Chapter Fourteen: Winter Holidays

Thanksgiving and Christmas are the most festive part of our year: childlike anticipation, holiday traditions, parties, feasting, shopping and presents! Plus, there are unexpected moments of humor.

We hosted Thanksgiving this year. I've found it takes several people to pull off a successful Thanksgiving dinner. I am so grateful to Rob and his mother, Connie. Rob bravely risks burning his hands in the oven while checking the turkey, and he’s the official carver of the bird. Connie is a terrific cook and potato-mashing expert. If not for her, potatoes would be splattered on our kitchen cupboards again. (I just can’t master the electric mixer.)

My daughter has more of a ‘food taster and humorous commentary’ role on Thanksgiving. She naps before the turkey is served. She was astute as Rob searched for a turkey baster. He muttered quietly, “It might be in the garage, think I used it to siphon brake fluid out of the car.”  When a baster was finally produced, my daughter yelled, “Is that the same one?!”

We cut our own Christmas tree this year, which was a first for me. We proudly pulled a little red cart behind us, through the mud, on a blustery cold day, happy as ever, as we disagreed on which tree to cut. Good times--

Keeping a clean house during the holidays is not easy, especially when a college student returns. My daughter’s rambunctious kitten came with her, and he enlivened our household. Keeping a kitten off a Christmas tree is a task in itself! We frequently hear hissing, spitting and yowling and may see a blur of orange and black as our two cats show their appreciation for one another. Our dog, Shnoop, is a chagrined referee.

Rob owns approximately seventy-five coats, jackets and hats, which he leaves all over the house. I’m constantly hanging them up. He had the once-terrific idea of installing a coat rack in our garage. But there’s an unfortunate side effect to hanging outerwear in a cold garage: “Thanks dear, just put my coat on. It’s stiff and now I’m freezing.”

Holiday television shows and movies are fabulous fun. Who can resist “A Charlie Brown Christmas” or the animated “Grinch?”  My family quietly tolerates “A Christmas Carol” (all versions) and “A Christmas Story” over and over, and they hear Christmas music in the house beginning November twentieth. (Okay, maybe they have no choice.)  Regardless, it’s all about setting the holiday mood: decorations, mistletoe, wrapping paper, bows and gift boxes all over the house. At what other time can you burn pine-scented candles?

In December at our house you’ll hear things like:

“I should wear my glasses when shopping. I almost bought a tub of your favorite gummy bears, only to find it was fruit cake mix.”

“Are you sure you want the Hair-extension Glam Barbie?  She’s sold out in five stores. How about a nice nurse Barbie?”

“Hold the dog still while I snap a photo of him with the Santa hat on.”

“Can we regift that present?”

“You gave Uncle Butch the spiked eggnog? Don’t let him ride the sled down the stairs!”

     Of course, the best part of the season is being surrounded by loved ones. It makes you take a deep breath and appreciate that which is most important in our lives ~ presents! Just kidding…

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Chapter Thirteen: Grocery Shopping

     I'm very lucky to have a man who loves to do the grocery shopping. Unfortunately, that is not always good for our wallets. I am notoriously frugal; I make lists and stick to a budget. I rarely succumb to impulse purchases. (I buy just four rolls of toilet tissue at a time, or half a gallon of milk. Rob, however, strolls down the store aisles, tossing items into a cart like Paris Hilton at a Prada sale!)

     Several times Rob offered to do the food shopping alone, which I thought was terrific!  But I slowly realized that he prefers going alone, because I'm a killjoy, reining in expenditures and putting the kibosh on purchases.

     After my daughter left for college, it was only two of us in the house, but Rob insisted we become members of our local bulk item club. These shopping trips were hard for me: a warehouse of endless products looming two stories high, set on pallets and wrapped in industrial plastic. Big neon signs with prices three times the cost of regular-sized items in our supermarket.  Rob guided the shopping cart cheerfully while I hyperventilated, saying things like:

"Who's going to eat a five-pound jar of olives?"

"Do we really need twenty-four rolls of toilet paper?"

"Don't you think forty waffles is a bit much?"

     My protests were met by Rob's patient and logical explanations that buying in bulk would ultimately save us money. Other times, he pretended not to hear me.

    The problem also extended to our trips to the butcher, where I had a definite prix fixe in mind.  When I arrived home, laden with meats, Rob inspected the bags and interrogated me:

"Only three pounds of ground beef?"

"Why didn't you get a whole ring of smoked bologna?"  

"You didn't get any fried pig ears for the dog?!"

     And on it went. I spent too little and Rob spent too much. So, we consented to meet in the middle.  I'm less tight-fisted with expenses and Rob keeps (somewhat) to a budget. Truth be told, we have alot of fun shopping together; it never loses its 'romance.'  And you know what they say, the couple who shops together, stays together!

Chapter Twelve: Halloween & Haunted Houses

     Halloween is by far one of our favorite holidays.  My daughter and I consider it as exciting as Christmas. The Halloween season holds revered traditions for our household; we plan them with thrilling anticipation. We also adore horror movies and haunted tours. (I take full responsibility for this. My strict Catholic upbringing forbade pagan-istic things, including going to Dante's Inferno in Coney Island or The Haunted Mansion on the New Jersey boardwalk. These restrictions ensured an intrigue with the macabre for the rest of my life.  Trick or treating, however, was encouraged. There are many loopholes for Christians, it seems. My mother's love for theater, and her sweet tooth, prevailed!)

     Like most families, we choose trick or treat candy that we enjoy, because someone's got to eat the leftovers, right? As for pumpkins, there's something fun about sticking your hands in a fresh, cold one and yanking out the stringy, orange innards. Plus, you can bake the seeds- YUM. Through the years, carving at our house became more elaborate. We bought cutting kits, tracing patterns, electric candles and even 'pumpkin bling' to turn our jack-o-lanterns into veritable works of art. My daughter's skills far exceeded ours. When she proudly completed a perfect carving of the Headless Horseman (per the package label, Level of difficulty - Advanced) we were humbled and impressed!

     We enjoyed trips to pumpkin patches, as well as bumpy hay rides that scratched our legs but were fun nonetheless.  We stocked up on apple cider, Indian corn and gnarly gourds. We discovered that sure you could choose the biggest pumpkin in the field, but then you had to carry your forty pound purchase across two acres! 

     Halloween parades and haunted houses were age-appropriate when my daughter was little, and only mildly spooky. Then we sought scarier activities as our quest for fright intensified. Our Halloween seasons progressed from nights lost in a giant corn maze, to haunted evening rides at an amusement park, to a tour of a ramshackle hotel where terrifying gory-faced actors chased us, to a decrepit former prison, which once housed Al Capone, where even more gory-faced actors chased us. (I don't like to jog but certainly get a month's worth of running in October!)

     Horror movies got better and better, giving us thrills and chills. Yet we appreciated the timeless classics like "Halloween" and "The Shining."  (Say what you will, great costumes are created every year, but a quiet guy in a Michael Myers mask standing in the corner at a party is ALWAYS terrifying.)

     We keep our fingers crossed each year, in the hopes that someone we know will throw a costume party. And usually we're not disappointed. Rob and I are fully prepared that we may need to carry the torch and host a Halloween party. If so, I'll embrace that role with enthusiasm! The magic of the holiday is that it's the one day of the year you can be anything you wish, no matter how scary or silly.

     So fellow ghouls, find your fog machines and spooky music CDs, practice your werewolf howls and witches' cackles. Fill that candy dish and happy haunting to you!      

     



           

  

Chapter Eleven: Summer Fun Part II, The County Fair

An exciting summer event is the annual county fair. The farther away you live from a city, the more of a big deal the fair is. We have neighbors who participate in the demolition derby. They prepare their junk automobiles months in advance, spray-painting them with catchy nicknames like “The Dominator” and “Sweet Lorraine.” The demolition derby is not to be confused with the truck pull or the tractor pull. These are separate events entirely! The fair lasts over a week, so young and old can choose which nights they want to attend. The teens prefer Fridays and Saturdays. Retired folks prefer mid-week, when the blue ribbon pie and livestock awards are presented.

We never ate before going to the fair, as the food was the best part. The traffic heading to the fair was bumper to bumper for miles. This added to the excitement.  Wooden signs adorned the highway as we crawled at a snail’s pace: “You’re almost there! Funnel cake, buy one get one free! Lawnmower races, 7pm!”

Once at the fairgrounds, we parked a quarter of a mile away in a grassy field, which was either muddy from recent rains or dusty due to recent drought. Teenage boys in sleeveless flannel shirts directed us where to park. They motioned for us to come closer and closer. These young men expressed disgust if we left six inches between our vehicle and the car in front. Walking into the fairgrounds was exhilarating. It gave you a glimpse of what was to come: parents struggling with strollers and toddlers, sullen teens trying to avoid walking with their parents and bickering young couples.

At the front gate, which was literally a wooden gate, we paid five dollars and received a ticket, which we immediately gave to another ticket taker three feet away. We walked around to ‘take it in’ and view the food stands. It was important to plan the noshing sensibly.  If we were going to gain seven pounds eating unhealthy food, we might as well make our culinary options worthwhile. (Either way the night would end with a good dose of Pepto Bismol.)  We decided to start off with something hot and hearty, like chili dogs and cheese steaks made by the local fire department. We also enjoyed sausage sandwiches and meatball subs proudly prepared by the Ladies Auxiliary.

Other delights of the local peasantry were foods on a stick. These included grilled corn on the cob and cheesecake dipped in chocolate. Then there were the fried goodies, like elephant ears (fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon) and funnel cake (fried dough topped with confectioners’ sugar.) One year our county fair stopped using lard, for health reasons, and switched to vegetable oil. Complaints about diminished flavor were heard all around, so lard was brought back due to consumer demand!

Rides at the county fair were a lot like the ones at the beach, only not as safe.  The attendants looked like they’d been given a weekend furlough. The straps on the rides were frayed and sticky with cotton candy. We had to time going on the rides precisely, so as not to induce nausea.  Walking through the livestock buildings was a good option right after eating, despite the smell. We were dazzled by the county’s prized bunnies, chickens, horses and steer. The baby chicks peeped their way into our hearts. Smitten, we promised ourselves we’d build a coop and keep a dozen of those precious fluff balls in our yards. This feeling usually passed once we exited the barn. 

The demolition derby was a thrill. Juggling bags of roasted nuts and cold sodas, we climbed the metal stairs to watch the heats.  This was where the assemblage of people really got interesting. We sat near an entire family who wore John Deere tee shirts and baseball caps; it was hard to tell the ladies from the gents. For an hour, I became the unwilling custodian of a precocious toddler in a camouflage-print diaper and no shoes. The stands were packed with raucous spectators. We raised our plastic mugs in a universal salute. We cheered for the drivers as they drove in a manner that would normally get them arrested. We urged them on until their vehicles were smashed to the size of Tonka trucks.

Artisans and crafters had stands set up for the art lovers. One could buy crocheted potholders, silver and turquoise jewelry and lawn ornaments made from farm implements.  Home décor, which incorporated chicken and piglet motifs, was also popular.

The last night of the fair hosted a fireworks show; a celebration that ended with a bang, and a sad reminder that summertime was over.

* * *

Chapter 11: Summer Fun, Part one

Chapter. 11 Summer Fun, Part one

     The joys of summer are many − fireflies, ice cream trucks, warm summer nights, sitting outside  sipping mint juleps while “beer can chicken” sizzles on the grill. One sublime evening, we were delighted to discover that we had a bunny hole in our yard. Ever the nature lovers, and being curious humans who can’t leave things alone, we put on rubber gloves and leaned down to look at it. Three baby bunnies were nestled inside. They were absolutely adorable! We continued to watch them. Our cat came over, jealous that we were not paying attention to her. I noticed that kitty had something not-so-nice hanging from her nether region. So I picked her up by the hind quarters to inspect. Then our dog came over, jealous that we were not paying attention to him. The dog, alas, stepped in the bunny hole.

     Mayhem ensued. Three terror-stricken, squealing bunnies ran in three different directions. Our pets instinctively chased them. The three of us chased after our pets who were chasing the bunnies. We looked like the Keystone cops. We bumped into each other, ran in circles, shouted, scolded, amid a scuffle of animals who were running, pouncing, squealing, meowing and barking. One unfortunate bunny bonked his head on a rock wall, but found sanctuary inside it. His siblings trembled under the garbage cans, while the ferocious cat and dog waited for their prey. We had to drag our pets inside and attempt to coax the bunnies out of their hiding places. We tried to convince them that the bunny hole was safe. But those little guys didn’t trust us, and the next day we saw that mother bunny had taken her babies elsewhere. We learned never to mess with nature again!    

* * *

Chapter 10: The Family Beach Vacation

Ch 10. The Family Beach Vacation

Vacations are exciting endeavors, even in the smallest of families. The extended family vacation is even more fun. Ours consisted of bringing loved ones together at agreed-upon oceanside resorts, where there was plenty to do, plenty of hotel rooms and plenty of restaurants to choose from.

Somehow, year after year, we ended up gathering in one person’s room, repeatedly chose the same restaurant, always needing a table for twelve (waiters cringed when they saw us) and, at least once, each of us was coerced into an activity we really didn’t enjoy. But togetherness prevailed. 

We allowed my daughter to bring her best friend. They got a hotel room of their own. I only entered their room once, about four days into the trip. The heat was on in the room, wet bikinis were piled on the floor, the carpet was sandy, beds were littered with wrappers and empty soda cans and there was a stray cat in the bathroom. I turned pale and walked out, calling over my shoulder, “Dinner in ten. Meet us at the car!”

In the brochure, the beach looked like a wonderland − powdery, white sand and beautiful blue water; in reality, it was hot, gritty and swarmed with people being knocked like bowling pins in the crashing waves. We didn’t care. We were on vacation! We settled our blankets and chairs next to folks who played their music too loudly. We ate sandy sandwiches from the cooler. We envied the toned and bronzed lifeguards. We ogled the beachgoers who should have worn bigger bathing suits. We put gobs of sun block one another after our shoulders and faces turned beet red.

Boardwalk amusement rides were also a hit in our family. The little ones went on the kiddie rides, and we adults tried to prove we were cool by going on rides that the teenagers chose. The spinning centrifuge with the drop floor was my least favorite. I became nauseous, convinced that my lunch would be splattered all over my fellow riders. I managed to get through it without vomiting and walked to a trash bin, swaying and queasy. A woman got to it before me. Unfortunately, the trash bin had a cover. I watched her squeeze her head inside it and barf sideways.

The rides provided your standard thrills to sun-soaked vacationers. There was the haunted house, which smelled moldy. There was the human slingshot, outrageously overpriced to deter the weak-of-heart. There was the pirate ship, which you had to race onto to get the best seats, hoping the chagrined folks wouldn’t spit when it was their turn to be upside down, and the high-tech roller coaster that twisted and looped over perilous ocean waves.

Then there was the small, metal coaster that made you wonder how it was approved by whoever inspected amusement rides. Rob climbed in, all six feet four of him, was knocked around like a marble in a tuna can, and complained of bruises to his knees, shins and ankles later that night.

When we tired of the rides, we moved to the arcades. These were the casinos of the boardwalk, except the winnings were not as good. Flashing lights, a cacophony of bells, buzzers and music were at seizure-inducing levels. But at least it was air-conditioned. Flip-flops and bathing suits were the only required clothing. There were men with hairy backs holding crying toddlers whose diapers were swollen with seawater. There were hundreds of teenagers playing games with skill and finesse we could only dream of possessing. Video games certainly changed since I was a kid! The games portrayed buxom, scantily clad women, frightening looking thugs and an arsenal of firearms that would make the NRA proud. Our family spent more money there than anywhere else. My daughter showed off her skills by spending eight dollars of my money trying to lower a claw to capture a one-dollar stuffed bear.

Walking the boardwalk was a challenge. If you weren’t careful, you could be enticed into getting a tattoo or having something pierced by a surly fifteen-year-old. You could also be coerced into purchasing a bong or a hookah pipe (for tobacco use only, said the signs.) If you were strong enough to resist those items, you might not have resisted the hecklers who ran the boardwalk games. They seemed intent on humiliating you into testing your dexterity by throwing an improbable plastic ring around a soda bottle or shooting a basketball through a rigged rubber hoop. And hey, if you didn’t want to win one for yourself, maybe you wanted one for the lady?

Just when we realized our wallets were empty, the children whined that they were hungry. Boardwalks planned brilliantly and placed ATM machines on every corner. Here we could buy one slice of pizza for the cost of a whole pie at home. We stuffed our faces with funnel cakes and ice cream as we walked around wearing the least amount of clothing we ever had in front of our in-laws.

Lounging at the hotel in the evening was a welcome reprieve. The adults decided to get tanked, while the children did cannonballs in the hotel pool. I volunteered to make a run to the wine store. I was feeling pretty saucy, looking smashing in a forties-style black and white tankini. I parked on the street and strode inside, smiling at everyone. I was disappointed that the clerk didn’t card me. When I got back to my car there was a forty-dollar parking ticket on my windshield.

As for activities, my daughter and I had the brilliant idea of playing miniature golf on a ninety-five degree day. For some reason, we didn’t have many takers. But my brother Matt, who was always a good sport, accompanied us. The heat was relentless. By the eighth hole, we were hallucinating. It was the first time I’d ever gotten sunburn on my feet. My brother soaked through two shirts. We cooled ourselves in a fishpond and the mini golf manager yelled. We raced to finish the game while looking longingly across the street at the water park, where most of our family was.

“I won, I won!” shouted my daughter, after she calculated our scores. She jumped up and down. Matt was already at the car, opening windows and blasting the AC. I collapsed in the vehicle, nearly faint with heat stroke. Matt said, “I think the tops of my ears are burnt.” 

I thought with a smile “Ah, vacation.”

Chapter 9 PART II: Killing the Chia Pet & College Shenanigans

     Good-hearted parents with the best intentions are often accused of awful things, such as being overprotective, eavesdropping, assigning chores and enforcing curfews. One of the most heinous acts my daughter charged me with was killing her Chia Pet. Now for those who have not seen the television ads, it is not a real pet, but a small plant in the shape of an animal onto which you place seeds so that ‘hair’ (grass) grows from it. Hers was very cute and in the shape of a smiling head, which bore a striking resemblance to the Dalai Lama. After she left for college we discovered that it required constant watering.

     My daughter placed it next to the kitchen sink the day before she left, “I’m leaving my Chia Head here where it will get enough sunlight. You guys have to remember to water it every day.”

“Sure,” I answered casually, flipping through a magazine. No problem. How hard could it be to water a little head once a day?

     When she came home for her first visit, it looked more like a shrunken head. We weren’t very diligent in keeping our end of the deal.  After she put her suitcases in her room, she went right to the kitchen. She was horrified, “Momm! It’s dry as a bone! You haven’t been watering it.” She tended to it and continued to scold me. 

I scrambled for a viable excuse. “Honey, I’m sorry. It needs so much water. I watered it just yesterday.”  Rob raised his eyebrows. 

I came clean, “Well, maybe it was two days ago.”

She turned to us and pointed to the shriveled thing, “It’s right next to the sink! How hard is it to remember to water?”

I apologized profusely and we promised to take better care of it.

When my daughter came home for Thanksgiving, our festive holiday mood was briefly ruined by another accusation of neglecting the Chia Head.

     I was in the middle of basting a turkey, preparing yams, mashing potatoes, boiling corn and stirring gravy. My daughter walked into the kitchen, having just woken up from a nap, and asked, “Have you watered my Chia head?”

I simply gave her a look.

     She was undaunted. She leaned towards the plant, which now resembled a prune, and gasped. Grass had been replaced by brown stringy stuff that lay limply across it. It looked like an old man with a comb-over.

“Momm! You did it again. You killed it.” 

“I kept your cat alive!” I snapped, while opening cans of cranberry sauce.

Rob piped in, “Yeah, don’t we get credit for taking care of the real pets?”

     She shook her head and doused the plant with water, “They can fend for themselves. This little guy can’t.  I just can’t trust you two to take care of it anymore.”

     So, we were demoted from our positions as caretakers. The alternative wasn’t so bad. No more pressure. Even my daughter gave up on it by summer. The Chia Head was eventually tossed it into the circular file…with my daughter’s permission, of course.

    

* * *

     My daughter was painfully honest about some of her activities at college. She announced that she had become friends with a senior who arranged weekly college parties in the city. These were no ordinary frat parties. These were house parties complete with DJ, dance floors, flashing lights, game rooms, bouncers, bartenders and three floors of jostling kids dressed to impress. For the price of a five-dollar plastic Solo cup, you were in!  

     I was concerned about such undertakings. She allayed my fears by assuring us that she knew the bouncers and if she had any trouble with a guy, the bouncers would use his head for a battering ram as they tossed the offender out the door. 

One weekend while she was safely in our kitchen, she went into more detail.

“Last weekend, I helped make the chug juice,” she bragged.

“The what?”

“The drinks.”

It was like hearing about a car wreck. I didn’t want to know but was compelled to ask, “How did you do that?”

“Well, we mixed fruit juice and vodka in a big bucket, and stirred it with the end of a broom.’’

We looked at her wide-eyed, “A broom? Then what?”

“We threw the broom on the floor until we needed to mix another batch.”

     Rob pulled me aside and said in a hushed voice, “Do you realize this is the girl who refuses to drink out of the same glass as you? Who inspects every utensil for dust before she’ll use it? She’s drinking something that was stirred with a broom off the floor?”

I was as perplexed as he.  It was one of those college transformations that we’d heard so much about.

When we sat down for breakfast the next morning, my daughter inspected her plate for dust.

 

* * *

Chapter Nine: You're Doing WHAT at College? PART I

Ch 9: You’re doing WHAT at college?

     My daughter leaving for college was something I tried to brace myself for. The experience was as traumatic, I am sure, as it is for most parents. We brought her to the city in a car packed like the family donkey at the end of “Fiddler on the Roof.” It was crammed full of stuff that she would make me take home on subsequent visits. For a while, we weren’t entirely sure she was in the backseat during that first drive down. Discarded McDonald’s wrappers indicated that she was.

     I didn’t want to leave her dorm the day we dropped her off. I cried before we exited the building. As a matter of fact, I cried for three months. Certain things triggered tears: passing a school bus, driving past her elementary school, walking into her bedroom or seeing an empty place at our table. Rob got used to nightly crying jags at dinner.

“Stop going into her room,” he said, gently taking me by the shoulders. “Besides, there’s nothing left to clean in there!”

     Indeed, the room was spotless, until she came home for a visit. Somehow in ten minutes, her bedroom became Dorothy’s farmhouse after the twister. I didn’t care. She was under our roof and all was right with the world again.

     We realized that life without a college student was very different from life with a college student. Something happens at college that changes a teen’s sleeping schedule completely. My daughter must have inherently known this because she avoided choosing any classes that began before noon.

When she was at school, I’d often call her in the afternoons.

“Hi honey, it’s me. What are you doing?”

“I just woke up.”

“It’s 2 o’clock!”

“I know. Class isn’t until 3. I wanted to get up early and grab some breakfast.”

Other times, I’d call her in the evening before we went to bed. 

“Hi honey, it’s me. What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a party. What are you doing?”

“I just changed into my pajamas.”

“Already? It’s 10:30!”

     When she came home to visit, our schedules really clashed. We tried to stay up with her to watch television, but by 1 am, my rear end fell asleep and my eyes were rolling back in my head.

She’d shake her head and say, “You guys are lame,” and pop a handful of Nerds into her mouth.

     There were late nights when she came home at curfew (which happened to be two hours past my bedtime). Her entrance would send our pets into a frenzy of running, barking and meowing in a raucous welcome. My daughter would rattle around the kitchen, frying herself some eggs and making a chocolate shake in the blender.

     She was responsible for doing her own laundry at college. But amazingly, when she was home, piles of dirty clothes grew exponentially.

“Your dirty laundry is going to walk downstairs by itself pretty soon. Can you please do some wash?” I asked.

“But Mom,” she whined, “I have to do it myself at college.”

     However, when she came home in the summer, she brought the same bottle of detergent we gave her in the beginning of the school year, and it was three-quarters full. I estimated she did two loads of laundry in nine months of college.

     Attending college in a big city is daunting for both parents and children. At orientation, the guides took the students on the subway, warned them to travel in groups, to stay within campus security lights, to clutch their backpacks and to ignore strangers even if they were bleeding on the street. The day we dropped my daughter off, the dormitory building was swarmed with carloads of parents and students unloading vehicles and moving boxes up to dorms. Campus security guards were everywhere, assisting people and directing traffic. We noticed a man across the street, lying on his back on the concrete steps of a church. He wasn’t moving and his body was twisted at an odd angle. We were alarmed and brought it to the attention of a security officer.

“Do you think that man is alright?” we asked and pointed.

     The security officer gave a quick glance across the street. With a wave of his hand he said, “Yeah, he’s alright. Just sleepin’ it off.”

     Sure enough, two hours later the prostrate man was gone. We’d succeeded in branding ourselves as a bunch of country bumpkins! 

* * *

Chapter Eight: You Want to Put That Where?

Chapter 8: You want to put that where?

     You can learn a lot about your significant other when you decorate a house together. Forget about hiring a professional. Why lose the opportunity to learn about your partner’s aesthetic vision and skill?

Rob and I painted every room of our house after we moved in. We were frequent visitors of the paint department at the home improvement stores. We knew the Home Depot employees by name. We had Lowes on speed dial. Like children in a candy store, we stood before a dizzying array of hundreds of colors aquiver with excitement!

“Ooh, look at this one!”

“Wow! Check out this one.”

We generally agreed on colors. Except for one I chose, one shade brighter than Ty-D Bowl blue. He cringed as I planned to paint our entire family room with it.

Ever diplomatic, he said, “Why don’t you paint one small area and see how you like it?”

Thank goodness for Rob's foresight. The color was hideous. I painted a single interior door, then stepped back and grimaced.

“Now what?” I whined.

“It’s not so bad. Leave it.”

     So, the can of Ty-D Bowl blue was banished to the basement. We hung blue drapes and accents to the room. We hung framed art with nautical themes on the door. It was known simply as the “blue door.” It caused quite a stir with friends and family who chuckled at my expense. My reputation for choosing colors was tarnished forever.

     In my defense, there have been a few odd items that Rob wanted to add to our decor, such as the huge paper balloon ribbed lamp. He was thrilled when he brought it home. It was long and white and reminded me of an insect in a cocoon.

“There’s a rip in it. Is it going to leave the larval stage?” I asked.

“Where do you think we should put it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said with a frown. “In the basement?” Rob knew what that meant. I never saw the lamp again.

* * *

     Maybe couples should fill out a questionnaire at the beginning of their relationship. It would make living together a heck of a lot easier.

     If we had filled out such a questionnaire, we’d have realized that Rob says ‘foot stool’ and I say ‘ottoman,’ or that he refers to a ‘colander’ as a ‘strainer.’ That what he calls a ‘buggy’ is what I call a ‘shopping cart.’

     I’d have also known that Rob detests being hot and that, in the middle of the night, he’s given to thrashing against sheets if they gather around his neck, so that his bedmate is longing to take a seasickness pill. I would have known that Rob wouldn’t allow clean socks to touch the floor without a slipper or a shoe protecting them. And he leaves trails of candy wrappers and chocolate bits all over the house (I have found them melted onto his checkbook.)  

     He would have learned much too. It wouldn’t come as a surprise that I am always cold and only require a mild breeze when the temperature hits eighty-five. I constantly straighten bathroom towels and place mats. I don’t believe pets should lie on light-colored rugs. He would have found out well in advance that I am oblivious to tire tread until they are bald. If such a questionnaire existed, we could have prevented the following conversations:

Him:  “Could you fold my socks instead of rolling and tucking them in a ball?”

Her:  “What’s the difference?”

Him:  “It ruins the sock. You know, stretches it out. Also we shouldn’t use so much bleach. It’s bad for the elastic.”

Her:  “Where is all the Tupperware that was in the cabinet? Haven’t you been taking  

          leftovers to work?”

Him:  “Yeah. I throw them out when I’m done.”

Her:  “You throw out our Tupperware containers?!”

Him:  “It’s not real Tupperware. They’re Chinese take-out containers!”

Him:  “Where’s my glass of milk that was on the counter?”

Her:  “Oops, I just dumped it down the sink.”

Him:  “I just poured that!”

Her:  “Oh. I wondered why the glass was cold.”

     On second thought, maybe a questionnaire would prevent marriages and domestic unions. Maybe these discoveries should come slowly, over time. By the time you had it all figured out, it would be ten years down the road. And who wants to spend another decade learning a new partner’s quirks?

* * *

Chapter Seven: In-Laws

Chapter 7:  In-Laws

When you pair up a Jersey girl and a Pennsylvania boy, it’s bound to get interesting. The first time I prepared an authentic Italian meal for Rob, my delicious eggplant parmigiana, he tried to PUT HOT SAUCE ON IT. That was nearly a relationship-breaker. I was incensed. Rob didn’t understand. I said he was defiling the recipe, by adding an ingredient that didn’t belong. He shook his head. He thought that I was nuts. Perhaps. But you cook for those you love, and my show of affection was nearly ruined. We laugh about it now, but he’s never added hot sauce to my specialties since.  

The first time I went to one of Rob’s family functions, there was an array of scrumptious food. His mother truly had a knack in the kitchen. Her significant other was a skilled hunter, as was indicated by numerous deer heads on the wall. There was a jostling, friendly crowd in the house. I’d lost sight of Rob, so I made myself a heaping plate and ambled downstairs to join the party. I was thoroughly enjoying the hearty fare − red skin potatoes, pulled pork, pickled eggs, beef roast, homemade bread and coleslaw. Then I caught a snippet of conversation. Someone said “venison.” I stopped mid-chew and looked up. 

“Venison?”

“Yes, in the crockpot upstairs.”

“Which crockpot?”

“The one with the blue flowers.” GULP.

Rob was chuckling from across the room. So was his mother. 

“Deer meat? You didn’t tell me,” I whined.

“I told you that it was meat, I just didn’t tell you what kind,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “Welcome to Pennsylvania!”

We ended that evening reclining on plush stools at the fully stocked bar downstairs, which was elegantly decorated in mahogany. A bottle of good ole’ country moonshine was presented, for anyone who didn’t want to remember what they had for dinner.         

* * *

My adorable, beautiful nephew Nathan has the cherubic face of an angel coupled with a generous dose of intelligence, creativity and tenacity. While he was visiting us one Christmas, he was at that stage in childhood when the word “no” was not taken easily.

The door between our family room and the garage had a slide lock, which he could reach. This was an endless source of entertainment for Nathan, especially after someone had just gone into the garage.

“Nathan, please don’t lock Uncle Rob in the garage.”

“But I have to,” he replied.

I couldn’t argue with that logic. With a shrug I thought, ah well, Rob can open the garage to get out.

While Nathan was with us, we were privy to other examples of the mind of a three-year old. We found him climbing the shelves of our refrigerator, reaching for chocolate we’d hidden on the top shelf.

“Nathan, get down from there.”

“But I have to.”

“You’ve had too much chocolate. It’s not good for you.”

He replied, “Chocolate IS good for me!”

I wondered how many dieters had uttered those same words.

Another day, my teen daughter was asleep and Nathan had the run of the house. She found the dog locked in his metal crate, looking miserable.

My daughter was puzzled, “Nathan, did Aunt Camille put the dog in the crate?”

“No. I did!” He was beaming with pride.

“How?”

“I pushed him in.”

We then realized the power of a three-year old. Shnoop our dog outweighed Nathan by forty pounds, yet he was somehow made to go into his cage, in his own house, by a forceful little person with the face of an angel.

The bathroom was another source of fun for my nephew. One night, I realized that he’d been in there too long. I knocked at the door.

“Nathan?”

“Can I have privacy please?” he said.

“What are doing in there?”

“Nothing.” PLOP. I heard something fall into the toilet. I guessed it was either toothpaste or my hairbrush.

“Nathan, what was that?”

“Can I have privacy?”

I applauded my sister for raising such a polite child and was, thus, momentarily swayed from my mission.

“Don’t put anything in the toilet, Nathan. Just pee and poop.”

A small voice replied, “But I have to.”

To which my sister swooped in and took charge. Whew! I’d never want to be known as the aunt who doesn’t give someone their privacy.

  

* * *

My daughter’s father lives in Las Vegas. He has an exciting, and often high-pressure, job as a chef in a famous casino. Two or three times a year, my daughter goes to Las Vegas to visit him.

Anyone who has put his or her child alone on a plane knows the angst that the parent experiences for the entire duration of the flight. Until you hear their voice on the other end of the line, “I’m here! Daddy picked me up at the gate,” you don’t relax or even sleep, even if that call comes at 3 am.

Perhaps, once in your life, there’s the ‘airplane trouble’ call. That’s the call that comes much too early to be good news. 

When my daughter was eleven years old, she called two hours after her flight took off.

“Hi Mom!”

“Where are you?”

“On the plane. The people sitting next to me let me use their phone.”

“Oh my god. Is everything alright?” Mild panic began.

“Oh yeah. We just ran out of fuel. We landed in Nebraska and they’re getting more now.”

Mild panic gave way to debilitating fear.

“You’re in Nebraska?!” I struggled to picture exactly where that state was. Darned Catholic school! I was taking penmanship when I should have been taking geography.

“Didn’t the pilots make sure there was enough fuel before they left?”

“I dunno. Mom, this lady needs her phone back. I gotta go.”

“Don’t get off the plane until you get to Nevada, honey!”

She sighed. “I won’t. Bye, Mom.”

“I love you! And be sure to thank those people!” There is never a wrong time to remind your child to be polite.

My mind raced with awful thoughts. Those people who lent their phone may be the ones who shoved my daughter under a seat as the plane went down. They may be the people who remembered how polite she’d been and that she had a loving mother and they’d share their floatation device as they bobbed in icy waters.

I took a deep breath and silently cursed parenting across the miles.

These cross country trips also went hand-in-hand with more commonplace problems, such as overcrowded airports, weather delays, suitcase dilemmas, jet lag, days missed from school and the inevitable stories about how daddy did things. Our lives paled somewhat in comparison.

Nonetheless, I always enjoyed getting calls from my daughter when she was on those trips.

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi baby! What are you doing today?”

“Grandpa took me on the roller coaster at the top of the Stratosphere casino! Yesterday we went skiing in Mt. Charleston. Today we’re going water-skiing on Lake Havasu and I saw a rap star in the lobby of the Bellagio Hotel!”

“Wow, that’s great!”

“What’s going on there?”

“We’re making egg salad… and we installed a new faucet, with a sprayer! You should see it.”

I knew our suburban life back East couldn’t compete with the excitement of Las Vegas. And that was all right with me. My daughter had the best of both worlds. Thrills with one parent and, with the other, a place to read in a hammock, to color Easter eggs and carve pumpkins. It all balanced out.

* * *

Chapter Six: House with a Teen Diva - PART II

* * *

When my daughter was in high school, we had the usual mother-daughter battles. Homework, chores, time spent on the computer, bedtime, curfews and important things, like reality shows. She implored for me to share her obsession for these inane programs and I’d refuse.

They were mostly about large groups of women, attractive women, doing outrageous and embarrassing things to gain the affections of one smug guy, usually an aging rock star or up-and-coming rapper.

I walked in on one episode and my eyes bulged.

“Oh it’s ok, Mom, they’re just having a pole dancing competition to see who gets voted off this week. Then next week they’ll bake cakes in the nude and put them on their private parts for (aging rock star’s) birthday.”

I almost fainted.

After a time, these shows weren’t even about famous people.

“Please, Mom,” she begged, “Watch this one with me! It’s about a thirty–year-old who still lives in his parents’ basement!”

“That’s not a show; it’s a parent’s nightmare!” I replied.

“Oh, that’s not the whole show. These girls try to impress him, so that he chooses one of them as his girlfriend. And his parents help him choose!” She described it with the awe as if she were describing the secret of the Knights Templar.

I was incredulous. “These girls, are they pretty?”

“Gorgeous!”

“Do they have jobs?”

“Yeah.”

“Does HE have a job?”

“No. That’s why his parents want a girl who’ll be a good influence on him.”

I pondered on this. His parents were geniuses! They were getting paid by television executives to pawn their freeloading son off on some dim-witted beauty with a job, who would support him and finally get him out of their basement. They will finally get to enjoy their retirement and turn that space into a room where their Canasta club could meet! I was chuckling over this when I heard my daughter sigh, “I’d love to be on a reality show.”

I shuddered. I took her gently by the shoulders, looked into her eyes and said, “Promise me that you will never be on a reality show. You are smart and beautiful and do not have to humiliate yourself to become famous. For God’s sake, you’re going to be a nurse!”

She simply laughed.

“If you do,” I pleaded, “I will be forced to poke out my eyes with a rusty fork. Do you want that to happen?”

She rolled her eyes in the talented way teens do, “Oh mom, you’re so dramatic.” And she went back to watching twenty-seven drunken women cat-fighting in Jello.

* * *

      

Rob called me over one morning and whispered, “Do you think you could ask her to not leave her dirty underwear, bras and other stuff in the bathroom?”

I knew that by ‘stuff,’ he meant things too embarrassing to mention; things he’d not seen since he lived at home with his mom and had no choice.

“Sure, honey. But remember, you are living with women now.”

“Tell me about it, even the cat is female,” he sulked. I patted him on the shoulder, agreeing silently. Truth be told, my daughter was the messiest person I’d ever known. She had deftly avoided the neatness gene that ran on my side of the family and could turn any room into tornado rubble in less than an hour.

Later I asked her, “Could you please clean up after yourself in the bathroom?”

“I live here too, you know.”

“I know, dear. But it’s unsettling for a man who’s lived alone for fifteen years to find feminine products strewn around like party favors!”

“Rob should get used to it. After all, he lives with you now too.”

“Yes, but I have obsessive compulsive disorder and don’t leave rooms the way you do.”

She frowned. I knew that this was not about cleaning up, but about who was first in mommy’s heart. I hugged her and gave her a smile. “You’re my baby girl and it’s just been you and me living alone for a long time. But let’s be fair. If Rob left a mess all over the house, you’d be cranky too.”

She relented, “OK.”

The next day, after she left for school, the medicine cabinet was open, the toilet was unflushed, the toothpaste tube was oozing and her makeup bag spilled onto the vanity. But she’d picked up her dirty clothes and tossed them onto her bedroom floor and she’d slung her wet towels over the shower rod. I smiled and put her dirty clothes in the hamper. Hey, she made an effort. It was good enough for me.  

 

  

* * *

Chapter Six: House with a Teen Diva- part I

Ch 6. House with a Teen Diva

Raising a child today, especially a teenager, is an amazing experience. You have those beautiful memories that stay with you for life. Like Halloween when she was ten and dressed as a pop singer. No one knew who she was supposed to be, so the teachers made her wear a sign around her neck.

Like having the sex talk when she was twelve. She sat on the bed with a blanket over her head the entire time. I was delicate. I’d rehearsed for weeks. When I was finished, she said from underneath, “Yuck! Old people do that too?”

My daughter ran away once, to our front lawn. She was seven at the time and we’d just had an argument. She took the necessities with her − pretzel sticks, her feather collection and her Big Bird purse. She left a note that said, “I guess I have to live in the wild and be without a mom.” I joined her on the lawn and we settled our differences before dinner.

When she was fifteen and home alone one day, a firefighter knocked on our apartment door saying that a unit downstairs had had a small kitchen fire and she should leave the premises and take our important possessions. She took her iPod, her cell phone, her purse and the cat.

* * *

Like other Generation X-ers, I was a kid in the innocent seventies. We grew up with television shows like Sesame Street, Mister Rogers and The Magic Garden, where hippie girls, Carol and Paula, strummed guitars and picked jokes from the ‘giggle patch.’ Our cartoons were Woody Woodpecker and Tom and Jerry. Land of the Lost was as exciting as it got. Even in science fiction programs, like Battlestar Galactica and Buck Rogers, the actors had feathered hair and bell-bottoms. Video games were archaic: Pong and Asteroids. Most families didn’t own a VCR until the mid eighties. As a result, we became the most air-headed generation on the planet. We were gullible idealists.

This new generation of young people, referred to as Generation Y, astounded me. They grew up watching sharp, witty cartoons on Nickelodeon. Their television programs delved into subject matter that was far beyond their parents’ understanding at that age. These kids had access to technology we could only dream of. They learned to type at age six. They took subjects in school that didn’t exist when we were young. They matured faster and proved to be more intelligent, shrewd and insightful than we were in youth. Generation Y was simply more adept and skilled in life. How else could you explain all those creative You Tube skits?

My daughter was an amazing multi-tasker. I have personally witnessed her doing the following things at the same time:

·        work on a research paper at the computer

·        study for a math test

·        instant message seven friends

·        check her social network page

·        listen to an iPod

·        text on her cell phone

·        eat a bag of Skittles  

·        watch television

(And she still had time to ignore me when I asked her to put her dishes in the sink.)

This generation made us accustomed to folks talking to themselves in supermarket aisles. They’re not crazy; they’re using a Bluetooth! We got used to asking a question and then having to repeat it after the salesperson pulled an iPod bud from their ear. We no longer mind waiting for the checkout person to finish a text message before ringing up our purchase. We hear song lyrics that were so raw we wouldn’t even whisper them under the sheets on our wedding night.

I’ve learned that today’s teens don’t consider nicknames embarrassing. In fact, the more outrageous, the better. They are usually a description of one’s affinities.

“Who’s coming over this afternoon?” I asked my daughter.

“Let’s see…Smoky, Lushy, P-love and Taco Madness. Revs it Loud might come by later.”

“Well, there are plenty of snacks in the cupboard.”

I’ve also learned that this generation had no qualms about flirting with their elders. At a high school basketball game, I passed a group of eleventh grade boys. The leader of the bunch, who was decked out in Abercrombie & Fitch, looked me up and down and uttered a suave, “How you doin’?” I was so taken back that I blushed and dashed into the ladies’ room. When I got back to the bleachers, I complained to my daughter about the boy’s disrespectful behavior. She laughed and said, “Oh Mom. Hot parents are in! You should be flattered.”

It’s a whole new game. Daughters don’t beg their mothers anymore to let them get their ears pierced. They beg to get their belly buttons pierced. They beg for tattoos! There is a fashion precision in how teens dress, one that parents can never hope to attain. It is based on a style algorithm so complex that even biochemists cannot figure it out.  

Online lingo is a mysterious second language. Just when we applauded ourselves for knowing what LOL meant (for a year, I thought that it meant “lotsa luck”) along came more acronyms. POS “parent over shoulder,” SMH “shaking my head.” I don’t know who teaches these or where the schools are located, but I need a refresher course!

There are some positive things my daughter taught me about how things have changed. I stood before my bedroom mirror once, complaining about my rear end. She said, “You don’t have a big butt, Mom.”

Then she looked into the mirror at her slim, model-like frame and sighed, “And I have the same booty as you. We wish we had big booties.”

“We do?”

“Oh yeah. Big butts are popular. The most popular girls at school have big butts.”

“What?” I grimaced. That went against years of ingrained fitness obsessions and gaunt models I’d seen throughout my youth.

“Honey,” I explained. “In high school, we purposely didn’t buy jeans that had pockets on the seat, afraid that it made our rear ends look bigger!”

She shook her head.

“I kill myself on a Stairmaster three times a week to eliminate my booty!”

She replied somberly, “Stop doing that.” 

I stared perplexed into the mirror. As she walked out of the room, she called over her shoulder, “Butts are the new boobs.”

I was delighted. Thank goodness, someone told me!   

 ***

Chapter Five: Fun and Fitness

Ch. 5 Fun and Fitness

  

We considered ourselves a healthy, contemporary couple. We hiked, exercised, did yoga and even tried ballroom dancing. I discovered that I was not very coordinated. I tried to get Rob to take me golfing, but he refused and hid his clubs.

As a matter of fact, Rob and I first met at the gym. I was going through my Heath Ledger stage and immediately noticed Rob’s movie star face. I approached him after doing thirty minutes on the stair climber, forgetting that maybe “sweaty” wasn’t my best look. However, Rob was receptive. He also stated, “Actually people think I look more like Ben Affleck.”

Since we met one another in a gym setting, certain assumptions were made. I assumed that Rob was a non-smoker (wrong), that he always wore a seat belt (wrong again), and had no vices (wrong). He, in turn, thought that I was earthy, a non-drinker and a dog-lover. Assumptions can be deceiving, which was proven when we went on our first hike and climbed into an old stone bridge. I laughed at spray-painted words that read ‘I’m not as think as I drunk I am.’ Rob pointed and exclaimed, “Hey, I put that there in high school!”

Like most couples, we loved to cook, and loved to eat even more. After moving into our new home, we experienced a period of nesting. We’d prefer to stay home on Saturday nights and watch a DVD instead of going out. We’d prepare gourmet meals from the latest issue of Food & Wine. We’d come home on Fridays, arms laden with libations from the winery, with the simple plan of sipping it all night on the couch. These were the reasons, I told myself, for the dismal news my doctor gave me.

“Well, you seem to be in good health,” she said with a smile at my annual check up. “Blood pressure’s excellent. Although I guess you’re not happy about the weight gain.”

“What weight gain?” I asked.

“You’ve gained ten pounds since your last visit.”

I was stunned! Ten pounds? Truth be told, some of my clothes didn’t fit as well as they used to. I thought they’d shrunk. The doctor quickly added, “Oh honey, don’t worry about it. I chaperoned a high school trip to London last month and did so much walking, I was sure I’d lost weight. But instead I gained a few pounds.”

She added quietly, “It must have been the wine...”

I was dismayed. How did those malevolent ten pounds get there? I went home and lamented to anyone who would listen. 

“Ten pounds, Rob. Ten pounds! How did this happen?”

He stood there silently.

“You must’ve noticed,” I added. “You noticed and didn’t say anything?”

I threw my arms around him, “Thank you. Thank you for being the kind of man that notices and doesn’t say anything!”

I went on, “You know how this happened? We moved into the house and we got fat and happy!”

He broke out of his silence, nearly shouting, “I know! That’s why I’ve started going to the gym every day. Look at this, look at this.”

Rob lifted his shirt and pointed to his stomach. “I used to have a six-pack! Now I have a no-pack.”

“What are you complaining about? You’re stomach is practically concave.”

“Oh yeah, what’s this?” He pinched four centimeters of flesh between his fingers.

“It’s called skin. If you didn’t have it, your guts would fall out.”

I walked away. He couldn’t understand my plight. I was of a generation of women who’d given birth after gaining fifty pounds on a nine-month Sarah Lee binge. We had love handles elusively planted on our midsections, never to be removed. Due to a fashion conspiracy called low-cut jeans the terrible term ‘muffin tops’ came into being!

I even complained to my co-workers. Anyone over fifty chuckled at me, “Metabolism came to a screeching halt, eh? Yup. Been there.”

Feeling sorry for myself, I decided to go shopping. Ten minutes after I entered the store, while standing naked in front of a full-length mirror, I sent a desperate text message to my best friend, which read, “I’m in a dressing room in Old Navy and I FOUND THE EXTRA TEN POUNDS!”

Such is life. We all had our chance to be eighteen and svelte. When I saw my teenage daughter with a buttered roll in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other, I told her, “Enjoy it while you can!”

***