Made From Scratch

Gentlemen should know how to tie a proper knot. This guy has a half Windsor.

It’s not that Son One is a perfectionist, but he spent an entire afternoon Googling the proper way to tie a noose for our front porch Halloween skeleton.  Anything less than a gallows-approved knot was unacceptable.  You’d think a big guy with a sharp axe was scoring the pop quiz.

“Mom, we don’t want to be a bad example. We have to show little kids that we do things right.” 

 

I’m sure the skeleton appreciates his attention to detail.

On the other hand, this is the same guy that collects pet hair tumbleweeds in his room until he has enough fur to reconstruct the Chewbacca, the Wookie from Star Wars.  He’s probably planning a full-out attack on his brother’s room, The Death Star.  I’ve seen pizza boxes pulled in that place liked they were caught in a stuffed-crust tractor beam.  I’ve never seen one leave.  The only thing that's ever escaped was Son Two's baby kitty who he rescued from the edge of That Great Sandbox in the Sky just months ago. Baby Kitty has spent the intervening time scratching out a name for herself in world domination.

But now I’m beginning to rethink letting the guys decorate the house for Halloween.  I imagined a few fake spider webs, a smiling Jack-O-Lantern, and a stuffed scarecrow on the front porch bench would do the trick.  Right now the front yard is strung with police tape and they’re discussing where to hide the body.

There’s something about hearing a voice from the bushes yell, “Mom, where do we keep the spare propane tanks?” that makes you appreciate tissue paper ghosts.

It took me a while to realize: these kids learned about life from video games.  Call of Duty was their instruction manual for life.  They’re not decorating the yard; they’re fortifying it against marauding invaders disguised as gypsies, thieves, and Miley Cyrus.

Decorator touches make a house a home.

 

I called a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and scaled back the Home Security alert.

“You mean you’re going to let the tiny humans walk right in and confiscate our candy?” Son one brandished a Nerf Gatling gun that would unload more rounds than Shirley Temple has ringlets.

“We’re going to give it to them.”

A cheer went up.  “Now you’re talking!”

“I mean we’re going to give them the candy.”

“Without a major skirmish?”

“And without a police report.”

“What if the Zombies invade?”

“We’ll give them extra Snickers bars.”

They locked eyes. “Better put away our secret weapon.”

Son Two unleashed Danger Cat, the attack kitten, from his backpack.

Good thing. The Zombies wouldn’t stand a chance. 

There's no such thing as extra lives in Candy Land.
 

Layla & Levi's

Now that the kids are old enough to leave at home without having to shell out the bucks for a SLED check on a babysitter, we’re able to go out more often. A year or two ago, the man who promised to love, honor, and make sure the dishwasher never quit sprang for tickets to an Eric Clapton concert.

You could tell by the crowd outside that it was going to be an interesting evening. A businesswoman in black heels and hose jostled for position next to a sixty year old hippie in a gauze tie-dyed shirt that looked like it had been stitched together from a box of Fruit Loops. I think he was her date. Worn Levi’s with the red tag far outnumbered designer jeans.

At the concert, I learned three things. Baby Boomers have wide and varied, by which I mean bad, taste in clothes, Baby Boomers think they can dance, and Baby Boomers automatically stand for Layla like a seven-ten split for a cross-eyed bowler.

But when the lights go down, we have one thing in common. We have the music in us. I saw three old men with tattoos where their biceps used to be, cover something in the vicinity of their Rock ’n Roll hearts with sun-basted hands when the opening chords of Layla split the speakers. And when “Wonderful Tonight” blasted romantically across the crowd, there wasn’t a woman among us that didn’t zip back through the Time Tunnel of Youth to the most romantic night of our lives. Couples locked eyes, lip-synched the lyrics, and fell in love all over again.

We may drive minivans, SUV's, and hybrids by day, but we still “get off on ’57 Chevies” at night.

Fashion Scents

Occasionally one of the guys will accidentally wear something that matches.  If I’m very careful and don’t mention it out loud, there’s a chance they will wear it out in public, and people will think I’ve had a positive influence.

The guys in my house don’t do their colors.  They go by seasonal camo.  The proper camouflage for summer in the South is red mud, which coordinates well with catsup.

I grew up in a house full of girls.  Coordinating clothes were not on the list of the Seven Deadly Sins.  That list was reserved for lipstick that didn’t match your nail polish, and bra straps that showed.  These days nail polish matches your favorite food, and bras are worn like overcoats. Any day now, I expect Playtex to come out with a waterproof, hooded model with zip out lining.  Or a Totes model that opens with the touch of a button.

Fashion is easier for guys.  The only clothes-related conversations I’m allowed to have with my sons are

1) Smell this.

2) Is this a color or meatloaf?

I understand now why Duck Dynasty is such a hit.  In a world where Heidi Klum and Giselle Bundchen make a million dollars for one romp down the runway, my household follows Uncle Si for fashion.  The only accessory they need is a Tupperware glass of iced tea.  And since today’s Southern women collect Tupperware the way our ancestors hoarded the family silver, and if it lasted long enough to pump before Bubba cleaned out the supply, our hose pipes would run sweet tea, we could rule the lower Mason-Dixon Line Fashion Week.

 

Wonder if Calvin Klein comes in camo?

Shut Up and Shut Down

“Mom, there’s a “Death before Dinner” sign on the kitchen door.”

“I know.  We’re having a shutdown to show you how government works.”

Son One pulled a bag of leftover Easter Candy from his underwear drawer and snapped the ears off a crusty rabbit.  “Cool. I never thought I’d really need my Zombie Apocalypse stash.  Good thing I’m prepared.” 

My stomach launched a shutdown of its own.

The plan was to let the family experience the Government Shutdown on a small scale so they could identify with the major problems.  I didn’t realize I was dealing with Duck Dynasty:  Armed for Armageddon.  I was surrounded by an army of Uncle Si.

The first thing I thought of was a ban on The Facilities. There’s nothing like a plumbing shutdown to make people see how things flow. Or, more importantly, what happens when they don’t.  But somehow I could see everything flowing back my way, so I abandoned Operation Waste Management.  Because those of us on the grass roots level comprehend the thought behind getting caught with your pants down.

Next, I tried a laundry room shutdown, mostly because I don’t like to sort.  Also, I’m fairly sure that nasty things await me at the bottom of the laundry basket.  But my household is made up of all guys, and the thought of a household full of men with access to a week’s worth of dirty underwear smacks of Nuclear Holocaust.

And so I proceeded with my final idea, a Kitchen Shutdown, which involved tossing out the half-full boxes of stale Fruit Loops which people only eat in times of desperation and allowing the reserves of snack cakes and coffee to dwindle.  It’s a hard lesson, but if you’re going to do something, you have stand your grounds.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I forgot about the Labradors.  And the Dachshund.  And the kitten.  And the coffee-deprived buccaneer brandishing his empty cup and mumbling something about “planks” and “booty.”

Perhaps if Congress had to contend with drooling Labradors guarding the kitchen door and an attack kitten ready to swoop down on unattended chicken salad, they would be a lot more attentive to the chicken coop before the feathers started to fly.

Band Books

The Captain who, for reasons I can’t fathom, insists on checking to see what I’m doing at any given time, strolled through the living room when I was mouse deep in research.  I’m not sure why he checks on me.  He says experience is a great teacher.  I say don’t worry about it, the hair grew back.

“What are you doing?”

 “I’m picking out some snazzy music.”

 “You don’t play an instrument.”

“No, but I can still be supportive.”

“Of who?”

“The band.  It’s band books week.”

“Um, no it’s not.”

“Nothing like a stirring march by John Philip Sousa to wake up all the dogs at once.”

“But it’s not.”

‘Maybe I’ll wear red, white, and blue tomorrow.’

‘You can wear what you like, but it won’t make a difference to Mark Twain.”

“I didn’t know he had a band!”

“He wrote Huckleberry Finn.”

“Um, you may not like this, but Huck and I took the friendship oath long before you swashbuckled along.”

“Then you know it’s banned books week.  B-A-N-N-E-D.  Not band.”

“Oh.  You mean like To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, and Fahrenheit 451?”

“Yep. Just like them.”

“And Harry Potter and his Hogwarts buddies?”

“The very same.”

"No marches? No fanfares? No pants with stripes down the side?"

“Nope. Banned books. The ones they kick out of schools and libraries.’

“Isn’t that kind of like the lifeguard draining the pool?’

“Exactly.”

“How are people supposed to learn to swim?”

“I guess they’ll get a book about it.”

“That sounds great. Strike up the band!”

 

 

 

 

Brain Food for the Zombie's Soul

While I appreciate a stack of homemade hoecakes as much as the next Southern Belle, I just can’t bring myself to get past the pictures of a teeth-gritting Paula Deen grinning up at me in a flirtatious, deadpan way from the covers of magazines at the checkout.

“She looks like a zombie.”  Son Two and I are at a bookstore large enough to merit its own bobsled team.  Paula Deen is gazing at us with a gleam in her eye and a glazed-tooth grin. It may come from a butter-induced stupor, but I can’t help but think she’s sizing up our brains to see how many deep dish pies she could get out of the pair of us.

“She’s just posing for the camera,” I said, shivering and checking over my shoulder for random undead figures lurking in the nonfiction aisle.

“It looks like she’s staring at me.”  He shifted on one leg to lean behind me.  The creature’s eyes seemed to follow him.  A trick of light on the glossy cover made her appear to drool. If she licked her lips, I was going to peel out past the half-price calendars like a Nascar driver on the last left turn.

“Let’s go to the coffee shop,” I whispered, backing away from the bookshelf.  We’ll get something with caffeine to keep us alert.”

“Mom.  If I got any more alert I’d be an exclamation point.”  Son Two is as tall as an industrial refrigerator, but only as wide as an icicle in the freezer compartment.  He can take in food all day, but somehow the shelves stay empty.

 
“Back up slowly and don’t make eye contact.  She’ll try to lure you in with homemade doughnuts and full fat cream cheese.”  But it was like I was talking to Angel Food.  Son Two was gone and there was nothing but air. 

I tried to run, but out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a cover picture of made-from-scratch banana pudding that would make my granny ask for more.

Dinner that night was especially tasty, finished off with a delicious dessert. 

 

Zombies may want brain food, but banana pudding is food for the soul.

Gonna Fly Now

I’m contemplating taking a trip.  It doesn’t look that far on the map.  A few states up, maybe a little to the left, give or take a few fast food restaurants and a national monument or two, but stopping short of making a pass over scary bodies of water if you don’t count the restrooms on the Interstate.

But I’d have to fly.  I’m not afraid of flying; I did it in quite a carefree manner before I got married.

In 1982.   

Thirty years ago we didn’t have to take our shoes off to get permission to board the plane.  As a matter of fact, we didn’t have to take ANYTHING off to board the plane.  We checked our luggage for free and got clever little bags of peanuts for a snack at naptime.  It was better than kindergarten.

The nice people at the gate set my pocketbook on a little conveyor that ran through a box that looked like a tiny carwash without the water or me screaming where nobody could hear me, and sent me on my way.  They figured out I had no money or authentic signed Elvis photographs and wished me well.  We parted as friends.

These days I’ve heard so many horror stories, I’m afraid to approach the airport without hiring Chuck Norris to serve as my personal bodyguard.  If I can’t get Chuck, I could make do with my husband before he's had his morning coffee. But that seems cruel, although not unusual.

I’m not afraid of flying, I’m afraid of TSA.

I’ve heard ugly stories about patdowns, and I don’t want to get my Spanx in a wad over how much Preparation H I’m bringing on board. Beauty pageant contestants use it to tighten the skin on their assets, and I might need more than the allowed amount to look my best.

Also, I have trouble with shoes.  Sure, it’s no problem to kick off my orthopedic oxfords in the spirit of goodwill to protect our national safety, but at my age it could take the entire Olympic gymnastics team and a couple of off duty Air Marshals to get them on again.  Here agility is the key.  Even terrorists can’t increase flexibility in something that hasn’t exceeded a twenty-five degree angle in 35 years.  These hips don’t lie.

All in all I’m a trooper about anything that will keep folks safe.  But the fluid limitation is going to be a problem. Everyone is allowed a quart-sized carry-on baggie to hold personal items totaling no more than 3.4 ounces of fluid. I’m 54 years old.  I retain more water than that when I brush my teeth.

And if I’m going to have to bend over to tie my shoes, somebody needs to be holding something larger than a quart-sized baggie.

Those Interstate restrooms are looking better all the time.