10) A dog hangs its head out the car window and grins, never asking, "Are we there yet?"
9) Cats may believe you're lame, but they never say it to your face.
8) You're allowed to mess up royally with raising guinea pigs, hence the term "guinea pig."
7) Dogs never, ever complain about leftovers.
6) Pets won't stare at you in disbelief when you can't help with their junior high algebra.
5) A dog doesn't leave the toilet seat up (though it may be pleased when you do).
4) If you call him a Bad Dog and send him outside, he won't write a scathing memoir 20 years later.
3) With three-second memories, goldfish can't remind you of promises you didn't keep.
2) Cats are happy to cuddle, even when they're 12.
1) Dogs beg for biscuits, not for a new car.
Not that I ever truly considered trading in my two sons for a couple goldfish...
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Taking Baby Steps
I'm told Alcoholics Anonymous has a motto of "One Day at a Time." (I've never attended a meeting; I'm still in the One Drink at a Time stage.) But as I grow older, I've come to believe that particular mantra carries wisdom worth applying to aspects of anyone's life.
A close friend, who has struggled with weight issues her whole life, recently returned to Weight Watchers after a long hiatus. The registration clerk asked her how much she hoped to lose.
My friend hesitated before softly answering, "Five pounds."
She said the woman didn't reply, yet looked up and then blinked as she filled out the form. Clearly, she believed my friend needed to shed much more than five pounds. Thirty, maybe forty. (Who's counting? Definitely not me, who could stand to lose about the same.) But this larger goal, at that moment, seemed insurmountable to my friend. Yes, she hoped to eventually achieve more. Now, however, she could only focus on losing five pounds at a time.
Another friend is going to school while he works full-time. At the reasonable rate of one or two classes a semester, it will take years to finally walk away with a college degree. He refuses to do the math which makes his goal unimaginable. He says he can only focus on completing one class at a time.
I'm writing yet another draft of a new novel. I've written, and finished, two other books. I comprehend the patience and perseverance that writing entails. It means months, even years, of writing and rewriting to achieve near-perfection in an 80,000-word manuscript. But when I sit down each night to write, 80,000 words is inconceivable. I can only focus on writing one chapter at a time.
Huge accomplishments--those that require days, months or even years of effort and strength--are fraught with uncertainty and self-doubt. As much as we admire those who openly commit to ambitious goals, we're often skeptical of their success. We're even more reluctant to fully acknowledge our own long-term objectives. The fear of failure hangs heavy.
Often, taking one tiny and tangible step is all we can muster.
Yet maybe those baby steps, taken one after the other, are enough to reach our final destination.
And if anyone blinks an eye at our progress, we need to remember we're getting there, one day at a time.
A close friend, who has struggled with weight issues her whole life, recently returned to Weight Watchers after a long hiatus. The registration clerk asked her how much she hoped to lose.
My friend hesitated before softly answering, "Five pounds."
She said the woman didn't reply, yet looked up and then blinked as she filled out the form. Clearly, she believed my friend needed to shed much more than five pounds. Thirty, maybe forty. (Who's counting? Definitely not me, who could stand to lose about the same.) But this larger goal, at that moment, seemed insurmountable to my friend. Yes, she hoped to eventually achieve more. Now, however, she could only focus on losing five pounds at a time.
Another friend is going to school while he works full-time. At the reasonable rate of one or two classes a semester, it will take years to finally walk away with a college degree. He refuses to do the math which makes his goal unimaginable. He says he can only focus on completing one class at a time.
I'm writing yet another draft of a new novel. I've written, and finished, two other books. I comprehend the patience and perseverance that writing entails. It means months, even years, of writing and rewriting to achieve near-perfection in an 80,000-word manuscript. But when I sit down each night to write, 80,000 words is inconceivable. I can only focus on writing one chapter at a time.
Huge accomplishments--those that require days, months or even years of effort and strength--are fraught with uncertainty and self-doubt. As much as we admire those who openly commit to ambitious goals, we're often skeptical of their success. We're even more reluctant to fully acknowledge our own long-term objectives. The fear of failure hangs heavy.
Often, taking one tiny and tangible step is all we can muster.
Yet maybe those baby steps, taken one after the other, are enough to reach our final destination.
And if anyone blinks an eye at our progress, we need to remember we're getting there, one day at a time.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Rodent Rendezvous--Guest Post by DC Stanfa
I'm pleased to give the floor this week to my first-ever guest blogger, my sister, DC Stanfa. (I have finally forgiven her for using my Barbies as voodoo dolls and for telling me she was only beating me up in order to make me tough.)
DC already has one published book, "The Art of Table Dancing: Escapades of an Irreverent Woman" (don't take the title literally), and another in the pipeline. She's a fabulous and funny writer, and after reading this post, you should go immediately to her website, http://dcstanfa.com/, and buy her book.
Rodent Rendezvous
The first sign was tiny turds in my candle drawer. Later, I witnessed an unmistakable furry flash across the kitchen floor. I screamed like a college girl in a gone-wild video (though my shirt stayed on).
I shut the door to my four-year-old daughter Cori’s room and stuffed a towel at its base. A tiny treadmill turned in my head. Rather than wake Cori and running out to buy a mousetrap, I decided to make one.
My mechanical aptitude is limited by my engineering knowledge, which consists of “simple tools” learned in the fourth grade. Fulcrum, pulley, lever and? One thing I do remember is a force called gravity.
I exhumed a plastic bottle from the recycling bin and inserted a piece of cheese. I balanced the bottle carefully on a garage step so the rodent could enter. Upon doing so, its weight would tip the delicate scale and up-end the bottle, trapping Mickey or Minnie inside. I would then set it free in a mice-gone-wild episode on Animal Planet.
Morning inspection of the pop-trap—which I was certain I’d be patenting soon, and after an infommercial with Ron Popeil, would be a huge success—revealed that my gravity theory worked. The bottle had indeed up-righted. Then it completely toppled over, allowing the momentarily captured creature to escape. No baby Swiss or varmints in sight.
“Glue traps,” a co-worker advised me. I was reluctant to destine Mickey or Minnie to that sticky and deadly fate. After another furry scurry the next night, however, I placed two cheesed glue traps on the basement stair landing.
Morning Inspection: No rodents or traps on the landing. The cheeseless traps were at the bottom of the stairs. I’d fed, and gravity had again freed, my mouse-mates.
While I was still reluctant to commit mousicide, a hardened hardware store clerk convinced me a quick guillotine beat a hanging, and he sold me two traditional clap-traps.
I finally told Cori what was going down in the basement. She curiously watched me set the traps. I wasn’t sure she fully grasped the potential deadly outcome.
Sure enough, the next day, two mice lay D.O.A in the traps, two tails protruding from the backs of the black tombs. I grabbed my garden gloves and a garbage bag, cringing as I mousercizied the traps and their contents. I also threw in a pair of Cori’s tennis shoes, sitting on the basement steps, which the mice had mistaken for a potty.
Cori peeked through the basement doorway. “Mommy, can I see?”
“No, honey. You really don’t want to see this.”
“Yes, I do.”
I paused, but reasoned dead rodents might help ease her into the very scary concept of death. I opened the bag. Cori peered inside, then looked at me, her eyes bulging and her bottom lip trembling.
I reached over and hugged her. “I’m sorry, honey. At least we know they didn’t suffer long.”
Cori’s lips tried to form words as she released her breath in spurts.
Finally, with a deep sob, she wailed, “But those were my favorite shoes.”
Girl priorities, indeed, start early.
DC already has one published book, "The Art of Table Dancing: Escapades of an Irreverent Woman" (don't take the title literally), and another in the pipeline. She's a fabulous and funny writer, and after reading this post, you should go immediately to her website, http://dcstanfa.com/, and buy her book.
Rodent Rendezvous
The first sign was tiny turds in my candle drawer. Later, I witnessed an unmistakable furry flash across the kitchen floor. I screamed like a college girl in a gone-wild video (though my shirt stayed on).
I shut the door to my four-year-old daughter Cori’s room and stuffed a towel at its base. A tiny treadmill turned in my head. Rather than wake Cori and running out to buy a mousetrap, I decided to make one.
My mechanical aptitude is limited by my engineering knowledge, which consists of “simple tools” learned in the fourth grade. Fulcrum, pulley, lever and? One thing I do remember is a force called gravity.
I exhumed a plastic bottle from the recycling bin and inserted a piece of cheese. I balanced the bottle carefully on a garage step so the rodent could enter. Upon doing so, its weight would tip the delicate scale and up-end the bottle, trapping Mickey or Minnie inside. I would then set it free in a mice-gone-wild episode on Animal Planet.
Morning inspection of the pop-trap—which I was certain I’d be patenting soon, and after an infommercial with Ron Popeil, would be a huge success—revealed that my gravity theory worked. The bottle had indeed up-righted. Then it completely toppled over, allowing the momentarily captured creature to escape. No baby Swiss or varmints in sight.
“Glue traps,” a co-worker advised me. I was reluctant to destine Mickey or Minnie to that sticky and deadly fate. After another furry scurry the next night, however, I placed two cheesed glue traps on the basement stair landing.
Morning Inspection: No rodents or traps on the landing. The cheeseless traps were at the bottom of the stairs. I’d fed, and gravity had again freed, my mouse-mates.
While I was still reluctant to commit mousicide, a hardened hardware store clerk convinced me a quick guillotine beat a hanging, and he sold me two traditional clap-traps.
I finally told Cori what was going down in the basement. She curiously watched me set the traps. I wasn’t sure she fully grasped the potential deadly outcome.
Sure enough, the next day, two mice lay D.O.A in the traps, two tails protruding from the backs of the black tombs. I grabbed my garden gloves and a garbage bag, cringing as I mousercizied the traps and their contents. I also threw in a pair of Cori’s tennis shoes, sitting on the basement steps, which the mice had mistaken for a potty.
Cori peeked through the basement doorway. “Mommy, can I see?”
“No, honey. You really don’t want to see this.”
“Yes, I do.”
I paused, but reasoned dead rodents might help ease her into the very scary concept of death. I opened the bag. Cori peered inside, then looked at me, her eyes bulging and her bottom lip trembling.
I reached over and hugged her. “I’m sorry, honey. At least we know they didn’t suffer long.”
Cori’s lips tried to form words as she released her breath in spurts.
Finally, with a deep sob, she wailed, “But those were my favorite shoes.”
Girl priorities, indeed, start early.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I'll Get Right on That
It all started, I believe, with my intention of paying a late bill.
I remember logging onto the computer, figuring I'd best ensure my checking account wasn't once again in the red. Lo and behold, I spied an email from Ticketmaster, announcing an absolutely MUST-SEE concert which, deficit funds be damned, I could conveniently put on my credit card.
So I hurried to the kitchen to check my desk calendar, which was buried beneath a week's pile of unread newspapers. As I scooped them up, I caught an interesting headline. Whoa, what's up with Toyota, well, aren't they screwed? Halfway through reading the article, I remembered tomorrow was recycling and trash day. I tossed the entire heap of papers in the garage (figuring an ignorance of current events never hurt George W.), and decided I should take a moment to clean out the molding leftovers from the refrigerator too.
I threw some days-old chicken bits to the cats and lobbed four indistinguishable food items, plastic containers and all, into the garbage. Before I closed the fridge, my eyes lit at the sight of a hardly-touched bottle of Bloody Mary mix in the back. Might as well finish that up before it went bad, so I could recycle it, too. Plus the soon-to-be emptied vodka bottle. First, however, I should clean up that steaming pile of cat-puked chicken bits from the carpet.
But cat puke on carpet is best left to harden, I deduced, so it can simply and quickly be peeled off the next day. (I'm all about time management.) Which led me to recall that I hadn't yet checked with the pet-sitter about the date of my impending vacation. So I rummaged through my purse for my cell phone, and broke a friggin' fingernail.
The second broken nail in two days, which TOTALLY pissed me off, because it undermined the aesthetics of an otherwise unflawed, candy apple set of eight. The others, sadly, would have to be filed down to a more uniform length. I headed down the hall to the bathroom for the nail polish remover which, I astutely reasoned, would be the next step.
Holy Mother of God, do I live in the desert or what? Giant, threatening tumbleweeds in the hallway!!! Clearly I needed to brush the dog more often. Which I decided I must do, immediately. But as I reached for the brush, I chuckled. Tumbleweeds of dog hair? Haha! Terrific concept for a blog post in that.
So I sat down at my computer. With broken fingernails, an insanely potent Bloody Mary, and a nearby pile of drying cat vomit. Oh! But look who's on Facebook right now!
Call me ADD or diagnose me with early senility, if you'd like. I choose to label myself a busy overachiever. But it's a good guess I'll find myself too occupied tomorrow to talk on the phone, when the collection agency calls.
I remember logging onto the computer, figuring I'd best ensure my checking account wasn't once again in the red. Lo and behold, I spied an email from Ticketmaster, announcing an absolutely MUST-SEE concert which, deficit funds be damned, I could conveniently put on my credit card.
So I hurried to the kitchen to check my desk calendar, which was buried beneath a week's pile of unread newspapers. As I scooped them up, I caught an interesting headline. Whoa, what's up with Toyota, well, aren't they screwed? Halfway through reading the article, I remembered tomorrow was recycling and trash day. I tossed the entire heap of papers in the garage (figuring an ignorance of current events never hurt George W.), and decided I should take a moment to clean out the molding leftovers from the refrigerator too.
I threw some days-old chicken bits to the cats and lobbed four indistinguishable food items, plastic containers and all, into the garbage. Before I closed the fridge, my eyes lit at the sight of a hardly-touched bottle of Bloody Mary mix in the back. Might as well finish that up before it went bad, so I could recycle it, too. Plus the soon-to-be emptied vodka bottle. First, however, I should clean up that steaming pile of cat-puked chicken bits from the carpet.
But cat puke on carpet is best left to harden, I deduced, so it can simply and quickly be peeled off the next day. (I'm all about time management.) Which led me to recall that I hadn't yet checked with the pet-sitter about the date of my impending vacation. So I rummaged through my purse for my cell phone, and broke a friggin' fingernail.
The second broken nail in two days, which TOTALLY pissed me off, because it undermined the aesthetics of an otherwise unflawed, candy apple set of eight. The others, sadly, would have to be filed down to a more uniform length. I headed down the hall to the bathroom for the nail polish remover which, I astutely reasoned, would be the next step.
Holy Mother of God, do I live in the desert or what? Giant, threatening tumbleweeds in the hallway!!! Clearly I needed to brush the dog more often. Which I decided I must do, immediately. But as I reached for the brush, I chuckled. Tumbleweeds of dog hair? Haha! Terrific concept for a blog post in that.
So I sat down at my computer. With broken fingernails, an insanely potent Bloody Mary, and a nearby pile of drying cat vomit. Oh! But look who's on Facebook right now!
Call me ADD or diagnose me with early senility, if you'd like. I choose to label myself a busy overachiever. But it's a good guess I'll find myself too occupied tomorrow to talk on the phone, when the collection agency calls.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Getaway
On my way to work last week, I passed a tree fort.
Its wooden beams were nailed crookedly across the barren, winter branches of a massive oak. I slowed my car, with a sudden impulse to stop and climb the splintered steps. I could huddle inside, read a book, perhaps listen to my iPod or simply sit in solitude. But reality reared its mortgage-paying, responsible-adult ugly head, and so I sighed, continuing my drive to the office.
I spent the earliest years of my life in a tiny, red-shingled house, smaller in its entirety than the first floor of my current home. One bathroom. One television. Four boisterous females and a quiet, tolerant father whose inclination for drinking I now more clearly understand.
I came in second, after my father, as the quiet one. (Pause for snorts of laughter from readers who know me.) Perhaps surprisingly, even now I am prone to needing blocks of solitude and silence. In my childhood home, mere moments of silent solitude were elusive.
At those times of need, I retreated down to our unfinished basement, climbed upon a chair and crawled into the wooden hamper that hung below our clothes chute. I sat there in my private little cage, my indoor tree fort, often for hours. I read Nancy Drew books, wrote poems, rehearsed what I might say the next day at school to that cute boy in my class.
I needed that cage. It was my getaway.
Many years later, after Son #2 was born, I took a year off from full-time work to stay home with my children and to test the waters for my freelance writing career. My emotions while caring for a new baby and a two-year-old fluctuated between exhilarated, content and nearly suicidal.
I took to taking afternoon drives from my home in northwest Ohio, up State Route 23, to Dundee, Michigan. Exactly a one-hour, round-trip drive, with both young boys invariably falling asleep in the back seat within the first five minutes. A mindless drive, a blissfully silent hour. It kept my sanity and rejuvenated me for the rest of my day. It was my getaway.
As a new empty-nester, I live alone in a large house which now echoes only with the infrequent sound of a barking dog and memories of more chaotic times. I finally have plenty of quiet solitude.
Even so, I still feel the need for an occasional escape--from reality, if nothing else. At any given point in our lives, it appears we still need a getaway. A trip to the beach may feed that hunger. For me, even a three-minute drive down to the river, parking to watch the rapids, works in a pinch.
But sometimes, still, I find myself gazing wistfully at tree forts.
Where do you go to escape?
Its wooden beams were nailed crookedly across the barren, winter branches of a massive oak. I slowed my car, with a sudden impulse to stop and climb the splintered steps. I could huddle inside, read a book, perhaps listen to my iPod or simply sit in solitude. But reality reared its mortgage-paying, responsible-adult ugly head, and so I sighed, continuing my drive to the office.
I spent the earliest years of my life in a tiny, red-shingled house, smaller in its entirety than the first floor of my current home. One bathroom. One television. Four boisterous females and a quiet, tolerant father whose inclination for drinking I now more clearly understand.
I came in second, after my father, as the quiet one. (Pause for snorts of laughter from readers who know me.) Perhaps surprisingly, even now I am prone to needing blocks of solitude and silence. In my childhood home, mere moments of silent solitude were elusive.
At those times of need, I retreated down to our unfinished basement, climbed upon a chair and crawled into the wooden hamper that hung below our clothes chute. I sat there in my private little cage, my indoor tree fort, often for hours. I read Nancy Drew books, wrote poems, rehearsed what I might say the next day at school to that cute boy in my class.
I needed that cage. It was my getaway.
Many years later, after Son #2 was born, I took a year off from full-time work to stay home with my children and to test the waters for my freelance writing career. My emotions while caring for a new baby and a two-year-old fluctuated between exhilarated, content and nearly suicidal.
I took to taking afternoon drives from my home in northwest Ohio, up State Route 23, to Dundee, Michigan. Exactly a one-hour, round-trip drive, with both young boys invariably falling asleep in the back seat within the first five minutes. A mindless drive, a blissfully silent hour. It kept my sanity and rejuvenated me for the rest of my day. It was my getaway.
As a new empty-nester, I live alone in a large house which now echoes only with the infrequent sound of a barking dog and memories of more chaotic times. I finally have plenty of quiet solitude.
Even so, I still feel the need for an occasional escape--from reality, if nothing else. At any given point in our lives, it appears we still need a getaway. A trip to the beach may feed that hunger. For me, even a three-minute drive down to the river, parking to watch the rapids, works in a pinch.
But sometimes, still, I find myself gazing wistfully at tree forts.
Where do you go to escape?
Friday, February 26, 2010
Top Ten Things to Give Up for Lent
10) Your once girlish figure
9) $450 bottles of Dom Perignon
8) Lima beans
7) Trying to adjust to the new Facebook format before they come out with a newer version
6) Triathlons
5) Financial security for your retirement
4) Scrubbing toilets
3) Chia pets
2) Taking any more phone calls from that relentless George Clooney
1) Any hope for spring
Any other foolproof suggestions?
9) $450 bottles of Dom Perignon
8) Lima beans
7) Trying to adjust to the new Facebook format before they come out with a newer version
6) Triathlons
5) Financial security for your retirement
4) Scrubbing toilets
3) Chia pets
2) Taking any more phone calls from that relentless George Clooney
1) Any hope for spring
Any other foolproof suggestions?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Letting Them Know or Letting Them Go
She'd like to say she's excited about the engagement. That she has visions of a joyous and hope-filled wedding. That she anticipates a long and loving marriage. That her most troubling thought is finding the perfect mother-of-the-groom dress and a fabulous pair of matching shoes.
But her son is a college freshman struggling with a chronic, life-threatening illness. And his fiance is 17.
Pretending to be happy for them? It might be easier if she could pretend her concerns weren't real.
Are they committed to making their education a priority, amidst the giddy preoccupation of young love? If not, are they responsible enough to find and keep full-time employment, as few and low-paying as those jobs might be? Are they ready for the very real possibility of unplanned parenthood? Do they realize the words "in sickness and in health" carry extra weight when one spouse has a serious, lifelong disease?
Can they comprehend the possibility that the person they now think they can't live without might, someday, become the person they can't live with?
We cannot make every decision for our children, especially as they become young adults. If the desired outcome of raising children is that they become intelligent and independent adults, we must learn to let them feel their own way. As they grow, we inevitably loosen our grasp on their lives.
And even as they make what we conceive as mistakes, we hope their decisions or actions are somehow for the best--or at the least, are a learning experience.
Some of their choices make us cringe; others bring us to tears. Many mistakes are recoverable. Others carry lifelong implications, and lead to lifelong regrets.
As a middle-aged woman, I still dismiss much of my mother's advice. Yet I've come to accept pieces of it more easily than I did at 19. I'd like to think I have some significant impact on my own two young adult children. Even so, I know I'm not as strong an influence as I hope. I have to believe I've done the bulk of my job, and any advice I now offer--and surprisingly find accepted--is merely a bonus.
Still, a fine line exists between acknowledging our children's independent thinking and allowing them to set themselves up for a lifetime of regret.
When should we let them hear our words of caution and concern?
And when should we simply let go?
But her son is a college freshman struggling with a chronic, life-threatening illness. And his fiance is 17.
Pretending to be happy for them? It might be easier if she could pretend her concerns weren't real.
Are they committed to making their education a priority, amidst the giddy preoccupation of young love? If not, are they responsible enough to find and keep full-time employment, as few and low-paying as those jobs might be? Are they ready for the very real possibility of unplanned parenthood? Do they realize the words "in sickness and in health" carry extra weight when one spouse has a serious, lifelong disease?
Can they comprehend the possibility that the person they now think they can't live without might, someday, become the person they can't live with?
We cannot make every decision for our children, especially as they become young adults. If the desired outcome of raising children is that they become intelligent and independent adults, we must learn to let them feel their own way. As they grow, we inevitably loosen our grasp on their lives.
And even as they make what we conceive as mistakes, we hope their decisions or actions are somehow for the best--or at the least, are a learning experience.
Some of their choices make us cringe; others bring us to tears. Many mistakes are recoverable. Others carry lifelong implications, and lead to lifelong regrets.
As a middle-aged woman, I still dismiss much of my mother's advice. Yet I've come to accept pieces of it more easily than I did at 19. I'd like to think I have some significant impact on my own two young adult children. Even so, I know I'm not as strong an influence as I hope. I have to believe I've done the bulk of my job, and any advice I now offer--and surprisingly find accepted--is merely a bonus.
Still, a fine line exists between acknowledging our children's independent thinking and allowing them to set themselves up for a lifetime of regret.
When should we let them hear our words of caution and concern?
And when should we simply let go?
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Incident of the Drunken Wench in the Night
"When you write the story," she begged, "do you promise to be discreet?"
I agreed, knowing of course that "discreet" is a vague enough term and that verbal contracts basically mean shit. But I am feeling benevolent tonight, with yesterday being Valentine's Day and all, so I'll acquiesce and not use her real name. Hereforth, I will simply refer to her as the Drunken Wench.
A nor'easter on the shores of Lake Erie, with a promised dump of snow, is nothing to reckon with. But we were four strong women, willing to sacrifice our well-being to venture out to Port Clinton. We were attending a fund-raiser to help with the medical expenses for a family friend. Surely the God of Insufferable Winter Weather would acknowledge the goodness of our hearts. Besides, the evening promised great food and many drinks, and that is always OK by us. We're charitable that way.
So, much fun followed, even amidst, as promised, all hell breaking loose outside. I don't know what time it was when I realized we had a Drunken Wench on our hands. It was unexpected, really, considering she'd had a full dinner and only three glasses of wine. But sometimes the God of Liquor just looks down and laughs and claims you as his own. And after witnessing her gleeful conversations with less-than-gleeful strangers, and her Jello moves on the dance floor, I deduced it was time we left.
I was the designated driver. I'd only indulged in a few bottles of Miller 64--"pisswater"--Lori calls it. So, I pushed my way through the knee-deep snowdrifts, cleaned off the SUV, and pulled up to the bar's entrance.
Lori and Lisa climbed aboard. I peered into the rear view mirror, eying the sole empty seat. The Drunken Wench was not following protocol.
"Hurry up and get in," I yelled. "And shut the door. It's cold!" I wasn't certain she realized this.
No answer. Just a giggle.
"What's the problem?"
"I can't get in. My legs are a little... rubbery." Giggle, giggle.
Lisa climbed out to help. Over the howl of the nor'easter, we heard sounds of a more relentless force of nature. Let this be a lesson to you students of physics: Nothing is as unbudgable as a Drunken Wench with Rubbery Legs.
Lori sighed and climbed out. I hunkered down in the driver's seat. I was already serving as designated driver. How selfless must I be?
Oh, the pleas that ensued. "Grab my hand," "Just one more step," and "No, don't sit down in the snow, you might suffocate."
By now, the Drunken Wench had intoxicated her assistants with her laughter. (Their own consumed cocktails might have played a minor part.) I hadn't heard this much giggling since a sixth-grade slumber party. I knew futility when faced with it. "Leave her here," I shouted. "We'll come back and get her tomorrow." My sympathetic nature was frost-bitten. Did I mention it was cold?
Ten minutes passed. In late night winter storm time, this equates to roughly six hours. My frozen hands managed to pry open my door, and I took several giant steps through the snow. "Move aside," I growled at Lori.
Lori was happy to oblige. She had laughed so hard she'd peed her pants. They were already frozen to her legs. She'd have to peel them off later.
I stood on one side of the car and pushed. Lisa stood on the other side and pulled. We pushed. We pulled. The dead weight that was the Drunken Wench didn't appear to understand the law of physics. Still, we finally managed to get her half-sprawled across the back seat.
"OK, stop, stop, I'm good now. Let go," she slurred.
We hesitated, pulled our hands away, and she slid off the seat into the snow.
This was followed by much swearing. Interspersed with much giggling. We tried to keep straight faces, fearing peed-pants might be an epidemic.
But we heaved and we hoed again, and managed to get her entire torso back on the seat. Only her legs remained sticking out of the car. I had a suggestion for that, but no one was in possession of a chainsaw.
Lisa cried out in alarm when I decided to simply shut the door on the legs, cramming the Drunken Wench inside like one might sit on an overstuffed suitcase to close it.
I took, instead, to bending her legs. This way and that way. I frowned as I looked at her legs. That one didn't seem to be bent in a natural position. But, she was in! I slammed the door, the howl of the wind masking the whimpering which was emitting from the back seat.
Sure, she'd be bruised the next day, the Drunken Wench. But she'd wake up in the comfort of a warm bed, not a blanket of snow in front of a downtown bar. Dislocated limbs aside, I figured she'd thank us for that.
And you can bet I'll think twice, before I ever again go out drinking with my mother.
I agreed, knowing of course that "discreet" is a vague enough term and that verbal contracts basically mean shit. But I am feeling benevolent tonight, with yesterday being Valentine's Day and all, so I'll acquiesce and not use her real name. Hereforth, I will simply refer to her as the Drunken Wench.
A nor'easter on the shores of Lake Erie, with a promised dump of snow, is nothing to reckon with. But we were four strong women, willing to sacrifice our well-being to venture out to Port Clinton. We were attending a fund-raiser to help with the medical expenses for a family friend. Surely the God of Insufferable Winter Weather would acknowledge the goodness of our hearts. Besides, the evening promised great food and many drinks, and that is always OK by us. We're charitable that way.
So, much fun followed, even amidst, as promised, all hell breaking loose outside. I don't know what time it was when I realized we had a Drunken Wench on our hands. It was unexpected, really, considering she'd had a full dinner and only three glasses of wine. But sometimes the God of Liquor just looks down and laughs and claims you as his own. And after witnessing her gleeful conversations with less-than-gleeful strangers, and her Jello moves on the dance floor, I deduced it was time we left.
I was the designated driver. I'd only indulged in a few bottles of Miller 64--"pisswater"--Lori calls it. So, I pushed my way through the knee-deep snowdrifts, cleaned off the SUV, and pulled up to the bar's entrance.
Lori and Lisa climbed aboard. I peered into the rear view mirror, eying the sole empty seat. The Drunken Wench was not following protocol.
"Hurry up and get in," I yelled. "And shut the door. It's cold!" I wasn't certain she realized this.
No answer. Just a giggle.
"What's the problem?"
"I can't get in. My legs are a little... rubbery." Giggle, giggle.
Lisa climbed out to help. Over the howl of the nor'easter, we heard sounds of a more relentless force of nature. Let this be a lesson to you students of physics: Nothing is as unbudgable as a Drunken Wench with Rubbery Legs.
Lori sighed and climbed out. I hunkered down in the driver's seat. I was already serving as designated driver. How selfless must I be?
Oh, the pleas that ensued. "Grab my hand," "Just one more step," and "No, don't sit down in the snow, you might suffocate."
By now, the Drunken Wench had intoxicated her assistants with her laughter. (Their own consumed cocktails might have played a minor part.) I hadn't heard this much giggling since a sixth-grade slumber party. I knew futility when faced with it. "Leave her here," I shouted. "We'll come back and get her tomorrow." My sympathetic nature was frost-bitten. Did I mention it was cold?
Ten minutes passed. In late night winter storm time, this equates to roughly six hours. My frozen hands managed to pry open my door, and I took several giant steps through the snow. "Move aside," I growled at Lori.
Lori was happy to oblige. She had laughed so hard she'd peed her pants. They were already frozen to her legs. She'd have to peel them off later.
I stood on one side of the car and pushed. Lisa stood on the other side and pulled. We pushed. We pulled. The dead weight that was the Drunken Wench didn't appear to understand the law of physics. Still, we finally managed to get her half-sprawled across the back seat.
"OK, stop, stop, I'm good now. Let go," she slurred.
We hesitated, pulled our hands away, and she slid off the seat into the snow.
This was followed by much swearing. Interspersed with much giggling. We tried to keep straight faces, fearing peed-pants might be an epidemic.
But we heaved and we hoed again, and managed to get her entire torso back on the seat. Only her legs remained sticking out of the car. I had a suggestion for that, but no one was in possession of a chainsaw.
Lisa cried out in alarm when I decided to simply shut the door on the legs, cramming the Drunken Wench inside like one might sit on an overstuffed suitcase to close it.
I took, instead, to bending her legs. This way and that way. I frowned as I looked at her legs. That one didn't seem to be bent in a natural position. But, she was in! I slammed the door, the howl of the wind masking the whimpering which was emitting from the back seat.
Sure, she'd be bruised the next day, the Drunken Wench. But she'd wake up in the comfort of a warm bed, not a blanket of snow in front of a downtown bar. Dislocated limbs aside, I figured she'd thank us for that.
And you can bet I'll think twice, before I ever again go out drinking with my mother.
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