Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what happens to my towels. There are times I think the door to my bathroom leads to some sort of lavatorial Bermuda triangle where terrycloth goes to die.
Today my husband disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Seconds later he pried the door open a crack and stuck his head out.
“Have you washed towels lately?”
“Have you shaved your legs lately?”
“I’m not trying to be sexist. I just want to dry off.”
“Yesterday I washed everything that resembled a towel. I even threw in that funny sweater your mother gave you.”
“That’s not terry cloth.”
“Well it’s certainly not made of anything that Mother Nature has to offer.”
The door closed. I heard furtive searching sounds coming from the bathroom closet. Seconds later he peered out of the door crack with one distraught eye.
“What’s the matter?”
“All that’s left is the hooded froggie towel from when the kids were little, and the pink velour with the floral design.”
“Go for the flowers. The frog repels moisture. You can dry on that thing for half an hour and still retain enough water to qualify as a camel.”
Later that night I found six hand towels and a frayed wash cloth drying on the towel rack. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances with the rose buds. I tossed them all in the laundry.
It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terry cloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up quicker than Bernie Madoff’s revenue streams the day the subpoena surfaced.
But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would have been envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.
The day that the Captain of my oil pan kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was checking my fluids, the festive holiday guest towels disappeared. The day Son One and Son Two were heard arguing over who was to blame for the massive Fruit Loop spill on the living room shag, the blue velour towels I got for Mother’s Day went missing. The day we adopted the third puppy, I took out stock in cotton futures.
There’s nothing I can do about the towels that are already gone, but there are preventive measures I can take to guard against these towel-thieving guys.
First thing Monday morning, I’m heading to Wal-Mart to snag a buggy full of pink velour towels with a floral design.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll hang the froggie on the towel rack year round and let ‘em drip dry. The living room shag will thank me for it.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Mother's Day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mother's Day. Show all posts
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A Chicken in Every Pot
It’s not that my son is a picky eater, but he would starve to death before the noon rush at any grocery store in America.
He once perused the morning buffet at a luxury hotel restaurant (We have teenage boys. To us luxury means any hotel that doesn’t make us pay a security deposit when we check in.)for three quarters of an hour before demanding to be taken to McDonald’s. Nothing says Breakfast of Champions like a McBiscuit with the outside crust peeled away.
His specifications are exact. He does not eat ugly food.
Ugly food is defined as any food that comes in contact with any other food or food-like item during its processing or preparation. Therefore my kitchen is under constant supervision. It’s like living with a member of the Board of Health who doesn’t clean his room or brush his teeth until threatened with government action.
“Mom,” Son #2 peered in the pot of steaming, frothing liquid and wrinkled his nose. “Are you boiling chickens again?”
“Sure am.”
“Didn’t you just boil a chicken at aunt KJ’s house this weekend?”
“Yes, I was helping her out in the kitchen.”
Son 2, in disgust, “Do you have some sort of addiction to chicken boiling?”
“Jeffrey, I’m going to make chicken salad.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of cult ritual or something?”
“I’m sure. Back away from the chicken. It needs to boil another hour.”
“Do we need to have an intervention?”
“No. This is not a bizarre ceremonial rite. You have to stew it before you can make other things with it.”
“Like what? Some sort of nasty chicken potion to smear on your victims? Does it eat their flesh? You know, like zombie chickens.”
“Son, if you don’t like chicken salad, you don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. You’re going to feed me some kind of boiled chicken serum to make me do your will.”
“That’s ridiculous. I create the potion for making you do my will out of the parts I take out of the chicken.”
“What?”
“Like the heart.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to waste a perfectly good bird just to make you obey me. Besides, it doesn’t work.”
He pondered this tidbit. “That’s because I’m not eating it. I shouldn’t even be breathing in the fumes. They’re probably poisonous. Or hallucinogenic.”
I didn’t know words with that many syllables until I was in college. “There are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t care if you eat chicken salad or not.”
Where’s the feet? Are you wearing a chicken claw around your neck?”
“For goodness sakes. That’s the Mother’s Day necklace you and your brother gave me. The pictures are a little fuzzy, that’s all.”
“Sure, Mom, if that’s your real name. I’ll be wanting to see some identification at dinner.”
“Get out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, now you’re worried, aren’t you? You’ll probably try and disguise the chicken in my food.”
All the boy eats is frozen pizza and Captain Crunch. It’s hard to disguise chicken parts as rogue Crunch Berries.
“That’s right. Beware of anything you eat or drink. It may be contaminated with chicken broth.”
“That’s it. I’m making a pizza.”
It’s amazing how people who won’t eat freshly thawed meat by-products will roast a frozen, artificially colored and flavored disc to a golden brown and slam it down like filet mignon just because it says pizza on the box.
I think I’ll make some chicken soup. They say it cures what ails you. And in this case what ails me is a free-range teenager who’s chicken to try new food.
He once perused the morning buffet at a luxury hotel restaurant (We have teenage boys. To us luxury means any hotel that doesn’t make us pay a security deposit when we check in.)for three quarters of an hour before demanding to be taken to McDonald’s. Nothing says Breakfast of Champions like a McBiscuit with the outside crust peeled away.
His specifications are exact. He does not eat ugly food.
Ugly food is defined as any food that comes in contact with any other food or food-like item during its processing or preparation. Therefore my kitchen is under constant supervision. It’s like living with a member of the Board of Health who doesn’t clean his room or brush his teeth until threatened with government action.
“Mom,” Son #2 peered in the pot of steaming, frothing liquid and wrinkled his nose. “Are you boiling chickens again?”
“Sure am.”
“Didn’t you just boil a chicken at aunt KJ’s house this weekend?”
“Yes, I was helping her out in the kitchen.”
Son 2, in disgust, “Do you have some sort of addiction to chicken boiling?”
“Jeffrey, I’m going to make chicken salad.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of cult ritual or something?”
“I’m sure. Back away from the chicken. It needs to boil another hour.”
“Do we need to have an intervention?”
“No. This is not a bizarre ceremonial rite. You have to stew it before you can make other things with it.”
“Like what? Some sort of nasty chicken potion to smear on your victims? Does it eat their flesh? You know, like zombie chickens.”
“Son, if you don’t like chicken salad, you don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. You’re going to feed me some kind of boiled chicken serum to make me do your will.”
“That’s ridiculous. I create the potion for making you do my will out of the parts I take out of the chicken.”
“What?”
“Like the heart.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to waste a perfectly good bird just to make you obey me. Besides, it doesn’t work.”
He pondered this tidbit. “That’s because I’m not eating it. I shouldn’t even be breathing in the fumes. They’re probably poisonous. Or hallucinogenic.”
I didn’t know words with that many syllables until I was in college. “There are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t care if you eat chicken salad or not.”
Where’s the feet? Are you wearing a chicken claw around your neck?”
“For goodness sakes. That’s the Mother’s Day necklace you and your brother gave me. The pictures are a little fuzzy, that’s all.”
“Sure, Mom, if that’s your real name. I’ll be wanting to see some identification at dinner.”
“Get out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, now you’re worried, aren’t you? You’ll probably try and disguise the chicken in my food.”
All the boy eats is frozen pizza and Captain Crunch. It’s hard to disguise chicken parts as rogue Crunch Berries.
“That’s right. Beware of anything you eat or drink. It may be contaminated with chicken broth.”
“That’s it. I’m making a pizza.”
It’s amazing how people who won’t eat freshly thawed meat by-products will roast a frozen, artificially colored and flavored disc to a golden brown and slam it down like filet mignon just because it says pizza on the box.
I think I’ll make some chicken soup. They say it cures what ails you. And in this case what ails me is a free-range teenager who’s chicken to try new food.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Mother's Day Out(Law)
My birds can’t sing. It's not so much that they're not motivated, as much as that they're gifted in other areas, such as recreational violence. They while away their time scarfing up purple berries to use later in a revenge-fueled attack on my car.
Why is it that everybody else gets a symphony of nature’s sounds outside their window in the morning, and I get what sounds like a bunch of Saturday night revelers tooting the best of Milli Vanilli on empty whiskey bottles? Just my luck to get the only birds in the world who hate morning.
I suspect they drink.
And although the idea of installing a wet bar outside loaded with enough goodwill to bring peace to the entire neighborhood is appealing, I don’t want to make the Audubon Society’s top ten “Enemies of Nature” list.
So, in honor of Mother’s Day and in an effort to instill pleasant and healthy morning habits in our bird population, the Captain of our Aviary, the man who vowed to love, honor, and rid the world of household pests, decided to install a bird feeder outside beside the combination dogwood tree, kudzu vine, and rose bush. I realize now that he’s had it in for me all along.
I’m not much of a gardener, so when the only thing that grows in my yard is a twisted smorgasbord of flora, I tend to leave it alone and pretend I don't hear the smacking sounds echoing from its depths. I’m pretty sure the cat is in there somewhere. And the barbecue grill. And my last car.
It ate my birdfeeder.
The next morning all that was left of the new birdie buffet was a trail of scattered sunflower seeds.
The bird population was seriously ticked.
About that time the family scavengers, Sam and Bo, Labradors from the planet We Are Starving came to investigate the possibility of sharing a picnic with the birds. Both are well versed in the language of international cuisine and begin snuffling through the birdseed like they’re tracking T-Bone flavored truffles.
As the sun rose to find me standing in the tall, wet grass with sunflower seeds stuck to my shoes like beetles on the screen door, with screeching swallows pelting me with pinfeathers, and pellet hounds shinnying up my shins, I could only think of one thing.
Never mind the stupid birds. I can’t wait for Father’s Day. It’s payback time.
Why is it that everybody else gets a symphony of nature’s sounds outside their window in the morning, and I get what sounds like a bunch of Saturday night revelers tooting the best of Milli Vanilli on empty whiskey bottles? Just my luck to get the only birds in the world who hate morning.
I suspect they drink.
And although the idea of installing a wet bar outside loaded with enough goodwill to bring peace to the entire neighborhood is appealing, I don’t want to make the Audubon Society’s top ten “Enemies of Nature” list.
So, in honor of Mother’s Day and in an effort to instill pleasant and healthy morning habits in our bird population, the Captain of our Aviary, the man who vowed to love, honor, and rid the world of household pests, decided to install a bird feeder outside beside the combination dogwood tree, kudzu vine, and rose bush. I realize now that he’s had it in for me all along.
I’m not much of a gardener, so when the only thing that grows in my yard is a twisted smorgasbord of flora, I tend to leave it alone and pretend I don't hear the smacking sounds echoing from its depths. I’m pretty sure the cat is in there somewhere. And the barbecue grill. And my last car.
It ate my birdfeeder.
The next morning all that was left of the new birdie buffet was a trail of scattered sunflower seeds.
The bird population was seriously ticked.
About that time the family scavengers, Sam and Bo, Labradors from the planet We Are Starving came to investigate the possibility of sharing a picnic with the birds. Both are well versed in the language of international cuisine and begin snuffling through the birdseed like they’re tracking T-Bone flavored truffles.
As the sun rose to find me standing in the tall, wet grass with sunflower seeds stuck to my shoes like beetles on the screen door, with screeching swallows pelting me with pinfeathers, and pellet hounds shinnying up my shins, I could only think of one thing.
Never mind the stupid birds. I can’t wait for Father’s Day. It’s payback time.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Animal or Edible? Mother's Day at the Zoo
My kids are taking me to the zoo for Mother’s Day this year. It’s the only place where I’ll feel at home, yet get to watch somebody else clean up after the baby. And if the elephants track mud into the dining room, well, let their mothers take away dirt slinging privileges. Somebody will hit the hay without having any of it to eat.
First, the family offered to take me to the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Country Club (insert snooty font here), but I don’t want to go somewhere on Mother’s Day that would question my credentials if I applied to serve as kitchen help. I’m not trustworthy with the crystal on normal days, and it’s alarming to know that I’ve been seen swirling my homegrown manicure in the champagne punch and complaining about the consistency of the water in the finger bowl.
The most important setback is that their idea of “all you can eat” at the Club is three English peas and a broiled scallop. I’d have better luck taking my chances with the penguins diving for fish at the polar exhibit. So I’m off for a treat at the zoo—and if the trainers are sloppy with their aim in the sea lion tank, I might get lucky with a herring.
The trouble with zoo food is that I’m never sure what I’m ordering. During my last trip I found that keeping with the theme, everything is named after animals or their habitats. Frankly, I’d rather have a Brillo sandwich than belly up to a Penguin Patty or a Moose Nugget dipped in the special Serengeti sauce. Even McDonald’s is keen on white meat these days, but I’m not familiar with which part of the moose the resident Quality Control experts dub “nuggets.” I'm afraid to ask the origin of the special sauce.
On an information board near the Jungle Park Tanning Salon, Ice Cream Boutique, and Gift Shop, I discover that besides the availability of Desert Dogs and Farmyard Fries, a special feature available at our zoo is the availability of Zoo Poo. I may not be excited by the litter box back home, but I’m ecstatic to find that I can purchase a full square yard of exotic animal droppings to fertilize my drooping day lilies down by the mailbox. I couldn’t grow a dandelion with a degree in botany and a lifetime supply of Weed Chow, but here’s fresh hope that a sprinkling of zebra droppings will give my garden new life. If I go wild and get a memento from the elephants, I could probably turn my scrubby pine trees into giant Redwoods by fall.
It’s hard enough trying to figure out which kiosks sell pop and which ones sell poop, but complicating things is the bizarre effect I seem to have on zoo creatures. I don’t know if it’s the clean, fresh scent of my apple shampoo that drives them wild or the everpresent aroma of meatloaf from hard time served in the kitchen, but I must be the animal kingdom’s equivalent to soft lighting and Frank Sinatra, because every time I stroll through the gates, suddenly everybody from the sea turtles to the hungry hippos are in the mood to engage in activities that I don’t want to explain to the kids.
Kid One: “What are those monkeys doing?”
Me: “Square dancing. Have some pizza.”
Just as the monkeys get to the do-si-do, I whip the kids into the aviary where I suddenly discover Rockin’ Robin is not just a song, it’s the theme of the whole park. If the Red, Red, Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbing Along any closer, we’re going to be in the middle of a flying flock.
“Here,” I say, thrusting a waffle cone into Junior’s hands as I pull him along behind me flapping in the breeze like mud flaps on a tractor-trailer. “Have some ice cream.”
It’s no better in the big cat cages, where Mr. & Mrs. Panther show Tony the Tiger a thing or two about what constitutes Greeaaaaaatttt!
Starving, tired of dodging displays where all the animal occupants should be sporting a black box over their eyes, and weary of sidestepping cute carts peddling poop, I sink down on a rock outside the reptile house, setting off a wave of rustling and slithering inside.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Junior says sliding down beside me. “Have a moose nugget.”
I didn’t even ask which stand it came from. And I don’t want to know.
First, the family offered to take me to the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Country Club (insert snooty font here), but I don’t want to go somewhere on Mother’s Day that would question my credentials if I applied to serve as kitchen help. I’m not trustworthy with the crystal on normal days, and it’s alarming to know that I’ve been seen swirling my homegrown manicure in the champagne punch and complaining about the consistency of the water in the finger bowl.
The most important setback is that their idea of “all you can eat” at the Club is three English peas and a broiled scallop. I’d have better luck taking my chances with the penguins diving for fish at the polar exhibit. So I’m off for a treat at the zoo—and if the trainers are sloppy with their aim in the sea lion tank, I might get lucky with a herring.
The trouble with zoo food is that I’m never sure what I’m ordering. During my last trip I found that keeping with the theme, everything is named after animals or their habitats. Frankly, I’d rather have a Brillo sandwich than belly up to a Penguin Patty or a Moose Nugget dipped in the special Serengeti sauce. Even McDonald’s is keen on white meat these days, but I’m not familiar with which part of the moose the resident Quality Control experts dub “nuggets.” I'm afraid to ask the origin of the special sauce.
On an information board near the Jungle Park Tanning Salon, Ice Cream Boutique, and Gift Shop, I discover that besides the availability of Desert Dogs and Farmyard Fries, a special feature available at our zoo is the availability of Zoo Poo. I may not be excited by the litter box back home, but I’m ecstatic to find that I can purchase a full square yard of exotic animal droppings to fertilize my drooping day lilies down by the mailbox. I couldn’t grow a dandelion with a degree in botany and a lifetime supply of Weed Chow, but here’s fresh hope that a sprinkling of zebra droppings will give my garden new life. If I go wild and get a memento from the elephants, I could probably turn my scrubby pine trees into giant Redwoods by fall.
It’s hard enough trying to figure out which kiosks sell pop and which ones sell poop, but complicating things is the bizarre effect I seem to have on zoo creatures. I don’t know if it’s the clean, fresh scent of my apple shampoo that drives them wild or the everpresent aroma of meatloaf from hard time served in the kitchen, but I must be the animal kingdom’s equivalent to soft lighting and Frank Sinatra, because every time I stroll through the gates, suddenly everybody from the sea turtles to the hungry hippos are in the mood to engage in activities that I don’t want to explain to the kids.
Kid One: “What are those monkeys doing?”
Me: “Square dancing. Have some pizza.”
Just as the monkeys get to the do-si-do, I whip the kids into the aviary where I suddenly discover Rockin’ Robin is not just a song, it’s the theme of the whole park. If the Red, Red, Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbing Along any closer, we’re going to be in the middle of a flying flock.
“Here,” I say, thrusting a waffle cone into Junior’s hands as I pull him along behind me flapping in the breeze like mud flaps on a tractor-trailer. “Have some ice cream.”
It’s no better in the big cat cages, where Mr. & Mrs. Panther show Tony the Tiger a thing or two about what constitutes Greeaaaaaatttt!
Starving, tired of dodging displays where all the animal occupants should be sporting a black box over their eyes, and weary of sidestepping cute carts peddling poop, I sink down on a rock outside the reptile house, setting off a wave of rustling and slithering inside.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Junior says sliding down beside me. “Have a moose nugget.”
I didn’t even ask which stand it came from. And I don’t want to know.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Let's Play Chicken
It’s not that my son is a picky eater; it’s just that he’d starve to death before the noon rush at any grocery store in America.
He once perused the morning buffet at a luxury hotel restaurant (We have teenage boys. To us luxury means any hotel that doesn’t make us pay a security deposit when we check in.)for three quarters of an hour before demanding to be taken to McDonald’s. Nothing says Breakfast of Champions like a McBiscuit with the outside crust peeled away.
His specifications are exact. He does not eat ugly food.
Ugly food is defined as any food that comes in contact with any other food or food-like item during its processing or preparation. Therefore my kitchen is under constant supervision. It’s like living with a member of the Board of Health who doesn’t clean his room or brush his teeth until threatened with government action.
“Mom,” Son #2 peered in the pot of steaming, frothing liquid and wrinkled his nose. “Are you boiling chickens again?”
“Sure am.”
“Didn’t you just boil a chicken at aunt KJ’s house this weekend?”
“Yes, I was helping her out in the kitchen.”
Son 2, in disgust, “Do you have some sort of addiction to chicken boiling?”
“Jeffrey, I’m going to make chicken salad.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of cult ritual or something?”
“I’m sure. Back away from the chicken. It needs to boil another hour.”
“Do we need to have an intervention?”
“No. This is not a bizarre ceremonial rite. You have to stew it before you can make other things with it.”
“Like what? Some sort of nasty chicken potion to smear on your victims? Does it eat their flesh? You know, like zombie chickens.”
“Son, if you don’t like chicken salad, you don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. You’re going to feed me some kind of boiled chicken serum to make me do your will.”
“That’s ridiculous. I create the potion for making you do my will out of the parts I take out of the chicken.”
“What?”
“Like the heart.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to waste a perfectly good bird just to make you obey me. Besides, it doesn’t work.”
He pondered this tidbit. “That’s because I’m not eating it. I shouldn’t even be breathing in the fumes. They’re probably poisonous. Or hallucinogenic.”
I didn’t know words with that many syllables until I was in college. “There are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t care if you eat chicken salad or not.”
Where’s the feet? Are you wearing a chicken claw around your neck?”
“For goodness sakes. That’s the Mother’s Day necklace you and your brother gave me. The pictures are a little fuzzy, that’s all.”
“Sure, Mom, if that’s your real name. I’ll be wanting to see some identification at dinner.”
“Get out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, now you’re worried, aren’t you? You’ll probably try and disguise the chicken in my food.”
All the boy eats is frozen pizza and Captain Crunch. It’s hard to disguise chicken parts as rogue Crunch Berries.
“That’s right. Beware of anything you eat or drink. It may be contaminated with chicken broth.”
“That’s it. I’m making a pizza.”
It’s amazing how people who won’t eat freshly thawed meat by-products will roast a frozen, artificially colored and flavored disc to a golden brown and slam it down like filet mignon just because it says pizza on the box.
I think I’ll make some chicken soup. They say it cures what ails you. And in this case what ails me is a free-range teenager who’s chicken to try new food.
He once perused the morning buffet at a luxury hotel restaurant (We have teenage boys. To us luxury means any hotel that doesn’t make us pay a security deposit when we check in.)for three quarters of an hour before demanding to be taken to McDonald’s. Nothing says Breakfast of Champions like a McBiscuit with the outside crust peeled away.
His specifications are exact. He does not eat ugly food.
Ugly food is defined as any food that comes in contact with any other food or food-like item during its processing or preparation. Therefore my kitchen is under constant supervision. It’s like living with a member of the Board of Health who doesn’t clean his room or brush his teeth until threatened with government action.
“Mom,” Son #2 peered in the pot of steaming, frothing liquid and wrinkled his nose. “Are you boiling chickens again?”
“Sure am.”
“Didn’t you just boil a chicken at aunt KJ’s house this weekend?”
“Yes, I was helping her out in the kitchen.”
Son 2, in disgust, “Do you have some sort of addiction to chicken boiling?”
“Jeffrey, I’m going to make chicken salad.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of cult ritual or something?”
“I’m sure. Back away from the chicken. It needs to boil another hour.”
“Do we need to have an intervention?”
“No. This is not a bizarre ceremonial rite. You have to stew it before you can make other things with it.”
“Like what? Some sort of nasty chicken potion to smear on your victims? Does it eat their flesh? You know, like zombie chickens.”
“Son, if you don’t like chicken salad, you don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. You’re going to feed me some kind of boiled chicken serum to make me do your will.”
“That’s ridiculous. I create the potion for making you do my will out of the parts I take out of the chicken.”
“What?”
“Like the heart.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to waste a perfectly good bird just to make you obey me. Besides, it doesn’t work.”
He pondered this tidbit. “That’s because I’m not eating it. I shouldn’t even be breathing in the fumes. They’re probably poisonous. Or hallucinogenic.”
I didn’t know words with that many syllables until I was in college. “There are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t care if you eat chicken salad or not.”
Where’s the feet? Are you wearing a chicken claw around your neck?”
“For goodness sakes. That’s the Mother’s Day necklace you and your brother gave me. The pictures are a little fuzzy, that’s all.”
“Sure, Mom, if that’s your real name. I’ll be wanting to see some identification at dinner.”
“Get out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, now you’re worried, aren’t you? You’ll probably try and disguise the chicken in my food.”
All the boy eats is frozen pizza and Captain Crunch. It’s hard to disguise chicken parts as rogue Crunch Berries.
“That’s right. Beware of anything you eat or drink. It may be contaminated with chicken broth.”
“That’s it. I’m making a pizza.”
It’s amazing how people who won’t eat freshly thawed meat by-products will roast a frozen, artificially colored and flavored disc to a golden brown and slam it down like filet mignon just because it says pizza on the box.
I think I’ll make some chicken soup. They say it cures what ails you. And in this case what ails me is a free-range teenager who’s chicken to try new food.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Legacy
As far as legacies go, my tastes lie with something simple, like a check. Or stock. Or heirloom china. Unfortunately Mama wasn’t the heirloom china type. What I got when she departed for the peaceful place where mothers don’t have to cook, clean, or say, “If I told you once, I told you a million times,” was not the inheritance I assumed was my birthright. What she left me was the very thing I was the least qualified to handle. Wisdom.
Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.
Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.
1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.
2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.
3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.
4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.
5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.
6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.
7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.
8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.
9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.
10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.
11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.
But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Giving me a lapful of life lessons is like tossing me a copy of the Atkins diet and a size six sheath dress and telling me the party starts at seven. You may as well shove the plans for building a biplane into my arms and tell me to be in Paris by midnight. When it comes to legacies, it’s best to just go ahead and hand me a gold bar.
Now that I’m in the stage of life where good advice usually involves a recipe loaded with fiber, I realize that what Mama left me was a handbook for life. Thanks to the seeds my mom planted in the rocky garden of my mind over the years, I’ve sailed through many of the stormy seas of life without having to evacuate to life boats. Turns out Mom knew best all along. Here are Mama’s Rules to Live By—along with some of my own observations for those who, like me, have trouble following directions.
1. There is something to love in every person. However, there are some people who hide that something really well. Actually, Mama just said that first part. I learned the second part from my sister.
2. If you rip a page out of your brother’s comic book, he can rip a page out of yours. This is a mother of four’s version of The Golden Rule. I learned to treat friends, family, and their possessions with respect. And I’ll never know what happened to Archie and Jughead that day at Riverdale High.
3. Give a child two cookies; one for each hand. This is a smart idea because it keeps the child busy for twice as long, diverts him from "helping" with your biscuit dough and prevents you from having to walk every morning for a week to work off two cookies that you would have eaten to relieve stress if your child had two hands free to plunge into the dog's food.
4. Don’t honk your horn at anybody. At first I assumed this was Mama’s version of traveling etiquette, but now I realize that she understood road rage long before anyone held up traffic trying to read road signs through the wrong part of skinny designer bifocals.
5. Always have a skill you can fall back on. By this, I know now that she meant a skill that will continue to be of service to the Community of Man. Unfortunately the skill I chose was typing, which caused typewriters to immediately become extinct.
6. If you’re not tall enough to see out the car window, sit on a pillow. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Even the Marines agree with her.
7. If something particularly unpleasant is happening to you, there’s probably a lesson involved. Wade through a puddle or two on the linoleum and you’ll remember to let the new puppy out. You’ll also remember to buy a mop.
8. Don’t sell things you can give away. That might not make sense in an e-Bay world, but knowing that someone who needs it will have a warm coat for the winter goes a long way toward offsetting the thrill of bagging $1.50 for your old hula lamp in an online auction.
9. Play to win. Unless that gets in the way of playing for fun. When playing Scrabble with an elderly woman who can’t see past her elbow, give her a break if she thinks she drew five blanks. Come to think of it, that’s how Mom always won at Scrabble, so there’s probably an extra lesson tucked in there.
10. Always take time to watch the birds at the birdfeeder. Time spent with nature is a peace of mind investment. And last winter, a tiny chickadee who muscled his way through a crowd of rowdy cardinals to have lunch gave me some great ideas for handling the next family reunion. And the big project due at work.
11. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. This was my mom’s slogan. When I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, she said it. She was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, the problems that seem overpowering right now aren’t the end of the world. Things can also get better. So if teaching two teenaged boys to drive and adding them to my insurance is the worst life has to offer, I can handle it.
But I sure wouldn’t turn down a check.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Drip Dry
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what happens to my towels. There are times I think the door to my bathroom leads to some sort of lavatorial Bermuda triangle where terrycloth goes to die.
Today my husband disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Seconds later he pried the door open a crack and stuck his head out.
“Have you washed towels lately?”
“Have you shaved your legs lately?” I love the man, but I'm not the only one in the house that can rinse and spin.
“I’m not trying to be sexist. I just want to dry off.”
“Yesterday I washed everything that resembled a towel. I even threw in that funny sweater your mother gave you for Christmas.”
“That’s not terrycloth. It's cashmere”
"So that's why there was enough fluff in the lint trap to knit a goat.”
The door closed. I heard furtive searching sounds coming from the bathroom closet. Seconds later he peered out of the door crack with one distraught eye.
“What’s the matter?”
“All that’s left is the froggie towel from when the kids were little and the pink velour Martha Stewart with the floral design.”
“Go for Martha's flowers. Froggie repels liquid. You can dry on that thing for half an hour and still retain enough water to qualify as a camel.”
Later that night I found six hand towels and a frayed wash cloth drying on the towel rack. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances with the blossoms. I tossed them all in the laundry.
It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terrycloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up to the size of a turtle’s teardrop. But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would be envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.
The day that Bill Dear kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was changing the oil, the guest towels disappeared. The day Son One and Son Two were heard arguing over who was to blame for the massive Fruit Loop spill on the Oriental carpet, the blue towels I got for Mother’s Day went missing. The day we adopted the third puppy, I took out stock in cotton futures.
There’s nothing I can do about the towels that are already gone, but there are preventive measures I can take to guard against these towel-thieving guys in my house.
First thing Monday morning, I’m heading to Wal-Mart to snag a buggy full of pink velour towels with a floral design.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to install automatic air dryers in the bathroom. They're not very thorough, but it's best to let your delicates drip dry anyway.
Today my husband disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Seconds later he pried the door open a crack and stuck his head out.
“Have you washed towels lately?”
“Have you shaved your legs lately?” I love the man, but I'm not the only one in the house that can rinse and spin.
“I’m not trying to be sexist. I just want to dry off.”
“Yesterday I washed everything that resembled a towel. I even threw in that funny sweater your mother gave you for Christmas.”
“That’s not terrycloth. It's cashmere”
"So that's why there was enough fluff in the lint trap to knit a goat.”
The door closed. I heard furtive searching sounds coming from the bathroom closet. Seconds later he peered out of the door crack with one distraught eye.
“What’s the matter?”
“All that’s left is the froggie towel from when the kids were little and the pink velour Martha Stewart with the floral design.”
“Go for Martha's flowers. Froggie repels liquid. You can dry on that thing for half an hour and still retain enough water to qualify as a camel.”
Later that night I found six hand towels and a frayed wash cloth drying on the towel rack. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances with the blossoms. I tossed them all in the laundry.
It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terrycloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up to the size of a turtle’s teardrop. But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would be envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.
The day that Bill Dear kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was changing the oil, the guest towels disappeared. The day Son One and Son Two were heard arguing over who was to blame for the massive Fruit Loop spill on the Oriental carpet, the blue towels I got for Mother’s Day went missing. The day we adopted the third puppy, I took out stock in cotton futures.
There’s nothing I can do about the towels that are already gone, but there are preventive measures I can take to guard against these towel-thieving guys in my house.
First thing Monday morning, I’m heading to Wal-Mart to snag a buggy full of pink velour towels with a floral design.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to install automatic air dryers in the bathroom. They're not very thorough, but it's best to let your delicates drip dry anyway.
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