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!”

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.

Did You Get a Haircut?

I went away for the weekend. As usual, it was fabulous. When I returned home to my loving family my husband told me the many accomplishments he had ticked off the list while I was gone. Deck fortification, sprinkler maintenance, feeding of children – that sort of thing. He also attended to some personal grooming, but he didn’t mention this – not right away.

15 hours after my return he said, “I will have you know I got a haircut this weekend.”

He’d been saving this. And he had a right. It was no ordinary haircut. He’d gone from fairly long and curly back to close cropped. And I hadn’t noticed. He had me.

“I see now,” I said. “Sorry, Babe. It looks good. Really.”

He nodded, triumphant. “I want a Haircut Free Card.”

Camping, Anyone?

This is the June 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!

It was the hottest day of the year. Naturally, we decided to camp. But first, for added amusement, we spent the entire ninety-plus degree day on the lake with friends. All day we soaked in the sun and its glare off the water. Grown ups quenched thirst with beer while kids gorged on Cheetos and orange soda. We all got sunburned. As the hour got later, and hotter, friends questioned our choice to sleep in a tent. But we truly believed it would be fun.

Around six, when everyone else docked their boats and headed for the air-conditioned Nirvana of their suburban homes, we trailered up and parked ourselves at the campsite. A friend waved goodbye, saying “I’ll be thinking of you—tonight, when I flip my pillow over to the cool side.”

But we knew. We KNEW how to have fun. Not like those wimpy home bodies. We had hotdogs and tater salad and all the makings for perfect s’mores. First, we built a fire. My husband thinks of everything. Nevermind it was ninety-five degrees without a breeze. How else would we cook the hotdogs? While the fire blazed, the kids complained. Even the lake—by now one huge bathtub—offered no comfort. I gave my children ice from the cooler, which they rubbed on their reddened skin. The dog hung his head.

“It’ll be find once the sun goes down,” my husband reassured.

But he was wrong. Somehow the temperature increased after sundown. Even melted chocolate and marshmallow could not lift our spirits. In the darkness, we sat—around the place where the obligatory campfire had been. When it got too hot to expend the energy necessary to make up stories, we went bed. And by bed, I mean the ground, cushioned by a thick layer of nylon tent floor. Our spacious four-man (yeah, right) tent offered the added benefit of trapping the now liquid air.

The children and I whined and feverishly fanned ourselves with paper plates. Finally, we pleaded with my husband to go home. He wouldn’t hear of it.

“It won’t be so hot if you quit complaining.”

Our protests affect the air temperature, apparently. But you know what they say: pick your battles. So I sucked it up and persuaded the kids to do the same. We suffered in silence until I felt I might actually suffocate. I sat up and pressed my face next to the tent “window”, hoping to get some oxygen through the nylon mesh.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“Oh, nothing, Babe. Just breathing.”

That’s all it took—fear of spousal asphyxiation—to convince my husband it was time to go. The kids leaped into action. In the dark we packed the boat in record time. Our quickness was fueled by the joyful anticipation of sweet, cool A/C. I swear the dog smiled. Five minutes out of the campsite the air temperature dropped ten degrees. But that was nothing compared to the icy cotton at home, on the flipside of my pillow.

Retiring Romance

Recently my husband and I sat down with a retirement specialist to discuss our financial future. I may have erroneously referred to this as a lunch “date.” Or maybe it was no accident. I am the consummate multi-tasker. Not that it wasn’t romantic. Especially digging through our files to find copies of what we fondly refer to as “coffee money,” aka our combined 401k accounts, Roth IRAs, and statements from some option we bought during one or another bubble.

Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.

Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”

Because it was a date, and because my husband was coming from work, where he is still expected to wear something a notch up from yoga pants and flip flops, I dressed for our appointment with the banker. As I pulled on big girl slacks, I thought I’d better not gain weight, or lose it either. Ever. These may be the last nice clothes I’d ever own.

We were greeted, served coffee, and showed to an office where our retirement specialist explained to us the process of mapping out best case and acceptable case scenarios for our non-working future. We spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time discussing the age at which my husband would retire.

“Fifty-five is ideal,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “That’s in ten years. You have no hobbies. What would you do with the rest of your life?” And, I thought, I’ll be fifty. My need for cosmetic procedures will just be ramping up and those are not cheap.

“Okay, sixty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“You know,” the nice woman with the calculator said, “there are considerable benefits to waiting until you’re sixty-seven to stop working.”

“Ha!” I said. Such a romantic.

After a brief discussion of Social Security and far fewer questions about our saving and spending habits than I expected, we came to the “extras” section of the interview. This is where my husband asserted his need in retirement to buy a boat—a big one.

“Except I want to buy it now,” he told our trusted counselor.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll work that into the calculation.” She turned to me. “One last question—how do you want me to treat your income? Should I count it as extra or include it in the overall forecast.”

“Put it toward my world travels,” I told her.

“Your travels?”

“Best case scenario.”

She turned to John. “Did you know about the traveling?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t like my boat.”

My Husband is on Facebook

My husband is a reluctant member of Facebook. But he’s slowly warming. The other night he was messing around on his account and got so excited to see the posts coming through his feed.

“Wow, people write stuff on here all the time. No wonder you’re addicted.”

I’m not, but that’s another story.

“I have a lot of friends now. Look at all these friends!”

“Really? How many friends do you have, Babe?”

“I don’t know. How can you tell?”

I told him where to find the number. ”So? How many?”

“Ha!” he said. “I have 30!”

Search and What?

My husband needs a hobby. Which is why I was thrilled when he came home with what sounded like a promising candidate. He’s thinking of getting certified so he can volunteer for the local Search & Rescue dive team.

“You’re going to rescue people?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Search and Rescue?”

He shrugged. ”It’s really more Search.”

Shopping With My 75-Year-Old Mother-in-Law

My mother-in-law and I do not agree on fashion. Chicos is chic, she counsels, modern. She once told my children I needed to stop dressing like a teenager. An old friend, when I told her this, said, “Clearly she didn’t know you when you were a teenager.” Clearly.

On a recent visit, she conned me into taking her to Dillard’s on the pretense of buying herself a shirt outside of my father-in-law’s frugal watch. After twenty minutes at the Ralph Lauren racks, pointing out which zebra print and nautical sweaters would look lovely with my coloring, she gave up.

“This is my daughter,” she told the sales clerk. “I try to buy her things, but you can’t buy her anything. Because she’s petite, but she’s not petite.”

The woman smiled and nodded toward the petite section. “But there’s nothing young over there. She needs to shop on that side of the store.” She pointed to the department where no one had a walker, or an oxygen mask.

My mother-in-law dismissed her with a look. ”But I like Ralph Lauren.”

Whose Fault Is That?

I don’t bake. Scratch that. I don’t bake often. However, when I’m snowed in or hormonal or really jonesin’ for some homemade sweetness, I’ll bust out the Kitchen Aid stand mixer and mess up my kitchen. This is almost always a bad idea.

If you had been married to me for fifteen years you would know this. And if you had been sitting at the kitchen table working when the timer went off for the cookies and I didn’t come to take the cookies out of the oven and you just kept right on working until smoke started curling out of oven and then nobody got to eat cookies–whose fault is that?

When The Man Is Sick

Men, we love you – really we do. Bless your hearts. But when you’re sick, you are at best ridiculous and at worst, well – just sick. Here’s the thing – get over it. Recently my husband got sick – AGAIN, but instead of going to the doctor, he decided he needed to ‘fight it off.’ The joy.

Day 1

Wow, they weren’t kidding with that cough syrup. I do feel dizzy.

It’s strong. How much did you take?

A tablespoon, just like it says.

It says to take a teaspoon.

No.

Yes. T-S-P stands for teaspoon.

Whatever. Tablespoon, teaspoon, same thing.

k

Day 2

That cough medicine really worked last night. I’m going to take it again.

Okay, but just a teaspoon this time, right?

Oh yeah. For sure.

[20 minutes later]

How you feeling?

[grumble, grumble, grunt] It works a lot better if you take a tablespoon.

Next Page »