim, and she was able to get us back on track.  Can you believe she not only still talks to me, but even carpools with me?  She’s a strong woman.

          So, I hope you see why I’m a little nervous about this year’s trip, although I think I can guarantee that forgetting a skate isn’t in the cards.  That fiasco could only have happened to my family, and I swear, every word is true.  We’re goofier than that funny cartoon dog, and this is the crazy kind of life we all lead.  This is just one example.  I’ve got a million of ‘em.  Give me time, I’ll write them all down.

Mr. Deity Driving

Anybody who knows my dad, knows he is a menace behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.  He’d likely take offense at that, citing his excellent driving record.  No argument there.  He doesn’t hit much.  It’s the years he shaves off people’s lives that make him dangerous. 

When we were kids, we would go up to Clear Lake a lot.  I can still remember my mother sucking in her breath with a whistling sound, like the last breath she would ever take.  She would slam her foot on the floorboards of the passenger side of the car, instinctively reaching for a brake pedal that was not there, as my dad passed “that damn camper” that was keeping him from “making good time”.   We would have the whole family in the car, including a cat, a turtle and a bird.  The cat invariably got carsick and would alternately puke and use the litter box.  Dad would waggle his hand at Mom and tell her to “Relax, and enjoy the view.”  OK, but when the view is distorted by speed, it’s not very soothing.

Surprisingly, those are fond memories.  Hey, don’t judge!  When you come from a family of kooks, you’re bound to be one yourself.

“Making good time” is very important when driving.  The drive itself is not to be enjoyed; it’s a race against the clock.  The destination is irrelevant.   Several years back we all took a day trip to the giant redwoods of the Northern California coast in my parents’ minivan.   When we reached the state park, there was a numbered driving tour, with regular stops about a quarter mile apart.  You could get out of your vehicle and read the posted historical information, and I suppose observe whatever the sign talked about.  I wouldn’t know.  We didn’t stop at any.  My mother and I kept an eye out for the first sign, and had not finished saying “There it is!”, before we were past it.  In a flash we had shouted “There’s another one!”, but that was gone in a blur, also. 

Apparently the ranger station was the destination, because that was when we found a place to eat our picnic lunch.  We took a couple of pictures, and then it was time to head back the way we came, so we could make good time going home.  Well, the rest of us put up a fuss, we went a different direction, my son got carsick, I’m pretty sure we hit a rabbit in the dark on a winding road, and we made terrible time.

But the pièce-de-résistance is the speed boat.  After a disappointing experience as a sailboat captain, my dad bought a speed boat, hoping that would be more appealing to the family than the sailboat (which is its own story).  He judged rightly.  My sister, brother-in-law and I liked to water ski, so we were very enthusiastic.  We have many happy memories getting sunburned on the lake in that boat. 

But of course, my dad was always the driver.  He can control a boat very well, actually.  The problem for us passengers was where he liked to drive.  Like, away from the calm shore and straight into the middle of the lake, where there are nice big waves.  That’s uncomfortable as a passenger, but if you are being towed behind the boat with boards on your feet, well, even the life vest isn’t much comfort.  I can remember thinking “Where the hell is he going?” and frantically pointing back toward the shoreline, all the while bending my knees and preparing for each wave, while the sound of my skis striking the downside of each swell assaulted my ears.  Your skis are supposed to make a pleasing swishing sound as you cut through smooth water, not a harsh “Smack!” as you navigate swells.  Water skiing doesn’t traditionally include moguls.

The depth of my father’s driving mania became clear on the lake.  One weekend, I invited a friend to come up with me and enjoy some sun and boating.  As we lounged in the sun in the cushioned bow of the boat, once again our demented captain started heading into dangerous waters, literally.  You see, the bow of a speedboat is not a good place to be in rough water unless you are strapped in, and unfortunately, seat belts are not standard equipment on recreational boats.  As the front of the boat started to rise and fall abruptly, we hung onto the mooring hooks and braced for each impact.  It wasn’t safe to stand up and move back, either, so we just hung on.  We were young and stupid, and we just laughed, but it was uncomfortable to say the least.  We looked forward to read the waves, but at one point my friend glanced back at my dad, and said to me in a low voice, “Look at your dad.  He looks crazy!”

And there was Dad.  He was bent low over the wheel, his head forward, eyes squinting, with this strange teeth baring grimace on his face.  For all the world he looked as if he were trying to bump us out of the boat.   In retrospect, I think he was actually having trouble seeing in the bright sun, but it was a classic moment, nonetheless.

Wait, there’s more.  None of us will forget the time an argument ensued about how safely my dad was driving.  I don’t remember if it was about tackling mid lake swells instead of hugging the shore, or how close he came to another boat, but the subject was about being cautious instead of overly aggressive.  My sister said hotly “Well, you’re not God!”, to which my dad replied as he once again bent low over the wheel, “In this boat, I am God!”

Well, then, that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?  Dad’s omnipotent behind a wheel.  OK, well at least we understand where we are with that.

Just the same, I think I’m gonna wear a seat belt and a life vest.  You know, just in case God doesn’t know about this.

Do You Smell Something?

My life stinks.  Literally.  I am assaulted daily by the malodor of my life.  My home emits odiferous breath where there should be none.  You will not sense soothing ocean breezes or cinnamon wafting from my Glade Plug In.  Far from it.  In fact, if you plan to visit, I suggest you bring a clothes pin.

To begin, there is an unholy funk coming from my laundry room.  Dirty laundry by definition should smell dirty.  Our laundry, however, surpasses all expectations.  The first problem is the sheer mass of it.  I have a six section sorter and a hamper in the laundry room, but you’d never know it.  They are completely buried in a mountain of clothes, which spills over and out the door.  Unfortunately, my children have a habit of tossing wet towels anywhere on the pile, which inevitably get buried by more dirty stuff, and  begin to stink.  However, I consider my self fortunate that they at least now know that laundry goes in the laundry room, not on the floor, hanging off the back of chairs, or even, heaven forbid, behind the couch.  I’ll keep working on the towel issue, but I’m keeping the kids, so I guess I own this one for awhile.

The next problem with the laundry room is the cat.  I have a 17 year old male cat who has developed some very unpleasant ways of expressing his dissatisfaction.  He yowls, and he pees.  He pees on laundry.   Clean, dirty, he doesn’t discriminate.  If his litter box is not just so, or he is not happy with the catch of the day, he will pee on the laundry mountain.  If he’s really unhappy, he pees in baskets of clean clothes, which then become peed-on dirty laundry in the laundry room.  

You might be thinking, “Close the door, idiot!”, but I can’t.  The mountain spills out the door, remember?  You should see us pushing and cramming the beast back through the door when we are expecting guests.  The laundry, I mean.  Not the cat.  He’s a pain, but he’s been my friend longer than my husband, and I love him. 

Speaking of the cat, there’s a nasty scent that comes with kitties of all ages, which is the litter box.  We have two kitties, hence twice the volume.  The old guy is showing his age, drinking more, which means peeing more, and his poops have developed a truly pungent aroma that is almost visible in its intensity.  I can tell immediately when I walk in the door if there’s a Boo-Boo poop in the box.  But we’ve discussed that; he’s old, and he’s staying. 

My son, on the other hand, is only 10.  He’s very athletic, and just at that age where his body is starting to produce new things, like BO.  Holy Crap, that kid reeks!  He’s got the kind of BO that snakes out from him in a hostile coil of invisible gas that both clings and spreads at the same time.  After soccer practice, I usually have to open the car windows and run the air conditioner full blast just to get home without suffering brain damage.  I know, I know, deodorant is the key, but try to get that into a 10 year old’s head!  He just doesn’t get it, or care, that if you use deodorant after taking a shower at night, you still need to put it on again in the morning!  And if you used it yesterday morning, it’s not going to tide you over until the weekend!  He’ll figure it out when he starts noticing girls, and realizes they don’t like boy stink.  But in the meantime, he’s my smelly guy, and like the cat, he’s staying.  

So you can see that there really is no quick and easy solution to these problems.  I’m not getting rid of the cats, or the kids, or my husband, whose own particular brand of rankness doesn’t make for good story telling.  I love them all, and so here we are in one big, happy, reeking group hug of rancidness.  Because, like the song says, love stinks.  Yeah, yeah.

The Commode’s Its Abode

I believe we have a poltergeist living in our toilets.  There is no other explanation for the irritating, yet overall harmless happenings associated with using our loo, except coincidence, and everybody knows there is no real coincidence.  After seven years in this home, and endless aggravation from the porcelain, I am forced to come to the conclusion that there is some other life force responsible.

 Oh, I see that skeptic look on your face.  I know what you’re thinking.  “She’s a nutter.”  Maybe so, but as long as you’re still reading, I’ll explain.

At first, we thought we had moved into a house with the worst plumbing imaginable.  The toilets were endlessly clogging and overflowing.  We must have had Roto-Rooter, Rescue Rooter,  Pooter Rooter, and every other rooter out here a million times, and they could never find a reason for the constant blockages.  Well, one time there was a plastic Barney stuck in the toilet, but other than that one episode, they just kept telling us to use less paper. 

So we made some adjustments.  To begin, we do a preliminary test flush, to make sure there is no unseen clog.  Then, when we’ve done our thing, we flush again, before using paper.  With each piece of paper in the water, we must flush.  California is always suffering a drought, and this seems like a terrible waste of water, but what choice is there? 

Fighting back, we bought the toilet that’s supposed to be the mother of all toilets, the Toto.  Supposedly this sucker flushes golf balls without a problem.  Now whatever you might say about any of us being full of you-know-what, we are not full of anything as solid as a golf ball.

But would you believe it?  That mother clogs all the time.  And it’s not in the pipes under the house, it’s the toilet itself! 

I know, you’re not convinced, but there’s more.  Every time I take a doo doo, the phone rings.  No, really!  At first I thought it was just Murphy’s law, but honestly, after seven years of pooping and ringing, I’m at a loss for any other explanation.  It seems my taking a poop makes the phone ring.  I don’t know how our resident mischief maker does it, but it’s really kind of creepy. 

Then there is the electronic scale.  Normally, all other things equal, if you drop a few good ones, you unload at least a pound, wouldn’t you say?  Not here.  I’m not kidding.  In our house, if you let loose and then weigh yourself, you will weigh 3-4 pounds more than you did before going.  Honestly, it’s true, and it happens to all of us, not just me! 

So what else am I to believe?  There’s something rotten in our toilets, and it’s not biological.  Something does not like our solid waste, and it makes no bones about it! 

It’s really unclear why anything, even a mischievous spirit, would want to hang out there, but I don’t believe we are the first to have this experience.  After all, J.K. Rowlings had Moaning Myrtle living in the girls lav in the Harry Potter books, and where do you think she got that idea?  Came up with it all by herself?  Did you know that a quick google showed most cities have a J.K. Plumbing?  Another coincidence?  I think not.  She’s had personal experience! 

I’m not sure how to get rid of a poltergeist in the toilet.  We are probably just going to have to live with it, and I suppose there are worse things that could be wrong with your house.  There are certainly more expensive things.  But I wonder about what it will do to our home’s value, if we ever decide to sell.  Don’t you have to disclose everything that’s wrong with your home when you put it on the market?  How do you tell your realtor that there’s an unearthly trouble maker in your toilet?  

On the other hand, who’s going to sue?  “Your honor, the previous owners knew about the bogey in the toilet.!” 

C’mon, what kind of nutter’d believe that?

I’m Mean, and I Don’t Get It

Puberty is hell, especially when it’s not yours.  You may think it can’t be worse than going through it yourself, but unless you are a perimenopausal woman with a pubescent daughter, you have no idea what hormonal hell really is.  The mood swings, the acne, the attitude…and that’s just me!  You ought to see my daughter!

Julia keeps telling me I don’t get it, and you know what?  Sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes I don’t get it.  I don’t get why she is so snotty, and I don’t get why she cannot remember anything except the words to her favorite songs.  I don’t get why it takes her all the time she has in the morning to get ready, plus an extra ten minutes so that we are late, no matter how early I get her up.  If she has 30 minutes, she takes 40. If she has an hour, she takes an hour and ten minutes.  And what I really don’t get is the total loss of the ability to communicate.  I’m not sure which one of us has lost it, but there’s definitely a problem.  Here is a typical scene at the local ice rink, where my figure skating daughter spends a lot of time:

She walks down to the ice, then comes back up, and stands in front of me.  Her eyes dart anxiously to and fro, her brow furrowed. “I have a problem.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Shhhh!” she says, eyes moving even more frantically.  Angrily she jerks her head at the nearest group of people, who are two tables away and talking loudly in Chinese. 

“Honey, they can’t possibly hear me.” 

“Mom, stop!”  She’s looking really distressed now. 

“OK,” I whisper, “What do you need?” 

“Stop looking like that, and be quiet!” 

I school my face to be as neutral as possible, and as close to ventriloquism as I can muster, I whisper even more quietly, “Are you going to tell ‘e ut is the ‘atter?” 

“Mom, please!” 

“ ‘Isser in ny ear,” I suggest. 

“Oh my gosh, you just don’t get it!” she exclaims, hands clutching her temples in anguish. 

Now people are looking.           

So I say nothing, waiting patiently for her to tell me what’s bothering her.  I look  at her with an expectant, encouraging expression. 

“Well, aren’t you going to help me?” she says accusingly, throwing up her hands in frustration. 

“Julia,” I say in a quiet but normal voice, “I’d be happy to help you with whatever is bothering you, but if you don’t tell me, I can’t do that.  Nobody can hear us, but your dramatics are calling more attention than anything else.  Sit down and talk to me. 

“Why do you always have to be like that?” she says, clearly furious with me. 

Be like what?  Concerned?  Helpful?  Normal?  Now I’m starting to lose patience with the guessing game.  “Look, Julia, if you need to talk to me about something, then I’m listening.  Otherwise, get down to the ice and warm up.  You have a lesson in five minutes.” 

“You don’t have to be so mean!  Just nevermind!” she says loudly, and stomps off to the ice. 

Several parents look our way, and I can see their thoughts in little bubbles above their heads. “Oh, that mean old mother just can’t get along with her daughter.” “Not a nice, respectful girl, like my daughter.” “Tsk.  Must be a dysfunctional family.  How sad.” I turn away and look down at the ice, where my daughter is smiling and laughing with a friend between salchows and toe loops.  

Laughing out loud, I think “She’s schizophrenic!” 

When I was a kid, I remember thinking to myself that I would never forget how it felt to be that age, and that when I was a parent, I would remember and be very understanding. 

But somehow, after all those new neuropathways of adolescence are through developing, some sense of the anguish is lost.  I remember with a grown up mind, not the mind of someone whose body is morphing into some unknown territory.  Well, actually, my body is morphing, too, but in a less pleasing way.  And I’m pretty sure I know what it’s morphing into.  

But back to Julia.   I am trying very hard to be supportive, but also to keep her to boundaries.  We can rage against the world, but we can’t punch our little brothers for laughing about our bra.   We can throw ourselves on our bed in inexplicable tears, but we can’t scream at a baffled Daddy “Go away, you big poop!”.   We can hate our math homework, but we can’t expect to understand how to do it when we spend the entire class time drawing pictures of the math teacher hanging from a noose.  It’s fairly simple, it seems, but I guess that’s because I’m all developed neurologically, and everything.  At least for now.

Doggone Funny

Lately, my humor has been lacking.  The burdens of life have crushed in so close and tight that no gurgle of laughter in response to the goofiness of that same life could escape.  I couldn’t taste the sweetness, or savor the beauty.  It took a big glob of mucousy slobber that leaves a trail of slime like a snail to clear the way, and open up the bubble around me.  God bless slobber.  Especially with a piece of kibble hanging from it. 

This gift came from Maggie, a one year old, 83 pound black Labrador.  She’s a big, furry, undisciplined beast.  Jumping up on her hind legs, she is taller than I am.  Okay, okay, everybody is taller than I am, just go along with the imagery, will ya?  I’m writing a column here. 

Where was I…  

We have three kids, two elderly cats, and two goldfish.  For years the kids and the husband have begged for a dog, and for years I have said, “No more living creatures until something goes to college or dies of old age.”  Hopefully, the kids would be the ones to go to college.  I just didn’t have it in me to care for any other being dependent upon me, or to clean any more messes.  I was empty.  Worn out.  Used up.  Nothing left to give. 

Then my husband started showing me pictures of Bob, a golden retriever featured on the website of Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation. 

“Look at Bob.  Bob needs us.” 

I had to admit, Bob was cute, but my stress-bubble encased heart was untouched.  However, this time Jerry wouldn’t give in to my pained expression or tight lipped response.  One Friday he tracked me down at the playground , and in way of greeting me, looked at my with big morose puppy dog eyes. 

 “Bob needs a home,”  he said sadly. 

Then my daughter got down on her knees, and begged, promising all sorts of miraculous personality changes that would result in me spending the rest of my days soaking my feet and eating bon bons, while she took care of every household detail, if only, if only… 

Ahh, crap.  We were getting a dog. 

So, reluctantly on my part, and joyously on the part of the other four humans in the family (the cats were not consulted), we went to look at Bob.  Bob’s a looker, all right, but Bob has issues.  Seems he’s on puppy Prozac to cope with his anxiety.  Well, he’d fit right in, but Mom’s anxiety was going to cross the line into psychosis if we had a mentally ill dog.  Luckily, or unfortunately, I thought, there was another retriever perfectly suited for a family with children.  This one was a black Labrador, and the shelter was calling her Orangutan. 

I don’t know why they called her that.  It’s not like she has a big red butt, and picks fleas off her friends for entertainment. 

Anyway, she slobbered all over us, grossed me out, and won the hearts of my children and spouse.  Mine remained in its stress-bubble, but I saw how good she would be for our family, and I relented.  We asked if she responded to her shelter name, and were told that was the name they gave her there, but we were “welcome to change it.  Please, change it.” 

So Maggie, aka Orangutan, came home with us. 

She has destroyed the screen door.  Left in the yard with an open window at five feet above the ground, she stretched herself to her full human height, tore through that screen, and pulled a potted plant basking in the filtered sunlight out onto the patio.  She ate my glasses, and digs in the vegetable garden. 

And she adores us.  She slaps the wall next to her bed with her big strong tail every time we walk by, making a huge thumping noise.  She puts her head down so we can rub her ears, then rolls over for a good belly rub.  If we leave her home alone, upon our return she wags so hard her hiney goes one way while her front end goes the other.  Her eyes light up with love and joy, and she scarcely knows which part of which one of us to kiss first. 

That damn dog has wormed her way with those big muddy paws right into our hearts.  Our hearts.  She’s one of the family now. 

So my chewed up specs are looking kind of funny.  The enormous muddy paw prints are clearly ridiculous.  And that piece of kibble hanging from a glob of slobber, well, it’s a downright knee-slapper.  My funny bone has been found, and it’s currently being chewed on by a huge hairball of love.  Who knew.

Metaphor for Life

I’m changing my address from the nice suburban street where I now live to “Van, Down by the River”.  By rights, that’s what it should be, because although we have steadily been updating our older home, and have added some lovely features, at heart we remain urban hillbillies. 

Our front yard is tastefully landscaped.  We live very near the local elementary school, and many parents who pass our house going to and from the school have commented on our garden.  Oh, if they could only see what lies beyond.  The backyard is a combination of wasteland and landfill.  The automatic lawn sprinklers died years ago, replaced by an ineffective hose sprinkler that is powered by a manual timer called “Whenever I Remember”.  Thus it’s green under the mulberry tree in the corner, brown around the edges, and yellow in the middle, except for the patches of healthy local grasses (i.e., weeds) that pop up here and there.  Beyond the grass is dirt, highlighted by a dilapidated play structure that we have officially condemned, a rather nice raised vegetable box where my husband practices his unfulfilled farming urges, rotten tree stumps, and a contrasting well-groomed line of roses up against the house.  

On the side near the gate is the “basketball court”.  It is a slab of cement with a nice backboard at one end, but it also houses the garbage cans, a barbecue, and a toilet.  Makes for a pretty interesting game of hoops.  The toilet was removed in an effort to find a more powerful model that could accommodate both my husband’s voluminous output and our home’s crappy (pun intended) plumbing..  To replace it we found the mother of all toilets, which has only succumbed once to the plumbing, but unfortunately the cast-off has no place to go.  It’s not a bad toilet, either, and only a couple of years old.  Where do unemployed toilets go to look for work?  

But the pièce de résistance is the patio.  Ah yes, the patio.  The terrace.  The veranda.  The cracked aggregate concrete housing weeds, insects, a lopsided cheerful yellow patio set, stray toys, more roses, and the couch.  Yes, I said “couch”.  Doesn’t every nice home have a sofa on the veranda?  We did have a leather armchair as well, but that went to a new owner for $30 in a garage sale.  

The couch is a casualty of redecorating.  Five years ago it was deep blue, plush, ultra comfy, and seemingly well built.  Today it is threadbare and stained, with broken springs popping up between the cushions, all complements of the Kea children.  I dragged it out the sliding glass door to the patio the day the new furniture arrived.  Although I regularly shifted it to sweep and mop underneath, as I heaved it toward the door, left behind was a trail of crumbs, wrappers, plastic arms disconnected from some long lost superhero, marbles, popsicle sticks, and numerous other sticky detritus.  Apparently the sofa had been gobbling this debris for years, only to regurgitate in its death throws.  To add insult to injury, since moving it to it’s “temporary” spot, we’ve had our first rain.  

So in keeping with the image, we have a dead, moldy, decomposing sofa on our patio.  Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a yucky sofa?  It’s too far gone to give to the poor.  The local dump wants $125 to leave it there.  Which actually I’d be willing to pay if my husband and I could lift the damn thing down our steep driveway and into the truck, but we’ve already tried and failed.   So we are stuck with the only other option, which is to pay a hauling company $225 to take it away for us.   I guess we might as well add another $100 for the poor toilet.  

My husband, who was born and raised in the deep south, had another suggestion.  He’s very sensitive about redneck comments, feeling stuck up Californians look down upon his pan fried roots.  But seeing he’s sort of an “in your face” kind of guy, he is lobbying for moving the sofa and toilet to the front lawn, lighting a bonfire with one of the broken chairs from the garage, and sitting back to enjoy a Bud Lite.  He’d probably suggest having a shotgun at his knee, but I don’t allow firearms.  

He’s only joking (I think).  He doesn’t even like Bud Lite.  He likes expensive scotch.  Actually, I think he just likes to brag that he likes expensive scotch.  Anyway, the presence of a sofa outside our sliding glass doors seems to bother him less than the lawn needing to be mowed, or the condition of his lettuce crop.  I, on the other hand, am mortified.  After years of fearing guests because the inside of our home was so frightening, now I fear guests because they might see the outside.  No matter what I do, I cannot seem to keep up with the feculence of life.  “Feculence”…isn’t that a great word?  I found it in a thesaurus as a synonym for “excrement”.    

Perhaps we should keep the toilet, then, as a symbol of our struggles.  A literal symbol for my husband, more figurative for me.  Maybe my husband can plant a crop there.  And you can interpret that any way you like.

God Only Knows

When payment here is rendered,
And this life not to retrieve,
I’ll seek answers from my Maker
Which I cannot now conceive.
 
I can better comprehend the pain
Of body, than mind and soul.
The doctrine and the theology
Can not explain the whole.
 
Why the haste to repatriate
Those who see His vision purely,
When their beauty offers sustenance
To those who see less clearly?
 
And how is it that the salve and balm
Our bodies eagerly ingest,
Soothe the aching deep inside,
Yet imperil our earthly quest?
 
And most important I must query
Now that we’re clear of earthly debt…
Well, hell, what I mean is,
Does heaven have chocolate?

Paradise Family Style

Fluffy white clouds move across the incredibly blue sky.  Waves crash upon the shore just a stone’s throw from my spot on the lanai.   Lean bodies bob in the surf, waiting for the right swell, then rise with the ocean, toes clinging to boards, falling back down as the wave ends in foam and bubbles, only to paddle out to begin again.  Gazing past the palm trees at the scene before me, I sip my lime laced Corona, and sigh.

Sounds good, don’t it?  Well it was really like that, some of the time, but the truth is, it was one heck of a trip just getting my family to America’s Eden in the South Pacific:

It starts out all right on a flight from San Francisco to Honolulu, but things go awry after catching a connecting flight to Maui.  Seems we had more than enough time to make the transfer, but our bags didn’t.  The baggage agent assures me that they will be on the next flight.  Maybe.  Or maybe the one after that.  Or maybe they will deliver them to our lodgings later.  Much later.

Okaaaaay….

Well, the next flight is due in twenty minutes, so might as well hang around for the luggage, right?  The kids are over-tired and out of control, but that’s just another day at the beach for us.  As we wait, the twenty minutes turn into an hour.  We watch in confusion as the arrival screen shows the flight as on time, then late, then on time, then removes it off the board all together.  When we do finally collect our luggage, we figure now we may as well wait for my parents and sister to arrive at the baggage claim since their flight is only another half hour away.

I watch anxiously as weary travelers straggle in from the gates to wait around the carousel where my parent’s flight is listed.  Scanning the crowd, I cannot find my mom and dad.  Worried, I try my dad’s cell phone, then my sister’s.  Surely somebody would have called me if something had gone wrong!  Anxiety turning to fear, I run down the open air concourse in the humidity until I come to the ticket counter, and race up to an available agent.

“My parents were supposed to be on flight 34, but they didn’t arrive!”  I gasp, wiping sweat from my eyes.

The agent looks up, smiles vacantly, tip taps into her computer, and calmly replies “That flight’s delayed two hours.”

“Oh,” I gush with relief, “I was so worried because the screen shows it as on time…”

“That flight’s delayed two hours,” she repeats with the same vacant smile.

Okaaaaay….

So jump ahead in time a little, the relatives arrive, and we help my folks with their luggage cart over to the line for the rental car shuttle bus.  We wait, and as the person before us finishes loading and jumps on the bus, I begin to load the parents’ luggage as quickly as possible, not wanting them to stand in the hot sun.  Neither one walks well, and I want them seated.  At the same time, from the other direction, some bozo starts throwing luggage on, completely disregarding the fact that we waited in line and it’s our turn.  So pushy little broad that I am, I don’t back down, I just keep tossing luggage to the poor driver who’s putting ours in one pile and Bozo’s in another. 

“Why don’t you wait until somebody else is finished?” Bozo says acidly.  “There’s a line here.”

“I waited in line,” I snapped indignantly, “you came from the other side.  And I cannot leave my parents standing in the sun any longer.  They’re handicapped.”

“Not my problem,” Bozo dares to say.

I am on the step of the bus, Bozo is on the curb and he’s sort of a runt anyway, so turning back toward him and leaning in close, I am about three inches from his face when I bite loudly, “You’re an asshole.”  I hope he caught some spit with that.

People on the bus turn and stare, but Bozo shuts up.  At the car rental he shoves his son off the bus before it’s fully stopped, ordering, “Get in line, quick!”  For his efforts with his son’s life, he ends up about four customers ahead of us.  The snaking line positions us directly across the rope guide from each other, but while I check out his lycra encased chubby wife and decide she’d be a candidate for “What Not to Wear”, Bozo carefully avoids looking at me.  Yeah, that’s right, little man.  Don’t mess with angry Greek/Italian women.  We’re mean.

Traffic to our destination is obnoxious, and at one point we consider pulling over until morning to join the jalopies camping on the narrow band of beach next to the “highway”.  We finally arrive at our condos in paradise, and find out the relatives’ expensive condo hasn’t been updated since Captain Cook frolicked with natives.  Fortunately, a pleading call to the property manager solves that problem the next morning, and we are now free to enjoy ten days of carefree relaxation. 

That was a fantasy with no hope of realization.

Did I mention the Greek/Italian thing?  See, vacationing with my family is like skipping off to paradise with some unholy mixture of Chevy Chase’s Griswolds, Cher’s family from “Moonstruck”, and Nia Vardalos’ family from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.”  Nothing goes right, we fight, we shout, we cry, we forgive.  We don’t do peaceful very well.

Still, in our chemically unstable way, we have a good time.  And we are together. 

Eventually the trip ends, and we return to our ancient half remodeled fixer, my parents to the family home where I grew up, only half a mile one direction, and my sister to her cute condo, half a mile in the other direction.  We all say we want to return to Maui next year. There is a spot in our backyard where I would like to put a bench.  I like to pause there under the mulberry tree, and look back across the toy strewn lawn to our house.  It looks cheery despite its age from that vantage point.  I can hear the shouting from within, some joyful, some argumentative, some punitive.  I can hear the children’s laughter.  And when I revisited this spot soon after our trip, I smiled to myself at our untidy yard and noisy home, realizing that really, paradise is relative.

Rather Have a Wedgie

“…and there I was, walking around the store, not wearing any underwear.”

That was the line, verbatim.  Yep, she said she was not wearing underwear in the store.  Hmmm…was she wearing underwear now?  Did she ever wear underwear?  Did I really want to know?

I don’t know this lady’s name.  Presumably she has a child in the same school as my daughter.  I was walking on the sidewalk in front of the school with my two boys, on our way to pick up their sister.  I passed this lady as she was going the other way with another woman and a few kids.  As she walked past, I heard her say sotto voce to her friend, well, you know.  No “chones”.  

If I knew her at all, I would have certainly asked her why she wasn’t wearing underwear, oh, and what store was this?  But even I don’t have the audacity to ask a complete stranger why she wasn’t wearing any pantsy poos in the store, especially when the remark wasn’t addressed to me, and I really shouldn’t even know she wasn’t wearing any.  But still, I did wonder…

Maybe it went something like this:

They were going to be late for school again!  Dripping from the shower, a threadbare towel covering what it must, she checks on her kids and realizes they are doing what they do every morning: nothing.

“Johnny, get your bunky out of bed now!  You are going to be late!  Don’t make me come in after you, mister!”

“Suzie, stop playing with your breakfast and get dressed!”

“Geez, Mom, you’re not dressed,” Suzie observes.

“Don’t you backtalk me, Miss Smarty Pants!  Go put your clothes on!” 

Sheesh!  Why does every morning have to be such an ordeal?  She hurries into her room to get dressed, and rummages through her underwear drawer.  “Oh, great!  I don’t even have any clean underwear!  Well, there’s no time to wash any now, I’ll just have to go au naturel.”  So she tugs on a pair of lightweight knit capri pants and a t-shirt, stuffs her feet into sneakers, and runs out to shift her kids into second gear.

She has to hover over Suzie to make sure the little girl’s engine doesn’t stall getting dressed.  “You’ll just have to wear the pink shirt, the blue one is dirty.  Along with everything else.”  Good grief, why is it that she can do four loads of laundry every day, but nothing is ever clean? 

“Put your homework in your backpack.  Come on, move!”

“OK, Johnny, where are your shoes?  Did you brush?  Oooh, don’t pick your nose! Oh, man, especially don’t eat it!  Well, that’s going to have to be breakfast, buddy, because we are late!”

She tosses the kids into the family van, and heads off to school.  At the designated “unloading zone” in front of the school, she hits the button that automatically slides open those smooth van doors, and tells her little darlin’s,  “Get out!”

“Mom, we forgot to get juice boxes!  You’re supposed to bring juice boxes for the class party today, remember?”

“OK, OK, don’t panic.  The party isn’t supposed to start until 10.  I’ll go to Target and I’ll have them to your class in plenty of time, OK?  Now go!” (Actually, except for the underwear part, up to this point it sounds more like my day.)

Well, no time to go home and fix the lingerie problem now.  Besides, she needs laundry soap anyway, so she’ll just get that too while she’s at Target.  Heading the other direction, she arrives at her favorite big box store.  Parks, grabs her purse, jumps out, clicks the little button on her key ring that magically makes the mobile rectangle lock up tight, and trips into Target.  Gosh, maybe there is time to just look at those v-neck sleeveless sweaters that were in the Sunday ad.  She ambles across the store to the ladies clothing section.   Is it her imagination, or is she getting some odd looks?  No, that woman definitely sneered.  Well, she has lost a little weight lately.  Probably just jealous.  Women can be so catty. 

In the ladies department she finds the sale sweaters.  Hmm…blue would go best with her bleached hair, but red is so… saucy!  She selects a red sweater in a small, OK, better get the medium, who is she kidding, and heads to a mirror where she holds it up to herself.  Oooh, red is nice! Especially with these white capris she’s wearing.  Hold on there a minute.  Is that…oh, no.  These pants are see-through! 

Well, that explains a lot!  She holds the sweater strategically, gets a cart, pushes it in front of her, walking very, very close to the cart.  She pinches her cheeks together tightly (you know which cheeks I mean), hoping it will make her booty smaller and her pants hang a little more loosely from the rear view.  She can’t leave without those stupid juice boxes, so taking very quick small little steps so she doesn’t have to put much space between her body and the cart or unclench her cheeks, she goes to the food section and throws a few 10-packs of Capri Sun in the cart.  She usually gets the 100% juice stuff for her own kids, but this is cheaper, and heck, she’s not going to pay a fortune to hydrate someone else’s kid!  Doing the same sort of geisha walk, she hurries to get laundry soap so she can take care of her little problem sometime today, and heads to the checkout. 

The checker looks at her oddly as she obsessively hugs the cart, but hey, he thinks, whatever floats your boat, lady.  She makes it to the car, throws her bags in the back, and thankfully heads home where she will have just enough time to put on some very dark, very loose pants, and deliver the juice boxes. 

Well, it could have happened that way.  I imagined a few other scenarios as well, but I like the G rated version best.  She didn’t look like she had many public R (or worse) moments.  Maybe a few PG-13.  But if I ever see her again, I’m going to have a hard time looking her in the face, ya know what I mean?

Spring is Sprung

Spring is in the air,
And pollen from the grasses.
I’d like to find the Sudafed,
But first must find my glasses.
 
Searched all day for those specs,
Foul words I was heard to utter.
Found them in an obvious place,
In the fridge behind the butter.
 
With spring weather all my kids
Have increased activities.
Mom’s old body finds it hard
To keep up with such proclivity,
 
When you must repeat it decades later,
Fourth grade is such a bummer.
Please, Lord, no more homework!
C’mon, where is summer?!
 
Can’t wait for heat and days at the pool,
But first I must get trimmer.
‘Cause if I don’t hit the gym soon,
I’ll scare the little swimmers.
 
Wait! Bring on that ol’ rabbit,
For first we must have Easter.
I’ll find the time to play the bunny,
Somehow I’ll move my keister.
 
Nodded off in the sunlit kitchen,
Fatigue, caffeine couldn’t mask it.
I sat up quick when the doorbell rang,
And knocked my coffee in the laundry basket.
 
My son doesn’t want to read,
My daughter won’t eat chicken.
The youngest doesn’t want to potty,
Mom’s about to lose her frickin’…
 
Oh, the joys of childhood,
And being my kids’ mother.
For though I’m losing brain cells daily,
This life, I’d choose no other.
 

Apple Season

That was one freakin’ expensive apple.  I don’t even particularly care for apples, and to pay for just one, your entire life…well, I hope it was good. Kind of turns you off fruit. 

I am talking, of course, of that apple from the Tree of Knowledge.  Yeah, that’s the one.  The one Eve just had to have.  I really question the validity of that story.  I do not know one single woman who would stick around long enough to hear what a snake has to say, let alone be persuaded by one.  Every woman I know would have run so fast she didn’t leave tracks, or grabbed the biggest rock she could find and smashed that sucker’s head, then made a nice snakeskin purse. 

But no, Eve had to have an apple.  Well, I guess if there’s no chocolate in existence, you’ll get your sugar where you can.  She probably didn’t have some power thing going at all, she just had a sweet tooth.   

And what’s up with Adam?  Did he do everything his wife told him to do? Who wore the fig leaf in that family?  There’s a name for guys like him.  It’s not nice, and it can’t be printed here.  Rather ironic that at the beginning of time it was the woman who called the shots, a risk taker, and the man who followed along.  That pretty much blows a few stereotypes away. 

So here we are, millions of lives later, still paying for that one piece of fruit. Bloating, cramps, irritability, not to mention the convoluted joy of squeezing a human being from your loins. 

Then comes the extended payment plan.  I’ve moved onto that part of the arrangement.  Let’s talk about night sweats, shall we?  Until recently that referred to the sweat pants I wore to bed in the winter.  Now that means sitting up in bed and flapping my T-shirt in the middle of the night. 

And how about sipping your coffee on a frigid winter morning, huddled over your cup, when suddenly instead of reading the newspaper, you are waving it wildly in a back and forth motion while simultaneously pulling off your sweatshirt, as the internal seasons switch from mid-winter to August in the wink of an eye. 

But the best part is the PMS from hell.  Anxious, irritable, hair trigger temper.  Mood swings that make a stay in a sanitarium sound like a viable vacation option.  I’d like to have a talk with that Eve.  She could have had an Eden bag with matching shoes, but no, she picked the freakin’ apple. 

And if I ever see that damn snake, he’d better slither fast.  He doesn’t stand a chance against one middle-aged, pre-menstrual, stressed out, pissed off, mean ass modern day woman. 

Eve was a wimp.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Every December I wonder, is this the year?  Is this the year my oldest decides there cannot possibly be a fat man with flying reindeer who circles the globe in one night, and comes down the chimney with toys for all the good little children?  

When I was a child, I remember asking if there was really such a thing as Santa Claus, and my mother said we would talk about it the next year.  I suspected the truth, so I let it be.  But the next year I reminded her of her promise, and pressed for an answer.  I was eight.  She answered with another question, “Who do you think Santa is?” 

“You,” I answered.   

“And who else?” 

“Daddy.” 

“That’s right,” she confirmed.  

I had known already, because as you grow older you begin to realize that certain beliefs don’t seem to follow the normal course of the world around you.  Reindeer don’t fly, for example.  Animals that fly have wings, and reindeer do not.  And looking up the chimney, it seems rather narrow.   Big things simply do not fit into small spaces.  But knowing, and knowing, are two separate things. 

Some of the magic left that year, and it cannot be reclaimed.  It is intangible, indefinable, a nameless wonder and fascination that thrills the mind and warms the heart.  And it only belongs to children. 

I strive to remind my children each year of the real reason we celebrate Christmas.  I explain presents to them when they are very young by saying that at Jesus’ birthday party, everybody gets presents!  We read the story of the nativity.  In the pockets of our advent calendar, I hide stickers of animals, shepherds, angels, stars, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus.  Each day we add a sticker to a simple outline of a stable taped to the wall, and slowly create a little paper and sticker nativity. 

But let’s face it, Santa has a mystique about him that no kid can resist!  To let go, well, it’s a major rite of passage, at least from my mom eyes.  

So this year, if Julia asks me, how do I respond?  

She has tentatively broached the subject before, with questions such as “Mommy, why do some of the kids in my class not believe in Santa Claus?”  and “Do you believe in Santa, Mommy?”.   I have explained that lots of grownups don’t believe, and that some of the children in her class have already moved on from believing to not believing.  

Do I believe?  

“I choose to believe,” I answered. 

She was content to leave it at that, but I know that she simply was afraid to pursue it any further, because she already knows what she would find.  She is nine years old, in fourth grade.  Last year she may have chosen to accept the impossible, to cling to the magic, but what about this year?  Will she still cling, or will she announce with disdain that there is simply no such thing as Santa Claus?  Or worse, will she force me to utter a firm “yes” or “no”? 

And I’m afraid I’m going to have some explaining to do. 

You see, our cats barf a lot.  Especially Boo Boo.  If you are not careful, you may step in something in the middle of the night that you would just as soon not have on your foot.  Last Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night, after getting something gross on my foot that was left on the floor by the foot of our bed, I hastily grabbed a towel from the hamper and wiped so that I would not step in it twice. 

Turns out I didn’t do a very good cleaning job in the dark.  A funny shaped smear was left on the shiny hardwood floors, and it strangely looked like a really big print from a really big shoe.  My husband got the kids, and told them to look at the boot print Santa had left in our room! 

“He must have come in to make sure we were sleeping,” Jerry explained. 

They bought it, hook, line and sinker.  They talked for days about how Santa had left a boot print!  They pondered why they had not heard him, and did he check on all of us?  The magic was alive, and for Julia, confirmed anew. 

Oh, I know, it is inevitable.  I cannot stop my child from growing up.  But with the wonder of my three children at the fat man in the red suit, I can almost feel the magic again.  And I know that when Julia lets go, Christmas will never again hold quite the same aura for her..  Then she will join the club of the secret keepers, and aid us in continuing the myth for her two little brothers.  Eventually they will all go the path of the non-believers, and the magic will be gone. 

And nothing is going to knock the magic out harder than learning the “proof” was cat barf. 

No Butts About It

There is something I just don’t understand.  We belong to the neighborhood pool.  OK, I understand that part, just bear with me.  It’s a very nice club, well tended.  There is a baby pool, a pool for laps and lessons, and a pool for diving and just having fun.  There are gas barbecues and picnic tables.  Lifeguards are on duty at all times.  Also among the amenities, in a tiled nook between the bathrooms, are three outdoor showers, with both hot and cold water.  

OK, here’s what I don’t get.  I always assumed the showers were for rinsing off the chlorine, and maybe warming up.  But I see whole families who stand there in their swimsuits doing almost a full body scrub, plus shampoo and conditioner.  From the number of people who do this, I know they can’t all be off someplace else with no time to go home.  Besides, it’s a neighborhood  pool.  What, you don’t have time to drive two blocks?  

We are not on the swim team.  We don’t live at the pool like swim team families do.  We are purely recreational members.  So I thought maybe I just wasn’t in the know, and asked a good friend who is a swim team mom about this mystery.  This friend, who is blond, offered up the explanation that they might be trying to prevent green hair.  

Hmm…OK.  I’ll buy that.  At least from the shoulders up.  But what about the all the liquid soap and bars of Dial in little travel containers I see?  Not for your hair, and I haven’t noticed anybody swapping a swimsuit for a birthday suit.  Do you see where this is going? 

C’mon, people!  What part of you most needs a good scrubbin’?  Yeah, that’s right.  Hiney. 

I’ve watched an entire family soap all around their swimsuits, giving pits special attention, carefully shampoo and condition hair, then go into the bathroom and change into fresh clothes.  Do these people think they’re clean?  Have these parents ever seen their children’s booties?  ‘Cause let me tell you, kids don’t wipe that well.  It really shouldn’t need explaining, but since it apparently does, let me not mince words:  

You need to wash your crotch, people!  

One man apparently got it, because I saw him stick his hand down his pants and give the boys a good once over.  Frankly, I’d rather see people leave with dirty tushy than watch that exhibition again. 

I never considered myself an extremist in hygiene.  I guess I always assumed washing your crotch was paramount in personal cleanliness to anybody who bothered to shower in the first place.  It seems I am mistaken.  Every time we go to the pool, while my kids splash and play, I stare in fascination at these skimmers.  I keep thinking I must be missing something.  I just can’t imagine showering without washing your butt.  I’d love to follow these people home.  I’ll bet their homes would put mine to shame.  Heck, most people’s homes would put mine to shame.  Ha!  But I’ve got something on them now.  Next time some rich, snooty mom tries to lord it over me with her gazillion dollar monstrosity built on a postage stamp lot where one is not allowed to wear shoes past the threshold, I’ll be smirking inside.  

My house may look a mess, but there’s no dirt under the rug, you know?