Dirty Harry, Friend of Mine

The other night upon returning home from some much needed girl time, I found my husband in a very good mood, an interested mood, a come hither and talk dirty to me mood. Having been married 16 years, naturally I was suspicious of this uncharacteristic attention.

“Have  you been watching Lara Croft, Tomb Raider again?” I asked.

“Nope–” he said, all deep throated and extra confident, “Clint Eastwood.”

Needless to say the boxed set is already midair on some Fedex plane. Make my day, Baby.

Texting: Make Mine Unlimited

This is the September edition of the print version of After the Bubbly, an award winning family humor column. If you’d like to see it in a local publication, let me know and I’ll do my best to get it there!

A lot of things are different for our kids than they were for us. We didn’t have home theaters, decent video games, or twenty-four-seven kids’ TV shows. But it’s really the phones and the privacy they offer that change everything. Before my son started middle school I had made up my mind that I was not going to get him a phone.

“You’ll change your tune,” a friend told me. “What if he misses the bus?” she questioned. I rolled my eyes.

Cut to Christmas and my son tearing open a phone while his little sister calculates the number of months she has to wait for hers under the big-brother-broke-them-in algorithm. I’m still not convinced he needs a phone, but he wanted one and it was Christmas. Maybe I’m just jealous. Having a personal phone—not to mention a modest texting allowance—in the 6^th grade? I never had it so good.

Back in the olden days we didn’t even have cordless phones. They were all attached to a wall, either in your home or in public. You carried a quarter for a payphone and everyone could see you cry when your mom forgot to pick you up from soccer practice. When you got sick at school you had to use the office phone with its rotary dial and square buttons across the bottom. If you missed the bus you didn’t call anyone; you walked home. To have a private conversation at home you stretched the phone cord down that hall, pinching it in your bedroom door, then prayed your mom wouldn’t detach it from the wall while you were asking your BFF if she wanted to “go with” the new boy (who was named Curt or Tyler or Rob). Those deliriously fortunate enough to have a phone in their rooms knew their parents were listening in from the kitchen anyway.

Today’s kids don’t have to worry about parents overhearing conversations, partly because phones are rarely used for speaking to one another anymore. The important information—what band is cool, whose house they’re sleeping over at, and which color Converse to wear tomorrow—is all relayed via text. It goes without saying that back in the olden days we didn’t have our own secret language that our parents couldn’t figure out. We had to be clever and make plans while they weren’t listening or watching. (Whatever, Dad – no, you did NOT know we were “sneaking” out the sliding glass door.) Now kids speak in an ever-evolving code of letters and symbols—ikr? It’s a miracle our thumbs didn’t fall off–like the vestigial tail–from lack of use.

Popular as texting has become, I still thought my 11-year-old son was too young for it. I figured he just used the phone as a status symbol and to call me on the [many] days I forgot it was my turn at carpool. I didn’t realize he was using the text function at all until I started using it on my own phone. When my texts racked up I worried about the potential overage costs so I logged into my wireless account. While I was slightly under my plan limit of two hundred texts, my son was up to eight hundred twenty—two weeks into the billing cycle. I immediately called my provider to request unlimited texting.

I sensed a golden opportunity. His excess was just what I needed to institute the partial pay policy I should have started when we gave him the phone. I confronted him with the facts.

“But, Mom,” he almost cried, “it’s not like you can just end a conversation.”

Awww… proof that my baby boy is not yet a man.

I told him that instead of making him pay for the overage, he was going to chip in ten dollars a month toward his phone bill.

“But then I’ll have less money,” he whined.

I didn’t laugh. I did however take my platinum opportunity to ask for his phone– and read his texts. If I were a terrible person I would transcribe them here. Because they would make you laugh and reminisce over everything that was good and true and hasn’t changed about the summer before 7th grade. But I won’t. Because I am a good mother and because I’m beyond grateful for what I read there, in his private conversations with friends, both boys and girls. For now, for today–though he doesn’t realize it–my baby is as innocent as the day I brought him home wrapped in flannel and smelling like spit up. If only there were an unlimited plan for that.

A Note To My Younger Self About Her Teeth

Dear Younger Me,
Floss, please. Also, get that night guard when the first dentist recommends it instead of waiting ten years. Yes, it is expensive, and inconvenient, and extremely dorky. It is also better than a root canal. All those jokes about root canals? They’re true. Trust me. And yes, I know I told you never to trust anyone who says trust me, but you can trust me, I’m you.
Signed,
Your Dentally Challenged Future Self

Some of My Best Friends Are Mormons

The other day we were driving through the University of Arkansas when this bike came out of nowhere and it seemed would end up under my car. My son whipped his head around to get a better look.

“Mom! That was one of those Mormons.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because. He was riding a bike and wearing a white shirt. AND he had a backpack.”

“Lots of students ride bikes and wear backpacks.”

“But the white shirt, Mom. I’m telling you he was Mormon.”

“They don’t bike that fast. Besides, he was alone. No way.”

“Mormon.”

Little sister from the back seat: “What’s a Norman?”

Overheard In My Kitchen

My family is still enjoying the benefits of my recent return to super-healthy eating. This is to say they are loving the broiled salmon and adoring the brown rice. They are head over heels for my pureed cauliflower soup. I’m trying new things, like muesli, a lovely mixture of oats, seeds, dried fruit, and the recycled boxes of sugary cereals. I’m trying to get the family to join in my fibrous fervor.

“I bought some new cereal,” I lift the bag like a particularly pretty baby so my husband can admire its wholesome goodness. ”You should try it.”

He eyes it at that angle we both use because we are in between regular lenses and bifocals and cannot bear the indignity of readers.

“You know what?” His eyes light up. “I’ll bet that would be good in the bird feeder!”

Detoxed, Just Like Gwyneth

I did it, detoxed from Cozumel. I rid my gut of 24-hour free range Chez Whiz smothered fried tortillas and purged my liver of all-you-can-drink margaritas. Using Gwyneth Paltrow’s detox diet as a guide, I explored the health food store, learned a few good recipes (and the horrors of “pro-greens”), and dropped a few pounds. My tummy is flat. Kinda. And yet, the miracle detox failed to deliver the desired results. I did not grow eight inches of leg. I’m still brunette. Not hanging out with Robert Downey Jr. In short, I’m no Gwyneth. After reading about Paltrow’s bone disease, I couldn’t be happier.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a date with a Frito pie.

Haiku for the Health Food Store Clerks

Haiku is trendy, right? The sparse form seem appropriate for my venture into near-fasting last week. And no detoxing endeavor is complete without a trip to the health food store. Forgive me.

sullen tatted youth

gossip over the miso

while I search for kelp

Notarize This

A sign your loan may not proceed as expected: when the notary says, while making a face at a particularly troublesome piece of paper, “Well this is…. um…. I have no idea.”

But of course I signed it.

I even held back telling my husband that I needed to brush up on his signature. Forgery jokes probably don’t go over well with notaries.

Things You Don’t Want to Hear on Vacation

There are a lot of things you don’t want to hear on your Mexican vacation. Here are a few of my favorites:

• We ran out of chips.
• Stop that! You want to get Javier fired?
• Go ahead, show ‘em. They don’t even have YouTube in Mexico.
• Why are the passports wet?
• You have transportation?
• Oh, he’ll be over there… sometime. Maybe tomorrow.
• I haven’t gotten up to pee all day!
• Just out of curiosity, where is my wallet?

Sorry About the Flowers

To my husband who will not read this:

Do you really think it’s wise to leave me alone with the children, a sick dog, and our plants for a week? The kids I can handle; they ask for food and soda several times a day. The dog also tells me what he needs, in yowls and paw swipes. But those damn plants are so passive aggressive. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and wither.”

Would it have killed you to remind me to water them?

No, it wouldn’t have. A simple “Did you water the plants?” would have sufficed. Yes, I would have sighed and lied and told you that of course I watered them. Sheesh. But the plants would still be alive. So… in a way, it was really you who murdered our potted sweet potato vine and our hanging verdana. Nice. Real nice.

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