The message board for TARA members recently had a long, fascinating thread on all the romantic little things our husbands do to keep passion alive in our marriages.
I found myself going in the wrong direction with my contribution, saying lame backhanded stuff like, “He cooks dinner half the time, but I do the cleaning up all the time.”
And little does he know that I would cheerfully be his wildest fantasy sex slave for life, if only he’d keep the gas tank filled. He was running on fumes and letting the car die in the middle of the road long before high prices made it fashionable.
Let’s see if I can do better here: Instead of rattling off what I wish he’d do (more popularly known as nagging), what are some of the romantic little things he’s already done to keep me from running off with the pizza delivery guy?
1. On my birthday right after we married, he decorated our apartment with streamers and balloons and gave me a great big ice cream cake, because I never had anything like that when I was a child.
2. Whenever he buys me clothes, especially nightgowns, he always buys them in blue because he knows that’s my favorite color. (Yes, he also did my website/blog.)
3. Last fall, he bought me a three foot high jasmine tree because I love jasmine (I find the scent wonderfully intoxicating). I was heartbroken when the dog managed to dig it up only a week later, and Mr. Lucky said it couldn’t be saved as the roots had dried out very quickly. The place where he bought it didn’t have any more, so he embarked on a quest and found another one at a nursery about 30 miles away. When he planted that one, he put rocks around it and one of those decorative border fences to dogproof it, despite my demands for an enclosure to rival the Berlin Wall. The tree is still there, and it recently exploded with blossoms.
4. Sometimes he comes home and surprises me with either a Banana Royale from Baskin-Robbins, or a Blizzard from Dairy Queen, made with my favorite flavors. I never care if they’re partially melted. It’s still ice cream!
5. If he’s channel surfing and stumbles across a documentary having to do with royalty (a passion of mine), he tells me and lets me have the TV to watch it.
6. He says I look much better with long hair than short.
7. He watches movies and mini-series based on Jane Austen novels with me, and always manages to stay awake—because he likes them.
8. For our fifteenth wedding anniversary, he gave me a ladybug pin, because he hadn’t forgotten the time that two ladybugs landed on me, and I thought it was a sign of good luck to come—and only two days later, he proposed marriage to me. He thought the ladybug pin would bring me luck with my writing—and sure enough, only a few months later I sold True Pretenses.
9. And when I sold it, he told everybody he knew, and he surprised me by mounting and framing the cover flat himself.
10. Most importantly, he taught me to stand up for myself and not let other people push me around.
Could any of these be considered “romantic little things” that keep the spark in our marriage, or is this just a dress rehearsal for the day we might have to attend one of those “Save-Your-Marriage-In-One-Weekend” retreats, where I’ll be told to go off by myself and make a list of ten things he’s done right?
They do keep the pizza guy at bay.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Politics of Pantyhose
The wife of a presidential candidate recently revealed that she’d stopped wearing pantyhose a long time ago. She can’t wear them without ripping them, due to her height of 5’11”.
I can vouch for this. I’m also 5’11”, and I have the same problem. In fact, anything to do with dressing my legs and feet is a hassle because of my height, but today we’re talking pantyhose.
Forget the size charts on the pantyhose packages, which I’ve never been able to decipher anyway. I just look for the biggest size I can find. Ideally, this would be “Extra Plus Amazon Empress—Official Pantyhose of the U.S. Women’s Olympic Basketball Team!”
I open the package and pull out something that looks as if it wouldn’t fit a Barbie doll. I pull them on and the crotch barely clears my knees. If I try to pull any harder or higher, it splits into a hole bigger than the waistband. This prevents me from wearing shorter skirts than I’d like.
Karen, have you ever tried garters and stockings? They’re so sexy!
Again, the height gets in the way. The trick is finding garters long enough and stockings that stretch high enough to meet on the upper thigh. When I tried to seduce my husband with garters and stockings, he wondered why I was wearing knee-highs.
“I’m not wearing knee-highs,” I replied. “These are supposed to go up to my thighs—the package said ‘one size fits all’—but they don’t reach because my legs are too long.”
“I see. And what are all those big diamond-shaped holes?”
“It’s fishnet,” I said. “It’s just stretched so tight because of my height.”
“That’s fishnet?” he asked in amazement. “Just how big a fish are you hoping to catch? A whale could slip through that.”
The garters, meanwhile, were stretched so taut that he could pluck “Dueling Banjos” on them. And that was the sexy, romantic evening that spiced up our marriage.
Karen, it’s the 21st century, and we've come a long way! Try spray-on pantyhose!
I’ll confess I haven’t tried this, in part because of my experience with “sunless tanning” that made me look like a giant carrot. Rabbits gathered and multiplied outside the house for a week.
I assume that despite its name, spray-on pantyhose shouldn’t be sprayed on the “panty part.” The trick would be to apply it evenly, so my legs don’t have a “dappled tan” look. I imagine it’s a lot of fun trying to do the backs of the legs—not too unlike the old days, when ladies’ stockings had back seams and our grandmothers had to contort themselves trying to get those seams straight.
Hm, maybe we've come a long way, but I’m not sure we’ve come all that far.
But if I can go bare-legged in shorts, then why not in a skirt? Do I dare?
I can vouch for this. I’m also 5’11”, and I have the same problem. In fact, anything to do with dressing my legs and feet is a hassle because of my height, but today we’re talking pantyhose.
Forget the size charts on the pantyhose packages, which I’ve never been able to decipher anyway. I just look for the biggest size I can find. Ideally, this would be “Extra Plus Amazon Empress—Official Pantyhose of the U.S. Women’s Olympic Basketball Team!”
I open the package and pull out something that looks as if it wouldn’t fit a Barbie doll. I pull them on and the crotch barely clears my knees. If I try to pull any harder or higher, it splits into a hole bigger than the waistband. This prevents me from wearing shorter skirts than I’d like.
Karen, have you ever tried garters and stockings? They’re so sexy!
Again, the height gets in the way. The trick is finding garters long enough and stockings that stretch high enough to meet on the upper thigh. When I tried to seduce my husband with garters and stockings, he wondered why I was wearing knee-highs.
“I’m not wearing knee-highs,” I replied. “These are supposed to go up to my thighs—the package said ‘one size fits all’—but they don’t reach because my legs are too long.”
“I see. And what are all those big diamond-shaped holes?”
“It’s fishnet,” I said. “It’s just stretched so tight because of my height.”
“That’s fishnet?” he asked in amazement. “Just how big a fish are you hoping to catch? A whale could slip through that.”
The garters, meanwhile, were stretched so taut that he could pluck “Dueling Banjos” on them. And that was the sexy, romantic evening that spiced up our marriage.
Karen, it’s the 21st century, and we've come a long way! Try spray-on pantyhose!
I’ll confess I haven’t tried this, in part because of my experience with “sunless tanning” that made me look like a giant carrot. Rabbits gathered and multiplied outside the house for a week.
I assume that despite its name, spray-on pantyhose shouldn’t be sprayed on the “panty part.” The trick would be to apply it evenly, so my legs don’t have a “dappled tan” look. I imagine it’s a lot of fun trying to do the backs of the legs—not too unlike the old days, when ladies’ stockings had back seams and our grandmothers had to contort themselves trying to get those seams straight.
Hm, maybe we've come a long way, but I’m not sure we’ve come all that far.
But if I can go bare-legged in shorts, then why not in a skirt? Do I dare?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Happy Father's Day to Mr. Lucky!
Since none of our special needs children are able to write the usual “Why My Dad is the World’s Greatest” essays that win him gift cards to hardware and sporting goods stores, I will attempt to compose a little something on their behalf.
To Mr. Lucky:
Our oldest son thinks you’re pretty cool because you take him to the movies and Busch Gardens, where he gets to ride on the train and get wet on the “circle boat” (Congo River Rapids), and “rectangle boat” (Tanganyika Tidal Wave).
You’re our daughter’s hero, because during all those weeks when she was in the hospital, you watched all those Pokemon videos with her (to include the baffling Pikachu’s Vacation), and you went all the way out to CiCi’s every day to get her the cheese pizza she loved, so she wouldn’t have to eat that other stuff the hospital called “food.”
Our youngest son looks up to you as the Bringer of Donuts, the Unlocker of Locked-Up Computers, the Parent Most Easily Conned, and the Only Thing Standing Between Baby Bear and the Total Insanity That is Mom.
I cannot imagine a better father for my children. I could not do any of this without you.
I love you!
To Mr. Lucky:
Our oldest son thinks you’re pretty cool because you take him to the movies and Busch Gardens, where he gets to ride on the train and get wet on the “circle boat” (Congo River Rapids), and “rectangle boat” (Tanganyika Tidal Wave).
You’re our daughter’s hero, because during all those weeks when she was in the hospital, you watched all those Pokemon videos with her (to include the baffling Pikachu’s Vacation), and you went all the way out to CiCi’s every day to get her the cheese pizza she loved, so she wouldn’t have to eat that other stuff the hospital called “food.”
Our youngest son looks up to you as the Bringer of Donuts, the Unlocker of Locked-Up Computers, the Parent Most Easily Conned, and the Only Thing Standing Between Baby Bear and the Total Insanity That is Mom.
I cannot imagine a better father for my children. I could not do any of this without you.
I love you!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
In Which Baby Bear Locks Karen Out of the House
Baby Bear has figured out how to unlock the sliding glass door, so Mr. Lucky cut a two-by-four to fit into the bottom runner. It doesn’t just drop in; it has to be carefully worked in.
Last night, while Mr. Lucky was at work, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could go into the backyard to do their business. I went out there with them because otherwise, they’d head for their secret escape route under the fence. (I think they’re squeezing out under the gate, but Mr. Lucky doesn’t think that’s possible because the gate is locked both top and bottom.)
After a few moments, I noticed Baby Bear was at the door, his nose and lips pressed against the glass. Since I can’t lock the door from the outside, I thought it quite odd that he was making no attempt to come running out as he usually does. I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge.
He must've locked it. I pointed to it and yelled at him to unlock it.
He laughed and danced. I pounded on the glass and yelled some more. He finally clicked the lock, I pulled on the door handle, and . . . it didn’t budge.
Did he unlock it, only to quickly lock it again? After more yelling and pounding on my side of the glass, and more laughing and dancing on his side, he clicked the lock again as I quickly seized the door handle and . . . it still didn’t budge.
That’s when I noticed, to my horror, that the two-by-four had been neatly placed into the runner behind the other glass panel. The little sneak had figured it out!
More yelling and pounding and pointing ensued, this time all of it directed to the two-by-four. Bear tapped his toes on it a few times, but showed no inclination to remove it. He was thoroughly enjoying this.
I was not. I was trapped in the backyard, and I was panic-stricken. It was dusk, I could hear thunder in the distance, and Mr. Lucky wasn’t due home for another four hours. My only consolation was there was nothing in the oven or on the stove.
The windows were all closed and locked from the inside. I was barefoot and wearing a tank top and very short shorts, so I wasn’t exactly dressed for scaling the six foot high wooden fence that enclosed the yard. Besides, there was nothing to boost me over but an unsturdy patio chair, and the table was too heavy to drag from the patio to the fence. The gate was secured with a padlock that required a key. But even if I did find a way out of the backyard--there was a shovel handy, so I suppose I could've dug my way out, like the dogs--I still wouldn’t be able to get in the house because the garage and front door were also locked, and my keys were inside the house.
Wouldn’t you know it? Believe it or not, I usually keep my keys with me, even around the house, for Baby Bear’s safety and security. I should probably get one of those things my father used to have, that you clip to your waistband and you pull the keys out on a chain. Or a big giant ring, like a medieval dungeon master (or in this case, mistress).
A key is needed to unlock our front door from the inside as well as the outside, to keep Baby Bear from running off never to be heard from again. I read too many heartbreaking stories in the news about autistic children exactly like him, who slip out of the house while their parents are distracted, only to meet tragic ends. He couldn’t let me in through the front door even if he wanted to.
After about ten minutes, he seemed satisfied that I’d completed my transformation into a total basket-case, so he pulled out the two-by-four, allowing me and the dogs back into the house.
If that wasn't enough, when Mr. Lucky came home from work shortly before midnight, I had to unlock the front door for him, because he’d locked his own keys in the car, along with his cell phone. Imagine if Baby Bear still hadn’t removed the two-by-four!
This isn’t the first time one of my little darlings has locked me out—or in. About ten years ago, Fiona locked me in her older brother’s bedroom while her dad was out on an errand. Neither she nor the Crown Prince would let me out, despite all my screaming and hammering on the door. And I didn’t have my keys with me that time, either; so even if I went out the window, I still couldn’t get back into the house. I had to wait for Mr. Lucky to return, which he did about half an hour later.
At least he didn’t lock his own keys in the car that time!
Last night, while Mr. Lucky was at work, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could go into the backyard to do their business. I went out there with them because otherwise, they’d head for their secret escape route under the fence. (I think they’re squeezing out under the gate, but Mr. Lucky doesn’t think that’s possible because the gate is locked both top and bottom.)
After a few moments, I noticed Baby Bear was at the door, his nose and lips pressed against the glass. Since I can’t lock the door from the outside, I thought it quite odd that he was making no attempt to come running out as he usually does. I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge.
He must've locked it. I pointed to it and yelled at him to unlock it.
He laughed and danced. I pounded on the glass and yelled some more. He finally clicked the lock, I pulled on the door handle, and . . . it didn’t budge.
Did he unlock it, only to quickly lock it again? After more yelling and pounding on my side of the glass, and more laughing and dancing on his side, he clicked the lock again as I quickly seized the door handle and . . . it still didn’t budge.
That’s when I noticed, to my horror, that the two-by-four had been neatly placed into the runner behind the other glass panel. The little sneak had figured it out!
More yelling and pounding and pointing ensued, this time all of it directed to the two-by-four. Bear tapped his toes on it a few times, but showed no inclination to remove it. He was thoroughly enjoying this.
I was not. I was trapped in the backyard, and I was panic-stricken. It was dusk, I could hear thunder in the distance, and Mr. Lucky wasn’t due home for another four hours. My only consolation was there was nothing in the oven or on the stove.
The windows were all closed and locked from the inside. I was barefoot and wearing a tank top and very short shorts, so I wasn’t exactly dressed for scaling the six foot high wooden fence that enclosed the yard. Besides, there was nothing to boost me over but an unsturdy patio chair, and the table was too heavy to drag from the patio to the fence. The gate was secured with a padlock that required a key. But even if I did find a way out of the backyard--there was a shovel handy, so I suppose I could've dug my way out, like the dogs--I still wouldn’t be able to get in the house because the garage and front door were also locked, and my keys were inside the house.
Wouldn’t you know it? Believe it or not, I usually keep my keys with me, even around the house, for Baby Bear’s safety and security. I should probably get one of those things my father used to have, that you clip to your waistband and you pull the keys out on a chain. Or a big giant ring, like a medieval dungeon master (or in this case, mistress).
A key is needed to unlock our front door from the inside as well as the outside, to keep Baby Bear from running off never to be heard from again. I read too many heartbreaking stories in the news about autistic children exactly like him, who slip out of the house while their parents are distracted, only to meet tragic ends. He couldn’t let me in through the front door even if he wanted to.
After about ten minutes, he seemed satisfied that I’d completed my transformation into a total basket-case, so he pulled out the two-by-four, allowing me and the dogs back into the house.
If that wasn't enough, when Mr. Lucky came home from work shortly before midnight, I had to unlock the front door for him, because he’d locked his own keys in the car, along with his cell phone. Imagine if Baby Bear still hadn’t removed the two-by-four!
This isn’t the first time one of my little darlings has locked me out—or in. About ten years ago, Fiona locked me in her older brother’s bedroom while her dad was out on an errand. Neither she nor the Crown Prince would let me out, despite all my screaming and hammering on the door. And I didn’t have my keys with me that time, either; so even if I went out the window, I still couldn’t get back into the house. I had to wait for Mr. Lucky to return, which he did about half an hour later.
At least he didn’t lock his own keys in the car that time!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
In Praise of Cats
Baby Bear’s Newest Trick: Spitting Spaghetti! This is what happens when you don’t keep Silly String in the house. If only the red sauce splattered all over the walls didn’t make my dining room look like a crime scene.
I told Mr. Lucky to put the dogs out while we ate dinner. I don’t know why he doesn’t do that as a matter of routine, since he spends half the meal ordering the dogs to get away from the table.
As soon as he was done eating, he left to go to work. I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher before letting the dogs back inside. I opened the back door, and they were nowhere to be seen.
They’d escaped. The entire back yard is fenced in, yet I couldn’t find a hole anywhere, unless they’d secretly been working on one beneath the air conditioning unit a la The Great Escape.
I whistled, though I’m not a very good whistler. I yelled. I cursed. Not a single dog came running back. I was going to have to go out and chase them down before some surly neighbor yelled at me for letting the dogs run loose, as they (the dogs as well as the surly neighbors) are wont to do if Mr. Lucky isn’t at home.
I had to chase down three dogs, and I had to do it on foot. Mr. Lucky recently sold his playboyish Buick Riviera, because it requires premium unleaded and in recent months has done nothing but sit in the driveway looking snazzy. After some discussion we decided we could get by with one car.
The dogs obviously listened in, took note, and hatched their fiendish plot.
Only I couldn’t chase down three dogs and a boy who always runs in the opposite direction from where I want to go, casting off every article of clothing he wears as he makes his mad dash to the nearest dangerous place. So I did something I really don’t like doing—I apologized to Baby Bear, assured him it was for his own safety and my sanity, and locked him in his room.
As I pulled the dog’s leashes out of the hall closet, already the house was shaking from Baby Bear’s pounding thumps of protest. Certainly I could have left him loose in the house and just locked the front door, but then the ensuing damage would be more widespread, and the possible injury to himself more serious. At least this way any disaster would be contained.
We’re in Florida and it’s ninety degrees shortly before 6 pm. I’m not dressed to be seen outside the house, at least not by my standards. I haven’t even had the chance to check my teeth to make sure there are no bits of basil or parsley stuck in the gumline. I have to remember not to smile if I meet anyone.
At least I got some much needed exercise. I swiftly walked all around the block in search of those dogs, but didn’t see them anywhere. I cut through several yards, and crashed a couple of backyard barbecues and pool parties. On my way back to my house, I finally spotted them in the next door neighbor’s yard—the first place I’d checked, as the neighbor (who wasn’t home at the time) keeps a yappy little dog chained up in their lanai.
I rounded up the dogs, put them on the leashes and took them home, where Baby Bear had kicked a new hole in the drywall in his room—and this only six hours after a parent-teacher conference at his school, where Mr. Lucky asserted that Bear hadn't damaged any walls in quite a long time.
He forgot to knock on wood when he said that.
At 8:30 pm that same evening, the dogs were agitating to go back into the yard, presumably to do doggie business. I let them out and went to check on Bear. I swear not more than two minutes went by before I went into the backyard to discover all three dogs were gone again.
Lock up the boy. Grab the leashes. Venture into the neighborhood as dusk is falling. I found two dogs. The other returned on his own a half hour later. I didn’t let them out again until Mr. Lucky came home, and determined that they’d dug a new hole under the fence.
“How could they have dug a hole in less than two minutes?” I asked. “I swear they were out there less than two minutes when they escaped.”
“I guess they’ve been working on it for some time,” he replied. Just like in the movie.
“But if it isn’t under the A/C unit, then why didn’t I see it anywhere at the 6 pm breakout?”
Mr. Lucky couldn’t answer that. But can three beagles dig an escape route that quickly?
I told Mr. Lucky to put the dogs out while we ate dinner. I don’t know why he doesn’t do that as a matter of routine, since he spends half the meal ordering the dogs to get away from the table.
As soon as he was done eating, he left to go to work. I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher before letting the dogs back inside. I opened the back door, and they were nowhere to be seen.
They’d escaped. The entire back yard is fenced in, yet I couldn’t find a hole anywhere, unless they’d secretly been working on one beneath the air conditioning unit a la The Great Escape.
I whistled, though I’m not a very good whistler. I yelled. I cursed. Not a single dog came running back. I was going to have to go out and chase them down before some surly neighbor yelled at me for letting the dogs run loose, as they (the dogs as well as the surly neighbors) are wont to do if Mr. Lucky isn’t at home.
I had to chase down three dogs, and I had to do it on foot. Mr. Lucky recently sold his playboyish Buick Riviera, because it requires premium unleaded and in recent months has done nothing but sit in the driveway looking snazzy. After some discussion we decided we could get by with one car.
The dogs obviously listened in, took note, and hatched their fiendish plot.
Only I couldn’t chase down three dogs and a boy who always runs in the opposite direction from where I want to go, casting off every article of clothing he wears as he makes his mad dash to the nearest dangerous place. So I did something I really don’t like doing—I apologized to Baby Bear, assured him it was for his own safety and my sanity, and locked him in his room.
As I pulled the dog’s leashes out of the hall closet, already the house was shaking from Baby Bear’s pounding thumps of protest. Certainly I could have left him loose in the house and just locked the front door, but then the ensuing damage would be more widespread, and the possible injury to himself more serious. At least this way any disaster would be contained.
We’re in Florida and it’s ninety degrees shortly before 6 pm. I’m not dressed to be seen outside the house, at least not by my standards. I haven’t even had the chance to check my teeth to make sure there are no bits of basil or parsley stuck in the gumline. I have to remember not to smile if I meet anyone.
At least I got some much needed exercise. I swiftly walked all around the block in search of those dogs, but didn’t see them anywhere. I cut through several yards, and crashed a couple of backyard barbecues and pool parties. On my way back to my house, I finally spotted them in the next door neighbor’s yard—the first place I’d checked, as the neighbor (who wasn’t home at the time) keeps a yappy little dog chained up in their lanai.
I rounded up the dogs, put them on the leashes and took them home, where Baby Bear had kicked a new hole in the drywall in his room—and this only six hours after a parent-teacher conference at his school, where Mr. Lucky asserted that Bear hadn't damaged any walls in quite a long time.
He forgot to knock on wood when he said that.
At 8:30 pm that same evening, the dogs were agitating to go back into the yard, presumably to do doggie business. I let them out and went to check on Bear. I swear not more than two minutes went by before I went into the backyard to discover all three dogs were gone again.
Lock up the boy. Grab the leashes. Venture into the neighborhood as dusk is falling. I found two dogs. The other returned on his own a half hour later. I didn’t let them out again until Mr. Lucky came home, and determined that they’d dug a new hole under the fence.
“How could they have dug a hole in less than two minutes?” I asked. “I swear they were out there less than two minutes when they escaped.”
“I guess they’ve been working on it for some time,” he replied. Just like in the movie.
“But if it isn’t under the A/C unit, then why didn’t I see it anywhere at the 6 pm breakout?”
Mr. Lucky couldn’t answer that. But can three beagles dig an escape route that quickly?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Locking the Oven Door: No Can Do
I mentioned in my previous entry that we’d have to start locking the oven while using it, so Baby Bear wouldn’t open it and bring on certain disaster.
I turned on the oven to Bake, then locked the door. The range began beeping, and the digital display screen commanded me to “Unlock Door.” I stood my ground, but so did the range. The oven automatically switched off.
I studied the owner’s manual, and found only two references to the door latch, one under the instructions for self-cleaning, the other under troubleshooting tips. The latter is where I discovered, to my dismay, that if the oven didn’t work, then a possible cause might be a locked oven door. The solution? “If necessary, allow oven to cool; then unlock door.”
In other words, I cannot lock the oven while baking. Why in blazes not? The owner’s manual devotes a whole page to the wonderful “anti-tip device” for the convenience of people who like to use open oven doors as stepping stools. Another page warns against using the oven for things I can’t believe anyone with half a brain would even consider doing. Do not use the oven to dry wet newspapers or you could start a fire? For that matter, who sits on an open oven door—and why? I mean, besides a child like Baby Bear? If the problem is so common that it must be preached against in the owner’s manual, then wouldn’t it make sense if you could lock the oven door anytime—even when it’s not in use?
Alas, it can only be locked during self-clean mode. Or, when it gets super-hot; but as Julie pointed out in her comment to my last blog entry, the latter can lead to a lot of trouble—and on a holiday, a lot of hungry people, which leads to even more trouble chez Lingefelt.
Ours is a glass-top radiant range, which has spoiled me for any other type of range. It’s a breeze to clean—no scrubbing, soaking, chiseling, or whining to the husband, “It’s too much work to clean this thing—can’t we just buy a new one?” Just squirt the ceramic cooktop cleaner over it, rub it in with the cleaning pad, then polish with a rag. In moments, it gleams and sparkles with such brilliance, I feel as if I should be wearing my best pearls, high heels, and ruffled apron. Thanks to this marvel of modern convenience, I now have plenty of extra time to club myself over the head for not nagging Mr. Lucky to buy me this model sooner.
At the in-laws’ house one day, I sang its praises to my father-in-law as he disassembled their old gas range to clean it. My mother-in-law wanted a glass-top range, and I’m so crazy about mine that I put in a good word for her.
My father-in-law wasn’t buying it, literally or figuratively. “Let her next husband buy her one,” he grumbled.
The solution to our problem is obvious: Just watch the kid. We do it anyway.
I turned on the oven to Bake, then locked the door. The range began beeping, and the digital display screen commanded me to “Unlock Door.” I stood my ground, but so did the range. The oven automatically switched off.
I studied the owner’s manual, and found only two references to the door latch, one under the instructions for self-cleaning, the other under troubleshooting tips. The latter is where I discovered, to my dismay, that if the oven didn’t work, then a possible cause might be a locked oven door. The solution? “If necessary, allow oven to cool; then unlock door.”
In other words, I cannot lock the oven while baking. Why in blazes not? The owner’s manual devotes a whole page to the wonderful “anti-tip device” for the convenience of people who like to use open oven doors as stepping stools. Another page warns against using the oven for things I can’t believe anyone with half a brain would even consider doing. Do not use the oven to dry wet newspapers or you could start a fire? For that matter, who sits on an open oven door—and why? I mean, besides a child like Baby Bear? If the problem is so common that it must be preached against in the owner’s manual, then wouldn’t it make sense if you could lock the oven door anytime—even when it’s not in use?
Alas, it can only be locked during self-clean mode. Or, when it gets super-hot; but as Julie pointed out in her comment to my last blog entry, the latter can lead to a lot of trouble—and on a holiday, a lot of hungry people, which leads to even more trouble chez Lingefelt.
Ours is a glass-top radiant range, which has spoiled me for any other type of range. It’s a breeze to clean—no scrubbing, soaking, chiseling, or whining to the husband, “It’s too much work to clean this thing—can’t we just buy a new one?” Just squirt the ceramic cooktop cleaner over it, rub it in with the cleaning pad, then polish with a rag. In moments, it gleams and sparkles with such brilliance, I feel as if I should be wearing my best pearls, high heels, and ruffled apron. Thanks to this marvel of modern convenience, I now have plenty of extra time to club myself over the head for not nagging Mr. Lucky to buy me this model sooner.
At the in-laws’ house one day, I sang its praises to my father-in-law as he disassembled their old gas range to clean it. My mother-in-law wanted a glass-top range, and I’m so crazy about mine that I put in a good word for her.
My father-in-law wasn’t buying it, literally or figuratively. “Let her next husband buy her one,” he grumbled.
The solution to our problem is obvious: Just watch the kid. We do it anyway.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
When the Moon is Full
Things Baby Bear has done just in the past few days:
Found the humor in butting heads. I just hope I never have to find the humor in making an emergency visit to the dentist.
Used the dog as a pillow. Yet he won't use his own.
Pulled down a metal curtain rod and bent it. I managed to “de-bend” it and hang it back up, though it now bows a bit in the middle.
Stole Mr. Lucky’s cell phone, punched a lot of buttons, and got a recording of current skiing conditions in Lillehammer, Norway.
Pulled out his computer keyboard so he could play Frogger from the comfort of his bed. Because the cord didn’t reach, the computer itself tipped over to the floor. Fortunately, no damage done. The computer merely needed rebooting.
Figured out how to free himself from his seatbelt and harness without unhooking anything, and with an agility that would’ve made Houdini weep. I sat in the front seat while we were parked and watched him. It probably took him less than three minutes. He knew just when to bend this way and duck his head that way without getting himself into a worse tangle. Once free, he slithered into the very back of the minivan and started taking off his clothes.
Opened the oven door while his pizza was cooking. I think—in fact, I hope—the heat kept him from venturing any further and burning himself. We’ll have to start locking the oven every time we use it. The owner’s manual says very little about the lock, except for its use in self-clean mode, but devotes a whole paragraph to how different types of margarine can affect the outcome of whatever you’re baking.
Most alarming of all, he went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the sink. He left the door open and I could see him from the kitchen, where I was loading the dishwasher. He pressed his hand beneath the faucet to make the water spray everywhere. Moments later, I heard a suspicious whirring noise from the bathroom, and came running, wondering if something was awry with the pipes. Instead, the noise was coming from an electrical outlet next to the sink—and a ribbon of smoke was curling out of it. I removed the boy and yelled for his father. By the time Mr. Lucky stepped in, the weird whirring and smoke had subsided, but he said the outlet was kaput from the water. The bells still hang from the bathroom door, but now we’re going to take a few, albeit less dangerous chances, and keep it locked.
I worry all the time. But sometimes I’m just flat out scared.
Number of times I got up while making this post: 5
I don’t think his guardian angel ever gets to sit down.
Found the humor in butting heads. I just hope I never have to find the humor in making an emergency visit to the dentist.
Used the dog as a pillow. Yet he won't use his own.
Pulled down a metal curtain rod and bent it. I managed to “de-bend” it and hang it back up, though it now bows a bit in the middle.
Stole Mr. Lucky’s cell phone, punched a lot of buttons, and got a recording of current skiing conditions in Lillehammer, Norway.
Pulled out his computer keyboard so he could play Frogger from the comfort of his bed. Because the cord didn’t reach, the computer itself tipped over to the floor. Fortunately, no damage done. The computer merely needed rebooting.
Figured out how to free himself from his seatbelt and harness without unhooking anything, and with an agility that would’ve made Houdini weep. I sat in the front seat while we were parked and watched him. It probably took him less than three minutes. He knew just when to bend this way and duck his head that way without getting himself into a worse tangle. Once free, he slithered into the very back of the minivan and started taking off his clothes.
Opened the oven door while his pizza was cooking. I think—in fact, I hope—the heat kept him from venturing any further and burning himself. We’ll have to start locking the oven every time we use it. The owner’s manual says very little about the lock, except for its use in self-clean mode, but devotes a whole paragraph to how different types of margarine can affect the outcome of whatever you’re baking.
Most alarming of all, he went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the sink. He left the door open and I could see him from the kitchen, where I was loading the dishwasher. He pressed his hand beneath the faucet to make the water spray everywhere. Moments later, I heard a suspicious whirring noise from the bathroom, and came running, wondering if something was awry with the pipes. Instead, the noise was coming from an electrical outlet next to the sink—and a ribbon of smoke was curling out of it. I removed the boy and yelled for his father. By the time Mr. Lucky stepped in, the weird whirring and smoke had subsided, but he said the outlet was kaput from the water. The bells still hang from the bathroom door, but now we’re going to take a few, albeit less dangerous chances, and keep it locked.
I worry all the time. But sometimes I’m just flat out scared.
Number of times I got up while making this post: 5
I don’t think his guardian angel ever gets to sit down.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Baby Bear's School Portrait
Last Friday when Baby Bear came home from school, I found a wonderful surprise in his backpack: An envelope full of photos—an 8 x 10, a couple of 5 x 7’s, and assorted wallet sizes. It was his “spring portrait” package, just in time for Mother’s Day.
It’s a great photo, as photos of Baby Bear go. Because of his hyper nature, school portraits tend to be very hit-or-miss. We're lucky to get half his face in the shot.
I only wish I’d been told in advance what day the school was taking photos, so he wouldn’t be photographed wearing the same striped shirt he wore for last year’s portrait.
Already I could hear the comments from relatives.
FATHER: “What, you can’t afford to buy him a new shirt? Doesn’t your husband make enough money these days? Maybe you need to sell more books.”
MOTHER: “He should have had his hair cut before his picture was taken.” According to my late mother, anyone whose hair touched the eyebrows, covered the earlobe, and/or fell below the atlas of the spine, needed to be hauled into court so they could have their name legally changed to “Cousin Itt.”
MOTHER-IN-LAW (never to me, but always to Mr. Lucky): “Why is he wearing the same shirt as last year? Does Karen send him to school in the same shirt every day? Doesn’t she ever do laundry? Is she still writing?”
BROTHER (doesn’t matter whose or which): “Now which one of your kids is this again?”
This isn’t the first time I’ve been surprised by photos from Baby Bear’s school. I have one from a couple of years ago in which he’s beautifully posed against a lush, misty forest background. Yet he’s wearing a very casual dark blue-and-gray T-shirt. ARGH! Had I known in advance when they were going to shoot that photo, I would have dressed him in something infinitely more presentable that day.
I check his backpack every day for messages and notices. The school is simply not getting the word out, and Karen is annoyed.
These photos are sent to parents on a sort of honor system. “Select your photos – send in your payment – share with family and friends – then sit back and enjoy their snarky comments about your little darling's ill-chosen outfit!” (Well, okay, that last isn’t on there, but at least for my son’s school, it should be.) You pick the photos you want out of the selection offered, write a check to the company, then return it to the school along with whatever photos you don’t select. I’ve often wondered just how profitable this is for the company doing the photos.
Indeed, this year there was a letter enclosed with the photos, on school district letterhead and signed by the principal, stating, “Any picture debt will be placed on the debt list for the following 08/09 school year and student will be unable to attend the end of the year activities (6th, 7th, 8th grade special events).”
That tells me they’ve had a bit of trouble with their honor system in the past. Mr. Lucky is of the opinion that some of the middle school students, horrified by the braces and acne and overall gawkiness of puberty reflected in the photos, do not take the packages home to their unsuspecting parents, but trash them instead. I know I can’t bear to look at any photo of myself taken at that age.
Baby Bear is not a middle school student, but is enrolled in the “Exceptional Student Center” annexed to the middle school, which is comprised of special needs students of all ages.
On Monday I wrote a check for the photos, and sent it back to school in the envelope provided.
Today is Wednesday, and it’s still in his backpack.
And Karen is still very annoyed.
It’s a great photo, as photos of Baby Bear go. Because of his hyper nature, school portraits tend to be very hit-or-miss. We're lucky to get half his face in the shot.
I only wish I’d been told in advance what day the school was taking photos, so he wouldn’t be photographed wearing the same striped shirt he wore for last year’s portrait.
Already I could hear the comments from relatives.
FATHER: “What, you can’t afford to buy him a new shirt? Doesn’t your husband make enough money these days? Maybe you need to sell more books.”
MOTHER: “He should have had his hair cut before his picture was taken.” According to my late mother, anyone whose hair touched the eyebrows, covered the earlobe, and/or fell below the atlas of the spine, needed to be hauled into court so they could have their name legally changed to “Cousin Itt.”
MOTHER-IN-LAW (never to me, but always to Mr. Lucky): “Why is he wearing the same shirt as last year? Does Karen send him to school in the same shirt every day? Doesn’t she ever do laundry? Is she still writing?”
BROTHER (doesn’t matter whose or which): “Now which one of your kids is this again?”
This isn’t the first time I’ve been surprised by photos from Baby Bear’s school. I have one from a couple of years ago in which he’s beautifully posed against a lush, misty forest background. Yet he’s wearing a very casual dark blue-and-gray T-shirt. ARGH! Had I known in advance when they were going to shoot that photo, I would have dressed him in something infinitely more presentable that day.
I check his backpack every day for messages and notices. The school is simply not getting the word out, and Karen is annoyed.
These photos are sent to parents on a sort of honor system. “Select your photos – send in your payment – share with family and friends – then sit back and enjoy their snarky comments about your little darling's ill-chosen outfit!” (Well, okay, that last isn’t on there, but at least for my son’s school, it should be.) You pick the photos you want out of the selection offered, write a check to the company, then return it to the school along with whatever photos you don’t select. I’ve often wondered just how profitable this is for the company doing the photos.
Indeed, this year there was a letter enclosed with the photos, on school district letterhead and signed by the principal, stating, “Any picture debt will be placed on the debt list for the following 08/09 school year and student will be unable to attend the end of the year activities (6th, 7th, 8th grade special events).”
That tells me they’ve had a bit of trouble with their honor system in the past. Mr. Lucky is of the opinion that some of the middle school students, horrified by the braces and acne and overall gawkiness of puberty reflected in the photos, do not take the packages home to their unsuspecting parents, but trash them instead. I know I can’t bear to look at any photo of myself taken at that age.
Baby Bear is not a middle school student, but is enrolled in the “Exceptional Student Center” annexed to the middle school, which is comprised of special needs students of all ages.
On Monday I wrote a check for the photos, and sent it back to school in the envelope provided.
Today is Wednesday, and it’s still in his backpack.
And Karen is still very annoyed.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I'm Still Fiona's Mom
Dear Fiona,
This morning we went to visit you, and hung a set of pink butterfly wind chimes with your flowers. Mother's Day is a day I like to celebrate the fact that I'm still your mom, and will always be your mom.
That means I still worry about you, even though you’ve been gone for almost eight years. People say you’re in a much better place now, where there's no sickness or pain, a glorious place where everything and everyone is beautiful and perfect, and you’re happier than you could ever be here.
I took the idea of that place for granted until you went there, at which point my faith was sorely tested. Suddenly I viewed Heaven the way I might a preschool or summer camp. How could I be certain it was all right to leave my child in a place like this? Had it been thoroughly inspected and licensed by the state?
Only a mom would fuss over that, and I'm still your mom.
In the hours immediately following your departure, I agonized over what might be happening to your soul, your spirit. I worried that you were confused and frightened about where you were and what was happening to you.
I asked the craziest questions that no one could answer to my satisfaction: Did they get Cartoon Network in Heaven, so you could watch Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon? Would you have enough paper and crayons to indulge your love of drawing pictures? Did St. Peter know that Wednesday was always pizza night? Could I count on him to remember to always hold the pepperoni on yours?
Nutty as it seems, these were the things that drove me—well, nuts. I never fretted this way when my brother, grandparents, or mother died. Only with you, Fiona. Because I'm still your mom, while you're always and forever my girl.
Over time, among the pieces of my broken heart I've found a tiny fragment that assures me you're safe in a wonderful place that runs Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon marathons 24/7; a marvelous place where every night is pizza night, and crayons come in the most amazing spectrum of colors that no one on earth can imagine. A place that's Heaven to Fiona.
I'm the one who was confused and frightened. Yet I'll never stop worrying, because I'm still your mom.
This morning we went to visit you, and hung a set of pink butterfly wind chimes with your flowers. Mother's Day is a day I like to celebrate the fact that I'm still your mom, and will always be your mom.
That means I still worry about you, even though you’ve been gone for almost eight years. People say you’re in a much better place now, where there's no sickness or pain, a glorious place where everything and everyone is beautiful and perfect, and you’re happier than you could ever be here.
I took the idea of that place for granted until you went there, at which point my faith was sorely tested. Suddenly I viewed Heaven the way I might a preschool or summer camp. How could I be certain it was all right to leave my child in a place like this? Had it been thoroughly inspected and licensed by the state?
Only a mom would fuss over that, and I'm still your mom.
In the hours immediately following your departure, I agonized over what might be happening to your soul, your spirit. I worried that you were confused and frightened about where you were and what was happening to you.
I asked the craziest questions that no one could answer to my satisfaction: Did they get Cartoon Network in Heaven, so you could watch Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon? Would you have enough paper and crayons to indulge your love of drawing pictures? Did St. Peter know that Wednesday was always pizza night? Could I count on him to remember to always hold the pepperoni on yours?
Nutty as it seems, these were the things that drove me—well, nuts. I never fretted this way when my brother, grandparents, or mother died. Only with you, Fiona. Because I'm still your mom, while you're always and forever my girl.
Over time, among the pieces of my broken heart I've found a tiny fragment that assures me you're safe in a wonderful place that runs Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon marathons 24/7; a marvelous place where every night is pizza night, and crayons come in the most amazing spectrum of colors that no one on earth can imagine. A place that's Heaven to Fiona.
I'm the one who was confused and frightened. Yet I'll never stop worrying, because I'm still your mom.
At least I know if St. Peter forgets to hold that pepperoni, you’ll give him holy hell for it.
That's my girl!
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Salesman Cometh--And Refuseth to Go Away
When our three beagles started barking and clawing at the open blinds on the living room window Saturday morning, I assumed they were barking at someone out on the street, because I hadn’t heard the doorbell. I yelled at them to get down from the window before they destroyed the blinds, but to no avail. As I pulled one dog out of the bent and battered slats, I glimpsed a man at the front door.
He wasn’t one of the neighbors, nor was he wearing any kind of uniform. He was well dressed and sported the telltale padfolio.
If he didn’t see me, then he certainly heard me, no thanks to my hoydenish voice that can be heard in three counties even when I’m not yelling (Mr. Lucky says anytime he's on the phone with me, he has to hold it away from his ear because I talk so loud). But the salesman knew someone was home.
“He already knows anyway,” Mr. Lucky hollered over the cacophony, “because there are two cars in the driveway.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I shouted. “For all he knows, we have a third vehicle we took to go out for donuts. Or we flew somewhere on vacation and left both vehicles here to make people think someone was home.”
“Well, that’s why he’s out there,” Mr. Lucky bellowed. “Because he thinks someone’s home.”
He wasn’t one of the neighbors, nor was he wearing any kind of uniform. He was well dressed and sported the telltale padfolio.
If he didn’t see me, then he certainly heard me, no thanks to my hoydenish voice that can be heard in three counties even when I’m not yelling (Mr. Lucky says anytime he's on the phone with me, he has to hold it away from his ear because I talk so loud). But the salesman knew someone was home.
“He already knows anyway,” Mr. Lucky hollered over the cacophony, “because there are two cars in the driveway.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I shouted. “For all he knows, we have a third vehicle we took to go out for donuts. Or we flew somewhere on vacation and left both vehicles here to make people think someone was home.”
“Well, that’s why he’s out there,” Mr. Lucky bellowed. “Because he thinks someone’s home.”
Certainly the racket was a major tip-off. And it got worse in a deafening, nerve-shredding chain reaction.
Baby Bear charged in, shirtless and screaming, and threw himself on the sofa. The frenzied dogs continued attacking the blinds as if they were made of USDA prime beef. Then, since I had yet to lose my mind, the phone rang. The answering machine kicked in, and on came a chirpy voice congratulating me for winning a thirty day free trial membership at a ladies’ fitness club.
Mr. Lucky decided this would be an excellent opportunity to conduct an impromptu obedience class for the dogs. He started commanding them to get down and sit. Perhaps the salesman would get tired of waiting and leave.
I joined Baby Bear on the sofa, and tried to soothe him. I nearly lost my teeth and six vertabrae for my trouble.
Meanwhile, the perky voice on the answering machine promised me a fabulous bod just in time for the summer. Wouldn’t I love to go to the beach and attract so many hot looking guys I’d have to beat them off with my surfboard?
A howling Baby Bear had me in a headlock and was ready to flip me over the coffee table, but I managed to steal a peek under his armpit, and saw through the window that the salesman wasn’t going anywhere. He really wanted to make that sale, convert us to that religion, or secure that vote. Why didn’t he give up and try our more hospitable neighbor? Was he nuts, or just desperate? I know if I didn’t live here, I would’ve run for my life by now.
I somehow got the upper hand on Baby Bear, and wrestled him into his room. My husband, who has a lot more patience than I do, finally calmed the dogs and got them to sit. He cracked the door open and slipped out to talk to the man, who wished to impart some “good news.” He wasn’t about to give up and let us suffer all that pandemonium for nothing. Oh, no! We, more than anyone else in the neighborhood, had earned the ultimate payoff for all our troubles: The promise of going on forever, in exchange for some money, our souls, and what little remained of our rational thinking.
I thought we were already doing that. I think Mr. Lucky told him as much—or at least, “No thanks.”
As I stood there panting for breath, sweat trickling down my brow, the gushing lady on the answering machine finally wrapped it up. “So why are you just sitting there, girlfriend? Get off that sofa, get out of your rut, and call now—and discover how you can enjoy a more active, exciting life today!”
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