Left. Right?

I can tell by the jungle of homemade signs germinating in my front yard that election time is just around the breaking news story. Either that or somebody at my house is having a yard sale. Since by some quirk of government both my sons are eligible to vote, I’ve taken it upon myself to teach them the basic jargon of our political system.

Conservative: Washing your hands in the restroom even when nobody’s looking. Listing your correct weight on your driver’s license.

Liberal: Wearing lipstick and nail polish that doesn’t match. Or white shoes after Labor Day.

Voting booth: The little room with the half curtain where you make your choices for leaders of the most powerful nation in the world. Not to be confused with the dressing room at the mall where the curtain is short enough to determine who wore clean underwear on the first day of bathing suit shopping season, at which time you also determine who will have their pool privileges restricted.

Electoral College: A special college that holds classes only once every four years and offers no grants, scholarships, or Bowl-worthy football team. Its mascot is the Mayfly.

Lobbyists: A group of people who hang around the lobby of government buildings handing out free samples and telling lawmakers what to do. Not to be confused with terrorists, but I’m not sure why.

Vice-President: The Vice-President is kind of like a kid brother for the president. He always hangs around listening to things that aren’t his business and threatening to tell. You’d think that would make him the Speaker of the House, but they hire somebody with special skills for that job. The special skills are a secret.

President: The individual who is the head of the executive branch of government who works in an Oval Office so that he or she can’t get backed into a corner.

My sons didn’t seem to appreciate my help. They wandered off, mumbling something about conscience and issues. But that’s okay. I’ve tagged all their video games. I’ll make enough at the yard sale to buy their vote.

Off The Top of My Head

Today while I was in the shower, I heard a noise, which with bathroom acoustics being what they are, I took either for sixteen cats purring in the bathroom or Seal Team Six landing a squadron of helicopters on the roof.

Having dealt closely with cats before, I was hoping for a Seal Team Meet and Greet, when I realized the sound was coming from what I call the Captain’s “Public Appearance Basket.” This is the caddy that holds his assorted shavers and is as organized as Arnold Palmer's golf bag.

Why is it that men need a separate electric device to groom each individual body part? Give me a plastic Bic disposable and I can be Barbie-doll smooth in ten minutes. I’ve shaved my legs in a moving car, with one leg in the bathroom sink, and flamingo-style in a wading pool surrounded by toddlers who were probably compromising water purity the entire time.

The Captain has an electric razor with more whirling blades than the Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber, a streamlined razor-type thingy to handle smaller land masses such as peninsulas and the ever-popular soul patch area, and a tiny precision shaver that I’m pretty sure is for his belly button.

Why one man, even one who is covered in fur from stem to stern, needs more grooming tools than a prizewinning Poodle is beyond me. Luckily he keeps his winter coat, because if we had to plug in a device to shave that chest, it would short out every television on the block and have Black Ops fans pounding our door with video game controllers.

In the old days, before the kids were teenagers, the Captain had something we called “hair” which he styled with with an intricate device known to adults as a "comb." Now he has “ears” which are to a shaved head what pebbles are to a sand garden.

He has a shaver that is the grooming equivalent of a Zamboni that I use to prepare his head for public viewing. After the bloodletting incident of ’09, we developed a plan called “Good God, What Have You Done!” and he handles the delicate ear area with a tiny weedeater designed especially for the purpose.

At least in my new role as “ The Barber of Severe,” I’m learning a whole new approach to language. To me, “Buzz Off” means “Keep Out of My Airspace.” To the Captain, it’s just another haircut.

Santa's Last Chance

Dear Santa,

As I sit here, wrapped in crumpled piles of swaddling tissue, packing away voided warranties and random battery compartment doors, it occurs to me that I didn’t ask you for the right thing this year.

Sure, I loved the foot bath with the detachable comfort pads that can double as missiles in the hands of untrained guerilla warriors, and the electric carving knife you must have used to hack your way out of the jungles of the North Pole.

They were ideal gifts, if not exactly what I specified on the order form, but I understand your strict no-exchange policy is based on a platoon of elves who have given up a season of toy-making extravaganza for a heady round of celebratory drinking on a southbound ice floe.

However, gazing around at the faces of my family members in the soft glow of candlelight, I’m reminded that I am surely part of a group somewhere that knows not to plug three space heaters and a Dragon Master’s ring into the same power strip.

I’ve thought about it a long time and I’m sure that somewhere there is a family wrapped in individual lamb-print Snuggies, perched on a fluffy couch devoid of a protective coating of animal fur, watching Partridge Family reruns and humming “Come On Get Happy” in resonating harmony.

I still have faith that it is possible to watch an entire television show without missing the first ten minutes because you have to get to the next level before you can save your game. Surely even the Black Ops guys can hold their focus while I watch Wheel of Fortune.

My real family doesn’t have video games. They play interactive card games for entertainment on Friday nights and nobody makes the yukky face and pouts when they draw the Old Maid. They can share snacks without shooting uncooked popcorn kernels through a straw to see who can put out the living room light first. And they never slop chocolate pudding onto anyone’s exposed flesh and scream, “Look what the dog did!”

So, dear Santa, I am writing an advance letter for next Christmas. For now, I will keep the family who finds it entertaining to spend three days of an expensive beach vacation in the hotel room watching Shark Week on public television.

I understand that the child who asked for the titanium Spork for Christmas could be under the influence of unnatural substances beyond my control, such as science fiction, but apart from joining forces with Dr. Every Which Way But Loose or Bill Gates or one of those other bizarre alien creatures, there’s really nothing I can do. Besides, I’m sure the Captain's influence is strong in that one.

But next year, Santa, I would like to find my real family, the people who do not consider a group viewing of the Monty Python movie, "Searching for the Holy Grail" to be a religious experience, who do not convulse into hysterics when someone utters the word “nutcracker,” and who does not claim ownership like a terrorist group when there is a blatant disregard for sensitive personal airspace.

So, Santa, I’m writing in advance so that you have time to complete the paperwork. If you could arrange a transfer, I’d be most grateful. I’ll have my purple flannel puppy dog pajamas and my original issue Partridge Family albums all packed and ready to go.

There’s just one thing. The Dachshund only likes the red bits out of the kibble and the ankles of UPS delivery men, but there’s none better for tracking errant rabbits or undelivered parcels full of Christmas cookies. The Labradors take turns helping to load the dishwasher and riding shotgun on the way to the dump. They need a sense of purpose to be happy; a job other than licking stray butter wrappers, unlike the tribe of children who can live happily with a refrigerator full of empty milk jugs, eating cereal with gardening implements when all the spoons are dirty.

So when you find my new family, would you find one for the puppies as well? You might consider a sled dog team instead of reindeer. Bo can jump over two recliners full of sleeping cats with the right encouragement, and while I’m not one to divulge personal secrets, a fast-moving tennis ball at nose height that just stirs the whiskers is a powerful force to resist. I’d keep the cookies hidden, though. He gets a little sluggish after a dozen or so shortbreads.

Thanks for listening, Santa. Sometimes a chance to express my frustrations is all I need for peace and contentment. Not this time though. This time I want action. Don’t even think about not granting my request, or next year your trip will be mighty short.

I’ve told the Dachshund that you’re really from UPS. Resistance is futile.

Amy

Chuting for the Win

Chutes and Ladders is a children’s game constructed so that even the smallest child can participate in the breakdown of society. Whoever designed this game must have fostered a deep-seated hatred for humanity and have the sordid past of a recovering alcoholic with manic tendendcies.

When a nasty turn of nature shut down the power grid in our area, and the only ones in the house with access to electronic entertainment was a teenaged boy with a supercharged video game and a Labrador with an electronic catnip mouse, we trotted out the kerosene lanterns and jumped right in to a family bonding experience.

“Why do we have to do this?” Son One, aged 22, is ever the encourager.

“Milton Bradley says Family Game Night will bring us closer together.”

“The dog’s asleep on my foot. How much closer can we get?”

A warm wet tongue washed a pizza stain from my pants.

“You’d be surprised.”

He peered at the rules in the dim light. “It says the youngest goes first. That would be me.”

“They have that rule so little kids won’t pout. Let’s roll to see who goes first.”

“Okay, if you want to cheat a little kid out of a turn.”

“You haven’t been a little kid since Barney the Purple Dinosaur faded into lavender.”

“I’m younger than you.”

It’s amazing how people act when they don’t get their way.

“Okay Mom, let go of my ear. You can go first.”

The game proceeded. It suddenly came to me how unfair it is to teach children how their young lives can end with a roll of the die.

“Mom, you got the big slide. You have to go back.”

“The slide is out of order due to road construction.”

“Road construction?”

“There’s always road construction.”

Just as Son One was about to display a lack of self control, the power came back on and the room was flooded with light. Someone accidentally knocked the board off the table during the excitement.

“You were supposed to go down the big chute. You cheated!” Son One was wounded by the hand of injustice.

“Of course she did,” the Captain caught my eye and leaned in with a tone dripping with “she owes me a favor.”

“But this time we’ll let her slide."

The Princess and the Papa

In honor of Grandparents Day, September 12, Mind over Mullis is hooking our circus wagon to the About.com Parenting and Family Channel blog train. For me, this one's in honor of my Dad. These days he answers to the name Papa.

My Dad is a tough guy. He wears Black and Decker underwear and buys pallets of toilet paper from the Army-Navy store. He watches sports on television every Sunday afternoon, even if it’s only putt-putt season, and turns the sound all the way down so that the sportscasting guys don’t ruin a beautiful play with color drivel.

He can estimate distance to an eighteenth of an inch and can tell whether a picture is half a bubble off plumb just by squeezing one eye shut and looking through his thumb. He survived the Depression on beans and biscuits; World War II on courage and luck; and 48 years of marriage on Divine Providence and guesswork. He taught four children to drive without suffering permanent neurological damage, made us wear more clothes when we were cold, and refused to let us hang on the refrigerator with the door open until we air conditioned the whole neighborhood.

So how can a five-year-old bundle of brown eyes and rosy cheeks crawl up in his lap at fourth down and goal to go and persuade him to read The Cat In The Hat for the four thousandth time, without suffering severe blood loss?

This man, who refused to allow scented soap in the shower during my childhood years, now has a cupboard stocked with curly noodle soup, sports animal stickers on his back door, and a maintains a gaggle of Barbies who loiter in his favorite recliner.

When I dropped by Dad’s house last Sunday to comfort the old man in his lonesome existence and retrieve his great-grandaughter, I tripped over three teddy bears and a stuffed cat having a tea party, stumbled on a pair of pink plastic high heeled shoes and a glittery feather boa tossed carelessly in front of a full length mirror, and turned my ankle sliding across a nest of scattered crayons and coloring books piled in the hallway.

“Dad!” I called, afraid to endanger myself by advancing further. A trip to my father’s house should not involve my health insurance. “Have you been finding new ways to entertain yourself or is there a little girl hiding in there?”

Giggles erupted from around the corner. “We’re in the kitchen,” a small, freckled voice said. I followed a line of Winnie-the-Pooh stickers posted along the wall at five-year-old eye level and entered the kitchen. Over a teetering mountain of mall-type bags, a pair of large brown eyes twinkled in my direction.

“Can you tell we’ve been shopping?” the bag-mountain asked.

Does the queen wear matching accessories?

“Papa bought me a sticker book, two kinds of bubble gum, and a Shirley Temple video.”

“Shirley Temple?”

“Yeah, she’s a new kid that can dance.”

“If Shirley Temple’s a new kid, Britney's not even in hip huggers yet.”

“Papa made me a new kind of cheese sandwich. You cook it right in the oven.”

“Sweetie, it’s time to go. Gather up your 50 most prized possessions and I’ll take you home.”

She hopped down and ran to me, clutching a battered baby doll that looked like it would be at home in Little Orphan Annie’s boarding house. “I’m ready.”

“What about all your treasures?”

“Oh, Papa bought that stuff for me to play with here. He already took my other stuff home for me.”

I glanced over at my dad, who was nestled in his recliner recovering from the shopping expedition by snoring loudly through the ballgame. He cracked one eye open and peered up at me. “Don’t forget her food. She has Little Debbie brownies, Beauty and the Beast cookies, and Barbie cupcakes. With sprinkles.”

Sure, the queen may have matching hat and shoes and the wealth of an entire nation, but the princess has designer snacks and a Papa who can’t say no.

Dog Days of Summer

The cat is stretched out on the blade of the ceiling fan, revolving in lazy circles in the breeze, one paw hanging over the side like a rudder.

Below, the dog is sprawled in the recliner with an ice pack on his forehead, sipping iced tea through a bendy straw. He’s a black Lab. He’ll dive quite happily into a frost-covered lake on a crisp fall morning, but when the temperature hits 80, he goes into hibernation and requires hourly rations of crushed ice and chicken flavored sports drinks. I don’t want to say he’s spoiled, but I have the only refrigerator with a doggie door. I won’t mention his other favorite snack food, but there’s also a doggie door on the litterbox.

Meanwhile, at my computer, sweat has dripped down my chest, spattered on the keyboard like afternoon in a rainforest, and shorted out the machine. A parched mosquito with a sweatband handed me an IOU for a nibble on a body part to be named later. Outside, earthworms have brought in power drills to make holes in the topsoil on my car.

The teenagers poured themselves through the doorway, swooned into a restless pile of melted flesh and weary boredom and announced, “It’s hot.” Hot is a two syllable word with the second half drowning in perspiration and misery.

These are the same kids that were clustered around the thermostat last winter begging to turn up the heat so their fingers would thaw enough to work video game controllers.

Back then I was the "bad parent" because I just said NO to indoor fire barrels. Now I'm the bad guy because I don't allow freezer burn as a weapon in the battle against sweat. These guys hated it when Spring brought plagues of honeysuckle and rosebuds and Autumn swept in hordes of muscadines. They've got a whine for all seasons.

So now it’s hot. Why didn’t I noticed it before? It amazes me how that fact escaped Reuters, CNN, Fox News, and the local paparazzi. Our smalltown presses don’t miss any news flash from ice cream truck fraud to elevator overpopulation.

I decided to give him a call.

“Jay, the teenagers say it’s hot.”

I heard a noise like a straw passing the speed limit sign in Margaritaville. “I’ll get right on that story as soon as I finish my, um, column.”

“See that you do. Somebody has to alert people to turn on their window fans. You could be the Paul Revere of our times. One if it’s spring, two if it’s summer.”

“Right. In the meantime teach those kids to appreciate the important things in life. Like those little first aid packs that get cold when you bust the bubble inside.”

I hung up. I would cook supper, but I’ve been waiting until the temperature dropped. We haven't eaten since that day in March when a UPS truck delivered a load of chocolate covered pretzels to the wrong address.

With an oven that goes from Warm to Controlled Burn in less than ten seconds, I don’t like to stoke the flames just for the simple act of eating. During the summer, we boost the economy by dining out at any local establishment that boasts a working air conditioner.

I’ve eaten so much pizza lately, my navel has turned into a slice of pepperoni. I’ve had so many tacos, I’ve begun to judge local cattle by their weight in ground beef. And I’ve been eyeing the no-expiration-date sausage dogs at the local 7-11 store.

Meanwhile I'm counting down the days until school starts. Both boys take classes at the community college across town. Let the dean of Robotics decide what the temperature will be. In the meantime, the Labrador has a dandy diversion planned. He's packed the car for the beach. I have just enough time to grab a towel before he backs down the driveway.

And I can tell by the way his ears are waving in the breeze. that he's got the air conditioner turned on to chili dog.