Serenity Now

I hate to generalize, it's beneath me, but I believe that everyone has talent, not just Susan Boyle. Not all of us go on national TV to display our gifts. Sadly, some of us remain unsung. Take me, for instance. I have a skill that could raise a few eyebrows. It doesn’t involve my voice or my funky-town dance moves. To give you an idea, picture me up on stage, dressed in slinky, see-thru attire, draped across something large, foamy and luxurious. My performance might not get a zillion hits on YouTube, but I guarantee snickering, cringing and an outcry of, “Oh, no, she didn’t.”

Since no one’s about to pony up a free makeover for my debut, I went out and freshened up on my own. I bought new glasses, expensive ones to boost the economy. In record time, I changed my look. Within seconds, I went from “relatively-hip” to “much-hipper-than-you.” The frames cost more than my first car, and despite the permanent dent in my nose, it was worth it. I didn’t stop at glasses, I kept going. My hair needed some love. For five dollars per follicle, I got myself a new cut that looks a lot like the previous cuts, only better. The stylish results impressed the nice folks I cornered on the street for their opinions. Once I promised to leave them alone, all ten of them agreed that I looked remarkably young. I ask you, what’s a little extra debt when you can walk out of a salon looking 21 again?

Sure, Susan Boyle might hit the high notes like an angel, but I bet she can’t… drum roll please… fall asleep in under a minute. Yes, put me on automatic snooze and I’m a genius. My head hits the pillow and I’m out. I could win awards for my mad abilities. My acceptance speech would go something like this:  I’d like to thank the Academy of Sleep for recognizing my life-long accomplishment. I’m so honored I could scream, but I might wake people in the audience, so I’ll keep it down. I owe it all to me. It would be misleading to thank anyone else, especially my father, a very tired man who hasn’t fallen asleep once in 87 years.

Of course, I’d have to hide my award, or sell it quickly on Ebay, once the Academy discovered a slight deception. I can fall asleep fast. But stay asleep? Well, that’s another matter. Here my level of mastery takes a sharp dip. The slightest noise or movement and I’m awake. I snort or drool or turn over and startle myself conscious. Or my bladder nudges me out of bed, usually when I’m burrowed down and cozier than a girl has a right to be in these troubled times.

On many occasions, a bad dream boots me out of slumber. Someone chases me or my teeth drop out of my mouth or I’m naked in the high school parking lot or I lose control of the car and go barreling off a cliff. Whatever the scenario, it pumps me full of adrenaline and I’m done for. If it’s not a nightmare that disturbs me, it’s my hubby, hobbling around the room, cursing loudly because his calf muscle seized up again.

No matter what wakes me, whether it’s myself or the fellow beside me, once I’m up, I can’t fall back to sleep. My mind starts flooding with worries. I try all sorts of tricks, deep breathing, staring at the ceiling, but nothing works. I’ve even tried counting sheep, but I can never decide what to do with them once they leap over the fence. It gets crowded in the pasture and they start bumping into each other and going “baaahhhhh” and there’s no way I can fall back to sleep with that racket.

Recently, I hit upon something new to count. It worked so well, I thought I’d share it with you. Feel free to thank me with gifts, or make a donation to the nearest Sleep Disorder Clinic in your community. They’re usually located next to Starbucks.

Rather than count sheep or backwards from 100, I count Seinfeld episodes. I’ve seen all of them, many times over. All I have to do is conjure up a few snippets of plot and I’m back on the sleepy-bye train. I don’t go season by season. It’s all fairly random:  Kramer forces Jerry to wear the puffy shirt on “Today.” Elaine tells Jerry when they were together, she faked it. George suffers humiliating shrinkage. The Soup Nazi won’t serve Jerry or Elaine. Yada yada yada. Serenity now! Kramer turns his apartment into the Merv Griffin show. The stinky valet ruins Jerry’s car. The early bird special. Top of the Muffin to You. Who can go the longest without… oh, don’t make me spell it out.

So, the next time you can’t fall asleep, or stay asleep, try counting Seinfeld. It’s cheaper than a sleeping pill. Side effects may include less drowsiness, no heartburn or flatulence, and a few giggles. Nine out of ten doctors recommend counting Seinfeld. What are you waiting for?

Clean-up Time

Once a week, I flit around the house, noticeably crazed, cleaning up after three or four slobs, depending on the college boy’s whereabouts. The ritual varies little from week to week. It begins with the scooping up of random dog hair, baggies full, enough to form a whole new dog – preferably one that doesn’t consume a bar of soap, upchuck its bubbly contents, and amass a $500 vet bill.

Next comes the rapid Hoovering of school books off the kitchen table. Loose papers, index cards, pens, pencils, quarters and pennies, old gum. In a domestic frenzy, I do my best to hide the clutter, shoving it into whatever space I can find. The hall closet, the trunk of my car, the doggy crate. I’m not proud. I will do whatever it takes to win the approval of the short and saintly figure scheduled to arrive momentarily.

Speed it up. Hop to it. Look sharp. Let’s roll, baby. These are a few of the helpful words of encouragement I pepper with expletives, as I dart hither and yon, maneuvering the chaos into something halfway presentable. In the midst of this quest, I ponder a few questions:

Why is my son’s belt looped around the chair, instead of his waist? Why is his sock under the sofa and not his foot? Why can’t he bury his CDs under his bed, with the 900 empty water bottles and Coke cans, and not dump them atop the toaster oven? Why are his basketball shoes crushing the dinner rolls on the counter, and not tucked into his smelly gym bag, where they belong?

I conclude that there are no answers to these questions. Plus, I have no time to figure them out. I’m on deadline, people. I must keep moving before the angel sent from above arrives to judge my place of residence, and the oddball characters inhabiting it. Oh, dear God, I don’t want to disappoint her again. Or make her weep, like that time I left towels in the dryer. I meant to iron and fold them, but I was hobbling around on a foot that wasn’t broken after all – still milking it for sympathy, of course – and forgot. I’m human. Forgive me.

And so, I keep going. Picking up after people I love 99 percent of the time. If I stop to scream, I’ll lose valuable seconds… seconds I need to cram dirty forks and spoons and crusty cereal bowls into the dishwasher. Hurry up, she’s coming. There’s trash to throw out, tchotchkes to dust, a few spots that need repainting. She’ll be here soon. Make it look nice. Don’t humiliate the family again. Yes, I’m referring to the moldy sponge incident. She hasn’t recovered from that debacle. The paramedics were a little rough trying to revive her.

Ding dong. Damn! She’s here and I haven’t even scoured the toilets or remodeled the laundry room to her specifications. I’ll have to live with the shame. I open the door and in walks Blanca, the beloved housekeeper who’s been putting up with us for eight years. Or is it nine, since the last one quit? I give her a hug and apologize for the mess. The dog jumps on her and she smiles, beatifically. She’s on damage control. It’s time to work her magic. I better get out of her way. But I’m here if she needs me. Rumor has it I’m pretty good with a mop.

That's Life!

There’s a saying in my family that sums up all the absurdities of the universe in three little words: Life is life.

When a pile-up of humbling calamities befalls anyone in our immediate circle, we turn to each other and say Life is life, and for some reason, we feel better.  Life is life condenses all Murphy’s Law supplements into one handy phrase. Over the past few weeks, we’ve said Life is life a total of 82 times. I’m not exaggerating. Okay, maybe a little, but trust me, I’m entitled. Here are a few excerpts from my highlight reel. Spoiler alert: those with weak stomachs, stop now. This tale includes broken parts and an ugly black boot.

Last week, my 87-year-old father went shopping for a new hip, and three hours later, found a replacement over at Cedars-Sinai, a giant mall of premium hospital beds. It takes an hour to find a parking spot, and an equity line to pay for it. The coffee shop on the plaza level, however, serves a nice pound cake. The operation went well, thanks to the tall, handsome surgeon who disappeared after the final stitch and has yet to return a call. Expedia.com would rate the Cedars recovery room and hospital stay with half a star, and that’s being generous. The indignities ranged from bumping and banging my dad and spilling water on him, to serving him mysterious, fish-like cuisine and trying to move him to another floor the night before he was going home. He rejected that particular upgrade with a flurry of expletives, and during check-out, declined the offer of a bedpan as a peacekeeping souvenir.

Back at the condo, as he put his attorney on speed-dial, the mishaps continued. Two seconds in the door, the bathtub sprung a leak, the freezer refused to make ice (for the ice therapy machine that broke instantly), and the commode delivery, along with the carefully-selected, physical rehab team, got re-routed to Mars.

Meanwhile, I decided to grab a little attention for myself. Everyone was so focused on my father, I couldn’t help but wonder, what about my needs? Don’t I count? I decided to find out. Jumping around in an exercise class, I came down wrong and rolled my right foot. At first, I thought I’d sprained my ankle. Sure, a sprained ankle might’ve garnered some sympathy. But sprains are for underachievers. So I went all out, people. Not to be outdone, I broke my foot. And now I’m wearing one of those hideous black boots, getting MRIs and most importantly, lots of indulgent phone calls, mainly from my father, the former invalid. “Are you okay, honey?” he says, hourly. “Who’s going to take care of you?” he asks. “Oh, sweetie, were you able to sleep?” Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll be fine. Eventually. Still, a basketful of tulips, irises and roses wouldn’t hurt. The inscription on the card? Life is life.

Boomer Butt

Take one butt, heart-shaped and ample. Take one pair of high waisted jeans. Put them together and you’ve got a global fashion disaster of epic proportions. Long before poor Jessica Simpson slapped on a chunky leopard belt and torso-hugging denims – to the dismay of a TMZ-loving planet – I traveled that same lonesome road myself.  Yes, I donned a pair of Mom Jeans… once. One time was enough to scar me for life. And I wasn’t even a mom yet. Far from it. I was a curvy teenage girl with eye-catching booty. It was the ’70s, people, and high waisted, extra-wide bell bottoms were the rage. Oh, I just had to have me a light blue pair.

Like Jessica, I bought into the theory that high rise pants would create the illusion of longer legs. So what if my rump came along for the ride, not to mention my hips and my super cool platform shoes? Not even 5’2”, I could barely walk in them, but you’ll just have to trust me on this. I had it goin’ on. I had more style than I could handle.  Or at least I thought so, till I hit the pavement outside my first period ceramics class and received the first of many bewildered stares directed at my rear. One boy walked by, shook his head and sighed. Another looked at my tush and asked, “Why?” My tush had nothing to say. All day long, my butt faced nonstop derision. I won’t lie. It hurt my feelings a bit. I’m not made of steel, you know.

That night, I hung up those jeans and never let them out of my closet again. My school held an assembly just to thank me. The banner read: “Wise Decision.”

So Jessica, I feel for ya, girlfriend, I really do. But don’t let the bastards get you down. Hold your head high, and wear those Mom jeans even higher. It’s your signature look now. Don’t run from it. Au contraire. Embrace it. Milk it for all it’s worth. Work it, baby. Turn a profit while you’re at it, too. Give ’em a new name, a new sense of ownership. Heck, you’ve already got a line of fancy shoes. Don’t stop there. Can Jessica’s Jeans be far behind? Place your orders now, that’s my advice.

Comments

DianeD (anonymous) says...

This is hilarious.  And BTW, I don't get the public's Jessica bashing. I should look like her and suffer the same criticism... If only.

sherrie (anonymous) says...

Diane,  You're funny,probably clairvoyant too--unfortunately "Jessica Jeans" will have their day with the rest of 80's revival. I wrote 2 books on style. Should I give up now?
http://www.sherriemathieson.com/

That Sinking Feeling

After much hardship and spousal suffering, I’m forced to share the good news. The bathroom sink has landed, and not a moment too soon. There were many hurdles involved. The term “tile guy” was uttered once or twice. There was more cursing, of course, more blood loss, more Band Aids peeled for the cause.

The new sink arrived last Wednesday, or should I say, both new sinks arrived. Yes, hubby ordered two, even though the sink I call mine is perfectly fine in every way. Not a crack in the porcelain. Flawless. Naturally, the new sinks are the wrong size. They’re one-sixteenth of an inch too large. One-sixteenth may not sound like much, but trust me on this, size matters.

On top of that, the color is wrong. The sink I call mine, the original that sits, blissfully undisturbed at the end of the counter, away from all the trouble, is beige. The new sink is bisque. Beige. Bisque. They sound so similar, don’t they? And yet, sadly, they’re shades apart. I asked myself, could two, ever-so-slightly mismatched sinks, get along? Could they share the same marble and not crack under the stress? Could they live in harmony? Why the heck not? It’s not like, God forbid, we’ve got potential buyers tracking mud through the house, saying nasty things like, “I can’t buy this dump; the sinks in the upstairs bathroom don’t match.” No, that isn’t the case, at all. It’s just us in there, brushing our teeth and washing our hands. Outside visitors aren’t welcome.

Over the phone, I issued strict orders to my husband. “Don’t even think about it.” “Think about what?” he asked. “You know what,” I said. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Yanking the other sink out. My sink.” “But the sinks don’t match and – ”  I cut him off right there. “I can live with it. It doesn’t matter. No one will notice, unless you point it out, which I know you will, so don’t.” On the other end, he put on his soothing, late-night deejay voice. “It’ll be fine. I promise. It’ll take 10 minutes to install.”  Where had I heard that before? Where had I gone wrong? Had I not made myself clear?

Before Mr. Fix-it got home and got busy, shaving off marble, about a sixteenth of an inch, to be exact, I launched a clever counter-attack. I called the woman who gave birth to him and appealed to her sense of decency. “You’ve got to help me,” I told my mother-in-law. “You’ve got to help me stop him before it’s too late.”  Together, we hatched a plan where my father-in-law, the original Fix-It Man, would call Howard at exactly 7:30, and tell him he knew the perfect tile guy for the job. It wouldn’t cost much and he could save himself all the aggravation.  The time came and went without the phone call. I could hear the power saw shaving away marble as I sat downstairs, stewing. Why hadn’t my father-in-law called? Had I not made myself clear?

The next day, I found out that a touching father-son exchange had taken place. My father-in-law couldn’t wait and called him at work. He said everything, just as we’d rehearsed, to no avail. By Sunday, hubby had installed the sink and figured out how to stop it from leaking, too. A new sink may look nice, but isn’t worth much if you can’t run the water.  An hour later, he declared victory. “I told you I’d do it,” he said. “Yes, you did,” I said. Oh, but it’s not over, not at all. I’ve got that sinking feeling that there’s more to come. There’s the issue of that extra sink, taking up space in the downstairs shower. Just this morning, Howard visited the extra sink in its temporary holding cell.

“Come on, it won’t take that long,” he said to me, flashing those cute puppy eyes. “If I can just get your sink out without it cracking, then I can put it in the downstairs bathroom, because that sink is cracked too… see? And then I can put the new sink in and put yours in the powder room and – ”  “No,” I said. I meant it, too. “No,” I said again, in case he didn’t hear me. He wanted to remove two sinks now, mine and the cracked one in the powder room?  OMG times ten. But let’s face it, it’s happening, whether I like it or not. Because in my house, when it comes to sinks, it’s pretty caulked-up.

What started as a hairline crack is now a gaping hole. How did this happen? Hubby, that’s how. Or should I say, Howard. Yes, the man I’m married to likes to fix things. A lot of things: Dishwasher door handles. Dryer drums. Kitchen tiles. Water filters. Ice makers. Sprinkler heads. Give him a project, any project, and he’s happy. Compulsive, but happy.  When he gets that crazy glint in his eye, that’s my cue to clear out. I’ve learned the hard way that lookie-loos best leave the premises if they know what’s good for them. Stand around and watch the master at work? Bad idea. Ask, “How’s it goin’?” Really bad idea. Pack an overnight bag, take up residence on a distant planet? There you go. Now you’re talkin’.

Sure, some wives might say, “Do you have to do that today, honey?” Or, “Can’t it wait?” Or even, “Should we call someone?” Not this gal. I know better than to use the “p” word. Mention “plumber” in a sentence? Whisper “repair man” under my breath? Are you insane? I’m way too evolved for that.  By now, it’s a time-honored tradition. A house part that I think still has some life left in it, in Howard’s opinion, demands immediate attention. Whereupon I step back, heave a sigh and say, “Let the fun begin.” Then I plug my ears and run. For this current event will not be G-Rated. There will be heavy cursing to go along with the requisite frustration, manly injuries and antibiotic ointment.

Alas, all it takes is a microscopic fracture to ruin a quiet day. A slight fissure appears, barely visible to the human eye, and he springs into action. Next thing I know, he’s clearing his calendar; scheduling the operation for right now, if not sooner. I turn around and off he goes to the hardware store, a trip he’ll make at least twice within the hour to prep for the procedure.  Despite the bloodshed, there will be no nurses present to hand him a bandage or maybe a wrench or, God forbid, a sledgehammer. (It’s coming. Wait for it.) No fetching young surgical residents to hang on his every word or wipe his brow. That’s fine for “Grey’s Anatomy.” But this is real life, people. My guy flies solo, as if you hadn’t guessed.

Where others spent Monday honoring Martin Luther King Jr. and counting the seconds till the Inauguration, Howard decided to rip the sink out of our bathroom. When I floated the idea to patch the porcelain, instead, a temporary measure that might buy us some time, he laughed his head off and grabbed his tool box. Now anyone who watches HGTV knows that sinks can be pretty stubborn when you try to coax them out of their lodgings. Turns out, they like where they are; it’s cozy. They get insulted when you order them off the property. Many times, they refuse to scoot on principle. If a sink could speak, it might say, “I’m not going anywhere, mister,” or, in our case, “Make me.”

So that’s what my husband did. He made it do what he wanted. He forced the sink out. Posted a foreclosure sign. Issued a warning or two, and then bam, out came the dreaded sledge hammer. I heard pounding. Things were definitely breaking upstairs. The ceiling started to shake. I got so scared, I called my father. “You won’t believe what he’s doing!” My dad tried to comfort me. “What’s the worst that could happen?” “You want a list?” I asked.

Right then, Howard walked into the kitchen, carrying a chunk of marble counter top that snapped off along with the sink. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay,” he promised, dripping blood on the floor. He disappeared into the garage, to get the blow torch.  Once again, I turned to my father for guidance. “Oh-my-freakin’-God!” “What’s happening now?” my dad asked, even though he didn’t want to know. “He’s… destroying… the bathroom.”

That was enough. My father couldn’t take another second. He was too old for such domestic chaos. He’s done his fair share of household mending. I didn’t have to paint a picture for him. He knew this scenario firsthand. “I’m hanging up now,” he said. Click. So now all I can do is wait and pray that the pending installation of the shiny new sink goes smoothly. I plan to be out of town, of course. I’m taking the dog and my second-born. I’ll send a postcard when I get settled.