It’s Like They Knew…

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fashion sense, Getting your husband to get rid of his sweatpants, GQ magazine fashion advice, How to get your husband to dress better, humor, men wearing sweatpants, teenage girls don't think you are cool, too old to care what you wear, women wearing teen clothing

There are several articles floating around the Internet and Facebook that have a title like: What Women Over Forty Should Never Wear. If you click on the post, you might find a tirade about women being able to wear whatever they hell they want for as long as they want.

I am all for that kind of freedom of expression. I want women to feel their best and be comfortable in their own skin—or to wear whatever they want. Some of my friends in their late 40’s and early 50’s still dress as if they’re sharing closets with their teenage daughters. I don’t judge them. Well, maybe I do—a little. But, I’m not saying they SHOULDN’T dress like a sixteen-year-old if they choose to do so. But this got me thinking…

I don’t think shopping at Forever 21
is a sin after a certain age, but maybe, just maybe, you might be fooling yourself into thinking that if you still fit into a size two, then by-god, you can rock a mini-dress with side cutouts just like a Kardashian. And technically, you might still fit into such attire. But, what is it you’re trying to convey? Do you hope everyone will mistake you for someone much younger? I have never seen this technique work. Let’s be realistic. Everyone will still see you as a forty-something wearing a dress made for a much younger person.

teenage girls pic courtesty of Jason Stitt via dreamstime.com/free

At a certain point, you almost accentuate your age by dressing too young.

Newsflash: the teenage girls wearing the same clothes you are wearing are not impressed. They will not invite you into their club.

I remember being at a wedding when I was in my twenties. A friend and I were standing in line for a drink at the bar. A model-thin woman was in front of us wearing a black, short, backless mini-dress, and stiletto high heels. She had long, blond hair (in the days of big hair and hairspray) that hung down her back in platinum Farrah Fawcett-feathers. I remember thinking how pretty she looked from behind. BUT THEN…

She got her drink from the bar and turned around. I’m sure my eyes popped open in disbelief. I tried to cover up my surprise, but I was kinda stunned. When she turned around—the woman’s face did not match her hair or her clothing. It was jarring.  I might have stood there with my mouth open for a second or two before my friend elbowed me and I realized it was our turn to order drinks.

Before anyone accuses me of being jealous of this older woman, I could’ve stepped into her entire outfit with no problem. AND that was part of the problem.  I remember feeling sort of cheated. I fully expected a beautiful, young woman to turn around and instead I got a face that had seen many decades in the sun—in the days before sunscreen. Looking back as an older woman, I must admit that I admire her confidence. But, at the time, I was stunned.

That image stayed with me for years. I asked myself why the encounter bothered me so much. I realized it was because her obvious display of wanting to be young made me sort of pity her. She seemed to try too hard to be ‘cool’ and it came off as tragically sad.  I honestly believe a middle-aged woman can be sexy without dressing like a twenty-something. I swear it’s possible.

So I ask you. Why do some women want to be cool  after a certain age? Shouldn’t the need to be ‘cool’ eventually wear off? I’m not talking about being confident here. Confidence is something altogether different.

I’ve spent my entire adult life surrounded by confident women. I’ve had many mentors who were self-possessed, classy ladies. I have seen older women look sexy and beautiful—but they were not trying to look like the girls on the cover of Cosmo or Vogue. The girls on the cover of fashion magazines are YOUNG. Very young. That magazine is selling the idea of youth.  But, let’s face it. Buying super trendy clothes isn’t going to buy back your youth.

I’m not saying that at a certain age we should breakout the beige granny panties and polyester pants. No way!! However, wearing black leather skinny jeans with holes sliced down the front (see pic at bottom) just because you can fit into them does not magically transport you back into your twenties. A word of caution:  The other women in your reading group/PTA/booster club might tell you how they wish they could fit into the skinny jeans and tight sweater you’re wearing, but that does not mean they think you look younger.

When I was in high school (waaay back in the 1980’s) a mom came to pick up her daughter from an after school drama club. This girl’s mom walked in wearing stonewashed jeans tucked into tall boots and had a red bandanna for a belt. A shiny gold Let’s-Get-Physical type headband was across her forehead. After she and her daughter left, the girls snickered. Why? Because teenage girls can be mean. Yeah, I giggled right along with them and hate myself for it. But, to make my point, we were never going to call her ‘cool.’ We would never think of her as ‘one of us.’

Perhaps we girls felt superior because a  (non-celebrity) adult was trying to emulate our fashion trends—and it seemed sort of pathetic to us. Looking back, I really do hate myself for being so shallow. But, what teenager isn’t the center of their own universe?

So back to what I was saying…

It seems that middle-age women sometimes will try to recapture their youth by dressing decades younger. But, the middle-age men (and even beyond middle age)…well, it seems a lot of them just stop trying altogether.

This weekend, my twenty-something son, my fifty-year-old husband, and I went to lunch downtown. My husband dropped us off at the door of the restaurant and then drove off to find parking. When my husband entered the restaurant, my son whispered to me, “Did you know he was wearing sweatpants?”

No. I. Did. Not.

“Is he, really?”

“Yes. He wears them everywhere, Mom. You should burn them.”

“I’d love to. But, he says they’re comfortable.”

“So, what? Just ‘lose’ them one day.”

And then it hit me. Wait a minute. My flannel pajama bottoms featuring skulls wearing pink hairbows are the most comfortable item of clothing on the planet—but I don’t wear them out in public. Why does he get a comfort-pass?

 AND thus began The Great Clothing Dispute of 2017.

After lunch, we got into the car and began to drive home. This is what transpired:

ME:  Your son thinks I ought to burn those sweatpants.

HIM:  No he doesn’t. Did you say that, Stephen?

SON: Thanks for throwing me under the bus, Mom. But, yeah, Dad. You really need to get rid of those. How long have you had them?

ME: They’re older than you are.

HIM: Sweatpants never go out of style.

ME and SON:  WHAT?!?

HIM: Their classics. Like jeans.

ME: They are nothing like jeans!

SON: Yeah, you’re right. They’re like classic acid-washed jeans. Just like that, Dad.

HIM: (Having no clue what acid-washed is and not sensing the sarcasm) Yeah. Exactly. Your mother doesn’t understand. They’re comfortable. And warm. They’re fleece-lined! That’s a sign of a good pair of sweats.

ME: You’re too old to be wearing sweatpants.

HIM: You’re never too old to wear sweatpants.

ME: Okay, fine. Then you’re too old to wear them out in public—or too young to wear them in the retirement home Day Room.

HIM: You’re being dramatic. Lots of men wear sweatpants.

ME: Not men who are over 45 but under 70.

HIM: Since when does age matter? Movie stars wear them.

ME: I don’t remember seeing George Clooney or Alec Baldwin wearing sweatpants. Let’s settle this argument. How about I Google it?

HIM: Are you kidding me?

Me:  No. (I pulled out my phone and Googled Men Wearing Sweatpants) Okay. Here’s an article in GQ Magazine. Let’s see what they have to say about it.

HIM: *Rolling his eyes*  Fine let the Internet decide whose right.

I quickly scrolled the GQ article and realized I was in trouble. The article was, in fact, in favor of classic gray sweatpants. I hadn’t thought about the youthful demographic of GQ when I had clicked on the article.

So, refusing to have my hubby’s beliefs validated by a well-known men’s’ fashion magazine, I decided right then and there that I’d have to change the article to suit my purpose. Since we were in the car, I’d have to do it off the cuff or lose the argument altogether—which would have meant he’d wear those hideous sweatpants everywhere just to prove a point.

ME:  Here’s the article from GQ. I’ll read it to you.

WHAT GQ ACTUALLY SAID:  Sweatpants are dangerous territory. The wrong cut, context or styling choices can give you an air of “I’ve given up completely” which is never something a man wants to project with his clothing.

I read that part verbatim. *Yay me!* I continued with the article.

GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID:   For photo evidence on how to avoid that connotation, look to 27-year-old trendsetter Zac Efron, who was photographed wearing the modern-guy staple at Heathrow Airport yesterday. Do you want to trick the world into thinking your incredibly comfortable pants are a stroke of fashion genius all while holding hands with a ridiculously good-looking person like Emily Ratajkowski?

WHAT I SAID:  Unless you are 27-year-old Zac Efron, STAY AWAY from sweatpants altogether. Sweatpants will NEVER be a stroke of fashion genius—not even if you’re walking through Heathrow airport holding hands with a ridiculously good-looking person like Emily Ratajkowski.

HIM:  Who’s Emily Ratatouille?

Me: That’s not important. Did you hear what GQ said?

HIM:  Whatever.

Me:  Let me continue.

WHAT GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID:  Do not go to Costco and pick up any ol’ pair of gray, elastic-waist sweats and think that’s going to cut it. Your best bet is to look to a retailer that’s known for its sartorial curation like Mr Porter, Barneys, Matches, or one of those stores. You can pretty much guarantee that those sweats will be stylish sweats. We’re partial to athletic styling and darker-than-heather-grey colors but we’ll leave that part up to you.

WHAT I SAID:  Do not wear your Costco blue, elastic-waist sweatpants EVER. That’s never going to cut it. Sweats will NEVER be stylish. NEVER—no matter if they are athletic cut or darker than heather gray. If you own a pair and are over the age of 27, take them out to the garage, find lighter fluid, matches, and a big metal bin. Douse said sweats with fluid and light a match. Bury the ashes in the yard along with any photographic evidence of you wearing such a heinous fashion choice.

WHAT GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID: Once you own these magic pants, you’re going to want to wear them all the time. Limit yourself to the most casual settings and occasions. Running errands on a Sunday morning, heading out to the gym in the evening, hopping on a plane with your significant other—you get the idea. (Note: If you live in Los Angeles, you can wear them pretty much all the time.)

Me: (Thinking) C’mon GQ!! You are not helping here!

WHAT I SAID:  These are NOT magic pants. There is no way they will ever look good–no matter how comfortable they are. Running errands on a Sunday morning, heading out in the evening, hopping a plane with your significant other is NO EXCUSE to be caught wearing a wretched excuse for pants. No one in Los Angeles would be caught dead wearing these. They might actually laugh you out of California–so do not try it.

WHAT GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID:  Don’t be the guy at the bodega on Saturday morning in sweats and shearling-lined house slippers, ordering an egg sandwich like no one else in the world exists. Take a cue from Zac Efron. Style the sweats with likeminded day-off staples—a carefully chosen vintage t-shirt and a well-fitting hoodie or pullover—and a pair of top-shelf sneakers.

WHAT I SAID:  Don’t be the guy at the bodega on Saturday morning in sweats—even if they are shear-lined with the warmest fleece. Come on. Why are you ordering an egg sandwich like no one else in the world exists? The people you are with are mortified. Trust us. We are the fashion experts. We would never say it if it weren’t true. So, unless you are Zac Efron, (or any twenty-seven-year old with washboard abs who would look good in absolutely anything even a pair of footy-pajamas) lose the baggy, saggy, noisy-when-you-walk, Oh-So-Sad sweatpants–no matter how comfortable they are. Remember: They are devil-pants. The first chance you get, take the pair of despicable pajama-wannabes and discard them. While you’re at it, take those holey t-shirts that you call ‘vintage’ and that faded NFL pullover sweatshirt with the frayed and out-of-shape-collar from your closet and toss them into a fire pit. Invite your neighbors over for a drink and s’mores. Watch the repugnant clothing burn. If you are over fifty…it’s way overdue. Act today. Note: You can keep your top-shelf sneakers.

HIM: That’s so weird. It’s like they knew you hated my Broncos sweatshirt, too!

ME: Yeah, that is so weird. It is like they knew or something…

 

 

Reference: For entire GQ Article click link below:

http://www.gq.com/story/mens-sweatpants-styling-tips-zac-efron

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There’s No Place Like Home

Tags

ghost stories, ghosts, glass shattered, Haunted houses, heavy sleeper, Historic houses, light sleeper, noises in the night, real ghost stories

This isn’t my normal blog, so forgive any typos or grammatical errors. I don’t have time to edit. I just want to tell you a quick little story. A ghost story. A real ghost story.

We live in a beautiful, historic house and I love it. It’s got character and more than a few strange quirks…like doors that don’t stay shut, blinds that flutter for no reason and lights that come on downstairs after we go to bed. Once, our bedroom lights turned on at 1:15 in the morning. It woke us up. The lights stayed on for a moment, flickered, turned off, turned on again and then remained off.

Now, I’m a very light sleeper. If the kids get up to use the bathroom, I wake up. If the dog starts chewing a bone in her crate, I wake up. If Gerald gets up to get a drink of water, I wake up. Trust me. I hear everything.

We’d been in bed for a couple of hours when Gerald bolted upright and woke me from a dead-sleep. When something jolts me awake, I am completely and immediately wide-awake and alert.

“Who’s there? Who’s there?” Gerald asked.

I immediately thought one of the kids must’ve come into the room and instantly went into mommy-mode. I thought, “Someone must be sick.” But, before I moved, Gerald said even more emphatically, “Who’s there?!”

At that point, I remembered we’d closed and locked our bedroom door, so I knew it was not one of the boys. Before I could remind him the door was locked, he shouts, “What the hell? Answer me!” He switched on the bedside lamp.
“Gerald! What’s wrong?”
“Someone was here.”
“No one was here.”
“Yes, there was!”
“No. You were dreaming. Go back to sleep.”
“I am not dreaming. Someone was just…walking around in here. Walked in front of the bed a couple of times. You didn’t hear footsteps?”
“What? No. You’re dreaming. I would’ve heard footsteps. I hear everything.”
“I was not dreaming. Someone was here. Someone walked back and forth in front of the bed.

“The door is locked, Gerald. No one was in here.” His eyes grew wide; he realized how weird everything had just become. He cleared his throat and tried to act normal. “Umm…I guess…maybe I was dreaming.”

I was totally freaked out, but I convinced myself if there had been any noise whatsoever, I would’ve heard it since I am such an ultra-light sleeper. He had to have been dreaming.
Eventually we went back to sleep.

An hour later, I jumped up and threw back the covers. A jolt of adrenaline shocked my system like a bolt of lightning. “What the hell was that?”
Gerald sat up next to me and groggily asked, “What’s happening?”

“Didn’t you hear that? Something just shattered.”
He switched on the light again and we looked around the room. Nothing was wrong. Nothing had moved or fallen. Door was still closed and locked.
“I didn’t hear anything, Kristine. Now you were dreaming.”
“How could you not hear that? Something shattered in this room.”

 “Everything is fine, Kristine. You’re just scaring yourself.”
“No, I’m not. I heard it. I swear. It was real.”
“You had to be dreaming. Let’s just go back to sleep.”
“Okay. Fine.” Maybe I dreamt the noise.

Except—
After my shower the next morning, I sat down at the vanity table in my bedroom to put on my make-up. The one-inch-thick custom-made glass that covered the antique vanity table had been broken. Not just cracked —half of it had been shattered into several pieces. If you have had those glass protectors made for your furniture, you know they are extremely thick and durable. This particular glass protector made it through four moves across country without a scratch–it’s that sturdy.

After Gerald came home from work that evening, I asked him, “So…still think you heard someone walking in front of our bed?”
My fearless warrior, super-confident, not-afraid-of-that-kind-of-thing, doesn’t-believe-in-any-of-that-stuff, husband mumbled, “Well…I heard something.”
“Yeah? Like what? Still think it sounded like someone walking in our room?”
He wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. He just shook his head indicating he didn’t want to talk about it.

So, naturally, I kept talking about it.
“Well, come take a look at the vanity.”
He stared at it, his brow wrinkled. He scratched his head.
“I told you I heard something shatter.”
“Wow.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Is it under the vent or something? Maybe it got too cold? Too hot?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right. A mighty blast of a heater set at 69 degrees can do that kind of damage. Admit it. That’s some scary stuff right there.”
He scoffed. “Probably had a chip in it we didn’t notice. House settled…”
“You know as well as I do, there was no chip in that glass yesterday.”

We still do not have any explanation for the events that transpired that night.
Below is a picture of the vanity top. I did not move the glass before I took this picture. The one piece on top of another is exactly like I found it. Not only was it broken…but the big piece ‘landed’ in that strange position.

If you can explain how this happened in the middle of the night–on the same night my husband swore someone was walking in front of our bed, I’d like to hear it. I’m sure he’d like to hear it, too.

Always Take A Wingwoman or The Things He Doesn’t Say Are Important

Tags

ball gowns, bling-freak, cocktail dresses, cold hard truth, formal dresses, formal occasion, military balls, purple satin, shopping with your husband

Last September one of my best friends and I went to a department store because she needed to buy a dress for a formal occasion.  It just so happened I would not be attending that particular function due to an out-of-town trip, but it was one of the few I missed in the last several years.  Consequently, I’ve amassed a pretty good collection of formal dresses.

I’m a girlie-girl-rhinestone-loving-bling-freak, so I love these dress-up military-ball-type occasions.  However, for this shopping excursion, I only went for moral support.  I was my friend Liz’s wingwoman.  We both agreed that trying on eveningwear and swimsuits should NEVER be done alone.  Always take someone with you who will tell you the cold, hard truth.  Another friend once said you need someone who will tell you that the bikini with the itty-bitty flowers isn’t a good choice because “the tiny periwinkles elongated into full-bloom hibiscus when stretched across your backside.”  Now that is a good wingwoman!

Liz and I picked out some dresses for her to try-on and we were on our way to the dressing room with our arms full.  Since I wasn’t there to buy anything, helping her was like playing dress-up.  Shopping for formalwear is always fun when you’re not under the gun to find a dress.

And then I saw it.

It.

The dress of my dreams.  My soul-dress.  I was drawn to its magnificence like magnet to steal.

“Where are you going?” Liz asked as I took a sharp right turn instead of walking straight into the dressing rooms.  I continued onward as though pulled by a trajectory beam.

Liz followed me.  “Are you okay?”

I might’ve drooled just a bit.

“Is…is…look.”  I couldn’t speak coherently so I whimpered and pointed before continuing to where the gown hung against the wall displaying all its glorious fabulousness.  I touched its sensual, deep-purple satin.  I ran my fingertips across the tiny sequins on the collar.  The ebony rhinestones around the edges dazzled my eyes.

Only one word came out of my mouth at that moment. “Mine.”

Liz laughed.  “You’re right.  That totally looks like you.”

And then, she said the words.

“You should try that on.”

I shivered.  “No, I can’t.  I don’t need another dress.  I’m not going to this ball, so I can’t.”  My eyes gazed longingly at the dress.  I couldn’t turn away.  The gown sparkled like a forbidden treasure gleaming under the pot-lights of the formalwear department in Dillards.  “No.  I better not.  I’m not looking for a dress.  I don’t need another one.”  I clutched the hanger to my chest, curled the long, soft hem over my arm and started walking toward the dressing room.  “No.  I shouldn’t.  I’m just here to help you find something to wear.  I’ll just sit in a chair and wait for you.  I can’t try anything on.”

I closed the dressing room door behind me.  “I really don’t have an excuse to buy a new dress.  I shouldn’t even look at it. Yeah, I’m going to put it back.”  I undressed.  The gown slid over my head and conformed to my body like a glove.  “Oh, Liz!  The fabric is so soft!  You should feel it!  Ohhhh!”

“Come out.  Let me see.”

“No.  I really shouldn’t.  Where would I wear it?”

“The Robert Burns dinner!”

Harps played, cherubs sang, a rainbow led me out of the dressing room stall.  She was right!

I stood in front of a three-way mirror surrounded by racks of never-going-to-be-as-good-as-the-thing-I-have-on-dresses. Fairy-dust cascaded around in multicolored showers, a spot-light warmed me from above.  Bluebirds flew overhead.

My beautiful gown purred with satisfaction as its purple silk curves gave me a gentle hug.  “I have found you at last.  We belong together,” the dress whispered in my ear.

Both Liz and the sales lady stood behind me making noises which drive women to buy things they don’t need.  “Ohh.” “Ahhh.”

“It fits you perfectly,” my friend said as cute woodland creatures surrounded her; a dove landed on her shoulder and cooed softly.

“Like it was made for you,” the saleslady added.  The forest animals’ eyes widened with wonder at the dress.

“I am.  I am made for you, Kristine.  Only you,” the dress whispered.

My eyes watered; heart pounded.  We loved each other, this dress and I.  “Yes, but I don’t have anywhere to wear you.  You’d hang in my closet and be so sad.”

“No, no, I would never be sad as long as we have each other.  Buy me.  Take me away from here before someone else buys me.  Do not abandon me to someone else’s closet.  You and I…we must be together.”

Did I mention my dress had a sexy French accent?  And a male voice?

The jeweled collar winked at me provocatively.  “Buy me.  You must.  Turn around.  See!  I make your butt look good.  How many other dresses can say that?  None, but me.  I am a magic dress.”

A stranger pushing a stroller did a double-take.  “Looks great on you.”  A random customer said, “Gorgeous.”

That’s all I needed.  Some unknown shopper pushed me past the point-of-no-return.  And because there is a no-return policy on evening gowns, it really was the point-of-no-return.  If I took the dress home and accidentally removed the tag, the dress was un-returnable!  In other words…mine, forever!

“I really shouldn’t…”

I took my prize home and hung it in my closet with a heavy sigh.  “I’ll see you again in March,” I said as I zipped up the garment bag.  “Only six months and we’ll be reunited.”  I pushed the plastic bag to the back of my closet.

Six months was forever.  It was like waiting for Christmas!

March finally arrived and I wore my soul-dress to the formal Robert Burns Day dinner.  The timing couldn’t be better for a writer to wear a magic butt-enhancing dress since Burns was a poet-extraordinaire and a huge womanizer.  I’m sure he would’ve written ‘Ode to Kristine’s Dress’ if he were still alive.

Taking off the dress made me sad.  I held off as long as I could, but eventually zipped it back into its protective covering.  “Goodbye, Dress.”

My husband stood behind me.  “Don’t worry, Berg, you’ll wear it again.”

“When?”

“Maybe next September at the Air Force Ball.”

I smiled.  “Yes, of course!  We’ll be at a different base by then and no one will have seen it.  You’re right!  My dress will be like new!”  I took off all the accessories and carefully stored them away.  Only six more months until me and my soul-dress could be reunited in all our purple, silky glory.

So, now it is September.  Time for The Air Force Ball.  The Biggie.  The most formal event of the year.  All new people.  A brand new base.  It’s Texas, so the pressure to bling-it-up is high.  Oh, sweet joy!  I can put on my enchanted dress and feel like a princess, a princess with a good butt…

Except–

For reasons I won’t go into here…my beloved garment is hidden away in some mysterious military storage facility under lock and key. (Along with everything else I own.)  No purple loveliness, no amethyst earrings, no rhinestone bracelet, no silver shoes with the little bit of bling on the strap.  No purple velvet clutch bag with the rhinestone clasp.  All of it.  Far from the safety of my closet, my dress lays in captivity within a cardboard ‘wardrobe box’ marked unceremoniously ‘Master Bedroom’ within a wooden crate, within a storage room, within a giant storage facility…somewhere, not here.

***

I set the invitation to the Air Force Ball down on the kitchen table and sighed.  I shrugged into a seat across from my husband and crossed my arms.  He read the invitation and placed the card back down on the placemat.  No expression.

“I thought we’d be in our house by now.  All my formals are in storage.”

“You didn’t pack a formal?”

I stared at him, mouth agape.  “What?”

“Didn’t you bring a formal dress with you?”

“How shortsighted of me.  I’ll remember to pack one from now on every time we move…just in case.  Never mind how we’ve moved fifteen times and I’ve never once needed a ball gown.  Fear not!  From now on, formalwear will be on my essentials list.”

“You brought a thousand dresses.  Won’t any of those do?”

My breath hitched.  It unnerved me when he knew I was about to have a meltdown and he stayed so annoyingly calm.  My cheeks turned warm, but I controlled myself.  “Umm…dearest…I brought sundresses and church dresses, things to wear to ‘official’ daytime functions.  Why on earth would I bring a formal gown?  I packed for this move in mid-May.”

“So?”

I clenched my jaw, gritted my teeth.  “There are no formals in May, June, July or August!  Why would I even think to bring one?”

“To be on the safe side?”

“Tell me you are joking! There’s a safe-side to packing a ball gown in May because I might need it at the end of September?”

His eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out why my voice was getting all pitchy and why his simple question set me on edge.  “So, what you’re saying is none of those dresses in your closet will work?”

“No! No! No!  Those are not formal dresses.  There’s a difference.  A formal dress is like my purple dress, the Robert Burns dress!”

He nodded, sat back in his chair and picked up his coffee cup.  “Ahh, I get it now.  This is about you not having your favorite dress.”

“No!…well, yes…but, no.  The fact is still the same.  I have nothing to wear.”

I uttered the phrase.  The one phrase which will make my husband’s eyes roll back in his head so fast it looks like he’s having a seizure.  I admit it’s one of those easy-to-push buttons a wife learns not to push unless her husband is sitting across from her analyzing her panic and assuming it’s over a favorite dress and she’s so angry because he’s right, it is over not having her favorite dress and therefore, he’s so wrong to point that out to her.

“I have nothing to wear,” I repeated.

So, yeah.  I brought out the nukes.  I leaned back and sipped my coffee waiting for his inevitable combustion.  I counted down in my mind and waited for his eyes to come back from the back of his skull.  10, 9, 8,…

“You have a whole closet full of dresses!  How can you possibly have nothing to wear?  You packed the car with 200 pounds of clothes!  You have more dresses than any woman on the planet!”

Now it was my turn to sit back, stay calm and watch his reaction.  “Now how would you know that?  Have you met every woman on the planet and peeked into her closet?”  I smiled, remaining perfectly logical in the midst of his hyperbole storm.

He knew he’d been played.  He shook his head.  And then his Kennedy called my Khrushchev’s bluff.  He grinned his crooked grin at me.  “Whatever.  If you need a dress, go buy one.”

“I don’t have shoes either.”  Okay, I admit it.  I launched a mean ‘I-don’t-have-any-shoes’ grenade during peace negotiations, but sometimes a girl just can’t help herself in heat of the battle and she doesn’t have her purple dress.

My strategy didn’t work.  Obviously, I’ve never taught Military Strategy or held seminars on Critical Thinking.  Playing mind-chess with my husband is unfair.  He has a slight advantage over me.  I rather play checkers.

A smile lit up his face.  “I’m not going to take your bait…”  He peered into my eyes.  “…about the shoe situation.”

I hate his logic and resent his clear thinking when I’m trying to make a point.

“Will you go with me this weekend?”  Surprise Attack!

“What?”

“To buy a dress?  Pleeease.”

And this is how I know my husband loves me example #1:  He said, “Sure.  I’ll take you to buy a dress.”  He did not say, “Have you lost your mind?  I despise shopping.  No way.”

“You will go with me?”

They sell those at Target, right?”  I did not take the bait.

***

Things I Learned While Shopping for a Formal with my Husband:

There are four types of formal dresses.  They are as follows:

1        This dress says:   I’m a beauty queen going to prom with my quarterback boyfriend.  I love pink!  I love baby blue!  I love lace and ruffles and shiny things.  Big, huge crinolines are back!  Hurray!

2        This dress says:  I’m young, vibrant!  I’m a confident woman.  I like my cleavage.  I like 24-inch slits on the side of my skirt like Angelina Jolie.  I can wear eight inch stilettos with ease.  And any color goes great with my tan, fit body.  Everything is just perky and tight.  What are foundation garments for anyway?

3        This dress says:  I must attract some attention.  Some male attention!  I love tight spandex and glitter from shoulder to hem.  Hot pink, geometric print, sequins and straps with buckles.  The shorter the better–as long as it covers most of my lumps, it’s all good.

4       This dress says:  I am the Mother of the Bride.  I want to be covered from head to toe in mauve or gray or perhaps navy or black.  I love bolero jackets with rhinestone closures.  I have no cleavage anymore.  I want no attention drawn to my butt.  In fact, I don’t want anyone to know I have one.  I must have long sleeves—long, shiny sleeves, perhaps with ruffled cuffs.

So where does that leave me?  And most of my friends?  In the black hole of we’re-not-going-to-the-prom, but not-ready-for-the-rocker, either.  A fashion abyss.  One is lucky to find a magical dress under such conditions.  Very lucky.

***

My husband and I walked into the first dress shop.  I began sliding dresses across the rack to see if I might find anything suitable.  Hubby did the unthinkable.  He started looking through the dresses, with me.

“What about this one?”  My wonderful, ever-helpful husband held his large Chik-fil-A lemonade in one hand and a very unique dress in the other.  Clearly, the garment was in the #3 category.

“Um…”  How shall I say this without hurting his feelings?  “I’m really not liking the whole feathers-and-animal-print-together-in-one-dress-thing.  It’s like there was a weird hook up at the zoo between the cheetah and the ostrich and you’re holding the pelt of their offspring.”  My subtly needs work.

He took a long sip of lemonade and shrugged his shoulders before he hung up the leopard-chicken hybrid dress.

I pushed another reject past me on the bar.  “There is no way any woman could wear spanx under that with all those cutouts.”

“What’s Spanx?”

I shook my head.  “That dress is…um…not right.”

I slid a few more dresses down the rack as he watched over my shoulder.  He stopped my hand mid-swipe, clutched the hanger and pulled out a puffy dress.  “What about this?”

He’d found one from the #1 category.  I didn’t want to crush his indomitable spirit.  He was actually trying to help me.  Bless that man.

“Well, it is pretty, but I think I may be a bit…too…old for it.”

“You’re not old!”  Example #2 of why I love this man.  He didn’t say, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Thanks, Berg. But, what I mean is, well, it’s…a bit…‘young’ for me.  It’s for a high school girl.”

He checked the label.  “There’s ages on these things?”  He hung up the prom princess gown.

“I like this one.”  I held a navy blue dress against me.  “What do you think?”

“Um…well…”

“You don’t like it?”

“I like it okay.”

That means he hates it.

I hung the reject back on the rack.  A few minutes, later he pulled out a dusty-rose dress with a square neck, three quarter sleeves and a lace collar straight out of group #4.  “This is nice.”

“Uh huh.  Years from now, if you are looking to bury me in something horrific to get even with me for dragging you shopping on a holiday weekend, remember that one.”

“It’s too old lady?”

“Yep.  Now you understand.”

Next, he pulled out an elegant royal blue dress.  I was very impressed.

“This is a good one, right?” he asked.

“It is.”

He smiled, quite pleased with himself.  Until I burst his bubble.  “But, it’s a cocktail dress.”

“Isn’t that what we’re looking for?”  He held the dress at arm’s length and then checked the tag as if it might be marked, “Cocktail, ages 30-50.”

“I need a long dress.  Not a short cocktail dress.”

“Are you kidding?”

He hung the dress back on the rack.  “All right.  You pick one.  You’ve never worn a dress I don’t like.  You don’t need my help.  Just try something on and I’ll give you my opinion.”  Reason #3 for loving this man.  He didn’t say, “Are we ever going to get out of here?  Pick something already!”

Several stores later, I realized I was drawn to every single purple dress I saw.  It wasn’t very hard to figure out why.  I wasn’t going to find anything that compared.  I’m very loyal.  Now that I had found my soul-dress, everything else would always be  just a substitute.

I pulled a ‘uniform’ from the rack.  You know, the dress everyone either has or has seen or will buy one day. It’s a black chiffon sheath dress with spaghetti straps.  Nothing wrong with it.  It’s a formal. It’s long. It’s black.

“Oh, that’s sexy.”  I heard from behind me.  Reason #4 for loving that man.  He didn’t say, “I’m tired.  Let’s go.”  A few seconds later he said, “And you’re going to be the best looking one there anyway.  Who cares what you wear?”

With those sweet words, I quit torturing him with my doomed shopping trip.  He’d earned his stripes.  Or his eagles.  But, what’d I do to earn him?  I’ll never know.

“You think it’s sexy?  Really?”  I held it against my body.

“Sure.  It looks like a sexy, black nightgown.”

Ugh.  Back to not having a dress.

P.S. I’ll be adding pictures later.

The Intricacies of Establishing and Maintaining Well-Being or You May As Well Join Them and Laugh At Yourself

Tags

B-1B, C-130, Fini-flights, iPhone usage. military spouses, marshaling jets, military lifestyle, work-a-holic husbands

 

I met a friend at Starbucks today and enjoyed a wonderful morning visiting with her while partaking in my caffeine addiction.  Ahh, life can be good.  Yesterday, I met a different friend for lunch and we sat outside another java-haven in town while I indulged in my caffeine habit.  I love my friends who ‘feed my need.’

I’ve been trying to meet up with friends as much as possible because our time here is winding down.  We are on the verge of yet another move.  Two years ago we moved to Abilene.  I made some remarkable friends and reunited with good friends from the past.  Texas is friendly.  It’s also dusty and windy and I’m sure my patio furniture and BBQ will never recover.  Anyway…

We are going to miss this assignment far too much to express.  We were blessed by getting to do some awesome things.  Just the other day I actually “marshaled in” a giant C-130 with those orange-cone-flashlight things.  Yep, I stood outside on the flightline and told the pilot where to “park” the plane in front of a crowd of onlookers.  I’ll never forget it.  Of course, the airman standing next to me “helping” probably won’t forget it either.

The young airman instructed me how to get the plane to turn left on the runway.  “Make an “L” with your arms.”

I did.

“No, Ma’am.  The other way.  You’re telling him to turn straight into the crowd.  Make an ‘L’.”

“Oh, you mean a backward L?”

“No, Ma’am, an L.”  He showed me.

I switched my arms.  Now, don’t judge me.  Seriously, think about it.  If you were standing in front of me, it would be a normal “L”  but I’m NOT standing in front of me, so therefore, from my perspective, it’s a backward L.

I decided not to espouse my “L” logic to the young man at that point.  Also, on a side note, don’t ever ask me which side of the bed I sleep on, as it, too, is a trick question.  I mean, are you talking about my right if I’m on my back lying on the bed?  Or are you talking about my right as if I were standing at the foot of the bed looking at it?  And because I sleep on my stomach, do you mean my ‘sleeping’ right?  Or my ‘sitting in bed watching TV’ right because they are different.  Oh forget it.  It’s all so confusing for me since I rarely know right from left without thinking about it—or as in the case of the “L” over-thinking it.

I tried to cover.  “I thought you meant the pilot’s left. Heh. Heh.”

“Really?”  He looked at me, tilted his head and wrinkled his brow, not buying it.  Maybe the “cover” was worse than the mistake.

The plane turned left and headed down the strip towards us.  It was surreal standing there with this humongous plane coming straight at me.  I was shaking in my shoes with excitement.  Soon, I could see the pilots; they were that close!  How cool is that?  At this point, I would like to take you on a little journey through the workings of my caffeinated/ADD mind as I marshaled that plane in:

I thought, “Wow!  That’s interesting.  I’ve never seen a plane from this angle.  I always see them in profile or on a ramp connected to those stairs-on-wheels things at the airport, but never on the ground looking straight onto its nose.  This sort of reminds me of the guy standing in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square…which reminds me, I need to go to Walmart to buy soy sauce if I make stir-fry tonight…Greg loves Chinese.  Stephen loves Thai.  I miss my boys.  Which reminds me, I still need to make airline reservations for Greg to…Oh, crap!  I’m supposed to be doing something.”

“Wave them in.  Wave them in,” the airmen said emphatically.

As I’ve just recreated my normal thought-process for your edification, you now understand that my mind was rather pre-occupied.  So when he said, ‘wave them in’ my first thought was:  How do I wave at them with these flashlight devices in my hands?  But, before I put one of them down to wave, he demonstrated what he meant.

I moved my arms back and forth like he showed me.  Somehow I managed (with the help of a slightly jumpy airman) to get the wheels near the target.

So, as I stood with my arms straight up above my head and waving the lights to and fro exactly like he told me, the airman says, “Okay, stop!”

I obeyed.  I stopped.  I did not wave them in anymore.  I kept my arms perfectly still in the air.

His voice got louder. “Stop!”

What’s he want?  I am stopped.  I’m not moving at all.

“No, no, stop!”  Now he sounded alarmed.

The plane continued to roll right over the square wheel indicator box painted on the runway.

He took hold of my wrists and made a giant X with my flashy-sticks.  Ahhh…that means stop.  Of course, I’ve seen that in movies before.  Speaking of movies…I really want to see one this weekend…the one with the guy from that TV show we always watch…which reminds me, we need microwave popcorn, so when I go to Walmart for soy sauce…but…maybe I don’t want stir-fry…Oh wait…

I shook my head.  All right.  Now, I’m totally focused.

The wheels were not exactly on the black square anymore, but they were generally in the right vicinity.  Hmmm…I wonder if airplanes have a reverse gear. Motorcycles don’t.  I remember once when we went to Sturgis motorcycle rally and the guy told us that he…

FOCUS!

I turned to the airman.  “They stopped.  Now what?” Relief spread over the young serviceman’s face.

“We’re done.  Thanks, Ma’am.”  Perspiration lined his forehead and top lip.  He quickly took the flashlight-coney-things away from me and led me off the flightline to join the rest of the group.  I’m sure he couldn’t wait to tell the other ‘guide-with-the-cones’ guys the story of one really dorky wife.

I would have never been able to do something so awesome if not for the blessing of our assignment here.  Shout out to the Mighty 317^th.

We will miss this place!

One of the ‘rites of passage’ for aviators in the military is something known as a fini-flight.  This is the last flight on a plane before the person goes to a job that doesn’t involve flying or (as in this case) will no longer be flying that particular plane.  (The incredibly powerful, sexy B-1.)

Customarily, the pilot or weapon systems operator gets greeted on the runway after his flight by a crowd of family, friends and colleagues.

The ‘aviator of honor’ is welcomed back by the spray of a fire hose.  He is then ceremoniously doused with champagne followed by a toast with a chug of booze.  The beauty of a fini-flight is that usually the spouse gets to hold the fire hose.  Now how many spouses have wanted to spray their beloved with a blast of water like that?  Here’s to always leaving your black socks next to the hamper!

My man had his last flight the Sunday before last.  A group of us gathered outside Base Ops  on a beautiful (but windy) West Texas day.  A tiny black dot in the brilliant blue sky suddenly appeared.  A moment later it took the shape of a B-1 and then VROOOM!  It zoomed right over our heads in a spine-tingling thunder of power.  It’s that fast!  It’s impressive no matter how many times you see it.  Trust me.  (You can Google B1 flyover and see for yourself.)  They circled around and touched down with a perfect ‘wheels to concrete’ landing.  It was amazing.

The firemen are always on the runway for landings.  On this special occasion they summoned me closer and I got to stand right next to the fire truck.  And really close to the plane.  Yay!  A young fireman (with muscles of steel and a Superman chest) handed me the giant hose.  (I swear that wasn’t meant as a euphemism!)  Literally—he handed me the hose.

The cockpit door opened and a white metal ladder came down from the belly of the plane.  This is it.

The Wing King (the big boss) stood a few feet from me with a bottle of champaign ready to shake and uncork it all over his next-in-command.  A group of honoraries (dignitaries from town) and friends stood behind the two of us as we waited for our quarry.

Yes, I see the tips of his boots.  We were all in place, knew our parts and awaited the recipient to descend the steps.

Young Airman Muscles says, “Okay, Mrs. Goodfellow, make sure his feet are planted before you get him.  Just pull this lever back and let him have it.”

“Sure,” I say.  Heh heh heh.  I’m so going to get him good.  What could possibly go wrong, right?

Wait for his feet to hit the pavement.  Got it.  Oh, yeah, I’m so ready.

Pretty soon, I see the familiar combat boots descend, then the green legs of a flight suit. Oh yeah!  It’s him.  I thought the clever man might send one of the captains down first.  I was ready for anything, even some trickery.  It became obvious that it was my man because he was coming down slowly, haltingly, knowing exactly what was about to take place.  My heart sped up and I smiled from ear to ear.

I had never seen him come down a ladder so slowly.   Next, I see his hands on the handrails, then his chest, complete with harness.  Realizing he’s going to have to face the music, he rushes down the rest of the way.  Both boots on the ground.  You’re mine!

I pulled the lever as instructed hitting him square in the chest as if there was a target painted on his uniform.  BLAM!  Before I had time to comprehend what happened, I jolted back about two feet from the water pressure; my legs came out from under me and being that I gripped the hose, I didn’t have time to put my hands down to cushion the fall.  I landed solidly on my backside, legs splayed out in front of me.

The hose was still firing water, but I lost my grip on it.  The thing stood up like a cobra and sprayed into the crowd behind me.  Now there were plenty of strong, healthy, buff (including Airman Muscles) military personnel, several young, nimble spouses and able-bodied friends in this crowd. They moved the hell out of the way quick as a flash.

The water took a direct trajectory and hit the only person not able to move at the speed of water.  Also, the only person wearing an expensive, three piece suit and his favorite fedora.  A man old enough to be my grandfather.  That’s right.  Out of all those people, it drenched one of the community honoraries who’d come out to witness my husband getting sprayed with a fire hose.  He witnessed it all right.

As I sat on the tarmac, dazed and not quite sure exactly what just happened, Airman Muscles cuts the water and the hose goes slack in my hands.  (Again, no euphemism here.) Behind me, the motley group of our closest military friends is guffawing like a pack of hyenas.

Poor, old, Jack stood, shocked (and wet)—he may have been the only one not laughing.  So, what did this wily bunch of patriotic, loyal, dependable, trustworthy, steadfast friends do?  They captured the whole incident on film, of course.

I looked around from my spot on the asphalt and saw nothing but cell phones pointing in my direction; laughter all around me.  I sat sprawled out on hot concrete and realized no one helped me up because no one’s hands were free of iPhones. There is a partial video of the event.  If you watch it, please note:  everyone scattered so they didn’t get wet and someone actually rushes behind me to pick up the bottle of booze lest I knock it over. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to the booze!  But, the boss’s wife knocked on her butt?  Yeah, that’s funny, where’s my phone?

The official photographer DID NOT snap any pictures of said incident, or if he did, he DID NOT include them on the CD he sent me.  Either way…smart man.

I looked up still stunned, and caught the eye of my wet knight in shining armor.  Surely, he’ll come to my rescue.  Well, maybe when he stops laughing.  He was practically doubled over.

And so, thanks to the wonder of technology there exists a video and numerous cell phone captures of my embarrassing moment.   To be honest, I was laughing, too.  What can one do in a moment of utter humiliation besides join the fun?  One thing is for sure.  We won’t ever forget that fini-flight.  In fact, I’m sure the firemen went back to the station and relived it over and over, probably in slow motion on their phones.

After I was back on my feet, one of the other colonels told me, “I thought they usually had a fireman holding it behind you.”  You think?  Really?  She meant well when she informed me of this.

For days afterward, people made remarks about me taking a “ride” on the fire hose.  (Okay, enough with the non-euphemisms!  What is it about this story that drips with sexuality?)

I purposefully did not tell my sons what happened.  They’d never let me forget it.  We raised them to have great senses of humor.  Sometimes that can backfire.

My oldest son, a sophomore in college, said this to me yesterday.  “Mom, I was officially inaugurated President of the RGA for 2012-2013.”

“Really?  That’s fantastic!”

“Yeah.  And my first act as president will be to change the title.”

“The title?  To what?”

“To Supreme Overlord and Ultimate High Commander.”  He laughed an evil ‘villain’ laugh. “Bwaahaahaa.”

I chuckled, but for a split second, I wondered if he might do it.

“Stephen? You’re just kidding, right?”  I had a visual flashback.

Stephen stood in the playroom with rows of his and his brother’s Beanie Babies in front of him.  I stopped and watched for a moment before I quietly headed back upstairs to get the video camera.  When I returned unnoticed, he shook his fist in the air and looked into the ranks of stuffed animals.   “To me only, you shall remain true, and we shall put an end to the rebellion.”  He slammed his fist into his palm.

Not to date myself, but the ginormous video camera contained a big huge light in the front to use as a flash.  I turned it on and it caught his attention.  He stopped.

“Go ahead, Stephen.  Keep going.”

I only captured a snippet of what he said.  It went something like this.

“Together we can regain our objective and reign supreme.”  He paced in front of his captive audience with his hands behind his back.  He gave those little critters a stern glare, turned on his heel and paced the other way, hands still clasped behind him.   “Storm troopers you shall be.  Together we shall rule the universe!”  At this point he glanced up and pointed at me.  “Look!  A spy!  Seize her!  Don’t just sit there!  Your ruler has given you an order.”

He rushed toward me wearing a scowl, but then smiled sweetly into the camera, all big eyes and innocence.  He gestured to his troops with a toss of his head.  “What do you expect?  They are full of beans!”

My son is hilarious.  And brilliant.  Or scary.  I choose hilarious and brilliant.

Once on a road trip, my husband asked Stephen, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Like he was prone to do, he gave it some thought before he answered.  “I don’t think there is a title for it.”  He shrugged.

“Well, tell me what it is that person does and I’ll tell you what the title is.”

Stephen was silent for a moment.

“All right.  I want to…”

For the next few minutes he explained exactly what he wanted to do when he grew up.  After his monologue ended he said, “Dad?  Does this have a title?”

Hubby glanced at me, raised his eyebrows and gave me his crooked, incredulous smile.  He then looked in the rearview mirror to catch our son’s eyes.  “Yes, Stephen.  It does have a title.  From what you just described…I’d say it’s called The Emperor of China.  I’m thinking that job is already taken.”

His father and I chuckled.

Stephen, completely undeterred replied, “No, I think you’re wrong, dad. I do not want to be the Emperor of China.”

“Well, that’s a relief, son.”

“No.”  He bit his lip.  “The Chinese are communists.  I am a firm proponent of capitalism.  I’d rather be The Emporer of The Western World.”

Did I mention he was nine?

He’ll be twenty-one years old in a few weeks.  Wow.  Probably the same age as the kid helping me marshal in the C-130.

You know, somewhere in the base dorms I’m thinking this conversation might’ve taken place.

“Hey, you guys…you will not believe the wife I had with me on the flightline the other day.”  He’ll proceed to tell the story.  The others will laugh and slap him on the back.  “You poor dude.”  Someone else will pull out his iPhone and say, “Oh, yeah?  You think that’s bad?  Check out this genius spraying her husband on his fini-flight.”

How A Wicked Marshmallow Chick Reduced Me to Thievery or How I Became A Slave to Peeps

As you know, it is Peeps Season and that just happens to be my favorite time of the year.  Although they now make the sugar-coated marshmallows for every holiday, there is something about those bright yellow chicks that makes me smile.

I’m a student of psychology and often try to figure out what makes other people tick so I can understand that tricky thing called “motivation” to use in my writing.  I decided to point my psychological spotlight onto myself to see if I might figure out why I have this weird compulsion to eat marshmallow chickens until my stomach hurts.  It didn’t take long before I discovered the root of my sugar-fixation and Peep Obsession.

Do you remember your first piece of candy?  I don’t, but I distinctly remember the first time I bit into a yellow chick.  It was Easter and we were at my grandmother’s house.  I recall it with crystal clear clarity.  I’m not kidding you.  I have witnesses.  And photographs.

 

The three eldest grandchildren, my sister Tamara, my cousin Nadine and I had just finished hunting for dyed eggs in my grandmother’s backyard.  I’m not sure why, but we used brown bags instead of baskets, but whatever.  The adults waited on the porch with cameras–the “Instamatic” kind that used those giant stacks of flashcubes.  Remember those?  So, I have pictures of this event somewhere and if I can find them, I’ll post them.

Eventually, we exhausted the colorful egg supply.  The flat, fenced-in backyard was free of the very-obviously-placed eggs, so we walked back toward our parents.  My cousin Nadine is like a sister to me; we’re the same age and grew up as best friends.  She’s a wonderful, kind-hearted person with a fabulous sense of humor, but she’s always had a bit of an issue with everything being completely unfair—especially unfair to her.

On our way back to the house, we all opened our bags and compared what was inside.  Nadine noticed the huge disparity in what her bag held and what mine and my sister’s contained.  Her eyes widened and met mine.  It was quiet for a second until—

Her mouth opened and out came a blood-curdling cry that stopped both my sister and me in our tracks.  I’m sure birds abandoned trees and took flight; the glass in the sliding door shook.

Nadine bawled, tears ran down her red cheeks as language became just an unintelligible string of vowels between a few words of…not fair…they ….eggs…more…me.”

My parents, aunts, uncles and my grandmother gathered around and tried to remedy the situation and stop any permanent damage to eardrums everywhere.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” my Aunt Carmen crouched down near her daughter.  Nadine, now in the height of hysteria, merely pointed at my bag.  Everyone realized her bag contained a whopping three eggs.  I have no idea how she didn’t find more.  The yard was a square patch of grass with no bushes or shrubs, surrounded by a wooden privacy fence.  The eggs were just scattered randomly on the grass, but in true Nadine-form, she had managed not to fill her bag.

The situation completely unraveled when my father reached down and took one of my eggs and plopped it into Nadine’s near-empty bag.  “There!  Krissy will share with you.”

Excuse me?  Krissy will?  I think not! 

I dramatically threw myself into my mother’s arms as Nadine and I battled for the loudest tantrum award.  Since she and I competed for just about everything, this became a huge cry-fest.

My mom, the eternal peacemaker, took an egg out of my sister’s heavy, egg-laden bag and put it in mine.  “There.  Tamara will share.”

It was a green egg.

I did not want a freakin’ green egg.  Green egg?  I did not want it in a box.  I did not want it with a fox.  I did not want it here or there.  I did not want it anywhere.  No, Ma’am!

Nadine had pilfered my pretty, shiny, purple egg—the one that rightfully belonged to the one who found it.  Me.  Upon losing one of her eggs to her snot-nosed little sister, Tamara didn’t cry like Nadine and me.  No, my sister simply dropped her bag and said, “They can have them all!” and stormed inside.  Somehow the men had crept back into the house unnoticed.

My mother went after my sister and Nadine’s mother gathered the toddlers back into the house leaving my grandmother to calm Nadine who was on the point of hyperventilating.  I had stopped crying and backed out of my grandmother’s eyeshot.  I had a plan.

Nadine started to calm down and my grandmother wiped away her tears.  Putting out her bottom lip, she rubbed her eyes with fists.   I took advantage of the most opportune time and her obvious distraction and took my purple egg out of her bag.  I tossed Tamara’s lame green one in.  It dropped to the bottom.  I heard it crack when it hit the cement porch.  Take that, Sam-I-Am!

Apparently, I didn’t do this very smoothly.  Or she was not as distracted as I thought because she howled like a banshee and my poor clueless grandmother had no idea why the waterworks started again with new vigor.

My mother stepped through the patio door with my sister in tow.  Tamara pouted, arms crossed over her chest and scowling, but she picked up her bag—which by the way, held twice as many eggs as mine and vastly more than Nadine’s three—now four if you counted the lame green one.

“All right.  That’s enough.”  My aunt stepped through the sliding door.  “Everyone needs to stop fighting.  If you don’t, the Easter Bunny won’t leave you candy and toys.”  All three of us shut up.

In our family, the Easter Bunny hid the eggs outside while we were at church and then while we hunted for them, he would hide plastic, candy-filled eggs inside the house.  We’d come in from our egg hunt and the grown-ups would say, “You guys just missed him.”

“You girls need to stay outside until you make up with each other and there are no more fights,” my grandmother said leaving the three of us to work it out on our own.  C’mon.  Really?  Methinks someone had watched too many episodes of the Walton’s or Little House on the Prairie because anyone knows that’s not going to work, right?

Here’s the kicker.  The stupid eggs we fought over were hard boiled and none of us particularly liked boiled eggs, but that is hardly the point.  I wanted my purple egg, damnit!

So, we sat on the porch.  And sat.  And sat.  Eventually, Tamara placated both Nadine and me by sharing her eggs.

OMG!  I just put together something that never occurred to me until right now.  I know exactly why they left us there in the blazing New Mexico sun, wearing our stiff Sunday dresses and patent leather Mary Jane shoes.  It wasn’t because they’d lost their minds or were victims of hokey, family-friendly TV show plots.  No!

It took me forty-some years to realize the real reason they let us stew outside for so long. It went like this:

After what felt like forever, my grandmother came out.  “Is everyone friends again?”

We nodded.  “Okay, give each other a hug and you can come back inside.  You just missed the Easter Bunny!”

Everyone complied and we raced inside to start the candy hunt.  But wait…

The Easter bunny decided not to hide the eggs in the house that year.  Instead, he’d saved us the trouble and placed on the dining room table three cellophane-wrapped Easter baskets with three distinct piles of plastic eggs in front of them.

I can’t believe I just had an ‘a-ha’ moment as I wrote this.  Those clever parents realized that the scene outside was about to repeat itself within the confines of my grandmother’s tidy abode, so they’d taken care of it diplomatically while we baked on the porch in our scratchy Easter finery.

Ah!  I see it all now.  It cracks me up to visualize.  Those adults had to scurry around collecting all the eggs they’d already hidden and then divide them by three.  They’d thought of everything.  Except—

Nadine had more purple eggs than me.  Tears sprang to my eyes.  My mother opened a box of Peeps (yellow chicks—I remember it like it was yesterday).  She gave each of us two, setting them in front of us.  Before I let out a squawk about the uneven distribution of purple eggs that would’ve rattled the light fixtures, she put a Peep in my mouth.  I am not kidding you.  My mother stopped my tantrum by jamming a chick in my gaping scream-hole.  Smart woman, my mother.

This is how I remember that first taste:

The clouds parted, the sun streamed through the windows and angels sang the Hallelujah Chorus over my head.  There might have even been a rainbow involved.  My mouth had just experienced the best thing it had ever tasted.  Gastronomic, sweet, gelatinous heaven!
At that moment everyone was happy.  Nadine gathered up her plastic eggs in her dress and carried them to the floor where she counted them to make sure she had exactly the same amount as me and my sister.  I swallowed the Peep and stared at the other neon yellow chick right in front of me.  We met gazes.  His chocolate speckled eyes stared straight into mine.

I put my chin on the table mesmerized by little marshmallow fowl.

“Eat me!” he demanded.

I narrowed my eyes.  “No, I must save you for later.”

“No, eat me right now.  I am pure sugar.  You want me.”

“I can’t.  I want to wait until later.”

“No!  You want me now.  Stop resisting.  You cannot win.  I will own you for the rest of your life.”

He was right.  I was his slave.

I popped that Easter chick in my mouth.  I enjoyed it, savored it, worshipped it.  I closed my eyes and put my forehead on the table, perhaps to keep all my other senses dulled so I could virtually live in the flavor experience that was happening in my mouth.

“Are you all right, Mija?” My mom rushed over.

“Is she choking?” someone asked.

My mom cupped my chin and lifted my head.  I smiled at her, yellow mess coming out of the sides of my mouth.  She laughed.  “No, she’s fine.  I think she likes it.”  If ever there was an understatement…that would be it.

When I finished my Peep, I looked over at the empty place at the table that Nadine had previously occupied.  Her two chicks sat there unsupervised.  My eyes scanned the area.  Now, you must understand, I was a rule-follower extraordinaire.  I was a black-is-black-and-white-is-white sort of child.  Rules were rules.

But, Peeps are Peeps!

The adults stood around talking while our toddler cousins ran around playing with their new stuffed rabbits.  My sister emptied her plastic eggs of their jelly beans and lined them up on the table.

And Nadine’s Peep called my name.

Damn!  It was even staring in my direction.  We eyed each other.

It was my first crime.  It was wrong and I knew it, but I decided to take the consequences.

I snatched that chick and popped it in my mouth.  I experienced sweet Nirvana when suddenly my sister said, “Mom!  Krissy just took one of Nad—” A hand clamped over her mouth.  “Shhhhh…it’s okay.”  She gave us one of her cautionary looks through a forced smile.  You know the one—where the eyes get wider and then narrow in mommy-warning fashion.   Yep, my mother had averted another tantrum of monumental proportions.  And me?  I had survived my criminal act.  I chewed in rapt ecstasy and smiled at my mom who’d saved my life.

“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”  She tossed some guilt my way.

I shook my head, still chewing and tasting that delicious gooey goodness.  No, it wasn’t very nice.  But it was damned delicious.  “Shwowee.” I managed to mumble.

Tamara, with her keen sense of justice, said, “Krissy should give Nadine one of her candy eggs.”  Nadine’s head popped up and she looked over at the table where we sat.

My heart began to pound; my eyes grew huge as she scanned the tabletop.  I quickly swallowed the evidence.  Peep?  What Peep?  Has anyone seen any Peeps?  I smiled guiltily.  My mind quickly came up with several scenarios.  Maybe she’ll think she ate it.  Of course!  Maybe I can convince her that she ate it and just doesn’t remember.  No wait!  Maybe I’ll blame my sister.  The grown-ups might believe me, but then…Tamara will kill me.  Ahhh!  The babies!  I’ll blame one of the toddlers (that were roaming around with their own treats).

“Where’s my…?”  Nadine focused on that lonely Peep still sitting on the table.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  I was about to crack and confess.  I couldn’t lie to her–ever.

“Nadine!  Diane is taking your eggs!”  My sister pointed behind my cousin.  Nadine whipped around and flew to her little plastic egg pile.  Quickly, she gathered them up in her dress again.  (I’m not sure why she didn’t use her Easter basket for this, but for some reason we kept the cellophane wraps on them while we used bags–go figure. )  After all her eggs were safe and away from her baby sister’s chubby little hands, Nadine returned to the table and scooped up that last chick.

I turned to look at my sister, but she left the table without another word.  I always wondered if she distracted her on purpose to save me or if she really was just pointing out that Nadine was about to be minus one egg filled with jelly beans.

Nadine bit into the remaining chick, made a face and spit it out into her hand.  “Yeeech!”

That is how Peeps became an obsession.  I am weakened by their evil goodness.  Always have been.  Always will be.

The picture below is the FAMOUS Easter Egg Hunt.  Notice the genius that I am (over to the left) looking for Easter eggs at eye-level.  Apparently, I was looking for any levitating eggs.  Nadine is starting to panic–you can see it in her face.  Tamara is rushing in with her stash.  You see how heavy her bag is?  The picture below that shows us standing with my grandmother.  It was taken post egg-finding-trauma.  Can you tell?  And what is that on the couch?  Is it that damned green egg?  Oh, the memories!  And by the way, Nadine…I love you.  I owe you one.

Systemic Extraction of Monetary Funds From A Cost-Conscious Economist or Honey, We Need A New Car

Tags

Anti-lock brakes, Chysler Town & Country, Disney World, Electrical shortage in dashboard computer, mechanics, teen drivers, Vacations, work-a-holic husbands

We’re back from our family vacation.  We went to Disney World to spend some money….I mean spend some quality family time.  We wanted to end the summer on a high note (and lots of bank notes) before one of our boys left for school in Pennsylvania and the other returned to school in South Dakota.  It was one of the best (and most expensive) trips we’ve taken.  It was worth it, though.  None of the amusement parks were crowded.  We didn’t wait in line for more than 15 minutes for any ride.  The weather wasn’t nearly as brutal as it was in Texas and the best part…the kids didn’t fight at all.  Why?  Because they’d have to look up from the iPhones in order to argue.  So, with headphones on and eyes glued to their lifelines, everyone was happy.  Technology has brought us closer.  Hey…no one was complaining, whining or arguing.  Nope, I was too busy on Facebook.

We managed to squeeze this vacation in between two of my husband’s business trips.  Ten days of almost no Blackberry time.  I did a little happy-dance when he said he wouldn’t work while we were in Florida.  With the kids plugged into their ‘Matrix,’ hubby and I had entire conversations without any interruption.  Being with him made me remember why I love him so much.  He’s an amazing man and does so many things well.  Extremely well.  However, he has a weakness.  He is not very mechanical.  That’s an understatement, actually.  He’ll admit it, too.  We take our cars to experts whenever anything goes wrong.  Which brings me to this—-

After the aforementioned vacation, we were coming home from Dallas after a long flight including a three hour layover in Atlanta.  No one looked forward to the two and half hour long, boring, brown, flat, surface-of-Mars drive to our small West Texas town.

Twenty miles from home, I heard, “Oh, crap. What now?”

Instantly, I am wide awake.  I look over at my husband.  “What?”

“The ‘Check ABS’ light just came on the dashboard.”

“What’s an ABS light?”

“Anti-lock Brake System.  Something could be wrong with the brakes.”

We were barreling down the highway at 78 mph and my husband just casually told me something was wrong with the brakes?

“Berg!  Why aren’t you pulling over?”

“It’s probably fine.”

“Probably?  It’s probably fine?  Probably is not something you should say about brakes!” My heart started pounding.  My pulse rate sped up as my adrenaline became engaged in SAVING OUR LIVES.

“Don’t worry about it.  It’s most likely an electrical short in the alert system.”

“A short?  An electrical short?  My god!  We could have an engine fire!”

He laughed at me.  Which really pissed me off.

“I’ll get it checked when we get home.”

“Don’t you mean if we get home.  Damn it, Berg.  I told you we should’ve got rid of this thing last summer when Stephen wrecked it.  The beast is falling apart.”

“No, it’s not.  It’s got at least four or five good years left.”

“Are you insane?  It’s a ’97.  If it were a human, it’d be in high school.”

He flicked his eyes toward me with a look of incredulity.  “That is the weirdest simile you’ve ever made.”  He smiled, shook his head and looked back at the road.

“It’s not a simile!  It’s an analogy.”

“Whatever it was.  It was bad.”

“Not as bad as driving your family around in a van that is ready to catch on fire.  And think about this…if it did happen, we’d have to keep driving–like an asteroid hurtling through the night—plummeting towards Earth because WE HAVE NO BRAKES!”

My ever-so-calm man tapped on the brake pedal.  “Nope.  If we burst into flames, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to stop.  We won’t hurtle through the night.”

“Great.  We won’t be an asteroid.  We’ll be a big, flaming stationary object glowing in the deep, dark night in the middle of nowhere.  People from miles around will wonder why the dessert has that orange glow.”

“A metaphor?”

“Hyperbole!”  I crossed my arms.  “I’m going to be really mad if we have to keep driving past our house until we come to an incline so we can stop.”

“An incline?  In West Texas?  Where would I find an incline?”

“Not the point!”  I shook my head and tried to calm myself.  It didn’t work.  “The car itself is telling you that something is wrong.  How can you be so calm?”

“Because it could be nothing.  Like when the Check Engine light came on.”

“What?  When did that happen?”

“A couple years ago.  It wouldn’t go off.  But it was nothing.”

“How do you know it was nothing?  What did you do?”

“I put a piece of electrical tape over it.  See?”  He reached over and peeled off the tape.

I’d never noticed it before because the dashboard is black.  A glowing CHECK ENGINE light on one side matched the CHECK ABS light on the other side.  He pushed the tape back down, ran his thumb over it to get it to stick again.  “Trust me, honey.  It’s fine.”

I was silent for the rest of the ride.  I was in too much shock to continue the argument.  Electrical tape???

 ANYWAY…

We made it home late that night with the yellow ABS light illuminating the dashboard like a beacon of doom.

The next morning, I had to take my non-mechanical hubby to the airport for a trip to Virginia.  We were running a little late for his 8:00 am flight so we were in a big hurry.

We drove my car and left the beast in the overflow parking down the street.  (In our neighborhood we’re not supposed to park in front of our houses.  Perhaps, they’re trying to keep people like us from lowering the property value by having a big, red, ugly, wrecked van-of-destruction parked in front of our home.  Honestly, I can understand the rule.)

At work, my hubby is used to giving orders.  In the office, he expects compliance without derision and hates quibbling. He talks rather fast and expects action when he’s in a mode to get things done.  My man is a Rainmaker.  He makes things happen because he is a critical thinker, good problem solver and he has a logical mind.  In other words, he and I are opposites.

As he was throwing his luggage in the trunk, he gave me instructions for all the things we needed to have done before we drive cross-country after he gets back.  We were supposed to take the minivan-of-rapidly-failing-parts to my son in Pennsylvania.  After that, we are going to fly home.  But first, we’ll watch our son play his first football game of the season.  We’d leave, but the beast would stay with him.  Yeah, my ever-optimistic husband thinks our 14-year-old van with a gazillion miles will run forever, so he’s giving it to his progeny.

Anyone who knows me understands that you can’t tell me anything important in passing.  It literally goes in one ear and out the other.  I mean in the span of 15 minutes my mind has already been on a safari, plotted out a murder mystery, developed a character or maybe even come up with alternate endings to well-known books, movies or plays.  So, that matter of importance you told me…it’s lost in the population and vast landscapes occupying in my brain.  It may be in there somewhere, but I’ll never find it.

While we drove to the airport, hubby plotted out our next two weeks with rationality and logic.  I sort of heard the plans, but I had this great idea for a short story where someone thinks they’re really their own grandmother because a ….well anyway— let’s just say I might’ve missed a few things he said.

At the airport, my husband pulled out his luggage and then gave me a hug and kiss before making his way to the revolving door leading into the tiny regional airport.  He turned to me and waved.  “Remember to take the van to the mechanic.  Have him check the something, something and let him do the such and such when you get the oil changed.”

“Uh-huh…get the oil changed. Got it.”

I got back in the car and continued thinking about my short story.  Time Travel, hmmm….

On Tuesday afternoon, I was at a meeting.  Someone said something about ‘taking a break.’  My brain snapped back to that cloudy conversation with my husband in the car.  A shiver ran up my spine.  Break? Broken?…That reminded me of something…

Oh crap!  The brakes!

I rushed straight from the board meeting to the auto shop.  Okay, first I had lunch with a good friend, but then I went to take care of the brakes.  Well, we might have done some shopping first.  But after that…I rushed straight to the mechanic.

Here’s what happened.

I stood by one of the bays and peeked inside.  I probably looked lost and out of place in my sundress and sandals, all gussied up for our girly meeting and foo-foo lunch.  “Umm…Excuse me.”

Three guys turned around, looked me up and down.  One of the younger ones smiled and I felt my face flush.  At that moment, I regretted the plunging neckline of my spaghetti-strap dress and wished I’d gone home to change first.  Into a nun’s habit.

An older man approached me wearing a big, friendly smile.  His eyes did not dart downward (as far as I noticed.)  I was grateful for that.

I read his nametag.

His name was Tiger. No really.  I swear!

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“Oh, hi, Tiger.”

What I discovered is that you cannot say that name without sounding like your coming onto him, but it was too late.  I mean with a name like Tiger, how can you say anything in a non-flirtatious way?

Tiger had a giant smile, gray hair, bright blue eyes and a handlebar mustache.  With waxed tips.  Curled wax tips!

I liked the guy right off the bat.  He was a character.  I just knew it.

“Well, Tiger, I was wondering if you could use the computer hook-up to find out why my ABS light came on.”

He looked behind me.  “Which car? The Cadillac?”

“No, my son is meeting me here.  He should be right behind me.”

Our red beast pulled into the lot and parked crooked, wheels on the yellow line.

I pointed. “That’s the one.”

“Well, we could take a look-see.  First, let me get some information.”  Tiger went into the bay.  When he returned, he held a little car-analyzing-computer-thing the size of a bread box.  He started to punch information into this magical device.

“Okay, what is the make?” he asked.

“Chrysler.”

“Model.”

“Town and Country.”

“Year?”

“1997.”

He glanced at the van parked a few yards away and then looked at me.  “That’s a ’97?”

“Yep.”

“Still looks pretty good.”

“Oh, but Tiger, you’re only seeing the right side. That side simply confirms I like clean cars.  If you go around, you’ll see the left side which confirms my son doesn’t drive any better than he parks.”

Tiger laughed and shook his head.  We had an instant report, Tiger and me.

He looked down at the apparatus again.  “Size of engine.”

I spread my hands out about two feet. “Oh, about yay big.”

Yes, I really did this.  I swear.  He distracted me and I didn’t think about the question, I just answered.  All right.  Fine. I have no good excuse for this.

Tiger laughed hard.  “That’s good!  I’ll have to remember that.”

“Umm…yeah. Heh, heh…just kidding.”  I gave him a sardonic smile.

“So, size of engine?”  He waited, fingers poised on the supernatural-car-diagnosis-contraption.

Total silence.

He scratched his chin.  “You don’t know, do you?”

“Umm…well, I know it’s big enough to pull a boat.”

Tiger smiled and chuckled.  “You have a boat?”

“No.  but I remember when we bought it, the salesman said it could ‘pull a boat or an RV’.”

“How about I just look at the VIN number on the door.  I can get the info from that.”

My son had long since abandoned me before I embarrassed him further.  He sat in the air-conditioned luxury of my new car while I sweated in 101 degree heat making myself look like an idiot in front of a handle-bar mustached man named Tiger.

I unlocked the doors of the red beast and pulled the hood lever next to the seat so Tiger could find the problem.  I knew where the latch for the hood release was because on more than one occassion, I’ve accidentally pulled it instead of the emergency brake release.  It really is a design flaw.  Not my fault.  Not entirely.

The hood popped open.

“Umm…I don’t need that,” Tiger says.

“But…that’s where we keep the engine.”

Tiger laughed.  “Yeah, but the computer is in the dashboard.  The heart is under the hood and the brain is in the dashboard.

“Heart is under the hood.  Brain is in the dashboard.  Well, the intestines are in severe distress.”

“Huh?”

“Dashboard brains.  Hood heart…There is a giant dent in the side panel.  The cup holder doesn’t close.  The window on the passenger side doesn’t roll down, the CD player is broken and you can’t move the front seat up or back anymore.  The guts of this thing are riddled with Pepsis.”  I moved out of the way to let Tiger sit in the driver’s seat.

He chuckled.  “I’m going to book you a slot for open mike.  You’re funny.”  He got to work doing whatever it is he does to perform his auto-mainframe-diagnosis trick.

I waited in the hot sun, perspiring, wishing I lived in Alaska.   I caught a glance at my oldest child.  Living life in ultimate comfort while his mother melted in the Texas heat, he sat in the car texting non-stop.  I shall use this guilt accordingly.  I filed it in the Catholic Mom Guilt File for later use.

Tiger looked up at me, squinting into the sun. “Can you write these numbers somewhere?”

“Sure. I’ll write them on my phone’s notepad.”

“30,30, 32 …”

“What does all that mean?” I asked.

“That’s your output.”  Tiger looked at his hoozy-whats-it and said, “Something over calibrated, something else under calibrated.  But I think the main problem is the unproductive dependent component.”

I glanced at my oldest child.  “Yeah, I’ll say.”

I looked back at the white-haired gentleman.  “All right, Tiger.  Which one of those things is going to convince my husband we need to get rid of this thing?”

Tiger snickered.  “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.  Do you think you could…oh, I don’t know…write me a diagnosis?  No wait!  A prescription or something saying the prognosis is not good.  Some sort of written proof.  Testimony of an expert.”

Tiger got out of the van and closed the door.  “What would you like me to say?”

“Whatever you want, but make it sound expensive.”  I smiled.

“How about if I just write, “It’s gonna cost ya.”

“YES!  That’ll do it.”  Me and Tiger, we understood each other.

“Sorry, Ma’am.  I’d like to help you, but you’ll have to take it to the dealer.  We don’t fix ABS systems so I can’t give you an estimate—or a prescription.”  He grinned.

I was disappointed, but still had a glimmer of hope.  Anytime we’ve taken our cars to the dealers it involved big expense.  I could almost hear my husband learning this news and saying, “Lemon Lot.”  (A parking lot where cars are allowed to be sold by owner.)

I put out my hand.  “It’s been very nice meeting you, Tiger.”

“You, too.  A real pleasure.”

When my sweet man called from Virginia that night, I told him what Tiger said.  I waited for it. Lemon Lot.  Lemon Lot.  I sent him subliminal messages.  I knew, just knew he would see it my way.  We needed to get our youngest son a newer, safer car.  Preferably one with brakes and no electrical shortages.

Hubby sighed.  “Well, take it to the dealer.  Get an estimate.”

Wait a sec…What??

All right, now I understand.  He’s not giving in yet.  I’ll try another route.

“Honey…did I tell you Petsmart is having a Pet-A-Thon this weekend?  Can I get a puppy?”

The Edification For The New Addition

Tags

cat personalities, cat snobbery, guard dogs, neighbors, pet adoption, pet envy, pet ownership, work-a-holic husbands

Recently, I walked into my husband’s home office.  I stood at the door and watched him for a moment.  His eyes were glued to the screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard. A look of intense contemplation played around his eyes.  That’s his usual look when working on—well, whatever it is he’s always working on.  Those of you with Type-A, work-a-holic mates know that look.  I’m positive every one of the wives down this street would recognize that look.

“Honey…”  I came closer, stood next to his brown leather executive chair.

“Hmmm?”  He flicked his eyes at me and then looked at the computer again.  His attention clearly went back to whatever life-and-death situation he dealt with on the screen.  His fingers began to tap out what I can only assume to be something that circumvented the threat of life as we know it. Uh huh.  I choose to believe this.  It keeps me sane.

“I want a baby.”

He continued typing as my words swirled around his head, flashed out into the ozone, circled the planet at twice the speed of light and then slammed into his brain like a heat seeking missile.

He pushed back on his office chair, mouth agape, and eyes wide. “What?”  He whispered it as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs or make his vocal cords work.

“I said I want a baby…”

His mouth twitched.  His brow wrinkled with anxiety.  He shook his head—probably to shake out the frightening images.  Colic, teething, diaper rash, tantrums, orthodontia, homework battles, driving lessons.  Judging by the gigantic swallow he took, I’m positive that visions of the two cars our teens have wrecked in the last year flashed through his mind.

I smiled.  “All right…maybe a puppy instead.”

He scoffed, no doubt full of relief.  “Yeah, well, I was going to say you’re a little too late to ask for the first one.  I can’t help you there.”

“Yes, but what about the second?  You could do something about that.  That requires no surgery whatsoever.”  I grinned at him.

“Well, I could help you with that…that is, if I actually wanted another dog.”

“But I want one.  I miss having a dog.”  I stuck out my lip in a teeny tiny pout.

Hubby sighed and leaned back in his chair.  He clasped his hands in front of him.  “So…what brought this on?  I’m thinking one of the kids didn’t kiss you good night?”  He smirked.

“Well, he didn’t, but…that has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh!  Now this makes sense.  My wife needs a new baby or a new puppy.  These here kids are gittin’ too big to cuddle,” he said doing his best redneck accent.  (If that sounds familiar to you, he got that quote from one of our favorite movies Raising Arizona.  If you haven’t seen it, you really should.  The writing is very good and Nick Cage is hilarious.)

“They are too big to cuddle and the cat hates me.”  I looked down and traced a pattern on the carpet with my toe.

“The cat hates everyone.  Don’t take it personally.”

“She only likes me in the morning before I feed her.”

“Then don’t feed her until noon.  Make the love last longer.”

“Ha ha.  C’mon.  Don’t you miss having a dog?”

He smiled at me, shook his head.  “No.  I don’t miss having a dog.  I miss my dog, of course.  But, all the work that goes with it…not so much.”

My brow wrinkled in confusion as I considered this.  “I don’t know what you could possibly be alluding to.  Your job with the dog was easy.  Playing with the dog, petting the dog, having the dog look at you like you’re a god.  I mean, c’mon.  I was the one that dragged a quivering 70-lb dog into the vet twice a year.  I had to coax the dog out of the car at the groomer every four months.  It was I who cleaned bits of chewed-up and partially digested garden hose from ten different spots on the Persian rug that couldn’t be professional shampooed–which meant it required lots of hand-to-vomit contact.  I was the one who had to chase the dog down the street in the scorching heat of a desert wasteland called Arizona or chase her through blizzards blowing in the tundras of South Dakota after the kids left the gate open for the millionth time.  And might I add…if you remember, your dog thought that was a great game.  She’d wait until I got so close I could almost grab her collar and then she’d take off like a jackrabbit.  Oh!  And who cleaned all mud off the floor when she came in after the rain or snow?  Who scrubbed the red clay of Texas from our cream colored carpet and who continually cleaned nose-prints from the French doors?  Who battled the ticks, dealt with her hip problems in later years?  But let’s not forget the coup de gras, my love.  Who changed her diapers for the last six months when she became incontinent?”

He studied me.  Tented his fingers under his chin.  “Annnd…you want a dog, why?”

“Okay, good point.”  He had me.  I had no choice but to confess. “Because Greg went to bed without kissing me goodnight.”

“Aha!  I knew it.”

“But that is not the point!  Greg has one more year in our house and then he’s out the door to college.  I’ll be all alone.  All day.  Every day.  When you work your crazy hours and when you go away for business, I’d have a companion.”

“Don’t forget the cat.”

“She doesn’t interact.  It’s not the same.”

“Now, honey…the boys haven’t really interacted since they reached their teens.”  He chuckled.  “And we didn’t get new ones when that happened.”

“Ugh.  You’re not listening.”

“No, I hear you.  You want a dog because Greg didn’t kiss you goodnight.”  That statement came from an obviously over-educated man.  He has attended many classes, written several papers and attended countless seminars on ‘Critical Thinking.’  Yes, I said (and meant) he’s over-educated.  Winning an argument with him is almost impossible.  He’s just too darn logical for my own good.  His critical thinking often works against my whimsical, flighty, irrational and sometimes unreasonable mind.

“No!  I want a dog to…”

“Teach the cat to be grateful?”

“No.”

“Make Greg kiss you goodnight?”

“No!”

“C’mon, Bergie…”  He used my pet name and rolled forward in his chair.  Grabbing my wrists gently, he pulled me to his lap.  “What’s really going on?”  I have to hand it to this man.  After twenty-three years of marriage he knows me too well.  He can (and does) melt my heart with the right look at the right time.  “What’s behind all the need for a puppy?”

“It’s the neighbors.  It’s their fault.”  I put out my lip, tears welled in my eyes.

“The B.’s?  They have that little Dachshund?”

“No.”

“The McR’s with their little white fluff ball?”

“No.”

“Well, then…what neighbors?”

“The M’s. down the street.”

“What?  I didn’t know they had a dog.”

“They don’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They have a cat.”

“OH!  You mean the strange one that walks on a leash?”

“Yes!”

We’d lived down the street from the M’s for over a year, but one night last week I saw them walking what I thought was a little dog.  However, when they got closer, I realized it was not a small dog, but a big cat.

I loved that.

Even my husband was amused by the spectacle.  The M’s cat, however, did not think it was a dog.  It knew it was a cat since it had a very cat attitude.

Thrilled by this scene, I bent down to talk to this clever animal.  It looked at me as if I had no right to study its particularly unusual talent.

That cat looked me in the eye and I swear if it could’ve flipped me the bird it would’ve.  I could almost hear its thoughts, “WTF are you looking at lady?  I’ll walk my people on this leash if I damn well feel like it.”  It had a sneer only a cat comfortable in its own skin could give.  At that moment…I WANTED THAT CAT!

When I came inside after that remarkable experience, I found my own cat on my bed lounging lengthwise and cleaning her face with slow deliberate licks and swipes.  She looked up at me.  She stopped for a second, deemed me unworthy of grooming disruption and continued to bathe as if I wasn’t there.  Right then I knew for sure, I’d never get that cat to walk on a leash.  I couldn’t even get the entitled animal to sit next to me while I watched TV.

So anyway, there I sat on my husband’s lap…  I put my arms around his neck, rested my head on his shoulder.

He says, “Let me get this straight.  You want to adopt a dog because Greg didn’t kiss you goodnight and the M’s walk their cat on a leash?”

“Well…Yes.  Honey…can’t I have a dog?  A little one?”

He opened his mouth to answer me.  At that moment his Blackberry rang.  I sat up.  My man held up one finger as an indication to wait, a “this will only take a second” gesture.

I knew better.  As I said…twenty-three years of marriage…

I stood up.  The answer to my new dog question stayed on his lips.  My husband has been trained in evasive maneuvers.  I know this because he’s managed to evade the question ever since.  When he gets home this Friday, I’ll try again.  Maybe this time, I won’t ask for a baby first.  I’ll start with, “Honey…I want a new car…”

What Goes Around Comes Around

Tags

April Fool's Day, high school counselor, jokes, mother's love, mothers and sons, plotting revenge, practical jokes, revenge, sense of humor, Snow days, Speeding, Suspension from School, the perfect day

SNOW DAY!!

Have you ever had one of those perfect days?  Just a few weeks ago, I was having one.  My writing was going well.  My creative muse smiled upon me and words flew from my brain almost faster than I could tap them onto my computer.  A writer dreams of those moments.

Even the weather was awesome.  Too beautiful to stay indoors, I sat on my front porch.  Unlike the other 364 days of the year in West Texas, it wasn’t windy.  I believe a heavenly 74-degree spring day like that should always be celebrated. Hence, I relished the sunshine, the fresh, non-dusty air, the sweet, little robins hopping in my yard under the tree in search of worms.  Against the sapphire Texas sky melodic mockingbirds perched in the gently swaying branches of the big tree in my front yard.  A breeze caressed my wind chimes by the bird bath and a ground squirrel skittered by me with pieces of wires in his mouth—they like to chew through wires around here—I think their building a super-computer somewhere and are poised to take over the world.  But anway…

Within an arms reach I had my Diet Coke.  Full of crushed ice, the frosty soda bubbled and popped in my favorite “Queen” cup.  Next to the cup, a handful of cherry sour balls glistened in the sunshine.  (They’re great if they’re warm—like if you leave them in the car for a while.  The gooey goodness of melty-cherry flavoring is worth the almost-permanent stain of red they leave on your fingers.  But, I digress…)

Ahhh, yes.  Life was good.  Until the phone rang.

 “Hello, this is Mr. Avery from the high school.  Is this Mrs. Goodfellow?”

Immediately, my heart started banging against my chest.  I swallowed the cherry sours I had packed in my cheek–like a ground squirrel with wires.

Every mother knows they never call when it’s something good.  Never.  A week earlier, my son placed 5^th out of 55 in a writing competition and not one person from the high school called.  Nope…whatever followed that salutation was not going to make me happy. 

 I honestly thought about saying, “That depends.  Why do you ask?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“I’m calling because there was an “altercation” at school today involving your son, Greg.”

My heart stopped.  The world wobbled.  An altercation?  Isn’t that a public school euphemism for fight?  A fight?  I pictured the 6 ½ foot, 300-lb All-State Defensive Lineman pummeling my baby boy!  My stomach lurched.

But…I’d already seen him.  He wasn’t hurt.

Okay, he’s not injured.  Good.  Except–then I pictured my burly weight-lifting son throwing a scrawny chess player into a trash can.  Maybe  not so good!

“Mrs. Goodfellow, did Greg tell you about what happened?”

“No, he hasn’t said anything.”

 In fact, when he came home he was a little more ‘smiley’ than normal and he gave me a kiss on my cheek before he went inside.  I attributed that little extra piece of affection on the continuation of my perfect day—or the fact that he needed gas money.

“Greg was caught speeding in the student parking lot today.”

Now my protective “mother-bear adrenaline” morphed into a jolt of angry heat that shot up my spine.  Do mother bears eat their young?  I’m going to kill him.  There go his driving privileges.

“Speeding?”  I clenched my teeth and gripped the phone.

“Yes.  And when Mr. Spears, the parking lot attendant told him to slow down, he argued with him.”

Forget  taking away driving privileges.  My mind began to churn up new and inventive ways to torture a teenager.  I’ll drive him to school every day—wearing curlers in my hair.

 “H-he argued with him?”

“Yes.  He disputed the speed.  They got into a verbal altercation.”

Not only will I don hair curlers, but I’ll draw a fake mustache with eyebrow pencil—just a dark shadow across my lip.

He continued, “When Mr. Spears told him to go to the office for insubordination, he refused.”

Okay…now I’m going to wear curlers, my fake mustache and I’m going to connect my eyebrows together in one giant unibrow like Ernie from Sesame Street.

 “H-he…talked back?”  My brain would not engage except to dream up new ways to punish the child.  I’m floored by this side of my son.   Now, his unibrow, curler-wearing, mustached-momma is going wait until he’s surrounded by his classmates and then call him back to the car, “Baby Greg!  You forgot to kiss mommy!”

“Yes and when Mr. Spears told him he would be getting detention for his attitude, Gregory sped out of the parking lot.”

That’s it!  Homeschooling!  The ultimate punishment for my children and the thing I’ve always threatened them with for any transgressions against the institutions of free, public education.  It was the harbinger of nasty retribution for abusing the privilege of a public school education—where they’d be taught by more patient and forgiving people.  People who couldn’t make them eat brussel sprouts and dry crusts of bread for lunch if they did not perform to the best of their ability.  ME!  All day!  Everyday!  I’m sure the mere thought of that gave them nightmares, but it kept them on the good side of what the public schools like to call “citizenship.”  That is until now–

At this point, I tried to sound coherent to Mr. Avery.  I wanted to end the phone call because it seemed the longer I talked to this man, the worse my son’s behavior became.  I wanted to hang up before I discovered Greg flipped Mr. Spears the bird.  I’m sure that would’ve made my head spin around and someone would have had to call an exorcist.  I already felt the need to expel a stream of pea-soup—head spinning was just one misbehavior away.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Avery.  I’ll take care of this.”  That’s as much as I could force from my lips.

“Uhh…Mrs. Goodfellow, he’ll be on OSS for three days.”

My face turned hot, my mouth dried and my tongue felt two sizes too big for my mouth.  “Out of School Suspension?”

Ahhh…three days at home with me!  He will rue the day!

After I hung up the phone it all sunk in.

This will be on his ‘permanent record’!  I saw Greg’s future–and it wasn’t bright.  Suspension?  Now he’ll never get into college, get a good job, get married and be successful.  Greg’s future lay…in our basement!

 The future flashed before my eyes.  Greg, at 27-years-old playing Maddon-2021, wearing only his boxers and black socks, slouched on a second hand couch that he’d found on the curb.  I could see him eating a Hot Pocket, Cheetos scattered all over the broken coffee table in front of him and a ring of florescent orange around his lips.

“Son…has Walmart has called today?” I’d ask.

“Yeah, I told them I couldn’t’ go for the interview, mom.  I’m still grounded from the car.”

Ahhh!  I shuddered to get the horrible image out of my head.  Still reeling, I thought, “There go all the plans his dad and I had about traveling around the world, living in a metropolitan area without worrying about school districts, eating dinner at nine if we so chose and enjoying each other again like newlyweds.”  Bottom Line:  The kid totally ruined his future and our sex life in one fell swoop.  Ohhh…he’s gonna get it!

As I sat there contemplating the grim future, the front door opened and my 175-lb baby boy stood at the threshold.  His big brown eyes were wide and he desperately tried to look innocent.  I knew that look.  It hadn’t changed since he was a pre-schooler guilty of licking all the frosting off a dozen donuts when we told him he couldn’t have a one until after church.  “But, Daddy, I didn’t have one.”

Cradling his cat in his arms he took a tentative step out the front door.  I knew he’d been listening.

“Momma?”  After the age of eight, he only called me momma if he were sick with fever or if he knew he was about to be skinned alive.

He was standing on the side of me, but I looked away.  I put up my hand to stop his progress and managed to get this coherent piece of advice out of my mouth.  “You. Room. Now!”

“But, mom…”

“I said go.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“You are in so much trouble that if you don’t walk away from me in the next two seconds I will…”

“But what did I do?”

I stood up and stared incredulously into his sweet face.  “Don’t play games with me Gregory!  I’m letting your father handle this one.  Now go to your room.  I’m counting to three.”  (I have no idea why this still works with him, but it does.)

He smiled.

His smile disarms me every single time and he knows it.  His big, brown teddy-bear eyes usually render me into Jell-o.  At that moment, I knew I should’ve avoided them at all cost.

But…what the heck is he smiling at?

“Greg?”

“April Fool’s!  Ha! Ha!  I got you!  I got you!”  He jumped around the porch laughing and pointing at me.

“What?”

“Me and Stephen got you!  Finally, after all these years, we got you!!”

And they did.

Greg had called his brother at college and concocted the whole thing.  So I wouldn’t recognize the voice, Stephen had his roommate call and they used *67 to block the caller id.  Why hadn’t it occurred to me that it came up Private Caller instead of the school district?  Ugh.  Then I thought about how it sounded like I was on a speaker-phone.  It all started to make sense.  They got me all right.  In fact, I had been broadcast to the university dorm’s common-room.  I recalled whispering in the background of the telephone call.  Was there stifled giggling? I think there was–only I was too irate to process it at the time.  I’m glad I didn’t go all nuts and start screaming at Greg while “Mr. Avery” was still on the phone–like I’m sure they expected. 

Well, it only took my sons ten years to get even with me, but their plan finally came to fruition.

What were they trying to avenge?

One April Fool’s day in South Dakota I awoke to a sugary coating of snow.  Just a tiny bit.  Now, unlike Texas, it had to be a pretty good snowstorm before they cancelled school there.  Pretty good–as in at least three feet and sixty mile an hour winds.

The snow fluttered in tiny flakes that melted once they hit the ground.  My boys, aged about ten and seven, got ready for school as usual.  When they were ready to walk out the door, I went to my room and called the home phone from my cell.

“I’ll get it!”  I said as I picked up the extension in the kitchen.

“Ohh…”  I put my hand over the phone and mouthed, “It’s the school.”  Then back into the receiver I said, “A snow day?  Oh, all right.”

The boys’ eyes brightened.  They stopped putting on their coats and hats.  They looked at me with hope—with expectation.

“Thank you.”  I hung up.  “Guess what, boys?  It’s–”

“A Snow day!” they yelled.  They didn’t wait for me to finish the sentence.  My boys literally danced around the living room yelling, “Snow day!  Snow day!”

“Nope not a Snow Day.” 

The ‘No-School Dance’ came to an abrupt halt as they looked at me in confusion.  “Not a snow day, but…an April Fool’s day!”

It took a few seconds to register and then they both yelled, “MOOOM!”  They broke out into laughter when they realized I got them.  And then…they plotted for ten years to get even with me.

Have I told you how incredibly wonderful my boys are?  They have turned into amazing young men with really great senses of humor.  Now…about next April 1st…they best beware.

It’s Tough to Work for the King

Tags

Burger King, first jobs, hairnets, health regulations, higher callings, job applications, job hunting, lunch ladies, walmart

"Come work for us, Greg..."

My son, Greg, got his first job a couple of months ago.  He became the newest member of the Burger King team.  After his first day, he came home horrified.

“Mom!  They made me wear a hairnet!”

Yep, welcome to the real world, son.  A place where they make you wear a hairnet.

“It’s so you don’t lose hair in the food,” I explained.

“Mom!  I’m sixteen.  I’m not losing my hair!”

He truly was blown away by this new aspect of his life.  “Everyone loses hair.  Like when you comb it or find it on your pillow.”

“I didn’t plan on combing my hair over the grill.”  He rolled his eyes.  Didn’t I know anything?

“All people in foodservice are required to wear them, Greg.  Look at the lunch ladies.”

That was the complete wrong thing to say.  He looked mortified.  “I thought they just wore those things because they didn’t know what to do with their hair or because of the steam or something…” he mumbled.

So, Day One of being a working man did not go as planned.  I pinned my hopes on Day Two.  Perhaps, he’d have a better day and it would give his outlook a boost.

My hopes were quickly dashed.  The second day, he came back looking tired and frazzled.  “That sucked.  I hate it,” he said as soon as he walked in the door.

His father and I snickered.  “Yeah, well, you’re sixteen.  It’s what you’re qualified to do,” I said.

“You’re supposed to hate it,” his father said with a smirk.  “Just deal with it and quit complaining.  You can work fast food until you hear a higher calling,” he joked.

“Yeah…but…I have to wear a hairnet!”

Hubby walked to where Greg stood leaning on the kitchen counter, arms folded, looking peeved.  He looked into the eyes of his frustrated, youngest son, ready to impart wisdom, to commiserate, to offer words of encouragement.  He leaned in and took a whiff.  “Whoa!  Take a shower.  You smell like a bag of fries and an order of onion rings to go.”

So much for paternal support.

Greg pushed himself up from the counter, brushed passed his dad with a “harrumph” and headed for the shower.

“And get your hairnet off my counter!” I shouted after him.

We soon found out there was another reason for his I-hate-this-job-attitude.  It wasn’t just certain health code hair-covering regulations.  Our poor son spent the entire four hours of his shift standing in front of the grill terrified that the girl he liked would have a craving for a Whopper and find him looking like Doris the Lunch Lady.  It’s a legitimate fear, I guess, if you’re a sixteen-year-old boy.  Having the woman of your dreams see you sweating over a grill, grease settled on your skin in puddles and wearing a hairnet—nope, it couldn’t not get worse than that.  Unless, of course, she comes in with another guy while you’re looking like Doris the Lunch Lady.  Wait.  Shhhh…I’m forbidden from saying anything more about that.

“He’ll feel better when he gets his first paycheck,” his father said.

Two weeks later, he loved his money.  But…he still hated his job.

After a while, my teenage son had enough.  He wanted to put in his two-weeks notice.  He swore he’d have another job before his last day at the Kingdom of Burgers and Hairnets.

“Mom!  Will you come here?”  Greg called me into his room—something he rarely does.  I entered with caution and made a mental note to buy some new Glade Plug-Ins—maybe one for each outlet.  Anyway, I saw him sitting at his desk staring at his computer screen with intensity.  “Mom, I hit Send, but it says, ‘responding’.  What does that mean?”

I looked at the computer.  He’d been applying for a job at WalMart.  Apparently, it’s done online now.  I applauded his self-sufficiency.  However, I also felt a little pang through my heart.  I thought, “My little boy is so grown up, he doesn’t need me anymore.”  Until–

I looked at the screen and saw what he wrote under “Tell us why you want the job”.

I currently work at Burger King, but I heard a higher calling to work at WalMart.

I know you aren’t supposed to laugh at your kids, but that just floored me.  “Uh…Greg…what in the world–?  You’ve ‘been called’ to work at WalMart, son?  Really?”

He looked confused.  “What?”

“Called to work at WalMart?  A Higher calling?”

“Yes.  A calling for higher pay, right?”  He looked at me with his big brown eyes.  He really had no idea what I found so shocking…and funny.

Just then, I saw his father walk by.  If you know either of us, you know we don’t give up an opportunity to tease our children.  They’ll go out into the world confident, knowing how to laugh at themselves and with great senses of humor…or in great need of therapy.  Only time will tell.  We’ve always been willing to take the risk, though.

“Honey!  Come here.  Your son’s heard a calling.”

Greg looked at me with wariness.

“He has?  What’s that?”  My hubby entered the room and stood next to me.  “Calling, huh?”  Because he’d been talking to Greg about getting into ROTC in college, my hubby had his hopes up.  “For what?  The military?”

“No,” I said.  “WalMart.”

“What?”  He scoffed.  A smile spread across his face.

“Yep.  Look here.  He’s put it in writing.”  I pointed to the screen.

My husband leaned over my son who looked at the two of us with circumspection.

Both of us laughed for a moment.

Greg fidgeted in his chair and finally swiveled around to face us.  “What is so funny?  Isn’t that what you said, dad?  I only had to work at Burger King until I got a higher calling?  Like for higher pay.  Isn’t that what it means?  That you want a better job?”

“What it means is…” I said catching my breath.  “…Well, it’s an expression meaning that God has ‘called you’ to do something special.  Like when the Lord calls you to be a priest.  Or, maybe a teacher.”

“Or a military officer.”  (Hubby is really pushing that ROTC thing.)

“But not WalMart,” we said in unison.

“Oh,” Greg replied.  He turned around and looked at the screen.  A message now appeared.  YOUR APPLICATION HAS BEEN SENT.  “Oops.” 

Well, Walmart hasn’t called him for an interview and I’m wondering if they just don’t understand how badly my son wants a new job. I mean c’mon.  He had a calling!  What’s wrong with those people?

Now, if he doesn’t get a job at WalMart, I’m going to wonder what went wrong since it’s been my experience that our local store doesn’t hire any certified geniuses.

In fact, EVERY time I go, I bring my own reusable bags and the cashier tries to scan them–EVERY time.  I keep all of the reusable cloth bags inside a big, plastic, silver frozen-food bag with a handle.  Inevitably, I say, “These are mine.”  Sometimes they get it.  We understand each other.  Communication has been achieved.  Yet, sometimes I get a look of total confusion from the person on the other side of the counter.  Other times, they ignore me, look for a barcode on the side and slide it over the scanner, charging me for it.

For example, this last time, I put the silver bag (full of other bags) on the conveyer belt.

“Hi.” I smiled at the cashier.

“Hi.  How are you?” she asked and picked up the frozen food bag.  She immediately began looking for the scan code.

“That’s mine,” I said with a smile.

She continued to look for the correct place to scan.

“Ummm…yeah, that’s mine.”  She smiled at me and continued to look for the barcode.

“The bag is mine.”

She looked up at me.  “I know.”  She looked back down and after finding the barcode, scanned it and charged me $1.50.

“No…” I tried to stop her, but it was too late.  “That’s my bag.”

“Yes, I know.”

She looked at me like I was a complete idiot.

“But…you charged me for it.”

“OH!”  A look of total enlightenment passed over her face.  I mean you could almost hear the Hallelujah Chorus and see a shaft of light from above shine down upon her.  THAT’s how elucidated she became in that moment.  “You mean you’ve already paid for it?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s what I said.”  I am truly amused by this—every single time.  Hey, I love to interact with people.  Human nature fascinates me.

“I thought you meant it was yours…like part of your order.  You know…yours.”  She gestured to the rest of the items on the conveyer belt.

Yep, folks…it’s like that almost every time.

Another time I got the pierced teen—you know the one I’m talking about if you live here.  Bless her heart; she tried to scan the separator that was placed between my order and the one behind mine.  “What is this?” she said, turning it around—I believe looking for the price.

Yeah…that’s how they hire at WalMart.

Which makes me worry since it’s been five days and they haven’t called my son for an interview.  Haven’t they heard?  He had a higher calling!

Yes…that was me this morning. Don’t ask what was on my head.

Tags

cleaning lady, fear of bugs, gardening, hair dye, humiliation, living on a golf course, lock-outs, manicures, neighbors, obsession, pedicures, removal of hair dye, stress, walking trails

The offending items…

Let me start by admitting something.  I may be in need of a gardening intervention.  You see, last year we moved from Pennsylvania to Texas at the very end of Spring, so I didn’t get to plant any flowers before I left.

By the time we got to West Texas, settled into our house and had time to think about the landscaping outside, all the plants at the nurseries, Lowes and Wal-Mart were pretty much slim-pickin’s.  Besides, it was so hot I didn’t want to leave the sweet air-conditioning of my new home to tend to any half-dead desert plants.  I bought a couple of hanging flower baskets and called it a summer.

So, that means last year I didn’t get to garden.  And by gardening, I mean watering colorful flowers in decorative pots.  I don’t actually want to get dirty or have to kneel down and weed anything, but I want to see pretty things in my yard so…

This year, I got a $100 gift certificate for a local nursery and couldn’t wait to spend it.  I went a little crazy.  By the time the whole thing was over, said and done, I think I ended up with over $250.00 worth of flowers.  Ooops.

My front and back porches look very festive and delightful.  I’m very excited about that.  Now, if I don’t kill any of them, I’ll be happy.  I’m great with houseplants, but sometimes I have a little difficulty with the outdoor variety.  There are bugs out there!  Every year I say I’m going to conquer my fear and maintain my own garden, but some malevolent spider, slimy worm or wicked beetle scares me back into my house where I then spend the rest of the summer admiring the flowers and waving to Chewy the Yard Guy as he tends them.  This year, I will do the maintenance myself!  I will!  I am an optimist.  Otimism and the fact that Chewy lives in Pennsylvania has me determined to make this work.

Feeling very guilty about spending sooo much money on my flower obsession, I cancelled my hair appointment today. 

“I’ll color my own hair and save $75.00,” I thought.

Yeah…that’ll ease that old spending guilt.

Using my fuzzy math, I figured if I did my own hair…I was halfway to coming out even on my over-expenditure at the nursery. 

So, late this morning, I set my box of hair color down on my vanity in my master bathroom feeling oh so grown-up and responsible.

How hard could this be?

Reading the instructions carefully, I began to save money.  HA!

Feeling like a chemist in a lab, I set to mixing and shaking.  The box even came with rubber gloves!  I was feeling pretty damn professional.  After very carefully following the directions, I applied the mixture to my hair.

“This is not so hard,” I thought. 

Suddenly, I felt a cold, wet trickle running from my temple, down my ear and continuing down my neck. 

Aaah!  Don’t panic!  Not a problem.  I grabbed a towel.  The closest towel.  My strictly-for-decoration gold-fringed hand towel.

Ugh.  Should not have done that. 

Well, I figured, it’s ruined, so I may as well continue to use it.  Next drip I felt was down my neck in the back.  Quick as a flash, I grabbed my newly-stained towel to sop up the mess.

Whoops!  Wrong towel.  Towel number two—ruined.

Realizing my mistake, I tossed the towel onto to the counter and knocked the whole bottle of liquid hair dye onto the vanity.  The bottle dropped to the floor, splashed against the wood cabinet and dumped out onto the gold bathmat before I managed to stop the worsening destruction.

Crap!  Who knew tile could stain?  Who knew marble countertops could stain?  Who knew black dye on gold mats could look like someone had been murdered on my bathroom floor?

At this point, I forgot about my hair—I could only contemplate what chemical neutralizes hair dye and removes it from wood and tile.

Not wanting my hubby to see the bathroom devastation I’ve created, I rolled up the towels in the bathmat and hid them in the garage (to throw out later–on Trash Day) feeling like the world’s most inept criminal.

I realized the marble countertop was still stained and I wasn’t sure what might take care of that, but I came up with a genius solution to the floor.

Throw the other bathmat over the floor stain…

Perhaps, no one will ever know—until we move out, that is.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t genius.

After I got everything under control and had adequately hidden my misdeeds, I piled up my hair on my head and set the timer for 40 minutes.

Now keep in mind, I’m still feeling guilty over the tropical jungle I have blooming on my porches. I mean it’s TEXAS–where the previous day’s temperature had reached 97-deegrees…and it’s ONLY APRIL!

What was I thinking?

I suddenly comprehended my costly little paradise would require more care than I probably know how to give.  However, I am now resolved.  I must not let them die!  Think of all that money!  

While I’m waiting for the last few minutes of required hair-cooking time, I decided to water the guilt-inducing plants on my back patio since they look a little wilted from yesterday’s heat.

I CANNOT LET THEM DIE! 

My backyard backs up to a golf course and walking trail—a fairly busy walking/jogging trail.

I stuck my head out on the porch and looked around.  No one was using the trail and I didn’t see any golfers. 

Yes!  I have time to water my flowers and come back in to rinse the black goo off my head.

I very stealthily made it to the water spigot, keeping my eyes out for joggers and listening for golf carts.  I turned on the hose and hurried to the back porch and began watering.  Everything was going as planned until I saw a black drop fall near my feet.  Then another.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

“Oh, crap!” 

I looked at my reflection in the window.  I had black streaks across my cheeks and a black smear across my forehead.  There’s even a black smudge over my lip from where I’d obviously rubbed my nose which made me look like I had half a Hitler mustache!

Behind me a neighbor’s dog barked making me jump.  I looked down the path and noticed someone is walking their dog and coming towards my house.

It’s okay.  I still have time to rush inside.  I dropped the hose, and turned the handle of the French doors.

Bam!  I plow face first into it.

“What the…?”  There is now a black smudge on the white paint where my forehead hit the frame.

Panicked, I tried the handle again.

“OMG! No!” 

*Bark! Bark!*

The dog walker is now closer!  I tried the handle again.  No doubt about it.  It’s locked.  Someone must’ve locked the doorknob lock last night!

I rushed to the side of the house, out the gate and tried the side entrance to the garage.  Locked!  I ran to the front, horrified that someone might see me in my Tinkerbell pajama bottoms and t-shirt sans bra!

 Front door?  Locked! 

It’s official.  I am locked out!  And humiliated.  And it’s starting to get hot!  I wiped away the dripping black gunk with my hands and noticed my fingers were black.

Well….there goes the manicure I got a couple of days previous–totally ruined!

As I rounded the corner to hide in my backyard again, I happened to notice my cleaning lady was two doors down at my husband’s boss’s house.  The way I saw it…I had no choice at that point.  Maria has a key!

I thought of sticking my head under the garden hose before walking casually down the street so as not to cause any undue attention.  No, I better not, I thought, it might just make the mess worse and turn my entire face black.  No, better just rush over, explain the situation and rush back.

I scurried down the street—two doors down, but it felt like a mile.  Luckily, no one was out (which is highly unusual for this active neighborhood.)

This could work.

Maria’s car was in the driveway.  I know she’s there!

I rang the doorbell.

No answer.

I knocked— leaving a black knuckle mark on the white painted door of the boss’s pristine, beautiful home.

Crap!  I used my shirt to wipe it off.  Well, there goes that t-shirt anyway.  Sorry, Tinkerbell. 

I waited,  switching my weight back and forth and peeking behind me to see if anyone is outside.  It is officially HOT and I have to use the bathroom now.

Still no answer.  What the heck?

Giving up, I decided to see if by some miracle my across-the-street-neighbor is home (even though I know she works Tuesdays and Thursdays).

It’s worth a shot.

Just as I crossed the street, I saw Maria step out of the house to get something from her car. 

“Maria!” I yelled running back.

She did a Hollywood-worthy double-take.  “Mrs. Goodfellow?”

“Uh…yeah.  I’m locked out.  Do you have my key with you?”

“Yes,” she says looking at me with wide, confused eyes.  I’m sure she can’t fathom why I’m walking around outside looking like a squid secreted ink on my head, sporting half a mustache and wearing my pajamas near noontime.  (She already thinks I’m a little flighty being that I’m always forgetting what day she’s supposed to come or forgetting to leave a check when she does.  Or accidentally giving her my Pennsylvania phone number or forgetting to sign my check or….)

“I was watering and I….” I stammer.

“Is that water?” she asks.  I’m sure she’s wondering if something has been lost in translation from English to Spanish.

“No, no…I was dying my hair and watering my plants and…”

“At the same time?”

“No, no…um…yes, but…do you have my key?  Can I have my key?”  A car was coming up the street.  I was getting desperate.

“Yes,” she says.  “You want me to open it for you?”

I think she realized the complexities of a lock were probably beyond my capacity at that point.

Eventually, I got into my house.

However, by then my entire skull and part of my face was dyed a nice shade of Midnight Black. 

So, I did what any 21-century person would do.  I got online to find out how to remove hair dye from skin.  I love the internet.  Just when you think you are the only person who would have black streaks dyed into your face, you find out there are many, many others out there who have done the same thing.  One person asked Wiki Answers how to remove it from her legs and feet.  I can only venture to guess how that…but I don’t want to ramble…

So, I pulled out my Nail Polish Remover and got to scrubbing.

It sort of worked…except…it turns out I’m allergic to it.  My skin went from black to gray with tinges of bright red!

I decided the red was better than the gray or light black, so I rubbed until it was all (or most of it was )removed.

To top it all off, I looked down and my brand new bling-y flip-flops are decorated with a black splotch across the top—oh!  And there goes the spa pedicure, too.

So,..in saving $75.00 doing my own hair, I managed to ruin a new manicure, a new pair of flip-flops,  a bathmat, two decorative hand towels and a fresh pedicure.  I’ll still wear my Tinkerbell p.j.’s so that’s a draw. 

And none of that even comes close to the amount of mortification I endured and several moments of extreme stress which probably gave me gray hair…that is…gray hair underneath all that Midnight Black dye.  On top of all that…the Hibiscus I bought…isn’t looking real good today.  I might have to make one more trip to the nursery…but then I swear I’m done.