Lights Out

Thank you for considering these beautiful Hampton Bay cabinets sold in your local Home Depot. It is our greatest hope that these cabinets will bring years of joy and luxury to your kitchen. In fairness to you, the consumer, we want to issue the following warning before purchase:

These Hampton Bay cabinets come complete with little tiny obscure lightbulbs that provide recess lighting. In a few years, they will eventually short out, and provide pyrotechnics for your family parties. After a few years of this entertainment, they will then burn out.

You will seek help, but no electrician will return your calls. No electrician will agree to come to your house to check them out. No electrician will ever know where to get the tiny lightbulbs. Electricians will ask you to send pictures of The Lights to their email, and once you do, you will never hear from them again. Even your trusty handyman will stop responding to you once you ask him about The Lights. Even if by some miracle you manage to get an electrician to walk in your house and check The Lights out, he will look spooked, make excuses and then run away, like a priest fleeing from a demon-infested house. You may want to consider re-wiring your whole house, so that the job is big enough for an electrician to agree to. You could also consider attaching 105,854 balloons to your house like in the movie “Up,” and lift your house up and away to an area that is not so dependent on the help of contractors, a place where you can get The Lights fixed by an electrician who actually needs the work.

You can then fly the house home.

Now prepare yourself, this is the scariest part: One day you will think you have finally found The One. He will be friendly, and receptive, and humble. He will diagnose your problem, even place the burned-out bulbs in his pocket, so he can “pick some up” when he goes to Home Depot later. He will even quickly and efficiently reset your faulty landscaping timer, so that the floodlights come on at night, instead of the daytime. You thank him and become vulnerable with emotion, confessing to him how painful have been the years of rejection. He will laugh, pet your dog, reassure you, and agree to “come back tomorrow.”

You never see or hear from him again.

He has made off with your bulbs and your dignity.

The ridiculousness of the situation actually starts to becomes fun. You make phone calls when you’re bored, just for the hell of it, and log how long it will take to get a response, or whether you get one at all. You leave crazy bold requests on Yelp, on answering machines, on Angie’s List. You use different names. You go outside your town to neighboring electricians, and try to trick them by saying you have a newly constructed house that will eventually need wiring. They will ask you when. You tell them probably in 2040. They will hang up on you. You will eventually become paranoid and start to think The Lights have blacklisted you from every electrician’s calling list.

You have become Elaine Benes with the bad medical chart.

Without The Lights, your kitchen will be dark, and you will no longer be able to work at the counter or see when you are cooking. This will be unfortunate. We strongly suggest that when purchasing these fabulous cabinets, you also enroll in Pennco Tech. This way, you can get your electrician degree so that when the time comes, you can actually fix The Lights yourself. Enclosed in the cabinet boxes will be an application for Pennco Tech, and because we so highly value your patronage of Hampton Bay, the application fee will be waived.

Again, we thank you for your purchase of our beautiful hand-made cabinets. We hope they provide you with years of satisfaction.

Farce in Two Acts

Act I: Oldest son is packing for Hawaii, and I just watched him put a hunting knife into his suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

He looks surprised.

“I’m packing my knife.”

“Why?”

“You never know.”

“In HAWAII? Why do you need a knife in Hawaii? Take that out.”

“I might need it.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, to slice a coconut.”

“Who are you, Tom Hanks in ‘Castaway?’”

“I’m telling you, it will come in handy.”

“It won’t. Are you insane? TSA will confiscate it, you’ll get arrested by Homeland Security, and I’m NOT bailing you out.”

“You wouldn’t bail me out?”

“No.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I’m telling you now to take the knife out. If you take it despite my sage advice, I will let you rot in jail.”

He takes it out.

“Fine, have it your way.”

He places a ukulele in his suitcase and looks at me.

“Don’t even say it. I’m bringing my ukulele.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

A quick peek into his suitcase reveals two skateboards, his ukulele, five bottles of hot sauce and the gift I am sending for my niece, who lives in Honolulu with her husband.

“Why are you bringing your hot sauce collection?”

“I use hot sauce on everything.”

“You think they don’t have hot sauce in Hawaii?”

“Not this hot sauce.”

“You researched this?”

“No, but this hot sauce is indigenous only to this area.”

“Ah. My mistake. And what are you going to use on your eggs when you get there and find that your indigenous hot sauce bottles cracked because you didn’t wrap them in bubble wrap for the flight?”

He looks in suitcase. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll wrap them in socks.”

“What about the skateboard?”

“What about it?”

“Is it really necessary?”

“It will be my only form of transportation while I’m there.”

“Why do you have two?”

“I’m bringing Tommy his.”

He closes the suitcase and picks it up.

“Definitely under 50 pounds. I think that’s it. I’m ready.”

“Where are all of your clothes?”

He looks at me blankly.

“Shit.”

Act II: Middle son is shoving casserole into his mouth. We just finished golfing, and I confess that I once again have no blog post ready.

“Talk about today,” he says, with his mouth full.

“What about today?”

“About golf.”

“What about golf?”

“How fun it was.”

“But what’s the angle?”

“The angle?”

“Yes. There has to be an angle.”

He thinks, chewing.

“About us. About how we’re getting older and helping you with stuff.”

“Stuff? What stuff?”

“All kinds of stuff.”

“Be specific. One example. Give me one example.”

“We help with the laundry.”

“It’s your laundry.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to do it. Like the dishes.”

“But they’re your dishes. You ate off of them.”

“Yeah, but see what I mean? We’re getting more mature and can do things for ourselves.”

I am still not convinced.

“What else?”

“You can talk about how we buy you candles every Mother’s Day.”

“You use my Amazon card.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“Want to see my order history?”

He walks his plate to the sink. “That won’t be necessary.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He turns.

“What about today?”

“What about today?”

“I gave you good advice on how to get off the tee. You were rocking it down the fairway.”

“That’s true. It was great advice.”

“See? You used to be better than me at golf. Now I’m better than you.”

“And your point?”

“My point is that from here on in, I will only get stronger and more talented. While your life is pretty much over, mine is just beginning.”

“Gee thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Innie Audi

I’ve become the Asshole in the Audi.

It was never my intention. I mean, I’ve been the Asshole before. I’ve been the Asshole teaching English in room B116. I’ve been the Asshole hogging floor space in the gym. I’ve been the Asshole who grounded her sons, so now they can’t go to the party. I’ve been the Asshole who doesn’t call back, who lets her dog poo on the neighbor’s lawn, who is anti-social, who assigns too many papers, who won’t change a grade, who has four (going on five) pretentious post-graduate degrees. I’ve been those Assholes and many, many more. I’ve played the part of those Assholes to great acclaim.

But I’ve never been the Asshole in the Audi. This is a new one for me.

Getting my Audi was not an ego thing. I didn’t get it because it was fancy or German. I don’t care how I look in it, or what perception people draw about seeing me in it. When my lease is up, I’m not even keeping it. I intend to buy some big cheap sturdy used clunker that I can throw my hiking boots and golf bag in without worrying about scratching it, or how many miles I put on it. I’m going to run my next truck into the freaking ground. I hope it’s so old and beaten up that my sons are embarrassed to look at it parked in the driveway.

Goals.

I always intended to try out an Audi. I doggedly researched it. And when my reliable Chevrolet Equinox reached a certain mileage, I sold it to my son’s girlfriend, and drove directly to the Audi showroom. After a test drive, I decided I liked it. I liked the hermetically-sealed clunk of it. I liked the Audi-white. I liked the way the Audi symbol beamed onto the ground like the Bat Signal when I opened the driver’s side door. It looks really cool at night.

Yeah, I’m that complex.

So imagine my surprise and dismay today when upon exiting my car at a small grocery store, two women, most likely daughter and mother, nodded in my direction and muttered within my hearing range, “…the asshole in the Audi.”

Who, me?

I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done to elicit such a reaction. Both women were casually dressed in worn pajama bottoms, and while I silently rejected the obvious socio-economic observation, I also vowed to not get in the checkout line behind them. People who wear pajama pants to the supermarket tend to take the longest at the checkout counter. Things always go wrong at checkout with people who wear pajama pants to the supermarket. Why? How do I know why? I am merely an observer of the human condition. I suppose it could be that whatever character deficit these clinophiles possess that drains the verve necessary to pull on jeans or yoga pants or even Costco sweatpants is also a serious enough shortcoming that makes placing items on a belt, tallying a receipt, agreeing to the total, and eventually pulling out cash, a credit card, a check, or some other form of acceptable payment method difficult, even painful.

I don’t want to be the Asshole in the Audi. I’d rather be the Moron in the Civic. Or the Douchebag in the Jetta. Or the Eejit in the Equinox. But not the Asshole in the Audi. I’ve called people assholes before, and they’re usually in Mercedes, or BMWs, or Range Rovers. I have never entertained the notion of any of those makes or models, just to avoid being called an Asshole.

But here I am.

As I walked through the store, I considered asking these women why they drew the conclusion that I was an asshole. I really wanted to know, from a sociological standpoint. I love confrontation. I once asked a woman sitting at the table next to me in an airport restaurant why she was staring at me so intensely. I said, “I mean, is there something you need? Do we know each other? Am I chewing like a slob? Tell me, so you can start looking at your food, instead of at me.”

She was mortified. She moved. Success.

So today, I really wanted to approach politely and ask them, “What have I done to make you think I am an asshole? And isn’t it just as easy to pull on jeans as it is to pull on pajama pants?” I like to know these things, so I don’t make the same mistakes again. Did I cut them off? Did I apply lip gloss vainly in the rearview mirror? Did I pass them aggressively? Or is it just because I am a blonde in an Audi?

I decided to let it go. They never acknowledged me again, my trespasses obviously forgiven. Besides, they both had purple spray-painted hair, and when combined with the pajama pants, they made an intimidating pair. Last I saw them, they were arguing over which cannelloni beans were on sale.

That poor cashier.

Withering Heats

(Reader note: Enjoy the flippant nature of today’s and tomorrow’s posts. Thursday I will be writing about the debates, and I will take no prisoners).

I’m glad September is almost over. It’s second only to July as my least favorite month (no offense to my youngest son, who was born in July). July is every loud, crowded, hot, obnoxious, overbearing thing I hate in the world.

I hate having least favorite anythings. But I’m sitting here drenched in sweat, my weather app tells me there is 103% humidity in the air (how can humidity be over 100%??), and my hair already looks like a frizzy horror at 8:00 a.m. I just visited the boots, sweaters and tights in my closet, and we talked about the fun we will have once the weather gets cooler. I’m tired of sundresses, and sweat, and cold sandwiches, and loud tourists, and boating, and flip-flops, and sun that wants to kill me. I want to drink pumpkin spice, walk through crunchy leaves, wear cashmere, puffy coats and Frye boots, bask in the chilly gloaming, and simmer stews in my slow-cooker.

And my mendril is always in fine form in September, I may add. My mendril is, of course, the tendril of hair at the base of my scalp, under my bangs, that curls up when it’s humid out or when I have a hot flash. Thus:

Tendril + Menopause= Mendril

In humidity, my mendril curls up and turns black no matter what kind of hair product I use to try and combat it. My hair hates summer in New Jersey. My hair loves Colorado and Utah and Nevada and Arizona.

My hair is close to divorcing me under the terms of irreconcilable differences.

Side note: When I was young, single and fancy-free, I visited Scottsdale often, and was always pleased at the profuse attention I received from Arizona men. It took some time to realize that my hair was reaping the rewards of the almost non-existent desert humidity. In the desert my hair becomes soft, ethereally blonde and smooth. Good hair puts me in a good mood and makes me smile. The smile reaches my eyes and my heart, and voila, dinner invitation.

The men were asking my hair out.

Now you know why it wants legal separation. It brings the guys in, I get all the action, and all it gets is a cursory glance in the mirror and an occasional naughty tug in bed.

(Since I digress, let me digress further. I once had a student named Jon who was a senior in my freshman English class. I felt for him- here was a grown man with a job and bills who had to sit with a bunch of pre-pubescent farm animals because for whatever reason he had never passed the class as a freshman. I tried not to bother him too much- he did his work as required, and I let him sit in the back near my desk. Every so often, when I would go off on a tangent in a lecture, he would raise up a piece of paper with the word “Digression” written on it. No one else could see it but me, and it made me laugh every time. But it is important to not show human emotion in front of freshmen. They detect it as a sign of weakness, and before you know it, they are circling around your carcass like the carrion you are. So I would try to keep a straight face, which if you know me at all is nearly impossible. It was our secret joke all year. If you’re reading this, Jon, that was a great year with you).

Here at the Jersey shore, September is a between-time. An almost-time. They call it the “shoulder-season,” which is code for “use any insidious means possible to keep the tourists coming here as long as possible.” Car shows? Check. Air shows? Double check. Parades, festivals, block parties? Check, check, check (Note: not this year, obviously). It’s understandable, and no different from any other beach tourist town. But I think I can speak for at least some locals in saying that by September, it gets old.

(You: “What the hell is this blog post about anyway?”

Me: “I haven’t the faintest idea.”)

Oh wait, I remember. It’s about September at the Jersey shore. I dislike September at the Jersey shore. But other than humidity I can’t seem to find any basis for my hatred. Today is 77 degrees with a light breeze, people are going about their September business hopping, skipping and jumping, and I ask you: where is there room for hatred on such a beautiful day?

Hold on while I find something.

September to me is like that chirpy tiny blonde cheerleader you loved to hate in high school. Think Kelly Ripa, or Kristin Chenoweth, or Kristen Bell (wait, does your name need to begin with a “K” to be a chirpy blonde?)

You wanted so much to hate her, so you thought up reasons. “Airhead ditz,” you told others, and then one day she showed up in your AP class. Shit, you thought, she’s smart. “Selfish,” you said next, then you saw her walking dogs at the animal shelter. Damn, she’s altruistic, you thought. “Well, she’s stuck-up,” you countered, and then one day she turns to you in class and compliments your shoes and sits with you in lunch. Fuck, you think despondently, she’s nice.

But then you hate her anyway.

September and me.

I was researching where I can travel in September to get away from heat and humidity, and I figure the only ammunition I have against tourists whose sole ambition in life is to continue to stream onto this island every weekend and wring as much beach time as they can from the summer is to become a tourist myself and stream onto someone else’s territory.

Help me out and send ideas. I’m looking for clouds. Cool weather, cold even. Sparse to no crowds. Visceral beauty. Craggy peaks, heaths, valleys and dales. Ok, I’m looking to be plunked down into the novel Wuthering Heights.

Where does that take place?

Corn Nut

Mary Oves, intrepid traveler, arrives at airport early for her first flight. Breakfast eaten, Ruby Woo lipstick freshly applied, all things on her checklist done, passport and boarding passes ready, she heads to security.

Oves detects danger when security branches off in two directions, and she eyes the situation. To the right is a mother with two squirmy stained toddlers and in back of them, an elderly woman moving like slow-moving sap who seems confused as to why she needs to remove her thick-heeled shoes. To the left is a middle-aged couple with only two duffle bags, and the woman is already heading through security. No brainer. Oves heads left.

TSA (looks through the man’s first duffel bag): Any waters, food, chips, Starbucks, cereal bars?

Man: Nope.

TSA: Laptops, cigarette lighters, e-cigarettes?

Man: Nah.

TSA: How about food for him? Treats?

Man: Oh, yeah (hands TSA guy a bag of small brown pellets).

(Oves is confused. “Him?” This is going to be so bad.)

TSA: Want to carry him?

Man: I don’t know if he’ll come out.

(They both motion to the second duffel bag)

Oves (to herself): Shit. (Makes a move to other lane, but it is now ten deep).

TSA: He can’t go through in the duffel bag, but you can carry him through. His collar needs to be removed.

(Oves jumps as small furry cute creature size of a gerbil pokes his head out of duffel bag.)

Man: Copy that.

TSA: Ok, sir, you can go through when you’re ready.

Oves continues to wait and notices with great dismay that the right line she rejected earlier is now moving steadily and confidently.

Man: Ok, let’s go, Corn Nut (Picks up gerbil with one finger).

TSA guy: Hey, how’d you pick that name?

Man: It was a dare to name him after the last thing I ate.

Oves (to herself): Dear God.

Man and hamster walk into the security booth.

Different TSA guy (sounds aggravated): Raise your arms please.

Man: I can’t, I have my dog.

TSA: He’ll have to go through alone. You can’t hold him in the booth.

Man: That’s not what the other guy said.

TSA: Well, it’s what I’m saying. You need to go in and come out alone.

Man: Who will hold my dog? My wife already went through.

TSA: Someone will have to hold him and send him through alone.

Man: This is bullshit. Who will do that?

(On cue, heads swivel to look at Oves. Oves looks behind her to see who they’re looking for).

TSA: Ma’am, would you mind holding this man’s dog while he goes through, and then sending him through alone?

Oves: Seriously?

Man: Do you like dogs?

Oves: I love dogs.

Man: He’s super friendly.

Oves: I’m sure he is. But I’m not.

Man: C’mon, do me a solid.

Oves: A solid? I’ve been standing behind you for ten minutes now, that’s pretty solid.

Man: Please? (Extends guinea pig to Oves).

Oves: (sighs and takes dog). Fine. Corn Nut you said, right?

Man: Yeah.

Oves: (Looks at Corn Nut and can’t help but think how endearing his cute little pink tongue is. He can’t seem to pull it in, it hangs out of its own volition. Corn Nut stares into her soul).

Man: (Walks through, security beeps).

TSA: Did you empty your pockets, sir?

Man: Yeah. Could be my hip replacement.

(This goes on for another five minutes, as man goes in and out of security booth, finally with success).

Cranky TSA guy: Time for the dog. Ma’am, please hold onto your dog’s leash while your husband collects his personal items.

Oves: This is not my dog. And he’s not my husband. I mean, who eats corn nuts?

TSA: Whoever you are and whoever he is, send the dog through without a leash, please.

Oves: (puts Corn Nut on the ground). Ok, Corn Nut, get lost. I mean, go through.

Man and Woman (using baby voices): Come on angel, come to mommy and daddy.

Corn Nut stares at Oves dolefully.

Oves: Corn Nut. Go.

Corn Nut does nothing.

Man and Woman: Baby! Angel! Sweetums! Banana Custard Pie! Come!

Corn Nut scratches his ears, the size of two Frosted Flakes, stares back at Oves. There is no one in back of Oves, because everyone who approaches security avoids the shit show like it’s a plague.

Oves: Corn Nut. Go. Fuck off.

Corn Nut sits politely as mommy and daddy frantically search for treats to entice him through. He seems to be enjoying the debacle and appears to have absolutely no intention of listening to their endearments.

(Oves sees her pre-flight drinks disappearing, as her boarding time approaches. She must act).

Oves: (bends down and looks deep into Corn Nuts eyes): Corn Nut. I understand your reticence. I wouldn’t want to go with them either, especially if they called me Banana Custard Pie. Our time together has been wonderful, significant even, but it’s at an end. You don’t understand. If you don’t go through, I can’t have a drink before I board. And that’s unacceptable. You must go with those miscreants to whom you belong. Now, shoo.

Man and Woman: Ooooh, Corn Nut, look what we have. Coooooookies!

Corn Nut finally goes through and does not set off the security beeper, most likely due to the fact that he does NOT have a hip replacement.

TSA (goes through Oves bag): Any laptops, cigarette lighters, e-cigarettes?

Oves: Just fucking let me through.

Dinner Out in a Cozy Mountain Town

Him: Hi, I’m Nolan I’ll be waiting on you tonight.
Me: Hi Nolan.
Him: What can I get you?
Me: We haven’t seen menus yet.
Him: Oh, we don’t have menus.
Me: You don’t have menus?
Him: I mean, we have menus, just not to hand to you.
Me: What, do you throw them?
Him: No, no, I mean you have to scan our menus.
Me: Oh. Where do I do that?
Him: At the entrance when you were standing at the hostess station.
Me: Oh, she didn’t tell me that.
Him: That’s cool, I can help you.
Me: Great. What beer do you have on tap?
Him: I’m not sure, I will have to find out.
Me: Oh, well, I’ll just go scan the menu at the hostess station.
Him: You can’t.
Me: I can’t?
Him: Once you’re outside, it’s against policy to go back in.
Me: What if I have to go to the bathroom?
Him: You’d have to stay in there.
Me: In the bathroom?
Him: No, no, like you’d have to eat in there.
Me: Eat in the bathroom?
Him: No, eat in the main dining room.
Me: So, how am I going to look at the menu?
Him: I can take your phone and scan the menu for you.
Me: Isn’t that still part of me going into the interior of the restaurant?
Him: No, no, it’s me going into the restaurant. It’s cool.
Me: How is it cool?
Him: I have gloves I can wear.
Me: Wow. Ok. When you come back with my phone, can you bring me silverware?
Him: What, like, a knife and fork?
Me: A knife and fork would be fine.
Him: Do you want them now?
Me: Well, I don’t have any food yet.
Him: Oh, right, have you looked at the menu yet?

Goats in Charge

The boys are in charge of the house while I am away.

Listen, I don’t know what kind of boys you have or how many, but if those words don’t strike terror in your heart, if uttering them doesn’t make the blood freeze in your veins, you don’t have the same kind of boys I do, or as many. College-age boys are like goats with debit cards.

Boys are egocentric, remembering very little that doesn’t directly involve them. They could drive you to the airport, escort you to the gate and still have the audacity to look confused.

Two years ago, I landed in Reykjavík and got a text from my son.

“Mom, can you make me dinner?”

“I’m in Iceland.”

Silence. “Wait, where are you?”

“I reminded you every day for a week.”

Pause.

“Wait, so you can’t make me dinner?”

They have been suspiciously attentive this week, asking me more than once when I will be leaving. My middle son is conveniently coming home with his fraternity the same day I am flying out.

(I have already warned the neighbors and apologized in advance).

Preparing the house for my departure is more involved of a feat than the actual departure itself. Since I can’t ensconce my house and dog in bubble wrap, other precautions must be taken:

• Throw out or freeze any food with rotting potential that requires even the smallest amount of preparation. This includes yogurts, cheeses, perishables and meats.
• Label the dog treats, the dog food, and the dog with the following caption: “This is your dog. He is a living creature that needs food and water and walks. Please make sure he is alive upon my return.”
• Post-its: “Don’t cook!” “Turn off the fan!” “Don’t touch the thermostat!” “Empty the dryer vent!” “Don’t touch this it’s mine!” “Blow out candles!” “Walk the dog!” “Flush!” “Don’t go near my bedroom!” “Put towels in hamper!” “Trash day is Friday!” Yes, the exclamation points are necessary. You must not have boys.
• Hide my Grey Goose, or they will serve it to their friends like they are high-end bartenders in Manhattan. Then they fill the empty bottle with water and stick it back in the cabinet. They get me every time with this, usually when I have a friend over and I am making her a drink with vodka, and see that strange enigmatic look come over her face. Nothing like a nice strong water and tonic with extra lime.
• Buy them consumables and dry goods like ramen noodles, microwavable mac and cheese, ice-cream cups, hay, hamster pellets and suet cakes.
• Stack ten rolls of toilet paper on the floor of each of the bathrooms. It is of utmost importance that they have toilet paper within reach at all times. If you don’t understand this, you don’t have boys.
• Turn all shampoo bottles and toothpaste tubes to the insignia side, or it will cease to exist. I once got a text “Mom, there’s no toothpaste, you took the toothpaste with you!” Then I had to stop the fun thing I was doing to inform my son that the Crest is most certainly there but is most likely turned to the white ingredient side rather than the blue and green side. “Oh,” he responded, “well, it was turned around, so I didn’t notice it.”
• Do all the laundry and all the dishes. Leave nothing dirty behind, or it will be dirty when you get back.
• Lock my bedroom door, hide the key and affix the following sign to the door: “Abandon all hope, ye who attempt to enter here.”
• Buy a pack of 200 Solo cups. Smash all nice glasses on the pavement ahead of time, because they will be broken when I get back anyway.
• Put away cute decorations or cozy arrangements. Debate putting newspaper down in all rooms.
• Take a Polaroid of every clean room, affix pictures to refrigerator with the following message on a Post-it: “What I want it to look like when I get home.”

I was in Canada when the twins turned 21, and I had issued a stern warning to all three boys for my week away: take care of my dog and don’t go near the brand-new white hand-hooked wool carpet in the guest room.

When they returned home after their bar-hopping escapades, it so happened that my middle son and his drunken fellow troglodytes decided it would be altruistic to throw my oldest son into the bathtub face-down so as to avoid the unlikely occurrence of his vomiting on my brand-new white hand-hooked wool carpet in the guest room.

But alas, he crawled out of the bathtub, into the guest room, and proceeded to vomit on my brand-new white hand-hooked wool carpet.

They took advantage of my jet lag and managed to hide the vomit stains from me for a couple of days by throwing towels and clothes over them, but the guilt got to be too much for them. I expressed my disappointment and my oldest son, while penitent, had the temerity to act indignant that I wasn’t expressing more relief over his well-being.

I asked my middle son why he threw his twin brother into the bathtub face-down. He has scratches and bruises all over his face, I said.

He looked surprised.

“You told us never to put a drunk to bed on his back, so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit,” he said stoically. He added, “We saved his life, Mom.”

Yes, they paid to replace the carpet.

So I’m hoping this time goes better. They’re more mature now and more able to control themselves.

Anyway, the dog is in charge.

Regret

If you’re one of the ten readers who read my blog first thing in the morning, you know my site crashed. Being on chat with any kind of tech support is not my happy place, so needless to say I was rather brusque with Navami. What a way to start the day, dealing with impatient old-me, right?

So I’m going to scrap my original post and save it for another time, and think of regrets.

My top three right now, other than calling Navami a “disgrace to tech support all over the world” (Please note: I apologized and gave him straight-5’s in the exit survey. This is the new me, remember):

  1. Saying yes when my sons asked me if I wanted to see what Post Malone looks like.
  2. Looking up the acronym FUPA.
  3. Trying to find the Bob Seger song “Living Inside My Heart” on iTunes, being brought to the audiobook called “Living Inside My Own Butt for Eight Years,” and then actually reading the summary.

Others:

• Getting drunk with my husband and the tattoo artist before he used a needle to drill ink into the epidermis of my right foot.
• Saying “Sure, what the hell” to the plastic surgeon when he offered to throw in some discount thigh liposuction, on special that week.
• Sleeping through my 8 a.m. electives as an incoming college freshman
• My resulting 1.8 GPA for first semester
• My hair from 1984-1992
• The three days between the day I activated Facebook and the day I deactivated it.
• Culottes
• Quitting my college tennis team so that I could hole up in my dorm room and smoke with the other degenerates
• Teaching Scarlet Letter and telling my students that it was relevant to their lives
• Wearing 5-inch platform heels as a cocktail waitress in college, night after night, eight hours a night, thinking it would never affect my spine alignment
• Watching the movie “Hereditary” alone
• Losing the cocktail napkin that John Denver signed for me after a concert
• Any opportunity I have ever missed to play with a baby or a puppy
• Declining to do the longer route up Sentinel Pass in the Canadian Rockies
• Letting my PADI scuba diving certification lapse
• Treating myself to first-class on my flight to Iceland, thinking it would “get it out of my system.”
• Getting an i-Phone.
• Reading Danielle Steele romance novels in adolescence and thinking they were not only literature, but realistic depictions of a woman’s life

Danielle Steele can suck it.

Oopsies

So I was pulling into the supermarket parking lot recently on a busy summer morning, and as I waited my turn in the queue, I sent a quick voice text to my son. At 9:00 a.m., he would be almost ready to leave for work.

“Hi honey pulling into the supermarket let me know asap if you want me to grab you something for lunch I’m running in and out so hurry.”

The line began to move, and as I circled the lot, I became distracted by the gorgeous hunky men ambling in and out of the store (I’m incorrigible, I know, you think I don’t know?) Owing to the early hour many were in t-shirts and shorts, fresh from or headed to workouts, while some were dressed for work. I debated which look I liked better, and muttered to myself once again how beautiful men are, and bemoaned the fact that I could watch them walk for hours. What is wrong with me?

As I pulled into a space, I looked down and realized I had never sent the message to my son, and did so quickly and distractedly, annoyed with myself that he may now not receive the message in time.

As I squeezed avocados and marveled once again at the fact that avocados are only ripe for about six minutes of their lifespan and that it was impossible as a consumer to predict when these six minutes would occur, I got a text from my son.

“Mom wtf?”

Confused, I replied.

“What?”

“This was so awkward.”

I didn’t understand. “What?”

“Your message.”

“What about it?”

“Did you look at it before you sent it?”

I had never turned off the voice memo, and it texted everything I said in the parking lot. This is the exact text I sent to my 22-year old son:

Hi honey pulling into the supermarket let me know asap if you want me to grab you something for lunch I’m running in and out so hurry oh man he’s hot that’s the exact body I like there are so many hot guys here today hey shirt and tie guy you’re gorgeous no go ahead and pull out you can pull out of me anytime you want go ahead back up on me yes sir feel free is it hot guy at Acme day today or what damn finally found a spot

“Oopsies. Sorry honey.”

“Jesus Christ mom. I can never unsee this. Don’t text me in the morning anymore please.”

Noted.

Drama Queens

Being a young(ish) widow is like being a Zoroaster, or an ibex. No one has ever really seen one up close so you get googled a lot.

There are not many of us, so we are a mystery and are very often stereotyped. Men for the most part think we killed our husbands and that we are perpetually horny (well, ok…). And married men seem to think that widows want nothing more than to engage in a nice healthy bout of adultery.

And women? They seem to be convinced that since we are no longer being annoyed by our own husbands that the thing we want most in the world is to be annoyed by theirs.

(Ladies: we don’t want your husbands. We don’t want ‘em. No matter how good-looking or rich or charismatic you think he is, we don’t want him. If you see us talking to your beloved at an event, we’re not debating the coil tension of the bed springs at the Econo Lodge versus the Best Western. If we like something on his Instagram and comment “lmao”, it is not code for Kama Sutra. Let me repeat: WE. DON’T. WANT. YOUR. MEN.)

I’m glad that’s over.

When you are a widow, your sans-husband state eventually comes up, no matter how much you try to avoid it. Telling a man in conversation that my husband has passed away goes like this, and lasts two seconds:

Me: “My husband passed away three years ago.”
Him: “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Me: “Thank you.”

See why men are the greatest? That’s it. Short and to the point.

Having to tell a woman that your husband passed can take anywhere from six days to twenty years because it never ends. Once a woman finds out you have lost your spouse, she never talks to you in the same tone, never looks at you in the same way, and never stops trying to “fix” you.

This is an example of a fairly common exchange:

Her: “Maaaarrryyyy, how aaaaaaare youuuuuu?” (Imagine same tone as commentator in an ASPA commercial featuring emaciated starving dogs chained to doghouses in below zero weather).

Me: (Shit, not her again). “I’m well, how about yourself?” (quickly trying to turn the conversation away from me to her, but she’s not having it).

Her: “Good, good, really really good, but how are youuuuuuu?”

Me: “I just said I was well.”

Her: (Sighs and cocks her head). “I was just thinking about you the other day.”

Me: (Oh no. Oh God no). “Is that right?”

Her: “Yes, I was telling someone the other day how inspired I am by you.”

Me: (Fuck me). “Why?”

Her: “Oh, you knooooow, your strength, your resilience. You’re just such a great mom, and you’ve faced this whole thing with such courage. I mean, just LOOK at you.”

Me: (My head about to explode). “Thanks, listen I have to get going.”

Her: (Grabs my wrist, looks deep in my eyes). “Mary. If you ever need anything, I mean ANYTHING, whether it’s someone to talk to, vent to, hell, just to get drunk with, I’m here. Day or night. You shouldn’t have to do this alone. O.k.? Promise?”

Me: (Not wanting to negotiate with a terrorist). “Sure, whatever gets me out of this conversation the fastest.”

Her: (Laughing) “I love your sense of humor. Keep it up, it’s what will get you through this.”

Me: “No. Staying away from women who use pity as a way to wield power is what will get me through this.”

(That last line did not really happen, but it is on my Wish List).