Learning to Hike

A friend of mine, an avid hiker, recently took me out for a half day trip. Now, I walk in the woods all the time but I wouldn’t consider myself a *real* hiker. I was impressed when she showed up with backpacking gear and special equipment. I was happy when she knew the best spots to take pictures. And I was ECSTATIC when I plunged into the healthy and delicious lunch she’d packed. All her challenges I met with enthusiasm. Everything except crawling into the cave, even though she’d brought us each a change of clothes. I didn’t want to get muddy – not on my first time out.

I think she’d agree my first professional hiking adventure was a success. At home she told my daughter, “Your mom did really well. She even did a water crossing!”

Water crossing?

She meant when we jumped over that creek. Water crossing sounds a lot cooler. So much to learn…

Next time I’m getting muddy. I need to earn my cool lingo.

Rise of My Machines

This is the February print edition of After the Bubbly for Peekaboo magazine. If you would like to see this or any other essays in your local family publication, let me know!

We are dependent on machines: hair dryer, coffee pot, television, thermostat, washer, dryer, Toyota, microwave. Too many to list, right? And sometimes—like after my family watches The Matrix for the 412^th time—I wonder if we’re not getting a little too used to the electrical and mechanical conveniences, if we’re not getting just a little too soft. On a recent morning when the dishwasher wouldn’t start and my phone froze, I didn’t realize it was just the beginning.

After working for two hours, my computer angrily displayed the message that I had better switch over to real power before my battery died. Afraid to lose any portion of the Important Masterpiece I had been writing, I immediately checked everything—the plug that goes into the computer, the black box it feeds into, and the wall socket. All plugged in. My machine died. I switched outlets. Nothing. Over and over I powered up and the computer shut back into hibernation—trying, I assume, to save what little juice was left in its battery. Finally, it made a high pitched wheezing sound and then gave up humoring me completely.

I’m dead already!

The black screen stared at me. The blinky-blinky orange light on the power button disappeared. I inspected the cord and found it was broken, possibly mistaken for a rawhide by the dog I feed and bathe and medicate. (Not cool, Simon, not cool.) When I whined to my husband that I was on my way to Best Buy for a new power cord, he told me we had a universal cord in the desk drawer. When you hear that–universal–it sounds like something even a technophobe writer could figure out, right?

Right.

The universal cord had several tips to choose from and too many pieces to fit together. I eventually figured it out, but even fully assembled, the master of all power sources wouldn’t turn my computer on. Again, I checked all the holes and connections that could be amiss. All were in order so I gave up on the omnipotent power cord and took everything to Best Buy where two guys younger than my Compac told me I needed a new cord. Perhaps I would like the $149 model. (Not that they’re on commission or anything.)

In desperation I visited the Geek Squad desk. I was outrageously lucky to get a wildly talented geek. She listened to my story and offered a few tricks. While she spoke–and without breaking eye contact–she gently turned my computer over, effortlessly located the battery release, moved the battery slightly, and closed the compartment. So elegant and completely without ego. She sent me on my way.

At home, the tones of the power up sequence melted my shoulder tension and let me know that I would live to log in another day. All it took was a loving touch.

Maybe the machines aren’t so different from us after all.

Lela Davidson’s award-winning column, After the Bubbly, appears regularly in Peekaboo magazine, and periodically in other magazines throughout the country. She is the parenting columnist on HubPages.com and a regular contributor to ParentingSquad.com. She loves ALL her machines and tries to treat them nicely. Find out more on her wildly entertaining blog, www.afterthebubbly.com. Or just Google her. She loves to be Googled.

A Night at the Wine Bar

On a recent Girls Night Out with some friends, we found ourselves at a ‘wine bar’, which I think is code for a bar with comfortable seating frequented by the 35-50 demographic. As soon as we walked in and claimed our real estate, a boisterous gentleman let’s call Bob greeted us. Bob was attentive and seemed intent on making sure the six of us had a good time. At first we assumed Bob was the proprietor, or maybe an especially fulfilled employee.

However, when Bob failed to take our drink order, suggested we call him Big Bob, and embarked on a long reminiscence of his high school basketball career, it became evident we were on our own in the drink department. Amid Bob’s gregarious tale telling we collected drink orders and sent a scout to the bar. When she tried to hand the bartender a credit card, Bob intervened. The Big Man wanted to cover our round. Back in the circle of revelry much fuss was made over Bob’s generous contribution and soon we were sipping and chatting about other things.

At the same time, two more women showed up and joined our group. On one of his showy trips to the bar to fetch our drinks, Bob’s seat was taken. Instead of gallantly standing by, continuing to enjoy our company (including those of us who were also standing or less-than-comfortably perched on hard furniture), Bob asked one of us to get up so he could have her seat. Also, he wanted her to sit on his lap.

Um… no.

You don’t have to be young and sexy to get our attention. We appreciate conversation and appreciation. Even boring stories and the ill-advised hand on the leg we can accept, so long as you are entertaining us. But don’t push it.

“I just bought you drinks and you won’t even sit on my lap? That’s not very professional.”

Dear, sweet, pathetic Bob. Perhaps if you’re looking for a professional, you hit the wrong bar

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.

Cheer Up, Nicholas Cage – I’m Here For You

PBS is running a new series on the science of emotions, and happiness in particular. We now have evidence that when a person is happy, that feeling not only makes their own lives better, but also benefits their friends, their friends’ friends, and so on – out to three degrees of separation. If I’m having a good day, the quality of casual acquaintances’, or even strangers’ days are improved.

You know who needs a little cheering up right now? My Other Love, Nicholas Cage. Because he’s in a bit of a financial bind. Listen, Nicky (I can call you that, right?), I live in Walmart country. I know a lot of suppliers. The ones I don’t know, we get coffee from the same barista. And your movies, they’re on the shelves, right? By my calculations you and I are separated by a mere two degrees, three tops. We’re so close, my husband is a little nervous that you’re on my Free Five list.

Dear Nicholas, my happiness is your happiness.

So cheer up, I’m happy. If the scientists are correct, soon you will be too. And if you’d like a more direct line, feel free to friend me on Facebook.

Positive Reinforcement?

I’ve gotten into a bad habit of letting the dog get on the furniture. It seemed harmless when he was younger, before he got into the habit of peeing on his own front legs. My pet has zero discipline. It’s my fault. And now it’s a problem. Case in point: I don’t watch a lot of TV, but the other night I really settled in, cocooning myself on the couch with blankets and a pillow. I kept smelling something. What was it? What’s that smell? Could it be.. Dog Ass?

That’s when I decided the dog was done relaxing himself on places I put my head.

The first day started out right. I smacked him off the couch and vowed to do so until he figured it out.

“Just make sure you give him positive reinforcement too,” my husband said.

Positive reinforcement?

[mumble, grumble] ”That’s not how I operate”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

Keep your ass off my pillow and you won’t get slapped. Positive enough?

Dating at the Prime of Life

For all its pain and suffering, marriage does have one distinct advantage: we don’t have to date. From all I hear it seems really, really, painfully difficult. And it’s not just that I’ve been married so long that I have forgotten what it was like. I never actually dated. I was one of those dreadful girls who just went from one boyfriend to another to my husband with precious few periods of ‘dating’ in between.

I’m not sure I could handle the scene at this age, which–if my friends are to be believed–includes the following:

• men who have grandchildren, yet still live with their mothers
• women who run credit reports before the first date
• limited small town prospects that make dating after divorce feel like getting tossed into a bag of ‘Shake ‘N Bake until someone sticks
• too-high bikini area maintenance standards
• modern communication: did he really get my text?
• so much corporate travel you have to MapQuest your own address when you finally get home
• the new math required to determine how many dates until…
• exes and custody schedules

But go on, y’all – date. I enjoy living vicariously through you. I live to give you my bullshit all-knowing advice without having to personally suffer the emotional upheaval it causes. Who knows? You may end up married like me. Then I’ll be very helpful.

Johnny Depp, So Hot He Makes a Mustache Look Good

I recently rented Public Enemies, the movie where Johnny Depp portrays brutal 1930s bank robber extraordinaire, John Dillinger. Can I just say – of all the terrible acts he commits in the film, the most surprising to me was pulling off that mustache. And he did. Oh yes he did.

My favorite line is when he goes after the coat check girl:

“I like baseball, movies, good clothes, whiskey, fast cars … and you. What else you need to know?”

I don’t need to know anything, Johnny. You should know that I like long walks in the woods, good underwear, vodka, fast men … and you.

Also, that I will suspend my No Mustaches rule for you, and only you.

See Johnny’s pretty pretty picture.

Applying MBA Savvy to My Life

Many of my brilliant friends (and a few of the dull ones) are MBAs. They view the world differently than the rest of us–often in paradigms and matrices. Sometimes these contrived models of perception are even useful.

For example, some European genius came up this idea of order qualifiers and order winners. An order qualifier is a characteristic of a product or service that is required in order for the product/service to even be considered by a customer. An order winner is a characteristic that will win the bid or customer’s purchase. An order qualifier for a Big Mac is that it contain two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun. An order winner would be if the kid at the counter serves it quickly and with a smile.

To my family, you could learn a thing or two.

Order Qualifiers – to clarify, these are the minimum things you need to do in order to avoid my wrath:

• Picking up your crap
• Not smelling bad
• Never whining
• Leaving me alone
• Cleaning your own bathroom

Order Winners – things that will get me to stock the pantry with your favorite foods:

• Addressing me as Gorgeous, or Mother Dearest
• Keeping the dog away from me
• Foregoing the clothes you ‘need’ so that I can get my face sanded down
• Making dinner – and keep it healthy, would you?
• Programming the universal remote so that I can use it to actually change channels AND adjust the volume

A little advice from me to you. Make of it what you will.

Meet Me at the Hotel Room

Remember when hotel rooms were sexy? All vacation and rendezvous and sheets you didn’t have to clean? Yeah, me neither. But I do remember when a hotel room represented relaxation. A freshly made bed, hours of freedom, drinks mixed with ice from down the hall. And again, the lack of laundry.

Now that most of my disposable income goes toward exposing my children to experiences (and boots) that may create wonderful memories or somehow serve them later in life, hotel rooms are all about the agony of too much family togetherness. Where once there was soft lighting and exotic snacks, now there are wet towels on every once-dry surface and my tweens’ ever expanding collections of grooming aids, which are fast outgrowing my own.

Instead of a good movie on TV (possibly featuring a naked Mark Wahlberg), we are forced to suffer through endless half hours of Miley Cyrus and that guy with the mullet whose head heart we all wanted to break, with a sledgehammer, back in 1992.

There are soggy pizza boxes on the bed. (Okay, maybe that part’s the same.)

I hide in the bathroom reading a book, partly to be alone, and partly so that no one can stink up the 200 square feet that have become our family living space. Did I mention the dog? Oh yes, we’re that crazy. In close proximity to the ever present them, I grow increasingly irritated. I crave escape from my husband’s brilliant observations, such as, “This place really fills up at night.” We smuggle the dog in and out of the room, begging him to ‘go’ at our convenience.

Finally, I turn to the ill-equipped fitness center for refuge and am devastated to see that although there are only two lonely treadmills, the tiny room has been outfitted with three walls of mirror, allowing me to see all that is shielded in my own strategically mirrored home. I want to go home. Now.

Other parents have already crossed over, crossed back into the world of peaceful hotel rooms. They have begun to reserve two of them. I can’t do that. I’m not ready. And I’m far to cheap. Besides, if I did that, what would I have to write about?

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