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.

GIVE MY REGARDS TO BROADWAY

I love to sing. The problem is I can’t sing. That point was brought home clearly by my son Adam recently.

He called for my birthday. When he asked me what I was doing for fun. I told him I was in a musical. 

"Good thing I don't live there anymore." he laughed.

“You’ll be happy to know that you can still show your face in town. I don’t have a singing part. But don’t get too comfortable. I may just try out for a singing part someday soon. It could happen. They are letting me sing in the church choir.”

He snorted in laughter again and said. “The church choir doesn’t say no to anyone.”
“Who died and made you a comedian? Not only that, but when you call someone on their birthday it’s just not polite to throw around insults! Especially when the birthdayee is a hair away from senility and could write you out of her will. Besides, it’s not true. My friend Terry told me the choir asked him not to come back.”

Adam was really laughing now. Apparently, he thought I would better serve my talents in stand up comedy.

My singing disability is not because I don’t practice. The problem is I think that if you practice wrong for so many years you just get better at being really bad. I love singing show tunes in the shower. One  day, when I walked out of the bathroom after one especially rousing vocal concerto, I almost tripped over my kids and their friends, who were rolling on the floor of my bedroom, wiping away tears of laughter.

One of my all time favorite songs is, ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ My dream has always been to walk down the street like they do in my favorite musicals and sing at the top of my lungs. I am happy to say that dream came true for me several years ago.

We were in the New York subway. When the train thundered down the track and I felt secure that no one could hear me, I threw my head back and belted out my full throated tribute to Broadway. It was amazing. Part of my jubilant feeling came from the shock on the faces of my children as they tired to get as far as they could from me and still catch the same car on the subway.
No one threw money my direction, but on the upside, they didn’t throw rocks either.

IT COULD ONLY BE A MAN

This year I forayed into a different creative arena—community theater. My husband often thinks I am in the full throws of Alzheimer’s. He constantly accuses me of forgetting things that I happen to know he never told me. I decided that memorizing lines would prove to him that I was not the mentally deficient one in the family. In truth, I learned once again, that my husband is only one of many men out there who have lost their minds.

I found my evidence in the bathroom on the set. There is no delicate way to say this, so brace yourself. When I went to the bathroom, tucked away behind the stage, I sat down and almost screamed. I was staring into a double sized full length mirror. It was definitely not my best side. Now who would do something so stupid? It had to be a man.

After the first jarring moments however, I could see possibilities for such a decision. You could take the time sitting there to fix your makeup, hair, or maybe even pluck your eyebrows and still make curtain call. Genius or stupidity—hmmm.

The bathroom has always been a tacky subject. When I was growing up and dating, I would rather endure horrific pain than to have to excuse myself for a potty break. Only the very real threat of wetting myself and everything else in the near vicinity made me give in to my shyness. Apparently, my timidity lingers on.

In our huge church building, some genius—it could only be a man--designed the building to have only one bathroom for men and one for women. Not only that, but they are tucked away in the same corner, right beside a drinking fountain.

It wasn’t a problem when my children were little. I could take one of them by the hand and pretend they were the ones who had to go. Now I have to brave it by myself. After all, it’s not like I can randomly grab the hand of some child wandering down the hallway.

 Here is the typical church bathroom experience. First, you greet the group of women standing against the wall chatting. That’s not so bad. It’s greeting the man who inevitably walks up beside you, then peels off to the right into the men’s room while you peel left into the women’s.  It's like a great bathroom choreography.

I once overheard a man say that nothing was worse than shaking someone’s wet hand because you knew they had just come out of the bath room. That man has led a sheltered life. I can think of a whole lot of things worse than that. However, our church is famous for it’s handshaking.

Since hearing that comment, I make sure to completely dry every speck of water off my hands before I leave so I can shake hands with the man or men who will inevitably be outside the door. Not that it is any great mystery as to where I was when they see me walk out the door that has WOMEN boldly emblazoned on the outside. After all these years, I still haven’t come up with the perfect ice breaker for moments like that one.

THE GREAT GRETZKY

Every once in awhile I remember an incident from my younger, more foolish or frivolous days, and I have to ask myself, “what were you thinking!”

I hate hockey. Because I'm from Canada, that borders on being unpatriotic. It’s similar to hating the Rose Bowl in the US, (which I do). When I was growing up hockey was always on TV, hour after boring hour. Back in the day,  we had only one or two channels, so it was catastrophic. When I was desperate, I actually enjoyed watching watch bowling, but never hockey.

One day I learned that Wayne Gretzky asked my husband's cousin out for a date. At the last minute something came up and he had to break the date but that didn’t matter to me. Suddenly hockey dripped like blood from my veins. At least, if Wayne Gretzky was playing. After all, there was a once in a ten million chance that he might have been family.

From that point on, I watched every single one of his hockey games. I even cheered. Not only that, I paid big bucks to go and see him. Rick came too so it was double the shell out. My butt was sucked to the chair like a vacuum packed rump roast.

We were living in California at the time and went to the game with friends. They kept nudging me to look at the different movie stars who were there, but I only had eyes for Wayne. I am so shallow. Eventually, the phase passed and I am back to my normal hockey hating self, and wondering—whatever possessed me.

OK, I don't know if this has ever been done when writing, but I have to share my bloopers about this article.
I am SO NOT into sports that it took me several times reading back through my article before I remembered that it was Rose Bowel not Rose Ball. Then I realized that it wasn't  Rose Bowel(although that somewhat indicates my feelings about the whole thing), but Rose Bowl. SHEESH!
I am probably unpatriotic in two countries now. :)

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.

ALZHEIMERS ?

A few days after my aunt died we were laying in bed when Rick asked me if I was okay with her death. She had a lot of health issues so I was happy for her. I said, “I don’t have problems with anyone who dies unless it’s something tragic. Like, I wouldn’t want you to die.”

“Well I wouldn’t want you to get Alzheimer’s. That would be hard to deal with.”

“Rick, what is your fixation with my brain lately? You act like I’m going crazy of or something.”

“Honey, you have no idea where you put your keys half the time and you’re always forgetting where you put your phone.”

I was stunned. This man had to be the maestro of bad timing. Just this very day I had driven 30 miles to Cathlamet to pick up his phone and his ear piece that he left there Saturday. When I got to Cathlamet, his phone and earpiece wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I called his office to tell him it wasn't there. The girls asked me what I was talking about. The phone and earpiece were  on his desk. He hadn’t even see it!

“You are kidding me, right?” I said. “He who doesn’t know where his phone is?”

“I knew exactly where I put it. I just forgot I moved it. You on the other hand, are always losing track of things.” 

I gotta say, death always brings about the weirdest conversations between us. “Rick, I am not losing my mind. My brain is wired differently. It moves light years ahead of yours. I only lose things because I’m not paying attention.”

I don’t know what was so funny about what I I said but Rick went from solemn to hysterical in one easy second. He was laughing so hard he was squeaking.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s my brain we ought to be worried about right now.” I said.
He tried to speak but all I caught when he gasped for air was the word 'attention.' “That’s right.” I continued my explanation. “If I am paying attention to what I am doing I know exactly where I put things, but if my mind is racing through the litany of tasks at hand I don’t think about where I lay something. Hence, I am not losing my mind, I am just not paying attention.”

Could a person really die laughing? I didn’t want to risk it so I shut my mouth until Rick finally managed to gain control and blurt out.“That’s like saying, ‘I’m not retarded, I’m just not paying attention, I’m not stupid, I’m just not paying attention." That was all he could say before inhaling air again.
“Honey, you are never going to get it! I don’t have the luxury of having only one thing on my mind at a time. If I tell myself that I am putting my keys in the closet I remember exactly where they are.”

I could tell I wasn’t getting anywhere so I tried a different approach. “So, Rick, let me ask. Were you paying attention when you forgot you picked your phone  up and took it to your office or was your mind on something else?”
This of course was a concession to the fact that maybe he had more than one thing on his mind at a time but I can only conclude that it happens so rarely he has no idea it is happening. I let him snort himself into a stupor while I rolled over to go to sleep.

Another day I would bring up the fact that if I needed him to do three simple tasks I had go over the list a thousand times before he left the house. Then, when he gets to work he inevitable calls to ask. “What was it you needed again? I patiently repeat the list again only to be told.  “Wait I have to write it down.”

Humph, and I’m the one getting Alzheimer’s!

SNEEZING YOUR BRAINS OUT

You would think after more than 30 years of marriage that Rick could do nothing that would surprise me anymore. Think again.

I suppose, considering there are so many bodily functions that could be humiliating when paraded out in public, I should be grateful that the one Rick chose to exhibit the other day was one of the least embarrassing—that would be the sneeze.

To say that Rick is a loud sneezer would be a gross understatement. His sneezes have a power behind them that anything not battened down actually reverberates. In fact the normal human body cannot withstand the battering.

My son Garret is the perfect example. Rick passed his technique on to him. However, the strain on Garrets strong and healthy body is so great that when he sneezes his body actually folds over double. He looks like he is initiating a low bow to royalty. Rick likes to think he is bowing to his father’s sneezing superiority.

The unleashing of this power proved to be dangerous to Garret. One day as the dreaded sneeze tore through his body he happened to be walking towards our granite island and he was in the throws of his bow when his head smacked onto the counter.
That is what I call sneezing your brains out. I cannot afford to sneeze my brains out, so I have developed a normal polite, socially acceptable sneeze.

The other day we were driving down the road in our beater truck. It has no air conditioning so the windows were open. Normally my husband is very proper in public so I am not usually afraid to be seen with him.

However unprepared I am for these eruptions that rip through his body, send chills up my spine and paralyze my heart, the average person, strolling innocently down the street is totally ill-equipped.
We had just pulled into Greg’s Gardens when Rick let loose the sneeze of the century. Even I haven’t experienced on of this magnitude. I am sure it measured on the Richter scale.

To make matters worse he had a mouth full of cherry pits. This sneeze was so loud it actually came in two parts. The first eruption came just as I had stepped from the truck and had my hand on the door to shut it. People froze. It’s hard to do anything else when your heart stops. Just when we all thought it was safe to breathe again the second explosion came in a rain of cherry pits. Everyone looked up to the roof to see if the shingles had been shaken loose and were falling on them.

No one but me knew where it came from. Rick was laughing, people were fleeing and I had to restart my heart by beating on my chest and walk into the store as though nothing happened. I am a rock.

PHONE FIASCO

I cannot believe I had another incident with my cell phone. Most people have an incident or maybe two with their phones and get the hang of it. Not me, I have to do the same things other people do and then create my own unique disasters. This is why I am able to write humor.

Fiasco number one, the complete story is in my first book ‘Mother’s Daze’, happened when I took my cell phone out the first time and didn’t know the ring tone. I was looking through a bin of diet drinks in the grocery store and almost destroyed the display to find out where the music was coming from.
Then, when I got a new phone I didn’t know how to turn it off when I took it on the airplane. When I asked the man on the seat next to me gave me a look that made me feel like I was the H1N1 disease.
I am on my third phone now and had no problems with it until the day I dropped it into the toilet and there were no rubber gloves in the house. Complete story in ‘The Crazy Daze of Motherhood’. But just like one of those old Timex watches, ‘it takes a licken and keeps on ticken.’

I knew for sure my phone was indestructible when I put it on the roof on my car a few days ago and drove off. My neighbor found it on the side of the road. It now it bears the scars of dog teeth but it still worked.

Then yesterday it wouldn’t work. This is a catastrophe. I finally mastered those critical skills of knowing how to turn it on and off plus voice mail, taking photos, and keeping it out of the toilet. It was my plan to be buried with it.

I can’t handle the learning curve of getting a new phone so I turn to the electronic expert is our house. Actually Rick knows little about the subject but he has never dropped a phone into the toilet.
“Honey, my cell phone doesn’t work. Maybe it needs a new battery. I just charged it and it didn’t hold. Can you pick one up for me today?”

“You don’t think it might have anything to do with the fact it was mauled by the bear our neighbor likes to call a dog?”
“It was working fine after that. Besides, now my phone is an original and nobody will want to steal it.
“Janie, no-one wanted to steal it before. You couldn’t give that thing away it’s so ancient.”
“Ha, ha.”

I was going out so I took Ricks phone with me. About an hour later I got a call. “Hello.”

“Jane, I fixed your phone."

“Already? Was it the battery?”

“Nope. I just turned it on."

“Are you kidding me? I never turned it off.”

Then came the words I hate to hear. Every time something isn’t working I hear them. “Jane, all you have to do is plug it in and turn it on.”

One time out of ten thousand and eleven times he is right and I am wrong. I will never hear the end of it! Is there a name for people like me?

YOU WANT ME TO WHAT!

Rick phoned several evenings ago while I was sitting on my bed, knee deep in editing my book and with my hair in foam rollers. Now you know two things about me. I curl my hair the old fashioned way and there is nothing romantic about where I write.

I’d rather you think I write in more glamorous surrounding so could you just pretend that I am sitting in a sunny breakfast nook overlooking a country garden like the ones that appear on the cover of your favorite magazine?

Rick had called to inform me that someone was coming to our house to pick up a package.“Are you kidding me? My hair is in curlers.”

“So! What’s the problem? He’s not coming to look at you.” Rick said. “He’s coming to pick up an important package.”

“Well unless he’s blind he’s going notice my pink, black, and lime green rollers. If the package is so important why didn’t you remember to take it with you? Who’s coming anyway?”
Well it just didn’t get any better than this; it was the husband of my hairdresser. I’m sure he has seen women in worse repair but not me.

“Rick, have him come when you get home.”

“Honey I can’t. Just give him the package on the counter. He’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Love you, thanks.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful!” I said into the dead phone.

RIAGMRRRGRRR… Rick was always doing things like this to me. We could be lying in bed when the doorbell rings and will he get the door? No! And why you ask? Because I am the only one wearing pajamas. It’s that or freeze my kaboobies off. He likes to keep the room as cold as an outdoor hockey rink. Of course the door is always for him. I ought to be nominated for sainthood.
Someone pulled into the driveway. Crap, what was I going to do now? If I hurried maybe I could get to the door before he got up the front steps. I ran into the bathroom and picked up the only towel I could see.

I wrapped the fifteen hundred yards of thick terrycloth around my head, grabbed the package and staggered to the door under the weight of the towel. I happened to glance at myself in the mirror in the entry way. It looked like I was wearing a feather mattress on my head.
I opened the door just as he stepped on the first stair. I knew those fourteen steps to the front door were going to come in handy some day. “Here’s the package.” I said as I set it on the top step.The weight of my towel almost threw me onto my face as I knelt to put the package down.

“Love to chat but I have something on the stove.”

I slammed the door shut. I had just lied. Did I care? No! I don’t care if I am seen without makeup, mascara, or in my pajama’s but no one sees me in rollers. That is just too 60’s. I actually remember going downtown in rollers with a scarf on my head way back then.

UGH…. Now you know I am old enough to be a throw back from the 60’s, that I curl my hair with the same rollers I used on my daughter’s. Oops I never told you that… I really need to just shut up before I give up the location of the crown jewels I stole when I went to visit the Queen.

Help! I can’t stop…I am so outta here.

DEBIT FOR DUMMIES

I hate math. I detest balancing a checkbook so I haven't used one for decades. I carry hard cold cash. I see absolutely no redeeming qualities in a debit card. I know exactly how much I have and when it’s gone it’s gone. Balancing pages and pages of the bank statements is fine for other elements of society who have nothing better to do but not for me.

One day, however I was forced to use the cursed thing. Kristjana sprained her foot and needed an ace bandage. She couldn’t walk into the store and since I had no money on me, she insisted I use her debit card.

“Kristjana I have never used a debit card.”

“Mom, you use a credit card, it’s the same thing. You swipe it and use my pin number. Even you can do this.”

“Uragamagagagrrr.” I cursed her and grumbled all the way into the store. It didn’t matter how simple the task, when it came to me versus machines, machines always made a fool out of me.

The bandage rang up to a whopping $6.87, $7.28 with tax—amazing that a large segment of society used a card for such a simple expenditure. What if they had a flat tire or needed a tow or were at the beach and the ice cream truck came by and they were attacked by an ice cream craving?

I swiped the card and punched in her password. That was easy. Suddenly a screen jumped out at me. How much money did I want back, $20, $40, $50 or $100?

Sirens stared screaming in my brain and my internal voices scrambled to make a decision. “Kristjana doesn’t like to carry cash. Why do I have to get cash back? What if this made her overdrawn? She never told me this would happen.”

The mob of people in line stared at me like I was an idiot who had never used a debit card before. I picked the lesser of all the evils and punched the $20 key. The till rang up $27.28. The alarm bells in my head screamed again. It was only supposed to be $7.28. Then I remembered I was getting $20 back.

 Technology is hard on my nervous system. I wanted to go back ten years to the dark ages when people carried cash, gold nuggets or grain. I grabbed the $20 and the bandage then slunk out of the store.

“Now you have cash.” I said to Kristjana as I flopped into the passenger seat and handed her the package and the money.

“Mom, why did you get $20?”

“The machine said I had to.”

“Did you not see the ‘no cash’ button?”

“Kristjana, people were staring at me. I did not have time to read the thing like a novel. What’s wrong with carrying a few dollars anyway?”

“I can’t believe you can't use a debit card.” She passed me the $20. “You take this. Buy something for my dog.”

I might not know how to use a debit card but I am smart enough to know that I am $20 richer. I smell a business opportunity.

Please respond and tell me I'm not alone, even if you have to lie :)

Baggies

I thought all my grocery shopping woes were over. No longer did I have to slink down the Kotex aisle and try to blend a month supply of feminine hygiene product in with the milk. Nor did I spend hours in a comatose stupor to select the perfect pair of pantyhose.
Then came the day I needed to freeze 120 pounds of chicken breasts. I needed baggies—lots of baggies.
Rick’s part of this little project was to simply pick up the chicken. He always gets the easy job.
All he had to do was drive 45 miles during rush hour traffic, in the pouring rain, then wait in line for 2 hours then load the chicken into the car and drive back home.
I on the other hand had to drive to the store and purchase the perfect plastic bags.
It was one of those jobs that disguises itself as something simple but before you know it, you are sucked into the bowels of the pit where plastic burns forever but is never completely consumed.
Ordinarily purchasing a box of baggies was a simple matter but today it was a combination of math and science, my two hatingest subjects in school.
How many bags does it take to house 120 pounds of chicken? And if I was going to buy some, I should buy twice as many because I would probably need them next year too. My grandmother instilled in me all my life that a depression was impending. If I didn’t buy extra maybe they would cost too much next year or worse yet be rationed.
As I stood in front of the baggy shelf my jaw went slack. There were so many choices. Which should I buy Ziploc or Glad? How thick did the plastic need to be? What was the best buy? The ones with the regular zip seal, or the extra wide zip that guaranteed to seal? I pulled out my calculator.
Did I need 40 quart or 100 quart packages? How many chickens would each one hold? Maybe I should get gallon or two gallon size.
After spending more time there than I had at my last four hair appointments I decided to buy two packages of 40 quarts, one each of wide and narrow seal; one 100 count box and two boxes of gallon size to put the quarts into after we had filled them. I wasn’t taking any chances on the seal guarantee or not.
I am pleased to announce that we now have enough baggies to get us through any major gas hike, two depressions 14 years of severe rationing.

MOVIE TIME

Before we got married Rick and I enjoyed going to the movies. We went to the late show and held hands while I asked him questions about the movie. He would smile and tell me what I missed when I blinked. We snuggled together and ate buckets of hot buttered popcorn. Movie night was fun. He liked chick flicks back then.

Fast forward thirty years. Our idea of getting ready for a late movie is to hurry through supper, throw our pajamas on and stick in a Red Box movie that Rick picked up on his way home from work.

That’s when I found out that when we were dating he liked the chick but not the flick. I am an incredibly awesome wife so I simply sigh when he brings his, beat ‘em in the head, mystery action thriller home. We climb into bed, a popcorn free zone I might add, and turn on the movie.

“What’s happening? I ask thirty seconds into the movie.

“I don’t know hon. Just watch. I’ve never seen this movie either.”

I watch, afraid to blink and miss something. Why did they have to make the plot so complicated and talk so low you can’t hear them?
“Turn up the volume. Is he a bad guy?”

“Jane. I don’t know.” I concentrated harder.
“Oh honey, I forgot to tell you that Garret called today. You’re supposed to call him back.”

“Couldn’t you have told me after the movie?”

“No. I might have forgotten.” Rick snorts.

“What did that man just say?”

Rick takes a deep breath. “He said, ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but…’ I missed the rest.”

“I heard that part. How come you never hear what they say? When you ask me what they say I can tell you what they said.”

“I’ll rewind it.”

“No. Every time you try to go back it wrecks the movie. Just leave it.”
“I got it all figured out.” He tries to skip it back. He goes too far. “Crap.”

Rick tries to find the spot again and I go paint my toe nails. He finally gives up and starts the movie again. I get to figure out what happened and he gets to hear what he missed.
“Now what’s happening?” I can’t help myself from asking.

“I don’t know.”
I glue myself back to the TV screen.

“What did they say?” Rick missed another line.

“They said……..” I repeat back to him exactly what they said. “How come when you miss something I hear it but you can never hear what I miss. Do you know how annoying that is?”

We manage to get through the movie. I never quite know what is going on and Rick can’t hear half of it and there’s no snuggling or popcorn but we are entertained. I wonder why none of our kids want to watch a movie with us?