There are few events in life that can bring a family together like a holiday of the heart. Thanksgiving is one of those holidays. It is the perfect family holiday. It revolves around food and giving thanks. No gifts are required. Every family has their own special traditions. My family had the Monopoly after the turkey tradition. My parents used to try and convince me that the holiday was about giving thanks, the turkey, and family but I knew better. It is about playing Monopoly after the turkey. It is about winning Monopoly. These people are competitive. There is no “letting the kids win to build self esteem.” Mr. Rodgers would get laughed right out the door. There is more of a “ victory builds character” or the ever popular “everyman for himself” attitude. We all know normally kind parents who turn into nuts when their kids play sports. Those people look like Shirley Temple compared to the Monopoly players in my family. These are my people. I must state for the record that in all the years I have been playing Monopoly with this group of over exuberant folks I have never won. Not ever. Another part of the let’s crucify the competition Monopoly experience is the traditional dance of victory after you have beaten everyone else. But first you have to get through the meal.
The preparation and pressure to excel at all things Thanksgiving starts early. In fact it starts just after Halloween. The supermarkets start it off with the free turkey giveaway. This is followed closely by the food network airing of twenty-four hours of home cooking specials. One year they started off the Thanksgiving specials with one where the host goes outdoors, impeccably dressed I might add, and slays his own turkey while repeating the phrase “Nothing like fresh turkey.” He and I have vastly different ideas of what constitutes a fresh turkey. I don’t want my meal to have a face when I go to cook it. I want it the old fashioned way. I want it dead, headless and in a plastic wrapper with it’s giblets stuffed inside.
After watching the food show that was advocating shooting your own turkey, I decided to meet the hunter/chef halfway. I tried to follow his guidance and precut as many of the ingredients as was possible.
The morning of the big event the alarm clock goes off. I jump out of bed and head for the kitchen. I am stopped cold in my tracks by the smell of precut onions that have been sitting in the refrigerator for twelve hours. This was not on the hunter-masquerading-as-a-chef-slay-your-own-turkey show. I would have remembered the part where the host has uncontrollable eye spasms from the smell.
I rush in and with one eye having spasms and the other open just enough to avoid slamming the refrigerator door in my face, and both of my eyes have gone from tearing to watering profusely, I remove the offending “air-tight”bag and throw it away, remove the trash bag that is holding it and throw it outside. My dream of having the family waking to the smell of roasting turkey wafting gently through the house is in serious jeopardy. However, running from the house crying from the stench is a definite possibility.
I open every window in my kitchen and heater room and wash my eyes out before I start cutting a fresh onion, which added beautifully to the lingering smell of the removed onions. Interesting fact: A twenty pound turkey can bend a foil roasting pan in half when pan is lifted by the cute little handles. Another interesting fact: It is very difficult, but not impossible, to stuff a turkey in a pan shaped like a V into an oven.
The rest of the day was a blur. Seven hours of slicing, dicing, peeling and eating. I am Alice at Mel’s Diner without the tips or the cute uniform. It has all been worth it. We are all together. All are well fed, and smiling. I know what’s coming. I know it is about to rear its ugly head. I know this as sure as I know that fall follows summer.
“How about a board game?” Those are fighting words. The hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up followed closely by goose bumps. Not Monopoly, Please don’t let them play the “M” game my subconscious is screaming. I have suppressed my extreme dislike of this game. It goes against everything warm and fuzzy to dislike this game but is rooted deeply in my brain. My Dad always wins. I think he cheats. I think Mom helps him win. The game God does just not simply smile on him. It has crowned him reigning champion. Every time. For twenty-five years.
The year of the slay-your-own-turkey show, youngest had gone to bed and the oldest had teamed up with Grandpop to beat us. Grandpop was grooming the next generation of Monopoly winner. The sight of the two of them high-fiving each other while doing their victory dance around the kitchen was not a pretty sight. I vowed monopoly revenge and gave serious thought to how I was going to overtake them.
I spent the next ten months talking up scrabble to youngest. It was my game plan. You see, scrabble is a game that you can’t cheat. It is also a game that I am very good at. The big day comes and he wants to play Scrabble. YES! Let the games begin. I win the toss, and start with a double word score with a fifteen point word and it just gets better from there. The letters are all coming my way. They get only vowels. They want to wimp out after two hours. No way! We will play till the end. This is scrabble revenge .The last letter is drawn and I have a seven letter word using all of my letters finishing them all off with one final swoop. It is pure poetry. I do the customary victory dance around the kitchen. I am so enjoying my long overdue victory dance. It may be a little over the edge. Twenty -five years have been righted. The game God has smiled upon me. The student has beaten the teacher. AH, Grasshopper!
I am really enjoying myself. Reveling in my victory, right until the youngest puts his arm lovingly around Grandpop and mutters “ I should be ready for Monopoly by Christmas Grandpop.” They smile, undo the top button on their pants and laugh as they sit together on the couch. That was ten years ago. We haven’t played Scrabble since. They wouldn’t play after my victory. They were all stuck on the whole Monopoly as a tradition thing. I decided to start a new tradition in our family. It’s called napping on the couch after the turkey. Apparently there are millions of families that already honor this tradition. Viva La Difference!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Flying Turkeys
I have been driving a long time. Thirty-four years to be exact. I have taught one son to drive and now am in the process of teaching my youngest to drive. It is a learning experience. He is getting better each time he drives but all totaled I believe he has been driving for a total of ten hours. There is still a long way to go.
I try to be patient but sometimes when we get in the car I drive just because I don’t feel like explaining the nuances of every move I make. We have gone over the driving manual. We have discussed every possible scenario that he might encounter and the appropriate response. We discuss them as he is driving. We discuss driving more than the president discusses nuclear proliferation.
Youngest son decides that he would like some new jeans so we plan our trip to the mall. I’m not sure which is more uncomfortable driving with him or shopping with him, so I decided to take the easy way out. I decided to be the selfish parent. I drove. The thought of teaching him to navigate the mall traffic at night, for the first time did absolutely nothing for me so I was going to be a slacker parent.
We are on the way to the mall discussing the purchase of the new jeans and out of the corner of my eye I see something coming out of the woods. Instinctively I step on the brakes and throw my arm across my son. The car slams to a stop and there in front of my car is a three-foot tall turkey. His wings were spread and his neck fully extended as he flew in front of my car. Yes the turkey flew in front of the car. I didn’t realize that turkeys could fly. I also didn’t know they were that big when they were fully extended. My son and I were stunned. I have never heard of turkeys flying out of the woods in traffic. I have heard of flying monkeys but that was in the movies.
I live in the woods. I have lived in the woods for twenty-five years. We have had reports of deer filtering into the residential neighborhoods. I have seen many deer over the years. We have ticks, lyme disease, and rabbits, I have even heard of rabid raccoons coming out in the daytime but I have never heard of flying turkeys. It sounds so absurd that I decided not to tell anyone. I mean what do you say. “Oh and by the way honey, watch out for the flying turkeys when you get near the mall.”
Perhaps the conversation would start with “ Has anyone read about the flying turkeys near the mall?” I looked in the local paper for articles on flying turkeys. I have also looked for articles on accidents involving turkeys. I haven’t seen any of those either. Not one.
I am just so thankful that I didn’t hit the turkey. Dogs or deer can really damage your car. This you could explain to your auto insurance agent and your friends. But telling the story of the flying turkey that crashed into my car story doesn’t sound quite the same. There will be a real effort to keep a straight face when telling the story so not to provoke fits of laughter. My insurance agent would have required a photo. I would have stopped and taken a picture if I hit the turkey but since I didn’t hit him there was no reason to stop and consequently there was no picture of the turkey. It was just my word against some two thousand years of history that makes no mention of flying turkeys.
I live with four men. I figured that discussing flying turkeys with the other three would only bring me immeasurable grief. I thought youngest son understood this when I said “ Let’s not bring up the turkeys!” Apparently not. Apparently the tone of my voice was not enough, I need to work on that. Hubby wanted me to tell him what happened with the turkey. Did I hit the turkey? Did the turkey make contact with the car anywhere? Did the turkey hit the bumper maybe? No, no and no. The turkey flew across the road. I stopped the car. The turkey flew past. We went to the mall. Of course, this conversation was followed by the cute turkey jokes. “Why did the turkey fly across the road? Because it was trying to beat Mom to the mall.” Oh ha ha ha . Of course this also lends itself to the cautionary statements when going to the mall. “Be careful. It’s raining really heavy and the turkeys might be out. You know how they like flying in the rain.”
I take every situation as a learning experience and this was no exception. I go to the mall a lot less. I make sure my cell phone is out where I can reach it instantly instead of my being in my pocketbook but most importantly, I have improved my communication skills with my son. “Don’t tell Dad about the damn turkey!!” I practice it in front of my mirror.
I try to be patient but sometimes when we get in the car I drive just because I don’t feel like explaining the nuances of every move I make. We have gone over the driving manual. We have discussed every possible scenario that he might encounter and the appropriate response. We discuss them as he is driving. We discuss driving more than the president discusses nuclear proliferation.
Youngest son decides that he would like some new jeans so we plan our trip to the mall. I’m not sure which is more uncomfortable driving with him or shopping with him, so I decided to take the easy way out. I decided to be the selfish parent. I drove. The thought of teaching him to navigate the mall traffic at night, for the first time did absolutely nothing for me so I was going to be a slacker parent.
We are on the way to the mall discussing the purchase of the new jeans and out of the corner of my eye I see something coming out of the woods. Instinctively I step on the brakes and throw my arm across my son. The car slams to a stop and there in front of my car is a three-foot tall turkey. His wings were spread and his neck fully extended as he flew in front of my car. Yes the turkey flew in front of the car. I didn’t realize that turkeys could fly. I also didn’t know they were that big when they were fully extended. My son and I were stunned. I have never heard of turkeys flying out of the woods in traffic. I have heard of flying monkeys but that was in the movies.
I live in the woods. I have lived in the woods for twenty-five years. We have had reports of deer filtering into the residential neighborhoods. I have seen many deer over the years. We have ticks, lyme disease, and rabbits, I have even heard of rabid raccoons coming out in the daytime but I have never heard of flying turkeys. It sounds so absurd that I decided not to tell anyone. I mean what do you say. “Oh and by the way honey, watch out for the flying turkeys when you get near the mall.”
Perhaps the conversation would start with “ Has anyone read about the flying turkeys near the mall?” I looked in the local paper for articles on flying turkeys. I have also looked for articles on accidents involving turkeys. I haven’t seen any of those either. Not one.
I am just so thankful that I didn’t hit the turkey. Dogs or deer can really damage your car. This you could explain to your auto insurance agent and your friends. But telling the story of the flying turkey that crashed into my car story doesn’t sound quite the same. There will be a real effort to keep a straight face when telling the story so not to provoke fits of laughter. My insurance agent would have required a photo. I would have stopped and taken a picture if I hit the turkey but since I didn’t hit him there was no reason to stop and consequently there was no picture of the turkey. It was just my word against some two thousand years of history that makes no mention of flying turkeys.
I live with four men. I figured that discussing flying turkeys with the other three would only bring me immeasurable grief. I thought youngest son understood this when I said “ Let’s not bring up the turkeys!” Apparently not. Apparently the tone of my voice was not enough, I need to work on that. Hubby wanted me to tell him what happened with the turkey. Did I hit the turkey? Did the turkey make contact with the car anywhere? Did the turkey hit the bumper maybe? No, no and no. The turkey flew across the road. I stopped the car. The turkey flew past. We went to the mall. Of course, this conversation was followed by the cute turkey jokes. “Why did the turkey fly across the road? Because it was trying to beat Mom to the mall.” Oh ha ha ha . Of course this also lends itself to the cautionary statements when going to the mall. “Be careful. It’s raining really heavy and the turkeys might be out. You know how they like flying in the rain.”
I take every situation as a learning experience and this was no exception. I go to the mall a lot less. I make sure my cell phone is out where I can reach it instantly instead of my being in my pocketbook but most importantly, I have improved my communication skills with my son. “Don’t tell Dad about the damn turkey!!” I practice it in front of my mirror.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Original Box Husband
I have many fond Christmas memories and one in particular….It had been a beautiful Christmas morning. Hubby and I managed to have a cup of coffee before the kids woke up. The tree was lit up with presents flowing from it like a rainbow. The kids had slept past six a.m. The little darlings had actually managed to read the tags on their gifts so they could tell which present had come from whom. We had gone to church together as a family. The financial impact hadn’t been too bad. Sitting silently in the heater room was a pile of boxes. All of the original boxes had been saved. This is the most important part of Christmas.
I had always been led to believe that Christmas was about the birth of the baby Jesus. I was wrong. My husband knew. “Save all the original boxes” is his mantra. We have eighteen years of original boxes from toys, appliances, furniture, and household items. Most of those items have been used and thrown away but I still have the original boxes. “You never know.” Came up frequently in conversations about original boxes.
My oldest son had gotten a CD player for Christmas. The box was huge. Fortunately for me I could fit a lot of original boxes inside the CD box. I tried to sneak this box into the recycling bin but the original box husband spotted my indiscretion and retrieved it. “Look what I found in the recycle bin. An original box.” He said grinning as if he had just found the mother lode. The CD Player had been removed, set up and was working just fine so I mistakenly tried to liberate the box. A few weeks after Christmas the player started making a grinding noise when it was opened. The original box husband retrieved the original box and proudly repacked the player and took it back to the store.
The saleslady in the store was much older than us. She was very nice in my Mothers kind of way. She opened the box. She stood there in a state of shock with her eyes bulging out of her head. Not only had original box husband put the player back in the original box, he had saved the original Styrofoam packing thingies. This thing was packed neater than when we took it out of the box. She broke into a huge grin. She couldn’t believe that he had packed it so thoroughly and from such a young man. The compliments came fast and furious. He had found an original box woman. Her husband of fifty years was not an original box husband. He was a “lets get this stuff out of here husband.” He was my kind of guy.
I have every original box from all of my children’s toys. That comes out to two children, eight thousand presents from their grandparents, a few from us, five thousand from their aunts and uncles multiplied by sixteen years. I have them all. The other day I decided to straighten the original box room. My husband keeps calling this room the attic, but I know better. I tried to liberate a few of the original boxes while hubby was at work. Wrong! He found them out in the recycle bin when he came home. I tried to explain that they needed to be with regular boxes doing what all of the other boxes were doing. No box wants to be ostracized for being different. He claimed that the boxes would be fine hanging out in the original box room with all of the other original boxes. They went back.
Then a few months after Christmas, I turned on the television and there was a show about collecting. The host was appraising items for the guests. I watched him give out a few estimates and then it happened. This woman had an old toy. It was maybe ten or fifteen years old. He went on and on about the toy and how it had been part of a real trend in toys. He commented on the value and how it was a shame that she didn’t have the original box. She did. The excitement was palpable. It added value to her toy. Substantial value. Original box husband was transfixed. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Eight thousand toys time twenty years, all with the original boxes. He ran to the original box room with breakneck speed, gathered up all of the original boxes for the toys that the kids no longer play with, and packed those toys with the precision and speed of Santa’s elves.
The transformation was complete. As he stood counting the money from the antique store he had become LET’S GO ON VACATION HUSBAND. I love a renaissance man.
I had always been led to believe that Christmas was about the birth of the baby Jesus. I was wrong. My husband knew. “Save all the original boxes” is his mantra. We have eighteen years of original boxes from toys, appliances, furniture, and household items. Most of those items have been used and thrown away but I still have the original boxes. “You never know.” Came up frequently in conversations about original boxes.
My oldest son had gotten a CD player for Christmas. The box was huge. Fortunately for me I could fit a lot of original boxes inside the CD box. I tried to sneak this box into the recycling bin but the original box husband spotted my indiscretion and retrieved it. “Look what I found in the recycle bin. An original box.” He said grinning as if he had just found the mother lode. The CD Player had been removed, set up and was working just fine so I mistakenly tried to liberate the box. A few weeks after Christmas the player started making a grinding noise when it was opened. The original box husband retrieved the original box and proudly repacked the player and took it back to the store.
The saleslady in the store was much older than us. She was very nice in my Mothers kind of way. She opened the box. She stood there in a state of shock with her eyes bulging out of her head. Not only had original box husband put the player back in the original box, he had saved the original Styrofoam packing thingies. This thing was packed neater than when we took it out of the box. She broke into a huge grin. She couldn’t believe that he had packed it so thoroughly and from such a young man. The compliments came fast and furious. He had found an original box woman. Her husband of fifty years was not an original box husband. He was a “lets get this stuff out of here husband.” He was my kind of guy.
I have every original box from all of my children’s toys. That comes out to two children, eight thousand presents from their grandparents, a few from us, five thousand from their aunts and uncles multiplied by sixteen years. I have them all. The other day I decided to straighten the original box room. My husband keeps calling this room the attic, but I know better. I tried to liberate a few of the original boxes while hubby was at work. Wrong! He found them out in the recycle bin when he came home. I tried to explain that they needed to be with regular boxes doing what all of the other boxes were doing. No box wants to be ostracized for being different. He claimed that the boxes would be fine hanging out in the original box room with all of the other original boxes. They went back.
Then a few months after Christmas, I turned on the television and there was a show about collecting. The host was appraising items for the guests. I watched him give out a few estimates and then it happened. This woman had an old toy. It was maybe ten or fifteen years old. He went on and on about the toy and how it had been part of a real trend in toys. He commented on the value and how it was a shame that she didn’t have the original box. She did. The excitement was palpable. It added value to her toy. Substantial value. Original box husband was transfixed. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Eight thousand toys time twenty years, all with the original boxes. He ran to the original box room with breakneck speed, gathered up all of the original boxes for the toys that the kids no longer play with, and packed those toys with the precision and speed of Santa’s elves.
The transformation was complete. As he stood counting the money from the antique store he had become LET’S GO ON VACATION HUSBAND. I love a renaissance man.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Hairball and Plan B
I am a big believer in signs from the universe. The problem with signs is that sometimes I just don’t pay attention when the universe calls. I had a meeting to attend that held the possibility of making connections to land a job. I printed out my resume to take with me. There was a huge, glaring typo on my resume. Yes, the resume that is posted in the cosmic universe called the Internet has a typo. That was the beginning of the signs. The horror is starting to sink in. I have been looking for a job for a while and everything that I have posted in the universe has a spelling mistake. I have checked this thing a thousand times. I have had it professionally reviewed. I have sent it out countless times. That is the first thing that you learn when you go to any career job site is to check your spelling. DUH! I have to fix it. I can’t go this meeting with a screwed up resume. This will take a few minutes but I shouldn’t make me late. I print it and head out the door running. I am trying not to speed. Not speeding is much more difficult when floating around in the back of my head is the little voice screaming “You are an idiot. You should have checked the resume and now you are going to be late. HA!” in a voice that can best be described as screeching. I take a nice breath, tell the voice to shut up and slow down.
The driver of the SUV in front of me is going way below the speed limit. I am all for conscientious driving but even I have my limits. Especially when I am late. Again the voice tells me that my failure to check my resume is not the fault of the driver in front of me. Yeah, Yeah. Screeching voice be damned! The universe is screaming but I am too busy watching the SUV to notice. The driver throws something out of the window. This is one very rude driver. Just to make the picture complete, the SUV has started to swerve. Oh good, now not only am I behind a driver who is driving slower than the limit, and throwing things out of the window, they are also swerving. Apparently the universe has decided that I need something else to worry about. Then it happens again. They throw something else out of the window. This time I look to see what they are throwing out the window. It’s a ball of hair. Yes that’s right, a hairball. I didn’t see that one coming. I do a double take, but the hairball or whatever it is has blown away. I must be mistaken. Who throws hairballs out the car windows? Cats? Then it happens again. It is definitely a hairball. Now I am intrigued. How do you have a pile of extra hairballs that you suddenly feel the need to get rid of while driving? I’m not sure how that works but okay. Then the SUV slows down for a light and I get a look at the driver. It is a woman with very long hair and she is combing it angrily while driving and throwing the hair out of the window. I have been driving for thirty-four years and have never seen anyone combing their hair with the anger while driving or throwing hairballs out a window. Clearly I have led a sheltered drivinghood.
The signs just keep coming. I get to the meeting and there is no parking. There is supposed to be a lot available to park but it is full. The sign that was blocking the drive way to the Plan A lot stated that the next lot over and down about a half mile is the alternate lot. Okie dokie , I go into Plan B mode. Only difference is in the Plan B lot the parking is limited to two hours. I already know I will be longer than that. Parking longer than the allotted time requires a parking permit, which is available from the attendant in the Plan A lot. How exactly do you get the permit since the lot is full? I can’t pull in the lot without charging the sign, and knocking it over which is generally not considered a good way to impress a potential boss. I park in the plan B lot and walk the half a mile to the attendant and ask for a permit. He is not happy about the whole thing because he has to unlock his glass door and actually speak to me. He opens the door just wide enough to hear my request. Saying nothing in reply to my request, he grudgingly gives me the permit and I walk the half-mile back to my car and place the permit on the front of my dash as instructed by the attendant who didn’t wish to speak to me. Then I hike the half mile back to the building and attempt to go in the door where the attendant who didn’t wish to speak to me has again resumed hiding behind his glass door. This time he won’t let me in the door. Since I am not parked in the plan A lot I can’t walk in that door and have to go around to the front of the building. I’m not parked in the A lot because it was full. It’s not my fault. He is making no exceptions. Plan B parkers have to walk around. Ouch.
I finally get into the building and there are no signs telling me where to go. When I need a sign there are none to be found. I find the meeting and surprise, surprise, the speaker has cancelled. The meeting was over before it started. There were no contacts to be made. No jobs. I am trying not to think of it as a sign from the cosmos just a Plan B day with a hairball .
The driver of the SUV in front of me is going way below the speed limit. I am all for conscientious driving but even I have my limits. Especially when I am late. Again the voice tells me that my failure to check my resume is not the fault of the driver in front of me. Yeah, Yeah. Screeching voice be damned! The universe is screaming but I am too busy watching the SUV to notice. The driver throws something out of the window. This is one very rude driver. Just to make the picture complete, the SUV has started to swerve. Oh good, now not only am I behind a driver who is driving slower than the limit, and throwing things out of the window, they are also swerving. Apparently the universe has decided that I need something else to worry about. Then it happens again. They throw something else out of the window. This time I look to see what they are throwing out the window. It’s a ball of hair. Yes that’s right, a hairball. I didn’t see that one coming. I do a double take, but the hairball or whatever it is has blown away. I must be mistaken. Who throws hairballs out the car windows? Cats? Then it happens again. It is definitely a hairball. Now I am intrigued. How do you have a pile of extra hairballs that you suddenly feel the need to get rid of while driving? I’m not sure how that works but okay. Then the SUV slows down for a light and I get a look at the driver. It is a woman with very long hair and she is combing it angrily while driving and throwing the hair out of the window. I have been driving for thirty-four years and have never seen anyone combing their hair with the anger while driving or throwing hairballs out a window. Clearly I have led a sheltered drivinghood.
The signs just keep coming. I get to the meeting and there is no parking. There is supposed to be a lot available to park but it is full. The sign that was blocking the drive way to the Plan A lot stated that the next lot over and down about a half mile is the alternate lot. Okie dokie , I go into Plan B mode. Only difference is in the Plan B lot the parking is limited to two hours. I already know I will be longer than that. Parking longer than the allotted time requires a parking permit, which is available from the attendant in the Plan A lot. How exactly do you get the permit since the lot is full? I can’t pull in the lot without charging the sign, and knocking it over which is generally not considered a good way to impress a potential boss. I park in the plan B lot and walk the half a mile to the attendant and ask for a permit. He is not happy about the whole thing because he has to unlock his glass door and actually speak to me. He opens the door just wide enough to hear my request. Saying nothing in reply to my request, he grudgingly gives me the permit and I walk the half-mile back to my car and place the permit on the front of my dash as instructed by the attendant who didn’t wish to speak to me. Then I hike the half mile back to the building and attempt to go in the door where the attendant who didn’t wish to speak to me has again resumed hiding behind his glass door. This time he won’t let me in the door. Since I am not parked in the plan A lot I can’t walk in that door and have to go around to the front of the building. I’m not parked in the A lot because it was full. It’s not my fault. He is making no exceptions. Plan B parkers have to walk around. Ouch.
I finally get into the building and there are no signs telling me where to go. When I need a sign there are none to be found. I find the meeting and surprise, surprise, the speaker has cancelled. The meeting was over before it started. There were no contacts to be made. No jobs. I am trying not to think of it as a sign from the cosmos just a Plan B day with a hairball .
Saturday, May 30, 2009
My Favorite Christmas
I love Christmas. The real Christmas, not the gotta buy stuff for Christmas. Mostly I just like the way it can make people feel. You know the whole ‘Yes Virginia there is a Santa Claus” feeling. I love the memories it creates. It just changes humanity. We all have our favorite Christmas memories.
My parents would not let us have a dog. They were both city kids and didn’t want a dog. We had a fifty-two gallon fish tank once but my folks moved it to their office when my sister was a baby. They were afraid that she would pull it down on herself. They took it to their office where some kid turned up the heater and the fish were all boiled to death over a weekend. The smell that was wafting thru the office was best described as requires professional help to eliminate. My parents were feeling the bad karma from making us get rid of the fish and now the fish are dead and the fact that we couldn’t have a dog so they compromised and let us get a cat.
I found the kitten. I brought her home one day and she became ours. She was a black cat with a white belly. Her name was BeeBee. Christmas came around and the tree went up. We always had a flocked tree. Mom liked white trees. It was in the bay window in our living room. The nativity scene went on the console television. Dad had made the stable to fit exactly over the television. The bottom of the manger was filled with sand. The figurines were all made by my Grandmother who made ceramics and had her own kiln. They were larger than normal and hand painted. I have them in my home. The stage for a Rockwell Christmas picture was set.
My Father had made the traditional trek into the attic to bring down the lights and balls. This was accompanied by the traditional mumbling under the breath. Followed shortly by the traditional screaming at my brother to string out the lights slowly and not to kink the cord. If one light bulb was out the entire strand was out. There was no in between and more likely than not they were out. This of course started the traditional cursing of the lights. It is a custom that was held in many homes across the country. In order to figure out which bulb was out the screamer would start with the first bulb and replace it. If the strand lit up the problem was solved. If not, the screamer would continue until eventually finding the bulb. Once all of the strands were lit the traditional screaming of the lights ended. The tree decoration process continues with the ball placement. This is another critical part of the process. It is imperative to place the big balls on the edges of the branch. Everyone knows that if you place the incorrectly the tree will look bad, people will talk and you will be asked to leave the neighborhood. The joy of the preparation is finished off by the placing of the tinsel, which as everyone knows has to be placed on one strand at a time. There is to be no clumping or else. I’m not sure where the tradition started to place shredded foil on the Christmas tree came from but it arrived at my house. It matched the sponged gold wallpaper. It was the 70’s after all.
The next day was Christmas Eve and we were all excited. We went to bed early and were anxiously waiting for Christmas Eve. My parents always had a party on Christmas Eve and the house was full of excitement. We came down that morning and the smell was unmistakable. It smelled of poop. My sister was a baby then and still in diapers so naturally we checked her but it wasn’t her. We knew it had to be the cat. The cat was sitting on the couch and there was no poop that we could see. We emptied the litter box. The litter box was in the basement. No one really believed that the poop smell had wafted upstairs thru closed doors. We scoured the house. Nothing. Mom looked at the cat who was still sitting on the end of the couch. She was walking over to the cat and passed the manger. She looked down at the nativity scene and saw it. The poop was in the manger. The blood curdling scream that followed was one for the record books. It brought my Father running, mom pointing at the cat and as Dad turned around and bent down to grab the cat, the cat jumped over his head and headed to the chair across from the couch. Dad dove after her and she jumped into the tree. Dad is now trying to catch her before she hits the tree. He is airborne vertical, the cat lands in the tree, the tree falls over on Dad, Mom is shrieking and the cat scurries off. My brother and I are laughing. It was I love Lucy in my living room. Dad got out from under the tree. He put the tree upright to survey the damage. There were a few balls that were broken. The lights made it thru and magically all of the tinsel was in place except for a few pieces that the cat took with her. After the tree fiasco Dad put screws in the wall behind the tree and wired the tree to the screws. That tree, and the trees for many years to come were going nowhere. I couldn’t tell you what I got for Christmas that year but laughter and memories were the best part of it.
My parents would not let us have a dog. They were both city kids and didn’t want a dog. We had a fifty-two gallon fish tank once but my folks moved it to their office when my sister was a baby. They were afraid that she would pull it down on herself. They took it to their office where some kid turned up the heater and the fish were all boiled to death over a weekend. The smell that was wafting thru the office was best described as requires professional help to eliminate. My parents were feeling the bad karma from making us get rid of the fish and now the fish are dead and the fact that we couldn’t have a dog so they compromised and let us get a cat.
I found the kitten. I brought her home one day and she became ours. She was a black cat with a white belly. Her name was BeeBee. Christmas came around and the tree went up. We always had a flocked tree. Mom liked white trees. It was in the bay window in our living room. The nativity scene went on the console television. Dad had made the stable to fit exactly over the television. The bottom of the manger was filled with sand. The figurines were all made by my Grandmother who made ceramics and had her own kiln. They were larger than normal and hand painted. I have them in my home. The stage for a Rockwell Christmas picture was set.
My Father had made the traditional trek into the attic to bring down the lights and balls. This was accompanied by the traditional mumbling under the breath. Followed shortly by the traditional screaming at my brother to string out the lights slowly and not to kink the cord. If one light bulb was out the entire strand was out. There was no in between and more likely than not they were out. This of course started the traditional cursing of the lights. It is a custom that was held in many homes across the country. In order to figure out which bulb was out the screamer would start with the first bulb and replace it. If the strand lit up the problem was solved. If not, the screamer would continue until eventually finding the bulb. Once all of the strands were lit the traditional screaming of the lights ended. The tree decoration process continues with the ball placement. This is another critical part of the process. It is imperative to place the big balls on the edges of the branch. Everyone knows that if you place the incorrectly the tree will look bad, people will talk and you will be asked to leave the neighborhood. The joy of the preparation is finished off by the placing of the tinsel, which as everyone knows has to be placed on one strand at a time. There is to be no clumping or else. I’m not sure where the tradition started to place shredded foil on the Christmas tree came from but it arrived at my house. It matched the sponged gold wallpaper. It was the 70’s after all.
The next day was Christmas Eve and we were all excited. We went to bed early and were anxiously waiting for Christmas Eve. My parents always had a party on Christmas Eve and the house was full of excitement. We came down that morning and the smell was unmistakable. It smelled of poop. My sister was a baby then and still in diapers so naturally we checked her but it wasn’t her. We knew it had to be the cat. The cat was sitting on the couch and there was no poop that we could see. We emptied the litter box. The litter box was in the basement. No one really believed that the poop smell had wafted upstairs thru closed doors. We scoured the house. Nothing. Mom looked at the cat who was still sitting on the end of the couch. She was walking over to the cat and passed the manger. She looked down at the nativity scene and saw it. The poop was in the manger. The blood curdling scream that followed was one for the record books. It brought my Father running, mom pointing at the cat and as Dad turned around and bent down to grab the cat, the cat jumped over his head and headed to the chair across from the couch. Dad dove after her and she jumped into the tree. Dad is now trying to catch her before she hits the tree. He is airborne vertical, the cat lands in the tree, the tree falls over on Dad, Mom is shrieking and the cat scurries off. My brother and I are laughing. It was I love Lucy in my living room. Dad got out from under the tree. He put the tree upright to survey the damage. There were a few balls that were broken. The lights made it thru and magically all of the tinsel was in place except for a few pieces that the cat took with her. After the tree fiasco Dad put screws in the wall behind the tree and wired the tree to the screws. That tree, and the trees for many years to come were going nowhere. I couldn’t tell you what I got for Christmas that year but laughter and memories were the best part of it.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Easter Bunny
Millions of parents start out with the best of intentions. Every Easter they decide to buy bunnies for their children. Being one of the lunatic parents who have actually purchased a pet for small children on a major holiday, they have my complete sympathy. My journey into pet ownership by children, was larger than a bunny at Easter. I actually bought a dog for my sons at Christmas. I knew I was in trouble when we had to get someone to dog sit to go to Christmas Mass. Oh, well.
I knew what I was getting into. I was not new to dog ownership. I had a dog for twelve years. And I did it anyway. I would do it again if given the choice of do-overs. I did however decide to use my knowledge of pet ownership by small children to enlighten a few of my dear friends. I warned them that they were about to enter the twilight zone. Remember the days of going to the beach when the sun is barely up, and coming home as darkness descends, exhausted children with matted hair, suits filled with beach sand, and a smile sleeping in the back seat. Well, my friend, those days are over. You can’t leave the bunny alone for twelve hours.
These are ordinarily smart people. Respectable people. I’m not sure what happens to people when their children want a pet. I know what happened to me. I became obsessed. Maybe they go back to their childhood. Maybe the full moon gets to them. I tried to be a good friend. I tried, in my most factual demeanor, to warn them. I even told them about my Easter bunny.
I was five years old. My brother and I begged for a bunny.
"Pleease Mom. Pleease, can’t we have a bunny. We’ll take care of it."
My uncle got my brother and I a bunny for Easter. My single Uncle with no children. Mom dragged us kicking and screaming to the library insisting that we learn about bunnies and the proper way to care for them. My Dad built the cage. This was not just any cage. This was a cage fit for a king. It had ventilation, a built in feeding tray, and soft sides so the bunny would not hurt himself. It was the Mercedes Benz of bunny cages. We were sat down and told that young bunnies sometimes inexplicably die so if the bunny died we would be prepared. We were given our list of instructions regarding handling, and stress to the bunny. Heady stuff for a five year old. We officially became pet owners.
The bunny didn’t die. In fact, he flourished. He grew bigger by the second. In two months Dad had to build a new cage. And six months later he had to build another one. By the time the bunny was a year old Dad had built him four cages each one bigger and more luxurious than the last. By the time he got to the year old cage, he decided to really get creative. He connected all of the old cages to the new one making a bunny complex in our backyard. Mom just walked around the monstrosity, as she liked to call it, shaking her head. I found the bunny books in her room opened to the chapter on “ Why Bunnies Die Early”.
Our bunny did not die early. In fact it got so big so fast that my parents took it to the vet. They wanted to know what was wrong with our bunny. It obviously had a genetic defect. It’s growth gene was clearly out of whack. Surprise! We didn’t actually have a bunny. We had some sort of exotic hare. These things apparently can grow to be about twenty pounds and live for a very long time. The color drained completely out of my Mom’s face. My Dad was smiling. He was going to be building cages for a very long time. The cage complex took over our backyard. My Italian Grandmother would show up periodically to put a death spell on the hare. A bunch of my aunts would come over dressed in black to assist in this family ritual. It didn’t work. Our hare lived to be twelve years old. It was over twenty pounds when it finally passed.
My friend bought her daughter a bunny for Easter. I warned her. She did not take heed. It was her compromise pet. This poor child will never own a dog, or a cat, or any other pet that has run of her mother’s house. Mommy is not a pet person. The rabbit was a big success. A huge success in fact. The cousins all loved the bunny. They petted her. They played music near her cage. They danced for her. They took this bunny into the bosom of their family. Twenty four hours later the bunny was dead. The little girl is freaked out. The older brothers are upset. Mom is holding the dead bunny trying to figure out what one does with a dead bunny while trying to comfort her children. Dad was at work when the bunny passed. He comforted the upset family via the telephone while trying to come up with a plan. The bunny will be replaced. This is a plan? Getting the kid a dog is a plan. You can put the dog out when you want to go to the beach. Dogs respond to petting by small children. The more petting the better. You don’t have to build cages. You get a dog house and done.
These two normally sane adults decided to replace the bunny. They got a bigger bunny. No one went near the new bunny. They monitored the bunny’s every movement. They watched new bunny. They fed him and loved him from afar. It didn’t help. New bunny died from loneliness.
Bunny number three has just arrived on the scene. She is a beautiful white fluffy bunny. She sits on the bed quietly. She can be squeezed, dragged, thrown, danced with, and she requires no cage or trips to the vet. She is stuffed. And perfect.
I knew what I was getting into. I was not new to dog ownership. I had a dog for twelve years. And I did it anyway. I would do it again if given the choice of do-overs. I did however decide to use my knowledge of pet ownership by small children to enlighten a few of my dear friends. I warned them that they were about to enter the twilight zone. Remember the days of going to the beach when the sun is barely up, and coming home as darkness descends, exhausted children with matted hair, suits filled with beach sand, and a smile sleeping in the back seat. Well, my friend, those days are over. You can’t leave the bunny alone for twelve hours.
These are ordinarily smart people. Respectable people. I’m not sure what happens to people when their children want a pet. I know what happened to me. I became obsessed. Maybe they go back to their childhood. Maybe the full moon gets to them. I tried to be a good friend. I tried, in my most factual demeanor, to warn them. I even told them about my Easter bunny.
I was five years old. My brother and I begged for a bunny.
"Pleease Mom. Pleease, can’t we have a bunny. We’ll take care of it."
My uncle got my brother and I a bunny for Easter. My single Uncle with no children. Mom dragged us kicking and screaming to the library insisting that we learn about bunnies and the proper way to care for them. My Dad built the cage. This was not just any cage. This was a cage fit for a king. It had ventilation, a built in feeding tray, and soft sides so the bunny would not hurt himself. It was the Mercedes Benz of bunny cages. We were sat down and told that young bunnies sometimes inexplicably die so if the bunny died we would be prepared. We were given our list of instructions regarding handling, and stress to the bunny. Heady stuff for a five year old. We officially became pet owners.
The bunny didn’t die. In fact, he flourished. He grew bigger by the second. In two months Dad had to build a new cage. And six months later he had to build another one. By the time the bunny was a year old Dad had built him four cages each one bigger and more luxurious than the last. By the time he got to the year old cage, he decided to really get creative. He connected all of the old cages to the new one making a bunny complex in our backyard. Mom just walked around the monstrosity, as she liked to call it, shaking her head. I found the bunny books in her room opened to the chapter on “ Why Bunnies Die Early”.
Our bunny did not die early. In fact it got so big so fast that my parents took it to the vet. They wanted to know what was wrong with our bunny. It obviously had a genetic defect. It’s growth gene was clearly out of whack. Surprise! We didn’t actually have a bunny. We had some sort of exotic hare. These things apparently can grow to be about twenty pounds and live for a very long time. The color drained completely out of my Mom’s face. My Dad was smiling. He was going to be building cages for a very long time. The cage complex took over our backyard. My Italian Grandmother would show up periodically to put a death spell on the hare. A bunch of my aunts would come over dressed in black to assist in this family ritual. It didn’t work. Our hare lived to be twelve years old. It was over twenty pounds when it finally passed.
My friend bought her daughter a bunny for Easter. I warned her. She did not take heed. It was her compromise pet. This poor child will never own a dog, or a cat, or any other pet that has run of her mother’s house. Mommy is not a pet person. The rabbit was a big success. A huge success in fact. The cousins all loved the bunny. They petted her. They played music near her cage. They danced for her. They took this bunny into the bosom of their family. Twenty four hours later the bunny was dead. The little girl is freaked out. The older brothers are upset. Mom is holding the dead bunny trying to figure out what one does with a dead bunny while trying to comfort her children. Dad was at work when the bunny passed. He comforted the upset family via the telephone while trying to come up with a plan. The bunny will be replaced. This is a plan? Getting the kid a dog is a plan. You can put the dog out when you want to go to the beach. Dogs respond to petting by small children. The more petting the better. You don’t have to build cages. You get a dog house and done.
These two normally sane adults decided to replace the bunny. They got a bigger bunny. No one went near the new bunny. They monitored the bunny’s every movement. They watched new bunny. They fed him and loved him from afar. It didn’t help. New bunny died from loneliness.
Bunny number three has just arrived on the scene. She is a beautiful white fluffy bunny. She sits on the bed quietly. She can be squeezed, dragged, thrown, danced with, and she requires no cage or trips to the vet. She is stuffed. And perfect.
More Is Not Always Better
Every day across the bottom of my television screen a message scrolls about the change to digital television. It scrolls across telling me constantly that if I don’t have the digital box I won’t be able to watch television. At the very same time a nice gentleman that hubby works with also works at the very large cable company who wants me to get the digital service from them. The nice gentlemen offered to analyze our bill to make sure we were getting the best bundle of services. This conversation has been going on with hubby for several years. As a result hubby and I have been having the same conversation for several years. Nice gentlemen finally won. To be honest, nice gentleman was correct. I knew he was correct. We had been paying five dollars a month for a box that we don’t even use just so we wouldn’t have to go into the attic and get the darn thing out. The conversation changed from let me analyze your bill to you should have digital television.
One day the phone rings and it is nice gentlemen. He asks for hubby. He is still asleep so nice gentlemen proceeds to tell me that the large cable company will be here on Friday to update our service to the new digital box service. Oh goody. We go thru the whole parcel of services that we are going to get which as it turns out is not a really a huge parcel at all and nothing that I couldn’t live without as I have been doing that for five years already. Okay, so I don’t get the most enthusiastic consumer award. I am skeptical. I am not a big fan of more stuff and this has more stuff written all over it. More stuff is not always better. Sometimes it is just more stuff.
The big day arrives and the big cable company guy arrives. He is wearing a big cable company shirt and explains to us that he doesn’t really work for the big cable company. He is a contractor that the big cable company hired. He then explains that he is going to hook up the new digital box. Okay that means that I have to clean out the television stand that holds my vcr, cable box, dvd and assorted tapes and dvds. Oh good, more stuff and cleaning. I am waiting for Allen Funt to jump out and scream “Surprise! You’re on candid camera!” Hubby jumps in and empties out the stand. He’s trying to get out of going in the attic to search for the box that we haven’t seen in five years. Nice try. Big cable company guy is quite fast and finishes hooking things up in a few minutes. Hubby can’t find the box and promises to turn it in later. We are good to go. He hands us our welcome packet, which is a channel guide and the instructional booklet and a clicker. I knew the moment I looked at the clicker that I was in big trouble. First of all it is huge. It is eight and half inches long. Yes I measured it with a measuring tape because I couldn’t believe it was that big. This clicker has fifty-three buttons. Why exactly does a clicker need to be eight and a half inches long and have fifty -three buttons? It only needs to do three things. I should turn the equipment on and off, it should have a volume control and last but certainly not least it should change the channel. It turns on the television, it turns on the box, it turns the power on to each of those, and it has a special section for the on demand channel. The on demand section is ten buttons. Can you say overkill? Then there is a middle section with up and down and select buttons. I haven’t quite figured out exactly what this section does but it must be important because the five buttons in this section are the biggest. The bottom section has numbers so you can select the channel you want. There is a picture in picture section. I’m not sure why picture in picture needs five buttons. There is a mute button, an exit button, a last button, five buttons that have signals that must do something but I have no idea what they do that is not covered by the other forty-nine buttons. There are six on off buttons. I am hoping that someone at the really large cable company can explain to me why six buttons are needed to turn this system on and off. I could turn my old clicker on in the dark. More stuff clicker will not be turned on in the dark. In fact, I need to turn the lights all the way up and grab my glasses just to read the fifty-three buttons.
This new system is supposed to be better than the old one. It is that more stuff mentality. It’s wrong on so many levels that I have decided that I don’t want to play the more stuff is better game. I want to simplify my choices. I am standing my ground. I’ve learned the six buttons I need to turn it on, the volume button and the channel button. I am ignoring the rest. I am simplifying, downsizing, and seeking the truth. That’s my excuse, I mean story, and I’m sticking to it.
One day the phone rings and it is nice gentlemen. He asks for hubby. He is still asleep so nice gentlemen proceeds to tell me that the large cable company will be here on Friday to update our service to the new digital box service. Oh goody. We go thru the whole parcel of services that we are going to get which as it turns out is not a really a huge parcel at all and nothing that I couldn’t live without as I have been doing that for five years already. Okay, so I don’t get the most enthusiastic consumer award. I am skeptical. I am not a big fan of more stuff and this has more stuff written all over it. More stuff is not always better. Sometimes it is just more stuff.
The big day arrives and the big cable company guy arrives. He is wearing a big cable company shirt and explains to us that he doesn’t really work for the big cable company. He is a contractor that the big cable company hired. He then explains that he is going to hook up the new digital box. Okay that means that I have to clean out the television stand that holds my vcr, cable box, dvd and assorted tapes and dvds. Oh good, more stuff and cleaning. I am waiting for Allen Funt to jump out and scream “Surprise! You’re on candid camera!” Hubby jumps in and empties out the stand. He’s trying to get out of going in the attic to search for the box that we haven’t seen in five years. Nice try. Big cable company guy is quite fast and finishes hooking things up in a few minutes. Hubby can’t find the box and promises to turn it in later. We are good to go. He hands us our welcome packet, which is a channel guide and the instructional booklet and a clicker. I knew the moment I looked at the clicker that I was in big trouble. First of all it is huge. It is eight and half inches long. Yes I measured it with a measuring tape because I couldn’t believe it was that big. This clicker has fifty-three buttons. Why exactly does a clicker need to be eight and a half inches long and have fifty -three buttons? It only needs to do three things. I should turn the equipment on and off, it should have a volume control and last but certainly not least it should change the channel. It turns on the television, it turns on the box, it turns the power on to each of those, and it has a special section for the on demand channel. The on demand section is ten buttons. Can you say overkill? Then there is a middle section with up and down and select buttons. I haven’t quite figured out exactly what this section does but it must be important because the five buttons in this section are the biggest. The bottom section has numbers so you can select the channel you want. There is a picture in picture section. I’m not sure why picture in picture needs five buttons. There is a mute button, an exit button, a last button, five buttons that have signals that must do something but I have no idea what they do that is not covered by the other forty-nine buttons. There are six on off buttons. I am hoping that someone at the really large cable company can explain to me why six buttons are needed to turn this system on and off. I could turn my old clicker on in the dark. More stuff clicker will not be turned on in the dark. In fact, I need to turn the lights all the way up and grab my glasses just to read the fifty-three buttons.
This new system is supposed to be better than the old one. It is that more stuff mentality. It’s wrong on so many levels that I have decided that I don’t want to play the more stuff is better game. I want to simplify my choices. I am standing my ground. I’ve learned the six buttons I need to turn it on, the volume button and the channel button. I am ignoring the rest. I am simplifying, downsizing, and seeking the truth. That’s my excuse, I mean story, and I’m sticking to it.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Moving Mom
When my Mother passed away she was cremated. My father did not bury her ashes. He wanted them in beautiful urn and he wanted to keep them in his room. It sounds sweet. He moved in with us and his new room was mine and hubby’s former room. He moved Mom into his new room. He also hung her picture above her ashes. Every night he would cover the urn with one of his sweaters. It was sweet in a we spent 50 years together and we are still together kind of way. He needed a room of his own and I needed my room back so while his room was being built he went to stay with my sister. The problem is that he didn’t take Mom with him to visit Sis. He decided that Mom would not travel well. This assumption was built on Mom’s previous travel history. She had been on a plane only a few times and was not fond of it. The thought of putting Mom in the cargo hold did not bode well with him. He was afraid that she would get lost. I can just picture my sister going to the airport to get him and the two of them at the luggage carousel only to be told that Mom didn’t make it off the plane and is now headed to Chicago. He also did not want to ship her via a private service. “Things happen on those flights to you know. Did you ever see the movie Cast Away?” Well there is just no arguing that point with him. I can’t count the number of times that a private carrier has gone down in the ocean and lost all of the packages on board except for a basketball and one other package. The number is too overwhelming. Needless to say, Mom stayed put while Dad went on his travels.
We moved back into our room. While I missed Dad, I was so happy to be back in my room and to sleep in my own bed that I was just beside myself. Then I looked up and saw Mom’s picture staring back at me. And it’s not one of those little 3 by 5 pictures. No this is the industrial strength portrait size 20 by 20. It’s a picture of Mom when she was twenty years old before they were married. Right next to her industrial strength portrait is a montage of pictures of Mom and all of Dad’s other relatives who are also dead. It’s sort of a gallery of dead people. Now I understand the need to have photos of your loved ones in your home. I have them all over my house. Some of the people are alive and some are not. However when they are directly above the urn with remains in it they take on a whole new meaning.
My son and I were putting my room back together. I had made the bed and dusted everything. The last thing that remained was the gallery of dead people and Mom. I didn’t want to take the pictures down. That seems awfully disrespectful because I wouldn’t be hanging them up anywhere else until Dad’s room was ready. They would be stacked in a corner somewhere. I wasn’t comfortable with stacking the gallery of dead folks in a corner so I did the only thing I could do. I put a towel over them. I don’t want to be looking at my Mom’s face after hubby and I are done doing what we love to do in the privacy of our room. That just says pew on so many levels. Once I had covered the pictures the only thing left do was figure out what to do with Mom. I thought of putting her in the closet but in the universe where karma exists putting your dead mother’s ashes in a closet just seems like you would be asking the universe to clobber you in the head. I am thinking maybe I will just put the urn on the floor between the dressers. It would be sort of an out of sight out of mind thing. Again, the whole concept of putting your Mom on the floor just screams universe please mess with me so I decided against that. Ditto for throwing a towel over the urn. I was quite frankly running out of options. I could put the ashes on the shelf in my living room but that would sort of make my dead Mother the focal point of my living room. I have never seen that on an HGTV show and I am not quite progressive enough to walk past my dead Mother everyday on my way in or out of my living room.
After much thought including the ramifications of the universe I decided to leave Mom just where she was and to not look. Yes, that's right, denial. Generations of people have built lives on denial and I was joining the club. I would just pretend that this beautiful urn did not contain the remains of my Mother. It was just a beautiful vase. It worked for a while. Right until I dusted my room. Dad would wrap it in his sweater so the urn never got dusty. Well I was not wrapping the urn with a sweater. To do so would go against my whole mantra of denial leaving me no choice but to dust it. My son suggested that perhaps if I didn’t call it Mom, dusting it might be a tad easier. I can go with that. I must admit calling the urn Mom puts you in a certain frame of mind. I normally dust with a small vacuum using the attachment. It gets all of the dust and leaves no streaks. I am poised with the vacuum in hand and I am picturing Mom being sucked into the vacuum and me having to explain to my Dad how I just vacuumed up Mom, the vacuum being haunted because Mom would come back just to have some fun with me because I accidentally vacuumed her up. I know in my rational brain that this can’t happen. Mom’s ashes are in a bag in the urn or so the funeral director told me. No, I have not looked. Mom in a bag just doesn’t work for me. It also can’t happen because I would have to take the lid off of the urn and stick the attachment in the urn to vacuum it. I know these things to be true but I am taking no chances. I put the vacuum away. A little dust won’t hurt. When Dad’s room is complete the first thing we put in the room is Mom. She is on an end table with the pictures of dead people surrounding her. My son reminds me that I had better learn how to dust Mom. I am taking the cowardly way out. I wrap her in Dad’s sweater. At least now she will be dust free and warm.
We moved back into our room. While I missed Dad, I was so happy to be back in my room and to sleep in my own bed that I was just beside myself. Then I looked up and saw Mom’s picture staring back at me. And it’s not one of those little 3 by 5 pictures. No this is the industrial strength portrait size 20 by 20. It’s a picture of Mom when she was twenty years old before they were married. Right next to her industrial strength portrait is a montage of pictures of Mom and all of Dad’s other relatives who are also dead. It’s sort of a gallery of dead people. Now I understand the need to have photos of your loved ones in your home. I have them all over my house. Some of the people are alive and some are not. However when they are directly above the urn with remains in it they take on a whole new meaning.
My son and I were putting my room back together. I had made the bed and dusted everything. The last thing that remained was the gallery of dead people and Mom. I didn’t want to take the pictures down. That seems awfully disrespectful because I wouldn’t be hanging them up anywhere else until Dad’s room was ready. They would be stacked in a corner somewhere. I wasn’t comfortable with stacking the gallery of dead folks in a corner so I did the only thing I could do. I put a towel over them. I don’t want to be looking at my Mom’s face after hubby and I are done doing what we love to do in the privacy of our room. That just says pew on so many levels. Once I had covered the pictures the only thing left do was figure out what to do with Mom. I thought of putting her in the closet but in the universe where karma exists putting your dead mother’s ashes in a closet just seems like you would be asking the universe to clobber you in the head. I am thinking maybe I will just put the urn on the floor between the dressers. It would be sort of an out of sight out of mind thing. Again, the whole concept of putting your Mom on the floor just screams universe please mess with me so I decided against that. Ditto for throwing a towel over the urn. I was quite frankly running out of options. I could put the ashes on the shelf in my living room but that would sort of make my dead Mother the focal point of my living room. I have never seen that on an HGTV show and I am not quite progressive enough to walk past my dead Mother everyday on my way in or out of my living room.
After much thought including the ramifications of the universe I decided to leave Mom just where she was and to not look. Yes, that's right, denial. Generations of people have built lives on denial and I was joining the club. I would just pretend that this beautiful urn did not contain the remains of my Mother. It was just a beautiful vase. It worked for a while. Right until I dusted my room. Dad would wrap it in his sweater so the urn never got dusty. Well I was not wrapping the urn with a sweater. To do so would go against my whole mantra of denial leaving me no choice but to dust it. My son suggested that perhaps if I didn’t call it Mom, dusting it might be a tad easier. I can go with that. I must admit calling the urn Mom puts you in a certain frame of mind. I normally dust with a small vacuum using the attachment. It gets all of the dust and leaves no streaks. I am poised with the vacuum in hand and I am picturing Mom being sucked into the vacuum and me having to explain to my Dad how I just vacuumed up Mom, the vacuum being haunted because Mom would come back just to have some fun with me because I accidentally vacuumed her up. I know in my rational brain that this can’t happen. Mom’s ashes are in a bag in the urn or so the funeral director told me. No, I have not looked. Mom in a bag just doesn’t work for me. It also can’t happen because I would have to take the lid off of the urn and stick the attachment in the urn to vacuum it. I know these things to be true but I am taking no chances. I put the vacuum away. A little dust won’t hurt. When Dad’s room is complete the first thing we put in the room is Mom. She is on an end table with the pictures of dead people surrounding her. My son reminds me that I had better learn how to dust Mom. I am taking the cowardly way out. I wrap her in Dad’s sweater. At least now she will be dust free and warm.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Perimenopause, Belzebub and the Smiley Face
I remember hearing a song about smiling faces. The song was a warning of sorts about being aware of smiling faces. I can vouch for being aware of smiling faces. I have a smiley face trauma. My Mom gave me a pamphlet. It had a smiley face on the cover. I should have known better but I was only ten. It told of how having a period made you a woman and that a period was your “friend.” There was a lot of information that was missing from that booklet. There was no mention of “the sprint” which is best defined as the urgent feeling that blood is running uncontrollably down your leg, requiring you to get to the bathroom in a matter of seconds. Not in the pamphlet. Day two was the heaviest day. This was not in the pamphlet either. Day two is the day that I schedule as little as humanly possible. After almost forty years I have learned to accept it. These little events have all become an integral part of my monthly routine. I have embraced the whole womanhood, time of your life theory. If you can’t beat em joint em kind of living. Embrace your reality. I am looking for the positive. My ability to plan my schedule around day two is a skill that I should be able to list on my resume under time management extraordinaire.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Not Skiing, Not hiking Vacation
Vacations are supposed to be fun. They are supposed to be relaxing. I know this because I have seen all of the commercials. Everyone is happy, smiling, and laughing. They are doing things. Sometimes they are in the great outdoors. There can be gentle breezes, or falling snow and a beautiful mountain as a background. Sometimes they are inside observing the great outdoors. Sometimes they are on a cruise ship. It doesn’t matter. They are happy and smiling.
I won a vacation. This should have been my first sign but I missed it. I have never won anything. Ever. In over fifty years, I have never won anything. I was so excited at the prospect of getting away that I couldn’t see past my nose. I won two nights at a ski resort, including lift tickets. I haven’t skied in twenty-five years. This was a sign. I missed it. I got a confirmation email from the reservations dept to let me know that the ski slopes would be closed when we got there but that everything else was open and they hoped we would still be coming and would enjoy the reset of the mountain experience. This was a sign and I missed it.
I know that I haven’t skied but the brochure and web site highlight the 6.5 miles of hiking trails that are as scenic as any ski run. I’m in. I run so hiking is high on my list. I am so in that I go out and get a new pair of hiking shoes. I am also preparing for my hiking experience. I am wearing my new hiking shoes and breaking them in. I wear them to work. I go hiking in the woods near my house. I’m into it.
The day finally arrived. I got up, worked out in preparation for hiking, ate breakfast, showered and was ready to rock and roll. I knew that things were not as they appeared to be when we pulled up. The beautiful ski mountain was covered in brown snow. I know that snow is not supposed to be brown. I also know this from those same the commercials. People were happy and smiling while skiing, or walking into the lodge and smiling. There was no brown snow anywhere. Brown snow aside, the hotel was perfect. It looked like a lodge straight out of the commercial. I’m looking around looking for the hiking trails and a way to access them. It is starting to feel like a vacation. This was a sign. I missed it.
The young lady behind the desk was young and perky. It turns out that the hiking trails were not open either. The web site was incorrect or a just a lie, depending on how you look at intentionally placed false information. I am trying to stay positive. The concept that we had just driven two and a half hours for two days of hiking, that was now not going to happen was lost on the perky one. I dropped the luggage that I was holding and went out the door. I looked up for the black cloud. It wasn’t open that day either but at least it wasn’t advertised as being open.
The most challenging part of the entire vacation non-experience was now having to find something to do. The nearest tourist type activity was thirty-five minutes away, so we did what all good tourists do, we went to dinner. We found a nice restaurant fifteen minutes up the road and went to discuss the options while stuffing our faces. We decided that since we couldn’t get physical we would get cultural. There was a museum in the thirty- five -minute trip away so the next morning we would be tourists. We would soak up the cultural/tourist experience. Maybe this was the sign from God that we were moving too fast. We needed to slow down. So slowing it down became the goal. It wasn’t quite hiking but hey when in Rome. The next morning we slept late, ate a huge breakfast and headed to the museum. The museum was really nice. It had a surprisingly large number of exhibits ranging from Egyptians to Samurai warriors and everything in between. The museum was nice but not all that large. We finished it before lunch so part two of the cultural/tourist vacation was shopping. More specifically, we went outlet shopping which, as every woman knows is a tad different than shopping in Macys or JC Penney or almost anywhere else. The prices are cheaper, the shoppers are more ruthless and in order to have a successful trip you have to be prepared to check every rack. Hubby was not quite up to the task. He waited along the outside of the lingerie outlet. We went in a few stores but decided that riding in the dark when you get lost during the day was probably not the best strategy so we left early and headed for the hotel with the large black cloud hanging over it.
There is a reason why people buy a GPS system. Contrary to the popular myth it is not to get directions. They have objects that give those. They are called maps. The real reason that people by a GPS system is to avoid giving directions between husbands and wives. Of course you don’t see this in the commercials. In those commercials the people are happy and smiling but they are not giving each other directions. They already have their directions, and they didn’t have to yell at anyone to get them.
I didn’t do too badly directionally. We missed a few turns. Hubby felt that he should reverse all of my directions because we were going back the way we came so if you reverse the forward directions we would be heading in the right direction. The only problem with his theory is that I had already reversed directions so he was reversing my reversal. We only went back and forth up the same road three times looking for the correct turns that I had clearly missed because I finally realized that I needed to reverse his reversal of my reversal. I have gotten over this lack of reverse map reading skill. Especially since we didn’t have a real map. We had directions from the ski resort. Yes, those same people who gave us the free weekend with the brown snow, closed trails and large black cloud looming over-head. There is no such thing as a free vacation.
I won a vacation. This should have been my first sign but I missed it. I have never won anything. Ever. In over fifty years, I have never won anything. I was so excited at the prospect of getting away that I couldn’t see past my nose. I won two nights at a ski resort, including lift tickets. I haven’t skied in twenty-five years. This was a sign. I missed it. I got a confirmation email from the reservations dept to let me know that the ski slopes would be closed when we got there but that everything else was open and they hoped we would still be coming and would enjoy the reset of the mountain experience. This was a sign and I missed it.
I know that I haven’t skied but the brochure and web site highlight the 6.5 miles of hiking trails that are as scenic as any ski run. I’m in. I run so hiking is high on my list. I am so in that I go out and get a new pair of hiking shoes. I am also preparing for my hiking experience. I am wearing my new hiking shoes and breaking them in. I wear them to work. I go hiking in the woods near my house. I’m into it.
The day finally arrived. I got up, worked out in preparation for hiking, ate breakfast, showered and was ready to rock and roll. I knew that things were not as they appeared to be when we pulled up. The beautiful ski mountain was covered in brown snow. I know that snow is not supposed to be brown. I also know this from those same the commercials. People were happy and smiling while skiing, or walking into the lodge and smiling. There was no brown snow anywhere. Brown snow aside, the hotel was perfect. It looked like a lodge straight out of the commercial. I’m looking around looking for the hiking trails and a way to access them. It is starting to feel like a vacation. This was a sign. I missed it.
The young lady behind the desk was young and perky. It turns out that the hiking trails were not open either. The web site was incorrect or a just a lie, depending on how you look at intentionally placed false information. I am trying to stay positive. The concept that we had just driven two and a half hours for two days of hiking, that was now not going to happen was lost on the perky one. I dropped the luggage that I was holding and went out the door. I looked up for the black cloud. It wasn’t open that day either but at least it wasn’t advertised as being open.
The most challenging part of the entire vacation non-experience was now having to find something to do. The nearest tourist type activity was thirty-five minutes away, so we did what all good tourists do, we went to dinner. We found a nice restaurant fifteen minutes up the road and went to discuss the options while stuffing our faces. We decided that since we couldn’t get physical we would get cultural. There was a museum in the thirty- five -minute trip away so the next morning we would be tourists. We would soak up the cultural/tourist experience. Maybe this was the sign from God that we were moving too fast. We needed to slow down. So slowing it down became the goal. It wasn’t quite hiking but hey when in Rome. The next morning we slept late, ate a huge breakfast and headed to the museum. The museum was really nice. It had a surprisingly large number of exhibits ranging from Egyptians to Samurai warriors and everything in between. The museum was nice but not all that large. We finished it before lunch so part two of the cultural/tourist vacation was shopping. More specifically, we went outlet shopping which, as every woman knows is a tad different than shopping in Macys or JC Penney or almost anywhere else. The prices are cheaper, the shoppers are more ruthless and in order to have a successful trip you have to be prepared to check every rack. Hubby was not quite up to the task. He waited along the outside of the lingerie outlet. We went in a few stores but decided that riding in the dark when you get lost during the day was probably not the best strategy so we left early and headed for the hotel with the large black cloud hanging over it.
There is a reason why people buy a GPS system. Contrary to the popular myth it is not to get directions. They have objects that give those. They are called maps. The real reason that people by a GPS system is to avoid giving directions between husbands and wives. Of course you don’t see this in the commercials. In those commercials the people are happy and smiling but they are not giving each other directions. They already have their directions, and they didn’t have to yell at anyone to get them.
I didn’t do too badly directionally. We missed a few turns. Hubby felt that he should reverse all of my directions because we were going back the way we came so if you reverse the forward directions we would be heading in the right direction. The only problem with his theory is that I had already reversed directions so he was reversing my reversal. We only went back and forth up the same road three times looking for the correct turns that I had clearly missed because I finally realized that I needed to reverse his reversal of my reversal. I have gotten over this lack of reverse map reading skill. Especially since we didn’t have a real map. We had directions from the ski resort. Yes, those same people who gave us the free weekend with the brown snow, closed trails and large black cloud looming over-head. There is no such thing as a free vacation.
The Unpet People
The woman who used to be my Mother was pacing the floor when we arrived home. She had spent four hours trying to figure out Emma the Wonder Dog and beat a six year old at cards. I had forgotten to give her instructions about Emma the wonder dog when I left. Emma gets bursts of energy. We affectionately refer to her bursts of energy as going physco. We play with her, feed her, or just let her run depending on what she needs.
Mom is not a pet person. She took a different approach. She opened the door and let Emma out. Emma ran out. Emma chewed. Everything she could find. Two hours, a forsythia bush, half a railing, and one piece of siding later the doorbell is ringing. Mom thinks it’s me, although why she thought I would ring my own doorbell is not yet clear. It was Emma the wonder dog. Mom got up four times to answer the door when Emma rang the bell, just to make sure it wasn’t me. She smiled at Emma. She didn’t let her back in the house, but she did smile. I feel for Emma. Mom is not a dog person.
We weren’t allowed to have a dog when we were kids. We got a cat. My Mother would leave a bowl of food out for our cat all day. It had to have food in it. All the time. And a bowl of milk. The cat could be starving and wouldn’t be able to tell us because cats don’t talk. The fact that the cat weighed twenty pounds could have been an indication of the fact that she was getting enough to eat, but the food bowl had to be full. The cat didn’t always weigh twenty pounds. It used to be a kitten. A kitten who needs to go to the bathroom. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box thing yet. The manger was on top of the television set. Dad had decided to use beach sand on the floor of the manger for the realism. The kitten found the sand. The kitten liked the sand. The kitten went do-do in the sand. Mom smelled the do-do and went looking for the source. She found it in the manger right next to the three wise men. Her blood curdling scream sends the kitten bolting, and Dad running. Naturally the kitten jumps down and runs right behind the television. Just as naturally Dad chases the kitten. The kitten jumps on the couch and using it as a catapult jumps right into the middle of the Christmas tree which falls over. Right on Dad. My brother and I are laughing hard and trying to rescue Dad from under the tree at the same time.
The kitten didn’t go anywhere after that. Except the couch. And the food bowl. And the milk bowl. And the litter box. The bowls, the couch and to the litter box. That’s it. Before we knew it five years have passed. The kitten grew into a cat. A fat cat. For some reason it decided to venture into the world. She ventured up into the attic behind my brother. He never saw her. No one knew she was missing until later that evening when she was not on the couch at the appointed time. We checked the litterbox. No sign of her. Her food bowl was full. The milk bowl untouched. We searched the house. Every room, every closet. Nothing.
Then we heard this weird noise coming from behind a wall in my parents room. She had fallen through a part of the attic that had no floorboard and was stuck behind a wall. Being the fit and trim animal that she was she decided to nap while awaiting rescue.
My Mother is yelling at my Dad “Fred get the cat out. She’ll starve in there.”
My Dad is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing. Operation obese cat rescue got underway. He lowered my brother down into the space to rescue fat cat who had gone back to sleep. My brother woke her up for her rescue. He thought she should be awake when rescued. Mom got her, carried her downstairs and put her in front of her bowl. “She must be starving.” The cat never ventured again. We never got our dog. Emma the wonder dog never stood a chance.
Mom is not a pet person. She took a different approach. She opened the door and let Emma out. Emma ran out. Emma chewed. Everything she could find. Two hours, a forsythia bush, half a railing, and one piece of siding later the doorbell is ringing. Mom thinks it’s me, although why she thought I would ring my own doorbell is not yet clear. It was Emma the wonder dog. Mom got up four times to answer the door when Emma rang the bell, just to make sure it wasn’t me. She smiled at Emma. She didn’t let her back in the house, but she did smile. I feel for Emma. Mom is not a dog person.
We weren’t allowed to have a dog when we were kids. We got a cat. My Mother would leave a bowl of food out for our cat all day. It had to have food in it. All the time. And a bowl of milk. The cat could be starving and wouldn’t be able to tell us because cats don’t talk. The fact that the cat weighed twenty pounds could have been an indication of the fact that she was getting enough to eat, but the food bowl had to be full. The cat didn’t always weigh twenty pounds. It used to be a kitten. A kitten who needs to go to the bathroom. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box thing yet. The manger was on top of the television set. Dad had decided to use beach sand on the floor of the manger for the realism. The kitten found the sand. The kitten liked the sand. The kitten went do-do in the sand. Mom smelled the do-do and went looking for the source. She found it in the manger right next to the three wise men. Her blood curdling scream sends the kitten bolting, and Dad running. Naturally the kitten jumps down and runs right behind the television. Just as naturally Dad chases the kitten. The kitten jumps on the couch and using it as a catapult jumps right into the middle of the Christmas tree which falls over. Right on Dad. My brother and I are laughing hard and trying to rescue Dad from under the tree at the same time.
The kitten didn’t go anywhere after that. Except the couch. And the food bowl. And the milk bowl. And the litter box. The bowls, the couch and to the litter box. That’s it. Before we knew it five years have passed. The kitten grew into a cat. A fat cat. For some reason it decided to venture into the world. She ventured up into the attic behind my brother. He never saw her. No one knew she was missing until later that evening when she was not on the couch at the appointed time. We checked the litterbox. No sign of her. Her food bowl was full. The milk bowl untouched. We searched the house. Every room, every closet. Nothing.
Then we heard this weird noise coming from behind a wall in my parents room. She had fallen through a part of the attic that had no floorboard and was stuck behind a wall. Being the fit and trim animal that she was she decided to nap while awaiting rescue.
My Mother is yelling at my Dad “Fred get the cat out. She’ll starve in there.”
My Dad is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing. Operation obese cat rescue got underway. He lowered my brother down into the space to rescue fat cat who had gone back to sleep. My brother woke her up for her rescue. He thought she should be awake when rescued. Mom got her, carried her downstairs and put her in front of her bowl. “She must be starving.” The cat never ventured again. We never got our dog. Emma the wonder dog never stood a chance.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Cuff of Evil
I have seen the infomercials. I must confess right here and now that I like them. There is one in particular that I love to watch. The two celebrity spokes-people convince me that by using their machine for twenty minutes a day or less, I can get in shape. Really in shape. I visualize. It’s fun to watch. I am inspired. Sometimes fate just takes over your life and the cosmos aligns perfectly. A few days after seeing this infomercial for the hundredth time, I got an opportunity to work out on an actual machine. I loved it. A lot. I decided to look into getting one. This is when kismet reared its beautiful head. Someone wanted to give me a machine. All I had to do was pick it up. Did I want it? I had to keep from jumping up and down and yelling “Ooh! Ooh! Now I can look like a celebrity spokesperson. Ooh! Ooh! Yeah!” I tried to maintain my dignity. As soon as I brought the machine home, I felt my transformation starting. The next morning, I am up at dawn. I am ready to rock, roll and sweat.
I can’t wait to try the leg exercises. This wonderful machine comes with a leg cuff made specifically for leg exercises. I am looking at the picture in the book of the cuff in use. I am holding the cuff in my other hand and. I am confused. I’m not sure that my foot will bend that way. The cuff is winning. After much ado, I get it around my foot. Now there are two metal hoops on the cuff of evil. I hook the pulley up to the hook and start to exercise. I close my eyes, focus on my movement, and visualize myself with well toned legs. At that very same moment, I discover an underlying principle of physics and gym equipment. That is, when your leg is attached to a leg cuff, make sure you hook the correct hook on the pulley because if you don’t you become the projectile in a human catapult. A less obvious lesson, but just as important, is that when you become a human catapult projectile you do not create a pretty picture of self -confidence. Think twisted blob on the floor.
Not being one to give up easily, I released myself from the cuff of evil and determined that I would come back another day to beat the machine. The next morning was a new beginning. Fortunately it was not a leg day. I wouldn’t be using the cuff. The routine went smoothly. I had learned from my mistakes. I went through the book the night before and picked out the exercises and studied the proper technique. I had cut the time of the routine down. I was moving along and feeling just a little bit self confident. Maybe even cocky. Right until another principle of physics hit me. Right in the corner of my face above my eye. A handle under pressure when released springs back and hits you in the face. Ouch. I never saw this on the infomercial. Not once. No one ever got hurt. They worked out. They looked fit and happy. In infomercial land, a big part of working out is looking happy. I try to look happy when I’m working out. I will sometimes catch a glimpse of myself and happy is not the word I would use to describe my facial expression. Now, not only do I not look happy but I am bruised. This is not the look I was hoping for.
The next day will be better. I can feel it. Day three of the workout equipment experience. It has good karma. There will be no injuries today. I put on the cuff of evil and start my routine. I am moving along at a good pace. I am nearly finished. I have come through unscathed. I have met the cuff and it is mine. I have won. It is official. I am now a person who works out. I have the credentials. I can say that in conversation.
One last piece of scientific knowledge and I may have this working out situation down pat. Workout shorts slide off of padded gym equipment. I never saw that in any workout article either. I don’t think of it as one large accident waiting to happen. Instead I try to think of it as a learning experience. No pain no gain!
I can’t wait to try the leg exercises. This wonderful machine comes with a leg cuff made specifically for leg exercises. I am looking at the picture in the book of the cuff in use. I am holding the cuff in my other hand and. I am confused. I’m not sure that my foot will bend that way. The cuff is winning. After much ado, I get it around my foot. Now there are two metal hoops on the cuff of evil. I hook the pulley up to the hook and start to exercise. I close my eyes, focus on my movement, and visualize myself with well toned legs. At that very same moment, I discover an underlying principle of physics and gym equipment. That is, when your leg is attached to a leg cuff, make sure you hook the correct hook on the pulley because if you don’t you become the projectile in a human catapult. A less obvious lesson, but just as important, is that when you become a human catapult projectile you do not create a pretty picture of self -confidence. Think twisted blob on the floor.
Not being one to give up easily, I released myself from the cuff of evil and determined that I would come back another day to beat the machine. The next morning was a new beginning. Fortunately it was not a leg day. I wouldn’t be using the cuff. The routine went smoothly. I had learned from my mistakes. I went through the book the night before and picked out the exercises and studied the proper technique. I had cut the time of the routine down. I was moving along and feeling just a little bit self confident. Maybe even cocky. Right until another principle of physics hit me. Right in the corner of my face above my eye. A handle under pressure when released springs back and hits you in the face. Ouch. I never saw this on the infomercial. Not once. No one ever got hurt. They worked out. They looked fit and happy. In infomercial land, a big part of working out is looking happy. I try to look happy when I’m working out. I will sometimes catch a glimpse of myself and happy is not the word I would use to describe my facial expression. Now, not only do I not look happy but I am bruised. This is not the look I was hoping for.
The next day will be better. I can feel it. Day three of the workout equipment experience. It has good karma. There will be no injuries today. I put on the cuff of evil and start my routine. I am moving along at a good pace. I am nearly finished. I have come through unscathed. I have met the cuff and it is mine. I have won. It is official. I am now a person who works out. I have the credentials. I can say that in conversation.
One last piece of scientific knowledge and I may have this working out situation down pat. Workout shorts slide off of padded gym equipment. I never saw that in any workout article either. I don’t think of it as one large accident waiting to happen. Instead I try to think of it as a learning experience. No pain no gain!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Cinderella, Charm School and Jack Bauer
I am a baby boomer. I was born in the fifties, spent my childhood in the sixties and my teenage years in the seventies. I watched a man land on the moon and was not quite a teenager when Sesame Street came on the air. I also went to charm school. Yes, charm school. Hard to believe that Vietnam was going on and I was learning how to cross my legs while wearing a dress so that young men would not get a peek at my underwear.
I hadn’t thought about Charm school in years. I was watching an episode of 24 and started to laugh out loud. Jack Bauer is going to turn himself in for a hostage swap. He was in handcuffs, and talking in his best Jack Bauer, sexy, low whisper, intimidating voice and all I could think of was how he had his shirt buttoned all the way up. Charm school came to mind. I don’t remember how the episode turned out, but I can pretty much guarantee that the wardrobe person did not go to charm school. I am blaming Cinderella for the whole charm school fiasco. She set the standards so high that the rest of us were forced to go to charm school so that we to would be able to find our prince, and of course, help him to dress correctly. This was the thinking of two normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad.
I was very young when I learned about Cinderella. She was looking for the prince. Of course she hadn’t gone to college. My folks raised me with the expectation that I would go to college , get married and then have children. Sort of Cinderella light. I would do it in that exact order. A big part this plan is dependent on finding the prince. I never really thought about the prince showing up. Mom and Dad were taking no chances that the prince would be able to find me or worse that the prince would show up and I would not be prepared. I was a bit hyper in my younger days so my parents kept me busy doing sports all year round. I played softball and was on a swim team in summer, cheerleading in the winter and gymnastics all the time. Clearly there was going to have to be some changes made if I was to find the prince. Apparently the prince does not have directions to the ballpark or the pool. Cinderella did not participate in sports. She didn’t own a glove, or cleats. She did however have a pumpkin and a fairy godmother. I didn’t have those. This being the case, the solution seemed so obvious to them. They sent me to “charm school”. I quite sure that charm schools don’t even exist anymore. They are not actual schools. They are places where young ladies got instructions in the proper art of being a young lady. The charm school teacher kept referring to me as a tomboy. She was not using her warm and fuzzy voice when she made that comment.
I thought I was doing well in charm school. In charm school I learned many skills that have served me well over the years. I learned the valuable skill of the proper way to cross my legs while wearing a dress. The secret is in the ankles. I also learned the proper way to apply makeup. I learned that you don’t button your top button unless you are wearing a tie. That was Jack Bauer’s fashion faux pas. My favorite skill that I learned in charm school is that I can actually place a book on my head and walk across a room without dropping the book. This skill is so diverse that I have it listed on my resume under other skills.
Sadly, charm school was not the great success that my folks were hoping for. The teacher did not understand my unwillingness to cross my legs at the ankles while wearing cleats. She did not understand wearing cleats at all. I tried, in my nicest proper young lady voice, to explain the art of wearing cleats to her. I tried to explain to her that good posture in a dugout is useless. The whole book on the head thing was so inappropriate for a dugout. I tried to explain that in softball upright is not really a good thing.Her position was that white Keds are what proper young wear for athletic endeavors. Cleats were not in her vocabulary. Needless to say, she was not overwhelmed that title nine passed.
She told my folks in her best proper not so young woman voice that there were just some young women who did not quite fit in charm school and I was one of them. She apologized profusely.My parents were shocked. Cinderella was dying on the vine. After charm school there was only one way to restore the Cinderella dream. It seemed so obvious to the normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad. Ballroom dance lessons. I’m not sure what those two were thinking but my brother and I along with two of my cousins were sent to a local dance teacher and forced to learn to ballroom dance. In case the prince had gotten directions and found his way to my house, I would be ready. Not only can I walk with a book on my head, and cross my legs at the ankles, now I could also ballroom dance. What a package. The prince showed up and surprise, surprise he doesn’t dance , doesn’t button the top button , doesn’t wear ties and doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress. Where is my fairy godmother when I need her?
I hadn’t thought about Charm school in years. I was watching an episode of 24 and started to laugh out loud. Jack Bauer is going to turn himself in for a hostage swap. He was in handcuffs, and talking in his best Jack Bauer, sexy, low whisper, intimidating voice and all I could think of was how he had his shirt buttoned all the way up. Charm school came to mind. I don’t remember how the episode turned out, but I can pretty much guarantee that the wardrobe person did not go to charm school. I am blaming Cinderella for the whole charm school fiasco. She set the standards so high that the rest of us were forced to go to charm school so that we to would be able to find our prince, and of course, help him to dress correctly. This was the thinking of two normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad.
I was very young when I learned about Cinderella. She was looking for the prince. Of course she hadn’t gone to college. My folks raised me with the expectation that I would go to college , get married and then have children. Sort of Cinderella light. I would do it in that exact order. A big part this plan is dependent on finding the prince. I never really thought about the prince showing up. Mom and Dad were taking no chances that the prince would be able to find me or worse that the prince would show up and I would not be prepared. I was a bit hyper in my younger days so my parents kept me busy doing sports all year round. I played softball and was on a swim team in summer, cheerleading in the winter and gymnastics all the time. Clearly there was going to have to be some changes made if I was to find the prince. Apparently the prince does not have directions to the ballpark or the pool. Cinderella did not participate in sports. She didn’t own a glove, or cleats. She did however have a pumpkin and a fairy godmother. I didn’t have those. This being the case, the solution seemed so obvious to them. They sent me to “charm school”. I quite sure that charm schools don’t even exist anymore. They are not actual schools. They are places where young ladies got instructions in the proper art of being a young lady. The charm school teacher kept referring to me as a tomboy. She was not using her warm and fuzzy voice when she made that comment.
I thought I was doing well in charm school. In charm school I learned many skills that have served me well over the years. I learned the valuable skill of the proper way to cross my legs while wearing a dress. The secret is in the ankles. I also learned the proper way to apply makeup. I learned that you don’t button your top button unless you are wearing a tie. That was Jack Bauer’s fashion faux pas. My favorite skill that I learned in charm school is that I can actually place a book on my head and walk across a room without dropping the book. This skill is so diverse that I have it listed on my resume under other skills.
Sadly, charm school was not the great success that my folks were hoping for. The teacher did not understand my unwillingness to cross my legs at the ankles while wearing cleats. She did not understand wearing cleats at all. I tried, in my nicest proper young lady voice, to explain the art of wearing cleats to her. I tried to explain to her that good posture in a dugout is useless. The whole book on the head thing was so inappropriate for a dugout. I tried to explain that in softball upright is not really a good thing.Her position was that white Keds are what proper young wear for athletic endeavors. Cleats were not in her vocabulary. Needless to say, she was not overwhelmed that title nine passed.
She told my folks in her best proper not so young woman voice that there were just some young women who did not quite fit in charm school and I was one of them. She apologized profusely.My parents were shocked. Cinderella was dying on the vine. After charm school there was only one way to restore the Cinderella dream. It seemed so obvious to the normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad. Ballroom dance lessons. I’m not sure what those two were thinking but my brother and I along with two of my cousins were sent to a local dance teacher and forced to learn to ballroom dance. In case the prince had gotten directions and found his way to my house, I would be ready. Not only can I walk with a book on my head, and cross my legs at the ankles, now I could also ballroom dance. What a package. The prince showed up and surprise, surprise he doesn’t dance , doesn’t button the top button , doesn’t wear ties and doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress. Where is my fairy godmother when I need her?
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Junior, The Snake and the Vaccuum
I have a snake living in my house. There’s a statement that I never thought I would make. It’s funny how the snake came to live in my house. Junior went to college. He liked college. He decided that he wanted the whole grown up experience and could only get that experience by living off campus so he did. His roommate got a snake. Then roommate had the nerve to leave school to go on tour with a rock band and left the snake behind. Oh goody, Junior inherits a snake. This is a drama waiting to happen.
Graduation day comes and Junior is moving home. With the snake. The snake and I have an agreement. He stays in his aquarium without water and I don’t call animal control. It is the best I can do and I thought it was a very generous offer. I don’t go into Junior’s room simply on principal. I’m not cleaning it. I don’t want to see the snake. I have no reason to go in there. I will give Junior his due because he does take care of the snake. He buys two mice a week to feed him. He put a heater underneath the aquarium without water so the snake is nice and warm. It’s important that the snake stay warm. I am always cold and no one is putting a heating pad under me. Junior also keeps the aquarium without water clean. He changes the stuffing the paper underneath so that the snake doesn’t inhale particles. This is also part of the ritual that I don’t watch. It’s like watching a train wreck.
I read somewhere that bad things happen in threes. I can go with that. Of course some people just go with things happen. It was a day like any other day except that when I turned on my dishwasher it made a grinding noise. I’m not a plumber. In fact I have no plumbing skills or background but I know when you turn on your super duper extra quiet dishwasher that cost a small fortune because it is the super duper extra quiet model, it is not supposed to sound like an engine in distress. That was not critical so I decided to have some coffee and mull it over. I like to mull things over. Except that the milk was not cold. Junior had told me the day before that the milk was not cold when he got his cereal. So I turned the refrigerator to make it colder. It didn’t work. Younger brother informed me that his milk was warm. Besides mulling I believe in signs. This was a sign from God to go out to breakfast but I didn’t pay attention to the sign. I decided to take the more conventional route and call the appliance warranty people who told me they would send someone the following day. At this point my concern is how I am going to keep the food cold enough so that I don’t have to replace a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t afford the first time I bought it.
There really wasn’t a whole lot to do so I decided to patrol the kitchen. It was my job to stand next to the fridge and open the door as needed to avoid the unnecessary openings and closings of the door. There would be no empty staring into the fridge followed by the exclamation that there is no food in here.
The repairman shows up the next day. He works on the dishwasher first. Unfortunately he forgot his man vacuum. He loaned it to another repairman so he asked hubby if he had one. Hubby gets his man vacuum out of Junior’s room and gives it repair guy. Repair guy says that the super duper extra quite dishwasher needs to be vacuumed out. He says that it has dust in the filter. The problem is that the filter is in the bottom of the dishwasher under the big whirly thing that sprays the water that washes the dishes. How clever of those manufacturers. That’s it. We are good to go. The refrigerator wasn’t quite so easy. It needed a new sensor and the freezer wasn’t working correctly either. It was too cold and had frozen on the inside behind the panels and he took off the panel so he could thaw it out. Naturally it would take several hours and there would be water running out of it into the refrigerator and onto my floor.
I am waiting for the Marx brothers or Allen Funt to pop out but they didn’t. Finally the day of drama has come to and end. Hubby goes to empty out the vacuum. It’s clogged. He forgot that the reason the vacuuming out the snake’s aquarium with out water so that he could give the snake clean chips. Naturally hubby does what everyone who has a clogged vacuum does. He puts his mouth on the vacuum to blow the clog out. He decides to share the triumph of cleaning the clog with us. At that very moment Junior decides to share with us that the snake always carries salmonella and that Dad really shouldn’t worry he probably won’t get salmonella. The snake is still alive. Hubby hasn’t got salmonella, the refrigerator is working and the super duper extra quiet dishwasher still isn’t. Life is back to normal.
Graduation day comes and Junior is moving home. With the snake. The snake and I have an agreement. He stays in his aquarium without water and I don’t call animal control. It is the best I can do and I thought it was a very generous offer. I don’t go into Junior’s room simply on principal. I’m not cleaning it. I don’t want to see the snake. I have no reason to go in there. I will give Junior his due because he does take care of the snake. He buys two mice a week to feed him. He put a heater underneath the aquarium without water so the snake is nice and warm. It’s important that the snake stay warm. I am always cold and no one is putting a heating pad under me. Junior also keeps the aquarium without water clean. He changes the stuffing the paper underneath so that the snake doesn’t inhale particles. This is also part of the ritual that I don’t watch. It’s like watching a train wreck.
I read somewhere that bad things happen in threes. I can go with that. Of course some people just go with things happen. It was a day like any other day except that when I turned on my dishwasher it made a grinding noise. I’m not a plumber. In fact I have no plumbing skills or background but I know when you turn on your super duper extra quiet dishwasher that cost a small fortune because it is the super duper extra quiet model, it is not supposed to sound like an engine in distress. That was not critical so I decided to have some coffee and mull it over. I like to mull things over. Except that the milk was not cold. Junior had told me the day before that the milk was not cold when he got his cereal. So I turned the refrigerator to make it colder. It didn’t work. Younger brother informed me that his milk was warm. Besides mulling I believe in signs. This was a sign from God to go out to breakfast but I didn’t pay attention to the sign. I decided to take the more conventional route and call the appliance warranty people who told me they would send someone the following day. At this point my concern is how I am going to keep the food cold enough so that I don’t have to replace a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t afford the first time I bought it.
There really wasn’t a whole lot to do so I decided to patrol the kitchen. It was my job to stand next to the fridge and open the door as needed to avoid the unnecessary openings and closings of the door. There would be no empty staring into the fridge followed by the exclamation that there is no food in here.
The repairman shows up the next day. He works on the dishwasher first. Unfortunately he forgot his man vacuum. He loaned it to another repairman so he asked hubby if he had one. Hubby gets his man vacuum out of Junior’s room and gives it repair guy. Repair guy says that the super duper extra quite dishwasher needs to be vacuumed out. He says that it has dust in the filter. The problem is that the filter is in the bottom of the dishwasher under the big whirly thing that sprays the water that washes the dishes. How clever of those manufacturers. That’s it. We are good to go. The refrigerator wasn’t quite so easy. It needed a new sensor and the freezer wasn’t working correctly either. It was too cold and had frozen on the inside behind the panels and he took off the panel so he could thaw it out. Naturally it would take several hours and there would be water running out of it into the refrigerator and onto my floor.
I am waiting for the Marx brothers or Allen Funt to pop out but they didn’t. Finally the day of drama has come to and end. Hubby goes to empty out the vacuum. It’s clogged. He forgot that the reason the vacuuming out the snake’s aquarium with out water so that he could give the snake clean chips. Naturally hubby does what everyone who has a clogged vacuum does. He puts his mouth on the vacuum to blow the clog out. He decides to share the triumph of cleaning the clog with us. At that very moment Junior decides to share with us that the snake always carries salmonella and that Dad really shouldn’t worry he probably won’t get salmonella. The snake is still alive. Hubby hasn’t got salmonella, the refrigerator is working and the super duper extra quiet dishwasher still isn’t. Life is back to normal.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Things I Don’t Need to Know
As a parent I wondered what the long -term effects that television viewing would have on my children. My children are almost grown and I am concerned about what effect television will have on me. I am sitting here watching television and there is a commercial on for E-D, which is also known as erectile dysfunction. Someone, somewhere has decided that the entire population needs to know about erectile dysfunction. How does the person who writes these commercials come up with them? What is the thought process when writing about erectile dysfunction? And the big question is how do you tell your Mom that you wrote that commercial? The bigger question is why exactly do I need to know about this condition and the medicines that are used to treat it?
I would imagine that if I had erectile dysfunction my doctor would already know what medicines are available to treat it. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor about my erectile dysfunction knowing the name of the medicine that can treat it would be useless.
According to the commercial, it is imperative that I know that there are two types of medicines that are now available to treat this condition? One is for having sex immediately and one is a long-term slow acting in case you want to have sex within a thirty-six hour time frame. Oh good. I feel so empowered having this information.
My favorite part of the commercial is the part that tells us that if you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you should call a doctor. No kidding. If you need a doctor or a commercial to tell you that I would guess that erectile dysfunction is not your worst problem. The part about that statement is not even the statement itself; rather it is the visual that I just don’t need to have floating in my head. Have you ever seen anyone with a four-hour erection? Me either. Where are those men?
I also like the part where the man and the lady are sitting in these two separate old-fashioned bathtubs that are on the beach overlooking the ocean. I am not a doctor. I do not play one on television but I am a woman who can state categorically that if your spouse is spending long periods of time in a tub it will affect his erection. I have the urge to scream at the television “Get out of the tub!!” Again, I am not a doctor but perhaps if they were in the same tub the condition would be helped. It may be kind of difficult to get an erection if your partner is in the next room and all you have to look at is an ocean, or maybe not. Sex may be difficult when in separate locations.
Perhaps the man hurt himself dragging the tubs to the beach. Maybe the dragging of the tubs or the lifting of the tubs has contributed to the erectile dysfunction. At the end of the commercial the narrator goes thru a very long list of possible side effects from using the medicine and under which conditions you should not take the medicine. Perhaps they should include the possibility that dragging large heavy tubs to a beach may cause e-d.
The next commercial for E-D comes on and this time the couple is at home. Again they are outside in their yard in separate tubs. I am prompted to ask how the tubs got from the beach to their yard. I may have tub issues because I keep focusing on the problems that could be created by the damn tubs. Do these people perhaps own a tub company? I have been to many beaches and have never seen a set of matching tubs overlooking any of them. There is no one I know that has a set of matching tubs in their back yard. I know a few folks that have hot tubs in their yards but no one with the matching tubs. Clearly, I am hanging around with the wrong people. If they indeed own the tub company that would explain why separate tubs keeping popping up at the places they frequent. If they do indeed own the tub company then shouldn’t they know that being in separate locations really isn’t good for erection problems? Maybe not. Maybe the folks that are hawking medicine for erectile dysfunction should rethink the whole tubs in the commercial thing. Maybe they should just have an actual sit down and talk for thirty seconds about erectile dysfunction and their medicine because every time I see this commercial I start to laugh. I just can’t get passed the tubs. Or the four hour erection.
I would imagine that if I had erectile dysfunction my doctor would already know what medicines are available to treat it. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor about my erectile dysfunction knowing the name of the medicine that can treat it would be useless.
According to the commercial, it is imperative that I know that there are two types of medicines that are now available to treat this condition? One is for having sex immediately and one is a long-term slow acting in case you want to have sex within a thirty-six hour time frame. Oh good. I feel so empowered having this information.
My favorite part of the commercial is the part that tells us that if you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you should call a doctor. No kidding. If you need a doctor or a commercial to tell you that I would guess that erectile dysfunction is not your worst problem. The part about that statement is not even the statement itself; rather it is the visual that I just don’t need to have floating in my head. Have you ever seen anyone with a four-hour erection? Me either. Where are those men?
I also like the part where the man and the lady are sitting in these two separate old-fashioned bathtubs that are on the beach overlooking the ocean. I am not a doctor. I do not play one on television but I am a woman who can state categorically that if your spouse is spending long periods of time in a tub it will affect his erection. I have the urge to scream at the television “Get out of the tub!!” Again, I am not a doctor but perhaps if they were in the same tub the condition would be helped. It may be kind of difficult to get an erection if your partner is in the next room and all you have to look at is an ocean, or maybe not. Sex may be difficult when in separate locations.
Perhaps the man hurt himself dragging the tubs to the beach. Maybe the dragging of the tubs or the lifting of the tubs has contributed to the erectile dysfunction. At the end of the commercial the narrator goes thru a very long list of possible side effects from using the medicine and under which conditions you should not take the medicine. Perhaps they should include the possibility that dragging large heavy tubs to a beach may cause e-d.
The next commercial for E-D comes on and this time the couple is at home. Again they are outside in their yard in separate tubs. I am prompted to ask how the tubs got from the beach to their yard. I may have tub issues because I keep focusing on the problems that could be created by the damn tubs. Do these people perhaps own a tub company? I have been to many beaches and have never seen a set of matching tubs overlooking any of them. There is no one I know that has a set of matching tubs in their back yard. I know a few folks that have hot tubs in their yards but no one with the matching tubs. Clearly, I am hanging around with the wrong people. If they indeed own the tub company that would explain why separate tubs keeping popping up at the places they frequent. If they do indeed own the tub company then shouldn’t they know that being in separate locations really isn’t good for erection problems? Maybe not. Maybe the folks that are hawking medicine for erectile dysfunction should rethink the whole tubs in the commercial thing. Maybe they should just have an actual sit down and talk for thirty seconds about erectile dysfunction and their medicine because every time I see this commercial I start to laugh. I just can’t get passed the tubs. Or the four hour erection.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I Win
Today was not a particularly good day. We all have crappy days. Sis and I have a little game called I WIN. It’s the dark cloud that follows each of us at some point in time. Who had the worst day? You win! My boss was not happy with my work and held nothing back in letting me know. I win! You get the idea. I got home looking forward to spending the night quietly. I was walking in the house with my lunch box and a car pulled up. I live at the end of a dead end street and cars frequently use the street as a turn around.
I mentioned to hubby that there was a car out front. He is the official car checker person in our household. He accepts this responsibility and does it with enthusiasm. He looks out and sees the car, stopped next to our van. The person is out of the car. He watches to see exactly what they are doing. Hubby is beside himself. They appear to be pooping. He starts yelling that there is a guy pooping on our lot. A few seconds pass and he is still yelling about how much nerve it takes to poop in someone’s yard before he runs out of the front door and yells at the pooper telling them to stop pooping in our yard. Then he realizes that the pooper is a lady. She is wearing pink bedroom slippers. And holding a napkin or toilet paper so that she can wipe herself. I’m not feeling gratitude that she brought proper paper. She is pooping on my lawn. She starts yelling back at him to call the police. She must have been a little nervous. Here she is trying to poop in peace and there comes an irate guy yelling at her. He tells her that he did call the police. Then she starts yelling at him that she isn’t pooping. She’s peeing. Whatever she does she is showing her private parts. Parts that quite frankly don’t need to be in my front yard. She’s yelling back at him that she’s peeing. This was her badge of honor. Hubby is yelling back that she is peeing on our land. Now I understand that this is not the Ponderosa but I am in shock. This woman is peeing on my yard and yelling at hubby. She was miffed.
When did it become okay to pee on someone else’s yard? I missed the announcement. Hey, I went to charm school and I am quite sure that peeing in someone else’s yard was not in approval column. She knew we were home. I looked straight at her while walking up the ramp leading into my house. In order to get to my house she had to pull off a major highway, go a few blocks and turn again down my street. This is not a home you stumble upon. I understand having to pee urgently. We have all had that urge. Some of us have even peed in places that were not completely appropriate. I myself have peed in a men’s room or two. The ladies rooms were full and the men’s rooms were not. I always announced myself and had a lookout posted at the door to warn any unsuspecting guy who might have to go. Most guys are very understanding having girlfriends or wives who have been in my predicament. Concert halls are famous for having a lack of facilities for women. I have never peed on someone’s lawn, someone’s property, or next to their house. I prefer bathrooms. It’s sort of a rule that I have. The pooper/peeer finished her business while hubby was yelling at her to take her parts and go home and pee in front of her own house if she had such a thirst for the outdoors experience. This was a picture in itself. He is yelling at her and she is yelling back while bearing herself in pink bedroom slippers and wiping herself. She brought her own paper. Why didn’t she put that much thought into finding a bathroom that was not in the great outdoors. Hubby finally came back in the house when she got in her car. She pulled backwards, turned her wheel and starting blowing her horn which she did for several minutes in front of my house. She was highly annoyed.
I wondered if the lawn lady would return at night. If she was that miffed she knows were I live. Maybe she has a hubby who also enjoys the outdoor experience. Maybe there are children as well. This whole family could come and just pee intermittently on my yard. What if their real thrill is the after dark outdoor experience. I decided that the whole experience was overwhelming so I went to bed. Done. Go into denial. It’s amazing how television numbs the mind when you need it to. I got up this morning and went to get the paper, and there was a large wet spot on the porch. I looked at my son and he at me. I have seen that same spot every morning that there is dew for 20 years but today was a day of possibilities. I win!
I mentioned to hubby that there was a car out front. He is the official car checker person in our household. He accepts this responsibility and does it with enthusiasm. He looks out and sees the car, stopped next to our van. The person is out of the car. He watches to see exactly what they are doing. Hubby is beside himself. They appear to be pooping. He starts yelling that there is a guy pooping on our lot. A few seconds pass and he is still yelling about how much nerve it takes to poop in someone’s yard before he runs out of the front door and yells at the pooper telling them to stop pooping in our yard. Then he realizes that the pooper is a lady. She is wearing pink bedroom slippers. And holding a napkin or toilet paper so that she can wipe herself. I’m not feeling gratitude that she brought proper paper. She is pooping on my lawn. She starts yelling back at him to call the police. She must have been a little nervous. Here she is trying to poop in peace and there comes an irate guy yelling at her. He tells her that he did call the police. Then she starts yelling at him that she isn’t pooping. She’s peeing. Whatever she does she is showing her private parts. Parts that quite frankly don’t need to be in my front yard. She’s yelling back at him that she’s peeing. This was her badge of honor. Hubby is yelling back that she is peeing on our land. Now I understand that this is not the Ponderosa but I am in shock. This woman is peeing on my yard and yelling at hubby. She was miffed.
When did it become okay to pee on someone else’s yard? I missed the announcement. Hey, I went to charm school and I am quite sure that peeing in someone else’s yard was not in approval column. She knew we were home. I looked straight at her while walking up the ramp leading into my house. In order to get to my house she had to pull off a major highway, go a few blocks and turn again down my street. This is not a home you stumble upon. I understand having to pee urgently. We have all had that urge. Some of us have even peed in places that were not completely appropriate. I myself have peed in a men’s room or two. The ladies rooms were full and the men’s rooms were not. I always announced myself and had a lookout posted at the door to warn any unsuspecting guy who might have to go. Most guys are very understanding having girlfriends or wives who have been in my predicament. Concert halls are famous for having a lack of facilities for women. I have never peed on someone’s lawn, someone’s property, or next to their house. I prefer bathrooms. It’s sort of a rule that I have. The pooper/peeer finished her business while hubby was yelling at her to take her parts and go home and pee in front of her own house if she had such a thirst for the outdoors experience. This was a picture in itself. He is yelling at her and she is yelling back while bearing herself in pink bedroom slippers and wiping herself. She brought her own paper. Why didn’t she put that much thought into finding a bathroom that was not in the great outdoors. Hubby finally came back in the house when she got in her car. She pulled backwards, turned her wheel and starting blowing her horn which she did for several minutes in front of my house. She was highly annoyed.
I wondered if the lawn lady would return at night. If she was that miffed she knows were I live. Maybe she has a hubby who also enjoys the outdoor experience. Maybe there are children as well. This whole family could come and just pee intermittently on my yard. What if their real thrill is the after dark outdoor experience. I decided that the whole experience was overwhelming so I went to bed. Done. Go into denial. It’s amazing how television numbs the mind when you need it to. I got up this morning and went to get the paper, and there was a large wet spot on the porch. I looked at my son and he at me. I have seen that same spot every morning that there is dew for 20 years but today was a day of possibilities. I win!
Toxic Bread
There are people in this world that like to bake bread. They are good and kind people. There are people in the world who get paid to bake bread. They are called bakers. Use these people wisely. I am not a baker. I like to go to a store, and buy my bread already made. They are so nice at the store, they even wrap the bread for me.
It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.
I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.
I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.
I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.
Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.
My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.
About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.
The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.
The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.
It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.
I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.
I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.
I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.
Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.
My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.
About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.
The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.
The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.
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