Last Saturday my life changed.
No, I did not get a promotion, we didn’t move and Lord knows there is no pregnancy announcement coming.
Friends, we are getting new couches.
Those who know me already know that this is actually big news in our home. Those microfiber monsters have been a real point of contention in my marriage for years.
You see when I was preggers with the twins, I was a bit hormonally whacked and all over the place emotionally. This is not that far of a stretch from my normal self, just amplified. For the majority of my pregnancy I was on “suggested precautionary bed rest.” In short, I was supposed to take it easy. The twins were my third pregnancy, they were identical — posing all kinds of great little trials and concerns — and I had gestational diabetes and high blood pressure to boot. Oh yeah, I also carry a mean predisposition to postpartum depression and anxiety.
Anyways right around the twin delivery date was mine and Sam’s nine-year anniversary. I was pretty giddy when he came home and let me know that he got me an anniversary gift. Holy Mother of The Pregnancy Gods, I just KNEW I was getting those new couches. I had been bitching about the old ones for months at this point. That should not be surprising considering I was basically living on them.
Spoiler alert — no new couches. He got the “family” an iPad. I went totally bat sh** crazy. Screaming, crying, sobbing, throwing my preggo body over those ratty old couches in the most dramatic ways I could think of and muster up. I was beyond devastated. My hormones had convinced me that this was the worst betrayal of gift giving ever known to mankind. I was devastated, he was confused, the kids were terrified, my mom was laughing hysterically.
Sam and I are marital soldiers. We recovered and we moved on. We welcomed beautiful twin girls the day before our anniversary and spent our ninth anniversary feeding four-pound twins and sharing a vending machine cinnamon roll. I highly doubt anything will ever top that one. We brought the twins home to their two older sisters and giant fur beast, and life started moving at warp speed. There was barely any time to throw angry dagger mom eyes at the couches. There were boobs to pump, kids to feed, laundry to clean, floors to scrub…you know the spiel.
Fast forward a year to when the twins were about one. Sam and I decided it was, in fact, time to replace the beige bastards, and we hiked it over to Art Van, sat on every surface and decided on a glorious grey sectional. It was nearly a done deal. All we had to do was go home, take a few measurements and call the order in. Six weeks from then I would be lounging on those suckers drinking wine and hanging with my girlfriends from The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Could.not.wait. I felt more luxurious just imagining that sectional and all of its sexy throw pillows.
We got home, grabbed the tape measure and took one look at two tiny toddlers waddling around the family room spilling sippies in their saggy pee pee diapers. Christ. We can’t get those expensive couches! They will be saturated in stinky old milk, pee and goldfish crumbs before we ever grace them with ourselves.
Couches on hold. Suburban mom life resumed.
We settled for giving those old battle axes a good cleaning, restuffing the backs and rebatting the cushions. Even though one cushion zipper and had to be safety pinned together, they didn’t look half bad. Life continued on fast as a speeding bullet and with four screaming little princesses running around my legs 24 hours a day, I just about forgot about my old couch desire.
Then it happened. We came home from vacation Saturday to CAT PEE ON THE COUCH. Can’t get around that no matter HOW hard you try. Cat pee is a furniture death sentence. “Better buy some new couches,” the hubs grunted while pushing those soiled couches out of the family room.
OMG. OMG. OMG.
It. is. happening. The very next morning I raced to the local furniture store, lounged on all sorts of sectionals and decided to take one little hottie home. Yep. True story. Couches AND A BONUS CHAIR come one week from that day. The cat I almost always resent is now my very favorite child. She bypassed all four princesses with a few strategic squirts of her ammonia-laced pee pee. Well played, cat.
Everyone, come over and sit on my new couch. I will pour you a glass of wine and we can watch BRAVO together. Let us bask in the suburban mom glory that is new family room furniture.
You spill your wine on those couches and I will throat punch the he** out of you. Kidding! (Nope.)
— Kristin McCarty
Kristin McCarthy is a stay-at-home mother of four little girls known as her “blonde-tourage.” She enjoys eating cheese and drinking good craft beer while vacuuming up as many Legos and Shopkins as she can. She is a contributing writer at Suburban Misfit Mom. She also writes her own blog, where she shares her very uncensored rants and failures regarding the world of marriage and parenthood.
(This piece first appeared in Huff Post Comedy. Reposted by permission of the author.)
National Parks, sports venues, you name it — a corporation has its name on it. So, c’mon, stuffy world of literature, get off your high horse and cash in with the corporate naming rights craze:
Tinder is the Night – F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Johnny Walker Red and the Johnny Walker Black – Stendahl
Moby Dick’s Sporting Goods Whale of a Sale – Herman Melville
Henderson the Rain King of Mattress Sales (Specially ½ Price Deals for Labor Day) – Saul Bellow
The Lord of the Burger King Onion Rings – JRR Tolkien
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest Flying Southwest Airlines – Ken Kesey
All Quiet on the Western Front So Get A Netflix and Chill – Erich Maria Remarque
The Sun Also Rises Be Prepared with Coppertone – Ernest Hemingway
The Big Sleep On A Sealy Posturepedic Mattress – Raymond Chandler
Gulliver’s Travels Booked by Travelocity.com – Jonathan Swift
The Sherwin-Williams Painted House of Mirth – Edith Wharton
Full Metal Jacket and Pants from Men’s Warehouse – Michael Herr
One Hundred Years of Solitude Or Go To Match.com – Gabriel García Márquez
The Golden Microsoft Notebook – Doris Lessing
Lolita, The Original ‘To Catch a Predator’ as Seen on Friday nights on MSNBC – Vladimir Nabokov
Lonesome Dove Bars – Larry McMurtry
The Farmer John’s Dodger Dogs of War – Frederick Forsyth
The Jose Cuervo Goldfinch – Donna Tartt
A Room with a View at a Marriott – E.M Forster
A Clockwork Orange Julius – Anthony Burgess
The Del Monte Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
— Paul Lander
Paul Lander is not sure which he is proudest of — winning the Nobel Peace Prize or sending Sudanese peace activist, Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim, to accept it on his behalf, bringing to light the plight of central Africa’s indigenous people. In his non-daydreaming hours, Paul has worked as a writer and/or producer for shows on ABC, NBC, Showtime, The Disney Channel, ABC Family, VH1, LOGO and Lifetime. In addition, he’s written stand-up material that’s been performed on “Leno,” “Letterman,” “Conan” and “Last Comic Standing.” His humor pieces have appeared in Huff Post Comedy, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, Santa Fe Writers Project Journal, Humor Times, The Higgs Weldon and Hobo Pancake. In 2015, he placed second in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ annual column contest in the online/blog/multimedia category for his pieces in Humor Times and was named the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop’s “Humor Writer of the Month.”
Over many years of living in a household where the fur frequently flies, I have learned that the best way to get rid of fleas, ticks and other pests, and to stop incessant scratching, is to bathe the itchy sufferer with a liberal application of special soap, rinse thoroughly and follow up with a treat.
It works on dogs, too.
My wife, Sue, whose grooming is impeccable, recently suggested that our granddog, Maggie, be given a bath. Maggie doesn’t have fleas, ticks or other pests. In fact, she is impeccably groomed herself. But she does have dry skin that causes her to do what people often tell me to do: go scratch.
So Sue thought it was time for a bath.
“Can’t I just take a shower?” I asked.
Sue sighed and said, “Hook up the hose outside and get the doggy shampoo.”
It’s a good thing we weren’t doing this in the bathroom because Maggie doesn’t like to be bathed. She’s totally unlike our late pooch, Lizzie, who loved being given the spa treatment. She’d just stand there, soaking it all in. After she was dried off and brushed, she’d go back inside and preen. Then she’d plop down and take a nap.
That is the difference between dogs and humans: After a bath or a shower, a person has to go to work to keep man’s best friend in the style to which he or she has become accustomed.
And we call dogs dumb animals.
To bathe a dog, you will need the aforementioned hose and shampoo, as well as a towel. That’s for the dog.
For you, there’s a much bigger list: three pairs of rubber gloves, a bathing suit (or, if it’s chilly, a raincoat), flip-flops (or galoshes), goggles, a shower cap, fishing waders or, depending on how much the dog shakes, rattles, rolls and otherwise dislikes the bath, scuba gear.
You’ll also need a collar and a leash. So will the dog.
Step 1: Put the collar on the dog, attach the leash and, with one hand, hold firmly. With your other hand, hold the hose. With your third hand, turn on the water. If you have an assistant, he can turn on the water. I was assisting Sue, so that was my job. Since dogs have four hands, you wonder why they just can’t bathe themselves.
Step 2: Wet the dog, being careful that the dog, in its excitement, doesn’t wet you. Then hold on to the leash for dear life because most dogs won’t like this and will pull you with such force that one arm will end up being six inches longer than the other one. If you have a mastiff, you may also be dragged for three blocks. It will hurt like hell if fences are involved.
Step 3: If the previous step goes well, apply the shampoo or soap and rub it into the dog’s coat. At this point, your fingers will pop through your first set of rubber gloves. Put on another pair and continue washing. Be sure to get behind the ears, around the haunches and along the tail. If you have a bulldog or a schnauzer, or if you are washing yourself, this last part will be unnecessary.
Step 4: Don your last pair of rubber gloves and rinse the dog off. Then stand back or the dog will shake enough water on you to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool. At this point, fur will be all over your legs, feet and face, in your hair and wedged permanently under your fingernails.
Step 5: Dry off the dog with a bath towel.
Step 6: Burn the towel.
Step 7: Brush the dog to get off the rest of the loose fur. You will notice that the dog has dandruff. Ignore it and give the dog a treat.
Step 8: Give yourself a treat. A beer will do.
Step 9: Have another beer.
Step 10: Take a shower. Just like your dog did, you’ll need one.
— Jerry Zezima
Jerry Zezima, who served on the faculty at the 2010 EBWW, writes a humor column for the Stamford Advocate that is nationally syndicated through the Tribune News Service and regularly appears in the Huffington Post. He’s written three books, Grandfather Knows Best, Leave it to Boomer and The Empty Nest Chronicles. He has won six humor-writing awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and was named EBWW’s Humor Writer of the Month twice. He is the past president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.
I popped out of the womb with a pen in my hand. So I knew I had to write.
It hasn’t always been easy. Yet I managed to stick with it through the years.
And now, just when things were looking up, Bam!, my world’s gone topsy-turvy.
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let me rewind.
As a young single woman, Mom told me I had plenty of career options: “Be a secretary or a nurse,” she advised, “or get married and have babies.”
All the eligible men at the time either dribbled from the side of their mouths, or were 4 foot 6 and from countries I couldn’t pronounce. So I learned to take dictation really fast and type like I had 15 fingers. Problem is I hated it. I tried other jobs: I delivered the Bargain News, but gave everyone the wrong change and ended up owing the company money. I did a midnight-to-eight gig typing video labels, but fell asleep once too often in front of the boss. I was a cook in a private home until I tried to bake potatoes by putting them in water and placing them in the oven. (Who knew?)
All the while, I wrote…on stained napkins at diners, on the bus, in my crummy one-room apartment.
Then, suddenly, I copped a break: The New York Times took one of my opinion pieces; then three more. I parlayed these into work with local newspapers — no serious assignments — just advertising inserts about camps and health clubs. In my mind, though, I had arrived. I ordered really cheap business cards that read: “Freelance Writer.”
Then my big break: I sent one of my op-ed pieces, “The Joy of Being Single,” to Workman Publishing, and they accepted it. You could hear my shrieks in Mexico.
Many years, and six books later, I traded the free part of my title for a corporate job editing and writing children’s titles for Reader’s Digest. I did that for nine years and saved my money. Then I quit to do my own thing. At last, I was in heaven. Then all hell broke loose. See, part of the allure of being a free-lance author is that it’s me and the computer. I love the silence. I love the dress code — pjs until maybe four o’clock — then jeans before hubby comes home. I love the hours. I can work an all-nighter, sleep in, and get up at noon the next day. I love the commute: one minute, maybe two, if I trip over a cat toy. I love the emphasis on “free.”
Another plus: I can do this job until I drop. I don’t have to impress anybody with anything except the writing. If my cover photo reveals some upper lip hair, or a few grey streaks, well, that’s what photoshop is for. I’m not Nora Ephron, so it doesn’t matter. As long as I can turn out a good kids’ book, or a YA novel, or bodice ripper, I have it made.
Or so I thought.
“This is 2016, babe,” some publishing types reminded me. “If you want to survive, make some dough, avoid fading into author nothingness,” this literati insisted, “you’ve got to be OUT THERE!”
I pleaded for directions: “Where’s OUT THERE?”
“OUT THERE,” came my answer, “IS EVERYWHERE. “You can’t just write a book anymore. Publishers want a package. You’ve got to have followers; belong to associations; Tweet, give seminars; have an RSS; a website, four blogs, Google buzz, and Instagram. You have to have a platform, babe, and I’m not talking shoes here.”
Translation: If I want to continue being an author, it’s no longer me and the computer. It’s me, the computer, and the whole world — that is, if I’m lucky enough to entice everyone in it to “friend” me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter; love me on Instagram; Google Plus, and get LinkedIn to me and God only knows what all else down the pike.
If I want to survive, I’ll have to take time out of my regular writing to tell everyone I know and don’t know, and hope to know, and don’t hope to know, personal info — from what I eat in the morning, to what cream I use on my varicose veins. I’ll have to have book trailers for my new releases, and that means I’ll have to let people see me dressed up and looking buff. I’ll have to be a YouTube star.
That means I’ll have to go back to the gym, invest in a media coach and elocution lessons to 86 the “New Yawk” accent, plus I’ll need a session with the “What Not to Wear” lady about my clothes. Before I even get that far, I’ll probably need a whole new makeover, some Botox, maybe a chin lift (or two), and some purple and puce hair extensions, and a nose ring (so I’ll appear more interesting.).
So I’m in a quandary. I know I love to write, but am I up for what goes with it? Do I want to friend the whole world on Facebook? Twitter away my time? Be a YouTube star?
Not really. But then, I’m a practical person. So who knows? Maybe my media training will make me stand out. It could get me noticed. I might even attract some big-time producer who’d want to do the Hollywood version of my kids’ Bible book. It could be an epic, like Exodus or Cleopatra. I could write the screenplay. I could become famous….make a living, even.
Then, when I’ve stashed away millions, I could retire. I could take up where I left off. I could go back to my room, slip on my pjs, listen to the quiet, and do what I love to do: write books again.
How many videos can you upload to YouTube anyway?
“You called three times but didn’t leave a message, is everything ok?” my mother asks.
Confession: I regularly hang up on my mom’s outgoing phone message because she gives excruciating instructions on waiting for beeps, admonishes you to speak slowly, enunciate clearly and requires you to give the date and time of your call. A former schoolteacher, she insists on educating people on leaving proper voicemail.
But on this occasion I’m certain I didn’t call at all, let alone three times. I look at my caller ID log and sure enough I have telephoned my mother thrice within a 10-minute period this morning. The Benadryl I took for a cold must’ve made me groggy and blurred my recall.
A couple of hours later, I receive a message from my old Avon Lady announcing that light blue shimmery eyeshadows just came in and how shocked she was to hear from me after more than 30 years. What?? I’m also kinda shocked, envisioning her hobbling up to front porches at age 75, ringing doorbells, gleefully shouting, “Ding Dong, Avon calling!”
Minutes after we disconnect, my long lost Tupperware gal calls, claiming mere moments ago that I telephoned her but promptly hung up when she answered. She wants to know if the reason I’m currently reaching out is to schedule a Tupperware party?
“Does the word ‘Ziploc’ mean anything to you?” I ask.
What’s the deal with my cellphone and the 1970s throwbacks? If I’m butt-dialing people, my a$$ is way behind the times.
Suspicious, I carefully set my mobile device flush on the kitchen table and scrutinize it cautiously as I eat my cottage cheese w/pineapple and lime jello. It behaves itself and doesn’t dial up Dorothy Hamill or Billy Jean King. Just a nondescript, innocent dark screen.
Just as I swallow the last of the curds, suddenly my cellphone emanates an ominous glow and a notification pops up stating, “1 outgoing call.” Seriously?? This was no pocket or purse dial! Paging Rod Serling.
I click on it to see the name Layla Down, a woman I loathe. For one thing, she always asks, “Who died?” just because I wear the color black a lot. And she pointed her finger at my youngest daughter Natalie for the lice infestation in the sixth grade. “Nitty Natty” sticks to this day. I shudder, anticipating what’s next and sure enough, it rings right on cue with the big fat phony Layla on the other end of the line.
Me: Nitty Nat’s mom speaking, how may I help you?
Layla: My, my, what a droll sense of humor you still have. So when’s the funeral? Actually I’m returning your call, Sugar.
Me: Uh, I never called you, Sweet Tart.
Layla: I have proof that you did, Sucralose.
Me: Think again, Sweet‘N Low.
Layla: Better wash your daughter’s hair, Aspartame.
We went on like this until we used up all the saccharin terms of endearments we knew and began repeating a few. Click. Maybe this was Siri’s revenge for when I let her nearly drown in the washing machine?
During the next week, my cellphone honed its interpersonal skills, not only making random embarrassing calls all on its own accord, (old boyfriends, old dentists, dead people) but it actually started efficiently connecting people together from my online address book via its three-way conference calling feature!
It introduced my following contacts to each other:
• My gynecologist to my Rabbi
• Dr. Harris, my cocker-spaniel’s vet, to Harrison, a cocky Vietnam vet
• My handyman Richard to Betty, a broken-down divorcee
• My Weight Watcher leader to my chocoholic friend
• My divorce attorney to my wedding planner
• My hairstylist to my friend Nan, the Nun
• My life coach to my son’s football coach
• Sherman, a needy guy I dated (and wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy) to Layla
• My therapist to my Mother (so she could analyze why nobody leaves her voicemail?)
And when I saw the newest popular trend on the market — a clear plastic food storage container (with a burping seal) filled with pale pink frosted lipsticks — I knew the Phantom of the Cellphone could take all the credit for striking again. He’d actually gone and hooked up my Tupperware Gal with my Avon Lady. Bravo!
— Stephanie D. Lewis
Stephanie D. Lewis pens a humor blog, “Once Upon Your Prime” where she tries to “Live Happily Ever Laughter.” She is a frequent contributor to In The Powder Room. She also writes for North County Woman magazine in San Diego where she has an ongoing “Female Fun” column called Razzle, Dazzle & Frazzle. Stephanie was recently named one of 2014 Voices of the Year by BlogHer. Her 2008 book, Lullabies & Alibis, is the tale of marriage, motherhood, mistakes and madness. As a single mother of six, she knows a lot about the madness. She’s supervised potty training and driver’s training simultaneously, but there were too many “accidents.” Live-in housekeeper? Nah, she’ll take a live-in psychotherapist, thank you.
1) My writing sucks.
2) No one will read it.
3) I’m wasting my life by writing about it and not living it.
4) I’ll die before I finish my book.
5) I’ll finish my book and get 1-stars on Amazon.
6) I’ll send a manuscript to my friend/agent/editor and she’ll say, “try again.”
7) I’ll get a rare disease where I’m paralyzed and can only communicate by blinking my eyes, and then I’m going to subject my wife and children to helping me write, and I’m going to get self-conscious about my first drafts, and I’ll stop writing altogether, and I’ll get bedsores, and my wife will fall in love with my home health aid, and I won’t even be able to kill myself like a proper writer, and they’ll put me in a home and someone will turn on reality TV shows thinking they’re being nice not knowing I hate — really f*cking hate — reality TV shows — hate them more than I hate bedsores — and I’ll spend my days crying silently, slurping nutrients from a tube staring up at a white drop-ceiling wishing I could escape into my stories or at the very least have my hospital bed rolled outside so I could feel the wind.
We all have these fears. And they will never go away.
— Fredrick Marion
A former columnist and staff writer at the Palm Beach Post and Rocky Mount Telegram, Fredrick Marion now writes on napkins, blogs and sidewalks. He earned an English degree from Wright State University, and he’s hard at work on his first children’s novel with representation by The Bent Agency. He also writes a weekly email newsletter full of writing tips, which you can find at www.daytonlit.com.
Have you ever contemplated building a safe room in your house? A place to hide from the kids until help arrives?
With the continual tattling, Wild West savagery and whining apocalypse in my home this summer, I seriously thought about it. But my husband said that if such a room existed, he would have no qualms in beating me to it and locking me out. It wasn’t a lack of gallantry, he asserted. Certain situations demand every man for himself.
Sigh. Raising good human beings is challenging.
Children can lie boldly by age two with no formal training. They covet their neighbor’s toy, then rip it from their hands and claim they had it first. They smack or pinch a sibling just to entertain themselves, then say it was an accident. They splatter sticky substances over your walls, furniture and floor every five minutes daily, and then pretend not to see the mess.
They also flout your best efforts to keep them safe, scaling slippery surfaces and climbing towering pieces of furniture in order to reach a pair of scissors or that grill lighter you put out of their way. When bored they’ll play dodge ball with bricks and pick-up sticks with knives!
(Okay, I exaggerate. My boys played dodge ball with whiffle balls, and they still hurt each other.)
Our most even-tempered child, Ana, was not exempt from challenges. When she was three years old, she came up to me after peering at her baby sis in the crib, her brown eyes wide and innocent, and asked solemnly, “Mama, if I hit the baby like this, that wouldn’t be good, would it?”
“No, no, it wouldn’t,” I assured her, shocked. “We never want to hurt the baby. We have to be gentle.”
She nodded her head sagely, but then came back not long after and asked, “If I threw this at the baby…”
“No!” I reiterated.
The most challenging thing about raising kids isn’t the jealousy, brutality or fibbing, though. It’s that they make a hard job radically more difficult by robbing their parents of that most basic necessity of life and brain function: sleep.
Now, don’t get me wrong. We love the little buggers. It would be nice to remember why, but our brains can only retain information for an average of two minutes when sleep deprived. Sometimes less.
If you are not a parent or you’re a new one, you may well believe that your sleep will someday be normal again after having kids, and I must say….oh, excuse me….haha…cabn’t tyupe weel for laugfhingy…
Where was I? Ah, yes. Normal sleep. Nevermore, quoth the Raven. Nevermore!
There will be restless nights spent nursing sick children, providing lukewarm baths, medicine and cups of water at ungodly hours, and then washing vomit and less pleasant fluids from clothes and sheets. There will be midnight revelations of, “Mama? Papa? I wet the bed again” or “I had a bad dream…” You’ll sleep in recliners, blood pooling in your legs, your weary arms encircling a child or two. And 7 a.m. from now on will qualify as a luxurious, miraculous sleep-in.
Worse, your dreams will be haunted for years by the dreaded midnight visitor. This little schemer sprawls in your bed half the night instead of creating havoc from his/her own room. Your poor husband will curl up in a fetal position on a single square foot of sheet for hours, sheltering his manhood from wild, unpredictable assault by little limbs while you have the hair repeatedly yanked out of your head by tiny merciless hands.
I’ve spent years trying to keep this nocturnal, parent-seeking creature out. I’m this far from throwing out the baby gate and bribery and instead attaching a rubber mallet on a spring to a steel door.
But all this talk about outrageous demands on your resources coupled with inadequate sleep isn’t meant to discourage you.
No, I’m here to tell you that if you persevere through the thick fog of uncertainty, the dark clouds of frustration, and the deluge of angst and guilt from pint-sized tyrants on a mere four to five hours of sleep, you can — yes, you — raise fine, upstanding people. You may not know it until they enter school, but if you persist in teaching your little delinquents morals and civilized behavior between cat naps, one day you’ll hear their teachers say, “I just love your child! She’s so kind/helpful/respectful/sweet.”
And on the drive back home with your cranky, fighting children you’ll think to yourself, “We did it!” Then you’ll promptly forget what you did.
After all, the drive took longer than two minutes, and you can’t stop thinking about that safe room.
— Hillary Ibarra
Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org and was recently published at Hahas for Hoohas. She is a mother of four who dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen’s childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers but can’t seem to find them in the laundry. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.
Since social networking is really geared more towards younger people, I say, “Hey kids, go get your moms and dads. I’ll wait. Are they here? Okay.”
This is to all the moms and dads who were teenagers back in the ’70s like I was. Face it. Life was much easier wasn’t it?
Parents, remember when we could brush our long, thick lustrous hair without having to recheck the sink to see how much had fallen out or see that our ever-growing bald spot was covered? Take sunbathing, for instance. I used to jump out of bed, brush my hair, don my swimsuit and lay in the sun for hours. Now I can’t even GO in the sun for fear of aggravating my crow’s feet or spontaneously bursting into flames when my hot flashes reach their boiling point.
Some of us ladies used to climb out of the car and jump on our guy friend’s back for a piggyback ride into the house. That was then. Now we need help getting out of our car from our guy friend (if we even have a guy friend); and if we do, we certainly wouldn’t risk jumping on his back. Chances are his osteoporosis would make that impossible anyway. To add insult to injury, we have to tug and pull at our blouses to make sure our fat bulges are covered and that our big, spandex elastic-waist pants aren’t too short. Heaven forbid if they drag on the ground like our jeans did back in the day. Remember that? The more they dragged in the dirt, the cooler they were! Now our pants just might cover our white, rhinestone studded sandals.
Remember how we used to sit in the car with our bare feet perched up on top of the dashboard? I’m lucky to be able to get my feet off the ground now. And how easy was it to squat down and look at something close to the ground? Now some of us have to actually fall into a sitting position, tuck and roll, then hope that someone will be around to help us back up.
Guys, try getting out of the car like you did when you were 17. No holding your breath until you’ve cleared the steering wheel and no pushing the seat back until it’s practically hanging out the back window.
Music. Two words. Eight tracks. Mind you, these may seem a tad “lame” to you kids, but at least these didn’t get as jacked up as the stupid CDs we have now (even though my kids insist I do that by holding them wrong)…duh! Pahleezz — I know how to hold a CD. Remember, I grew up in the Frisbee era!
— Mari’ Emeraude
From the book Your Face Will Freeze Like That and other stuff mom told us, poet and author Mari’ Emeraude draws humorous observations and the relentless urge to write about them from her four children and five grandchildren.