ANOTHER IDEA GONE SOUTH

For months now, I have been hinting to Rick that we should get bikes. I was very subtle. “Honey I want a bike.” He didn’t take me seriously, so several times a week I would throw out some more delicate hints.

“If we had a bike we could lose weight and get in shape.” Apparently that wasn’t highly motivating so I tried the pocket book. Everyday I drive nine miles to help home school my grandchildren while my daughter takes online classes. Rick drives about six miles to work.

“You could ride to work and I could ride to Ariana’s.” Think how exhilarating that would be, and all the gas we will save.” I was rewarded with a blank stare laced with a tinge of horror. Definitely the wrong tactic.

A few days later I came up with the ultimate argument. “Honey we need to do more fun things together. If we got bikes we could ride. We could even go on bike holidays. How fun! Packing tents and food. Camping—just the two of us.”

OK, I got carried away with that one. Ricks idea of camping is a five star hotel. Pairing sleeping in a tent, with sweat, pain, and work was not an alluring argument. It was time for the direct approach.

“Rick, we are going to buy bikes today.”

We chose comfort bikes. Rick wanted the bike with the biggest seat in the store. “Don’t you have any bigger ones than this?” he asked.

“Honey, do you want to look like you are sitting on a flying saucer? Any bigger and you’d scratch the paint off of cars as they drove by.”

A basket was a must have for my bike. I planned on riding it everywhere—grocery shopping, garage sales, hauling plants, and anything else I could dream up. “Don’t you have any bigger baskets?” Rick asked as he gave me the ‘why don’t you just hook up a grocery cart to the front tire’ look. I settled on a small basket on the front and a bigger one on the back.

The next day we took our first ride. We decided on a little six mile jaunt, three miles each way. At the end of the first three miles was a moderate hill. It would help us get in shape for all the riding we planned on doing.

Rick led the way. I followed. So much for camaraderie. We tried to talk, but even screaming we couldn’t hear each other. The first time I tried to make a hand signal for a turn I almost fell off my bike. Rick was so far ahead that I could have died for all he would have known.

I had another brush with death trying to ride up that hill. My heart was pounding out of my chest so hard that I had to ignore the fact that my legs felt like telephone poles stuffed with lead.

The worst part ride was the last eighth of a mile. We live on a gravel road. It is all up hill, and after we conquer that, our driveway is even steeper. Not only did we have to drag ourselves up the slope, but we had to push our bikes. I wanted to pitch a tent, spend the night and make the rest of the trip next week.

Honey,” I panted. “Next time let’s load our bikes in the truck, drive down the hill, park the truck, then unload the bikes and go for a ride. Then we can load them back into the truck when we are done and drive up this stupid hill.”

My husband picked this moment to suddenly become little Mary Sunshine. “Oh Honey, we’ll be riding up this hill in no time.”

Our bikes are parked in our sun room. I spend most of the time I am home in the kitchen, looking out at that bike. Rick has ridden his to work and for exercise—almost every day. I stare at mine and curse my big mouth.

IT TAKES PAINS TO BE BEAUTIFUL

It takes pains to be beautiful. That’s what my grandmother always told me when she was combing my hair. I passed those sage words on to my daughters. It wasn’t long before they ran screaming from the room when they saw me with a brush in my hand.

Not only does it take pains to be beautiful, but sometimes you have to get downright ugly first. I’m not sure whether you are more beautiful after you get your hair done or if you just look so much better once you get all the appliances off your head.

I am convinced that is the strategy at the beauty parlor. They sit you down in front of a huge mirror. Admit it, you watch with a little feeling of horror while they put in perm rods, tinfoil, or my favorite torture, a cap that makes you look like a bald old man. Then they pull tiny amounts of hair through holes all over the cap while you try not to scream too loudly.

Not only is it painful but you look like you stepped right onto the set of a horror movie. I think someone should inform the CIA. Can you imagine all the military secrets they could get from prisoners if they tried this torture technique? It’s amazing that we actually pay money, plus a tip, for this abuse.

I get tired of the same old hairdo and always look for a new way to fix my hair. A few months ago, I decided to try something I have never seen—pin curls with a twist. I pulled a chunk of hair, twisted it tightly, then wound it around my fingers into a curl and secured it with a bobby pin. I slept on it. This was a real act of courage. I had to be somewhere early the next morning and if it didn’t turn out I was in trouble.

When I took my hair out the next morning it looked like—

you can come up with your own adjectives. I panicked. This had definitely raised the bar on ugly. I immediately went to work pulling each corkscrew apart. It was magic.

I just want to say, I should also get points for bravery—or stupidity, for posting these pictures, especially with no makeup and the well known fact that I take lousy pictures. I will accepts any reward involving chocolate.

                                    

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. :)

NOT YOUR CRAFTING DIVA

I woke up one morning and said to myself, “What can I do today to prove what a complete ditz I am.”

Well not exactly, but if I did start my day that way, then when I did do something ridiculous it would appear to be planned—a success instead of a humiliation. However, if you are going to do something stupid, it’s much more rewarding when you involve others, so I called my friend Connie.

Connie is a talented well grounded homemaker and crafting diva. She also has a vinyl lettering business and I decided I wanted to put up some awe inspiring quotes on my walls.

Most people spend hours, days, or even weeks considering the words of wisdom that will adorn their wall for generations. Not me. Twenty minutes on Google and I’m good.

A few days later, Connie gave me a quick lesson in the art of vinyl letter application. I went home and gathered together a level, a measuring tape and pencil  then set about mounting my first quote, Bon Appetit. Short and to the point. 

I was on the job for exactly thirty five and a half seconds before I had to take a flying leap off the cupboard to make my first phone call to Connie. I had taken the letters off the backing material when I realized I needed to re-measure. I stuck the letters back to the paper except I stuck them to the sticky side instead of the waxed side and now I couldn’t get them off. "Can you please redo the letter?" I asked. "No worries, I know exactly what I'm doing now. I won't need to call again." I reassured her.

Connie was SO nice each of the fifty nine hundred times I called her in the span of one hour. I can’t remember all the problems I had, but when a letter stuck to my kitchen chair instead of the wall I decided that there was a reason no one sat with me at my table when we did crafts at church.

The last time I called Connie it took a long time for her to answer. I am assuming she was afraid to pick up the phone. I think the only reason she did is that she thought there was no possible way I could have done anything dumber than what I had already done. She was so wrong.

                                       

She sounded relieved but a little scared when I asked her to come and help me. Turns out it’s really easy to put up vinyl lettering and before the day was out I was a pro.

I could make the blog longer and go into more detail, but do you really think I want to advertise what a clutz I am?

For Connies side of the story and pictures of quotes visit her blog :) here

WEDDING PLANNER

It is exactly five days before our daughters wedding. I have been working, planning and preparing for weeks. I distinctly remember telling Rick, on several occasions I might add, that we need to talk about where we are going to put the furniture since the reception is going to be at our house.

Ariana wanted to have a dance and we had decided to empty the living room and dining room and have the dance there and set tables outside to eat. I had gone over the plan with Rick several times and everything was settled—at least in my mind. Last night, again, I broached the subject of moving the furniture.
“You know Hon,” Rick said. “I don’t think I want to have people dancing on the hard wood floor. And you know, I don’t think we can move that couch anywhere. Remember, it was so big we had to put it into the house before they put the front doors in?”
“Are you kidding me?” I sat straight up in bed. “I have been telling you for weeks what the plan was and you were in total agreement. Now you are changing your mind? You couldn’t have mentioned this before?”

Rick started to laugh. Apparently my frantic voice amused him.. “Jane, we have the whole week. What are you worried about. Just change your plans. I think we should have the dance outside.”

“Rick, stop it. You are going to make me cry. I have everything set. You liked the idea of moving the furniture and having a dance in the living room.”
“Well,” he said. I did like the idea then. I just don’t like it now. Why can’t you be a little flexible? Why does it have to be your way?”
OK, now I was ready to explode, especially because he was laughing. He has no sensitivity. “Rick, I could have been flexible any time this past two months when I sat you down and told you we needed to think things out. Your eyes glazed over and you told me it all sounded good. You pick NOW to become Mr. Wedding Planner? I am not changing my plans at this late date. We need to discuss moving the couches and the foosball game.”
“We are not going to move the foosball table. It’s too hard to take off the handles. I’m not doing it.
“Honey, we talked about it. I don’t want people playing foosball at the reception. Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way before now?”

“I just didn’t get inspiration until now. I think we should have the dance outside. And no one will play foosball if we put the balls up.”

And so it went. All my plans, and preparations, altered. Rick thought it was funny and that I was over reacting. I actually wanted to have the dance outside but I can’t let him be right. I have invested hours of planning and worrying and he has done nothing. It can’t be that easy.

Besides, I cannot live the rest of my life with him ignoring me then thinking he can jump in and change my plans at the last minute. Wait a minute—that is exactly how we have spent our entire marriage. 

PANTYHOSE HELL

My grandmother was born the year after the tea bag was invented,1905. She lived into the next century and saw the invention of the TV remote, Prozac and waffle soled running shoes.

When I asked her what her favorite invention was, with no hesitation she answered—pantyhose.

PANTYHOSE! Grandma obviously never heard of the GPS and she definitely knew nothing of pantyhose hell.

When I shop the pantyhose aisle my breathing constricts, my mouth goes dry and my deodorant runs. I have to pull the emergency paper sack from my purse and breathe into it.

It is impossible to find the right size, color, toe and support all rolled up into one pair.

If you decide on taupe which is not be confused with beige, tan, or just the other side of mud, you must decide what kind of toe; open, reinforced, or the half way up your foot toe. Or did you prefer tights?

Do you need a pair that sucks your tummy into your backbone or the ones that lift your bottom to your shoulder blades? If you decide breathing is optional you can choose a pair that does both.

Choose incorrectly between ribbed, ultra, shapely or the five hundred other names they have to describe their level of support, you may end up with a pair of pantyhose around your ankles in the middle of the dance floor. Yes, it happens.

Once you decide the size, toe and support level you must find a pair that offers all those options in the color you want.

It would take less time to write an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica and sell them door to door than it would be to delineate all the colors, styles, textures, sizes and brands of today’s pantyhose.

Finally, I found a mail order catalogue to order from. The only problem is they come six in a box for each style and ask you to order every month. However, you can order in the privacy of your own home.

I have my personnal fashion sense to cater to. I need different styles for different looks and moods. I require a good gut busting design for those days when I can’t fit my clothes but polite society still requires them to be zipped.

I need a variety of colors in each style: taupe, tan, beige, nude, black, off black, sheer black, powder black, cream, and gray mist.

When the UPS truck backed the Semi to the garage and buried Rick’s car in pantyhose I was forced to explain my expenditure.

#1. This was a life saving tool. I would not have to shoot myself in the pantyhose aisle.
#2. I had panty hose for the next 700 years at today’s easy prices.
#3. We had a lifetime supply of boxes.

One look at Rick and I knew he was in his own little pantyhose hell and the idea of my death in the panty hose aisle seemed to appeal to him.

FANCY FOOTWEAR

I love shoes. I love high heels, the higher the better. OK, maybe I’d max out at 5 inches. After all it’s not like I’m the Statue of Liberty.

Rick thinks I have enough shoes. I tried to tell him I owe it to my public to wear cute shoes. OK, so maybe I don’t exactly have a public but I have a person and I only see her in public. She is a cute lady from church who actually gets up off of her chair and walks to where I am standing just to look at my shoes. Besides, she is older than me by about 20 years so it’s harder for her to get around. Don’t I owe her a pair of shoes that make her trip worth her while?

When I go to the bathroom people can tell it’s me just by looking under the stalls at my shoes.
Footwear is an important part of accessorizing. I am here to tell you if you don’t already know it, one pair of black shoes does not go with everything. I have @*&$&#** pairs of black shoes and I still have some outfits that require a different shoe.

There is a difference as to what clothes go with a chunky heel, a high heel, open toe, a strappy shoe, one with buckles on it or ruffles on the heel, the pair of black shoes that has some white on it, or flats. There is also a difference if the shoe is shiny, matte or suede. I could go on and on. I think I just did.

The long and short is; a woman must have more than one or two pairs of black shoes. And that is just the black shoes. How about the brown, ecru, white, red, blue, striped, polk-a-dot, green, the sandals and then there is a whole ‘nother array for casual shoes.

I wear all my shoes. It’s hard to explain to a man.  Rick has four pairs. Well, if all I wore was pants and flat heels I might not have an eye for creativity either.

Men don’t wear high heels and my man would not be caught dead in a pair of red or bright green shoes. Nope brown is it, boring to the bone brown or black for him.

I figure wiith all the money we save not buying him shoes we can afford to buy more for me. After all, when in the course of history of human events has a man’s shoes ever decided his destiny?

The story of Cinderella tells it all. A girl went from rags to riches all on account of a unique pair of shoes. I think I’ll approach him with the fact that a new pair of shoes is an investment in our future.

LIFE IS FULL OF TOUGH CHOICES

This week I discovered that it is impossible to maintain my self and my bathrooms in the same seven days. I have finally reached the age of diminishing returns.

When I was younger, I could throw on ragged jeans and a t-shirt, run my fingers through my hair, swipe mascara onto the ends of my lashes and run out the door. I looked good no matter what, and I had the whole day in front of me.

Now however, my love for humanity will not allow me to inflict that practice on the public.

Am I the only woman on earth who hates the amount of time it takes to look beautiful? I never hear other women complain. My friends actually like taking time to pamper.

It is impossible for me to cram all my maintenance into one day and if I don’t spread it out over the month, it makes my crazy.

I hate the time it takes to slather lotion on my body after a shower but I just know if I don't do it, my skin will end up looking like an alligator. The lady in a television commercial says so and I can see it happening.

My feet were the first to deteriorate. I used to hate wearing shoes but when my husband started dropping hints like, “honey I’m out of sandpaper, do you mind running your feet over this board for me?” I knew it was time to start shoving my feet into shoes and introducing my feet to exfoliation.

Next, to go was my hair. I was of those lucky women who started going gray at eighteen. Do you have any idea how long it takes to dye, streak, wash, curl and tease your mane? It might be worth shaving my head but then it would just go onto my list of things to shave.

I refuse to polish my fingernails because it lasts a day and a half, if I’m lucky. One look at my hands is all it takes to see that I am no friend to manicuring.

Why did God give us cuticles anyway? They are good for nothing. What a time waster. You would have so much more time if you didn’t have to push back your cuticles. I wonder if there are laws about letting them grow over your fingernails. You know, for health reasons or something.

I will take time to paint my toenails. Its one thing that does give you some return for your time investment—the polish lasts more than one week, but it still takes critical moments out of your schedule.

This month I was forced to squeeze all my maintenance into one week, hair: dye, cut, curl and style. Add Microderm abrasion, eyebrows, manicure, pedicure, shave, massage, shower and anything else I may have missed out. … (OK, I do shower more than once every seven days but when added to everything else it’s one more time eater.)

That is why, when all these tasks stacked up this week I faced a choice no woman should have to make, bathrooms or body.

POSTERITY FOR RENT

When I pass to what I hope will be a heaven where chocolate flows in all the rivers and calories don’t exist, I want my family to laugh together as they remember my quirky ways and cry as they recognize that I am irreplaceable. Of course, it will take something drastic, like me dying before they realize how fabulous and indispensable I really am.

As we visited together at the family homestead after a recent funeral, I looked around at my brother’s, my sister and my cousins families and their posterity and realized that I had six children and only one of them had made any attempt, to multiply and replenish the earth.

It was time for an immediate family council to render some gentle encouragement. My immortal words went something like this.

“Hello my children. Take a good look around this room. Do you see all the people here? Do you notice that you’re Aunt and Uncles each have several children who each have several children? Do you notice something lacking in our family?"

At this point, my children begin to murmur and laugh about how they have no intention of ever getting married, let alone having children. I hold up my hand to quell the revolt.

“Perhaps you don’t understand me. I am not making a request here. I am telling you, when I am gone, I expect you to cram the first five benches of the church with posterity. That means you will get married and you will have children—lots of children. Don’t even think of filing in behind my dead body and only filling up half a row.”

“Mom,” they say, "you have posterity. Ariana has five children. She is our representative.”

“No. Not good enough”

This is where I applied fear and guilt. “I am telling you right now. You are responsible for providing me with posterity. When I die, you will know that you didn’t give me the one thing I wanted and you will feel excruciating pain.”

I pause for effect as I poke my finger at each of them.

“And if you don’t, I will know it because I will be dead and I will be able to see into your souls. If you are not feeling miserable enough, I will put my finger on you and send an electric shock that will run through your vital organs and you will know that I am going to hurt you, bad.”

I felt satisfied that I had made my point until Adam said. “What makes you think they will let you out? They must have rules about letting crazy people run free even there.”

“Don’t you worry. I will find a way to inflict the proper amount of retribution. And I will align all the family that has passed on before to join my in my revenge. Think of all the generations before me that you are letting down.”

“Don’t worry mom” said Garret. “I’ll bet we can find a place that has posterity you can rent for funerals. In fact, that might be a great business venture.”

My children, they never take me seriously.

“I’m just saying, you give me posterity and plenty of it or I will give you nightmares and cold sweats. I’ll have years to perfect my haunting techniques. You just remember this, a mother’s work is never done.”

SOMETIMERS, AIRHEAD or HOLIDAY STRESS?

I have been doing Christmas for thirty-three years now and I can do it in my sleep. I have the routine down. However, this year there was a marked difference. My brain picked this year to take a vacation. I wish I knew where it was so I could have gone too.

I became aware of it when I wrote the traditional Christmas letter. I always read the letter to the family before I send it in case they have any strenuous objections on my take of their activities for the year; like it would really matter.

“Mom,” Garret said after I read the first line. “Don’t you think you have a minor detail wrong?”

I read the first line again. “Dear friends and family, in case you haven’t noticed, 2012 is right around the corner. What’s wrong with that?”

Rick shook his head. “Honey did you go this whole year thinking it was 2011 or are you trying to rewrite history? I'm getting worried about you.”

OK, so I accidentally left out a year. It’s only a number after all. Are people going to take my word on what year it is and cause an international incident? My family worries about the most trivial things.

The next day I took some packages around to a couple of friends. At the first house, I forgot my umbrella. The next house I left my coat. Then I went to the grocery store and the cashier chased me out to the parking lot rattling my keys.

Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m a little forgetful but I am busy doing Christmas in my sleep. Besides, people enjoy babysitting my brain. It makes them feel better about themselves.

Later that night I went to do the final grocery shopping with Ariana. She was going to fill up with gas then pick me up out front of the store.

Inside Safeway, I saw my friend Melanee. We chatted for a second then I picked up all the groceries, without forgetting a thing I might add. Proving I can still remember important things. Like my friends names and anything having to do with food.

I checked out my grocerie and headed outside into the rain. I was excited to see Ariana’s van pulled right up to the curb. I grabbed the bags out of the grocery cart and headed her way.

Suddenly I heard a horn honk and honk a bunch of little beeps, like a melody. I paused. It was coming from a white van in to the side of me.

Who was honking at me? Maybe it was Melanee just honking a goodbye and Merry Christmas ditty. No Melanee doesn’t drive a van. Hmm, I wondered who it was.

I ignored the horn and headed to Ariana’s van. I pulled the door open, threw the bags onto the floor and pulled myself into the seat before I turned to see an old man in the driver’s seat. He was staring at me with a strange look on his face.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.” I stammered. “I’m in the wrong van.”

I grabbed my bags and headed to the van that was honking again. Ariana was sitting in it with her mouth stretched like a hyena laughing it’s head off.

"Mom, that van looks nothing like mine." She said when she was finally able to speak.

"It's white, thats all I know."

All I can say is the holidays are crowding a lot of important details out of my brain. Thank goodness, they are almost over and I can get back to normal. I will get back to normal, right.

THE TIE THAT BINDS

My friend Sue gave me a sign to hang in my kitchen that says, ‘Nobody Knows What I Do Until I Don’t Do It.’

She must have been a fly on my wall the day Garret walked into the house, gazed around the room then looked me in the eye and said, Mom what exactly is it that you do all day?”

After I restrained myself from cuffing him along side the head, I said. “Nothing Garret, absolutely nothing. I get up, I stand in this spot and look around scratching my head until someone comes home. Then I mess up my hair, throw some flour on my nose and try to look busy.”

He snorted as he nodded his head and walked away. “I thought so.”

Is it abusive to kick your grown son where he sits if you’re careful not to hit the pocket where he keeps his brains?

My children have no concept of the work I do to keep our home organized and clean. When they lived at home, Kristjana told me I was Danny Tanner on crack. In case you don’t remember him, he is the star of the ‘90s sitcom ‘Full House’ and was Mr. Clean incarnate.

At least she recognized that I cleaned the house. She just didn’t appreciate it. Some things never change.

I am in the middle of my holiday cleaning spree. I want the house perfect when my children come home to celebrate the season. To me nothing says Christmas quite like the scent of pine, Pine sol that is.

I clean all the places nobody looks, the slats on the blinds, between the slats of the vents on all the appliances, and if the dog comes too close, I run the rag inside her ears too.

I pull out the Christmas Quilt’s I have made over the years and lovingly deck out each bed. All the pillowcases are pressed. I’m not insane I don’t press the sheets. However, I do press the lace trim on the edges so they will look perfect when I fold them back over the quilts for that, ‘I can’t wait to jump into bed,’ look. These things bring me pleasure.

I like to imagine my children getting little shivers of joy as they set their bags beside the little glowing tree that twinkles a welcome. They will sigh with pleasure as they slip their tired bodies between the silken sheets.

Of course, my children have no sense of refinement, one more thing to beat myself up over. I could have saved myself a small fortune on sheets and simply spread the beds with cheap muslin.

The first thing they will do when the go into the room is to rip the bed apart and tear off the top sheet. It spends the holiday mixed in a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The quilts are all pooled around on top of the bed like some sort of cocoon big enough to bury an elephant.

Despite the fact that there is an empty closet full of shelves and hangers, clothes carpet the floor and dirty socks hang in clumps from the Christmas tree.

I shake my head and wonder why I go through all the trouble then smile as I remember: the tie that binds generations together, torment.

Where would the fun of life be without a little torment? What would be the pleasure of coming into a room already dirty with sheets on the floor and blankets in a pile on the bed?

What would I complain about if everything were perfect? Not to mention the fact, that it would upset nature’s delicate balance if there were nothing for me to clean after they left.

There is a moment every year however, when I am tempted to step up the torment meter. I promise myself that I am going to take out the beds and throw a pile of loose straw onto the floor. I could create my own version of the manger scene. Since this is the season for swaddling, I would give them a pile of ticking to swaddle up in.

I would do it to, but the thought of all that straw in my house makes me hyperventilate.

O CHRISTMAS TREE

O CHRISTMAS TREE
When it comes to Christmas, I reek of tradition so you can imagine my shock when Rick and I had the following conversation.

We were at our friends Christmas party, admiring their tree when Rick turned and with nostalgia dripping from his tongue, said. “See how nice it is to have a real Christmas tree. It smells so good.”

I was wearing flats so I had to poke him in the ribs to get him to look down at me so I could glare at him. “Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who wanted a fake tree.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea.” he smiled and walked towards the food.

It must be nice to be him and be able to eat after telling such a whopper. Was it possible he had caught some virus that had wiped from his memory our trauma drama Christmas tree traditions?

First was the nagging; days turned into weeks as I tried to get him to set a date that was convenient with him and when the whole family could come together to get the tree; preferably, some time before the season ended. Rick runs on his own calendar; one with endless days of about forty-five hours each.

After we got the tree we waited another eternity for him to get the stand built. A store bought one was somehow never big enough.

Thanks to his mother, he entertained us with a tradition from his childhood. Once the tree was up, we were privileged to wait until the wee hours of the morning for him to drill holes and wire branches into perceived blank spots for the perfectly shaped tree.

Every year I envisioned a happy little family like the kind they have on TV, all smiling over cups of hot chocolate and cider while we strung popcorn and cranberries.

By the time I finished untangling the lights and the kids were swimming in hot chocolate, and running through the popcorn blizzard that had blown through the house, Rick was tired and ready to hang himself with the lights. Forget about hanging them on the tree.

It was a darn safe bet that I wasn’t going to climb up and down on a chair three thousand times trying to hang them when he was tall enough to reach the top of the tree with little effort. Who asked him to be Michael Angelo and sculpt the dang thing anyway?

When the tree was finally decorated Rick took up the roll of nagging. Everyday I was grilled about the dangers of fire. Did I water the tree? Was I sure? Did I know how thirsty a tree was? How do I know the dog didn’t drink the water? No, I was smaller and closer to the ground than he was so it was obviously my job to check the water level.

The nagging never stopped. Did I have to have the lights on all day long? Had I checked to see if the needles were breaking in half yet? Then, to prove that he was the more annoying of the two of us he would jab me in the ribs just as I was dozing off to be sure I had turned the outside lights off too.

Of course I had turned off the lights, which, by the way,I had strung at great pesonal peril, all by myself. However, I had to haul myself out of bed so his highness could get enough sleep to build up enough energy to contine the strenous act of working his jaws the next day.

On a good year we enjoyed these festivities for two to three weeks before the ‘when do we take the tree down’ party began.

I wanted it gone the day after New Years. Rick was all for two days after Christmas. Apparently that was the day the needles all fell off and the tree was practically a stick.

We usually ended up pulling the decorations off the naked branches the morning of New Years Eve.

Our tree traditions always ended with Rick wading through the pine needles and badgering me on how we should get a fake tree while I nagged him for the next several months about just when he was going to take the tree off the front lawn and to the dump.

Maybe he is right. We should get a real tree. I miss those traditions.

THE DAY FROM THE INFERNAL PIT

Some things you just can’t say delicately. It is only possible to ignore little red bites on your grandchildren, the dog nipping at her bottom and something jumping on your bedspread for so long before you are forced to face reality. Our home was infested with fleas.

For several weeks, I had demanded that Kristjana come for her weekly conjugal visits with the dog and give her a flea treatment.

“Mom, It’s not Chika, it’s the kids. They play in the grass and are bringing fleas into the house. I clean Chika every week. Did it ever occur to you she’s catching fleas from them?”

When she had the nerve to blame my grandchildren for her dog’s infestation I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. I called her and left messages on her cell phone.

“Kristjana, you have to bring some borax home and shake it on all the furniture and the carpets. I want you to strip every bed in the house, bath Chika and get rid of these fleas.”

After three days and no reply, I knew I had to take matters into my own hands.

“Kristjana, call me back. I bought the borax. I stripped every bed, gathered up every blanket in the house and started the laundry. Please come home and vacuum the carpet and sprinkle out the borax.”

I had to de-flea the house because we were having company for dinner that night. I was cooking a white bean chili. It was not turning out well. The beans would not soften despite the fact I had put them on at 4:30 that morning. I added more water, left another rant on Kristjana’s phone and started to vacuum.

“Kristjana! Come and help me. The laundry is stacked to the ceiling with pillows and blankets. The kids think it’s a jumping house. I can’t find Tristan. He’s buried somewhere in this flea bitten mess. Where are you?”

I pulled some sheets out of the dryer, made a couple of beds and tried to keep Chika from jumping on my clean bed.

I called and left another message. “Kristjana, I sprinkled the borax on the floor and I am trying to keep Chika off the beds. You need to bath her so we can get rid of these fleas. Call me back.”

I checked the beans. A little softer, I was worried but didn’t have time to make anything else.

I tried Kristjana again. Just as I was about to leave the 456th message it dawned on me—this was her old number. No wonder she hadn’t called me. I dialed her new number and got a groggy, ‘hello.”

“Kristjana, I have been leaving you messages for a week now. I am running a bloody laundry matt here. I have borax all over the carpets and I need you to come and bath Chika and get rid of these fleas!”

“Mom I have to work in half an hour and I’m not finished until tonight.”

“That’s just great! I suppose it’s my own fault, I forgot your number. I am running a crazy house here and I needed your help to get rid of your dog’s fleas. I‘ve done everything but you have to get Chika tonight and bath her.”

Kristjana assured me she would take Chika to her house right after work so I hung up and noticed I had a message so I dialed my voicemail.

“Ma’am, I have been getting your frantic messages all week about your borax problems. I don’t know what to tell you about that or your fleas. My wife doesn’t have any answers neither do the neighbors. You have the wrong number. Try Google or an exterminator but please don’t involve me with your fleas anymore.”

I wanted to crawl into a hole and drag my fleas in with me. My face was flame red when I stumbled into the laundry room to hide myself in the bottom of the infested quilts. But no, I couldn’t even have that little luxury.

There was a pool of water on the floor and the laundry was soaked. This was the day from the infernal pit.

I slammed the door and left the washing machine for Rick to deal with while I checked the beans. Fabulous this day just kept getting better. They were yummy but still the crunchy side of soft. Too bad, the kids had already let the missionary’s in.

Like it or not, dinner was served. Conversation went something like this.

“Have you ever wondered what happens moments before you walk into someone’s house?”

Our guests looked at each other, not sure they should answer that.

“Well, let me tell you. It all started because our dog has fleas.”

One of the young men turned red and choked on his chili. “Do you mean the dog I’ve been petting?” he said while he started scratching.

Would this day never end?

MY PRIDE AND JOY

I am not the kind of Mother who needs to bask in the limelight of my children's accomplishments. I don't daydream of ever hearing my children say, "Mom, I am grateful you spent so many years teaching me to scrub toilets. It is because of you that I am receiving the Nobel Prize for developing an environmental toilet that scrubs itself.

I would settle for a simple, "Thank you mom for teaching me to be a hard worker. You’re the best."

However, I am more accustomed to moments where I am forced to wonder if any given child was highjacked from a family whose gene pool is from a species of intelligent baboons participating in genetic experimentation gone awry.

Halloween is the holiday where ugly scary things pop out in the night so I should not have been so surprised by what violated my sensibilities.

Ariana and I were putting the finishing touches to my grandchildren’s cute and adorable costumes Saturday night and were about to walk out the door to Trunk or Treat at the church. Suddenly Ariana and her kids burst out laughing.

Garret pranced into the kitchen decked out in a pink and white unicorn costume. He had been bragging about his costume for several weeks. I assumed it was some foolish looking thing that had two hind legs he had to drag behind him all night while he sweat it out inside a stuffed head with a big horn waving in the wind. I wish!

He stood in front us with his arms out like a Super Unicorn. His costume would probably be the perfect fit for an eight year old girl; did I mention Garret is 26?

The head perched on him like a hat and the shirt reached down just past his chest. The pants pulled up below his belly button and hit him mid calf. Not only did he plan on going out in public, he was going to make his unicorn debut in front of people we’ve known for years.

“Garret, you are not going out of this house looking like that.”

“I’ve already been out. I went to the dance last night. He raised his eyebrows up and down. “He-he- he.”

“They let you in with your belly hanging out like that? That must have made all the girls run off in terror.”

“Oh mom, I wear a pink shirt underneath. I just wanted you to get the full effect.”

I felt the full effect all right especially later that evening. Turns out he had bigger plans for the evening than simply showing up and setting a new standard for the ridiculous.

I was engrossed in passing out chocolate bars to the cute little ghosts, goblins and princesses, when Garret pranced up with his own bag full of candy he had collected. “Trunk or Treat, he-he-he.”

My pride and joy, I can die now, my humiliation is complete.
(Check back soon for the picture)

THE PHONE

One day I may be forced to either write a book about my phone frustrations or get therapy.

It doesn’t help that my mother-in-law is always yapping, but in the nicest possible way, about the fact that we can’t find the phones.

“I have never seen a household that has more problems with the phones than yours.”

I am well aware that by ‘yours’, she means mine. Somehow, her little Ricky is absolved from ALL implications of blame and I am the blathering fool who runs around the house. “Where’s the phone, where’s the phone. Who had the stupid phone last?”

It’s not as if we have only one phone either. We have five of the little bleeper’s and my mother-in-law, although I am far too charitable to mention it to her, was the reason our last four phones died.

She is lost in the time warp of a generation ago where you physically hung the phone up. She cannot grasp the fact that if you hang the phone on the charger every time you use it, it will ruin the charge. Before long, the battery runs out when you say hello.

I know she did it because every other phone abusing body in our house insist they never hang the phones up; a fact I can attest to because when I run through the house on my daily marathons looking for the stupid things, they are always burned out.

So, if they don’t hang them up and I know there’s so such thing as evil phone fairies that lurk in dark corners, it must be my mother-in-law.

She is annoyed by the fact that when she finds the phone lying around and hangs it up that I make such a criminal offense about it. One I would love to make punishable by loss of a limb.

“We never had this kind of commotion in my home.” She NEVER fails to mutter, in the nicest possible way of course.

In my defense, not once was I asked to sit in on any design or engineering committee before the phone went into production. It’s a good thing to or I may have had my own ideas of where they could put the things.

Once we mastered the problem of mom not hanging the phones up, we had a new problem. When you do have to put the phone on to charge, how do you know when you can take it off the charger?

“Who hung this phone up? What time is it finished charging?’

“I hung one up this morning.” A voice rings out from somewhere.

“Which charger did you put it on?” Someone very brilliantly put two charges next to each other. “I don’t remember.”

From the corner, in the nicest possible way, “I’ve never seen a household with so many problems finding the phone.”

Garret finally devised a plan. He ripped a piece of paper, wrote down the time the phone would be charged then secured it to the phone with an elastic band. The boy is brilliant, takes after his mother.

Our phones looked like happy little penguins wearing white waistcoats while they recharged. Peace reigned again for about two weeks.

“Who didn’t write the time on this phone? How long is it supposed to be hung up?”

“I hung up the one with the paper on it,” said Ariana.

“It wasn’t me,” said Rick and Garret in unison.

In the nicest possible way, from the corner of the living room, I hear. “I’ve never seen a household have so many problems with the phone.”

Perhaps you heard me scream and rant, while I chased my eyeballs around in my head. I demand psychotherapy.

I should never be allowed to use the phone. Check back next week for part two.