June 15, 2007

The Wheelbarrow of Love

Until yesterday, you would have been justified in calling us white trash.  We’d had a green wheelbarrow full of rocks and weeds sitting in the corner of our driveway for at least a year, visible to everyone who drove by.  Pieces of industrial plastic were embedded under the rocks and protruded awkwardly from the sides.  The wheelbarrow had been there so long that it had created its own biosphere, and despite the drought affecting the rest of the state, gangly weeds grew from the top of it, lording it over the crisp brown azaleas nearby.

It wasn’t that we were unaware that the wheelbarrow was enormously repulsive.  Last summer we left it out by the street for the garbage men to pick up, to no avail.  They ignored it for a few weeks and then stuck a sign on it that said “This isn’t trash or garbage.”  We took that to mean they wouldn’t be handling it and with difficulty we managed to nudge in into the corner where it sat, undisturbed, for months.

At Christmas I wanted to string the wheelbarrow and weeds with tiny white lights, but Bill said we had enough lights already and decorating weeds was not in the plans.  He was just plain wrong about that, because you can never have too many white twinkly lights at Christmas, but in the interests of marital harmony I held off.

One day while he and the boys were playing basketball in the driveway, Bill went running for the ball and tripped over the wheelbarrow and came inside cussing.

“What the hell do we have to do to get rid of that damn wheelbarrow?” he asked.

I didn’t have any idea.

“If someone could come up with a way to get that thing out of here, I’d be the happiest man in the world,” he said, and he went back outside to finish the basketball game.

Bill’s not a hard man to buy gifts for.  He loves for other people to buy him clothes, and he swims, bikes, and runs, so there’s always some kind of equipment he wants that will make him more aerodynamic while he does his thing.

But this year while I was mulling over Father’s Day, the wheelbarrow caught my eye just as one of those 1-800-GOT-JUNK trucks rode by.

You know how we wonder where customer service has gone?  I found it.  It’s riding around in those trucks.

The truck showed up about thirty minutes after I called, and two nice men loaded up the wheelbarrow.  That didn’t meet the minimum load of $100, so I had them collect some rusty paint cans and three tombstone-size concrete slabs that came with the back yard when we bought the house.

I got to talking with the driver, and he said they’ll pick up pretty much anything, and it doesn’t have to be accessible– they’ll climb around in your attic or basement and get junk out for you.

I was going to wait until Father’s Day and put a bow on the empty space in the driveway where the wheelbarrow had been, but Bill got home from work and freaked out in his own way, which is to say he smiled and asked where the wheelbarrow had gone.

I just told him “Happy Father’s Day’ and gave him a big smooch and then we made googly eyes at each other and then….

Well, I’ll just say I’ve never gotten hot and bothered over a wheelbarrow before.

June 12, 2007

Sardines and Songs: Off To Camp

Sardines will stink up a minivan instantly, I discovered when the boys and I loaded up to haul Drew and Finn to camp.  We had driven four or five inches down the driveway before I noticed the fishy smell and stopped.  A hurried investigation revealed that Porter had eaten sardines for lunch, and we all went back inside in the air conditioning while he washed his hands and arms, changed his shirt and brushed his teeth.  Then we tried again.

After the trouble we had getting to camp last year, I wasn’t looking forward to this year’s drive to North Carolina.  I treated the minivan to an oil change and new wiper blades before the trip.  The van has a few more miles on it and a new jagged crack across the front windshield, but I hoped the car would view these shortcomings as signs of character, not something to get pissy about in the middle of Atlanta.

We hadn’t even gotten on the interstate before the Great iPod Battle of 2007 began.  Drew and Finn were each equipped with an iPod and earbuds, while Porter and I set my iPod on shuffle and waited to see if we’d hit a good shuffle or a bad one requiring numerous fast forwards, which generally bodes ill for the entire trip.

“Can you turn down your music so I can hear mine?” Finn asked irritably.  “Irritably” describes his general demeanor the entire week before his departure, so I was ecstatic about shipping him off for almost a month.

“As the driver, I have the right to choose my music and listen to it at any volume I desire,” I said.

“I want Weird Al!  I want Weird Al!” Porter shouted, jumping up and down and kicking the back of my seat with such force I thought my kidneys might fly out my belly button and knock the windshield out for good.

“I don’t listen to Weird Al, Porter.  I’ve told you that a million times.”

“Not a million, because that would take you like three years to say a million times and it’s only been like three seconds,” Porter said.

“It just seems to me that if you lowered your volume a little, everyone would benefit by being able to listen to their choice of song,” Finn persisted.

I reached over and turned up “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and kept driving.

Soon Finn and Drew were lost in their music, but Porter chattered on, although no one else was conversing with him.  It was then that I truly realized that his mouth is always open, either so words can come out or food can go in.  Both listening to him and keeping him full are exhausting.

“Look at that sign for pottery.  We did pottery in school and I made a bowl shaped like a leaf.  I did.  Is this song by Shania Twain?  I love Shania Twain.  And I love Carrie Underwood but I like to call her Carrie Underwear.  Whoa!  That motorcycle was going, like, so fast.  Look how many lanes there are.  Why are there so many lanes?  Where did all these cars come from?  I’m hungry for bacon.  Can we stop and get some bacon?  Or Pop-Tarts?  Will there be a pool at the hotel?  Will there?”

“Skateaway”  came on so I turned up the music and drowned out Porter’s voice, but I could tell he wasn’t deterred and was still talking away.
We made it through Atlanta, and Drew dozed.  Porter continued his running commentary.  Finn began encouraging every eighteen wheeler we passed to honk.  Many obliged, scaring the hell out of me.

The honking roused Drew, and he and Porter began whispering excitedly.  I discretely lowered the volume of the radio so I could eavesdrop.

“Let’s pretend your name is Richard,” Drew said.

“Okay,” Porter said, laughing.  “But I want you to call me by my nickname.”

“Hey Dick, can I have half of your Slim-Jim?” Drew asked, snickering.

“Yes.  Now let’s pretend my first name is Harry and my middle name is Richard but people use my nickname.”

“Hey, Harry Dick, can I have a drink of your Coke?” Drew asked, and he laughed so hard he had trouble breathing.

I glanced at Finn.  His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, so I didn’t have any parental duty to stop the show.

“But now you’re also a fat guy.  So your name is Fat Harry Dick,” Drew said.  Although I’ve heard this joke a thousand times since I was in second grade listening to the Voice of Reason’s husband tell it, the thought of a man named Fat Harry Dick was suddenly highly amusing, perhaps because I knew that my joke-tellers really have skinny, smooth genitals.  I began snorting in an unladylike manner.

“Mom’s laughing about Fat Harry Dick!” Porter yelled.

“I’m not,” I said, “I just had something in my throat.  And I don’t want to hear any more talk about Richard or nicknames for your penis.”

We drove in silence for five miles or so, and then Porter asked, “Mom, does ‘Moby’ mean ‘really big’?”

I turned up “The Ghost In You” and pretended not to hear him.
Eventually we got to the hotel, and the boys swam in lieu of taking a bath.  We ate, and then we tackled the challenge of changing into pajamas in one room.  None of the boys wanted me to see their privates, so I stood in the hall while they changed, then I went into the bathroom to put on my scruffy T-shirt.

I had chosen to sleep with Drew, because he and Osbert will cuddle up into a ball and stay still all night, he’s pretty clean, and he doesn’t hog the covers.  I tucked everyone in bed and got in beside Drew and patted him a little, thinking about how much I’d miss him while he was gone.

He was getting sleepy, and I whispered, “Good night, I love you,” in his ear.

“I love you, too,” he said.

I lay back, luxuriating in the accomplishment of having gotten all the boys in bed and quiet.  I was even starting to think I’d miss Finn while he was gone.

Just then, Finn turned over in the bed beside me, and half-awake, half-asleep, mumbled, “Safety.”

Maybe not so much.

June 8, 2007

Bad Bride

People generally write in to ask me parenting questions, and I am full of nifty solutions like sprinkling baby powder on your eight-year-old’s butt to induce sleep. I was surprised to receive the following email on a different topic altogether:

Anne:

I am getting married in 33 days. Any advice on getting through that day?

Thanks,

That Girl

I’m ashamed to say that That Girl wrote me at the beginning of May, and it has taken me this long to come up with any constructive counsel whatsoever. Seriously, That Girl, I’ll be a much more valuable resource after the wedding when your husband cuts his toenails in the kitchen rather than the bathroom and you want to correct this deficiency in a loving manner.

But because you asked for wedding advice, I’ll do my best to provide some.

It took me a while to remember our wedding day, and I had to consult Bill on this question. We scoured the house and finally located our wedding album. That brought back some of the dramatic stories that accompanied the wedding, such as “My Grandmother The Racist” and “The Night The Lights Went Out In Alabama” and “I Thought It Was My Wedding But Really It Was My Mother’s Big Party And I Was Merely A Bit Player.”

My mother-in-law, the other Mrs. Glamore, has the best story of all: “A Goat Came To My Wedding After Being Fed Copious Amounts Of Ex-Lax And It’s Still Not Very Funny Forty-Four Years Later, But I Managed To Take The High Road And Give The Perpetrator’s Children Very Nice Wedding Presents When They Got Married.”

But I digress. After refreshing our memory of that day fourteen years ago, here are our thoughts.
1. Take A Long Term View

I was never one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding day all her life, but I know the bridezillas are out there. Please don’t be one. Remember that the point is to get married, and unless whoever is administering the vows croaks in the middle of the ceremony and there’s no one to take over, you’ll end up hitched. Everything else is fodder for a good story one day.

Thirty minutes before our ceremony, it started to storm. The lights in the church went out. They came back on just before the ceremony started, but flickered throughout. The service was punctuated by thunder and lightening, so it felt like God himself was emphasizing the words of the vows.

This did nothing to ease Bill’s nerves. Bill says he saw me coming down the aisle in a white dress and thought, “Man, this shit is forever.” That’s his sole memory of the wedding itself. His face and body language reflected his thoughts. He was pale, stiff and sweating, and that didn’t inspire much confidence in me as I walked, shivering, up the aisle. Fortunately, the ardor of subsequent years has more than made up for the lack of a romantic, touching moment at the altar.

Your wedding day is one of thousands you’ll spend together, so don’t try to make it be everything.

2. Don’t Forget A Few Supplies

Bring comfy shoes to change into for dancing if your wedding shoes hurt. We had no idea the entire reception would get up and do the Electric Slide. Thank God we were prepared.

You can never have too many safety pins and bobby pins. And don’t forget your deodorant. I’ve recently discovered Secret Clinical which costs a fortune but works better than any I’ve ever tried, and I have sampled them all. Fork over your six dollars and consider it a bargain.

3. Resist The Urge To Take Posed Photos Of Every Possible Permutation of Family Members And The Wedding Party

We never look at our wedding album. Make sure you get one good picture of the two of you in your wedding finery and stick it in your house somewhere and then get on with the business of being married.

However, I am a fan of providing disposable cameras for your friends to take pictures with during the ceremony and reception. Have them turn them in as they leave, then send them off to Kodak Gallery and they can develop them into digital prints. You can get great candid shots this way.
4. Pick a Moment To Remember

When you aren’t freaking out, take a look around and form a memory of a moment. I remember seeing all my bridesmaids wearing black dresses standing at the altar as I came down the aisle. Each held a different type of flower, and it looked pretty bad-ass. That’s my moment.

5. Hang With Your Honey

There may be long lost relatives and crazy people you had to invite to your wedding to be polite. That doesn’t mean you have to entertain them. Give your bridesmaids a code word that means “Get Crazy Uncle Freddie the hell away from me before he pinches me on the ass one more time!” and make sure they check in with you frequently. Dance with your new husband. Kiss.
And that’s it. Really, Bill and I are talented at many things, but we weren’t great at the process of getting married. Being Married is a different story. That’s the fun part.

My wish for you, That Girl, and all the brides-to-be, is that one day you’ll wake up next to your husband and you’ll spend the day doing ordinary things. Maybe you’ll run errands together and get that leaf blower you’ve been needing, write a few thank you notes, cook dinner. Maybe you’ll rent a movie. Then you’ll brush your teeth, and he’ll rinse the toothpaste fuzz off his mouth with water before wiping his face on the towel. You’ll get into bed and you’ll realize that nothing special happened, but it was a lovely day– one you spent hanging out with the person you love the most in the world, and you’ll feel lucky and thankful and overwhelmed.

That feeling is the best part about getting married.

1993

2007

June 4, 2007

Penguin Fillets

“We’re eating sardines and making brownies for a lemonade stand,” Bill reported when he called.

I wasn’t surprised by either activity. Summer is only a week old, and profits and penguins have emerged as the major topics of conversation and activity thus far. The boys have set up increasingly complex lemonade stands each day. Their first endeavor, in which they sold Fresh-baked Pound Cake and Ice-Cold pink lemonade with TONS of Cubes (signs and adjectives courtesy of Finn) garnered each boy over five dollars. The next day they got more creative with their offerings– a little too innovative, if customer response is any indication, and failed to sell much Hand-Dyed Brown Lemonade, although the sugar cookies were a modest hit.

Drew has slept with a stuffed penguin named Lewis for years, and he just added another named Osbert (hero of the book My Penguin Osbert)to the menagerie. Osbert eats creamed herring, and when I got to Publix the other day I discovered “creamed herring” written at the bottom of my grocery list in Drew’s deliberate print. I’ve spent ages training the boys to convey their grocery needs by writing directly on the list. I wanted to fulfill Drew’s request, but I couldn’t find ready-made creamed herring and didn’t have a recipe in my head so I had to return home herring-less.
Drew was disappointed, but I missed the tears because I had to leave town. During my absence Bill convinced Drew that sardines were an integral part of penguin nutrition, and that was enough to persuade all three boys to munch sardines and crackers for lunch. In return, Bill made Fresh & Hot Super Chocolatey brownies and spent the afternoon drinking beer and watching golf while the boys manned the lemonade stand. They’re going to need a license and insurance if they keep up this frantic pace.

Meanwhile, I’ve been in New York attending a writers’ conference and the Book Expo. I met many top-notch literary agents, which is exactly what you need if you have a book you want to sell. I’ve gotten lots of encouragement from you guys (”When are you going to write a book so I can quit snorting coffee onto my keyboard?” has been a common refrain). Additionally, I’ve received positive feedback from a man I’ll identify only as “a publishing bigwig” and so I’ve decided it’s time to quit screwing around with the idea of a book and fish or cut bait. The manuscript, a compilation of the columns that have provoked the most laughter and comments, is ready, so I need an agent and a bit of luck.

Two sessions at the conference were worth noting. One keynote speech is nicely summarized here, and stressed the importance of having an internet presence to market yourself and your work these days. My blog originally attracted iVillage’s attention and led to my writing this column for them for a year, which greatly expanded my readership and ability to churn out two columns a week. I’d consider myself proof that the Internet is a fantastic tool for attracting readers.

I was surrounded by attendees who were mystified by the web, and it was reassuring to know that I’ve watched this site grow for two and a half years, and have ended up with a lot of book material and close friends in the process. I have all of you to thank for that.
Another speaker’s talk was directed primarily to novelists. He urged writers to pay attention to their daydreams, as these out of body experiences convey your innermost fears which serve as the linchpin of your ….. yeah, I didn’t follow it either. It sucked that I seemed to be the only person in the room who wasn’t nodding beatifically. I was busy wondering when the hell anyone has time to daydream anymore. Between the kids, the column, the law practice, and the always nutritious dinners, my brain resembles a to-do list scramble.

Oddly, the speaker emphatically rejected the notion that dreams at night could be of any use, and although I doubt his sanity overall, I was glad to get a solid ruling banning the the use of dreams as a creative catalyst. Drew’s heavy emphasis on penguins combined with a few too many ads for Happy Feet has caused me to have penguin nightmares.

Generally Bill and I wander the Arctic naked and famished, wishing for a down jacket and a hot meal, and all we find is a penguin and a soup pot. You would think we’d clean and gut the animal, but in the nightmare we simply lay the Osbert-like creature on his side and slice him into fillets and then make a foul-tasting penguin soup.

It’s the kind of dream that will leave you craving some creamed herring.