Jams and Jelly Glasses

With two healthy boys in the family, the plumber and I got to be quite good friends over the years. Still, the best story of all features Fred Flintstone. Join me at Stage of Life where our plumber friend is enjoying a flush of easy money. Yabba Dabba Do!

Toxic Baby Poop

I've had a request to run this column again. I can't think why. Once you've waded into biological warfare this intense, you don't usually choose to re-enter the battlefield. Somebody must have lost a bet.

Nothing brings Moms together like a discussion of dirty diapers of the dynamic kind. When it comes to Toxic Baby Poop, We Are Family. No matter what gruesome tales are told, we all feel that our own baby would capture the prize in a diaper-runneth-over derby.

One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.

When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling, chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage. Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.

All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Suddenly a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory-fresh box of Milk Duds.

Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden. Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.

That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Nowadays that baby is a responsible citizen with a job and a hearty appetite.

And we know the plumber by first name.

Movin' On. . .In?

“Buying a house is like choosing which dog in the pack you want to bite you. You can pick the big one that takes one big hunk of meat at wallet level or select the little one that grabs hold of anything that dangles and hangs on til a better tidbit comes along. Either way, you’re broke.”

“So you’re not in favor of the idea.”

“Well, we’re dangerously close to having extra money this month. I was afraid we might be forced to do something rash, like buy gas or have meat with dinner this week.”

I’m trying to persuade the Captain to buy a house. A cozy little home of our own where we can raise kittens and cucumbers and drill holes in the wall any time we like. Actually it’s not buying a house that he’s against. It’s the description of the particular house I’ve discovered on my latest foray. And I probably should have saved that kitten idea for a surprise later on.

“Handyman’s Dream” it said in the guide book. When I called, the realtor sounded giddy. Then again, perhaps she was just really lonely, because she offered to put off dialysis just to meet me. She even gave me a charming aerial photo of the the house to show off when I got back home.

“I’d rather cover my seats with Viennese lace.” The Captain didn’t really say that, but his actual comment, although rich in imagery, had the same odds.

“Think of the money we’ll save,” I said, ducking down and to the left as I turned on the faucet. An icy blast of water shot out of the sprayer attachment and nailed Precious, the cat, with pinpoint accuracy. I saw Precious make a mental note to poop in my Reeboks later in the evening. He’s held a grudge ever since the surgery, anyway.

“You mean in plumber’s bills?” he asked, wiping up water with the picture of my dream hovel.

“In rent.” We could be making payments on a house we owned so we could retire.” I reached under the sink and turned on the hot water. A gush of steam erupted from the faucet like Old Faithful. Bill pushed the landlord’s speed dial button on his cell phone.

“We’ll need to save money so we can pay for our own repairs.”

“We’ll do everything ourselves.”

“You mean like when you hung that doily over the hole in the living room wall?”

“That was short term. You’re a great repairman.”

“I fix computers. There’s a big difference between replacing a sound card and snaking a toilet. Computer maintenance doesn’t require the use of a wrench big enough to wrap your upper plate around your tonsils.”

“No, but you have to deal with people who think a user’s manual is a book that teaches you how to take drugs. With this project, you’d be totally in charge. It would be exhilarating.”

“It would be exhausting.”

“I’ll help you.” I grinned invitingly.

“There’s no need to threaten me.”

“You can go to the hardware store any time you like.”

If there’s one thing men crave more than quiet at fourth down and goal to go, it’s sifting through tenpenny nails without a reason. That and strolling through automotive departments to sniff the tires, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

For now I still have some convincing to do. I realize there are more obstacles on the way to buying a house than there are splinters on the stairway to Paradise. But I think I’ll win.

I showed Precious where to find the Captain's shoes.

Seek and Enjoy

Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I can tell it’s spring at my house when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”

About the only thing I hate worse than the first flush of spring is the annual Easter egg hunt at Dad’s farm. This year, Easter comes at the first of April, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.

I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity. It’s like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano. I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.

I can hide eggs with no trouble. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Dad any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.

But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby was born, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order college graduation announcements for the baby.

When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglass, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”

Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, I discovered a plastic candy-filled egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny candy bar huddled in a faded wrapper.

The kids acted like it was a moon rock. “Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs that we never found!”

That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. It won’t bother me if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.

Super Powers

Every time the kids go see a movie where some grown man is pulling on a mask and a pair of stretch pants to head out to the streets for an evening of crime fighting, they come home discussing how great it would be to have super powers. I’ve been on the pulling side of stretch pants many times in my life and I can tell you right now that if you can get the deceitful things on without blowing out a seam or rupturing a kidney, you already have superpowers. If you can do it without ruining a new manicure, you can be leader of the team.

The last time I tried to put on a pair of stretch jeans, I lost two press-on nails, a layer of fake tan, and three pounds in sweat currency. When I stood up, I realized I hadn’t put on my shoes. Basic science and a hearty dose of common sense told me that if I bent over, the ensuing explosion would result in a pair of shredded pants hanging from an elastic waistband. Don’t tell me I don’t know how the Hulk feels. I went barefoot that day.

I do have a certain reverence for Superman, though. Anybody who can change into blue tights and a red Speedo in 2.5 seconds in a telephone booth possesses some natural skills. However due to changes in technology, there are precious few telephone booths in existence, and I just can’t see the whole scenario having the same effect if Superman dashed into a Sprint kiosk at the mall. Superman is apt to emerge from the booth with six rows of sparkly phone bling, a Velcro carrying case with snap-tight closure, and a weekend of free anytime minutes.

Dressing myself is a remarkable talent, but not my only claim to extraneous powers. I can tell by the ring of my cell phone if Son Number 1 had an unfortunate encounter with the steamer at work, Son 2 needs money for gas, or the cat just produced a bouncing baby hairball in an undisclosed but widely traveled location in my newly carpeted hallway. My Mom-sense gives me a jolt when, somewhere in my living room, a child is feeding toxic-gas-producing hot dogs to the Dachshund. And I feel an overwhelming disturbance in the Force when anyone related to me by blood, marriage, or pet adoption dries their sneakers in the toaster.

All in all, I find that movie-type superpowers are over-rated. I never saw a single member of the Fantasic Four who could remove a jelly glass from the flushomatic on the first try. For that, you need a lot more than a cape and coloredy support hose.

You need a Mom with the plumber on speed dial.

Seek Not

Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I know it’s spring when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas.

I’m looking for the day when the first flush of spring brings added surprises. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”

About the only thing I hate worse than that first flush is the annual Easter egg hunt at the farm. This year, Easter comes at the end of March, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide, much like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.

I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity, which is like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano.

I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and a labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.

I can hide eggs. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Mom any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.

But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble around all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order high school graduation announcements for the baby.

When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglas, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”

Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, my teenaged son discovered a plastic egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny chocolate bar huddled in a faded wrapper.

“Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs we never found!”

That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. I don’t care if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.