Your Mother Always Has the Answer

One of our favorite shows is Jeopardy.  It usually airs while we are sitting at dinner. We listen to the clues, as we enjoy my latest culinary creations. Education and dining, the perfect pairing.  Everyone chimes in, yelling out their answers.  Some days they have categories that are right up my alley.  I usually “run” the column, if they want “Potent Potables” or all things alcoholic.  It is a real banner day if they are also looking for “Dessert Names”. My children look on in awe as I shout out the correct answers.  My husband shakes his head at my amazing knowledge on Food and Drink. I also rock with “Celebrity Scandals”, “Golden Oldies Music”, and “Sit-Coms.” I let my family answer the queries on Sports, Current Events, and Greek Mythology.  I don’t like to hog the spotlight.

This past week, a stay at home Mom has been winning.  The most interesting thing to note is the surprise Alex Trebek is expressing.  As the mom slid into her third consecutive win, he shook his head, and said wonderingly, “A stay at home Mom wins again?!” Does the general population think that stay at home moms checked their brains at the delivery room door? We were not born into parenting.  In most cases we have gone to college, held down responsible jobs, and read newspapers, before we joined the motherhood. Many a night in our child’s first year was spent with CNN at the 2 o’clock feeding, and the early morning news at the crack of dawn.

As our kids grew older, we had to stay sharp to help them with math, social studies, and science homework. We have had to relearn all the state capitals, the solar system, and the periodic table. We became veritable fountains of miscellaneous trivia. So why the surprise, Alex?  It’s not just play dates, soap operas, and eating bon-bons on the sofa! (Well maybe occasionally.)

According to my calculations, this mom has pulled in an average of $70,000.00 for an hour of play, or $145,600,000.00 annualized! (Based on a 40 hour week, and 52 weeks a year) The real kicker is the mom said although her husband was happy she was winning, he wasn’t looking forward to “watching” the kid alone for more nights! Why?  Does junior have to construct a diorama, or volcano for school? Is there a test coming up in school? Piece of cake for the stay at home mom.

So be careful what you say Mr. Trebek, we are smart, sassy, and can drive a van like nobody’s business! By the way if you have a game coming up soon, that will feature “Hairstyles”, “Appliances”, and “Commercial Tag Lines”, well Holy Shish kabob! Give me a call!

Don't Fear the Snake

I am about to reveal my ownership of a useful but vastly underrated tool.  Yes that’s right I am coming out of the water closet.  I own my own toilet snake. I am sure there are a number of you out there that possess one as well, but shame has forced you to keep it on the down low. Looking back over the years, my only wish was that I had procured it earlier. It is way less embarrassing, not to mention less expensive than calling in the plumber.

Many years ago, pre-snake days, I suffered a humiliating experience. Let me set the stage, and you be the judge. Like most people, the first thing I do in the morning, before I shower, is go to the bathroom. Now being the efficiency expert I am, I don’t pull my bloomers back up.  The reason for this, is I am about to jump in the shower. I am willing to go Commando for the 3 steps it takes from toilet to shower. One fine morning, I decided to kick my under drawers up from the floor with my foot, planning to catch them, while flushing the toilet with my other hand. (Very efficient multitasking) Being deficient in the hand eye coordination arena, I missed the panty punt. I looked around, and my underwear were gone! At that same moment I heard ominous rumbling from the toilet, and noticed the rising tide. I had flushed my underpants down the toilet! Oh my God, oh my God, (not the actual words I used, but this is a family blog). My husband entered the bathroom to find out the cause of all the commotion. I told him, and he looked at me, and asked, “why did you flush your under wear?”  “Well obviously it was an accident,” I replied. He just shook his head, and retreated, as he bid me “good luck” explaining that one to the plumber.

I called the first plumber listed in the yellow pages, and was assured a technician would be out there in an hour. As promised a nice young plumber showed up on time, and asked me about the problem. There was no way on God’s green earth I was going to confess to the actual events leading up to the clog, so I shrugged and said I believed something had been flushed down the commode, accidently. I also added with a knowing look, “I have 3 year old twins, so it could be anything.”  Did I throw my babies under the bus?  You bet I did!  We proceeded to the toilet in question, when it dawned on me.  This was no little pair of Victoria’s Secret undies that were about to be retrieved. Rather the catch of the day was a large pair of granny whites, complete with shot elastic. I stood by with a large trash bag at the ready. After a turn or two with the snake, out came my bloomers. I snatched the offending undergarments and stuck them in my sack.  “I think they were someone’s underwear” the plumber stated. Nothing was getting past this guy.  “Oh, my mother was here last week, the boys probably flushed her underwear away.”  Another family member tossed in front of the bus! I had no shame. I quickly paid him, and ushered him out the door.

A few years later, I accidently flushed some cleaning rags, while I was emptying a pail of dirty water.  The same ominous glugging sound, told me it was time to call the plumber. I went to the yellow pages, and this time went to a different plumbing outfit.  I was told the technician would be out within the hour. Imagine my shock, when I answered the door to the same plumber from a few years back!  He had switched firms, and I was lucky enough to call the place he was currently employed!  “Oh Hi, it’s you again.”  “Whose underwear are we rescuing today?” Just my luck, a plumber and a comedian! I bought my own toilet snake that very next day!

I have spoken to friends about their toilet troubles.  Some of them have experienced problems way beyond the scope of the snake.  One good friend had to get the main pipe from her toilet to basement replaced. The cause of the blockage was an infestation of Fischer Price Weebles.  You know those toys that wiggle and they wobble, but they don’t flush down? This same friend went into her bathroom one morning, and was confronted by a squirrel doing laps in her commode! She immediately slammed the lid down, and stacked some heavy objects on top (you might think that was overkill, but she figured if Rocky had enough strength to pry open her bathroom window, a toilet lid might not be enough to contain him.) Unfortunately by the time animal control arrived, the search and rescue had changed into a search and recovery! Luckily her kids didn’t try and flush that problem away!

A snake won’t “flush” all your plumbing troubles away. But at the low price of $8.99, plus free shipping, you only have humiliation to lose!

IRISH REBUTTAL

I grew up in an Irish household. Both of my parents were born and raised in Ireland. There is an e-mail that makes the rounds every St. Patrick’s day, which purports to tell what it means to be in an Irish family. Some of the facts are correct, but some need further clarification. As one who speaks from firsthand experience, I shall take it upon myself to set the record straight.

1) You will never play professional basketball.  They called them the “Boston Celtics “enough said.

2) You swear very well.  But NEVER in front of your mother, grandmother, or the nuns.

3) At least one of your cousins is a fireman, cop, bar owner, funeral home owner, or holds political     office. You have at least one Aunt who is a nun or uncle who is a priest.    You have at least one relative that is none of the above, and the family wonders where they went wrong.                                                                                       

4) You think you sing well.  Sad, but true. As a race we are genetically unable to refrain from joining in on “Oh Danny Boy.”

5) You have no idea how to make a long story short.  There are always extenuating circumstances that need to be properly explained, so one will get the proper gist of the story. Why use 3 or 4 words, when there are thousands at your disposal?

6) There isn’t a big difference between your losing your temper and killing someone. Completely false! We never lose our temper; we enjoy, and cherish them.

7) Many of your childhood meals were boiled. Instant potatoes were a mortal sin. Semi true, half of our dinners were boiled, the other half were fried in bacon grease, the Irish version of olive oil. Instant mashed potatoes are to the Irish, as jarred sauce is to the Italians……a big no-no.

8) You have never hit your head on a ceiling.  You have, however hit it on the floor. Beer and gravity; a deadly combination.

9) You spent a good portion of your childhood kneeling in prayer. More likely your parents spent a good portion of your childhood, kneeling in prayer.

10) You’re strangely poetic after a few beers. Strange being the operative word.

11) Some punches directed at you are from legacies of past generations. You are also busy setting up legacies for future generations.

12) Many of your sisters and/or cousins are names Mary, Catherine or Eileen.  There is at least one member of your family with the full name of Mary Catherine Eileen.  No argument here. Let’s not forget the preponderance of Patricks, Jackies, and Mickeys!

13) Someone in your family is very generous; it is more than likely you. And someone in your family is very miserly; it is more than likely them.

14) You may not know the words, but that doesn’t stop you from singing.  See reason number 4.

15) You can’t wait for the other guy to stop talking before you start talking. Especially if that other guy is Irish! You’ll never get a break in the conversation if he thinks he has a captive audience.

16) You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are…but what you lack in talent, you make up for in frequency.  Hey, eventually you hit a home run, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

17) There wasn’t a huge difference between your last wake and your last keg party. Totally false! We don’t wear black suits or pantyhose to our keggers.

18) You are, or know someone named Murph.  And they are lovely people.

19) If you don’t know Murph, then you know Mac. If you don’t know Murph or Mac, you must know Sully. You are also closely related to all three families on your mother’s cousin’s husband side.

20) You are genetically incapable of keeping a secret. And your love of secrets is matched only by your love of gossip.

21) You have Irish Alzheimer’s...…you forget everything but the grudges! This is not limited to your own grudges, but also those of your extended family and friends. We are nothing if not loyal.

22) “Irish Stew” is a euphemism for “boiled leftovers.”  A meal served to and detested by generations of Irish children.

23) Your skin’s ability to tan….not so much.  Our skin’s ability to burn, peel, and burn again, exemplary.

24) Childhood remedies for the common cold often included some form of whiskey.  As we age we find that whiskey is a remedy for many common ailments of the body and soul. It’s not just for colds anymore.

25) There’s no leaving a family party without saying goodbye for at least 45 minutes. Who leaves a family party?  It’s your cousin Mac the cop’s job to end the festivities.

26) At this very moment, you have at least two relatives who are not speaking to each other.  Not fighting, mind you, just not speaking to one another.  They are obviously a very close family; the number in our family is closer to ten or fifteen. There is an old saying……..if the world was destroyed, save for three Irish people, you can rest assured two of them would be talking about the other one.

May your glass be ever full.
May the roof over your head be always strong.
And may you be in heaven half an hour
before the devil knows you're dead.

HAPPY ST.PATRICKS DAY

My Rant of the Day

As anyone who has ever sold their house knows, clutter is a BIG no-no. Many years ago, before I had the pleasure of having children, my husband and I decided to sell our home. I started to box up all the extraneous tsotchkes that adorned our dressers, end tables, and windowsills. They were then consigned to the basement. When my husband came home from work that evening, he headed off to the bedroom to change.  He came rushing back out immediately, fear in his eyes.  “I think someone broke into the house, and stole our stuff!”  “Really?” I replied.  Noting that our TV, stereo, and checkbook were still in evidence. “What’s missing?” I asked.  “All my trophies are gone from the top of my dresser, every last one!” Ah yes, the notorious marble thieves, they must have gone after those precious pedestal bases, probably been casing the joint for weeks. No one stole them, I assured him. I boxed them up with all the other junk, and put them in the cellar. “Junk!” “They are not junk, I worked hard to get those trophies, you know they don’t just hand them out to anybody,” he fumed.  “I promise they will go back to their rightful place of honor, as soon as we have a signed contract” I assured him.

He had earned them. He was proud of them. They meant something.

That is not the case today.  My sons receive trophies for signing up. Their team could have come in dead last and they rode the bench the entire season, yet they still got a trophy! I have three boys. They all played on recreation teams (read; no tryouts), for a multitude of sports.  They started in pre-school, and continued through 8^th grade. They received a trophy every time! Anyone that saw all the trophies my sons have accumulated, would assume (incorrectly I might add) that they were fabulous multi-talented athletes. Just so you know we are paying for college, no Athletic scholarships coming out of this house! At last count the participation trophies had topped 100, and I fear more on the horizon. At the risk of sounding like an old kill-joy, I don’t think this is good thing.  Back in the days when we walked to school, five miles, in the rain, and uphill both ways, you only got a trophy if you excelled. When you didn’t get an award, it made you work that much harder. 

This theory of “we will not leave anyone out”, though well intentioned, creates an expectation of reward without work. This is creeping into our schools as well. Recently I attended the academic awards night at our local middle school. Approximately 75% of the grade received some form of honor recognition. Call my cynical, but that seems a tad unrealistic. I have to ponder the question, are they dummying down the curriculum, or is our district blessed with an unusually high number of brainiacs? At the risk of sounding redundant, back in my day, only about 10% or less received honors. It meant something.

So I will now descend from my soapbox.  I have more pressing things to attend to; like seeing if I finally have enough marble trophy bases to redo my powder room floor. It’s going to look great!

The Naked Truth

There is a big difference in behavior between the sexes, when it comes to the locker room. I remember back when I was bringing my 6 year old son to swimming.  He had reached the magic age, where he was persona non grata in the ladies locker room, and had to move up to the Men’s locker room.  That first day, I stood outside the door, straining to hear him.  What I heard was gales of laughter emanating from behind the closed doors.  He and his best friend were supposedly getting dried off and dressed.  Eventually they emerged, t-shirts clinging to their still damp bodies.  Every time they glanced at each other, they would break out in peals of laughter. “What is so funny, you two?” I queried. Between snorts and giggles, they told me there was an old (probably 30) man in there walking around with no clothes on.  “We saw his naked behind!” they chortled. My son couldn’t wait to tell his dad about the experience. My husband said, “What am I missing here?” “It’s a locker room; of course the people are naked.” He went on to explain to our son that a locker room is for changing into/out of clothes, and for taking showers.  All of this activity takes place in a nude or semi-nude condition.

Well not in my locker room! The majority of ladies changing, or showering do it behind the dressing room curtains.  If all the dressing booths are taken, we wiggle into our undergarments while still modestly wrapped in our towel.  Most women do not strut their stuff in the buff! “Oh, that’s just you” he replied “I am sure most gals get dressed and undressed unselfconsciously in the locker room.” Well mister, I am here to tell you that you are as wrong as wrong could be. Oh there are exceptions to the rule; a few exhibitionist types like women who love their current appearance (and we all know how common that is) and ladies over the age of 85. These crazy nudists will saunter naked from the shower to the dressing booths, wearing just a smile, but believe me; we roll our eyes and talk about them!  “Did you get a load of Lady Godiva, after the swim aerobic class?”

A seed of doubt was planted in my mind though, so in the name of science, I decided to poll a few friends on their position of locker room nudity. The results are in, and as expected, most women are thumbs down on the walk of nakedness. “I get dressed behind the curtain, as God intended it to be!”  was the typical response. They also expressed wonder at those few women that besides trotting about bare-assed also perform personal hygiene chores like lotioning, shaving, or applying make-up. Good Lord, how long can one keep their stomach tucked in?

So to any gentlemen in the audience, I am sorry to disabuse you of any fantasies you may have harbored about the Ladies Locker Room. We are not prancing about the place, swatting each other on the butt with our towels, or lounging on the benches. To the ladies out there, I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know!

My Sweet Ride

Sometimes, when we transport more than four passengers, we use my car or “Vincent-VAN-Go. Just once, I would like to be driven in my “ride”, without the comments, my husband feels he must make. Before we even back out of the garage, he will have something to say about the smell in my car. "Did someone step on something, and track it in here?" He queries, with nose wrinkled. "Well excuse me! I usually drive more than two boys all over creation, and as every mom of sons will attest, they don’t smell like roses.  In fact they smell more like grand champions from a bean burrito eating contest. Add to that potpourri stinky sneaks, sweaty cleats, and dirty socks, (which are discarded during quick outfit changes on the road) toss in a tank-full of chlorine from swim practice, and there is no surprise why my dashboard is festooned with 20 or 30 air-freshener trees! He thinks he is so funny when he opens the car windows, and a show of theatrical breathing through his mouth ensues. He oughta experience the aroma during the summer, when that van has been sealed up and baked in the sun for a few hours.

Next category we broach is the cleanliness, or lack thereof in my car. “Are these burger wrappers and fry cups balled up in the side compartment?” “Why are there empty soda cans, coffee cups, stirrers?”  “Does that plastic bag have new toothbrushes in it?”  “This car is an absolute disgrace!”  “Listen”, I reply “I am only the pilot of this transport unit.”  “You will need to take it up with the flight crew, whom happen to be sitting right behind you.” “Unfortunately for you, I believe they are on a break, union rules you know.”

The tangles of wires emanating from every possible jack, or cigarette lighter are next on deck.  “What all in God’s name do you have plugged in here?”  “Just the usual, phone charger, GPS, I-Pod, and game boy chargers.”  You haven’t really felt despair, until you get lost, the phone is out of juice, all your getting on the radio is sports channel, and the boys are bored.  I consider these on board necessities, and as the regular captain of this rig, I rule. The wires stay.

My spouse then flips on the seat warmers, and asks how I like them.  He is a huge fan of warm seats; I prefer my rump roast out of the pot with onion gravy, thank you very much. Now if they come out with seat chillers, well then you have my undivided attention.

There is the usual interrogation about when did you last have the oil changed, why do you only have a quarter tank of gas, where are you buying gas, I hope when you gas up, you are paying cash, not the jacked up price for credit card purchases, blah, blah, blah

So we are now about two tenths of a mile into our journey, when he broaches the pothole subject. If you had the winter, like we had here in Jersey, you know what I am talking about. There are more craters on our roads then on the surface of the moon. He utters some kind of strangled sound and asks me if I try and avoid the potholes. “Oh no” I reply, “I aim right for them, just like I do for animals, children and old ladies.” He is not amused by my wry sense of humor. “Look!” He demonstrates. “If you take your hands off the wheel, the car pulls to the right!” Well this is where we differ; I always have one if not two hands on the wheel when I drive.  I learned when I was eight years old, that going hands free on anything that moves was not the prudent choice. I have the scars on my knees to prove it!”See how I avoid all the potholes?” He says, driving down the wrong side of the road.  Once again, I agree to disagree, I prefer driving down the right side of the street.  To each his own. 

He shakes his head in resignation, as we motor onto the highway.  All is silent, until BANG!  From the flight crew in the back we hear “Dad, did you just hit a pothole?”  I just glance out my window, and smile.