Car Washes and Pita Goddesses

The next day my car interior was completely awash in toxic fumes. I took it to the local car wash and made a deal with the guys to shampoo the upholstery. While I waited, I called the veterinary hospital for the third time that day to see what was going on with Mojo.

ER Vet: Hmmm, well, there’s no more vomiting, he hasn’t had a diarrhea episode since 5 am, his temperature and color are good and he seems back to his normal self. But we’re not going to let him go just yet.

REALITY CHECK NO. 1
ER Hospitalization: $255.84
Ka-ching!

Continue reading “Car Washes and Pita Goddesses”

On the Woeful, Boneheaded Spurning of Puffery

I discovered an “experimental column” in the L.A. Times called “Outside the Tent, in which the Times “invites outside critics to rip a Southern California newspaper whose most popular features include a weekly column on celebrity real estate transactions.”

I had to check it out! Right away I found the very funny “This One’s Waaaaay Outside the Tent” by Bob Sipchen, Sunday Opinion Editor. Continue reading “On the Woeful, Boneheaded Spurning of Puffery”

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.

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”

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.

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!”

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”

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.