Snide Reply

Tag: humor

  • Hapless Husbands

    I have been married for more than 18 years. Before you congratulate me, consider that a great deal of staying married is simply being too unmotivated to get unmarried. When the going gets tough, and the going can get pretty tough sometimes in nearly two decades, I have defaulted to a “well, let’s just wait and see what happens here” attitude. So far, the going has gotten much better. Of course, it hasn’t been easy but a little patience and a lot of forgiveness have kept this institution intact.

    In addition to patience and forgiveness, there has been a lot of humor in my marriage. Most of it has been intentional. But, I’m fortunate to be married to a man who also does some really stupid stuff.

    I understand that it takes a special kind of woman to air her husband’s stupid laundry. I am that kind of woman, but I’m not alone. I’ve found that many other women live with husbands who do really stupid things. I do not mean to exclude gay couples. I am sure that there is a lot of stupidity in every relationship, gay or straight. I can only report on what I know, so if you live with a person who does stupid things but isn’t your husband, just insert that person’s name where appropriate here.

    Laundry seems to be the source of a lot of stupid things that husbands have done. My own husband has shrunk cashmere sweaters. He has turned white loads pink. He has failed to remove paper tissues that wound up in tiny pieces all over black pants and shirts. In fairness, these aren’t truly stupid things; they are just the actions of an uneducated launderer.

    I have a friend whose husband believes that he knows how to use bleach. He adds bleach to the laundry and to the wash water for the dishes. He has bleached silver-plated cutlery. The cutlery didn’t like it. Once, their dog retched on an antique wool rug. He used bleach and the garden hose to clean it. The rug didn’t like it. My friend didn’t like it.

    I think a lot of the things that my husband does he does out of ignorance, but some things he just doesn’t think through. Instead of emptying the wastebaskets then taking the trash to the curb, he took the wastebaskets to the curb. I didn’t notice the problem until, on trash morning, I went to throw out a tissue in the powder room. I turned, tossed the tissue and watched it land on the floor. Putting two and two together, and knowing the garbage truck was due any minute, I ran to the curb. I was too late. The garbage man, who is probably someone else’s hapless husband, took the wastebaskets. I no longer own decorative wastebaskets.

    I have another friend whose husband isn’t so much stupid as he is a little lazy. While mowing the lawn, rather than move his baby daughter’s new purple ball, he nudged it with the mower. The baby cried for hours after watching shreds of purple plastic rain down on the lawn. My husband once kept our infant son in his wind-up swing for five hours. It was his first experience caring for our son on his own while I went out. He was confident everything would be fine. I left, had fun and came back home five hours later. When I left, the baby was in the swing. When I came home, the baby was in the swing. Every time the swing wound down, my husband would wind it back up again. He claims our son suffered no ill effects. I say tell it to the therapists we’ve been paying for since he was five.

    I’ve heard of lots of husbands who pretend to be asleep. My own husband does this when the children come into our room in the morning. He has the kids fooled, but not me. Even when I tell them they can get Dad to make their breakfast because Dad has arms and legs and is just pretending to be asleep, they leave him lie. They claim he is grumpy in the morning. Maybe I’ll start telling them to shut up, go away and make their own darn breakfasts.

    I know of a husband who pretended to be asleep through an entire burglar alarm malfunction. The alarm malfunctioned. The husband slept through. The wife reset the alarm. The alarm malfunctioned again. The wife reset it. The alarm malfunctioned again. And again. And again. The husband slept. The wife looked up the problem on the Internet. She attempted the fix suggested. It didn’t work. The husband slept. The wife tried shutting off the appropriate circuit breaker. In the process, she caused every clock alarm in the house to go off, except the one by her sleeping husband. The burglar alarm still wouldn’t shut up. The husband still slept.

    Eventually, the wife, accompanied by their daughter, dug through the cobwebs in the basement, moved the refrigerator in front of the burglar alarm control panel, then discovered she needed a flat-head screwdriver. The husband slept. The wife could not find a flat-head screwdriver, so used the end of a saw blade to open the box, find the battery and end the beeping siege. The beeping husband slept on.

    My favorite stupid husband trick involves the slightly lazy purple-ball mowing husband. He lives in a beautiful old house that has a wood-burning fireplace. On occasion, the odd bird will fly down the chimney and need assistance in leaving the home. My husband, when asked how he would handle the situation, said he might open all of the windows in the family room and swat at the bird with a broom until it got the hint and flew away. Not too stupid, I thought, and the kids would love the show.

    My friend’s husband, though, is not just lazy, but inventive. Faced with the bird, he did indeed get a broom. Then, he held the broomstick out to the bird and spoke encouragingly to it, hoping to entice it to hop on the handle. He has become, of course, the butt of many a family joke. I can picture his wife and children taunting him with, “Here, Birdie, Birdie, Birdie. Hop on the nice stick, Birdie.”

    Having dumped on my husband and the husbands of others, I suppose its only fair to reveal my own stupidities. I have slept through picking up my daughter at preschool. I continue to expect my son will spontaneously hug me and say, “I really love you, Mom. Thanks for all you’ve done for me.” I let my children convince me we needed a cat.

    The dumbest thing I’ve done though is arguing with my mother-in-law. For years, she pushed every button I had and I let her. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I eventually smartened up and got along with her for the last year of her life. For years, my husband forgave my stupidity. Pretty smart guy, huh?

    Copyright 2010 Janice M. Lindegard. All rights reserved.

  • Put Up Your Dukes

    My mother and father were married for a very long time. They didn’t fight much, but when they did, it was memorable. Not for its violence; they were never violent. No, when my mother and father fought, they were eloquent. I can’t remember a particular fight, but I know that it would go something like this. My mother would accuse my father of some transgression. If she called him a name, it wasn’t just any random epithet. Once, for instance, she called him “an arrogant a—hole.” The alliteration just came naturally, flowed right off her tongue and was delivered with panache. My father, a wise man, would respond, but in Latin. “Mea culpa,” he’d say. “Mea maxima culpa.”

    Fights are usually about something stupid.

    Every couple I know has had a fight about Tupperware, for instance. We have tried every system of plastic container management in our house. Every one has lead to a fight of epic proportions. Early in our marriage, I recall yelling, “If you loved me, you’d put the Tupperware away right,” then running up to our bedroom, slamming the door and crying until I felt like an idiot for crying about Tupperware.

    We tried the “as seen on TV” container system with just one lid for every type of container. It brought peace to our house for some time. Then my daughter decided the various sizes made good homes for various sizes of bugs. Grasshoppers fit nicely in the tall ones. The medium ones made good homes for worms and the small ones were ideally suited to Japanese beetles. We had many conversations about how my daughter would feel if I put her in a plastic container with a few twigs and some leaves. Apparently, she would feel just fine because all of my plastic containers disappeared. I hope I never find them.

    I stopped buying expensive plastic containers after the bug incidents. I tried the kind with the stacking lids. The lids never got stacked. I realized that part of our problem was that a 14-year-old boy was responsible for unloading the dishwasher. In his mind, that meant that if the dishwasher was empty, he had done his job. Returning the dishes to their assigned location did not enter his mind. So, the measuring spoons were in with the steak knives, the pot lids were with the casserole dishes, the coffee mugs were on the counter and the container lids were nowhere to be found.

    One night, my husband snippily asked where he might find a lid for a plastic container. He probably doesn’t think he was snippy, but I heard snip. I sighed, left what I was doing and went to get the poor helpless thing a lid. I knew I could find one, as I had numerous times before.

    I couldn’t find one. Nothing matched. We had just two kinds of plastic container, those with red lids and those with blue lids. There were lots of blue lids and lots of red containers. There were even some old Chinese food containers, but no lids that matched bottoms. My head blew up. I began tossing containers around the room, determined that somewhere at the bottom of the container pile there had to be a secret store of container lids. I snapped, “Fine! You organize the darn things.” I’m pretty sure I didn’t say darn, but you get the picture.

    So, my husband organized the plastic nightmare. Now, every container has its lid firmly placed atop it and the containers are then stacked neatly in the pantry. It’s working for now.  If my son continues his slovenly habit of just putting the containers and tops on the counter for me to put away, we could avoid a Tupperware fight for years.

    Recently, I’ve been fighting with my neighbor. He’s a fine man. He has a beautiful family. His children play with my daughter. His wife is lovely. He is building a storage shed right next to my dining room window.

    I tried to get him to stop. I was reasonable. I looked up the ordinances. I checked my plat of survey. I went outside and pointed out where I believed my property line was. His shed was going to be too close. Ah, too bad! No shed on the side of my house.

    But he looked up ordinances, too. He found an ordinance that allowed him to put his shed where he wanted it. Bad. Shed on the side of my house.

    Again, I tried to be reasonable. I calmly discussed the inappropriateness of placing a storage shed right outside your neighbor’s window. I pointed out that I would be forced to look at his shed every time I looked out my dining room window. He said he has to look at my gazebo every time he looks out his living room window. This made no sense to me but instead of saying “Huh?” I shouted, “Your shed will be ugly!” The conversation devolved. It became a fight.

    I appear to have lost the fight. The shed is going up. We have made what is probably a vain attempt at involving the city. But, I’m still mad. As I write, it’s cold and dark. The shed is still going up. The nails are being hammered. My inside-my-head voice is saying, “I hope his hands are cold,” and “I hope he hammers his thumb.”

    I don’t really want him to hammer his thumb. That would bring me bad Karma and I don’t need any more bad Karma. I’ve got a shed for a view, for crying out loud.

    I try to follow the teachings of Buddha but my son says I am the worst Buddhist who ever lived, because I get mad and let people know it. I remember being in a Buddhist bookstore with a friend. She was telling me about a problem she had with a mutual acquaintance who had done something to really make my friend angry. She said, “What would Buddha do?” I said, “Buddha would key her car.” The little bald nun sitting at the cash register laughed out loud.

    Probably, Buddha wouldn’t key the car, but he might well have thought about it. We get angry. We lash out. We push back. But, if we learn, we let go. I let go of the Tupperware and pretty soon, I’ll let go of the shed. Maybe then we’ll have a big windstorm and the tree near it will be blown over and fall on top of it.  A girl can dream.

  • Mendacity

    When my son was eight, he and I were cuddled up in bed reading or watching TV or something. I don’t remember exactly what we were doing, but I’ll never forget the conversation.

    “Mom,” he said. “Will you tell me the truth about something?”

    “Well, yes,” I said, hoping he didn’t ask a question I would have to lie to answer.

    “Even if you think it will hurt my feelings?”

    “Yes, of course,” I said, crossing my fingers.

    “Mom,” he said, “is there a Santa Claus or do you and Dad buy the presents?”

    Whew, I thought. Nothing about sex.

    “Are you sure you want to know?” I asked.

    “Yes, just tell me.”

    I swallowed hard.

    “Dad and I do the presents.” He stayed still in my arms, head tucked against the soft spot just under my shoulder. He sighed.

    “That’s what I thought.” We cuddled for a little while longer.

    That September, we went to China. We came home with a little girl. Not too long afterward, I started preparing for Christmas.

    “Pretty soon,” I said to my daughter, “it will be Christmas. Santa Claus is going to come to our house to bring you toys. Won’t that be fun?”

    My son happened to be passing through the room. He stopped, looked at me and said, “So, you’re going to lie to her, too?” We lied to her for seven years.

    This year, my daughter turned eight. She wanted the truth.

    “Mom, is there a Santa Claus?”

    “Why do you want to know,” I said, expecting her to tell me she’d had it with the years of lying and deceit. “Did someone tell you there isn’t?” Like your brother, I thought.

    “Oh, some of the boys in school said that there’s no such thing as Santa Claus and that their moms and dads buy the presents. Do you buy the presents?”

    “Yes, we do.”

    She didn’t need any cuddling, just went back to whatever she’d been doing.

    My husband used to lie to me all the time. Here’s how it would go:

    “Will you give our daughter a bath?” I’d ask.

    “Yes, right away,” he would say.

    Ten minutes later, I would find that our daughter was still dirty and he was still playing card games on his computer.

    “I thought you were going to give our daughter a bath,” I would say.

    “Yes, I’ll do it right away. As soon as I finish this game,” he would respond. My brain would then explode trying to figure out if our daughter would get her bath immediately or when he finished his game.

    Turns out, “right away” does not mean immediately. Silly me, I thought it did. In my world, right away meant that my husband was that very minute standing up, pushing his chair away from his desk, looking for our daughter and marshalling her upstairs for her bath. In my husband’s world, right away means, “in about five or ten minutes.” So, my husband was not lying when he told me that he would give her a bath right away. And I was not lying when I told him he was full of crap. He no longer tells me he will do something “right away.”

    I don’t lie very much. It’s not that I’m not good at it. I’m a fairly convincing liar, but I was raised Catholic. When I lie, I do it well because I was told to always put forth my best effort. But then, the lie eats away at me. Even though I haven’t called myself a Catholic since I was 14 years old, I squirm and sweat, convinced I will be discovered and I will burn in a hell I don’t believe in for all eternity.

    The range of lies I tell and squirm over is wide. I have lied about the beauty of everything from babies to bridesmaids’ dresses. “Yes, of course, I would love to wear a teal lace riding hat for your wedding. I’m sure I’ll wear it again and again.” I have lied about interior decorating, hair color, any number of peoples’ cooking and macaroni necklaces.

    I will lie to the March of Dimes next year when they ask me to be their Mothers’ March volunteer. I accepted the task this year after copious amounts of pressure on their part. The volunteer kit came. It sat on my counter. I vowed to do it. I never did. I felt terrible. Next year, I will lie and tell them that I just don’t have the time. Someone else will volunteer, I know they will.

    I have a friend who, like me, was raised by a Southern woman. We were taught never to say anything impolite or unkind. My friend is adept at finding something truthful to say in even the most horrendous circumstances. At a friend’s (terrible) movie premiere, she said, “What an exciting night this must be for you?” This is a woman to be admired and feared.

    The lies I tell most convincingly are those I tell myself. Recently, I’ve been trying to write fiction. It goes slowly. Still, I enjoy it. I allow my husband to read it. He reads it. He responds favorably. I feel good about his responses. Then, my lying brain gets to work. I convince myself that he can’t possibly be telling me the truth, that every thing I write is terrible drivel and I am, in general, a talentless hunk of female flesh. When I tell my husband this, he rolls his eyes. He can’t win. He goes back to his card game. I go back to beating myself for thinking that I am a talentless hunk of flesh.

    I told my kids that I was sad that Santa wouldn’t be coming to our house any more. They looked at me and said, together, “Why?”

    After recovering from the shock of them doing anything together, I said, “Neither of you believe in him. I’ll wrap your presents and I won’t have to stay up ‘til midnight waiting for you to go to sleep so I can put the presents under the tree.”

    “But I still want the presents under the tree,” my daughter said, pouting and looking extremely sincere. My son did his equivalent of pouting, which comes out something like, “Meh.”

    So, we’ll pretend that we believe in Santa. I’ll stay up until midnight waiting for my kids to fall asleep so I can put their presents under the tree. I’ll enjoy it and that’s the truth.

    Copywrite 2010 by Janice M. Lindegard. All rights reserved.

  • Things That Go Beep In The Night

    My sister and I loved to play “cars.” We would draw an elaborate town on a large blackboard with roads, houses, a police station, a pet store, a grocery store, a toy store. Each of the stores had its own parking strip. We lived in the suburbs, after all. Then, we would take our brother’s cars and drive around, blowing noises through our lips to simulate driving and saying, “Beep, beep” for the horn. I’m pretty sure we didn’t let our brother play with us while we were playing with his cars. At the very least, we probably made the rules so complicated that he gave up. One day, my dad found him banging away on his cars with a sledgehammer.

    There was a lot more horn honking when I was a kid. Noise pollution became a big issue and ordinances were passed. Overnight, it became illegal to honk your horn in frustration. Overnight, irritated drivers went from honking their horns to flipping their birds. Cars stopped beeping. I wonder, do children still “beep” their horns when they play cars, or do they flip each other off?

    Now, lots of things beep. I have a timer that beeps until it’s reset. I use it to force me to do things I really don’t want to do. Say, for instance, that my basement looked like a haz mat dumping ground. Anyone with any amount of brain would be reluctant to enter such a basement. Anyone with any amount of dignity would not want to be the owner of such a basement. Let’s assume I have some small amount of dignity, therefore, the basement must be detoxified. I set my alarm for 15 minutes, then I enter the basement and begin detoxification. The alarm beeps and I am done. It will probably take me a year of 15-minute increments, but eventually my basement will only be nasty instead of downright scary.

    I use my timer to allow me to do things I want to do, too. Like napping. I really like naps and science supports me in the value of napping. Left to nap unperturbed, I would nap for hours. Of course, if I nap for hours, there will not be fifteen minutes left in the day to detoxify the basement. So, I set my little timer for 25 minutes and I nap. Then, I get up and have a cup of tea. Then, I see that the mail has come so I go get the mail. Then, I realize I have to pick up my daughter. Then, I realize we have no milk, so we go to Target. Two hours later, we go home to make dinner. After dinner, I need to spend quality time with my family. Eventually, I realize that I have somehow forgotten to spend fifteen minutes in the basement and vow to descend to the pits the next day.

    Lots and lots of helpful devices beep, besides alarms. Smoke and CO detectors beep. When we lived in Chicago, our CO detector started beeping in the middle of the night. I was relieved to find that it did, indeed, beep loudly enough to wake us. We pushed the little “shut up” button. It didn’t stop beeping. We called the fire department. The Chicago Fire Department is an awesome thing. They arrived quickly and in full dress. Two of the firefighters, dressed in their helmets and their big yellow coats, went through every room in our house. It was a four-year-old boy’s dream come true. They found no CO leaking anywhere. They did find a dead battery.

    We have brand-new smoke detectors in our Naperville home. Every one of them is new, replaced just four years after moving here. You may wonder why we replaced all of our smoke detectors. We had to; they all went bad all at once. Naturally, they did it in the middle of the night. We determined that there was no fire. We reset the alarms. Two hours later, they all went off again. We reset them. One hour later, they all went off again. We reset them. Another hour went by, they all went off again. Then, in the morning, they mysteriously stopped. A very nice electrician charged us only a little bit extra to come that very day and install brand new detectors.

    The new detectors don’t just beep; they also scream. They may even be cancer detectors. Whenever I broil meat, which has been shown to produce cancer-causing agents in food, the kitchen detector starts beeping and screaming, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Because all of the detectors are linked, the ones in the upstairs hall and all four bedrooms start screaming, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” as well.  Needless to say, I don’t broil meat very often. I bet they’d let me broil eggplant.

    The new detectors scold as well. Recently, they began beeping and saying, “Low battery.” The first time this happened was in the middle of the night. I didn’t hear another admonishment for at least eight hours, then, “Beep. Beep. Low battery.” Another few hours went by. “Beep, Beep. Low battery.” As all of the detectors speak with the same generic woman’s voice, it is impossible to figure out which one is scolding you unless you are standing right next to it when it scolds. So, I gathered all the nine-volt batteries I could find and started changing batteries. When I ran out of batteries, I went to Target for more. Please tell my husband that it is not ridiculous to pay $150 for nine-volt batteries.

    I felt secure and safe in the knowledge that my smoke detectors were backup-powered for another year. Then, I heard, “Beep, beep. Low battery.” I had no idea where it came from. I stood very still and silent, waiting for another scolding. Nothing came. Enough minutes passed that I grew impatient and noisy. “Beep, beep. Low battery.” I was sure it was coming from the upstairs hall, so I went up there. I waited. Nothing. I got busy and noisy. “Beep, beep. Low battery.” I was convinced it was coming from the first floor, so I went down there. Nothing. Then, it started beeping more frequently.

    I played Marco Polo with the scolding smoke detector for an hour before I finally figured out that it was in the toxic waste dump. I decided that I needed a nap before I could face the basement. I set my timer, closed my bedroom door and snuggled under my covers. Just as I was drifting off, my daughter pounced on me saying, with gritted teeth, “You must fix the siren right now, before I go insane.”

    So, I changed the battery. Now, the only thing waking me up in the middle of the night is my daughter.

    Copyright © 2010 by Janice M. Lindegard. All Rights Reserved.

  • So Much Life, So Little Time

    I used to have a cell phone that would dial anyone I wanted. All I had to do was say, “Dial Dad,” and the phone would dial my dad. I thought that was a pretty cool feature. I pictured myself flipping my phone open, saying, “Dial Dad,” and resting my fingers while the phone did the work.

    I never did get the phone to dial my dad. I never did get the phone to be able to dial anyone. I never figured out the voice dial feature. I felt bad about it. “You are a typical over-a-certain-age technology user,” I said. “You’re old and set in your ways and you can’t figure out something that a 15-year-old could probably do in his sleep.”

    What happened to the woman who early adopted technology, I thought? What happened to the woman who bought a one megabyte Mac and could keep that puppy running no matter what hung it up? A fifteen-year-old, say my son, for instance, can manipulate technological devices like he shares DNA with them. How could it be, I thought, that I could not do something that my son, with whom I DO share DNA, can?

    The answer came to me after trying for two weeks to get some writing samples to appear in an attractive manner on a website.  I was backing the car out of the drive, taking my son to yet another lesson or doctor’s appointment or school function. He was sitting in the passenger seat, oblivious to his surroundings, fingers flying over his iPod Touch. He was likely selecting a playlist, but he could just as easily have been programming a nuclear warhead.

    And it hit me: he has no life.

    My son embraces technology because, really, what else does he have to embrace? He sits in his room with his computer for hours at a time. If there is a new technology that interests him, he can spend hours, literally hours, trying to figure it out.

    I, on the other hand, can spend about twenty minutes, none of which are uninterrupted.

    Here is roughly how my website adventures unfold. First, I do a Google search to determine what my options are for hosting and building my website. While I wait for the results to pop up, I hear a disturbing noise from the kitchen. Upon investigation, I find that the cat has sent another teapot over the counter edge. There are china chunks swimming in a pool of warm tea and sodden tea leaves. I clean up the china and tea, all the while cursing the cat. Time up. Kids start coming home.

    The next day, I decide I have iWeb so I’ll use iWeb. I watch the iWeb tutorial on the Apple website. This takes so long that I have no time left to do the actual work. Time up. Kids start coming home.

    The next day, I realize my samples are printed on paper with ink. This is no longer an acceptable format for samples, though my ultimate goal is to be paid to produce actual writing that will be printed on paper with ink. I scan the samples between folding laundry, making snacks for my daughter and her friend, letting the dog out, letting the dog in and cleaning up after the cat, again.

    The next day, I run errands. I do the grocery shopping, which requires trips to two stores. I go to the dry cleaners. They have lost my comforter. I add “buy new comforter” to the to-do list. I go to the library. I am an efficiency demon in the library. I have selected my book online and put it on hold. My book is waiting for me. I grab my book and head for the self-check lane. I scan my card. I have been in the library for less than two minutes. My account activity pops up. My daughter has $18 in late fees. I slink over to the “you didn’t get your books back on time, you slacker” line and my efficiency goes straight out the window. I pay the fees, I get in my car. My time is up. Kids will be coming home soon.

    The next day, I am defeated. I do nothing about getting the samples onto my website. I wonder why I even need a website. Surely there are writers who don’t have websites.

    The next day, after my husband assures me that all the good writers have websites, I return to the website problem. I actually make progress. I find an iWeb template I like and start building my site. Of course, I feel bad about myself for not making the thing from scratch. I can make a chocolate cake from scratch, why can’t I make a website from scratch? I remind myself that plenty of people make and eat cakes from a box and enjoy every bite. I soldier on.

    The next day, the website is complete except for the writing samples. The children are not due home for at least two hours. I have run, I have made phone calls, the dog is in his crate, the cat has been fed, the teapots are out of reach. In short, uninterrupted time is mine. I prepare the writing samples web pages as if I know what I’m doing. I drop the scanned writing sample images into their intended places. I am almost out of time. I save the changes and visit my website. I click on the samples page. The samples look like crap. They are too small to read. Time up. Kids coming home.

    I am really good at a lot of things. I can fold a fitted sheet so you can’t tell it from a flat sheet. I can drive while handing a juice box to a child in the back seat. I can get two kids to eye doctor appointments on the same day, right before dad gets home and still have dinner on the table at the regular time. I am really good at these things because I do them a lot.

    Fifteen-year-olds are really good at working with technology because they do it a lot. They have no lives, they have to fill the time somehow. I, however, have too much life and not enough time to live it. So, I can’t whip out a website as quickly as I can a batch of cookies. I bet if I make those cookies sugar cookies and I make them as big as my son’s head, then he’ll help me fix my website. If I make a lot of cookies, I bet I could even get him to program my cell phone.

    Copywrite 2010 by Janice M. Lindegard. All rights reserved.

  • Liver Makes Me Quiver

    When I was a kid, I ate liver.

    My mother made it; I ate it, no coercion necessary. One night, my sister leaned close to me and whispered in my ear, “You know you’re eating an organ, don’t you?” I haven’t eaten liver since.

    Now that I am a mother, I am astounded that my sister wasn’t grounded. Instead, my mother made hamburgers for my sister and I whenever she made liver for herself and my father. I don’t recall where my brother’s sympathies lay in the liver war.

    I am nowhere near as accommodating as my mother was. If you don’t like what I made for dinner, you are welcome to make your own. But here’s the tricky part: my feelings will be hurt. My husband knows this and so chokes down whatever I’ve made. My daughter whines but eats what she’s been given because she is too lazy to make her own dinner.

    My son is a special case. His reactions to dinner range from “I’ve had better” to running to the sink to violently spit out whatever vile substance I’ve asked him to eat “just one bite of.” One night last week, he asked what was for dinner. I said, “Fish.” He said, “Lame.” I asked what would be NOT lame. He said, “Sloppy Joes.” I went to the store, I got the things necessary to make Sloppy Joes. I made the Sloppy Joes. The fish stayed in the refrigerator. When confronted with the Sloppy Joe, my son said, “I thought we were having fish.” He wasn’t hungry; he had already eaten.

    No matter what I make, my son never says, “Mom, this is really good.” He probably never will. His favorite cookies are sugar cookies. I made very excellent sugar cookies recently. Everyone concluded that they were excellent cookies. I knew my son concluded they were excellent cookies because he didn’t say, “I’ve had better.” He took the entire plate of cookies, went to his room and locked the door.

    My son’s favorite cake is yellow with buttercream frosting. Plain buttercream frosting. I made a devil’s food cake with coffee buttercream about a month ago. It was delicious. My son wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

    My daughter has her own eating eccentricities. They center more on how foods are prepared and presented than on the actual taste of the foods. Apples must be sliced and any bit of the core must be removed. Oranges must be sliced as well and all bits of pith must be removed. Recently, she asked to have her strawberries de-seeded. Because I am a curious kind of person, I attempted to remove the seeds from the strawberry. It is possible. The resulting strawberry looks almost obscene in its seedless nakedness. When we have three or four houseboys, I will have my daughter’s strawberries de-seeded. Until then, my knowledge of strawberry de-seeding is between us.

    I have discovered that, no matter how heinous children find a particular food to be at home, they will eat it with gusto somewhere else. My daughter eats macaroni and cheese at the neighbors, she claims to hate it here. Her best friend eats vegetarian sausage at our house. I’m sure she spits it out at home. My son doesn’t let a vegetable cross his lips at home; he eats them readily at my sister’s house. I am sure he would eat eggplant there.

    Like many mothers, I have tricked my children into eating things they dislike. I have put finely diced beets in the spaghetti sauce and whole wheat flour in the Snickerdoodles. Whole Grain White Bread is my new best friend. As long as the children don’t see the label, all they taste is the white bread. If they see the label, all they taste is whole grain. My neighbor deceives her children about food, too. They don’t know it, but they like fish sticks. They call them “sticks.” If mom calls them “sticks” they get eaten. If mom calls them “fish sticks” they go in the trash.

    Packaging is tremendously important to my daughter. Mandarin oranges are terrific in the little cup, but won’t be touched if they come from a can. The little cup is not entirely reliable, however. Peaches must come from a larger can. Put in a lunch box, the little cup of peaches comes back home unopened every time. Applesauce in the little cup was a treat for a while until some little girl in my daughter’s class started bringing in applesauce in a squeeze pouch. “You can get them at Costco,” said my daughter.

    I no longer shop for my children’s favorite foods at Costco, though. There are few guarantees in life, other than the one about death. Another is that whatever favorite food you finally find in a 48-pack will become a “no eat-em” the minute you bring the case into the house. No Eat-ems abound in the back of my food cabinets. I have three packages of cinnamon cereal, 12 packages of Mini-marshmallow cocoa mix and numerous individual serving size boxes of Cocoa Puffs. For a long time, we had frozen beef pot pies on every shelf in the freezer when my son decided that only chicken pot pies were worthy of his gastric juices. It took us nearly a year to work through a 36-pack case of microwave popcorn. Do any of you need applesauce in the little cup?

    Color seems to make a difference for my children. When he was tiny, my son would only eat white foods. Mashed potatoes, cooked chicken, even tofu were eaten happily. His diet is still pretty colorless. Meat can be red, but vegetables can only be potatoes, preferably mashed. PopTarts, which must be of a brown flavor, seem to be a major food group, but they are best consumed alone in his room.

    Blue food gets my daughter in an eating mood, particularly ice cream. Normal-people ice cream flavors, like chocolate or vanilla, can easily be passed up, but blue ice cream, no matter the flavor, gets her vote every time.

    I’m thinking I’ll invent a new ice cream flavor. “Blue Liver.” Whatcha think?

  • Sticks and Stones

    My name is Janice. Most people call me “Janice.”

    Now and again, someone will get it in their head that they should call me “Jan.” Usually, these are people with names like “David,” “Barbara,” or “Patricia.” They introduce themselves using their whole name, then say, “But you can call me (insert shortened form of longer name).” Like this, “Hi, I’m David, but you can call me ‘Dave’.” Why don’t they just say, “Hi, I’m Dave”?

    Never in my life have I said, “Hi, I’m Janice, but you can call me ‘Jan’.” I have said, “Hi, I’m Janice.” The Daves, the Barbs and the Pats then proceed to say, “Hi, Jan. It’s nice to meet you.” “Please call me ‘Janice’,” I say. Most people understand that this probably means I don’t want to be called “Jan.” Every now and then, though, I run into someone who just really wants to call me “Jan.”

    When I was in high school, I sang. For four years, the choir director called me “Jan.” Maybe he thought I went by “Jan” because my older sister, whose name is “Roberta,” went by “Bobbi.” I think probably he liked her better, too. Lots of people liked her better. She was a senior and pretty and nice and friendly. I was a freshman and gangly and sullen and sarcastic. I’m pretty sure, at least in high school, that even my parents liked her better.

    By my senior year, my sister had graduated and just about everyone in the choir knew that I really didn’t like to be called “Jan.” One day, when the choir director called me “Jan,” I heard the male voice sections respond, “ -ice,” thereby completing my name.

    My last name caused much more trouble for me in school than my first name did. If I was gangly, sullen and sarcastic in high school, I was just sarcastic in grade school. Sarcasm is lost on most fourth graders.  Mostly, they just thought I was weird. The playground was not a happy place for sarcastic weirdoes like me. I recall one particular day being cornered by a number of my less weird and less sarcastic classmates who taught me how to play “dress up” while calling me “Janice Lindegarter belt.” I was humiliated, of course, but my inside-my-head voice was saying, “My God. ‘Lindegarterbelt’? Is that the best you can do?”

    I can still have trouble with my last name, though no one has called me “Lindegarterbelt” in more than 43 years. When someone asks me for my last name, I say, “Lindegard.” I do this because they asked for my last name and my last name is “Lindegard.” More frequently than you probably will believe, they say something like, “Oh, I’m sorry Mrs. Gard, we don’t have anything on file for you.” And I will have to correct them and say, “My last name is ‘Lindegard.’ The whole last name. My first name is ‘Janice’.” I have never added, “you idiot.” My brother may have added, “you idiot.” He has had the same thing happen to him when someone asked for his last name and did not look up from whatever they were searching through.

    Though I don’t go by “Jan” or “Lindegarterbelt,” I have had some nicknames in my life. My nicknames are person-specific; as in certain people call me certain names.

    My husband calls me “Boo Boo.” This surprises me. I would think “Boo Boo” would be something you call someone who is cute and sweet and loving, not someone who criticizes the way you do everything, from mowing the lawn to rinsing the dishes. I do think I’m kind of cute, so maybe that’s my “Boo Boo” factor.

    My sister calls me “Bean.” I have no idea why. I call her “Bird.” I know why. She knows why. Maybe she told me why she calls me “Bean” once, but I’ve forgotten. My brother calls me “J.” Pretty obvious why he calls me that, I think. If he called me “Jan,” I’d have to hurt him, so he cuts everything but the “J” off and gets to keep his hair.

    Some dads call their daughters sweet names like “Princess” or “Sweet Pea.” My dad called me “Pig Pig.” I think he probably liked my sister better. He never called her “Pig Pig.”

    I’ve mellowed about name-calling as I’ve gotten older. When my daughter called me “Poopy Pants” because she didn’t like something I said to her, I said, “Ok, Doody Drawers, but you still have to clean up your mess before you go out.” Soon, we were calling each other “Poopy Pants” and “Doody Drawers” on a regular basis. It was cute; it was funny. My daughter’s best friend thought it was cute and funny. She tried it with her own mother. I think she got grounded and I’m pretty sure her mother didn’t believe that “Abby calls her mom ‘Poopy Pants’ all the time!”

    My daughter doesn’t call me “Poopy Pants” much anymore. Lately, I’m a “big, fat, big-headed old baby.” I don’t remember if I was trying to get my daughter to stop, or to start something. I didn’t miss a beat, though.

    “That’s right,” I said. “That’s me. I’m a big, fat, big-headed baby.”

    “You forgot old,” she said. Then she did whatever it was that she had resisted doing before calling me names.

    Name-calling seems to vent steam in my house. When I let my daughter call me a “big, fat, big-headed old baby,” I’m giving her a safe way to express her anger and I’m showing her that someone else’s words only have the power to harm if we allow it. I don’t get upset about being called a BFBHOB, because I’m not big or fat. I don’t think I have a particularly big head and I’m certainly not a baby. I’ll give her old; I am, compared to her.

    We both know that what she’s saying isn’t true. She also knows that the rules for name-calling are different at school and with friends. She’s a smart girl.

    So, she calls me a “big, fat, big-headed old baby.” Sometimes, she even adds “mean” or “ugly” and then she laughs and I laugh with her. But if she ever calls me “Jan,” the girl is grounded.

  • When good parents act like bad children

    Recently, I began running. None of my family and friends could believe it, but not because I am a slovenly thing. My tribe couldn’t believe I began running because I hate to run.

    Why would I decide to do something I hate on a regular basis? I blame my bones. Cycling and swimming are more my style, but they aren’t weight-bearing exercise. Bones, apparently, need a regular jarring in order to maintain their integrity. So, when a friend mentioned C25K, an iPhone/iPod app designed to turn the willing from a couch potato to a 5K runner in just 9 weeks, I thought I’d give it a try. (I confess to finding out how many miles are in 5 kilometers before truly committing.)

    I did it. I made it through the whole nine weeks. I went from a couch potato to a runner. I can run more than 3 miles without needing a three-day hospital stay. I’m way past nine weeks now and still running.

    As promised, running has made me more fit, more confident, more energetic. It has also made me more immature.

    I shall explain. Early in my running adventure, my son would brag about his own running prowess whenever I mentioned some gain I’d made.

    “I run a mile every other day at school, Mom,” he would say in that “God, you’re such as loser” tone reserved for teen-parent communication.

    “You’re 14,” I would say. “I am 52.” It did nothing to end the taunting.

    Then, he ran with me. Actually, he ran next to me. He was on one treadmill, I was on the next. I ran slower; he ran faster. I ran a full half-hour. He bailed at about 15 minutes.

    At first, I was simply amazed.

    “Well, I can run faster,” he said. Hm….I thought. No pat on the back. No “Gee, Mom, you’re really doing great.” Not that he’s ever said, “Gee, Mom” to me about anything. So, I gloated.

    He will no longer run with me.

    Am I proud of gloating? No! Of course, not. Can I stop myself? No, of course not.

    This is not the first time I’ve behaved like a bad kid instead of a good parent.

    When my son was young, I would tell him that McDonald’s was closed as we drove past it at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. When he got a little older and a lot sassier, I would stick my tongue out at him behind his back. Now that he’s a teenager, I might admit that maybe, once or twice, after he’s really pushed me to the wall, I might have used an obscene gesture behind his back. Was I proud of myself? Of course not.

    I am not alone. I know many parents who act like children.

    One of my dearest friends assuaged my guilt by admitting that she, too, has used the obscene gesture behind the back coping strategy. I stand behind her on this (without using an obscene gesture). I know her daughter.

    Another friend notes that her husband, when he can’t get his children’s attention, says, “Well, I guess you never want to drive the car.”

    My own husband has said, “If you don’t put away your things and take care of them, you will never have anything you want ever again.” Of course, I will be the one responsible for enforcing that decree, but that’s another story.

    When we were children, my sister and I would hide behind the bathroom door laughing while our brother was being reprimanded. I know parents who have to hide in the laundry room while their children have a tantrum because they can’t keep themselves from laughing. Admittedly, a child hopping up and down with anger can be a tremendously funny sight.

    There are parents who tattle on their kids. When Mom asks who broke the lamp, for instance, Dad answers, “Your son.”

    Finally, I am in awe of the mother who, after telling her children they can have no more cookies or candy, sneaks out of the room to eat just one more cookie.

    Why do we do these things that make us say, “Bad mommy, bad mommy”?

    Parenting is hard and it is, at least for many years, a thankless task. Neither of my children has ever thanked me for making them go to bed, denying them a toy or coercing them to eat just one bite of vegetable. There are days when they don’t even thank me for some little thing I did that I wasn’t asked to do, like straightening their rooms or occasionally doing their chores.

    There are days when I feel like I’m an ok mom. There are days when I feel like I’m a great mom. And there are days when I can’t take another minute of whining, ignoring homework, begging for toys or electronics or candy or privileges. Those are the days I want to throw a tantrum, get down on the floor flailing my arms, kicking my legs and screaming about how unfair life is. Because I know that would be really bad, I do something a little less bad, like lying about McDonald’s being closed.

    My son has given up bragging about how fast and how often he runs. He has made friends with a kid who runs cross-country. Now, he brags about his friend’s accomplishments. But I know how to respond.

    “Mom,” he’ll say. “My friend says he can run 13 miles.”

    “Fine. That’s great for him,” I say. “But how many miles can his MOM run?”

    Am I mature or what?