Fifty is Not a Speed Trap

For the Padre; if I can go flat out at fifty, you can rev it in to overdrive at forty. It's gonna be a great year. The race is on!
(This is the post I wrote for my fiftieth birthday.  Since then, I've seen my sons grown into fine young men, I bought a house, I've learned to prune a fig tree, I've written the Thank You Notes That Tried to Kill Me, and I've had my life enriched by an insane feline with an incredible will to live and no sense of fear: Danger Cat. After that, everything seems possible.)

Some of my friends are slowing down for 50. Not me. I'm hitting the gas and leaving three feet of tire marks and twenty dollars worth of fumes behind me. I'm not complaining about my life so far--I'm married to the man of my dreams who hardly ever looks at me like I've taken leave of my senses, and I have two sons who can play Guitar Hero like they were born with Stratocasters in their hands. I just don't want the next 50 years to be the second lap of the same race.

Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.

I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.

I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can can without throwing out a hip.

I can hunt my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.

Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.

Danger Cat's Christmas Adventures

Sure, we’ve always had an assortment of wise cats and German Shepherds scattered across the rug at Christmas time.  We’d add a strategically placed bell or two on the tree so the merry tinkling sound would alert us to redirect the actions of any miscreant who displayed an excessive amount of curiosity toward the decorations.  Five decades, a few toppled Frasier Firs, and some believe-it-or-not stories later, everything was going fine.

This year we have Danger Cat.

This is the cat who, six weeks old and blind from infection, trekked across two fenced backyards, traversed a couple of pony-sized Labradors, and scaled a tower of architectural bricks to announce to my son that it was time for kitty adoption.

The long and winding roll.

Soon after, an expensive magical healing was effected, and she launched into the Trail of Toilet Paper Adventure, Summer 2013, a day of carnage when she laid waste to a Jumbo Pack of Scott Tissue’s finest.  We may not squeeze the Charmin, but we shred whole cartloads of Scott. I’m still finding single-ply tucked into shoes in the closet.

Our eight foot evergreen doesn’t stand a chance.



Innocent Bystander

We added more bells to the tree; different sizes and shapes so that we could track her exact location like Norad tracks Santa Claus.  Last night she used the tree bells to play the trumpet fanfare from the Kentucky Derby.  I imagine the theme from Rocky will be next.

It’s no more dangerous to walk into our living room than it was to take a stroll along the Normandy coast on D-Day.  This morning I bent to rescue a battle-scarred reindeer with two legs, only to sustain a massive hit from a red satin snowflake ornament shot like a missile from somewhere near the center of the tree.  I’m still picking glitter shrapnel from my lipstick, and have the festive air of someone who’s been kissing the Times Square New Year’s ball.  I can identify with Mary and Joseph’s dismay at finding three ice skating penguins and half a sugar cookie nestled next to baby Jesus in the tabletop nativity.

Our tree looks more like the result of an explosive blender episode than a holiday decoration.  Meanwhile, there’s a black and white fuzzball swinging from limb to limb like Nadia Commenechi gearing up for the backwards high-bar flip on her Olympic quest for the perfect 10.



"And now, grinned the Grinch, I will stuff up the tree."

So, what’s the answer for the cat who has everything when Christmas comes to town?

A sixpack of Scott Tissue under the tree.  Danger Cat, roll out!

The Cough Drop - A Thanksgiving Miracle

This is for my longtime friend Beth who lost her home in a fire this Thanksgiving.  Sometimes when times are tough you need a reminder that miracles still  happen. If you have a warm home and full table this Thanksgiving, consider helping my friend find out how bright the future can be.  There is a fund set up by her community to help her family reclaim their future: 
First Community Bank, ATTN: Karen Halper, PO Box 231, Eureka Springs AR  72362.

Bill and I were sitting in that special kind of traffic jam that comes just before the holidays and is the result of a small town growing like an overdose victim of Jack’s magic beans, leaving mundane things like convenience and city planning behind. The roads were packed like the straw in a peach milkshake. Fruit gets stuck in the end, all movement stops, and nobody gets any relief. With a milkshake you can pull out the straw and suck out the peach pulp. With overburdened roads, the obvious answer is to block off one lane with orange cones and commit to a ten-year construction project.

We'd dropped our kids off at a mega-bookstore at what seemed like a short time earlier, doling out the last bite-sized candy bars from Halloween left in the bottom of my pocketbook to hold them until we got back and could hit a nearby buffet extravaganza. Sometimes eating out, even with two teenaged mouths to feed, is a better idea than a sound investment plan.

In the meantime, the Highway Patrol issued an all-points-bulletin to every mall-bound traveler in the area, describing our location, destination, and current state of irritability. That’s the only reasonable explanation for the fact that our car began to attract morons like a pan of biscuits attracts men named Bubba. Traffic stalled and Christmas shoppers begin to share the joy of the season with their fellow travelers one finger at a time. I attempted to retain my normal good nature even though Bill was getting testy. He always gets that way when he misses snack time.

Bill: Do you have any more candy in your pocketbook?

Me: Why? Are you hungry?

Bill: No, I thought I would toss some out the window to lure people out of our lane.

Me: You’re being sarcastic because you’re too hungry. (Pointing across six lanes of stationary traffic.) There’s a Wendy’s. And a Chinese buffet. And a pizza place. I'll bet that gas station has candy bars.

Bill: Are you hungry?

Me: (Fumbling through my pocketbook.) No. Why do you keep bringing it up? Look--there’s that place with the wonderful barbecue ribs. I could walk there and back before you got to the red light.

(I find a cellophane-wrapped object which I pull surreptitiously from my bag. I wince as a tiny crinkling sound gives me away.)

Bill: What’s that?

Me: Nothing.

Bill: What is it?

Me: Nothing. Leave me alone, willya?

Bill: You have food.

Me: No I don’t. It’s a cough drop. (Here I wave the cough drop with a flourish. It’s of a nondescript color somewhere in between magenta and pink eye.)

Bill: I want half.

Me: It’s mine. I found it. (I fondle the cough drop like it was the One Ring.)

Bill: We can take turns licking it.

Me: (Pensively) I don’t think I’ve bought any cough drops this season. . .not since I had the flu that year we had the big snow.

Bill: You can have it.

Me: No you. I can wait.

Bill: I can wait, too.

We laughed together, the warm laughter of two people coming together over misfortune.

Under cover of laughter, I shucked the paper off the cough drop like it was a peel and eat shrimp and popped it in my mouth.

Just then, in a holiday miracle moment, traffic parted like the men’s restroom line for a father-daughter combination. Nothing clears the tracks like a man doing daddy-duty with a lace-clad toddler in tow. We picked up the boys, and wheeled into a nearby restaurant.

Bill: See, it all turned out okay because we made sacrifices and worked together. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about.

We all smiled at each other like the Brady Bunch on the 29th minute of a 30 minute show.

 

Secretly, I gave thanks for a cough drop appetizer that kept me from acting like a turkey.

Ho Ho's for the Holidays

Basking under the lights, skin as brown and buttery as a ginger snap, the star of the layout sprawled across the centerfold like she had stock in staples.

“Beautiful.”

“Perfect.”

“That’s the one I’ve always dreamed of.”

“Don’t drool on the recipe.”

It’s girls night out and we’re gathered around the table checking to see what the beautiful people are having for Thanksgiving dinner.  Glossy pages are open to a shimmering feast. There’s not a fried onion ring or can of mushroom soup in sight.  The turkey is as flirtatious as a '40’s pinup girl, wearing nothing but a brown sugar and paprika rub.  It’s enough to make me want to be a Spice Girl.

Every diet that has ever been tested and tossed aside is represented by our group.  Elizabeth is low carb. Kaitlyn is high protein. I represent the “sugar raises your metabolism so you can eat Ho Ho’s for breakfast” school of thought.  If the road to hell is paved with whole wheat good intentions, the highway to heaven is coated with brown sugar.

“I’m tempted to give this one a go,” I said, scanning the ingredients for recognizable items. “I have a guy bringing me a fresh turkey and I want a fancy new recipe.”

The room got quieter than the fifth grade gym during ballroom dance week.

“You’re going to cook a fresh turkey?”

“Sure. How hard can it be?”

“Ever tried to put pantyhose on a squid?”

I pondered my history for possible matches. “I dressed a toddler as a noodle one Halloween.”

 “Close enough.”

The day before Thanksgiving I stood in front of the sink. I wasn’t a fan of Dallas during its TV run, but I’ve named the turkey J.R. Ewing because it has the largest spread I’ve ever seen.  J.R. is sprawled in the kitchen sink like a centerfold model. One drumstick is propped coyly on the hot water faucet, and the toe of the other is stuck in the spray nozzle.  There are so many pin feathers left, I feel like I should shave it instead of roast it.

A fresh turkey is different from a supermarket bird that has had its legs trussed together and frozen into shape. Left to its own devices, the bird in my sink could probably out cancan any Rockette at Radio City.

I was trying to wrestle the thing into position to lash the legs together when the Captain and his faithful companion, Bo, a sleek, by which I mean obese, black dog, half Labrador and half Dalmatian sauntered into the kitchen. 

“What’s up Master Chief?  Can’t you get the bad guy under control?”

“I don’t know if I’m cooking this bird or doing the cha-cha with it. It could take the mirror ball on Dancing With the Stars, drumsticks down.”

“Need a hand?”

“Sure. I’ll hogtie it and you smear on the rub.”

After a few minutes we paused for breath.

“You were supposed to smear it on the turkey.”  I flicked brown sugar from an eyebrow.

“This thing fights back. Are you sure it’s a turkey and not a kangaroo with a grudge?”

We dove back into the fray, and emerged, a half hour later, basted in sweat.

If generations follow the Thanksgiving tradition we set that day, there will be Rockwellesque paintings hanging on future walls with a man, woman, and big black dog covered in brown sugar, eating snack cakes stuffed with artificial flavoring.

Everybody is thankful for something. I’m grateful for a husband who doesn’t mind Ho Ho’s for holiday lunch.

 

Singing in the Drain . . with Erma!

A gaggle of us raised our families with Erma Bombeck, and we wore our Girl Scout socks to the grocery store with pride.  We didn’t sweat family vacations when the kids packed a duffle full of comic books and no clothes.  And found out life would go on when we had Angel food and no angels to feed it to.  My thanks to Terri Rizvi and the folks at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop for letting me share a moment on their blog. I should have known it would all go down the drain. . .

 

Come join me on the Titanic. What could it hurt?  It's Monday anyway.

Just send a plumber and tell him NOT
 to bend over!

An Open Letter to the Undead Among Us

Dear Zombie Nation,

There’s something about living around the corner and down the street from St. Nowhere to make you appreciate the Zombie Apocalypse. Throw a two-doors-down cemetery into the mix and come dusk, the idea of meeting the undead on an evening stroll is not something to discount out of hand.  All in all I decided over the last couple of years that an exercise program involving the fresh air of Zombie twilight was a deal breaker.  No evening strolls around the freshly dug graves for me.

Now that new evidence has come to light, I am convinced that we are receiving mixed messages from the Zombie population. Before the Neighborhood Association Committee starts posting zoning rules, I’d like to get the facts straight so that I don’t slight the undead. When it comes time to pick teams, it seems unwise to offend somebody who can win the tortoise and hare race hands down. So let me just check a few things.

What is the main staple of your diet?  I don’t want to show up at a Zombie potluck with a potato chip-topped brain casserole only to find out I’m with a group who can’t believe they ate the whole thing.  I recently viewed a documentary, “Night of the Living Dead,” only to see zombies munching on arms and legs like they had a combo dinner from Kentucky Fried Children.  If it’s spare parts you want, we can work out a deal with some unwanted telemarketers, cable TV repairmen who are never on time, or the folks in charge of the Affordable Health Care website.

Are you strong enough to break a car window, or do your arms fall off in a stiff breeze?  Because, really, you can’t have it both ways, and I don’t want you leaving limbs around the doorway if you try breaking into my pantry after I’ve just mopped.  And the first time I step on an eyeball, your sorry behind is headed straight back to the graveyard.  Show some respect for other peoples’ homes.  We decorate your living space with plastic poinsettias and this is the thanks we get.

Do you accept animals?  I’m just asking for the neighbor, who sometimes pools listlessly in the driveway until the fog has lifted.  I’m not one to take advantage of God’s creatures, but when it comes to brains, the Labrador at that house runs the show. That man’s fog hasn’t lifted in forty years.  I’m betting any brain cells he has left don’t even add up to fun size.

Once a zombie, always a zombie, right?  Movies that show a lovestruck girl and a rehabilitated zombie boy are surely the stuff dreams are made of.  True love can only do so much.

Just ask Dracula.

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.