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Stuck in the Happiest Place on Earth

It had been over six years since our last visit to Disneyland, and the kids and I could hardly wait.

Unfortunately, we had to wait with Grumpy.

“Aaaargh!” Lines! Nothing but… LINES!” blasted Hubby. “We’ve died,” he informed us. “And this is Hell.”

I ignored him. Hubby is an engineer. They really hate to stand in line–it’s some kind of superiority complex thing they’ve got going. Besides, we hadn’t even passed through the Main Gate turnstiles yet.

“Cattle in a slaughterhouse,” said Hubby. “That’s all we are.”

Every Main Gate line stretched out endlessly, but at least the others were moving. Our ticket taker was a little too happy to be efficient. He whistled as the woman in front of us gave him her family’s tickets.

“Hey, LADY,” he said cheerfully, waving the tickets. She and her family stopped. Happy leaned forward, his elbows resting on his turnstile desk.

“These are COMPLIMENTARY PASSES,” he enthused. “You can keep ’em for SOUVENIRS.”

The woman nodded, smiling.

“Moo-oove,” said Hubby.

“But in THIS line,” Happy continued, “I have to RIP ’em. That’ll RUIN your nice souvenir tickets. Now, over THERE,” he pointed stage right, “they STAMP your tickets. Keeps ’em nice and pretty.”

He smiled broadly. “So, LADY. You want me to RIP ’em? Or you want THOSE GUYS” he pointed again, “to STAMP ’em?”

This woman obviously did not speak English, a fact that somehow escaped Happy. Yet even he should have understood her body language: she thought something was wrong with her tickets.

Hunching over her passes, she searched for the defect. Her family shuffled uneasily behind her. “Eh?” she asked.

Happy politely cleared his throat. Then he repeated his speech.

Loudly.

Hubby groaned. “Seven bucks. Just to park.” he said pitifully. “So we can walk a mile to a tram. To wait in a LINE.”

Maybe the boys and I could give him the slip once we got inside. I really wanted a nice family experience, but I doubted even Jessica Rabbit could’ve put Hubby in a decent frame of mind at that point.

“So, lady,” said Happy, slowly, deliberately and oh, so very loudly. “You want I should RIP ‘EM? Or you want THOSE GUYS” he pointed, “to STAMP ‘EM?”

The woman’s family craned their necks to look where he pointed. They didn’t know what they were looking at, but you could tell they hoped it was an explanation.

“Tell you what,” Happy annunciated. “I’ll call down THERE,” he pointed right again. “One of THOSE GUYS can come up HERE, and STAMP your tickets!”

Happy picked up his phone and dialed. The family discussed this latest development in hushed and worried whispers.

“Look!” Hubby gave an anguished cry. “If we’d gotten into that line, we’d be walking through the gate right now. But NO! We’re rats.  In a maze.”

The woman suddenly stiffened. She pushed the tickets forward, gently but purposefully, her eyes locked on Happy’s face.

Happy put his phone down, his buoyant brows now furrowed. Then he grinned.

“Oh!” he said. “You want me to RIP the tickets. Okay, lady, sure thing! Here you go!”

The entire line gasped in relief.

“Amazing!” said Hubby. “We’ve actually taken a step. It’s a miracle. Hello! Another step. Praise Mickey.”

Happy waved us through the turnstiles. Hubby didn’t wave back.

“Finally,” he said, power-walking down Main Street. “C’mon! Time to go wait in some more lines.”

It was coming back to me, the reason we hadn’t returned to the Magic Kingdom for over six years.

And we really had to scoot to keep up with him.

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Is There Really an Organic Way to Repel Fire Ants and Other Insect Pests From Our Yards?

The Worm Man

Not long after my fire ant column, “Go Away! Ant That Means YOU” made it into the San Diego Union-Tribune I received a phone call from a reader, a Mr. George Hahn.

After our initial confusion (I thought he was an editor; he thought I was a reporter) Hahn explained that he owns California Vermiculture, the company that produces Wormgold earthworm castings.

My disappointment at not being hired as a columnist was great, but I got over it. Besides, Hahn’s subject matter was pretty entertaining.

For those of you who don’t know, worm castings are a polite way of saying worm POOP. And Hahn was on the phone to tell me he has the organic solution to California’s recent fire ant invasion: worm poop. Continue reading “Is There Really an Organic Way to Repel Fire Ants and Other Insect Pests From Our Yards?”

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My Chicharones

I was sweating like the proverbial porker. Crammed into a tiny dressing room with a 75-watt bulb set on stun, I attempted to stuff my hams into a casing the locals call a wetsuit.

“It’s supposed to fit tight,” Witt called out from behind the door. “Like a second skin.”

Second skin my chicharones. This baby was tighter than my first skin, twenty pounds ago. The truth is, wetsuits are nothing but full-body pantyhose on steroids. Continue reading “My Chicharones”

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La Difference

I do not believe that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. It’s absolutely impossible we come from the same solar system.

I was reminded of this recently when our friend Tony had surgery for a brain tumor. My hubby took the day off from work to sit with the family and provide them what assistance he could. His devotion knew no bounds. To prove it, he gave Tony the roasting of his life.

“Tony, those directions you gave me were terrible. What’s wrong with you? You got a BRAIN TUMOR or something?”

When Hubby recounted this and several other of the day’s witticisms to me he could hardly contain himself. I waited expectantly for the part where someone called security and hauled him off for a psychiatric evaluation. After all, Tony’s whole family was there, grimly awaiting the moment when Tony’s brain would be unwrapped with the medical equivalent of a can opener.

Yet Hubby claimed nobody tried to get rid of him. According to him, Tony shouted “You nutcase!” and they all bust their guts laughing.

Frankly, I think Hubby is lying. I’ll bet at least Tony’s mother had been on approach to whacking him over the head with the bedpan but caught herself just in time, when Tony indicated he knew the joker.

I do believe humor has its place in the infirmary. What I just don’t understand is the male tendency to poke fun at the wounded. What I find even harder to believe is how the male wounded like it, but they do.

Perhaps it’s just me. I never did understand my husband’s sense of humor. Take the time I lay writhing in the hospital with appendicitis. Hubby held my fingers with one hand, fiddled the TV knob with the other and said, “Just burp. You’ll feel better and we can get out of here before the playoffs start.”

Perhaps a better woman would’ve laughed and called him a nutcase. But I didn’t laugh and I used stronger language than “nutcase.” And if I’d known where it was, I would’ve hit him over the head with the bedpan.

He swears he was just being a supportive husband. I didn’t think so until Tony’s operation, when I began to see the whole issue in the terms of gender differences. Perhaps my man was being supportive in a man’s way, and perhaps I was stuck in my outdated expectations and didn’t realize I was married to my very own Patch Adams.

Who knows? At least Tony’s surgery went well. He is now recovering nicely at home, where Hubby and two other buddies spent an afternoon with him last week. They planned this visit for days.

First, they told him that he looked like he was going to recover… so they’d give him back the furniture they stole from his office.

Then they guzzled a couple of expensive beers in front of him, knowing full well Tony’s doctor wouldn’t allow him alcohol for weeks.

Finally, they played a game of hearts, the better to lay zingers on the poor guy when he took a bad trick, like, “Looks like they cut out a little more gray matter than they originally let on, hunh, old buddy?”

When Hubby came back from this good will tour, I asked him how it went.

“Fine!” he said, grinning fondly at the memory. “Tony said he had a great time. He called us a bunch of crazy chuckleheads.”

I left him to reminisce and called up my sister. I made her promise that if I ever had to be hospitalized, I wanted her there, armed with the bedpan.

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The Phantom

Sometimes a parent just knows.

When the doorbell rang, I just knew what nasty Halloween prank I’d find on my front porch. (Besides, it was dark and I could hear the perpetrator running away.)

I flung open the front door. My son screamed at the sight that awaited us.

“AIEEEE! We’ve been Phantomed!”

Just as I thought.

A paper plate of Halloween goodies rested on the ground with a flyer fastened on top. Outlined in black ink on the flyer wasthe mug shot of a benign-looking ghost.

My youngest rushed to see for himself. “Hooray! Now we get to Phantom somebody! Yippee!”

“Yeah,” I said half-heartedly. “Yippee.”

I hate the Phantom. Every October we receive a plate of treats and a cute Halloween chain letter threatening us with a curse unless we “Phantom” two more households within 24 hours. It’s like a supernatural hostage situation with multi-level-marketing.

“We’ve got to Phantom two houses,” insisted my oldest, “or we’ll get warts! Can we open the bags of tricker-treeter candy and Phantom with it?”

Oh sure. That’d protect them from the Phantom’s Curse, but then I’d be exposed to the Curse of the Halloween Candy Bag That Was Opened Too Soon. The first of this holiday season’s weight gain, courtesy of the Phantom.

“Thanks a lot, Phantom.” I snarled.

“Yeah,” agreed the kids, about to chomp down on goodies. “Thanks, Phantom!”

“Wait a minute!” I demanded, grabbing the plate. “You can’t be too careful nowadays.” I examined the treats: candy, two Halloween trinkets… and fresh-baked cookies.

Aha! Didi was baking today. Darn her and her cookies. No Chips Ahoy for that woman–she’s got to show us all up with authentic Tollhouse.

“Mom, let’s Phantom somebody tonight!”

“Yeah, Mom!”

“Not tonight,” I begged. “And instead of candy, let’s bake something.” Why ruin my neighborhood goody-giving reputation with some cheap Tootsie Rolls?

The next night the doorbell rang and a chill ran down my spine. I’d forgotten to bake cookies!

Even worse, I’d forgotten to put up the Phantom equivalent of a garlic wreath. Without the friendly ghost picture taped to our door, we were sitting ducks for more Phantoming.

“Hooray!” shouted the boys from the front door. “We were Phantomed again!”

“It’s not fair!” I cried out to the darkness. “We were already Phantomed! Take it back!”

A gleeful voice answered, its owner and her kids running away in the night: “Too bad! You shoulda put up the picture! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“Now we hafta do FOUR Phantoms!” crowed the oldest, giving his brother a high-five.

Darn! By now the entire neighborhood would be Phantomed. In fact, the odds of us finding an un-Phantomed door were decreasing rapidly, and we needed four. We’d be driving for miles.

Hubby watched us as we searched for the tape to put up the ghost picture.

“You know,” he said finally, “this Phantom is really a pyramid scheme.”

I was in a foul mood. “Tell me about it!”

But he was speaking to the boys. “Ultimately, people will run out of doors without Phantom pictures on it, and then what will everybody do?”

News of this impending tragedy left our boys gulping in sympathy.

“But if we don’t tape that picture to our door, not only will we protect our wood finish, we’ll provide a place for desperate people to Phantom! Why, it’d be like offering a needed
service.”

Then Hubby frowned. “The only problem is,” he said sadly–as if the boys would be upset to hear this part, “that you’d get lots of treats.”

Their eyes widened. “But the curse! We’ll get warts!”

“You won’t! And boys, if you really want to help people, don’t Phantom anyone else. You’ll free up even more doors.”

Under his breath he added, “and we won’t be guilty of extortion.”

The man was brilliant.

“Well!” I said happily. “What will it be? Providing aid to our neighbors and raking in the treats? Or living in fear of a silly warts curse?”

Somehow I just knew what their answer would be.

Besides, I also knew where to buy Compound W.

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Mr. Beefcakes Goes for the Burn

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.  And sometimes a fancy workout machine is really just an oversized clothes hanger.  At least, that’s what I insisted as an employee from Scratch and Dent Fitness installed one slightly used Hoist 200 into our kitchen/family room.

I’m a fitness videotape kind of gal.  So was Hubby, until a few Hoist brochures revealed this gender blunder to him.

“Come on,” I said. “One reason we bought this house was because it had a walk-in closet. How much more clothes space do you need?”

“I’m gonna WORK OUT with it. End of discussion,” he said.

Two months later and he still hadn’t draped a pair of pants over it. When Didi came over to borrow some butter she caught him pulling down on the lat bar.

“Whoo-eee!” she squealed.

My head popped out of our refrigerator. “What?”

“Look at him! He’s working out!”

Hubby perked up when he heard this. He flexed coyly, a religious experience for Didi.

“OH MY GAWD!” she cried. “Look at those MUSCLES!”

I looked. He did seem kind of brawny in his sleeveless tee and shorts, and if he made one more pose I was going to have to throw a bucket of water over Didi.

Word travels fast in our little cul-de-sac. It wasn’t too long before my workout buddy Rita was itching to get some pointers from my newly buff husband. In a moment of temporary insanity I mentioned this to him.

“Great!” he said enthusiastically. “I’ll have both of you in peak form in no time.”

That night Rita and I stretched on beach towels in the kitchen/family room while he gave us a Navy Seals pep talk. He used sound bites like “terrify your muscles into submission,” and “forced to the end of your limits.”

I rolled my eyes like a punk in detention and glanced at Rita.  She was practically eating out of the palm of his leather weight-lifting glove.

I reconsidered. Hubby did have some incredible muscles. Should I dismiss this fitness visionary merely because I was married to him?

“Okay,” I said. “What do I have to do?”

He handed me a 40-pound dumbbell for some lat row exercises. Until then I’d managed to do lat rows with 15-pounders… and thought I was hot stuff doing it.

“No way,” I protested.

“Just do it,” he said.

I tried to pull the weight up but it wouldn’t budge. I peeked at Rita. Grimacing, she pulled hard on hers. It rested on the carpet, undisturbed.

Hubby winced.

Shaking his head, he brought us down to 35, and then 30 pounds. Finally, he said if we went any lower than 25 pounds we’d shame all of womankind. I pulled with all my strength but my elbow couldn’t make it past my back.

“Rita,” I grunted, “I’m seriously hating your guts right now.”

Hearing this, Rita hauled elbow on her dumbbell and managed to lift it. Not to be outdone, I doubled my efforts. The dumbbell inched upward. Soon we were sweating and snorting like pigs.

I suddenly remembered how much I disliked Hubby as my labor and delivery coach. Halfway through, he had dumped the Lamaze script to quote instead from Diatribes by Pat Riley.

“Work through the pain!” he had urged. “Rise above it! Use it! Stomp it! Mangle it!”

Somehow I made it through childbirth. But this Workout from Hell was going to kill me. How could I escape?  Probably I’d have to knock Hubby out–with one of the dumbbells I could lift over my head, a 12-pounder, maybe. It would be hard, though, unless Rita helped.

A cigar may be just a cigar, I thought while plotting my retreat, but the fitness visionary in my kitchen/family room was really just a frustrated Lakers coach with good muscle definition.

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Worm Castings vs. Argentine Ants: Log

Thursday, September 21, 2000

I have two very small flowerbeds on my property, one on the right side of our garage and one on the left. Both have been homes to Alice du Pont Mandevillas, aphids, sowbugs, earwigs, and Argentine Ant nests for five years.

In the right bed I spread a layer of worm castings about 1 inch thick and watered it according to the instructions provided by the Wormgold company. Continue reading “Worm Castings vs. Argentine Ants: Log”

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Revenge a Dish Best Served on Dirty Plates

My husband claims I write a skewed version of the truth about him once a month. He refers, of course, to PMS days–those dark times when Hubby and the kids find it necessary to Pummel My Sanity.

Well, I say turnabout is fair play. After all, his co-workers receive a skewed version of the truth about me daily. This makes for some pretty bizarre conversation at company parties.

HUBBY’S CO-WORKER: So glad to finally meet you. I heard all about your incredible diet!

ME: Hunh?

CO-WORKER: How you lost 300 pounds! Yeah! And before that–how you made a size 66 wedding dress–from SAIL CLOTH, for gosh sakes–it’s inspirational!

ME: I am inspired to explain something about my husband’s sense of humor…

Or take this beach picnic chat:

HUBBY’S CO-WORKER: So! You completed a dog obedience course recently, eh?

ME: Yeah.

COWORKER: Tell me how exactly you used those techniques to teach your kids to fetch!

ME: What?

COWORKER: Must be something to see that kid balancing a bonbon on his nose!

ME: Excuse me a minute, will ya? Oh, Hubby dear, where are you?

I figure I have years of payback to squish into a monthly Pummel My Sanity column.

Speaking of which, ever notice how some men act when they’re confronted with housework they don’t normally do, like cleaning bathrooms or doing dishes?

HUBBY: This kitchen is a sty! (Hubby is an engineer with incredible powers of observation.)

HUBBY: Somebody needs to clean it up! (Here he uses an engineer’s problem-solving capabilities.)

HUBBY: Yep. Somebody needs to clean up this sty! (Engineers recap a lot, unless it’s a toothpaste tube.)

ME: Hubby, I’m swamped! Maybe you could do it?

HUBBY: Oh, sure, you’d like that. Why don’t I just take over ALL the household chores? I’m practically doing everything right now.

ME: You mow the lawn and you wash your car.

HUBBY: What else needs to be done around here?

To be totally fair, I admit Hubby works a lot of overtime at his day job, which is why I usually do the housework. And he does clean the kitchen occasionally.

Usually it goes like this:

HUBBY: I am DOING the DISHES NOW. Where is the detergent? What? I have to scrub pots? Why are we using pots? Where did all the dirty plates come from? Yuck! Gross. Are those crumbs on the floor? Yes! There are crumbs on the floor! Who left those crumbs on the floor? Where does this pan go? Where do we put the salt and pepper? Hey, the honey jar is sticky! Don’t look at me like that, little missee. I’m just trying to understand how come the honey jar gets sticky!

The soliloquy lasts about an hour. Then the boys and I get a tour.

HUBBY: This is what a clean kitchen looks like. Just look at this nice, clean kitchen. And see, I swept the floor. I used the broom. I used the dustpan, too. And I pushed the chairs in at the table! The toaster’s put away, too. Cool, hunh? And no spills on the cooktop, because I cleaned them all up. And see here? I cleaned out the sink. I used a non-abrasive cleanser. Yup! No scratches. This kitchen never looked so good.

ME: Sure it does! When I clean it up.

HUBBY: You clean?

In conclusion, I want to squelch once and for all a rumor going around at Hubby’s place of employment

After Hubby regained consciousness, the reverend did find him competent enough to continue with the ceremony. Therefore we ARE legally married.

PMS my foot.

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Thanks a Lot, Mom

Mom always said we’d never know when a bus might hit us and paramedics would have to check out our underwear.

She neglected to mention that most medical emergencies don’t need paramedics, much less require them to examine your underwear. It’s your outerwear getting scrutinized during all those crises unattended by fire trucks.

Take the time I was folding laundry and heard a shriek from the kitchen. Not your ordinary kind of shriek, mind you.  More of a “We’re About to Use Up the Deductible” kind of shriek, generated by my 7-year-old landing chin first on the kitchen floor.

Tilting his head back to check for loose teeth, I found myself looking at two mouths. One was where a mouth should be. The other was directly below it, where a chin should be.

As I gazed at this physical anomaly, drops of blood welled up in the corners of the new mouth.

Whoa, baby, I thought, and went into ER mode. I grabbed a dishtowel for his chin and put both boys into the car. I dialed the pediatrician and shouted that I was coming in, STAT, with a kid with two mouths.

I threw on some shoes, jumped into the car and drove as safely as one can at light speed.

The medical center parking lot was packed. I found a “compact only” space wedged between two Suburbans and shoehorned our Caravan into it. I barely managed to squeeze out my door.

When I extracted the boys I discovered they were both barefoot. The youngest was wearing plaid shorts and an inside-out striped shirt. My oldest sported a T-shirt sampled with splotches of breakfast and blood.

The patched overalls I’d put on that morning to pull weeds had big mud stains at the knees. I had sun hat hair, my shoes didn’t match, and as I hoisted my handbag to my shoulder I noticed a big squiggle of grease on my sleeve from the car door.

All we needed to complete this picture was a hand-lettered, cardboard sign reading, “Will work for Happy Meals.”

But this was no time to be worried about appearances. I picked up both boys and staggered through the parking lot. By the time we reached the receptionist I was sweaty and gasping for breath.

“Hi,” I panted, “my son split his chin open and normally we don’t look like this.”

After an exam in which my boy screamed like a banshee when anyone touched him, the doctor diagnosed one split chin, one minor jaw fracture, and one perforated ear canal. They stitched him up and whisked us off to some specialists.

No time to go home and change.

Three doctors’ offices later, the last specialist was giving me instructions.

“Put these drops into his ear when you change the packing,” he intoned. “Keep it moist.”

I vowed I would.

“No swimming,” he added. “The drier his ear stays, the better.”

Now I may not be the sharpest knife in the flatware set, but I sensed a contradiction here.

“Dry?” I asked, uncertainly. “But the drops–”

“–are to keep it moist. It must stay moist.”

“But you said to keep it dry.”

“Yes. The drier, the better.”

“Forgive me,” I said meekly, “but…”

“Is there a problem?” He focused on me for the first time since we crashed into his office. Frowning, he took in my muddy overalls, the barefoot boys, our mismatched clothing.

Exhausted, I just stood there, blinking at him.

“Perhaps the nurse will explain it better,” he said, exiting.

“Hey!” I called out. “We’re all wearing clean underwear!”

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Prozac Summer

It’d been a bad day.

“Didi,” I said, holding my head in my hands, “I think I need to go on Prozac.”

“You? On Prozac?” She snorted, wiping a speck of dust from her spotless kitchen island. “Honey, if anybody needs Prozac, it’s me.”

She pointed her thumb at her chest and then used it to scrape something microscopic off the counter.

“Hell,” she added, flicking the mote into the trash, “even my mother tells me I need Prozac.” Continue reading “Prozac Summer”