Stealth Fred

Having had an aging parent living with me for the last nine years I have made some observations. My Dad and I have reversed roles. I am told this is common. I'm not sure how this happened but it did. Fred is my Dad. He is 88 years old and has a whole slew of health issues. You name the disease and Fred has it. All this wrapped up means that Fred does not see well. He does not hear well. He is now dependent on others for help him do many of the things he used to be able to do himself. I understand the role reversal issue. It is not fun to wake up one day and realize that you can no longer do the things you used to do. Fred has decided to fight the whole aging thing. He is working his way around the whole issue. He is a man with a plan. He also has decided to take control of things that are out of his control. He has turned into Stealth Fred.

He used to deny everything when asked. Just outright denial. Nope. Didn't do it. Don't care if you found the item. Don't know how it got there. Now Stealth Fred is a Renaissance man. He is evolving. He has a new go to move. First he denies, and then he turns into the non-talking, staring, mouth open Stealth Fred. It is very difficult to have a conversation with a person who is staring blankly, not talking and purposefully opens their mouth. If he did this to his doctor he would probably end up in the hospital or a mental ward. When he does it to me, I laugh. I know this is not the response he was looking for but I can't help myself. He turns into Stealth Fred on a dime.

Stealth Fred has arrived and he likes to fix things. This is part of taking control back. The things don't need to be broken. They only need to not be working quite the way Fred wants them to work. He attempts to fix the item by banging the item against a large hard object. I have the item replaced. It seems simple and yet it is a surprise every time.

Fred was getting in my brother's truck to go out to dinner and his electric razor fell out of his pocket and landed on the concrete driveway. To me that would seem an odd item to have in your coat pocket inspiring questions. Lots and lots of questions. Instead Fred got in the truck, asked my brother to collect it and throw it away, as if having an electric razor fall out of your pocket was an everyday occurrence. My brother asked Fred why an electric razor had fallen out of his pocket. Fred told him it was broken and he was going to ask my brother to throw it away. My brother didn't ask him why he didn't just throw it out in the house before he got in the truck. He didn't explain that we have trash cans in the house. In fact Stealth Fred has one in his room. He didn't ask how it broke or any other questions that immediately spring to mind. He took the razor put it back in the truck and threw it away later. Really?

Clearly the razor was now broken and needed to be replaced. It was broken before it met the concrete. Fred had tried to fix the razor which is why he had the razor in his pocket. It wasn't actually broken but it wasn't working the way Fred wanted it. I suspect it needed to be cleaned out. I would have cleaned it out with the little brush. Over a sink. Fred banged it repeatedly against his bureau leaving large scrapes on the bureau and the razor broken. While he was banging it the stubble did actually come out of the razor. Unfortunately the stubble came out because Stealth Fred loosened the stubble by banging the razor and then rode over the stubble with his scooter hoping to grind it into the carpet. That was part of the plan of Stealthy Fred. Hide the evidence. It that doesn't work then stop talking, stare blankly and open your mouth. It's the new go to.

Eventually Fred told me that the razor had been running slower than normal because it needed to be cleaned out. It is supposed to be cleaned out with the little brush tool that you are given. According to Fred, the little brush doesn't get out all of the clippings, Banging however does. The razor met its demise. Apparently razors are not designed to be banged against large wooden chests. Who knew?

He figured that if he asked my brother to throw out the razor it would be a win win for him. My brother would throw out the razor and offer to take him to get a replacement and I would never know that he had tried to fix it. I wouldn't know about the clippings all over the floor in his room that were partially ground into the rug. Unfortunately Fred has vision issues so he doesn't see all that well, making it very difficult to see little tine specs of razor stubble on the floor. Fred the Stealthy strikes again.

His best laid plans went awry. I saw the clippings, I saw the new large gash in the bureau, the razor fell out of his pocket, and my brother never offered to get him a new one. I got him the new one and asked to please not clean it using the bureau but to follow the manufacturers instructions when cleaning it. I also told him that I would clean it if he wanted me to.

Part of Fred's new resistance to aging is he does not follow directions. He has a set of headphones that he wears to listen to the television. He has profound hearing loss so in order for him to hear the television he would have to turn it up so loud that you can hear it at the other end of house. I know because the headphones were born of need. He is supposed to adjust the level of sound on the headphones while leaving his hearing aids set to the level that was set by his audiologist. Nope. Not Stealth Fred. He knows better. He is always fiddling with the volume control. He turns them down by accident. Instead of turning them back up so he can hear he has determined that the headphones are not working. He has to fix them. The first thought that comes to mind is that in order to fix the headphones, he should bang them violently against his large bureau.

How do I know that he tried to fix them you might ask? I know this because I heard him. Fred does nothing quietly. Quietly is not in his vocabulary. Neither is stealth. I was watching television in the living room and heard a loud Fred noise. This is not a normal Fred noise so I go in his room and he is banging the headphones against his wooden bureau. Again and again. I asked him what he was doing. He explained his logic. “They aren't working so I thought I would jiggle the wires.”

I put the headphones on and adjust the volume. They are working fine, I hand them back to Fred with the comment “I don't believe that banging a device on a large wooden chest is the best way to fix it. Next time it stops working please just let me know.” I try to be mindful of his age. I am certain that I will be as stubborn as he when I am his age. I smiled. He agreed but I know better.

A few days later I heard the Fred fixing noise again. And again. I went in to see what Fred was fixing. He was in the bathroom so I waited for him to come out. He emerged holding his new razor in his hand. I told him that I heard a loud banging noise. He told me that his new razor was broken and he was fixing it. I have seen this movie before and it does not end well. He also told me that he didn't use the chest of drawers as I had asked. He used the sink. Naturally I had to ask if the razor was fixed. He explained that it was now working. He had gotten all of the shavings out and washed them down the drain and done it all without damaging the chest of drawers or spreading hair all over the floor. Of course the sink top now has a huge chip missing. Fred couldn't see it. The chest of drawers did not have any new gashes and the new razor was still working. I'm thinking two things. The first is crazy glue and the second is that I am sure the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. I am on my way to becoming Stealth Michelle. Watch out kids, you have been warned!

The Train, Train, Cab Method

When you get to be of a certain age, you realize what is important. I am of that age. A woman of your age...” UGH. As a woman of my age, access to a bathroom is high on the list of things that are important. My expectations are not that high where the bathroom experience is concerned. Sometimes we just don't get what we want. I have known this since I was quite young. My parents, like the parents of many of my friends, made a point to tell all of us “You don't always get what you want!” I don't like it, but I do acknowledge that it is true. I honestly never thought it would be relevant to bathrooms. I figured they were talking about the big things in life. I actually thought they were trying to tell me that Prince Charming had failed to stop and ask directions to our house and so he would not be arriving any time soon. The inability to find a proper bathroom in a city of several million was not on the list.

I had to go to the Big City for an appointment. By the Big City I mean New York. Philadelphia is a big city, but if you come from South Jersey, New York is THE Big city. I was going to take a local train to the Amtrak station, then take an Amtrak train to New York, and take a cab to my destination. The train, train, cab method is not the most efficient method but it alleviated the whole issue of driving, parking, tolls, New York drivers and being completely stressed while on your way to the appointment. The one drawback to this method is that it does not meet the standard of having accessibility to a bathroom. Again I know that sometimes we just don't get what we want.

Then hubby offers to drive me. I jump at the chance. I can always explain to hubby the urgency of having to go pee. He may grumble but he will stop. The train conductor does not understand the urgency. As a woman who has ridden trains on a regular basis, the idea of going pee in a moving train while squatting and dressed in a business suit is beyond comprehension. I am not sure who designed the bathrooms in trains, but I can guarantee you that it wasn't a woman. If it was the toilet would be lower to enable a proper squat. They would also have handles to grab onto again to facilitate the proper squat. Yes, I have spent hours thinking about bathrooms on trains but that is another column. The idea of going to the bathroom in Penn station is also a little overwhelming, as I am picturing all of the other ladies who can't squat in a moving train heading toward the bathroom in the station at the same time. This could get ugly fast.

No need to stress about it. Hubby driving takes care of all of the potential bathroom issues. Hubby and I are on the road and all is good. Three hours later we are in New York. We had no trouble getting in the city, no trouble locating the building, and we were an hour and half early so we could go for a cup of coffee somewhere and hang out until thirty minutes before appointment time. This was South Jersey thinking. Apparently in the BIG CITY there are limited parking spaces. That explains why the traffic is so heavy and moves so slow. Everyone who has the nerve to drive into the city is looking for a parking space, pulling into a parking space or beeping their horn. That's it. If you have the unmitigated nerve to slow down because you want to do something as reckless as read a street sign, or look for a parking space, three drivers are leaning on their horns.

We spent thirty minutes driving in circles looking for a place to park. We both have to pee and we can't seem to locate a parking space that is near an actual building with an actual bathroom. At this point, having coffee is just a pipe dream. We pull over and hubby lets me know there is a lovely, large hydrangea bush that is almost the size of a tree. It is definitely large enough for him to go pee in the bush/tree. He's an outdoorsy kind of guy. Me, not so much. The tree/bush is situated right next to open metal gates. I explain to him that the open gates are the entrance to a park and if he pees in the tree/ bush and is spotted he will likely be reported to the police, he will likely be arrested and locked up. I also state my person policy about bailing out people who manage to get themselves locked up in strange cities for peeing in public. He decides to keep looking so we drive around a few more times. As we are passing a big, government looking building with steps and pillars there is a spot right in front. I think the secret is to look quickly. Turn the head fast and then back. If you see the spot, immediately pull in and don't look back. This is our plan. Hubby backs in expertly so we are facing the road. There are no parking meters and no signs stating that this is a no parking area. We have hit the parking mother lode.

When we get to the top of the four flights of steps we realize that this is a courthouse. Mostly because of the sign in the front that reads COURTHOUSE. Hey, it could have been a museum. Rocky could have been running up the steps, except that he wasn't. We ask a nice man in a suit and tie who is headed in the same direction as we are about the parking in front. He gets a look of absolute horror and informs us that we are parked in an immediate tow spot. He would not leave the car unattended. Sufficiently concerned, we decided to take turns going in to pee. If the police show up we will feign stupidity which shouldn't be difficult as it should take a police officer less than ten seconds to figure out that we were just looking for a place to pee. And that we are from Jersey. I went in first. It was special kind of experience to show my identification and walk through the metal detectors to pee. I placed my pocketbook in the bin and walked through. The I managed to walk quickly to the ladies room. It was as large and elegant as the building itself. I finished and headed out so hubby got his turn. He had the benefit of my experience. Leave your wallet, coat and keys. It makes the metal detector experience just fly by.

Soon enough he is back and we are sitting waiting for the police to show up. It is after all a courthouse loaded with police. They drive by but none stop. They walk past but none come over. I want coffee but I can't handle the parking spot stress for round two so we will sit and wait until appointment time. Hubby dropped me off for my appointment. He was not so lucky in the great parking spot search as the first time, but eventually he found one. He drove over when I was done and we headed for the GW Bridge. We stopped on the way back at a coffee place that also happens to have a bathroom. What a concept. The BIG CITY is wonderful place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. They have a bathroom shortage.

The Cool Aunt and Her Very Hard Hair

One of my favorite nieces is getting married soon. She is a wonderful young woman and I am looking forward to dancing at her wedding. I stopped by her office today and she introduced me to one of her co-workers. She started to reminisce about a favorite memory of ours. She had been studying hair styling and was getting ready to take her hair licensing exam. She had to bring a person with her to the licensing exam because apparently the powers that be in the hair universe want to see the prospective licensees actually style a real person's hair. No Barbie heads for these folks. She asked me if I would be willing to be her hair model. I was so excited. When she was little I would sit on the floor and she would style my hair for long periods of time. I had barrettes and pony tails and bobby pins. That was many years ago. In my mind, I would get the chance to be the Cool Aunt again so I jumped at the chance. The fact that I had long hair was not the relevant issue. It was definitely the Cool Aunt thing and I am so on board.

A few days before the exam she calls me. Apparently, everyone from the class had to take the school bus together to the examination site. No problem. I am flexible. It has been a while since I rode on a school bus but I am willing to do whatever it takes to be the Cool Aunt. There is a lot of status in being the Cool Aunt. Chances like this don't come along every day. I am good with the school bus experience.
“Oh by the way, Aunt Michelle, we have to be at the bus at 7 am.” followed by a silence.
“No problem. I love early. I will be there.”
Followed by a deep breath sigh of relief on her part.

The next day she calls me back. I am guessing this conversation was prompted by her mom.
“Aunt Michelle I just wanted to tell you that there is no water at the test site. We use hair gel.”
“No problem. I love hair gel. I will be there.”
Followed by another deep breath sigh of relief on her part.
The exam is the next day. I arrived as requested. We boarded the bus and headed for Trenton. I was clearly the oldest hair volunteer on the bus but I was also the only Aunt.

Again, the whole Cool Aunt thing. We are bouncing up and down in the school bus and in one moment I see a can of soda flying toward my niece and her nice white uniform top is not so nice and white anymore. The look on her face can best be described as absolute horror. Fortunately the horror didn't last long. Someone had seltzer water and the soda stain came out. It was wet but air dried after some serious shaking.

We get to the exam sight and she signs in. I am a follower at this point. I sit in the chair and spend the next few hours in a chair having various sections of my hair done. There is a five gallon jug of gel on the counter next to the mirror. Picture a gallon jug. Now picture five gallon jugs. Now picture those five gallon jugs filled with hair gel. Now picture that five gallons of hair gel in your hair all at once. My long hair was literally concrete on my head. It had different styles in each section which is an interesting look in and of itself. Add to that the fact that it was solid like a rock glued to my head. Oh the sacrifices we make to be the Cool Aunt. Five hours later, I have hair plaster and I am informed that the hair powers that be will not even tell my niece if she passed. How dare they! If she didn't pass it would always be an awful Aunt memory. She would have to wait in the mail for her results just like everyone else. UGH. We rode home on the bus with the rest of the potential hair stylists and volunteers while my head was hardening by the second.

I walked in the door. Hubby couldn't stop laughing at my very hard hair. I realized that this was going to need a plan. I washed my hair in the sink. Three times. Before I could actually get my hands through it. Then I got in the shower and washed it three more times. Then I conditioned it. Twice. I did this for the next two days until it was back to normal. It was like the gel kept reappearing even after it was washed. My hair was rebelling. Or the gel was just evil.

A few weeks later my niece called. She passed but had decided not to be a hair stylist. She felt bad because she was not going to be a hair stylist and I had been her volunteer. I didn't care. I wanted for her then exactly what I want for her now, for her to be happy. She had given me a great gift. I got to be the Cool Aunt for a day. We created a memory. A memory that we are still laughing at today. Today she shared our memory. I was thrilled that she remembered the experience fondly and that she shared it with her friend. And I got to be the Cool Aunt again.

The Mail Perspective

Sometimes I am amazed. That is not always a good thing. My son had moved and filled out a mail forwarding request so that his mail would follow him. This seemed like a prudent thing to do. He filled out change of address forms with all of his current service providers as well. He thought the added precaution of the forwarding card would assure that his mail arrived.

A month later his mail is arriving at his new apartment. So is his Dad's mail. All of Dad's mail has a yellow mail forwarding stamp on the envelope. They have the same first and last name but different middle initials. This also seemed like a prudent, almost brilliant thing to do, although it was twenty eight years ago. It was a simpler time. There was no internet and having a different middle initial assured you of proper identification. Today, not so much. Within two weeks the only mail that Dad and I were getting was mine. My son of course was getting all of his mail.

I did what anybody would do. I went to see our local postmaster. Hubby and I waited in line. Ten minutes later we were explaining our dilemma to the nice postal person. He listened, and what followed is best just stated and without interpretation so here goes.

“You can cancel your son's mail forwarding.” and he handed me a form. I explained that I would not cancel someone else's mail. “Have your son cancel his mail forwarding. Wait two weeks and have him fill out another mail forwarding request, and we will see if it works.” Hubby and I looked at each other, thanked the nice postal person and left. There are so many things wrong with those instructions that I just couldn't wrap my head around it. The idea that I could walk into a post office and cancel someone else's mail is mind boggling. We came home and I decided to take the next step. I called the postal service 800 number. I got a nice postal worker who after I relayed the conversation with the postal person apologized profusely. He promised to have someone in a position of authority call me within 48 hours to review the appropriate procedure. In the meantime he suggested that I talk to our carrier and explain it to her so she can keep an eye out.

I spoke to our carrier. She gave me the phone number for her supervisor and said she would keep an eye out. She also explained that all mail that is forwarded goes to a special mailing center in a different area. It gets sorted and stamped with the little yellow labels and then sent on to the local post office for delivery. I called the supervisor at least a dozen times and there was no answer. The next day our carrier flags me down and tells me that she had talked to her supervisor and that we should stop my sons mail forwarding, wait two weeks and try again. I thanked her and told her I would talk it over with my son but the reality is that I find it unbelievable that the US Postal service can't forward mail correctly. She explained very simply that the forwarded mail goes to the special center. At the special center the machine reads the first and last name only and it doesn't recognize middle initials. I thanked her for looking into it but would be taking my time to figure out what to do. I am beginning to think that the special center is not really all that special.

I decide to wait until the person with the authority from the 800 number calls. I am looking for reasonable. That's all. I do not have high expectations. I just need someone to tell me that my son and husband can each get their mail at the places where they currently reside. This doesn't seem to be a lot to ask. From the US Postal service. In the United States of America in 2014. I went out to the grocery store and when I got home the mystery person with authority had called and left a message. I was hopeful, right up until he started to speak. His instructions were very simple. The middle initial is irrelevant. The machine at the special center only reads the first and last name. Have your son cancel his mail forwarding order. In the meantime, he should contact all of his service providers and put in a change of address form. Anything that is addressed with his current address will not be sent to the special center and will go directly to him. Yippee. If the problem persists, my son should fill out another mail forwarding card and try again. I am certainly glad that I waited for the voice of authority. He has cleared up all the issues. The problem is clearly the special center. The special center should call Santa. His special center runs efficiently. Perhaps he could give some special center training. Maybe he would give them a few pointers about reindeer.

My mail carrier stopped me the other day just to let me know that she had gotten the stop forwarding card that my son filed. She said that his mail would now come to my house for a few weeks until the address changes take place. I commented that I was concerned about having to drive over to drop off his mail. She looked at me and said “No you can just mail it to him.”
I am thinking reindeer.

Young, Cool Foodies

I have never been a particularly adventurous foodie. I like what I like. I am, however, open to expanding my universe. I went to work in a large city with a group of city folks who have a much larger food universe than I. These are young, cool , foodies who take advantage of the thousands of food options that are available in the city. They invited me to share their foodie experience and I jumped at the chance.

While I may not be particularly adventurous I have definite likes and dislikes. I like spicy food. Let me clarify that, I like food that I make that is spiced the way I spice it. I generally don’t eat spicy foods that cause my throat to clench and my eyes to water. It’s just a personal rule that I have. It has worked well for me so far. This past summer we did, at the request of my son, plant pepper plants which had the word “dragon” in the name. This is not a good sign for someone like me but I went along anyway with the agreement that I would not have to touch said peppers. He and his father took care of said pepper plants, including picking them, and drying them. They had to wear surgical gloves when doing those activities, which was a sign to me that I had made the right decision. My part of the whole experience was to buy the surgical gloves.

The young, cool, foodies were going to a Chinese restaurant that has a reputation for having really hot food. I was very excited to be going. This restaurant rates the dishes from a 3 to a 10 with 10 being the burn your hair off. I chose what I thought would be a safe dish. It was rated a 3. The young, cool foodies assured me that it wasn’t too spicy. Here is a observation that I should have picked up on. Never, and I mean never, take spicy food advice from people who order 6 to 10 levels. These nice people have had the sensory nerves on their tongues melted. They can’t feel anything. I did not pick up on this. My dish came and it was spicy. It would have been a 6 or 7 on my scale. It was definitely not a 3 in my universe. I also wondered if the chef had made my 3 hotter than the normal 3 because I asked for silverware. Apparently that is a no-no. The waiter looked at me like I had just asked for his social security number. It was a big “how dare you” face. They didn’t have a knife but were kind enough to furnish me with a fork.

 My throat was clenching a little. I was managing the heat by alternating between drinking huge amounts of water and eating white rice, which in my heat impaired mind, was serving the same duty as bread if you are eating really spicy Italian food. It calms the heat effect down. I was hiding the whole burning my mouth rather well I thought. I was starting to feel pretty comfortable with my level of spice endurance. Then one of the young, cool, foodies suggested that I try a dish that she had. She assured me that it wasn’t too hot. This is the part where picking up on the never take spice advice from people who order the 6-10 level comes in. I jabbed my fork into the dish, picked up three or four of the little goodies, and plopped them in my mouth. That was the second mistake. I should have gotten one, not four. My eyes got the better of me. They just looked so good. My throat started to clench and burn. My eyes started to water. I couldn’t get to the water and rice fast enough. I also couldn’t talk. Not one word was able to leave my lips. My co-workers were asking me if I was all right. I nodded and that required effort. It took a few minutes of inhaling rice and water to calm down my throat. The young, cool foodies were all concerned. Eventually I was able to speak, and my eyes started to focus again. Then it was over. I actually enjoyed the experience. I could have lived without loosing the ability to talk, but the food was good and the company was better.

Two weeks later they were headed back to the burn your throat restaurant. I jumped at the chance to go back. I was not going to be caught off guard this time. I ordered the same number 3 with a large bowl of rice. Preparation is the key. I also ordered spring rolls, which are also not spicy at all. I was doing well. One bite of spicy, one bite of a roll or rice followed by water if needed. It was a one for me and one for them methodology. Then the young, cool, foodie asked if I wanted to share. It was the same dish as before. I said yes. This time, I had one, cut it in tiny pieces and ate it with a fork full of rice. I may have looked ridiculous cutting and eating tiny pieces and rice but hey, I never lost the ability to speak so it was worth it. I win! Next up…restaurant week!

The Insulator

Winter is coming and I needed an appropriate coat. I am a commuter. I drive to work. Then I take a train. Then I walk four blocks to my office. It will have to be a very special coat. It has to be warm. It has to have room to move. It has to be long enough to cover my tush while sitting on the train. It has to be water repellent so I can wear it in the snow and rain. Naturally, I was taking my time picking my new coat. I had just started my search when my husband and sons bought me a coat for my birthday. It was a beautiful coat. It was deep purple which is my favorite color. It was long, and warm and just about perfect. It had a double zipper. Normally this would be a wonderful thing. It enables the wearer to zip it from the bottom as well as the top. The first time I put the coat on I didn’t zip it. The next time I wore it, I went to zip it and couldn’t. I tried it several times and couldn’t get the zipper to stay together. I held on to the bottom and tried again. No luck.

 This was a little embarrassing and more than a tad annoying. I took the coat off, laid it on the couch and zipped it right up with no problem. Clearly, the zipper was working just fine and the problem was me. I decided that the issue was clearly mine, and not really an issue at all. At fifty-four years old I was quite comfortable with my ability to zip. I would just ignore it and so the coat got hung in the closet until it was needed. Six weeks later, I am getting ready for work at 6:30 am. and I couldn’t get the zipper to work. At this point I am getting a tad frantic. I have a train to catch. There is no time to play with the zipper. My oldest son, who is twenty-six, offered to help. Since frenzy is now if full bloom, I accepted his offer. He had no problem zipping it. Again, it is my zipper issue. I thought about the dilemma all the way to work. I decided not to unzip the coat to take it off just in case I couldn’t rezip it. I closed my office door even though there was no one there but me. You never know when someone will come walking in with me holding my coat over my head. It was as ugly as I thought it would be. I slid it up over my head, my shirt riding up, and my hair looking like I had just towel dried it. Thankfully no one else had to witness the non-zip un-coating.

 It was at the moment that I was slipping it over my head that I decided that I would not be undone by a zipper. I would practice zipping. I get the absurdity of the situation. A grown woman should not have to practice zipping. However, I am determined. This zipper will not get the best of me. I practiced. Several times. I laid the coat down and practiced it. Up, down, zip, repeat, up, down, zip. I had mastered it while it was laying flat on the couch. It never occurred to me that the problem was happening only while I had the coat on. I just couldn’t zip the coat when it was on. I tried different ways to zip it while wearing it. After many tries, I settled on a method that I like to call “the choking coat method”. It requires putting the coat on, pulling both sides up to your chin, holding both sides very tightly and then getting the zipper started. Once the zipper is started you pull the coat down in the normal position and zip the rest of the way. All in all, it was humiliating but the coat was gorgeous and worth it. I thought I would gradually get the hang of the zipper.

After my newly found coat zipping confidence, I decided to wear the coat to work. Not only did I wear the coat to work, but I unzipped it and hung it up like a normal coat. Unfortunately at the end of the day, I couldn’t get the zipper to work. I even tried the “choking coat method” to no avail. I wore the coat home unzipped and held together with the snaps and fuming the entire way. Did I mention the fuming? When I got home, I googled the coat and zipper. As it turns out it was a double zipper but this was not the problem. It was a zipper on the left side of the coat. There had been several hundred complaints about the zipper in this coat. There had been so many complaints that there was instructions on how to zip the coat on the website. I was vindicated! Clearly I was not a coat idiot. My joy was short-lived. I still did not have a workable winter coat. This coat was going back. Hubby was not happy but understood. He had put a lot of thought into the purchase. My son assured him that he had the pleasure of watching me practice the zipping, having to zip it for me, and watching me take it over my head to get it off and that the coat should be returned. I repackaged it and my son took it to the shipping store and sent it back. A few days from then would be Black Friday. I found another coat that didn’t have the left sided double zipper. It was half price. I bought my new coat. All seemed right with the world. It was getting really cold, snow was on the way and I was ready.

 I wore my new coat to work. It was wonderful. It was warm, long, easy to zip and unzip, waterproof and everything I wanted. A few weeks later, I had an allergy attack. After a week of self-medicating I went to the doctor. She said it was all allergies. She asked if I had done anything different. Did I eat any new foods or get any new clothes? Excuse me? New clothes you say? Like my new down, super warm, long, waterproof coat? Apparently I am allergic to down. My husband reminded me that twenty years before we had gotten a beautiful, white, down comforter that we had to put in the attic because I was allergic to it. The doctor suggested that I not wear the coat for a week, and see if the problem resolves itself, wear it again and if the problem recurs it is the coat. I did and it was. I hate it when that happens.

Coat number two was returned to the store. They were very understanding and sympathetic. I was not happy. Store number two did have a down alternative. It is called “The Insulator”. I swear. It is pretty much exactly the same as coat number two except it has no down. It has some sort of super secret synthetic insulation. Needless to say, I ordered it right there in the store. They will ship it for free to my house. This is turning out better than I thought. By the time I got home, there was an email waiting for me telling me that my “Insulator” coat order had been processed and should I want to add anything to the order I had until ten pm that night to do so for free. The mail had also come and lo and behold a catalog from the same store had arrived. There was a silk and knit shirt on sale. It was 16.99 marked down from 60. I ordered two of them. They were sort of a consolation prize for the coat aggravation. Finally, the Insulator arrived. I have never been as excited to get a coat, as I was to get The Insulator. It is long, warm, covers all body parts needed, has a huge hood, is waterproof, has a manageable zipper and no down. Of course it was 50 degrees this week but I am wearing it anyway. Insulate away.  Apparently The Insulator keeps you warm from 45 degrees to minus 10 degrees. What’s 5 degrees among friends?  I was anxious to put the whole humiliating, unable to zip, give myself an allergy attack, and get a new coat incident behind me. I know that there are other women who have suffered with the inability to zip but even knowing that, I still felt that this was clearly a reflection on me. Right up until I was having a conversation with my sister in law. I was complaining about being unable to zip and unzip the coat, having to send the coat back and then the bombshell. She has one of these coats and can’t zip hers either. She tried it a few times and gave up. She makes her husband zip the coat. Of course they are retired so it may not be the problem for her that it is for me. She just doesn’t wear the coat unless he is available. My husband and I are not retired and unfortunately work the same shift so he is generally not available to accompany me to work to zip the coat. I looked for a support group or at the least an instructional class, Zipping 101 but there are none. I am wondering if I started one how many women would show up? Perhaps I could make a part time job out of it or maybe a new career. I could see an infomercial. I envision only 29.99 for the secret of zipping, and if you buy it in the next thirty minutes free shipping. I guess I should start practicing again.

I Want to be a Moose

I want to be a moose. My mother always told me that I could be anything that I wanted to be. She was suffering from the delusions of the 60’s. Apparently she was not well versed in the rules of moosedom. They don’t let girls be moose. I guess they have some sort of female equivalent. Moosets perhaps. I don’t want to be a moosette. I want to be a moose. I find moose absolutely fascinating.

A good friend of mine is a moose. He invited myself and the family to the moose lodge for their weekly dinner. I was as excited as I have ever been about any dinner. I didn’t have to cook it, serve it or clean it. That makes it gourmet in my universe. The kids wanted to know all about the moose and their lodge. Of course, I can’t answer those questions. I must admit that I too was curious about the real goings on inside the moose lodge. I have visions of Fred Flinstone and Barney Ruble or maybe Ralph Cramden, even though he was a buffalo not a moose. Is there really a secret handshake? And what about the hats? Who picks them out? Do they have a committee of hat people? A secret handshake subcommittee that tries out all of the prospective handshakes and narrows it down to a few choices? Do they have a handshake-off? Who are the judges and are their decisions final? I was anxious to actually get to go inside the moose lodge.

We arrived and our friend, Chief, was waiting. He gave hubby some cute little things called moose bucks. Picture monopoly money with a picture of a mini moose on it. He was explaining to hubby about using moose bucks. Each moose buck is worth $3.00. You use them to pay for your dinner. Hubby didn’t understand why you had to turn in real money to get fake money and have to calculate back the dollar value of the meal and how many moose bucks it would take. We were all confused. Chief, who is well skilled in the art of moose buck calculations, helped us out. I laughed. One look at the money with the picture of the moose and I couldn’t control myself. The laughter came from out of nowhere and I couldn’t stop it. I tried. And then I would look at the fake mini moose money and loose it again. My children were giving me that “You are embarrassing us and we will hate you forever if you don’t stop right this instant“ look. The thing that would send me into fits of laughter faster than anything else is that on the moose buck is the notation under the lettering that says “This note good ONLY for purchases in your lodge” I am so glad they explained that to me. What if I had been confused and mixed up the moose money and Geoffrey money. I have visions of being carted off to jail as I try to make my purchase at Toys R Us with moose money instead of Geoffrey money. I can see the headline. MOOSETTE ARRESTED AT TOYS R US, PLEADS CONFUSION. I had to walk away. I finally managed to gain control of my senses and in we went. The tension was building.

The kids were excited. The mystery was solved. There in front of them was the inside of the moose lodge. It was a big dining hall. There were long tables with food set out on one side of the room and tables with place settings covering the rest of the room. They kept looking around trying to find something mysterious and out of place. They just knew there was something there that they weren’t being told. They watched and waited and ate. And watched and waited and ate. And ate some more. Then it was over. No mystery. No secret society. Just a group of people having a nice dinner together like old friends do. I felt kind of bad for the kids. They didn’t even get to see the secret handshake.

What Have You Done With My Hood?

I am a big believer in higher education. I currently have two children in the higher education system. One is in graduate school and one is an undergraduate. I have learned a few things along their rode to higher education. The simplest thing I have learned is that the more you pay, the less you get. The more money spent in tuition, fees, housing, fees, food, and did I mention fees, the less you get. And as a bonus the more of those items you pay, the less time your child actually spends in the school. I would love to have invented the system. They start in September but only attend class for between twelve and eighteen hours a week depending on how many credits they take while I work forty hours a week. They get around a month off at Christmas while I work forty hours a week. They get another week off in March or April for spring break, because it has been almost six weeks since they went back and there is no need to over work the little buggers. Then they are done in May. Really?

My best friend and I have the whole child in higher education experience sharing experience. It is one of the ties that bind. She also has one in graduate school, one graduated, and one currently in undergraduate studies. She knows the drill. Knowing the drill doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

All of our kids were members of various societies and clubs in high school. They are lovely organizations. They don’t cost anything to belong. Each of the kids got certificates and pins. They also got a cord at graduation. College is a different ball game altogether. The college that my oldest son attended gave cords for each achievement such as being an honors student, and a hood for each school within the University. They didn’t really give the cords and the hood, they charged a graduation fee and the cords and the hood were included. The fee was not optional. As parents it is our responsibility to believe that the cords and hood are free. We are in denial. It is what we do. Denial is a critical part of the acceptance process. The cord and hood situation was the same with her oldest son as with mine. Her youngest son was a different story. His college gave a cord and charged separately for a hood. Unfortunately, she did not know this.

She discovered this at graduation. How do I know this you might wonder? I was in Staples the day he graduated. My cell phone rang and it was my very frantic best friend wanting to know if my son had a hood when he graduated. I asked her how graduation was, because I assumed that it was over. Wrong. She is now whispering in the phone, in a tone that can only be described as exorcist-like and anger-filled that she was in the ceremony as she was talking and her son wasn’t wearing a hood. She was reading the graduation pamphlet that described how each school within the University had its’ own hood. Junior did not have a hood. The universe had screwed up because he was graduating and had no hood. Being the good friend I am, and sensing the pure anger in her voice I said no my son did not have a hood when he graduated. He had multiple cords but no hood. She insisted that I call my son and ask him. Again being the good friend that I am, I told her I would. I was sure he didn’t have a hood. Wrong again. He did have a hood. I’m not exactly sure what kind of Mother that makes me that I didn’t remember that my first-born child had a hood when he graduated from college, but I am good with it. She actually called me back. She was still in graduation, still using the exorcist voice and still wanted to know. Now the moment of truth arrives. Do I lie to her to calm her down or do I tell her the truth? I probably should have lied, but I don’t lie for a few very simple reasons. I don’t like to be lied to and if I can’t remember that my son was wearing a hood when he graduated from college, I am likely to not remember other things making life really complicated. I went with the truth. Now here is my friend, watching her son graduate from college, and on the phone, obsessed about the fact that he doesn’t have a hood. Eventually we got off the phone and she watched the graduation with steam coming from her ears. I insisted that she call me when she gets back to her hotel. I just want to know for sure that she has not gotten arrested for Hood violence.

Not being one to let things roll off of her shoulders, she decided to right the wrong and get Junior the hood that he was obviously entitled to. It said very clearly in the graduation pamphlet that he should have a hood from his college. She would work her way up but she would get the hood. She was told that she could indeed order the hood for him after graduation from the bookstore, but she would have to pay for it. This fact she learned from a secretary in one of the many offices she called to express her displeasure. She politely explained that she had paid some one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for his education and they should throw the hood it for free. She shared that philosophy with everyone from the secretary in the bursar’s office all the way the secretary in the president’s office. Everyone agreed but she would still have to pay. Needless to say, she never got the hood.

Fast forward two years. Her son has graduated. He is living at home, working and saving for a future. She has forgotten about the hood and then low and behold a letter arrives for her from Junior’s college. It explains the importance of donations from alumnae and parents of alumnae in funding scholarships for students who can’t afford the wonderful education that her son got. It is heart felt. She very calmly picks up her pen and writes “NO HOOD, NO DONATION!” This time when she calls to tell me about the hood, she is laughing. She got the last laugh. They got the hood.

The Hair on My Chinny, Chin, Chin......

I currently have an obsession with my facial hair. Since menopause started, most of the excess hair has migrated to my lip and chin. It is not a pretty picture. I am not sure why it suddenly decided that my lip and chin are the place to go but there it is. This is war and I intend to win! This lovely hair on my lip and chin has gotten considerably worse since menopause has reared its ugly head. Don’t get me wrong; I have always been relatively hairy. And it was never the light, peach fuzz kind of hair. No, it is the jet-black, course, old Italian woman, kind of hair. So I wax. I wax a lot.

Although I am not a do –it-yourself kind of person, this seemed as if it was a task I could in fact not just do, but master, and eventually excel. I also decided that this could save me money. This is a potential win-win situation. When I lost my job, I cut out everything imaginable, except waxing. This was not a point of negotiation. I waited twice as long between waxing, but I waxed.

I have been back to work for quite a while, but the possibility of doing my own waxing has stuck with me. It has in fact taken on a life of it’s own. How hard can this be? You put wax on your lip, cover it with cloth and rip off the cloth. Repeat the process for the rest of your face. It doesn’t seem particularly difficult. I have been watching others do this to me for years. I decided to bring my idea out in the open. I mentioned it to a co-worker. The conversation had turned to salons that we all use, who we like and who we don’t. She mentioned that she does her own waxing. She told me which products she uses and that she has sensitive skin. I am getting on board with this idea. I am a reasonable, intelligent woman and should not have to pay someone to wax my lip. I thought briefly about getting an electric razor and just shaving. I decided against that. I am not sure why women don’t shave their faces, which is relatively painless and instead choose to rip the hair out, but I am not one to change the course of history.

I also decided to be smart about this and do a test patch. I bought a name brand waxing kit, opened it, read the directions and waxed a test part. When I pulled off the strip, it felt a little weird but there was no reaction. I watched for two days. A little irritation but no noticeable reaction. I am good to go. Saturday is going to be the day. I will do it then because if there is a problem, I will still have two days before I go back to work. I will have my own built in wiggle room. It is after all my face.

I sat on the deck in the bright sunlight; mirror ready and little wax strips ready to go. I warmed the strips, applied them and pulled them off. Then I looked in the mirror and saw patches of hair that still remained. I warmed more, applied more and pulled more. Finally finished I looked in the mirror and there was a huge red spot staring me back. I applied the post wax soothing oil that comes with the kit. It soothed but it didn’t get rid of the huge red spot. No problem, I will cover the huge red spot with make-up and go about my business. This was probably not my best idea. When I removed the make-up a few hours later the huge red spot was now a huge red spot with what appeared to be little scabs on it. This is a look that I was not going for. I prayed. Dear karmic universe, please let the scabs be gone from my face tomorrow when I wake up. The next morning the little scab things are big scab, dark things. The karmic universe was not listening. I am on a quest for what exactly to apply to the huge red spot with the big, dark scab things. This is not on any label of any of the creams that I have in my house. Not one mentions red spots with dark scabs. Several mention red spots, or scabs but none mentions both. I settle on cortisone cream. I apply liberally and often. The next day the scabs are smaller and the huge red spot now looks like I have marbles in my cheek. I have to go to work so I have to try and cover it with make-up. Funny thing about huge red spots with scabs that looks like you have marbles in your cheek. When you apply make-up you can cover the scabs but you still look like you have marbles in your cheek. Sadly, this is an improvement. I decide to make the best of it. I will ignore it. If I pretend it is not there, then it isn’t. Yes, I know this is possibly the most ridiculous way of looking at it however; there really isn’t much else to be done. I have a huge lump on my cheek and I have to go to work. I have had a lot of practice at denial. I am currently pretending that the ashes of my dead Mother are not on a nightstand in my Dad’s room, which coincidentally is in my home. I am also currently pretending that above the ashes that aren’t there are pictures of the deceased in a memorial type of area. I am very good that this whole denial thing.

I do my best cover-up, make-up job and go to work. Nine hours later not one of my co-workers has mentioned the large lump. I periodically checked on the status of my fat face in the mirror. It was definitely still there. I guess there is no polite way to bring up in a conversation that a co-worker suddenly has a fat face. “Excuse me Michelle, but when did your face start to get fat? “ Not a chance of that happening. I really like these people. They may have all noticed it but no one said a word. By that night the lump had gone down, but the former huge spot had dried out and not looked like a piece of round sandpaper on my face. Really, karmic universe? Lucky for me I can cover the sandpaper with make-up the next day. By the end of day four the huge spot, the scabs and the sandpaper are all gone. I am examining myself in the mirror with the 30x magnification. The same mirror that I used when I waxed and there are still patches of hair in miscellaneous spots on my chin. This is war and I am definitely not winning! Michelle 0 facial hair ..1. I am sensing a new electric shaver in my future.

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

I like to exercise. I admit it. I like the way I look when I get done. I like the way I feel when I am pushing my body. I like the way I focus on one thing while I am exercising unlike the rest of my life, which is a massive effort in multi-tasking. I felt like my exercise had reached a plateau so I started looking for ways to jazz it up a little. That is exercise speak for I’m about to attempt an exercise that will hurt me. I know this but I am going to do it anyway. Because of my attempt to jazz it up, my muscles were sore and stretching was not helping. Time was not healing all wounds. Whatever muscular disarray I had caused was not going away on it’s own. It needed help. A friend suggested I buy one of those foam rollers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had actually purchased one a while ago and it was currently being used to plug a hole in my wall.

I first saw it in a fitness magazine. The person in the magazine looked so relaxed when she was rolling. She is a famous athlete so she has a built in credibility. The article stated that this roller worked out all of her sore spots and how wonderful it was. I wanted to look that relaxed after a workout. I look, shall we say, less than content when I am done working out. It has been described by those who have witnessed the phenomenon , as looking like I had been run over by a truck. I have sore muscles and thought I had discovered the mother lode.

The next morning I am ready to have my muscles massaged and all of my sore spots rolled out. I could make a commercial for this thing and I haven’t actually gotten on it yet. I set up my mat and start to roll. It hurts. I stop rolling. I get out the DVD that came with the roller. I pop it in and attempt to follow. It still hurts. It hurts down to the bone hurts. No one on the DVD is grimacing in pain. I am thinking that even though I am doing what the lady on the tape is doing that I am doing something wrong. I am thinking that I am an idiot. I am wondering how smart I need to be so that I can roll over a piece of foam without shooting pains in my legs. Apparently not smart enough, because she is smiling and talking. I am neither smiling nor talking. The words that were coming out of my mouth would not have been considered talking in any universe. I immediately stopped. I am not a no pain, no gain kind of lady. I am more of the some pain, stop immediately, and get a message, kind of lady. So I stopped.

I put the roller away into the pile of best of intentions exercise equipment that I possess. From there it was given a new job. We had some construction going on in our house and the roller was used to plug a hole in a vent so dust didn’t get into the room. It was there for several months. It worked fine and there was no pain involved. My sore muscles continued to be sore. I felt guilty. The poor roller has done nothing wrong and yet it is stuffed in a vent. Months passed and the foam roller had served loyally by plugging the hole. The construction was finished and the roller was out of the wall. It was just sort of laying around staring at me. It’s bright red so it’s not like I could avoided seeing it.

The aches and pain continued. I call a muscle therapist. He is on vacation. I take a quick glance at the roller and decide to call his back up instead. The back up therapist is not available for several weeks. She is trying to be helpful and she suggests that I buy a foam roller because it can work out the soreness. I gleefully tell her that I already have one. She then proceeds right to the “don’t you just love it?” conversation. I have to inform her sadly that I was using it incorrectly because it hurt. Badly. She starts to laugh and catches herself. Then she informs me in her best yogi, we are all one humanity voice, that it does hurt and it often hurts badly. She tells me that you roll over the sore spots and you keep rolling over them. When the muscles are stretched out the pain goes away and you move on to the next group. This was nowhere on the package, in the DVD or on any of the instructions. I was shocked. Surely, someone, somewhere, at some point in time would have thought that this warranted a mention, a blip or a remark. Nope, it didn’t happen. I was delighted. I thought I was an idiot. I decided to give it another try.

The next morning my roller and I are ready to go. I place it gently on the mat and proceed to roll. It hurts. It hurts badly. It keeps hurting and I keep rolling through it. If anyone every makes a video of me using this roller I will be famous and not in a good way. As it turns out I am so not graceful using this piece of equipment. Here’s a fun fact. Rollers are round and surprise, they roll. Here’s another fun fact. I am not round. When I roll on the roller, I fall off. It’s not exactly falling. It’s more like thumping. Actually it’s more like thump, thump, followed by a thud. In order to not roll off, I have to hold my upper body up using my arms, which are bent behind me. This is a picture that will set the exercise field back twenty years. You will never, ever see this on an exercise video. Appropriately, it was also missing from the DVD. I suspect it was with the part of the instructions that mentions pain. It would have frightened the viewers. None of the instructors rolled themselves off. Not one of them made the thump, thump thud sound. That discovery understood, I continue to roll. I start to sweat. Profusely. I am waiting for the relaxing part to start. The pain starts to subside. It never feels good. It is a hard foam roller. I have no idea how those lovely folks on the DVD did this smiling. My mind immediately thinks that perhaps they are on something. They have given me no indication of this. They are not slurring their words or tripping over themselves. It is me. I am just convinced that no normal human can roll on this thing and smile and so naturally my mind goes to illegal drug use. Alrighty then.

It took me about fifteen minutes to roll out my whole body. After I was done I stretched. My stretches didn’t hurt. They stretched and they stretched deeply. This painful thing actually worked. My muscles were less sore. I did it again a few hours later being sure to roll several times over the sore spots or as I like to call them the no pain, no gain spots. The muscles responded even quicker than the first time. It still does not feel good but it works. I completed the routine. I was not smiling but I wasn’t cursing either. Even when your muscles aren’t sore the roller does not feel good. I have been telling my kids for years to aim high. This roller is the equivalent of aiming really low. This is clearly aiming for the ground instead of the stars.

A few weeks later, Hubby’s birthday was upon us. I had gotten his gifts and ordered his cake. The night before I happened to be in a bookstore picking up a book for my son for school. I always check the exercise section. It is a moderate obsession. If the folks who sell exercise stuff that is “just for TV” ever want a review, I am their go-to gal. There was a container with these two small vinyl balls. It is a system for helping sore muscles. This system was developed by a dancer. You put the balls under the sore area and lay on them. Then you breathe deeply. This is not a complicated system. I can do this. I wanted to buy one for myself. After reading the literature on the package it made sense to me. After thoughtful consideration I decided to buy one. I really wanted to try this system after my great success with the foam roller that I have affectionately dubbed the roll of torture. I bought one, wrapped it and gave it to hubby. He may eventually try it. I have used it a dozen times. After using the roll of torture, I use the nice soft squishy balls. I love the soft squishy balls. They are like a soothing massage, especially after using the roll of torture. I try to use the roll of torture and the soft squishy balls the same way I exercise, by myself, and in a slightly dark room. I am not a gym gal. I don’t dress to sweat. I don’t chat while exercising. My children know this. They ignore me while I am exercising. It is an agreement that we have. For some reason, my son has decided to walk in the room while I am using the lay on the balls and breathe system, and wants to know why I am laying on the floor? He felt the need to point out that I looked semi –ridiculous .He did not realize that I was using the soft squishy balls.
“I am laying on Dad’s balls and they are wonderful so move along!” You won’t see that on any DVD either.

I Like Mine Dead, Headless and Wrapped in Plastic

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!

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.

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.

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 .

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.

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.

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.

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.