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.

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”

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.”

I Fought the Lawn and the Lawn Won

I’m a bad housekeeper but my hubby is worse, or at least he pretends to be.

He messes up any attempt to clean–a crafty but transparent plot to avoid housework. Supposedly he can’t remember how to sort lights from darks, or that you’re not supposed to wash plastic bags in the dishwasher.

He can’t ever find stuff, either. “You keep changing where things belong!” he complains, like it’s my fault we’ve lived here six years and he still doesn’t know where the ice cubes are.

Eh, I forgive him. At least he works hard at his day job. In fact, he’d been working so much overtime he hadn’t mowed the lawn for a month.

I knew we’d either lose the dog in the back yard or we’d get another nasty association letter informing us we’d lowered our neighbors’ property values again.

So I decided to help Hubby out. After all, I’d appreciate him helping me out sometime, maybe by picking up his dirty socks, or by hanging his clothes on hangers instead of doorknobs.

Inspired, I studied the manual of our Honda mower (an excellent example of “How To” in an easy reading format) and pulled the machine out of the garage.

It started right up. Holding the manual between my teeth, I proceeded to mow the lawn. It turns out mowing is actually a lot like vacuuming, only you have to empty out the bag more often.

I was making neat little vacuum tracks on the lawn when all at once our little cul-de-sac became the most heavily traveled pedestrian thoroughfare in the county.

Several passers-by felt the need to stop and tell me either a) they thought it was great I was doing what my very lucky spouse should be doing, or b) they thought it was rotten I had to do what my no-good, lazy spouse should be doing.

I realized, wow, this is what dads everywhere experience when they’re caught changing their kids’ diapers in public. The insight kept me humble, so I downplayed my marital contribution by telling everyone my scheme about the dirty socks.

Despite all the interruptions, I finished and put the mower away. Then I had to figure out how to work Hubby’s precious edger, a monster with more gearshifts, levers, and knobs than a front-end-loader.

It’s his pride and joy, the biggest edger in San Diego. He bought it in Texas, where Real Men use weed whackers for whacking weeds, not edging lawns.

But the edger manual wasn’t written by anyone who spoke an Earth tongue as a first language. So I gave up on it and instead hosed the lawn clippings off the driveway and down the street to my neighbor Rita’s house. She always appreciates that.

I didn’t tell Hubby–I knew he’d notice my noble gesture on his own. A week later he did notice something. During every sprinkler cycle a geyser the size of Old Faithful gushed in the middle of our lawn, sending gallons of water down the street to wash grass clippings out of Rita’s gutter (something else she’d appreciate).

“How long has that been going on?” Hubby asked, pointing at the fountain in our lawn.

“I don’t know. Usually I sleep through the sprinkler cycle.”

“A sprinkler head’s missing. Did… did somebody… mow the lawn?

“Yeah,” I said proudly. “I did! No need to worry about it this week–I mean, last week.”

“You mowed off a sprinkler head!”

“Really? What was it doing in the middle of the lawn?”

His face showed a sudden alarm. “You didn’t touch my edger, did you?”

“No, I couldn’t figure it out, but if you showed me how…”

Please,” he interrupted, “no need to touch the lawn again. Damn! Now I have to replace that sprinkler head.”

Jeez. The way he was going on about it, you’d think he had to chisel melted plastic bags off the bottom of a dishwasher.

The Other Woman Is a Car

I’ve heard when men reach a certain age they become interested in younger women, new cars, and skiing. I even read something about such men trading in middle-aged wives for “two twenties and some change.”

I figure I’m safe because I’m only 39. If my hubby traded me in before I hit 58 he’d be arrested for consorting with a minor. So let’s move on.

Hubby got a new car. This is a special car… his first brand-new, sporty-type automobile. His last vehicle was an old pickup truck he owned for 15 years, two of which were spent on blocks under a peach tree in Texas.

When we cleaned it out before giving it away we found the keys to our first apartment and a newspaper with the headline: “Bush Hates Broccoli.”

The new car is an Audi with “Quattro,” a heavy-duty road traction option. He’s already discovered this nifty new technology will allow him to drive with a flat tire and not even notice, until people finally wave him down and shout things like “you’ve been driving on a flat tire at an extremely high speed for the last five miles, you dolt.”

I don’t like this car and am afraid to drive it. Its dashboard would give jet pilots instrument envy. It can go from 0 to 60 in about 3 seconds, which my husband insists on demonstrating every time we get into the darn thing.

The first time we took a drive in it Hubby did about Warp 8 on the I-15 with the sunroof open and the stereo blaring “Wild Thing.” He leaned over and shouted “isn’t this great?” I couldn’t answer because the G-Forces wouldn’t allow me to do anything except show him my back molars.

For a man who struggles with issues like housework, Hubby certainly seems happy to clean his car. He vacuums it every day, whether he’s driven it or not. He spends two hours washing it every Saturday, whether it needs it or not.

My neighbor Sophie called to let me in on this.

“Bonnie, he’s washing that car again.”

“I know, Sophie.” Why does everyone think the wife doesn’t know?

“He’s touching that car again. He’s caressing that car again.”

“I know, Sophie.” I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried to remember the last time he touched me like he was touching that car.

“Bonnie, you can’t let this go on. You have your pride. Get out there and fight for your man!”

Sobbing, I hung up. What could I do? That car was everything I wasn’t: young, fast, childless, breathlessly responsive, eager to go places, and she wore baked-on makeup that would never rub off on his collar.

Turns out I didn’t have to do a thing… the Audi hussy did it all for me.

She led him down the garden path at about 90 mph and he got a whopper of a speeding ticket. He spent a Saturday in the “Can’t Drive 55” School of Traffic and then paid a fine that would’ve put our two boys through college. He began to realize his car was a high-maintenance chick.

One Sunday afternoon clinched it. He thought he’d introduce the new mistress to his sister and brazenly took them for a drive on a back road. The hussy spun out and my husband was caught “en flagrante delQuattro.

I love that man and didn’t say a word when I heard about it. And I never will, either.

Unless he takes up skiing.

Beware the Pokémon

A group of unshaven, bleary-eyed men milled about our local Target store Saturday morning, waiting for it to open. I realized with a sinking feeling they were there for the same reason my son and I were: to grab any Pokémon cards the stock clerks might have put on the shelves the night before.

I listened, amazed, to these dads–who probably scoffed last year when their wives waited in line for Beanie Babies–as they rhapsodized about Pokémon cards.

“Man,” said one, “when I brought home that starter deck last week, you woulda thought I was giving him a Porsche!”

Very few kids I know actually play the role-playing card game based on th Pokémon video game and cartoon show. Instead, they trade the cards and memorize “Pokémon data.”

Grade-schoolers who can’t learn multiplication tables to save their lives can rattle off vital statistics like “Pikachu. Mouse Pokémon. Length: 1 foot 4 inches. Weight: 13 pounds. 58/102.”

Within a week of my boys receiving their first Pokémon cards their journals began to look like Pokémon commercials. “In the past, Magikarp was strong than its horribly weak descendants that exist today.” That’s from my 9-year-old, who previously was happy writing about his dog.

Now my boys are addicts. They risk $3 on a tiny, foil-wrapped hit (er, I mean, “pack”) of 11 Pokémon cards, not knowing what’s inside until they rip it open. Then they either praise heaven or gnash their teeth in despair, depending upon what they got. They run all over the neighborhood offering to pick snails, pull weeds, and sweep porches for cash so they can buy more cards.

They trade their cards and then berate and beg each other, “How could you trade that Beedrill for that stupid energy card? Beedrill is rare–17 out of 102!”

“Please, please, trade me Pidgeotto! I need him so badly!”

We parents didn’t fall under the thrall of the Pokémon so easily. We had to pass through what is known as the Five Stages of the Pokémon:

  1. Indifference, as in “Huh? Poke-what?”
  2. Annoyance, as in, “Thanks a lot, Sue, for bringing Pokémon to the neighborhood!”
  3. Denial: “No, I will not camp out in front of Sky High Comics the night before a Pokémon shipment is due.”
  4. Acceptance: “Well, it’s like when we traded baseball cards when we were kids.”
  5. And finally, Addiction: “Kevin, wake up! Let’s be the first ones at Target this morning!”

Which is how I came to be at Target at 7:45 a.m. And once I realized these macho male shoppers lined up in the dew were after the same thing I was, I formed a plan of action. I’m not a veteran of the Beanie Baby Wars, but I listened to women who are. I knew what to do.

I nudged my 9-year-old and whispered, “Honey, when the doors open, you run as fast as you can for those Pokémon cards.” His eyes opened wide.

“But Mom, you said we could never run in stores!”

“I know, sweetie,” I said, “just this once. Now look at these big men–I’ll bet you can run faster than they can!” The look on his face told me he was up to the challenge.

When the doors swung open, my son took off like a jackrabbit, the dads close behind. As the only woman in line, I’m proud to say I was able to keep up with the guys, who were all grousing at each other: “No running, no running!” We were doing a fast clip, power walking and flapping elbows so nobody would move out of his (or her) place.

Breathless as we rounded Lawn and Garden, the ranks broke formation and everybody sprinted the last 50 feet or so to Toys. My son poked his head out from behind the Legos and shook his head sadly.

A few seconds later, the baritone groans and moans confirmed it as each one of the dads hit the Pokémon rack: there would be no Pokémon this day.

“It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, Mom,” said my son sadly. “I wasn’t the first kid to reach the rack. Two boys made it ahead of me.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you beat the Pokey Men.”

Baby Blues

About a year ago my neighbor Sophie called me up.

“I’m pregnant!” she announced excitedly. Before I could congratulate her she rushed on.

“You call your husband right now and tell him to come home. I want you pregnant by tomorrow morning.”

She has always been a take-charge kind of woman, but this was pushing it just a little bit. Continue reading “Baby Blues”

You Better Wave

There’s no better ice-breaker than moving into a brand-new housing development with ten other families.

It’s an instant, equalized community where everyone has exactly what you do: extreme mortgage payments, dirt back yards, and sheet/blanket/beach towel window treatments.

Our first summer, we held countless potluck barbecues in the cul-de-sac. While the kids played, we grown-ups discussed deep, soul-wrenching topics like, “Who Got the Best Deal on Their Floor Plan,” or “Who Spent the Most on Ugrades.”

It was our neighborhood’s honeymoon time. Continue reading “You Better Wave”