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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”

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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”