BARE NECESSITIES

Iran has nukes! Wall Street occupiers are on the rampage, and EMP’s, which may be in our future, could take us back to the early 1800’s. The television was blazing with the import of world events one morning as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror preparing my face for the day.

What if we had to evacuate? No problem. Rick and I had essentials crammed into two back packs with a list of things to grab at the last second—sleeping bags, food, headlamps, plus batteries, a small stove with fuel, and a bucket for a potty. However, no where on that list had I even considered my personal needs. That is where my mind went now.

A mass evacuation would mean being surrounded by other people. This was a problem. I wanted to look like I didn’t care what I looked like. I wanted to be one of those people who look good without makeup, but in order to achieve that look, I needed some makeup. What could I take to achieve the ro makeup look, and where would I find room for the extra baggage?

My moisturizer was definitely a necessity. Just because I hit the road running, didn’t mean my face had to look like a road map. No one would hold a little moisturizer against me. I could squeeze that into my back pack. I picked up my bottle of foundation. It was a little jar. People who looked good naturally didn’t look as white as a jar of paste. It would fit easily into a pocket of my jeans.

My blush is also tiny, and would slip into my pocket. It would give me that natural healthy glow. Even though my eye shadow containers are small, I could not bring them or my mascara. They were too obvious. But, to make sure my eyes didn’t disappear, I played around with a couple of eyeliner pencils. I found a light brown one that looked totally natural. Not only did it fit in my pocket, but it would darken my eyebrows, subtly line my eyes and, on the practical side, would double as a pencil in an emergency. That took care of makeup, but what about my hair? I needed a couple of rollers but where would I hide them. Of course! My bra—plenty of room. Who knows what other goodies I could store  there?

Back to my hair. I have to admit that I have a genius for this emergency preparedness stuff. I could slide bobby pins all around the hem of my shirt. They wouldn’t take any room and I could curl my hair with them. I could also wear elastic bands on my arms and put a comb in my back pocket. This was almost too easy.

Now, about my bangs? I look terrible without bangs and when they get long they make me crazy. I picked up a pair of toe nail clippers—no! I found a tiny pair of scissors. After all, it’s not like I want to slice my bangs off with a knife, and the only other alternative I could picture was to lay face down, with my hair on a rock, while someone took another rock and slammed my bangs until the hair fell off.

What else would I need? Toothbrushes. I needed at least one. I would take two and carry the extra in my bra too so I people didn’t know I had another one. Is it my problem if they didn’t think ahead and their teeth fell out? Let the end of the world come. I was going out in style.

I HEARD THE BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY

Our family has a tradition of playing Christmas bells together every Christmas Eve. Every year it is a disaster. Apparently my children never heard a carol in their lives and they can’t count or follow a pointer. When we play it sounds like a thousand alley cats puking up rotten fish.
This year, however, our Choir director asked for volunteers to play the bells for our Sunday Christmas Service. Several women showed up to the first practice and I was excited to have my children hear how beautiful they could sound.
During subsequent practices however, several women did not come but promised to be there for the performance. After all, how hard could it be for someone invested in doing a good job, to hit a bell when it was pointed to?

Evidently it was more difficult than we thought because it took a lot of practice to get the second,more  difficult song played well. When we finally figured it out, our Choir director said that no one would be allowed to play who had not been to our practices.
Attending church was the high point of Christmas Day for my children. Not for any thought of spiritual enlightenment, but for the pure comedy of watching us play those bells. Just before I went up to play, I warned friends sitting in the general vicinity that I could not be responsible for my children’s behavior.

As I grabbed the two bells I was supposed to play, I noticed a horde of women, who had not been to practice, walk to the front and pick up a bell. One lady picked up four or five or them. Unfortunately, it was too late to grab my children and run screaming for the alley.
The first song was short and beautiful. My hopes began to rise. Even my children seemed impressed. The directors must have sensed that there might be a little trouble with the next song so, before we played it, they sang the round, to let people know what it was supposed to sound like. That was not a good idea. Now, if we played it wrong, instead of the audience thinking it was simply a tune they didn’t recognize, they would know the full extent of our blundering.

Sure enough, as soon as we started to play the cacophony began. I bit my lips to keep from laughing right out loud as I watched my boys writhe on the bench, doubled over in either laughter or pain. The song was horrible. We had a false start, and after we fumbled our way through once, our director indicated that we should try the whole thing again. Apparently she felt that the audience had not suffered enough.

When we were finished, the only thing I could take comfort in was the fact that Garret was laughing too hard to take Jason’s $50 offer to shout out, “We want to hear more of them cow bells.”I will never listen to ‘I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day,' with a straight face again.

JINXED

I hate being late. When my kids lived at home, no matter how hard I tried to gather all their things together on Saturday, someone always lost their shoes, socks or coat. Rick was no help either. His idea of helping me get the kids ready on time was to sit in the car and honk the horn.

A few weeks ago, I was late for church. Rick and I are the only ones living at home now and we were taking two cars to the same place because he had to leave early. He was on time. I was late. To the casual observer, it would obviously appear that it had to be my fault.

NOT SO! It all started when I asked Rick if my hair looked alright. He quirked his mouth to one side and answered slowly. “Yeah.”

Translated that meant, “I won’t be too humiliated to sit beside you in church looking like that.”

I pulled the pins out and started again, for the fortieth time that morning. Why is it that when I throw my hair up to wash my face at night it looks fabulous, but when I have to go somewhere that matters, it looks like three rats had a brawl in it.

I heard Rick leave. Great! Now I was going to be late and everyone would take one look at my hair and know the reason why. I threw it up one more time and made it work. I was just walking out the door when Rick called and asked me to find something for him.

I rushed back up the stairs, in my five inch heels, and threw my keys on the counter. His envelopes were not where he said. Because I am an amazing wife, that he better appreciate, I ran around looking for them. By the time I found them and ran back downstairs into the car I couldn’t find my keys. ARRGG! They were upstairs. I rushed back upstairs and just as I grabbed them my pantyhose fell down to my knees.

“Really!” I stripped down and pulled on a new pair, grabbed the keys and took off. I was a block away when a lock of hair slipped out of my ‘do’. I pulled to the side of the road. My life is a circus. I did not have time to go tear my hair out and start all over.

What would MacGyver do? I found a chewed toothpick, wound it around the errant hair, stuck it in place, and hurried to church. I walked in late, all by myself, no apparent excuses!

MAN'S BEST FRIEND?

They say dog is man’s best friend but I’m here to say that’s not true, at least not in our household. In our home, mom is dog’s best friend.

My mother-in-law will sneak leftovers from dinner into the garbage rather than let my dog Chika eat them. She would also cheerfully kick her in the chops when she barks her lungs out at everyone who comes to visit.

My grandchildren think their dad’s dog is cuter. Ariana thinks Chika is ugly and stupid. Garret, who had a dog but refused to take care of him, is annoyed that we gave his Scruffy away and kept a clearly inferior brand. Even Rick, if he could give anything we own away, would get rid of her. That says a lot, considering some of the ratty, nerdy, sweat pants he has in his closet.

Luckily, as a mom, I am used to looking for the good in my family even when their outsides are screaming. “Ugly.” Chika is as beautiful as a little Wiener/ Chihuahua/Rat Terrier mix can be. Is it her fault she is enthusiastic, loves life and can’t control her licker?

Every chance I get, I like to sneak her into bed. I try to keep her curled up in front of me but she insists on snuggling behind the crook in my knees which happens to be on Rick’s side. of th bed. Rick will sometimes yank the covers off the bed and frisk me to make sure Chika isn’t hiding in the folds of my pajamas. I tried hiding her in the pillowcase once, but the barking gave her away.

“Why do you let that flea bitten dog into bed with us? Every time she stands up and shakes herself, it wakes me up.”

Rick is such a picky sleeper. “I’ll tell you what’s noisy, and it isn’t Chika. She doesn’t sound like a 500 HP chainsaw every night, and since when did a big boy like you get afraid of a little flea or two. What’s a flea among friends?

No one loves me like Chika does. She follows me everywhere I go and anticipates my every need. She is the best dishwasher in the family. In fact, I never have to ask her to wash the dishes. I simply put them on the floor. She rushes over and does such a good job I never have to rewash them. Even Garret, the resident germ freak, never complains. Of course, I’ve never told him the dog does the dishes every morning.

Chika is also considerate. She never tips the garbage over on the days that I come home first and has never once gone potty on the floor on my side of the bed. The piece d’ resistance however was when I decided I didn’t like the comforter set on my bed any longer. I couldn’t figure out how to tell Rick that we needed to replace the perfectly good set. Chika, sensitive as she is, must have sensed my dissatisfaction because one night she soaked the bed.
“Throw the bedspread away.” Rick growled at me.

He didn’t have to ask twice. I threw it into the back of the truck with the garbage to go to the dump and tossed a bunch of gooey stuff on top of it. “Why did you throw the bedspread away?” asked Rick when he came back from dump delivery.

“Honey, you told me to.”

“Since when do you listen to me? I told you not to have that ugly old dog sleep with you.”

I just smiled. He will think differently once I get a nice new bed ensemble.

TOILETS, ROMANCE OR BOTH

Before marriage I guarantee that at any given moment you can think of five thousand fun activities to do with your boyfriend. Just being together is entertaining enough. Never, not for the infiticimal part of a second, did it occur to me to choose to spend time on a date cleaning my house. I am just that sharp when it comes to some things.

Before Rick and I got married, conversations about dusting and scrubbing toilets never came up. There was simply no smooth way to slip it into the conversation. It’s not like when you are holding hands you can say, “Could you give me a moment. I have an overpowering urge to clean the toilet.” Frankly, if you are thinking dust bunnies and bowel cleaner on a date perhaps you need to look for a new guy.
Rick and I rarely have a Saturday, or any day when we are both home together. A few weeks ago we had a beautiful day, to do anything we wanted. I suggested we clean the garage. Proof positive that the romance is gone from our marriage—or is it?
Have you ever considered how unromantic it would be to use toilets that are never cleaned, walk on floors that have several months worth of leftovers on them, or to fight your way through dirty dishes to find one without some kind of fungus growing on it, just so you could get a drink? Let me just say, if you want to see real romance in action, just come to my house. In fact, now that our garage is clean, romance is over the top. :)