Puppy Love

Lucy hits the tail, er, trail to find true love.
 At least she found a man with a steady job.

It just goes to show that the age-old story is true. A good girl will fall for the bad boy every time.  And if the good girl is a Dachshund, she's too stubborn to face the truth.  It's Puppy Love.  Join me at An Army of Ermas for Lucy's tale of a Good Girl Done Wrong.

It's Not Delivery; It's Dentistry!

“Relax.”

I’m upside down. Tennis shoes that I really mean to wash some day are pointed toward Oprah crying personably into an immaculate handkerchief on a three inch television attached to bolts in the ceiling. A dentist, a technician, and judging from the smell someone I’m pretty sure is a pizza delivery man, are running gloved hands around my gums. 

I haven’t had this much attention paid to my mouth since I swallowed the paperboy’s change when I was five. Just now I’m concerned that if the attention shifts to the area it did back then, the dentist will pull an $800 dental crown out of my. . .anatomy.

“Just relax.”

Right. I haven’t been this relaxed since I heard my obstetrician say “Hand me the knife” just before I drifted off to sleep in the delivery room. If this visit ends up like that one, somebody’s going to have to change my diaper.

“Bite down.”

At last we were venturing into my area of expertise. I complied with gusto.

“Whoa!” the dentist rolled off the mangled glove and a perky assistant snapped on a new one.  “I said bite, not feeding frenzy.”

I drew a breath.

Have you ever noticed that dentists shove something in your mouth when they suspect you’re about to say something clever?

“Bite down carefully.”

I cracked one eye open. The entire staff was crowded behind a section of yellow tape that read, “Police lines. Do not cross.”  The hygienist appeared to be praying, an assistant was carving another notch into her sterile tools tray, and the dentist was Googling “thumb replacements” on the scheduling computer. Two young women in HazMat suits were drawing straws.

It’s not that I’m uncomfortable in the dentist chair. Normally I’m all about letting a man with a power drill crowd in close enough to my face to twirl my lips around the drill bit like spaghetti on a dinner fork.  I’m just stressed by the fact that Oprah is on the tiny TV and I can’t hear how to make a proper Bloody Mary over the cries of the dentist. 

And it’s not that I’m afraid of the dentist, like a small child with a bad dream.  Actually I’m terrified, like an adult fearing the zombie apocalypse, but I thought I was cleverly concealing that fact until I realized the reason the doctor rescheduled my appointment is that he was meeting with his insurance representative to overhaul his death and dismemberment policy.

The whole thing played out like a reality TV show.  Team Bravo charged in and repaired my bridge while Team Coward held back to comb the office for an Immunity Idol.  I triumphed by forming an alliance with the pizza delivery man.

I think we all won. The dentist got to file an attractive claim with my insurance company, the office employees got combat experience, and I spent the rest of the evening munching on a meatlover’s special pizza with my new teeth.

Happy Anniversary, Cupcake, er Captain!

A decade and half back I discovered that if I was going to get two kids through fourth grade math, I was going to have to marry someone who could figure --without a calculator –just how fast the train that left Los Angeles was traveling and when it would overtake the train of thought that derailed when I discovered that as class mom I was in charge of cupcakes. 

 

 

These days I just use Google Earth and divide by Facebook, but in those days Social Media amounted to little more than a “Girls Wanted” ad in the personals section of something we called a “newspaper,” math was accomplished on the ten fingers I had available, and neither was any help with the cupcakes.

So fifteen years ago, on July 12, I considered all the options and decided it was the perfect time to marry the Captain.  There was a time I thought sticking my hand in a frightened dog’s mouth was a good idea too, but hopefully this plan won’t come back to bite me. Or require stitches. So far it’s smooth sailing.  But we keep the vet on speed dial.

And we always make time for cupcakes.

Rockets Red Glare

Homeward bound from a Fourth of July picnic, we passed down the main street of our small town. The journey was slowed somewhat due to the unusual traffic, but the tractor soon turned off and we had the road to ourselves.

As we approached the Municipal Complex, the kids, excited by alarming and possibly disastrous situations, noticed a mob outside the fire station who both appeared to be hard at work placing letters on a large sign by the road.

“Look, Firworks!”

Nothing says small town like a budget without enough spare change to buy a vowel.

Boys are natural fans of pyrotechnics, particularly the pyro part, and I’m always on the lookout for fresh air opportunities, so we whipped a U-turn at the abandoned gas station and came back to join the crowd.

The public parking places were occupied by the fire truck and a wheelbarrow, so we parked the car in the Fire Marshal’s yard, and struck up a conversation with the boys’ Scout Leader. It seems the Town Council had a son who got them a good deal on fireworks, so a Fourth of July blowout was in full swing.

At the time, we didn’t realize the importance of the word “blowout.”

The kids, with a genetic instinct for finding free food, headed toward a table dripping with slices of watermelon. An unlimited supply of a fruit that’s 90% liquid. There’s a good thing to have on hand when the yard is full of free-range kids and the bathrooms are locked up.

In the fenced pasture across the road, the fireworks launch squad strode into view. The crew chief carried a cardboard box full of bottle rockets and a disposable lighter. His wife wore blue jeans and a motorcycle bedecked tank top that didn’t leave much room for the handlebars.

Son Two materialized out of the twilight. His cheeks were sticky and there was a misfired watermelon seed stuck to his chin. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Across the street, the launch chief sorted through the rockets like he was searching for the half inch piece in his socket set, and carefully arranged a bouquet of bottle rockets in a soda bottle.

“It’s about to start. Can you wait?” 

Son One appeared beside his brother, wearing a pained grin and dancing a familiar jig. “You, too?” He nodded just as the first rocket took off with a sizzle of sparks.

Both boys disappeared. Nothing comforts nature’s call like a lit fuse.

The fireworks display proceeded with random showers of red and gold sparks, interrupted now and then by an unmotivated dud rocket that bailed on liftoff and headed back to the picnic table that served as Ground Zero. Once, the launch team was visible through the gloom and gathering smoke, stamping out embers in the tall grass of the pasture.

Son One appeared by my side, clutching another slice of watermelon like it was a football and I was the defensive line of the New York Giants. “They set the bench on fire, but they put it out with a juice box.”

I’d had a slice of watermelon myself and the juice box reference made me think fondly of indoor plumbing. I squinted at him. “Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?”  Across the street the launch crew ducked as another dud rocket zoomed in low over the pyrotechnic staging area.

“I can wait.”

Stephen King never came up with a scarier line.

He dashed away, weaving a path around knees and ankles like an Olympic skier on a timed run.

Suddenly, the grand finale accidentally erupted. The entire area lit up in a patriotic display of billowing smoke and crackling fire. The picnic table and the box of fireworks were ablaze and nearby portions of the pasture showed signs of imminent ignition. The fire truck swept out of the driveway and across the street where it made short work of the ambitious embers.

As the excitement died down and the crowd drifted away through damp ash flakes floating in the air, both sons appeared at my side, eyes alight, wearing Junior Firefighter stickers. They smelled like bacon.

“This is the best Fourth of July ever!”

“So, where’d you get the stickers?”

We heard a blast from the fire truck and turned to see the driver give the boys a wink and a wave.

“What’s that all about?”  

“Well you know how you always tell us to use our natural resources wisely?”

I’ve been a mom long enough to know that when they remind me what I’ve said, I wish I hadn’t said it.

“The firemen said we used our superpowers to put out the fire!”

Determination and a strong bladder. That's what makes this country great.

Captain American would be proud.

Sand Hassle

This first appeared last summer on the popular humor blog, An Army of Ermas.  These days I spend my vacations ordering room service cheeseburgers and watching Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

“What are you doing?”

The Captain is kind of an embarrassment savant when it comes to sensing when I’m hovering on the brink of humiliation. We’d been frolicking in the ocean all morning and for the past mortification and a half, I’d been attempting what I thought was an unassuming display of aquatic gymnastics in the effort to rid myself of a sand dune lodged in a place that should never be landlocked. 

“The lining of my bathing suit is full of sand. I’m trying to empty it.”

There’s nothing like a little wet sand in the crotch to give you that “close encounter with a live mackerel” feel.

“It looks like some kind of tribal interpretive dance.”

“You might call it that.”

“You need a native costume.”

“I have a costume.  You’ve heard of a cement overcoat? This is cement underwear.”

“I’m just trying to help.” 

“Thanks, but what I need is a helper who can mind his own business.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for you at the hotel.”

A King-sized bed and a $20 room service cheeseburger called for drastic measures.  I would have given up my pay-per-view for a drink of fresh water and a bathing suit that didn’t retain ocean life.

 “Hold still so I can get my balance. I need to squat.”

“Pardon?”

“I want to lean on you.  I need to squat lower in the water so no one will see me.”

The Captain has a way of raising one eyebrow in a gesture that makes you feel as if you’ve asked for something unreasonable, like pink pompom fringe for the bedroom curtains.

“If I let you lean on me, can we get rid of that nasty pink pompom fringe in the bedroom?”

“Okay, just stand still.”  I took the opportunity to effect a grand jeté with the passing of a major wave.  Grand jeté is a ballet term meaning “your crotch is still full of sand and it’s beginning to chafe.”

I tugged. I wriggled. I did a little side step.  I did the hokey pokey.  Not only did I have enough sand in my personal space to build Cinderella’s sandcastle, I auditioned successfully for Dancing With the Stars.

Nothing. 

“I’m not accomplishing anything.”

“Let’s just go on in.  Nobody will notice.”

“Nobody will notice?  It looks like I’m smuggling tropical fruit in my swimsuit.”

Just then a particularly devious wave crashed down from behind, sending me floundering underwater and knocking the straps off both shoulders.  Mothers covered their children’s eyes.  Low-flying seagulls pointed and laughed.  I’m pretty sure the lifeguard quit his job on the spot.

The Captain raised the eyebrow.  “Well, I don’t about your banana, but your grapefruits are getting a little pink.”

As soon as I reached the area of civilization that has indoor showers, I retired that swimsuit. 

But the pompom fringe is staying put.

 

Suitable. . .Or Not

It's summer and a young girl's, um, mature chick's thoughts turn to how to get out of trying on bathing suits.  In  honor and support--three cheers for support--of my pals over at The Domestic Fringe and On Wings of Mirth and Worth, I'm rallying behind the cause--if we can blow up the Death Star, surely we can come up with something that doesn't look like it should be dragged back in the ocean to wear at the beach. I'm thinking Invisibility Cloak here.

Buying a new bathing suit is like selecting an alias for the Witness Protection Program.  You want something that fits and has flair, but that will keep all your hidden assets locked away where no one will ever find them.  

In my experience, the main function of a bathing suit is to gather oceanic sand in the lining of the crotch while you’re trying to balance on the retracting grains of an outgoing wave without spilling your drink-filled coconut.  With my typical lack of coordination, my coconuts take a dunking every time.

I went shopping with my sister and my niece, Knockout.  This girl could wear an oven mitt and have guys follow her into deep water.  I was painfully aware that my thighs had expanded to the outer banks and my behind had relocated to the subtropics.

We’re at Wal-Mart, browsing through the racks.  It’s the only place I can get support hose, Sugar Smacks, and sinus medication without having to change parking lots.  Presently my buggy is loaded with a month’s worth of Friskies and the floral pack of Hanes Her Way Full Coverage.  Nothing says party like a well-fed cat and chubby sized underwear.

While Knockout was slipping on bikini tops over her clothes, I was fumbling through the racks looking for something with sleeves and a bib.  I couldn’t fit a bathing suit over my clothes if I had the Jaws of Life to  help me dress.

“What about something with a little sarong to cover up problem areas?” Knockout suggests, flattening an invisible wrinkle in her belly button.

I couldn’t fit a sarong over my shin with a shoe horn.

“Do they have anything with a hoop skirt instead?”

I’m headed to the seashore for a weekend away from the Labradors.  All I’m going to do is pick up a few seashells, eat some fish without having to share, and play a round of beach putt putt.  I shouldn’t have to use up the gross national output of latex to get a hole in one at Shipwreck Cove.  Actually, the closest thing I ever got to a hole in one at putt putt golf was the time I chipped a shot into the Diet Coke of the Paris Hilton clone in the parking lot, but that’s All Star stuff and I can’t do it every time.  The ensuing altercation is still a topic of conversation among local law enforcement officers.  Who says golf is a boring sport to watch?

I don’t so much have to focus on my strengths so much as try to mulch the problem areas.  I’m at the age when weeds are creeping into greener pastures.  I figure if I keep them in the dark and provide proper drainage, we can keep the damage to a minimum. 

Also I figure if I can’t see it, it’s not a problem.  I’ve played hide and seek with my navel for 35 years.  Once I passed 40 and realized I’d need a topographical map and a satellite signal from NASA to find my waist, I declared myself the victor and began looking for my original chin.  We might have to call in the Mars Rover for that one.

“What about a cover up? You like retro.”  She held up a tye-dyed washcloth, swirling with all the colors of a bowl of breakfast cereal.

“It looks like something you used to clean up a chemical spill.  Besides, I have a doily on the back of my couch that hides more than that thing.  Nobody’s seen the 1973 gravy incident since I got it.”

I wandered across the aisle to a rack of likely-looking house dresses. My idea of coverage is mountains-to-sea. I’m not interested in anything that leaves the foothills or the Great Plains out in the open.  I untangled a handful of spaghetti straps and pulled out a prospect.  “What about this?  It’s almost long enough to cover the coast at high tide.”

“That’s a prom dress.”

“How can you tell?”

“There are sequins on thong.”

“I thought that was an armband to hold my IPod.”

“There’s a clip on the tiara for that. See, there’s a secret compartment behind the disco ball.”

Three dozen prom gowns and I pick the one that needs John Travolta in a white suit to complete the package. 

“Here’s an animal print. You’d be right in style.”  Knockout whipped a bikini bedecked with pink and green peace symbols off the rack and held it up with a flourish.  A trail of leopard prints the color of blush traipsed through the peace fields.

“The leopard is already embarrassed and I haven’t even tried it on.”

She flipped through a few more prospects. “There’s nothing left on the rack but old lady swimsuits.”

To this kid, Paris Hilton is ancient history.

With a sigh, I tossed the sequined thong and tiara selection into my cart.  I may not be Queen of the Prom, but I’ll be the best dressed gal at the Pirate Ship Putt Putt course. 

Enhance This!

Sometimes when you write, the words float from your pen like a perfect curve ball on a summer day.  You feel as if you could pitch a perfect game without ever leaving your desk.  But if you’re like the rest of us, you may have a little trouble from time to time getting the ball to the plate, the pen to the page.  I can help.  Don’t let the secret out—not for free, anyway—but there are ways to help yourself out of a jam when you don’t really have your stuff. 

In light of the Congressional proceedings concerning America’s Pastime, though, I’m beginning to dread the day I’m called in front of some Government Honcho and asked 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 coffee 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.