An Open Letter to My FaceBook Friend-To-Be

Dear Friendless,

I see by my little pop up timer that you want to be my friend. That’s thoughtful of you and I’m sure you have a great personality; a people person that draws other folks to you like barbecue draws rednecks. But upon searching my memory banks, my old address books, and the pictures from my high school yearbook, I find I have no clue to your identity. I’m afraid to check the mug shots on the county jail website.

I asked my children if they had teachers that might be motivated to make my acquaintance on the sly. I wondered if my coworkers had friends with motives for revenge. Aside from folks touched by that episode with the chocolate diaper in the microwave, I can’t think of any work-related citizens who might bear ill will toward me.

I’d like to think you’re a fan, too shy to say anything out loud, but wanting to duplicate my every move so that you can be more like me every day.

Sort of like a stalker with poor life choices.

Sort of like the shy girl who sits in the corner by the cheese dip waiting for the chance to say “No problem” when someone drops a jalapeño in her shoe.

Sort of like the fellow that knew how to work the slide rule in math class back before everybody had calculators that could figure the change in your body fat ratio before you ate the chocolate chip cookie.

I married that guy.

I was going to ignore your friend request. I was going to go gleefully on my way accepting gifts for my virtual megafarm. I was going to go toss a pie at one of my less needy friends.

But then I looked closer. That’s not a stalker. It’s not even a fan. It’s a picture of me at a recent Christmas party.

I’m sitting by the cheese dip.

And eating out of the bowl.

And picking a jalapeno out of my shoe.

I Got This

Why is it that whenever impending doom perches on your shoulder like Cinderella’s bluebird, the man of the house will say, “Trust me. I got this.”

Is that a Man Term for, “Flying monkeys are on the horizon! We’re all going to die!”

Other languages have masculine or feminine nouns. English has entire phrases. If you happen to overhear a conversation beginning with, “Hey man, look what I can do!” not only is it masculine, the country’s defense code has just moved up to Defcon Four. On the other hand, if you hear, “We really need to talk,” the phrase is feminine and there’s imminent nuclear war on the horizon.

If I had a daughter, I would teach her that the hearing the words “Trust Me” is an indication she should take the little poison pill in her secret spy ring because the game’s up.

Don’t get me wrong. I love men. I married two of them and only threw one back. I raised two boys without calling 911 once unless you count the time Son One threatened to notify Emergency Services after the broccoli incident.

But if the roof is leaking and I hear one of my guys say, “Don’t worry, I got this,” I pull out the lifejackets and cover the couch in plastic because there’s going to be a flood through the living room shag that Noah would be proud of.

Yesterday, as I was peeling the potatoes for dinner, the ice maker in the refrigerator began to leak, the dishwasher pitched in with a Ka-Thunk noise, and the microwave produced an array of pops and sparks. I didn’t bother to wait for the guys to spring into action.

“I got this!” I screeched, drove a For Sale Sign in the front yard, and went out to dinner.

Timed Out

It’s a week past the start of Daylight Savings Time and I’m still lying around the house like a third generation mustard stain on a secondhand couch. Study my symptoms and you’d think I lost a gallon of blood and the frontal lobe of my brain instead of an hour’s sleep. I can barely summon the energy to twist my Oreos apart to eat the Double Stuff filling before the chocolate cookie outside part as required by International Law.

One evening I watched an entire episode of a gardening show because I couldn’t summon the energy to change the channel. Me watching a gardening show is like the Boston Strangler checking out an Infomercial on nylon rope. It’s like the murderous board game, Clue. Amy BrownThumb in the kitchen overwatering the African Violets. Innocent houseplants shouldn’t have to die just because I’m out of synch with my Mickey Mouse watch. But Greenwich Mean Time has got nothing on Daylight Cranky Time.

I realize there are people out there, precocious perky people, who adjust to the time change as if it were no more than an afternoon tea party. I do too, provided the tea party is crashed by a wrecker wielding a ten-ton smashing ball and all the guests hang on their chairs like rotting slipcovers.

There’s one family nearby that moves their clocks forward at noon on Saturday to give themselves time to get accustomed to the change. That’s the sort of radical free thinking that divided the country and brought about signs of the end time like tube socks, disco, and reality televison.

This morning as I lay with my face on the table, flailing at the snooze alarm on the microwave with one hand, I realized I’d hit bottom. I had to take immediate action.

So instead of waiting for Daylight Savings Time to end, I went ahead and took a quick Time Out and grabbed my extra hour of sleep right away.

Now if I could only figure out why I have Double Stuff filling in my ear.

Microwave: The Sequel

Our new microwave has an inflated sense of importance, sort of like the guy at the office who's retiring next month. Nobody knows what he does or why, but they'll miss him if they notice he's gone.

This microwave is the latest thing in micro meal time. It's so sleek and fast, you expect to see a pitcrew rush out and try to change the tires. It’s impatient as small appliances go; a single beep isn’t assertive enough for this guy. At the slightest provocation, it bursts forth with volleys of obnoxious beeps like a robot headwaiter directing his staff. I don't comprehend the need to sound off as if someone has just dialed in to the hotline for microwave activity. Why can’t it warm up a cup of tea without sounding as if it’s connecting to the second satellite past the International Space Station? It’s my kitchen and I want quiet.

And I hate to be judgmental, but this guy is over-attentive, if not downright nosy. While I appreciate the lovely customized buttons for particular items, I don’t feel obliged to provide more information to my microwave than I do to the Internal Revenue Service at quarter past tax time. If you say you have tea, it asks embarrassing questions about what kind of tea you have and just how many cups you plan to use. I’m ashamed to admit I'm drinking alone. The time is coming when I’ll just tell an outright lie and start a circle of deceit just so my microwave will think I have friends.

And the thing just can’t stop at defrost. I didn’t ask it to puff up the biscuits like Stay Puff marshmallows over an open flame. For such a smart guy, it didn’t exhibit much artificial intelligence when I pushed those extra buttons. And if it yearned to be such an overachiever, why didn’t the thing stop cooking popcorn and call the fire department once the bag caught fire?

Since microwaves are obnoxious as appliances go, I settled it in a comfortable place on the counter next to the oven, hoping the older machine would serve as a mentor and stabilizing influence, and that some of the good habits and mild-mannered disposition of my old friend would wear off on the newcomer. But as is the case with boys, dogs, and office machines, unsavory influences prevailed, and the oven began to exhibit destructive behavior. Yesterday it burned the crust on my cheese sandwich on purpose.

I’m afraid I’m going to have to assert my authority. Tonight I’m pulling the plug on the microwave. Tomorrow I’m buying a toaster oven.

Catch the Micro-Wave

Why do small appliances come packaged in containers that could withstand the atmospheric conditions the shuttle faces on re-entry, only to hide a 450 page booklet titled “Read before opening” inside?

When our old microwave became more of a microwhimper, we marched right down to Wal-Mart and gave a boost to the economy the way any good citizen would do. Supporting Wal-Mart is my duty as a loyal American and something we can all do to keep this country great. That and conserving our resources, which would be easier if we didn’t frequent a store where everything is packaged in three layers of plastic and Styrofoam insulation and nailed shut with railroad spikes for your protection.

During the selection process, we considered all the important factors: ease of operation, room on top for paper towel rolls or used coffee mugs, and number of fancy buttons. What we forgot to consider turned out to be a Very Important Thing.

How to get the monster out of the box.

Once home, I broke the hammer, took up a square foot of kitchen tile with the screwdriver, and trimmed my nails by accident with the kitchen scissors trying to break into the package. I was huddled by the box, weeping bitterly and gnawing on an industrial staple, when my teenage son strolled into the kitchen. He was starving, having allowed several minutes to elapse since his last gallon of cereal and bacon cheeseburger combo.

Spotting the cheerful picture of the happy family munching salty snacks on the label, he peeled the thing like it was a banana, nestled it on my countertop, recycled the box, and popped in a bag of Orville Redenbacher’s finest.

While I busied myself trying to break into the adult-proof plastic bag that held the instructions, he ate the popcorn, beat the bosses on the last three levels of his video game, and wandered back into the kitchen looking for a snack. He snagged the bag, busted it like a bubble and tossed me the instruction book.

“How long for pizza?” he asked taking a stack of microwave pizzas out of the freezer and fanning them like a card shark with a new deck.

“It says here not to overcook food,” I read, tracing the important line of safety instructions with one finger.

“Mom, it should say that on every appliance you own in bright, flashing letters.”

“If you’re referring to the cheese toast, that could have happened to anybody.” Who knew American cheese would inflate to resemble the Sydney Opera House if left in the oven too long. It shouldn’t be that hard to make breakfast.

I pointed out the next item with a raggedly manicured finger. “It also says that if there’s a fire in the microwave to leave the door closed.”

He shrugged and chipped a piece of ice from a pizza. "That's the same thing we do with the oven when you make biscuits."

So it turns out that technology isn't all that different these days. The more things change, the more they stay the same. And I don't need an instruction manual to tell me so.

One Woman's Heart

When I wander through the house in the mornings, ricocheting gently from refrigerator to coffeemaker, sorting socks and lunch boxes, I often ponder esoteric subjects like what makes me a mom. Well, more often I’m thinking “How did I end up like this?” or “Am I really awake or am I dreaming there’s a catcher’s mitt in the microwave?” but eventually I drift on to headier stuff.

“Mom, are you mumbling to yourself again?” Son One is getting ready for work, hunting in the fridge for a can of carbonated caffeine. I reach deftly around the milk and pull a Coke out from behind the leftover Teriyaki chicken.

“Thanks Mom. Say, did you know you have one of those little yellow notes stuck to your ear?”

“What does it say?”

“Toilet Paper.”

“So that’s where the grocery list went. I thought my breath-easy strip slid off my nose during the night. But I couldn’t hear your Pop snoring, so it worked out pretty well.”

“By the way, Mom, have you seen my name tag?”

“It’s in the lint trap in the dryer. You left it in your pocket on laundry day again.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He finished his drink, crushed the can, and headed down the hall, belching the words to “We Are the Champions.”

So, what makes me a Mom? I can’t pose the question to the family, because they are adept at sarcastic replies that often involve words I have to Google to understand. On the other hand, there was the time they gave me the nifty short version of the sixth grade health speech on human reproduction. Who knew so many interesting words begin with the letter S? It was like Sesame Street meets Dr. Ruth.

“Funnies?” Son Number Two has entered the kitchen. Some people can’t live without caffeine; he can’t start his day without the comics. He’s been the family computer programmer since he was six, but he can’t head off to his 8:00 class at Community College without checking out Garfield’s quest for lasagna. I extract the morning newspaper from underneath a sleeping cat, and turn to the proper page with a flourish.

“Mmph,” he grunts.

“You’re welcome,” I answer, patting his head and deftly inserting a kitchen chair under his descending backside.

Somewhere between Shredded Wheat and shower time, I trip over the cats and find the lost student ID while picking Cheerios out of my cheek, exercise the dogs by forgetting to lock the door when the neighbor bicycles down the driveway, and manage to get everybody out the door without any lost essentials except my peace of mind.

As the last kid peels out of the driveway, laying down tire tracks that resemble Jacob’s ladder, I smile and wave. Later on I’ll find my coffee in the microwave, my keys in the door, and the hamburger thawing quietly on the dryer. But for now, everything’s good.

This Mom job may be tough, but the rewards are out of this world. And the five minutes of quiet when everybody leaves the house is worth the 20 year wait.

Just then, a horn sounds in the driveway, a series of staccato blasts that echo off the neighboring houses, loosens the fillings in my teeth, and wakes up every baby in the subdivision, not to mention old Mr. Sloth who naps on his front porch every morning until his teeth fall out and remind him to eat lunch.

“Mom! I need gas money!”

It figures. You’d think the one thing growing boys wouldn’t need Mom's help with would be getting gas.

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Sometimes as parents we laugh to keep from crying, laugh until we cry, or just go ahead and cry. But we shouldn’t have to feel helpless when it comes to helping our children. Today I’m linking to a very special site, Simon’s Blog. Simon is an angel born too early, so early he probably still has his tiny wings hidden under tubes and blankets in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of a Denver hospital. But he’s a champ and a fighter, and takes the attentions of doctors and nurses in stride with all the courage his 1 pound, 9 ounce body can hold. I want Simon's mom to have the chance to give up the last fiver in her wallet for a young man with a mop of unruly hair who needs gas to get to class. So check out Simon’s Blog, updated with the loving hands and heart of his Mom, Mysti. And if you can find it in your heart to help them out, it’ll be a personal favor to an angel.

Stick With It

I’m at that penultimate point in my life when I send out engraved announcements saluting my accomplishment if I should happen to recall where I parked my car at the mall. It also a major victory when I manage to push the little red pill through the blister pack, figure out how to coax coffee from the automatic drip pot, or get up from the floor without requiring the assistance of two kitchen chairs, a large dog, and an emergency responder team.

One of my greatest triumphs is singlehandedly locating my remaining pair of eyeglasses, a clever piece of accessory-type tomfoolery that hides in the laundry basket, behind the sugar canister, or on top of my head. They are trifocals, a fancy optical term that means I can’t read the newspaper through three lenses just as well as I can’t read through one. The only things I really need them for is to convince the nice policeman that I’m wearing my corrective lenses just like the troubled lady in my drivers license picture, and to locate the yellow adhesive notes that I’ve planted around the house like daisies to tell me what I’m supposed to do and when I’m supposed to do it.

My house looks like a butter factory exploded with all those little yellow pats of color stuck everywhere. At the office, I keep a row of notes affixed to my computer monitor to help me remember to accomplish important tasks (Becky, lunch, 11:45) as well as trivial ones (Boss meeting with District Superintendent,10:30).

Once, a younger, self-assured man who still stands up very straight without making noises reminiscent of a movie theatre corn popping system in action, informed me that post-it notes were no substitute for a more organized planning system. I agree.

And if I could afford a butler who would stand smartly at the door and drop my keys in my hand before I got to the car, fill my travel mug with whatever liquid I’ve been warming in the microwave all morning, and remind me which direction I should turn out of the driveway to get to the bank, I would dwell in a special kind of Nirvana.

Perhaps one day when I’m digging in the garden I will unearth a treasure trove of forgotten doubloons that I could use to acquire such a man. Until then, a sticky note on the front door will have to do the trick.

As for the know-it-all who thought my post-its were past due? I’m looking forward to the day when he has to explain to his employer that he missed the important meeting because he transposed the dates in his daily planner and confused his proctology exam with his performance appraisal.

Now that's a happy ending.

Let Your Fingers Do the Walking

If I see one more women’s magazine exhorting me to walk myself thin, I think I’ll hurl a bucket of brownie mix. If walking made me thin, my weight would register in the negative numbers by now.

Today I walked to the car and back three times. When I made the first trip back to the house to get my car keys, I heard my husband humming and starting the water for a shower. Rounding the corner back into the kitchen, I spied a blue sleeve hanging from the top of the refrigerator (don’t ask), and grabbed the overshirt for my son to wear for “Blue for Spirit” day.

“Here’s you a blue shirt.” I chirped, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Grunt,” he replied. Since I happen to know that a single syllable grunt is teenagerspeak for “Thanks Mom, without you I would be like a wireless game controller with dead batteries,” I was overcome with maternal love. Until I realized he had also forgotten his shoes.

Sending that boy back into the house is like watching an Infomercial for the Thighmaster and waiting for plot development.

I jogged up the hill and took the steps to the back door two at a time. It took me three laps down the hall, through his room, and around the kitchen table before I found two shoes that matched. I decided not to ask about the cross-trainer in the microwave. In the shower, Hubby was midway through "The House of the Rising Sun" with accompanying voice-produced instrumentals.

“Ready to go?” I asked wearily as I climbed into the car, sucking up some early morning effervescence from the caffeine-loaded diet soda I kept in the drink holder.

Grunt.

“I love you too, Sweetie,” I beamed and reached for the keys. The keys that were still in the house where I’d dropped them to get the Spirit Shirt. Shouldering open the car door, I trudged the winding trail to the kitchen door and snagged the keys.

Back in the car, I sank again into the driver’s seat. Sweat was battling hairspray for control of my ’do. “Let’s go. We’re late.”

Grunt.

“Do you really need your band instrument every day? Aren't the notes the same as yesterday?”

Raised eyebrow.

I opened the car door and looked up the steep, rock-strewn hill toward the house. Then I whipped out my cell phone. A musical, waterlogged voice answered.

Why should I reap all the benefits of walking? Last night over dessert, I noticed Hubby has some love handles that definitely could use some work.