My Manny Got A Pedi

About one year ago, my husband suffered a massive stroke. Our lives were turned inside out, and upside down. We are adjusting to our new normal, and luckily for us, everyday gets a little better. As you may imagine, responsibilities for chores were reassigned. For example, I was still responsible for cooking the meals, but my husband became responsible for cleanup. I thank the good Lord, he was always able to take care of his own personal needs………..except for one. Trimming of the toe nails.

He had tried to do this chore himself, with varying degrees of failure. He asked for my help. I do not consider myself the squeamish sort, the sight of blood does not make me weak, but this was a whole other level of I Love you but……. Most of you have fathers, husbands, brothers, or male buddies. You know what I am talking about! There is something about the male toenails that, for the lack of another word are disgusting.

His nails were growing in at a phenomenal rate, and were as sharp as Ginsu knives. Getting into bed with him at night, was like sleeping with Edward Sissorhands. Something had to be done, just not by me. I suggested a trip to the nail salon.

As expected, this was not met with much enthusiasm. My husband always considered himself, a manly man. Men who had manicures or metrosexuals were always looked at with a shrug, a sigh, and a look of wonderment. He would tell me that some of his adversaries were not as aggressive as he, and would then point out, “but you know, he gets manicures”. This was supposed to explain everything.

I told him, that if wanted to continue in a happy marriage he had two choices. One, go to a Bird Veterinarian that specialized in the trimming of overgrown talons, or two visit the lovely ladies at the local nail salon. He begrudgingly chose option two.

We went there this morning. I was hoping that the place would be empty, or that maybe there would be one more guy getting some work done, but no such luck. As you ladies know, the first question asked is, “what polish do you want?” My husband looked at me in horror, “I don’t want polish!” “Not even a clear coat?” I asked. “Absolutely not!” he replied.

Unfortunately, it was a busy morning at Nails –Be-Gone, and the entire salon was filled with ladies getting their summer touch up. There were only two stations available, side by side in the center. Here is where we landed. The technician instructed my husband to put his feet in the foot bath, and turned on the massaging chair. He seemed a tad tense at first, but soon a smile stole over his face, and he whispered, “I think I could fall asleep right now, this is very relaxing.” His toes were trimmed, massaged, and buffed. They looked marvelous, in fact they looked better, he admitted, than they ever had before. He survived.

As we made our way out, he asked me if we should make an appointment now, for our next pedicure. Additionally he was wondering what the “SPA” pedicure was, opposed to the “REGULAR” pedicure he had received, and did I think the hot rock massage was as good as it’s hype. I think I have a convert.

THE MATURE CAR BUYER, OR HOW DO I WORK THIS THING?

We bought a new car yesterday. My old van was eight years old, or 85 in car years. Little things were beginning to go awry, and it was only a matter of time before it needed a new transmission, or major organ transplant in auto speak. My dearly beloved asked if I was ready to leave my van days in the rearview mirror, and downsize to something smaller. Unless I was willing to strap a boy or two to the roof like a deer, that wouldn’t work with the current car pool situation. Another van was in my immediate future. I figure this will be the last van I own, as when the next eight years pass, we will be empty nesters. Although on second thought, the van is perfect for transporting coolers to Giant tailgate parties, moving kids to and from college, and fitting three couples comfortably for a night out on the town. Our options will be up for review when that time rolls around.

So I have a new car, and I don’t know how to work it. There are more bells and whistles then a bird call competition at a doorbell factory. No, we didn’t want all the fancy shamancy features, they came standard! They had to give my husband and me an hour tutorial on how to operate the vehicle. That is longer than I studied for my driving test way back when.

My first car was a used 1968 VW Bug. Standard 4 on the floor. No power brakes. No power steering. You went to a mechanic and had the heat turned on in the winter, and turned off in the summer. Your “air conditioning” consisted of cranking open the window. The defroster was the manual kind; you wiped the condensation off the windshield with your hand. The entertainment system was a staticky am radio, a wire hangar antennae and an FM converter that your boyfriend hooked up. If you were really living high on the hog, you also had an eight track installed! The price tag for this beautiful machine cost the same as one month’s worth of gas for my current van. My bug was dependable and sported ease of operation. Repairs were dirt cheap, and it would probably still be tooling along, if it wasn’t wiped out by another car ramming into its back end, as it sat there legally parked!

My “new” car cost more than my parents paid for their home. The home by the way, where they raised 6 children, various goldfish and hamsters.

I went driving in the new van today, and I felt like Captain Kirk, on the bridge. Everything is voice activated. Although I must admit to a snafu or 3 when setting voice commands for hands free dialing. When you are asked to say the person’s name, it should not be preceded by, “Is this on?” “Call Dad.” Now to call my husband I must say, after depressing button 3 on the steering wheel “Is this on, call Dad” in order to be connected. Eventually I will figure out how to delete and reenter, but that task is for another day. (Probably the day before I turn the car in, eight years from now)

The van is also equipped with cameras that activate when you make a right hand turn, or back up. The picture quality is super clear, so fine in fact, I would like to have my kids stand beside the car when I am making a right hand turn, and make it into my Christmas card. I can never seem to achieve that quality and clarity with the camera I spent a fortune on. There is probably a way to do that, but I think it requires a master’s degree in automotive proficiency, and I can barely get through remedial auto.

There is also “keyless” entry. If I have the remote fob in my pocket, the car senses it, and automatically unlocks. Once inside, I push a button, and the car starts. I am sure my insides are being fried as “remote” rays are shooting back and forth between my pocket, and the starship enterprise. Sadly I didn’t know how to open the doors (which lock automatically, once you hit 10 miles an hour) and was therefore forced to refer to the manual (weighing in at five pounds) in order to exit my luxury prison. Forget opening the side doors, or the back hatch! Those kids can just clamber over the front seat and get out my door, till I have the time to review volume 5 of the manual, subtitled escape from van-catraz.

Now let’s be totally honest, if you switch lanes, on a road, and there is not another car for miles, do you use your turn indicator lights? My new ride thinks that is a no brainer. Of course you do! If you don’t, a strident dinging begins, as lights on the dash begin to flicker rapidly. “Captain, you must institute a course correction at once!” It is like driving with the instructor from Driver’s Ed. Plus it scares me when things light up on my dash. In my experience it never boded well, and was always expensive.

As if this wasn’t enough, this van sports an electric outlet! That’s right; you can bring your toaster, plug her in and make some toast on your commute. What about the butter, you may ask? There is also a cooler built in! Something tells me that this was the feature that reeled my husband in, as he needs drinks (oh stop! Soda or water!) if the trip is more than twenty minutes in duration. Call me crazy, but a little igloo cooler, and some blue packs, always did the trick for me!

The feature I am digging the most; the sirus fm radio! For the last eight years I had the world’s worst radio. For the last eight years I would always forget to bring CDs for the ride, and was forced to change stations every ten miles, as signals faded in and out. Why not use this time to have scintillating conversation with your offspring, you may ask. I have teenagers…question asked and answered, thank you very much. Now I have music! I did learn that programming fairly rapidly, as I preset 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, and a multitude of serious vinyl music! My husband sounded like Horshack from Welcome back, when he saw a station devoted to “The Grateful Dead.” Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, look, the Dead.” We are happy campers! Our children, not so much. You see, we know all the words to these songs, and we sing along at the top of our lungs! (We have been advised by the local music critics to hold on to our day jobs) Life is good!

Tonight I plan to review the instructions for temperature control. Not a top priority, in light of my humble VW beginnings, where temperature control was just something we read about. I figure if I get stuck, and can’t figure out, how to escape, I can always kick back, have a little toast, some cool beverages, great tunes, and “is this on, call dad” to come to my rescue!

Signs you are getting old on LBI

I have compiled a list of signs that you might be getting old on LBI

1.       You and your spouse feel croc footwear is comfortable, and stylish.

2.       For the gentlemen in the group. You need to apply sunscreen to your head.

3.       You no longer hang out at the Hudson House.

4.       An unwillingness to wait an additional 45 minutes to sit with the pig for breakfast at Uncle Will’s Pancake House.

5.       Thundering Surf is not on this summer’s agenda.

6.       Ditto Fantasy Island, regardless of Pay One Price Fridays.

7.       A beach umbrella is as important as a beach chair. Maybe even more so.

8.       You know what tomato aspic is, and order it at the Holiday Snack Bar.

9.       The only house you crash in at night is your own.

10.   You don’t consider temperatures northward of 95, and the winds blowing out of the west, a good beach day.

11.   Your days of walking barefoot over the rocks in front of your home are over. (See crocs in reason #1.)

12.   On Wednesday nights, you never go to the Chegg. In your estimation the discount does not offset the wait.

13.   You know which restaurants offer the 10% early bird discount, and you make sure to be there on time. (Additionally the owners know you by name.)

14.   All sunscreens have a SPF of 50 and above. (Or any SPF that matches your age.)

15.   When you come in at night, you meet your children on their way out.

16.   You use solo cups for soft drinks.

17.   Whenever Kuebel’s has “Golden Oldie” trivia, on Sunday nights, you rock.

18.   Your medicine cabinet contains Tums, Maalox, Pepcid, and Benefiber.

19.   As a woman, you would never walk to the beach in just your bathing suit.  A cover-up is a required item of beach apparel.

20.   And the number ONE sign you are getting old……the Nardi Party Bus is dropping off your kids at night.

The Passing of A Lady

It is with great regret we inform you of the passing of our Lady Kenmore, five cycle washing machine to the great agitator in the sky. Ms. Kenmore lived a long and sandy life (fifteen to be exact), and worked diligently her entire warranty.  She arrived on Long Beach Island in the summer of 1998, and resided there her entire cycle. She is survived by her set mate, Mr. Kenmore, better known by his nickname, “The Shrinker,” as every garment that visits him, comes out a size or two smaller. Ms. Kenmore was a tireless worker, even spinning out the water of the final load, before she conked out. This last kind gesture saved the mom of the house from having to bail out a full tub of rinse water. She was just that thoughtful of a gal.

Private arrangements were carried out (and we do mean carried out) by Sears.com. 

It is interesting to note, that as the delivery men were hauling her away a number of things came to light.  Hiding behind her now silent metal hulk, stood a three foot pile of compressed clothes. We are planning on contacting the “Innocence Project,” as now we realize that the cleaning ladies have been seriously maligned.  They did NOT have anything to do with the mysterious clothes disappearances of favorite summer togs. After a more in depth investigation, it has been discovered that shooting your dirty clothes into the washer like they were basketballs is fine, as long as you don’t miss the shot. Obviously some of our team members were overshooting the basket with some frequency.

Looking at the stack of clothes, reminds one of that scene from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” You know the one where all the people that have gone missing the past fifty years, slowly make their way off the space craft?  The clothes told a history like layers of stone reveal ancient artifacts. The bottom layer had size 2T bathing suits adorned with Telly Tubbies, along with a smattering of orphan socks. The mid layers held Lifeguard shorts, rash guards, Volcom skateboard t-shirts, and another helping of single socks. The top of the heap or most recent layer chronicles the move from underoos to boxer briefs. Oh, and some more socks. Our family history on LBI, as told through dirty clothes.

The Dad of the home was wondering if anyone (the Mom) ever cleans behind the home’s major appliances.  He was informed that whenever he wanted to pull out said major appliances, disconnect and then reconnect them, a cleaning would take place.  He carefully disengaged from any further tete a tete on this particular subject

We brought home a brand new Lady Kenmore this past weekend. She snuggled right next to Mr. Kenmore, (who, between me and you, is on borrowed time) and picked up, right where her predecessor left off. We are wishing her a long and productive life.

Lady Kenmore is dead! Long live Lady Kenmore!

DOWNSIZED

DOWNSIZED  

 

I am coming to the conclusion that my job is being phased out.  Yes I know the economy has not been great the last few years, but I was under the mistaken impression that my job was recession proof. What job is this, you may wonder?  Being a mom. 

This year I only have the last two of my offspring with me, or should I say they have me with them.  In years gone by, they needed me to accompany them to the beach, get them to swimming, sailing, or an occasional movie.  I made sure they wore their rash guards, were slathered up with sun screen and lip block. Après beach, I hosed their little feet of sand, and marched them to the outdoor shower.  I lovingly prepared their favorite summer time meals. Okay, so they love Chef Boyardee and scrambled eggs! (The meals that certainly wouldn’t fly when Dad is in attendance)  Sometimes as a special treat, I would take them for ice cream, the arcade, or a scintillating round of mini golf. I always had an available ear to listen to their take on the day, even if the retelling of the tale took much longer than the actual event.

Not this year.

Their motto is “Have bike, will travel.” I have been relieved of all chauffeuring duties. Additionally they both have jobs, so the bank of Mom is not seeing the action experienced in previous years. They get themselves to the ice cream shop, after a round of golf, and I am cordially not invited.

They apply their own sunscreen, and lip balm.  Pack their own towels, and hose down their own feet after a long day on the beach. Dinner is hit or miss, as they will prepare themselves a bowl of cereal or a PB&J sandwich, before bolting out the door for the evening’s revelry.

I still have an available ear, but sadly have lost all security clearance, and put on the “A need to Know Basis” only. Apparently I need to know nothing.  If they ever do get a hold of that Snowden character, I would like a chance at the debriefing process, for I am sure he knows more about my offspring then I do.

I have been demoted to a more janitorial/procurement function. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but going from being CEO, to my current status has been humbling.  I am still in charge of picking up the trail of half cans of pop, empty water bottles, and snack wrappers.  I am informed of inventory outages pertaining to soap, shampoo, and toaster strudels, and   I still reign supreme as the laundress, and dishwasher loader extraordinaire.

I guess on some unconscious level, I knew the job wouldn’t last forever. My job description was to raise independent, responsible young men.  It appears that in spite of me, the project is right on track. I guess that old adage is true, “Time flies, when you are having a good time.”

Come the fall, I will temporarily assume some of my former duties.  They will still need to be chauffeured for at least another year and a half, and someone has to sign all those permission slips for school!

12/13/12 Post Concert Musings

I and I’m sure you watched the awesome 12/12/12 benefit concert on TV last night.  Yeah, I couldn’t get tickets either! Overall it was truly spectacular, and the lineup was unparalleled. However as much as enjoyed what I saw (I must confess, I nodded off during Sir Paul) there were a few thoughts crossing my mind.  Never one to keep my opinions to myself, I thought I would share them with you.

Bruce.  What can one say? A Jersey boy to the core, never forgetting his roots. But Bruce, and I say this with much love, its time to move into the “relaxed fit” in jeans. Yes, you are still a hunk, and have moves most 25 year olds covet, but it is time to move on.  That waist band must have been killing you, and the tightness in the thigh area reminded me of a pair of super strength spanx.  Trust me on this Bruce, I moved into the “relaxed fit” in clothing years ago, and have never looked back.  Leave the skinny jeans to those flash in the pan, Boy Bands.  I have heard rumors that Mayor Bloomberg may enact a new law, only ‘RELAXED FIT” on anyone over 55, to go along with his no “Big Gulp” law. Oh and by the way, you were awesome.

Another home grown boy, Jon Bon Jovi.  A native son, that does this state proud.  I have a question though.  According to the internet you are up in my “generation.”  How the hell can you look that good? Inquiring minds want to know.  I have a few theories; you are living off supplements of Botox, you have made a pact with the devil, or like Dorian Gray, you have a portrait in your attic that is getting very, very old. Please let me know Jon, because all I want for Christmas is my youth.

The Rolling Stones…enough said! I want to know what the band’s budget is for hair!  You cannot tell me that Mick, and Ron Wood have absolutely no gray hair.  I must commend their colorist though, as he/she knows enough to color the eyebrows as well.  I did notice that no shirts were removed, and bare chests revealed.  I am sure we would have spotted a gray hair or three. Sadly, I think Mick and Ron used up the entire hair color budget, case in point Keith Richards. The amount of hair is truly amazing as well.  Maybe taking massive amounts of illegal drugs, washed down with hard liquor, in your youth, is more effective than Rogaine…..who knew?  I hear the boys are clean these days, no drugs at all.  I guessed that by looking at them, no Botox users in that bunch. For your information, the “relaxed fit” does not apply to Mick Jagger.  He gets the “If you weigh less than a fifth grader” exemption.

Alicia, Alicia, Alicia.  Wouldn’t playing your song “NewYork” been more appropriate?  What was with “hold your cell phones up?”  Is this a throwback tribute to the days of people holding their lit lighters aloft?  If that was your intention, you picked the wrong song my dear.  That is only for “Sweet Caroline.” Whoa, whoa, whoa!  By the way if I had been there, I would not waste my phone battery like that.  I would be using it to send text, twitters and instagrams to everyone I knew, saying Nah, nah, nah, I’m here and you’re not!  I’m kind that way.

Every long concert needs an intermission, or as some people call it Kanye West.  At our age (the same age range as most of the performers I might add) a bathroom break is not a luxury, but a necessity. You are usually loathe to leave your seat, and possibly miss something! This is also the best time to refill your beer, buy a churro, or get up and stretch.  How did they know we would realize it was the break?  I guess they counted on us to figure out that age old question, “Which of these is not like the others?” and plan our bathroom/beer/burrito break accordingly.  I cannot let this go by without commenting on the wardrobe choices of Mr. West. Was he wearing a hefty garbage bag around his waist?  I hope he didn’t pay a lot for that kilt, as you can get a box of 28 for $13.62 at our local Sam’s club. Sorry Kenye, this was a rock and roll benefit, and who ever put you in the lineup, is probably seeking new employment as we speak.

Well that about wraps up my musings this morning. I also want to add a disclaimer.  I did not look at Facebook since the concert, so don’t blame me if you posted/tweeted the same thoughts.  It just means that there is a reason we are friends, very good friends!

COMMUNICATION BLACKOUT

I loaded another two boys off to High School this fall. The same curious phenomena I experienced with their older brother at this juncture, showed its disconcerting face. Namely the “communication black out.”  Suddenly, all queries must be submitted in advance, and certain areas of interest were considered off limits.

These were my sweet babies that used to regale me with blow by blow descriptions of each and every moment of their day.  I knew what everyone at their table had for lunch, who got a new haircut, the color of the teachers dress, and how they did on tests.  Believe me, their daily accounts were usually less then scintillating copy. Yet I persevered, listening to every word.  Ok, my mind would occasionally wander, but given the fact that they could transform a 300 word incident into a 3000 word filibuster, punctuated with the phrases “ummm, and then, “or “guess what happened next,” “and you know.” I thought I was holding up my end of the bargain pretty well. 

Now, when the information I want is so much more interesting, I have discovered that I have lost my security clearance. Every morsel of Intel is carefully screened and edited before it reaches me.  I have been put on a “need to know” basis only. Asking about a member of the opposite sex is like asking a post –menopausal woman her weight and age. Totally out of line!

It used to be, when they shied away from a question, I could use my infamous sucker punch line of inquiry, with amazing results.  To those of you not familiar with this trick, I shall share my method.  I would sit down with my child, and begin to ask a series of innocuous questions i.e.: did it rain at recess today? Did you have regular or chocolate milk at lunch?  Was it any of your classmate’s birthdays today?  Is anyone using drugs or alcohol?  Just when they are lulled into complacency, you strike with the question you really want answered. Unfortunately this verbal game of Simon Says is no longer effective, as even innocuous questions must be submitted well in advance.

Sometimes I could shake out some information, by putting them under the hot lights, but at this age my offspring would make stellar POWs.  No info is forthcoming.

What’s’ a concerned Mama bear to do? Why hop on board the Canary Express! This is a top secret group of mothers willing to share the valuable Intel, gained by driving carpools.  You see, teenagers are blind to adults in their midst.  Just like Jane Goodall, you must blend into the background, keeping quiet, and not startling your subjects.  Then you listen, and the canaries begin to sing.  It can be frustrating, as you really want to ask some in depth questions, as tales from teens emerge.  However, you must resist, or your name will be Mrs. Nosey Pants, and the word will go out among the herd. Your effectiveness on the Canary Express will have been fatally compromised. All driving Moms must be willing to share the valuable data, and not be held accountable for any mis-information, or propaganda the canaries have sung. Additionally you must not shoot the messenger, when you find out that it was your own little darling that started the lunch time food fight.

I have been told by Moms whose children are grown and out of the house, that the lines of communication re-open sometime after college. This is probably because the freedom of information act kicks in. In the meantime call me Ms. Goodall.