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Pushed to a Frizzle

Remember that pain-in-the-neck kid in your class who was always jerking her arm into the air and whining, “Let me do it! Let me do it!”?

I never grew out of that.

When the PTA Chair mentioned it was too bad nobody wanted to play the cartoon character for the Book Fair, countless years of frustrated acting ambition erupted out of me. I almost knocked her down grabbing the costume box.

It was my chance, my big break. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it would be the best, darn… I looked at the box. The label read: “Magic School Bus–Ms. Frizzle–Our Universe.”

All right then, it would be the best, darn Ms. Frizzle the PTA had ever seen.

I went home and popped some Magic School Bus videos into the VCR. Turns out, Ms. Frizzle is an eccentric teacher who always wears outfits matching her science topic. She drives a magic school bus that transports her class to exotic locales like outer space and the human digestive tract.

Confident I had a handle on her motivation, I opened the costume box. Inside was a red wig and a dress plastered with stars and planets. There were even shoe buckles shaped like Saturn.

Pulling her dress on over my head, I immediately discovered something about Ms. Frizzle I didn’t notice in the videos.

Ms. Frizzle was stacked.

You don’t often see an hourglass figure like hers anymore. Nowadays the beauty standard is less hourglass and more “candy apple on a stick.” Unfortunately, my candy apple is upside down.

I’d need some major planetary bodies to fill out her dress. Digging through my dusty lingerie drawer, I found the Wonder-Bra I’d been too embarrassed to return. It was… insufficient. To say the least.

Time for the sock drawer. Six pairs later, Ms. Frizzle had a proper foundation under her cosmos.

In fact, Ms. Frizzle was looking pretty hot.

When I returned to the Book Fair the other PTA members cheered. Whether applauding me for filling the job they all hated or because they really liked my appearance, I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Applause can do that to you.

“THANK YOU,” Ms. Frizzle boomed. “NOW, CLASS, LET’S-”

“Save it,” said the PTA chair. “You’re due in kindergarten in five minutes.”

In no time I was swamped by a flash flood of ankle-biters. “NOW, CLASS,” I boomed, “LET’S-”

“Wow! It’s Ms. Frizzle!”

“I wanna ride in the Magic School Bus!”

“I love you, Ms. Frizzle!”

“Ms. Frizzle! Is that lipstick on your teeth?”

I licked my choppers until I got a thumbs up, thanked the kids and moved on. I was a big hit with the first, second and third-graders, too. Flush with success, I headed for the upper elementary playground.

Big mistake.

“Wow! It’s Ms. Frizzle!”

“Haw, haw! Sucker!”

“What a dweeb!”

“Ms. Frizzle, is that Jupiter or is that your butt?”

In my haste to escape I collided with two upper grade girls. As I frantically refastened my wig one of them touched the bodice of my dress.

“Where’s your bust?” she asked.

“Where do you think?” I snapped. “Under a dozen socks and a Wonder-Bra. Satisfied?” I stomped off.

Two minutes later I realized what she’d really asked me: “Where’s your bus?”

Ashamed of myself, I hid in the PTA trailer until my husband picked me up. While he took in the newest wonders in my universe, I blurted out the whole sordid story.

“Hubba, hubba!” he said. “I don’t know who you are, but let’s hurry back to my place before the wife shows up.”

It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it was the best, darn pickup line I’d ever heard.

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Go Away. Ant That Means YOU

I just got a postcard from the California Department of Food and Agriculture, warning me to be on the lookout for “The Red Menace” (AKA RIFA, or Red Imported Fire Ants). Ironic, isn’t it? We worry about earthquakes, fires, mudslides, riots, and killer bees−and fire ants sneak in through the back door.

I can tell you anything you want to know about fire ants because I lived in Texas for three years. The Lone Star State is also known worldwide by its other nickname, “The Land of Bugs.” And believe me, I stepped on some beauties. Continue reading “Go Away. Ant That Means YOU”

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Catwoman

Sophie and I pet-sit each other’s animals.  Not only do we save ourselves money on kennel fees, we also maintain a sacred vow: if either of us should die while on vacation, the other will hire a cleaning team, hose down the house and fold the laundry before grieving relatives claim their inheritance.

You can’t pay a kennel for that kind of service. Continue reading “Catwoman”

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Use the Force, Ellie Mae

Every summer I take a Weight Watchers cookbook and beat myself over the head with it.

Why, I groan, didn’t I exercise all year? Then at least I could be half as buff as my cousin, a former track star. When that gal drops her towel at the beach, nobody ever runs off screaming.

But this summer the cookbook stays shelved, because last New Year’s Day I told my neighbor Rita about my resolution to get in shape.

“Great!” said Rita. “We’ll work out together.”

I failed to tell Rita I make this resolution every year. I always work out for a few weeks… and then quit before January does. Working out with Rita meant I probably couldn’t quit until Valentine’s.

But Rita was resolved and so was I. (How was I to know that when some people make New Year’s Resolutions, they actually keep them?)

In the name of said resolutions, Rita has dragged me through horrific torture sessions (otherwise known as video workouts) in which we do god-awful things like hold weights on our shoulders while we climb up and down on 14-inch steps.

Yeah, it’s tough. But my jeans are loose and I’ve raised a few muscles. Heck, slather a little self-tanner on me and maybe I could drop my towel at the beach without scaring anybody. Then again, maybe not.

Either way, I have to admit that my Body by Rita came in handy the day before our last camping trip.

My husband usually loads our van roof rack. But he had to work late and I thought I’d help him out. So I put a chair next to the van and picked up a box of camp gear. Placing my foot on the chair, I hoisted the box to my shoulder… and stopped dead, because that dang thing was heavy.

I was about to give up and wait for Hubby when I noticed I was in the start position of the killer stepping exercise. So I stepped.

The box SAILED over the Caravan.

Now let me just say that blasting the Death Star couldn’t have given Luke any more pleasure than I got using the Force for the first time.

Two hours later Hubby found me in front of our van. “Hi,” I said brightly. “We’re all packed!”

Eyes wide, he surveyed my work. All three cargo boxes of camping gear were on the roof rack.

So was our tent, four folding chairs, two chaise lounges, a camp table and sun umbrella, an awning, the badminton and bocce ball sets, three boxes of food, four duffel bags, four sleeping bags and four bikes.

The bikes had been a bit of a challenge but I pretended they were wobbly barbells.

“Look at all the room inside the van!” I gushed, waving my hand like they do on game shows.

“We look like the Beverly Hillbillies,” he protested.

“Hee, hee! I’ll be Ellie Mae and you be Jethro.”

Hubby gestured at the loaded van. “YOU can be Jethro.”

The next morning the Caravan barely slowed to a park before I hopped out and raced over to my cousin’s campsite. I felt my budding muscles gave us something new in common to discuss.

“Hey!” I greeted her. “I’ve been working out.”

“Really.”

“Yep,” I sniffed modestly, flexing my biceps. “Loaded that Caravan all by myself.”

Cal Poly’s Star Athlete of 1984 looked me over like I was a javelin the size of a walrus.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, deflating quickly. “I’m kidding.”

Feeling the Force leave me as fast as its little Yoda legs could carry it, I scurried back to help Hubby unload the Caravan.

Should’ve packed that Weight Watchers cookbook on the roof rack, too.

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The Bell Tolls for 90 Days, Same as Cash

My neighbor Thelma and I were chatting over my gazanias when a station wagon careened into the cul-de-sac. It did a 180 and screeched to a halt, blocking off the entrance.

The doors flew open and two little girls in uniform and their mother shot out.

The girls headed in opposite directions for the houses on either side of the street. The mother stood her ground as another car bore down on her. Continue reading “The Bell Tolls for 90 Days, Same as Cash”

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The End of Life as We Know It

Hell froze over.

The four horsemen of the apocalypse would surely ride into the cul-de-sac at any moment.

I knew this was so because my son gave away all of his Pokémon cards.

He held a stack of them, about six inches high. First, he said good-bye to his cousins and his aunt and uncle. Then he said goodbye to his cards.

“Here, Scotty, these are for you!”

Scotty was speechless. So was I. The back of my fist was shoved into my mouth to prevent me from screaming.

As the boys hugged, I tried to recover. I wanted to say, “My God! How could you? Every cent of your birthday and allowance money spent on cards you’re just going to give away? Did I give birth to this indifference to the value of a buck?”

But I didn’t say that. Instead, I choked out the only thing darting about my cranium that was safe for public consumption.

“Son,” I gulped, “why don’t you give your cousin Katie some Pokémon cards, too?”

“But, Mom, she already got rid of her cards. Scotty still wants them, though.”

Katie dumped her cards, too? This was bad news. 

I knew the Pokémon craze would end eventually, just like I knew one day I’d turn 40. But so soon? It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ready. Talk about a major paradigm shift.

And what to do with that suitcase stockpile of Pokémon packs in the closet? It’d seemed like a brilliant idea at the time–a stash hidden for quickie presents, so when neighbor kids’ birthdays sneaked up on me I wouldn’t have to rush to the store.

But my idea wasn’t looking so smart as we waved goodbye to my son’s Pokémon cards.

As I glumly wondered how I’d dump a suitcase full of passé cards, Hubby tried to salvage a meaningful object lesson for the boys from the year’s Pokémon frenzy.

“I told you so,” he said.

“Dad!”

“I told you by Christmas you wouldn’t care about Pokémon anymore. But you said, ‘Dad!’ We’ll ALWAYS love Pokémon!‘” His voice dropped back into its normal range. “And I was right. The natural order of the universe is maintained.”

The boys rolled their eyes. I kept out of the conversation, not wanting the subject of the suitcase to come up.

I guess it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I’d gone through it before, but Pokémon was our first big fad. Somehow we never got bitten by the Beanie Bug, despite accidentally buying two early Beanies that would now be quite valuable if 1) I hadn’t taken the tags off (who knew?) and 2) I hadn’t tossed them into the wash when they got dirty (I repeat, who knew?).

But when the boys fell for Pokémon, it was their first time and they fell hard. I guess I did, too.

Hubby polished his fingernails on his pecs. “You may say it now: ‘Dad is NEVER wrong.'”

“Dad!” cried the boys. “Pokémon is nothing next to Magic cards.”

Ah. Magic, the Gathering cards. The replacement wasn’t just looming on the horizon, it was already in the door. And the boys’ empty plastic card-holders weren’t even cold yet.

Well. I wouldn’t get caught up in this fad. They could spend their money on Magic cards but not me. I learned my lesson. Never again would I be caught with a suitcase full of yesterday’s news. Not in this life.

“Mom,” said my son, “Greg’s birthday is coming up and he wants Magic cards.”

Darn.

I just hate these Infernal cold fronts.

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High Finance

Jenny called to let me in on her latest investment plan. “Four Happy Meals!” she crowed. “Got a complete set of toys!”

This really burned me up. Women everywhere were making a mint in collectibles while my MBA-toting husband fiddled with mutual funds. Continue reading “High Finance”

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We All Have to Go Sometime

It was a parent’s worst nightmare. My son, my sweet baby, held up on display for all to see.

He stood on a block before an unruly crowd. Every move he made broadcast his blatant disregard of his mother’s teachings, his refusal to conform to even the most elementary rules of human conduct.

“My God!” I cried, turning to my husband. “I asked you to make him go BEFORE the swim meet!”

It should be such a simple thing to comprehend: if you have to go, use the bathroom. Then you won’t have to go anymore and both of your hands will be free to play.

No matter how many times I explain this basic concept it goes right over their heads.

I try to illustrate my point by making them use the toilet before we leave the house. Heck, if we go to the mailbox I ask them to go to the bathroom first. But they always protest: “I don’t have to!” They could be doing the Dance so fast you can’t see their feet clearly, yet they refuse to admit to any unusual pressure in their lives at that minute.

When they were smaller, it was easier on everyone. I’d lead them to the commode and carefully supervise until they’d emptied themselves to my satisfaction.

They’re older now and being the boys they are, they think I’m invading their privacy if I even put my ear to the door.

“I don’t hear anything,” I shout.

“Mo-o-o-m!” they cry, disgusted.

“I don’t care! You’re not leaving that room until you produce something.”

Otherwise, all they’ll do is lock themselves in the powder room, turn on the water faucet and dance in private, until sufficient time has passed to throw me off the track.

I have to admit: even when I force them to go it isn’t any kind of a guarantee. I’m usually next in line after waiting through the longest checkout on Earth when my kids will suddenly do an about-face and insist that not only do they have to go, they have to go NOW.

That’s when I get to choose between losing my place or forcing other store patrons to use paddles to get back to the parking lot.

Or we’ll be on a nature hike, and the thrill of draining their very own army surplus canteens gives way to the inevitable. But the idea of going behind a tree or a bush is such an anathema to them that they become physically unable to perform the deed.

I never fall for this sudden prudishness. After all, I clean their bathrooms and I know they are quite capable of aiming anywhere other than at a toilet bowl.

Meanwhile, back at the swim meet, my son performed a series of movements that will never make the Tai Chi List of Acceptable Poses.

His elbows chugged back and forth. He lifted one foot high into the air and danced. His arms flailed for balance, then flew around as if he were swinging for invisible piñatas. One hand sneaked down toward his Speedo but popped right back over his head when my evil eye landed on it.

He wiggled his butt, he shook his head, he punched the air with his fists, until finally the whistle blew and he dove into the pool, mercifully putting an end to my misery.

“Well,” said another mother, trying to make me feel better, “maybe his water jet action will shave some seconds off his time.”