The Fire Ant

Returning from the Store on a Summer Evening


Got some canned goods for the shelf
And some cookies for myself
Kosher dills stuffed in a jar
Packed the goodies in the car

Drove back home to roof and gable
Placed the groceries on the table.
Felt a bite where none should be
In self defense I turned to flee.

Suddenly I did a dance,
Screamed for help and dropped my pants.
Children paled and ran for cover.
I am NOT a fire ant lover.

Little ant, while climbing higher
Seeking targets for your fire
Found tender flesh left unattended
Took a bite; your life’s suspended.

Little ant, what made you think
A good idea would be to slink
Up past my knees and onward soar
Will you bite me? Nevermore.

Summer Shorts

It's thunderstorm season in the South. I’m afraid if it rains much more, BP will send a representative to dump a quart of 10W40 in my yard.

They don’t play Pomp and Circumstance when you graduate from the school of hard knocks. But they don't play Another One Bites the Dust, either.

Is half a mind a zombie snack?

For Mother’s Day, I was at a restaurant where a stranger was handing out roses to all the women. I wonder if he’s going to give out power tools for Father’s Day.

I’m at the age where my packaging label should read, “Some Settling May Occur.” On the back it would say, “Things in the mirror are larger than they appear.”

Now that I’ve turned 50, offering to slip into something more comfortable isn’t really a promise. It’s a threat.

Why is it that a kid who can memorize a 37 key code to wipe out a zombie apocalypse on a video game is puzzled by the Start button on the washer?

Different age people like different kinds of cars. My boys like the kind that get from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. I like the ones that can remember where I was going.

My teenage son asked me, “How long does it take for wood to become petrified?” I answered, “As long as it takes it to teach the twigs how to drive.”

The last time I tried on swimsuits in front of a dressing room mirror, I realized something. I’d have to use Google Earth to get a panoramic picture of my butt.

Never wear a dangly charm bracelet when you have diarrhea.

If I can shop for everyone in my family without taking them along to try on clothes, why do I never come home with the right size underwear for me?

My dentist put my last crown in place with a nail. I didn’t know whether to write him a check or charge it to my Home Depot account.

A Close Shave

Back in my day when men carried wallets instead of purses, it was commonly thought that if a man had enough spare time to shave his back, he was either a ward of the state or he was living off Mama’s welfare earnings while she made pot roast and homemade yeast rolls with cream puffs for dessert.

Any man caught moisturizing body parts that Nice People couldn’t see would be subject to ridicule and excommunication from his bowling team. In extreme cases, license to own and drive muscle cars would be suspended. I know of one man who shaved his body to satisfy the whim of a roller skate waitress at the new drive-in. She was later caught pulling on the pony tail of a Harley biker at the drive through.

I come from a section of the country where any male over the age of 21 who doesn’t have a scar that precludes hair from growing on some part of his body is considered a Mama’s Boy and is subject to exclusion from all-you-can-eat wing night with the guys. Show me a man who shaves his face, waxes his chest, tweezes his eyebrows, and has his legs lasered, and I’ll show you the next winner on Project Runway.

Really, I’m just being self serving about the whole thing. In these days when it’s the fashion for men to keep their body slicker than an icicle, there’s nothing to keep the surface temperature at a desirable level once frost dusts the peaks and points. I like a man with some heat conductors left intact. When winter comes and my behind is colder than a Butterball turkey the week before Thanksgiving, I want to know that I’m snuggling up to somebody who doesn’t think of defrost exclusively as a microwave activity.

But for now it’s warm and winter is way beyond the horizon, so I'll just while away my time watching all the Hollywood hunks in the summer movies. I’ll start with Wolverine.

A little hair of the dog never hurt anyone.

So Help Me Erma

Sometimes when you write, the words float from your pen like a perfect curve ball on a summer day. You could pitch a perfect game without ever leaving your desk. But even All Stars have a little trouble from time to time getting the ball to the plate, the pen to the page. Don’t let the secret out—not for free, anyway—but there are ways to help yourself out of a jam when the count is high and you don’t really have your stuff.

In view of present-day performance enhancement and past Congressional proceedings concerning America’s Past Time, though, I’ll be sure to keep my stuff source confidential. I’m dreading the day some Government Honcho asks me to tell the truth, not miniscule portions of the truth, so help me Erma:

Honcho: On Monday morning did you intentionally partake of a foreign substance to enhance your writing ability?

Me: Yes, sir.

Honcho: And could you tell us the name of this substance?

Me: It was. . .coffee.

Honcho: I see. Is this coffee the only performance-altering substance that you ingested?

Me: Well, I added sugar. A lot of sugar.

Honcho: What did you hope to accomplish by this act?

Me: I hoped to remember how to turn on the computer and to be able to spell my name correctly.

Honcho: And were these actions made possible when you ingested this substance?

Me: Well, I had to wait a few minutes for the caffeine to take effect and the sugar to shift into gear, but yes. I was even able to find my files and tell the difference between an adjective and an adverb.

Honcho: I see. Was this your first experience with this substance?

Me: No, sir. My Dad drank it every day when I was growing up. My husband drinks it now. He uses a personal-sized drip coffee maker.

Honcho: You have coffee paraphernalia in the house? Did your husband coerce you into using this substance?

Me: (sensing a scapegoat): Well he did bring me a cup and tell me it might help. It looked so warm and rich, I couldn’t resist.

Honcho: Are you willing to supply any more names in connection with this substance?

Me: Well there’s Juan Valdez. . .

Honcho: We’ll make a note. Now, do you use any more substances that enhance your abilities?

Me: Well, there’s a substance writers like to call chair glue.

Honcho: You inhaled glue?

Me: No sir. Chair glue is what writers use to stay in their chair long enough to accomplish their goals. It’s not something anyone else knows is there.

Honcho: So it’s odorless and tasteless?

Me: It’s more a state of mind. It helps you make your dreams come true.

Honcho: So it’s hallucinogenic.

Me: Well, it makes all things seem possible.

Honcho: I see--it’s mind altering. Why do you apply it to your chair?

Me: You don’t really apply it. It sort of comes from within.

Honcho: I see. We’ll list that as an undesirable side effect. Do you feel that these substances advanced your abilities in any way?

Me: Well, I’ve had several essays published.

Honcho: You’re a published writer.

Me: Yes, sir.

Honcho: Well, let me tell you about this novel I’ve been working on. Perhaps you could take a look at it. There’s this one part where the hero just doesn’t have any motivation, and. . .

Me: You might try some of that coffee sir. And the chair glue.

Honcho: Where do you procure these substances?

Me: Well, I can hook you up with some coffee, no problem. As for the other thing, see me after the hearings and I’ll point you toward some websites with good tips.

Honcho: You’re free to go.

Me: Thank you, sir. I’ll meet you at Starbucks in half an hour. The first one's free.

Short Skirts to Stretchy Pants

Sunday, on a whim, I wore high heels to church. The next time I have a bright idea like that, I’ll just go ahead and slash my Achilles tendons with a machete and drive tenpenny nails into my feet.

There was a time I could keep up with the latest fashion trends, but now that I’ve discovered stretchy pants and flip flops, I shy away from clothing choices that cling tighter than a six-year old in the cereal aisle. When I was in high school I had skirts so short my daddy put police tape around the bottom. I wore halter tops that showed more skin that a whole bucket of the Colonel’s original recipe. And I had pants tight enough to cut off the blood supply to my boyfriend’s heart. I knew I was ready for school every morning when Mom clutched her chest and shrieked, “Are you going to wear THAT?”

No, Mom, this outfit was designed to throw off the paparazzi.

Now that that I’ve reached the age when I have to consider the possibility that bending over to tie my shoes could result in the use of my health insurance, I don’t feel the need to indulge in garments that would garner the interest of bondage enthusiasts. I’m just thankful if my clothes cover any body parts that might be offensive to passers by. I also take into consideration whether pictures of me dressed for the day might inspire a record number of hits on You Tube or win the big money on Funniest Home Videos. In that case thong underwear would just be cruel to those who love me most.

Granted, you’re more likely to find my signature look on a donations jar than splashed across the pages of Cosmo, but as long as I don’t frighten small children or incite stampeding among wandering herds of mall rats, I’m not likely to check in with the Queer Eye guys for fashion tips.

This morning I appeared at breakfast dressed for work. My gray stretchy pants took a marked detour around my midsection, causing them to stop a bit short of Son One's soccer socks, the only pair I could find that matched. If I hadn't left my trifocals in the dishwasher again, I might have noticed the gravy stains forming a connect the dots pattern in the shape of a pork chop on my shirt before the dog sniffed my sleeve looking for a snack. And as long as I leaned forward a little, nobody could tell I’d had a C-section.

Son Two’s cereal spoon hovered in midair like a Southern mosquito on a summer afternoon. He regarded me gravely, “Mom are you gonna wear that?”

“Since when do you take an interest in my clothes?”

“Since you decided to wear Pop's shirt, Ryan's socks, and my sweatpants.”

Well, thank goodness. I was afraid it was MY clothes that were out of style.

Cart Wheeling

Not long ago, I had a near-death experience in the grocery store. I was bending over to check out Mrs. Fields’ fat grams when a woman wielding a grocery cart like it was a runaway bumper car rounded the corner on two wheels. If it weren’t for quick thinking on my part, I might have required a trip to the Crisco aisle to disengage that buggy from my body. For a second I thought I saw a bright light, but it turned out to be Register Six calling for assistance. Later, when I got lapped in frozen foods by a gray-haired granny with a number 5 pasted on the side of her grocery cart, I could see the need for a list of safety rules posted in a conspicuous place, perhaps tattooed on Little Debbie’s left cheek. With that thought in mind, I offer 8 Simple Rules for a Successful Supermarket Experience.
Show proper care for your vehicle. For the safety of everyone on the floor, do not select a buggy with uncooperative steering that can be guided only by a team of Iditarod sled dogs. Also, be on the lookout for features that may interrupt the aerodynamics of the cart such as toddlers left over from a previous shopper.
When perusing different item choices on the supermarket floor, please be sure to park only in traditionally acceptable parking areas. Nobody cares if you set up camp in front of internal organs in the meat department, but if you pause to check the fat content in the cookie aisle, we will forcibly transport you to the dairy case and secure you to the yogurt section with string cheese.
Please observe crowd-friendly speed limits. I know you’re in a hurry to rush home and get those tacos on the table, but don’t careen around the corners so fast that you initiate a forceful meeting between Betty Crocker and Orville Redenbacher.
Practice defensive shopping. Try to remember that there are people with immediate dietary concerns that may require them to effect a sudden stop in front of you to compare chocolate chip content on the cookie aisle. Likewise, you must understand that if you stop in the middle of the aisle while trying to decide between creamy and crunchy, you are likely to become a temporary member of the fresh fruit display. Take heart in the fact that kumquats should not do any permanent damage to your complexion.
Please show concern for the safety of other shoppers. Do not execute a sudden lane change without at least warning the gentleman who is presently rolling his cart over the heels of your Reeboks that he may suddenly find himself neck deep in summer squash. Likewise, don’t speed up suddenly, causing the six-year-old boy who is riding below the cart in front of you like a mudflap on an tractor-trailer to wrap around your front wheel like freshly chewed bubblegum.
Do not accelerate like Richard Petty on the straightaway at Talledega to beat me to the Express Lane, especially if your buggy is loaded like a Conastoga and you’re counting all 24 cans of Little Friskies as one item to make the 10-item limit, and all I’m carrying is a gallon of milk, two packs of Ho Ho’s, and a box of Ben & Jerry’s that has created a layer of freezer burn up to my elbow. I have killed for less than that.
Remember to return your buggy to the cart corral after you load your car. You may feel justified in aiming it toward the gate and assuming it will roll downhill to the target by itself, but let me assure you that grocery carts are not domesticated animals and will take every opportunity to separate from the pack and make a break for freedom. Lassie is not available to pull the buggy from quicksand, a well, or the tailpipe of a new Jaguar that happens to be in its path. The aftermath of the ensuing chaos will involve your insurance, and this is one case when the term “deductible” might be unsetttling.
Most importantly, steer clear of the lady dressed in a New York Yankees T-Shirt, stretch pants, and flip flops, who is wringing her hands and doing laps with a cart that contains two boxes of Ding Dongs and a frozen pizza. It’s me and I can’t decide what to have for supper.