Drive a Mile in My Minivan

I don’t actually drive a minivan, but I know a lot of people who do. So when a single, child-free friend rolled up into my driveway in a smokin’ hot gold Odyssey to pick me up for a girls’ evening out, I didn’t judge.

“This thing is so ugly,” she said. “And it’s hard to drive. Why do people drive these things?”

The unsaid you, as in you people, hung heavy in the air. You, of the 2.5 children and the husbands with golf clubs people. You people of Suburban Hell.

When I asked where her car was I got a long story about a former colleague and a company car and her accommodating driveway. Bottom line: she’d started driving the van just before Thanksgiving because she had to take some things to her parents’ house out of state. “I had shit to haul.”

“That is exactly why us people drive minivans. We’re transporting cargo. Ours is live. And snot-laced”

“Well, they’re ugly and impossible to park,” she said, pulling into an average-sized parking spot.

“So, when did you come home?”

“Last week.”

“And why are you still driving this thing?”

She gestured toward the back. “I haven’t had a chance to clean it out.”

This is the danger of buying, or even borrowing, a minivan. You might have the best intentions, and we know where that road leads. Maybe you only plan to use the eyesore vehicle until the kids are out of strollers, or done with soccer, or until you can weasel your way out of that godforsaken carpool. But life happens. Shin guards accumulate, yoga mats and notebooks from the Junior League multiply. French fries solidify under the seats and a school of goldfish crumbs take up residence in the way-way back. Sure, you want another car, but then you’d have to clean out this thing. And possibly rent a storage unit.

More About my Awesome Life in Suburbia:

• Community Building Goes Commando
• Containing Myself
• Can Someone Please Explain Cotillion?
• 7 Surefire Ways to Get Blacklisted From the PTA
• To the Squirrel

I Frighten My Husband, Daily

The other night we’re sitting around over a cocktail–a good friend, my husband, and me. My friend brought up a topic I happened to have an opinion on (surprised, arent you?).

“Okay,” I said. “Let me just tell you–”

My husband groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Oh, God, what?” I wanted to know. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

My friend was giddy as she addressed my husband. “Oh, the look on your face. Are you terrified of what she’s going to say right now?”

He sighed before admitting, “I’m terrified of everything she says.”

Like this? Try these:

• Carpe Diem, Carpe Di-Ass
• Movie Night Miscommunication
• Overheard in my Kitchen
• Sorry About the Flowers
• Did You Get a Haircut?

Carpe Diem, Carpe Di-Ass

The other day as I brushed my teeth my husband caught me checking out my ass in the mirror. Okay, not just the other day – a LOT of other days. I can’t help myself. I don’t have a curvy booty that looks great in jeans, or the junk in the trunk that makes a skirt sway. My asset is at its best when I’m standing in my underwear at the sink. Maybe my husband should be happy that I appreciate myself in the throes of floss and fluoride rinse instead of seeking some external validation of my ass’s awesomeness.

Oh, but no.

My man just thinks I’m shallow. Depending on his mood he might simply sigh, or perhaps comment on the depths of my vanity. (As if I haven’t caught him, mid-nose hair trim, admiring his newly excavated abs.) What my husband does not grasp is my intense awareness of mortality and my desire to live “in the moment.” (Several moments, actually. You don’t want to skimp on oral hygiene.) I wasted my most physically beautiful years believing nothing on my body was good enough. Then I grew a whole EXTRA ass to balance me out while serving up two human beings on the front side. But now… I workout, eat right, occasionally torture myself with Pilates. My ass is just the way it ought to be–host to the only skin on my body that doesn’t audibly beg for moisturizer, and endowed with the ideal amount of fat.

It’s not going to last. Carpe diem, I say. Carpe di-ass.

Movie Night Miscommunication

My husband and I have different taste in movies. He likes movies with action, or that star Angelina Jolie. I like movies that are good. Occasionally these intersect, but it’s not the norm. To avoid conflict we take turns choosing. The other night was mine.

“I got a movie at Blockbuster yesterday, you want to watch it?”

“Maybe. What is it?”

“I don’t know – some indie flick.”

“You rented a movie about Indianapolis?”

He’s cute, huh?

Note: The movie was “My Date With Drew” and it was fabulous. He liked it, I liked it, the kids liked it.

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!”

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