Things I Hope I Never Have to Say

•  Honestly, officer, I can explain.
•  At least now we know the airbag works.
•  May I have one of those seat belt extensions?
•  Do you know where your dad was going hunting?
• What's the number for search and rescue?
• I had no idea my dog was going to do that.
• Yes, his rabies shot is current.
• You'd think a man my husband's age would know better.
• I was sure that would hold our weight.
• I thought we were supposed to drink it.
• From up here in the tree, it looks like a grizzly.
• Yes, I knew grizzlies could climb trees.
• This is my first time in jail.
• I have no idea why I thought you were pregnant.
• Can you recommend a good proctologist?
• I'm just running out to buy some Depends.
• Will that be covered by our homeowners' insurance?
• The last time I saw my wedding ring it was. . .
• Does our fire extinguisher still work?
• Yes, I have proof of insurance.
• I had no idea I could still run that fast.
• So, you're saying there are no parachutes on this plane?
• You said those mushrooms were edible.
• The government is here to help us.
• Run!

   

Free Drinks at Lambs

     Admittedly, it was my idea to use a vacuum to try to suck up the yellowjackets that swarm around our mini-waterfall, but when I heard the familiar sound of the shop-vac coming unfamiliarly from the front yard, I knew I had created a redneck recreation. To understand why the persistent pests were so attracted to the water in the first place, I went to the source of all knowledge--Google.  Hymenoptera (isn't that a fun word, sounds like a gynecological problem) are extremely interested in finding reliable sources of water. When they find one, like our fountain, they tell all their friends, "Free drinks at Lambs!"  I am not an environmentalist.  I don't believe the world created by an all powerful God needs assistance from puny humans in order to survive. I'm more in the live and let live category.  But the abundance of bees has made our water feature into more of a creature feature. The waterfall, which I used to enjoy from nearby, has become as unapproachable as the Great Oz.
     Adding chlorine would poison the well, so to speak, but that wouldn't last long, and last year that killed the frog that had taken up residence in our fountain. Unfortunately, one of our neighbor boys discovered this during our annual neighborhood ice cream social. Bleached frogs do not turn white and are not a good party theme, unless you are on a scavenger hunt. I like frogs, and Reed claims to have seen another one a few nights ago, so I do not want to bleach him to death.  Besides, we do not need bleach to kill algae.  I discovered a cheaper, more effective method involving nicking the extension cord with the hedge trimmer, causing the breaker to shut off power to the water pump, allowing the sun to kill the algae. By way of disclaimer, my method was cheaper than bleach only because my husband can repair extension cords.  But, having made the discovery, I now skip the step involving the hedge trimmer and merely unplug the water pump. That rids us of the algae, but not the yellow-jackets.
     That is where the shop-vac comes in. Against my will, I sometimes find myself inadvertently encouraging redneck behavior in a family that needs little encouragement. By merely wondering aloud if it was possible to use a shop-vac to suck up yellowjackets, I planted a seed in the fertile soil of my husband's redneck imagination. And that is why the melodious gurgle of the waterfall is being drowned out by the odious whine of the shop-vac while my husband uses the hose extention to lunge at our unwanted guest pests with moves reminiscent of fencing (with a very short opponent).  I know what the yellowjackets will be telling their friends now, "They've had too much to drink at Lambs!" 

Dad's Hobby

     I used to think my dad didn't have any hobbies because he doesn't hunt, fish, play games or even follow sports on television. But in later years I realized he does have one hobby--fattening dogs. You've heard of the horse whisperer, my dad is the dog fattener. The medium sized mutt we had growing up remained normal sized throughout my childhood, but Dad's deceased dog, a terrier Chihuahua cross was as round as a football.  My brother-in-law, from a sheep raising family, said the inability to feel any ribs meant he was ready for slaughter. However, to clear up any confusion, that prediction and Mickey's actual demise were years apart. When my sister and I gave our brother a Dachshund mix for his birthday three years ago, Destiny was slightly pudgy at 20 pounds.  My parting words to Rod were, "Don't let Dad make her fat!"  Three years later Destiny weighs 35 pounds, twice her healthy body weight.
     Dad assures me he doesn't feed her that much, but he also tells me how much she enjoys all the scraps he gives her.  When I was home recently, he gave her a full, human sized serving of lasagna. He is one of the few people I know who ask for a doggie bag and actually give the food to the dog. Although Dad tells me how much better he feels after dieting 10 pounds off his 150 lb. frame, he doesn't see any application to his dog. I make it a practice not to tell parents how to raise their kids (ours turned out okay, but I think it was in spite of us) or how to take care of their pets, but I feel like Destiny deserves an intervention.  Dad thinks the reason she slips out of her collar when she is on a leash is that her head is too small.  Her head, paws and tail are the only parts of her body that are the correct size.  When Roddy told me he gives her three "Greenies" treats a day because the bag instructs one for each 15 to 20 pounds.  I said, "Roddy, she is supposed to be 15 to 20 pounds."
    Dad's last name is Neighbors, and I am not my neighbor's dog's keeper, but I would like to kidnap Destiny for two months and hold her at the Lamb's unfat farm until she looks more like a Dachshund than a Polish dog, but I am afraid it would be a temporary solution and Destiny likes things the way they are.  She likes to eat, Dad likes to feed, there is a certain symmetry to the relationship, if not to her body.  Dad could certainly have worse hobbies and there are no 12 step groups for dog fatteners. I prayed for a long time before giving Dad and Rod a dog, perhaps being fat is her destiny.

Hair of the Dog

     I thought there was something wrong with my bagless vacuum the day the dirt cup was only half full after vacuuming the living and dining rooms.  It had always been full before. That was the day I realized that most of the dog hair had at last left the building.  I loved our Lab, the hair--not so much.  There is still cat hair, mostly Maynard's, but his furry, little body is no match for Garth's hairy harvest. Finally, it is safe to observe the 10 second rule for dropped food and I do not have to de-hair the furniture by his favorite window.
     But enjoying hairlessness does not mean we won't we get another dog.  I will never be the pet lover my husband is, but neither would I deny him something that brings him such pleasure.  And I find walking to the island without a dog downright boring. With Garth it was an adventure if only because with so few cognitive skills, for him it was a new place every time. A dog is also the perfect walking companion, you can talk to a dog and they never question or contradict. Now I have to talk to myself and pretend I'm wearing a bluetooth when I encounter a stranger. Our greatest consolation when facing Garth's departure was knowing we would get another dog. But it may be hard to find a dog that fits our criteria of being free, non-shed and non-yappy. Labradoodles have been suggested but they are $1000, a far cry from our first criteria.
     I am not sorry we put Garth down when we did.  I didn't realize how stressful it was just watching him struggle with his daily activities, until he was gone and I experienced unexpected relief.  It was the right thing to do.  But going without a pet for the sake of a hairless house and less complicated schedule is like extracting your teeth so you won't get cavities.  Even if I wind up with three bags full of hair on vacuuming day, I'd rather have a homeless dog than a dogless home. Because devotion comes with the dirt, and that hair is hitched to a heart, and life without that is a cup half full.

My Great White Wail

     My mother told me that when I was old enough not to get my clothes so dirty, I could wear white. I'm 56 years old. I wore white for my wedding and when I worked at the hospital. I can't make it out of my bedroom in the morning wearing white clothes without staining them.  I am wondering just how old I have to be to master this milestone.  Perhaps when I am in a nursing home, sitting still, not cleaning anything. . . no, eventually I would have to eat and I would inevitably spill something.
     Who cares about coordinating ensembles?  My entire wardrobe is designed around not showing dirt.  I wear print tops because solids show more stains. My idea of a light spring color palette is khaki. The closest I come to pastel is gray.  It helps that dark colors like black and navy, and vivids like jewel tones go better with my complexion, but I knew I preferred them years before I found out about my color wheel. I wore whatever colors allowed me to make it to the end of the day in the same outfit without looking like an ad for  stain remover. 
     Frankly, at this point in life, I don't worry as much about wearing colors that flatter me--my body doesn't flatter me.  Like Captain Ahab, I continue to pursue my elusive white nemesis, but so far I remain off white.

Homemaker's Prayer

Lord,

Thank you for giving me a car nice enough to give people rides to church in,
but not so fancy that I can't put a dog in the backseat or let kids eat a snack in it.
Help me not to value my chairs more than the people sitting on them.
I don't need tables that require coasters or have beautiful wood that nobody gets to see
because it's always covered.
Give me carpet that my husband can walk on in his work boots.
Keep me from buying rugs to protect the floor from the people you meant to walk on it.
Help me not to confuse my house with a furniture museum.
   The world will not end if kids bounce on the couch cushions,
   or twirl in the swivel rocker.

You did not give me a home so I could protect my possessions,
   but as a haven for my husband, children, neighbors and sometimes, even strangers. 
Help me remember that you gave me a home to take care of my family, not the other way around.
     Shoes and paw prints should be welcome, even when they dirty the carpet.
     Let in the sunlight, even if it fades the upholstery,
     and use the good china, even if it gets broken.
Help me to keep my house clean enough to be comfortable
    for the hardworking man who pays for it
    and the children who grew up here.
But please don't give me enough money for fancy things,
fancy things come with a price beyond money.
Help me to hold possessions loosely and you tightly,
and to love the Giver more than the gifts,
because you are the true Home Maker.

                                        Amen




                    

The Nobleman's Daughter

     Sounds like a title for a Gothic romance. If I had lived in the times of aristocracy, I would have preferred to be a nobleman's daughter. Why bother boarding a flight of fancy to be a peasant in another era?  Nobleman, in those times, referred to someone highborn, an aristocrat.  Very few nobility have been born in Pollock, Missouri, nevertheless, I consider myself a descendant of a noble man. By noble I mean honorable, principled, worthy.  I am the daughter of such a man.
     I know this because I watched him spend half a century caring for my schizophrenic mother.  He stayed married to her, and true to his wedding vows despite long years of rejection. We kids would have understood if he had not, but he chose not to take his happiness at our expense, or Mom's. Because noble also means kind, compassionate, altruistic, gracious, even heroic, I am a nobleman's daughter.
     I watched him become increasingly confined to home as Mom's caregiver. I watched him spend most of his life savings when she needed to be in a nursing home. I watched him make joyless, twice weekly visits to her dementia home because she needed him, even when she didn't want him. And now I watch him mourn for her with genuine sorrow, instead of relief.
     Today is Dad's 86th birthday so I dedicate this tribute to him, a gift, from the nobleman's daughter.

How I Became Omniscient

     Would you believe I was born this way?  John Locke said newborns were tabulae rasae--blank slates waiting to be written on. This is true as far as information is concerned, but those same selfish slates also consider themselves to be the center of the universe. They know everything because they are everything. Being firstborn increases the tendency to be a know-it-all. I am actually second born, but stepped into the over achiever role when my brother abdicated the position. In school, where social structure is more engraved in stone than blank slate, I was assigned to the smart kid classification.  A further step towards omniscience was becoming a teenager.  Teenagers know everything.
     But I didn't truly become all knowing until I got married. I did not realize it was a requirement at the time, but after I got married I found out I was expected to know:

•      The location of every item in our home, (even those I never use) and sometimes, even in man land, like the garage and shop.    
•      The hours of every business in our city and those to which we travel.
•      How to find places in towns we have never before visited, and how long it will take to get there.
•      Which restaurants take reservations.
•      How long a social event--concert, wedding, funeral etc. will last. More importantly, will anyone notice if he's not there? 
•      How to cut his hair. Fortunately, he isn't fussy about his hair and is, considerately, growing less of it.
•      The answer to any medical question, despite only having one semester training as a CNA.
•      How to make travel arrangements and willingness to accept full responsibility when things are "not as advertised".
•     A good sale price on every item except tools and firearms. Actually, I ace this one.
•     The polite way to express confrontation.  I am a master at aggressively polite letters.
•     Everything about children, especially responses to permission requests and questions about God and/or sex.  

        I do not have to know whether or not Reed needs to wear a tie to an event, because he will not wear one anyway.  Besides my husband, the jet mechanic, claims not to know how to tie one. I do not need to know how to coordinate his clothes. (See preceding.) So if I got the idea that I know everything, I got it from my husband.  He apparently considers me omniscient.  In this case, I will submit to his better judgment.