Snide Reply

Tag: suburban life

  • Green Eyed Lady

    I wasn’t particularly well liked as a child. I was a geek. While other children were outside playing, I was inside reading the encyclopedia. I particularly liked the entries on dogs and flowers, but I read just about every page. I didn’t leave it at that though. I assumed all of the children were reading the encyclopedia when they weren’t outside. I actually told other children that I read the encyclopedia and then I told them what I had learned. I quickly discovered that the other children were not reading the encyclopedia. Every time I cried on my mother’s shoulder about the other children’s derision, my mother would say the same thing. “Oh, honey. They’re just jealous.” Jealous? Of me? The encyclopedia-reading know-it-all? “Could it possibly be true?” I thought.

    Well, of course it wasn’t true. The children were unkind to me because I was an insufferable know-it-all. By the time I was a tween, I had learned how to pretend to like frosted lip gloss and Carly Simon songs, but the jealousy seed was sewn. Other girls took to bell-bottoms and blush like ducklings to water. I never managed to feel as comfortable in the teen uniform of my time as I did sitting in the family room, reading the encyclopedia, imagining all of the other girls jealous of my set of World Books.

    Perhaps my parents’ insistence on treating each of their children equally fed the jealous monster within me. Every year at Christmas, my mother would carefully add up how much money she had spent on each of us, then would buy more presents for whoever had been slighted. When she was sure she had spent equal amounts of money on each of us, she would lay the booty out and make sure that the equality was evident. If it looked like one of us was getting more than the others, the present parity process would begin anew.

    We became accustomed to things being equal at our house. If one of us got something, all of us got something. This extended to privileges, too. It started to breakdown as we got older though. I remember my sister being incensed when I was allowed to wear pantyhose in fifth grade. Technically, the hose in question were sheer pale-pink tights, but my sister saw “pantyhose.” Since she wasn’t allowed to wear hose in fifth grade, she was not going to put up with me wearing hose in fifth grade.

    Many years later, as an adult, I recall asking for a Cuisinart for Christmas and being told that it was too expensive. Just months later, my parents bought my sister and her husband a dishwasher for their new home. I was not gracious. I believe I yelled something like, “She gets a dishwasher? I can’t have a Cuisinart and she gets a dishwasher?” in the middle of the Polk Brothers sales floor. I got a Cuisinart for Christmas the following year. I still have it and it still works and I’m still kind of ashamed of how I got it.

    Though I’m older, I have retained my jealous ways. It’s a good thing, then, that my best friend claims not to envy others. She says she is truly happy for other people when good fortune smiles upon them. Of course, I hate her for it. She knows I hate her for having a lake cottage, too. When she and her husband bought the cottage, I said something like, “Wow, that’s so great!” but I was thinking, “Where’s my lake cottage? Why does she get a lake cottage?” I realize that I should have been thinking, “Cool! My best friend owns a lake cottage! That’s so great for her,” immediately followed by “Maybe I can stay there for free some day!”

    I think my friend sometimes pretends she’s jealous of me so that I won’t feel so bad. When we moved to Naperville, we knew only one other family here. She would call me and, if she got the answering machine, accuse me of being out having fun with my new best friends. When I tell her that my son has called me a really nasty name and I have taken away his wireless mouse for a month, she’ll tell me that her daughter has called her a really nasty name and she has taken away her laptop for a month. She’s a good friend.

    There is some evidence that I may be getting better at handling my jealous nature. I used to be so jealous of some celebrity that I couldn’t stand to look at her. I can’t remember who it was now. My sister, I recall though, can’t stand Demi Moore. I understand her animosity. You’ve had three kids, Demi, and you want me to believe you haven’t had any work done? Honey, you’ve had more work done than a Chicago tollway in the summer.

    Lots of people hate Angelina Jolie because she’s beautiful, she has a beautiful lover, they adopted beautiful kids and made some beautiful ones, too. I can’t hate her, though. Look at me, people! I married an older man. I have a gorgeous daughter adopted from China. My husband and I made a beautiful boy together. Ok, so I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world and my husband isn’t Brad Pitt. Still, Angie and I have a lot in common. She hates Jennifer Aniston, too.

    Throughout my life, jealousy has been my constant companion. Sometimes, she’s just hanging around the edges and I’ll get a little wistful over someone’s good fortune. Other times, she’s pulled up a rocking chair and is goading me into a great green funk. I’ve come to accept it.

    Things have been pretty quiet on the Green Line of my life lately, but I see a storm on the horizon. Just the other day, a friend chatted me up on Facebook and let it drop that she was typing on her laptop poolside in Mexico. I’m shivering in Chicago and she’s lapping up the sunshine south of the border. The last emerald straw just may be the email I got from my best friend the same day, though. “Do you hate me?” it was titled. What, I thought, could she have done to make me hate her? The message was signed, “sent from my iPad.”

  • Take that, Tull!

    Probably fifty percent of my driving time is spent shuttling my children to where ever it is they need to be shuttled. Some would say I’m fortunate that I have only two children to shuttle and that they have relatively few activities to which they need shuttling. It’s not luck. We’re too broke for them to do more than one activity each. I’ve also carefully chosen their activities. I never encouraged soccer or swim team, both of which require parental shuttling to exotic locales, like Schaumburg, at ungodly hours of the day.

    Still, it isn’t surprising to find me in the car with my son, taking him somewhere. Frequently, I will sing along with whatever is playing on the radio. This shouldn’t be a hardship. People have paid money to hear me sing, and yet, my son repeatedly tells me to stop, saying he wants to hear the original performance. I understand this and so I stop. Recently, the reason he shut me down cut a little too close to the bone.

    I was singing along, with gusto and abandon, to a David Bowie song I love. I was into it. My son wasn’t “shushing” me. Life was good. When David and I came to the chorus, however, my son exclaimed, “Ewwwww, Mom!”

    “What?!,” I said, looking in the rearview mirror for the squirrel I must have run over.

    “God, Mom! You are too old to sing ‘Hot tramp, I love you so’!”

    “Too old? Too old for Bowie?,” I thought? Mick Jagger is prancing his wrinkly old ass all over stages everywhere and I can’t sing David Bowie? What am I going to do in the nursing home, sing along with Perry Como? When I’d calmed down a tad, I realized my son might be on to something. Mick Jagger looks really bad prancing his wrinkly old ass these days.

    It’s probably fitting that my son should be the one to point out the age-appropriateness of certain activities. When I married, people had long since given up the ever annoying “When will we see you walk down the aisle?” Soon after marrying, my husband and I began baby making. This went less smoothly than anticipated but more so than many people I’ve known.

    At one of my monthly doctor visits, I looked over my records while I waited for the doctor. The file folder they were in was stamped “AMA.” Each individual page had “AMA” stamped at the top. Several little pieces of paper were stapled to the folder. Each of them was stamped “AMA.” I spent the time waiting for the doctor trying to figure out what “AMA” might mean. “American Medical Association” came to mind, but why would the AMA care about my little pregnancy? Then “Against Medical Advice” popped into my head, but I would have remembered being told not to get pregnant. So, I asked the doctor what AMA meant. “Oh, ‘advanced maternal age’,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

    My AMA, and my husband’s APA, weren’t so obvious when we lived in Oak Park. Lots and lots of families in Oak Park were built through adoption, which tends to be a choice made by older parents. My son’s best friend in Oak Park was adopted. My daughter attended a daycare that was run by a woman who had adopted from China. Most of her little charges, like my daughter, were also adopted from China.

    My best friend, who I met in church in Oak Park, has two daughters from China. One of them is my god-daughter. We’ll call her “Gracie.” One day, my friend was in her yard raking leaves. A boy rode his bike past the house once or twice, eyeing my friend suspiciously. Eventually, he stopped and said to her, “Does Gracie live here?” “Yes, she does,” said my friend, “I’m her mother.” “You can’t be her mother,” the boy said. “Why?” my friend asked, “because I’m white?” “No,” the boy said, “because you’re old.”

    My son thinks I’m too old to call the woman in that story my best friend. “You’ve outgrown having a best friend, Mom.” I asked him what it was I was supposed to call my best friend, her being my best friend and all.

    “You can call her your close friend. After you reach thirty-five, you shouldn’t use ‘best friend’.”

    “What’s wrong with calling her my best friend?” I insisted. “She’s my closest friend. She makes me laugh. I make her laugh. She’s going to help me hide your dead body!”

    She may help me hide my husband’s dead body, too. He thinks I’m too old for glitter nail polish. My niece, who owns the glitter nail polish and is twenty-two years old, does not believe I am too old for it. The night I put it on because it just happened to be there, I also just happened to be drinking champagne. It looked great! The next day, while I was drinking my morning tea, I decided my husband was probably right. But, I reserve the right to dig into my daughter’s polish supply on New Year’s Eve.

    I know I’m too old for mini-skirts and leather pants. Never really wanted leather pants, but I wore my share of mini-skirts. I’ve watched enough episodes of “What Not To Wear” to know that I should not dress like my daughter, so the mini-skirts went to the Goodwill some time ago. I’m also aware that bikinis are out of reach for me. I never wore them when I was younger, believing the maillot to be much more chic. I’m still convinced a one-piece is the fashionable woman’s choice and I am nothing if not fashionable. Ok, I’m not so fashionable most of the time, but I’m rockin’ the one-piece at the Naperville beach!

    My daughter pointed out that there are things that I am too young for, like a wheel chair. I’m also too young for gray hair. Fortunately, during this phase of monetary deprivation, my hair has been tremendously cooperative. Should too many grays begin to surface, though, we’ll be giving up meat to pay for my hair coloring. I’m too young for those AARP solicitations I keep getting, too. I’m glad that my husband isn’t, though. We could really use the discounts.

    I am also, most definitely, too young to die and I’ll be damned if I’m too old to rock and roll. When you come to the nursing home to visit in 30 years, it’ll be easy to find me. Just look for the little old lady singing, “Hot tramp! I love you so.”

  • Flash!

    One of my favorite members of The Justice League is The Flash. I like his attitude, his sense of humor, and his ridiculously inflated ego hiding what is probably a mountain of insecurity. I identify.

    I have sentimental feelings for The Flash, too. It wasn’t until I had children that I discovered The Justice League. Our son began watching the show as a young boy and pulled my husband and I along for the ride. Before long, the three of us were avid Batman fans and had decided Superman was a wuss. (He visits Lex Luthor in the hospital, for crying out loud!) When we discovered our daughter loved The Justice League, too, we were overjoyed. About four years ago, we spent an entire week at the beach, playing in the sand by day and watching Justice League episodes by night. At four, our daughter didn’t get the names all quite right. Wonder Woman was “Woman Lady” and The Flash was “Fast.”

    I was reminded of my fond feelings for The Flash recently by my cousin. We were having hors d’oeuvres and cocktails on Christmas Eve. This particular cousin happens to be about my age. Actually, I have a whole passel of cousins who are just about my age, give or take two years, but I share a special experience with this one.

    My cousin reminded me that perverts just really seem to like me. Naturally, she didn’t come out and say, “Wow, Janice, perverts really like you.” She was reminiscing about one particular summer in her hometown in New Jersey. My family was visiting her family. Between the two families there were four girls: me and my sister, my cousin and her sister.

    We were young teenagers that summer, my sister the oldest and my cousin the youngest. The four of us went for a walk in the woods behind my cousins’ house. As we were walking, we heard a voice saying, “Girls! Oh, girls!” We looked around, not sure where the voice was coming from. “Girls! Over here, girls!” We finally located the source of the voice. It was a young man, naked, inviting us to check out his natural endowments in the wooded natural setting. I recall being astounded, then laughing and running away. My cousin recalls the same. My sister claims not to remember any of it.

    Unfortunately, that was just the beginning of my experience with perverts. In college, I joined a sorority. One early summer evening, I was standing near my bedroom window, applying my makeup in preparation for the weekly trip to “The Bars.” I saw a flashing light out of the corner of my eye. I looked into the parking lot below, saw nothing of consequence, and turned back to my making up. Again, the light flashed into my window. Again, I looked down into the parking lot. This time, I saw something of consequence. I saw a hand wrapped around a “unit,” hand busily at work. I did not see a face, as the hand and unit were “spotlighted” by a flashlight. I screamed, then called the police.

    The Urbana police responded to the call. Oh, how they responded to the call. Summer evenings at the sorority were spent sitting on the front porch. A number of my sisters were sitting on our porch, as were sisters at the house next door and the house next door to that. Two police cruisers pulled up to the house. I was already on the porch, waiting for them to come up to the house and take my statement. Did they come up to the house? NO! They stood on the curb conversing with each other loudly, like this:

    Cop from second car, getting out of his cruiser, assessing the situation: “So, we got someone pullin’ his pud?”

    Cop from first car, acknowledging pud pulling: “Yeah, this young lady (indicates me) reports he’s out back shaking his snake.”

    They did not find the pud-pulling, snake shaker. I don’t think they even tried. Probably, he was one of their own, sent out on slow nights to stir up some entertainment on sorority row.

    I was much older the next time I was flashed. Some few years ago, my neighbor and I developed a walking habit. We went together to motivate each other and we went at night because that was the only time we could go together. We walked in good weather and in bad and we walked every night. We walked in our neighborhood, past houses full of families just like ours.

    One night, we heard someone calling to us. We looked to where the sound was coming from and saw nothing. Then we heard the sound again, from the same spot and this time saw a naked man. We were surprised because one doesn’t expect to find a naked man on a walk at night. Mostly, though, we were surprised because it was freezing out. The man ran as soon as he realized we had seen him and we said, “Hey, come back! Don’t run away!” Poor guy. Probably looking to shock and intimidate and the best we could give him was sarcasm.

    I’ve read that there aren’t as many females compelled to expose themselves as men because there are so many legal outlets for women inclined toward exhibitionism. Stripping, for instance. And, isn’t it just like a woman to find a practical outlet for her compulsion? Take off your clothes in public and get paid for it without getting arrested. That’s a neat trick.

    Actually, my neighbor takes off his clothes in public and never gets arrested for it though what he does should be a crime. Every summer, as soon as the temperature goes over 80, this guy is outside shirtless. I’m no prude. Alexander Skarsgaard without a shirt? I’m all over that. But, we’re talking the Pillsbury Dough boy’s older, flabbier brother here.

    I should probably pretend I’m appalled, rather than just repulsed, and see if I can get the neighbor to keep his shirt on when he’s outside. After all, my daughter is only eight years old. She should be given as many years as possible before she has to put up with men flashing their bits of pasty white flesh her way. Right now, the only flashing she needs to see is in Justice League reruns.

  • Potty Mouth

    I really like the movie, “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” It’s a sweet movie starring Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell that follows the love stories of four (more?) couples. Some time ago, I suggested it as a good family movie to watch with my adult sibs, my mom and dad and my grandmother. Everyone was on board for watching the movie. It started and, within two minutes, my mother was so offended she had her arms crossed over her chest and her lips firmly set in a pinched, hard line.

    I forgot that the first five minutes of dialogue consist of one word, the “F” word, repeated many times, in many variations, as Hugh Grant’s character realizes he’s overslept and is about to be very late for a friend’s wedding. I identified with the opening scene, finding it very real. My mom found it really distressing and immediately labeled the film, “Dirty.” I recall she glowered at me. I knew I was f . . .acing an angry mother.

    My mother didn’t swear much. I swear a lot. Actually, I swear a lot less than I used to. Working in a preschool will do that to you. I have to admit to thinking it’s pretty funny when a four-year-old looks in her backpack and says, “Sh-t!” Her companion then says, “What’s wrong?” “I left my indoor shoes at home,” she says. But, being the roll model that I am, I have always said, “We don’t say those words in school. Can you think of a better word to use when you’re frustrated?”

    My problem is that I can’t think of a better word to use when I’m frustrated. The “S” word is perfect for those times when you just want to kick yourself in the behind for doing something stupid, like forgetting your indoor shoes. It’s a short word, so you get it over and move on quickly. It has an opening sound that you can draw out as long as you want and then a completely satisfying final consonant. Indeed, a very useful word.

    As much as she hated swearing, my mother wasn’t above using it herself. She had some creative constructions, but my clearest memory of her swearing was over a sewing project. She was making a dress for either my sister or me. There was a particularly difficult seam that was refusing to cooperate. She sewed it and tore it out at least three times. Finally, she got it right, only to discover she had sewn the garment to her own. What did she say? She said, “Shit!”

    I would have said the “F” word. While I find the “S” word quite useful, the “F” word is my go-to word for extreme frustration and/or pain. Accidentally poking myself with a pin will get the “S” word out of me. Sewing something to my own clothing by mistake after trying to get the darn thing right for an hour? That’s going to get the “F” word out of me every time.

    I’m also not likely to say “darn.” I use the “D” word, usually when referring to our cat, Oliver. Oliver is the worst cat who ever lived. Oliver wants only canned food and he wants it three times each day. If he does not get his canned food when he wants it, he breaks something. He has broken three teapots, numerous plates and bowls and all but two out of 12 coffee mugs. I call him, “the damn cat.”

    I used to call him “the god-damned cat.” I stopped using “god damn” some time ago, realizing it could be offensive to some of my more religious friends who frown upon taking God’s name in vain. But, I’ve been rethinking my line of reasoning. I seem to recall learning that no one knows God’s name. If no one knows his name, then how can one take his name in vain? I’m not buying that God’s name is “God.” That’s like saying my dog’s name is “Dog.” If I found out that God’s name was “Fred,” then I could say “the Fred-damned cat” and my friends who worship Fred would be quite right in being offended.

    My father believes that he knows God’s name. He told me, “It’s Harold.” “Harold?” I said. “Yes, you know, ‘Harold be thy name’.” “It’s ‘hallowed’, Dad,” I said. He was not deterred. Nothing, I have found, can keep a dad from making a Dad Joke. Having failed with Hallowed Harold, my dad said, “His middle name is ‘Andy’.” Almost afraid to ask, I said, “How’s that, Dad?” My dad began singing, “And he walks with me . . .”

    Naturally, my children have used swear words and it is invariably blamed on me. My husband claims not to swear. I know he does, but I do it more, so he hides behind my foul mouth. The impact of my potty mouth was brought home to me in a stop at McDonald’s. It was summer. I was in the drive thru, unhappily waiting for a Happy Meal. My then four-year-old son had gotten wise to my “McDonald’s is closed” ploy. The food was not ready, so I was told to pull ahead and wait. First, however, I let the little old lady cross in front of my car to her own. The guy in the car behind me laid on his horn. I, ever mature as we know, shouted out my window, “What should I do, run her over?” He, even more mature than I, said, “Yeah!” to which I said, “Oh, go f— yourself.” From the back seat, my son added, “Yeah, you go f— your goat.” How he knew the man had a goat, I will never know.

    Since then, I have tried to curb my evil ways, but tell my children that certain words are “adult” words and that, when they are adults, they can choose to use them. My son, almost an adult now, practices on an hourly basis, throwing in some really disgusting phrases that, while they contain no profanity, are, well, really disgusting. I have learned to ignore him.

    My daughter brought me up short the other day when she asked, “Mommy, are you a pussy?” I choked back my immediate response and said, “Oh, dear, you must never use that word” and explained why. The first thing that came to my mind, though, was, “Hell, no! Mommy is hard core!”

  • Christmas Melts Down

    Andy Williams is a liar. According to his famous Christmas tune, this is “the most wonderful time of the year, with kids jingle belling and everyone telling you ‘be of good cheer’.”

    Be of good cheer, my sweet behind, Andy. Tell it to my dog. The poor thing just had to “do his business” with a 50 mile-per-hour North wind blowing straight up his nostrils. In Naperville, the wind is whipping down the former plains. So, no, Mr. Williams, I wouldn’t call this time of year wonderful.

    My idea of a wonderful time of year is late May. The irises and roses are blooming in my garden. Last year, for the first time, a climbing rose I’ve allowed to grow despite never producing a bloom, bloomed in a profusion of cherry red. It was gloriously beautiful against the deep purple of the iris my dad gave me when we moved here.

    I brought the rose with me from a prior garden. Actually, I brought a lot of roses from the old house to this garden. They grow like weeds for me. Within a week of planting at the new house, every one of my roses was gone, sheared to the ground by the local gang, Hell’s Bunnies.

    Naperville rabbits are a rapacious lot. Whatever went into the ground went into them, thorns and all. I imagined them hopping around the neighborhood, my roses hanging from their bloody bunny mouths. I planted again, they ate again. I planted, they ate. Plant, eat. Plant, eat. Finally, I gave up on roses. I researched. I found plants that both grow like weeds and are poisonous to rabbits.

    I was content with my garden full of noxious flora. Then, one day two years after moving here, I noticed a rose growing at the back of one of the beds. I left it, knowing the hellions would be through to mow it down shortly. They didn’t come. The Circle of Life seemed to have finally found its way to my yard. Now, where there once were fat, juicy bunnies by the hundreds, there is the occasional rabbit and the more than occasional hawk.

    The rose grew undisturbed as I showered it with neglect. I left it alone. It did nothing. I thought I had acquired another teenager. But then this year, it bloomed. Lots and lots of fluffy, fragrant blooms, each as red as the bunny blood I imagine spilled by the neighborhood predators.

    The rose has long since gone dormant. The apple trees are right now being whipped around by a blizzard force wind. The ornamental grasses are bent in half by it. I fear for my beautiful Japanese maple.

    The weather sucks. I’m freezing. I’ve got the house to decorate, presents to buy, presents to make, meals to plan, cookies to cut out and cakes to bake. Because I’m not earning any money, all of this has to be done with masking tape, yarn and bag of flour.

    I could handle all of the Christmas pressure with my usual aplomb, if I had a usual aplomb. Instead, I handle it with my annual Christmas Meltdown.

    The Christmas Meltdown usually occurs on the day the house gets decorated. Every year, beginning in about September, one of the children will want to know when we will be decorating the Christmas tree. My daughter will ask me if we can finally have Christmas lights on our house like everyone else. I point out to her that we have luminaria in our driveway at Hanukkah, but apparently real flames are not garish enough.

    Finally, the day will come when we have ushered Hanukkah out the door and Christmas decorating can begin. This year, I prepared my family for Christmas Decorating Day. I gave them a schedule of the day’s events. My family would be coming for lunch to see our tree. We need to get the tree set up before they come, I said.  We need to get the lights on. We need to put the ornaments on.

    No one remembered. I decided, in my usual mature way, that I would do everything myself. Christmas is an ideal time to become a martyr, I reasoned. Reason went out the window when I couldn’t get the Christmas tree box from the basement by myself. I would have to ask one of them for help. I went with the son, as the husband was nowhere to be found.

    With the tree box in the living room, I began the Christmas Mood preparations. I was, after all, creating a lifetime of memories for my children. I set my laptop to Pandora’s “Swinging Christmas” station and started putting the tree together. My son came through the room, rolled his eyes and said, “You’re NOT listening to Jazz Christmas songs.” He didn’t wait for a reply. My husband wouldn’t know what I was listening to. He was sitting less than 10 feet away, working at his own laptop, wearing his $400 noise-cancelling headphones.

    I was undaunted, though. I had my eyes on that lifetime of Christmas memories prize. Then my daughter danced through the room, pronounced the undecorated tree “ugly” and pirouetted away. “She’s right,” I thought. “It’s ugly. Christmas is ugly. I’m ugly.”

    I did what any Christmas-crazed overwhelmed woman would do. I got in my car and drove to my happy place. There was no line, so once I had my tall, skim, no-whip hot chocolate, I drove to my other happy place. I sat in the car, in the rain, staring out at the prairie wetlands. I cried. I cried and drank my hot chocolate until I felt like an idiot. Then, I drove back home. Meltdown accomplished; Christmas pressure released.

    No, this is not my most wonderful time of the year. My son, though, is down with Andy. He loves winter.

    “It’s blowing fifty miles an hour out there,” I said to him recently.

    “Yeah!” he said. “This is great weather.”

    “Prove it,” I said. “Go outside and then tell me this is great weather.” He grabs at any chance to show Mom how wrong she is so he ran out onto the deck. Realizing his shirt was on inside out, he took it off, did his best impersonation of Captain America and put the shirt back on. He came back in the house, still warm. By this time, I was laughing out loud.

    The weather outside is frightful, but as long as I can laugh out loud now and then, it may not be the most wonderful time of the year, but it can be just fine.

  • By The Book

    Somewhere, perhaps in the Library of Congress, there is a pair of books. One is titled, The Dad Book. The other is titled, The Mom Book. I don’t think anyone will argue with me because who really knows what’s in the Library of Congress anyway? I figure maybe the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, but it’s a pretty big building, so there must be more than just that.

    I know the Mom and Dad books exist because my friend, Kate, said so. If Kate says a thing is true, it either is, or you want it to be. Kate is just like that. The Dad Book, according to Kate, contains all of the things that are the Dad’s responsibility in the standard American suburban household. The Mom Book contains all of the things that are the Mom’s responsibility. The Mom Book is thicker.

    Of course, the The Mom Book and the The Dad Book were written many years ago, before Moms became self-actualized and liberated. My own mother became liberated when I was about ten. I know this because she took me to a women’s self-actualization group meeting. This was a meeting in which women discussed the many roles they had in their lives and how much they hated many of those roles.

    Though my mother became self-actualized and started working, she still adhered to the The Mom Book, or tried to, for a while. Eventually, my sister was given her own version of the The Mom Book; call it the “My mom works so now I have to iron and make dinner” book. My mother said my sister liked helping. My sister says something like, “I was 11 and I was ironing, for crying out loud, and just because I was the oldest.” I was very glad to be the second child.

    I know some Dads cook. In our house,  The Dad Book did not include cooking, unless the cooking was done outdoors with open fire. The Dad Book also included fixing things, mowing the lawn and drinking beer afterward. We had a neighbor who liked to mow his lawn early in the day. Eventually, he and my father developed a competition to see who could mow their lawn the earliest. This put the “drink a beer afterward” rule in serious jeopardy of breaking the “don’t drink beer before noon” rule, but my dad adapted.

    In my own house, The Dad Book and The Mom Book seem to have fallen off the shelf and had their pages put back haphazardly. But I have not rebooted my default responsibility settings. I grew up with a traditional Dad doing the traditional Dad things and a slightly less traditional Mom doing traditional Mom things.

    I expect my husband to do the things my dad did. Problem is, my husband was raised in a home where the children were not exposed to the dirty workings of home care and maintenance. He was raised to read important books, listen to important music and converse on a range of culturally significant topics. I was raised to wipe the counters down before considering the kitchen clean-up completed. Which skill do you think is more useful in a modern suburban home inhabited by two adults, two children, a dog, a cat and a fish?

    Our Mom and Dad book confusion is complicated by the fact that I lived alone for many years before entering a relationship that involved actual sharing of living space. Hence, all household responsibilities were my own. I quickly tired of asking male friends for help with Dad responsibilities. If I needed a shelf installed, I had to call a friend. If I needed a bookcase built, I had to call a friend. Eventually, I realized that I was calling male friends more for their tools, than their muscles.

    I decided that the reason I couldn’t do Dad things for myself was I didn’t have that most Dad of things: the power drill. One year, my mother asked what I wanted for Christmas. I said, “A power drill.” She laughed and got me a “cute little sweater.” The next year, she asked what I wanted for Christmas. I said, “A power drill.” She didn’t laugh, but I got a cute little sweater anyway. The following year, I told my dad, “I want a power drill for Christmas. Mom is going to want to get me a cute little sweater. I want a power drill.” I got a power drill, and a cute little sweater.

    With lots of cute little sweaters and a power drill, I was the empowered woman. I built my own furniture, I installed my own shelves, I screwed . . well, you get the drift.

    Then I got married. I assumed my husband would be able to use the power drill at least as well as I could. Instead, I got a husband who can’t use a screwdriver without hurting himself. I had no idea that there is an addendum to The Dad Book. It reads: Any one receiving The Dad Book who also has earned a Ph.D. may, at any time, disregard the entire contents of The Dad Book. My husband has a Ph.D.

    One winter day, last year, I heard a strange noise in the kitchen. It sounded like a constant, intermittent “whoosh.” I followed the “whoosh.” It took me to the basement. It took me, in fact, to the sump pump. “Sump pump” is not mentioned in my copy of The Mom Book. Actually, anything with “sump,” “pump,” “hose,” “outlet” or “filter” in its name is, and should be, listed in The Dad Book. My husband believes that “sump” is a word created so that children learning to read will have something to rhyme with “pump” and “rump.”

    I Google’d “sump pump.” I Google’d “repair sump pump.” All of the results were ugly. Sump pump repair is only marginally less gross than toilet plunging, also listed in The Dad Book. I did what any self-respecting woman married to a man with a Ph.D. would do. I called a plumber. The plumber fixed the sump pump. Because the plumber has the traditional version of The Dad Book with no Ph.D. addendum, he was able to tell me how to avoid seeing him next winter.

    It is winter again. I have done what the plumber suggested. I am hoping not to see him. In the meantime, my husband will spend the winter doing one of the only things he willingly does from The Dad Book. He will build roaring fires in our fireplace then fall asleep in front of them while watching a football game. Maybe I need a copy of The Dad Book?

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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?