The Foreign Object

It was a beautiful Friday.  The end of a very long work week.  With nightly rehearsals. 

I was beat.

And ready for a weekend.

As I drove westbound on I-26, I slipped off my shoes, and turned on the soundtrack of The Addams Family.

I had to learn the words to “Move Toward the Darkness”.  I had been fake singing at rehearsal the night before.  And may have been caught.

I relaxed further by resting my left foot on the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel.  

Which is not dangerous when you're as flexible as I am.

I listened.  “Move toward the darkness.  Welcome in your pain.  Let each foreign forest.  Offer you its rain.”
 
I stopped the CD, rewound and sang along.

I sang perfectly until, “Let each foreign object.  Offer you its pain.”  Crap.
 
Then I noticed the dashboard.  There were two indicator lights on.  OMG! There goes my weekend!!!

But I couldn’t tell what the lights meant.  It wasn’t the tire light.  I knew that one.  Or the door ajar.

How would I ever learn the words to this stupid song if I had to take my car to the dealer???

I called Dave.

“I have 2 indicator lights on my dashboard.”

“Great.  Which ones?”
 
“I don’t know!  I can’t see without my reading glasses.”  I squinted.  “One looks like a car is skidding and the other is some kind of letters.  ECO.  What’s ECO?”
 
Dave, whose automotive IQ is possibly lower than mine, had no clue.  We decided that I should drive the car home - carefully - and we’d take it from there.

I played Move Toward the Darkness and attempted, in vain, to learn the lyrics.  Foreign forest.  Foreign forest.  Foreign forest.  

I pulled into the garage singing, “Let each foreign forest.   Offer you its pain.   

No! RAIN!!!!”
 
I turned off the car and pulled out the 2013 Elantra Owners' manual.  I put on my reading glasses and looked up "Indicators" in the index.  I then turned to page 4-51. 

There it was.   ESC OFF indicator. 

I read the paragraph. To turn off the ECO indicator, push the ESC OFF button which is located to the left of the steering wheel.  Right next to the ECO button.

That I had inadvertently turned on with my foot.

I walked into the house singing, “Let each foreign forest.  Offer you its rain!”

“What?” said Dave.

“Nothing,”  I said.  “Just fixed my car.  By myself.”
 
And I continued.  “Only at our lowest.  Can we rise above.”

The Stamp Fairy

Linda left for Marine Boot Camp eleven days ago.

My brave daughter, who is "too tired" to take our dog Kevin for a walk if she has had fewer than 10 hours of sleep.  

Whose bedroom consistently looks like it has been struck by an F5 Tornado. 

Who has to take a nap if she sneezes.   

Who has, on occasion, come home missing a shoe.

 
And who has never made her bed.  In her life. 

As you might imagine, I am a wee bit worried about her survival at Parris Island.

I’ve been engaging with the Parris Island Facebook Group for the families of the recruits who are in Linda’s “company.”

This Facebook group has been a lifesaver for me.  The administrators provide details about what’s going on each day and what to expect in the days to come. 

But what’s even more helpful (and therapeutic) are the posts from other families.  The people experiencing the same struggles as I am.

I read a post from a distressed Mom who cried herself to sleep in her son’s bed the night he left.  And  from parents who never got the call saying their son or daughter safely arrived at Parris Island. 

These parents, like me, live in a world of angst and worry.  All are baring their hearts to complete strangers on this wall.  We’ve become a virtual support group- BFFs from across the country.

Our latest fears relate to addresses.  Word started getting out that some parents had their kid’s addresses and some didn’t.  Those who didn’t were rightfully worried that their kid would be the only one not getting a letter from home. 

As you can imagine, the posts on this wall are oozing with emotion.

We’re talking Nicholas Sparks ooze.   

Well...

Until Megan M.’s post. 

Now to be fair, Megan M. is young.  Perhaps the girlfriend of a recruit.

In the midst of these highly emotional posts, Megan writes, 

It made me laugh out loud.

Why Megan, don’t you know it's the Stamp Fairy who brings stamps to your house? 

But she doesn’t go down the chimney like Santa. Rather she slips in, elusively, through the dryer vent, and gracefully descends to the desk, where she carefully places the stamps. Sprinkled with magic pixie dust.

And Megan, if you’ve been a good little girl, the Stamp Fairy will bring you fun stamps.  Like Harry Potter.

But if you’ve been naughty, the Stamp Fairy may bring you some Jesus stamps.

(Just say a couple Hail Mary's over the letter before you mail it.)
 
And if your grades are not up to par, she will probably bring you an Albert Einstein stamp. 

Now, perhaps I’m being a bit hard on poor, unaware Megan.  Who most likely used up the last stamp without her parents knowing it.

Because guess what? 

Megan’s post was a welcome distraction from my fears and anxiety.

It reminded me to look for the humor in this crazy whacked out existence.

So, yes, Megan, there is a Stamp Fairy.  She exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.

Let’s just hope that there’s also a Basic Training fairy.

And Linda finds her.

The United Club

I was giddy with excitement.  I had the key to a magic kingdom in my wallet: a segregated sanctuary for the snobs.  

I mean the elite travelers.

I’d been carrying my Free One Time Use of the United Club for more than 6 months, just waiting for a chance to optimize its value.  A 5-hour layover at Dulles on the way to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop? 

Hell, yeah.  No gate seating for me!

I put on my best “I’m hot shit” face as I walked through the mahogany doors.

A woman sat guard at the desk that stood between me and the United Club.  I smiled and handed her my United Club card. She asked for my boarding pass, my drivers’ license, passport, dental records, fingerprints, and my 6th grade report card. 

She then eyed me suspiciously and asked a trick question, “Who do you want to win American Idol?” 

“Dalton… I mean, Duh… I don’t watch American Idol.”

She smiled and said, “Welcome to the United Club, Miss Clyde.”

As I descended the stairs into the wonderful world of the United Club I had an epiphany.

I should not have gone to breakfast first.  Because there is complimentary breakfast in the United Club.  

I just spent $5.00 for stinkin’ orange juice that is F*R*E*E to the elite members of the United Club.  Like me.

No worries.  I helped myself to a cup of hot chocolate.  Not Nestles Hot Chocolate.  Ghiradelli Hot Chocolate. 

(Gate seaters drink Nestles Hot Chocolate.  From styrofoam cups.  United Club members drink Ghiradelli.  Served in fine china.)

I looked around at the other elite members.   They were a quiet bunch.  Reading the Wall Street Journal or watching the business channel on the flat screen TVs. 

No HGTV in the United Club.  Or Project Runway.

Wait.  What’s that?  A room in the back of the United Club with workstations!  And phones!  And a printer, copier and fax machine!   

An office for the Nerdling.

I set up shop.  I fit right in, hardly working working hard on my laptop.  And I had 4 more hours to spend there!  The perfect environment to write a blog about the United Club.

I took several laps around the space, attempting to look important.  I studied the departures board and noticed that I had 3 hours and 50 minutes until my flight.

There were newspapers scattered about.  Wall Street Journals and the New York Times.  No People Magazines in the United Club. 

Damn.  I wanted to read about Ben and what’s her name from the Bachelor.

I returned to the departures board.  Only 3 hours and 45 minutes until my flight. 

I looked around again at the other elite members sharing “our” lounge. 

They were boring. 

Then I had my second epiphany.  If I wanted entertainment, I’d have to go to the gate.  The United Club had no fighting kids, no fashion don’ts, no middle-aged slobs spilling mustard on their shirts, nobody singing off-key with earbuds in their ears.

No nose pickers.

I packed up my laptop and headed out of the ridiculously boring United Club.

But not before filling my purse with some snacks to take to my gate seat.

I deserved them.   After all, I am a United Club member.

Wrestling the Bear

It was a contentious battle.  My opponent was worthy.  And full of hostility.

It was like wrestling a Grizzly.

I stepped back to regroup and then attacked from an angle it was not expecting.  I was gaining momentum!


Maybe not.  It was giving me the fight of its life.

I grunted.  Like Sharapova serving for the win.

I sensed an audience beginning to form.  

OK, it was just Dave and the Publix guy.

And they weren’t applauding.  Or helping.  They seemed to be enjoying the entertainment.

I grunted louder and said, “Maybe I should sell tickets.”   . 

I refused to give in.  With one last surge of energy, I threw every ounce of my being into the fight.

And finally one grocery cart came loose.

I put my hands up in the air in celebration then limped away, holding my bruised arm.  

“Remind me to wear my roller derby uniform on my next shopping trip.”
 
As I pushed the liberated cart into the store, the Publix guy spoke up.  (Let’s call him “Craig”.)

“Can I teach you the trick?”
 
“The trick?” I said.

“Yeah.  Watch this.”  Craig approached the line of carts that had fought so hard to protect its own.  He slipped his foot down to the bottom of the front cart and lifted the bottom rack.

“Just lift this and it lets go,” he said.

 
OMG.  I have been fighting with grocery carts for DECADES.  How did I not know this?  Are you kidding me? 

Craig smiled smugly and said, “I’ve been trying to spread the word.”
  
I looked back at the line of carts that had put up such a valiant fight.   They looked deflated.  

Not unlike a declawed cat.

I actually felt sorry for them.

For the rest of my life, grabbing a grocery cart will be like shooting a fish in a barrel.  No challenge.  

As I wheeled my cart through into the store I noticed that the front wheel was pulling the cart  slightly to the left.  Then the wheel began to squeak. 

“Stupid cart,” I said.

 It may have been my imagination, but I think I heard another tiny squeak  that sounded, remarkably, like, “Touche”.

The Dead Ancestor Makeover

I was like a little kid again.  Putting on make up.  Dead ancestor makeup.  

Because I have been cast as Dead Puritan Ancestor in Addams' Family.

I studied the YouTube video, setting it on the bathroom counter so I could follow the instructions to a tee.  

It was much harder than it looked, but the results were amazing. 

I look great, don't you think?

Say what?   You seriously don’t believe it’s me?   Shut up.

Of course it’s me. 

OK.  So it’s not me. 

You know how dead people don’t look as good as live people?  Well, when I got done with my dead ancestor makeover, I scared myself.  Kevin looked at me, growled and went under the bed. 

I asked Linda to take a picture of me.  “OMG, Mom.  Go away,” she said.

“If you wish to remain in my will, you will take my picture,” I said, handing her my phone. 

She reluctantly took a few pictures.

"How do I look?"

"Back up," she said.  I backed up several feet.  

She took some more pictures and reviewed them.  “Further, Mom,” she said. 

I stepped backed again.   She took some more pictures.

She looked at the pictures and shook her head.  “Go down the street,” she said. “I’ll take the picture from my bedroom window.”

It was like that scene in Tootsie, when the director told the cameraman to back away from the shot and he said, “How far?” and the director said, “Cleveland”.
 
Linda probably would like me to back up all the way to Cleveland.  (Or at least to Dayton, where I will attending my first ever Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in a few weeks.)

I had an idea.
 
“How about I put on one of my super-cute polar fleece head bands. That will help, right?”

"Or a bag over your head,” she said.  She’s a comedian.

I put on the headband.  It didn’t help.

"Try your gloves,” she said, in a moment of pure genius, that she certainly inherited from me, despite the fact that she is adopted.  I’ve never been prouder. 

I put on my neon flashing gloves that I’d ordered on Groupon.

And it did help pull the attention away from my hideous make up job.

See?

Then I had a flashback to 9-month old Kimmy who discovered the jar of Desitin next her crib after waking up from a nap.  I went in search of the picture.  It was among several bazillion photos in the hope chest.

When I found it I was overwhelmed with a mixture of pride and jealousy.

 

Her makeup was way better than mine.

Next time I'm going to use Desitin.

Manhattan Transfer

I thought my friend was being a bit hard on her poor nonagenarian grandfather-in-law.   Sure, the road trip to Florida may not have been idyllic, but to place blame on him for giving her a cold?

For crying out loud.  She works in a hospital.  She should know how to avoid germs! 

I actually felt bad for the guy.  “You should have used antiseptic hand wash,” I said.

“I did!” my friend (let’s call her “Becca”) said, her response interrupted by intense coughing.  

“Darn him!” she added, once again pushing the poor guy under the bus.

“He can’t help being sick,” I said.

Becca gave me a dirty look and blew her nose, “You don't understand," she said, "Grampa drinks Manhattans.”

"What?  Did he get drunk and kiss you” 
 
Becca cleared her throat, in an unsuccessful attempt to find her voice. 

“OMG Becca!!!,” I said.  “Did he slip you the tongue?”

“No.” she choked out.  “Worse.”

I tried to think of what could possibly be worse than French kissing a 95 year old man with bronchitis.  And between coughs and wheezing, Becca managed to tell me the story of Grampa.  And his Manhattans. 

Whereas some families have deep rooted traditions of stringing cranberries into garland.   Or planting Mums in the fall.  Or crocheting doilies..

This family’s traditions involved the children eating maraschino cherries left in the bottom of Grampa’s Manhattans. 

When Grampa’s children left the nest, the tradition was passed along to the next generation.  During family gatherings, grandchildren excitedly huddle around Grampa.

Waiting for him to finish his Manhattans.  

Not surprisingly, sharing maraschino cherries with his ancestors brings Grampa great joy.

I can only imagine what was going through Becca’s head that day as she watched Grampa finish up his Manhattan.   His nagging cough delaying the inevitable. 

When he finally finishes, he momentarily sets down the glass so he can blow his nose, after which he hands the glass to Becca and says, “Lucky you!  There’s two!”

And Becca, who would rather do anything than hurt someone’s feelings, including eating not one, but two germ-covered maraschino cherries, somehow managed to eat them both.

When Becca finished telling me the story she looked at me with her pathetic puffed up eyes and said, “See?  I couldn’t help it.”  

I was nearly speechless.   

“You really need to teach Grampa how to crochet.”

Lightbulb Confusion

It’s not like me to procrastinate.  I was afraid.  Just thinking about what I had to do caused my heart to quicken.  

But it was time to face my fears.

I found a parking spot at Lowes and reluctantly left my car.  Walking very slowly.

I took a deep breath.  I could do it. 

With a sense of dread I entered the store. There it was.  Larger than life.  The length of 5 football fields.

The Light bulb aisle. 

Sweat formed on my brow as I pulled the sheet of paper from my pocket.  Type A.  40 watt.

Where, oh where were they hiding?

I was not alone in my misery.  There were other shoppers standing there.  Transfixed.  As if watching an episode of I am Cait on E! TV.

I began to methodically search the aisles.  Bottom to top.  One step to the right.  Top to bottom.  One step to the right.  Bottom to top.........

 Hours later I got to the end of the aisle and was getting hungry. 

I had no choice but to ask for help.  I stopped an employee. Let’s call him “Bruce.”

“Can you help me find a light bulb?” I asked politely.

“Sure.  LED or CFL?”  Bruce asked.

“Not the kind that looks like intestines," I said.  "I want one that looks like a light bulb.   You know?  Like an idea lightbulb.”

Bruce considered my answer.  “How many Lumens?”

Since I had no idea what a Lumen was, I said, “I guess 40.  Or 5,425.” 

Bruce nodded and asked me what it was for.   “Ooh-Ooh!  It’s for a lamp,” I said, pleased that I knew one of the answers. 

“Does it screw in or push into the socket?”  Bruce asked. 

I was back on thin ice. “You push it in and screw it.  Righty-tighty I think.  Because left- loosy would make it loose, right?”

Bruce nodded and started looking around to see if there were any other customers he could help.  Then I remembered the piece of paper in my pocket.

“Ooh-Ooh!”  I said, tapping on the paper.  “I need type A- 40 watt.”

Bruce walked down the aisle, reached up and handed me a light bulb that was, much to my delight, shaped like a light bulb.  “Here you go, Ma ‘am,” he said. 

“Thanks!” I said, as he started to walk away.   “Wait….I’ve got one more question for you.”
 
Then, sounding a lot like Jack Nicholson in Terms of Endearment Bruce said, “I was this close to a clean get-away.”

OK, so he didn’t really say that.  But he looked like he was thinking it.   Instead he said, “What?”

I said, “How many people does it take to change a light bulb?”  

He stopped in his tracks.  "How many?"

"Half as many as it takes to buy one."